Practicing Kindness

Kindness is an art.  It really is.  

In order to get good at it ... it has to be practiced.  

I sometimes wonder why there has to be suffering in the world.  While I don't claim in the least to have it all figured out, I do think that one of the reasons is that it gives people who are blessed with good health or perhaps more money, to be kind to those who aren't.

For those of you who know me, or who have been following my blog or my posts on Facebook, you know that I suffer from MCS - Multiple Chemical Sensitivity.  It's an insidious, debilitating disease that has nothing to do with allergies and everything to do with toxins: neurotoxins to be exact.  Modern scented products contain them: petrochemicals and aldehydes that are used to make artificial scent.  I've tried and tried to get the message out but it keeps getting interpreted as, "Judy doesn't like perfume."  (sighhh)  

The thing is, up until about ten years ago, I used to WEAR the stuff.  Then it started making me sneeze, giving me headaches, etc.  And after 2003's Hurricane Juan put mould in our basement, it got way worse. And even worse after Tropical Storm Hannah (2008, November) did the same thing, only the mould stayed for a longer period. After Hannah hit, so did the migraines - five minutes' constant exposure would give me a six-hour migraine. (Ever hurt yourself so badly that you felt sick to your stomach? Imagine that kind of hurt in your head and neck for hours at a time).  I had to wear a mask anywhere I went just to keep the normal perfumes from Febreeze and other room deodorizers or fabric softeners to a dull roar.  Even with the mask, someone who used body spray would inevitably walk by and leave a cloud 15 feet in diameter behind them.  And no mask can filter that out - unless it's the kind you get in a Haz-Mat suit.  

People ostracized me thinking I had H1N1 - or that I was trying to be sensationalist and make a point.  Some pitied me; others judged me.  One time I complained of scent at a worship team practice because of one or more of the members.  Rather than apologize and promise not to use it anymore, the collective decision was to stop everything and pray for my healing.  Hm.  Did I feel heard - or loved?  Uh - no.

Trapped?  Oh yes.  Even after a single healing experience got rid of about 70% of the intensity of my reactions in a moment of time on November 6, 2009, I still have to watch my level of exposure because if I am exposed too long, it's still decidedly unpleasant.  I take a kelating agent (magnesium citrate) to bind with the poisons and flush them out of my system, but this mineral works slowly and exposure to chemicals (to use an analogy) tops up my chemical intolerance tank faster than the little leak at the bottom can drain it. So I still need to stay away from scented products to be healthy.  Much easier said than done.  It's everywhere.

Why wasn't I just healed completely?  I'm not sure exactly.  But maybe it was so that I'd keep my passion about this issue strong. Maybe, just maybe, it was to make me continually grateful that things are not nearly as bad as they were, and to allow me to be able to confront my own anger at the people who persist in using chemicals to mask their own natural scent.  Everyone has his or her own, by the way.  Just saying. Maybe it was to make any future healing that I might receive, all the more miraculous because so many people have seen and are aware of the plight of those who suffer from this illness.  Most suffer way more than I.

And maybe it was to give an opportunity for other people (Christians especially) to practice (instead of judgment) the art of kindness - sadly, almost a lost art.  

The Good Fight

It had been a particularly stressful day, oh, almost 40 years ago.  I don't really remember much about it, since it was a lot like a lot of other days; tensions always ran pretty high in the home when I was growing up. Usually someone would be having a better day than the other and situations could get defused relatively quickly.  

This one day, though, neither of my brothers had been having a good day. They would be, oh, I guess around 20 and 16 years old.  Tensions built, tanks ran on empty (as they did most of the time anyway) and I could tell that things were deteriorating fast.  They were SO getting on each other's last nerve!! 

I don't remember what triggered it exactly, but I do remember that one brother started criticizing the other for the same old thing that annoyed the life out of him.  Maybe it was the way he chewed.  Something - there was always something.  And the other brother finally snapped; he'd been putting up with the verbal abuse all day long and he was so sick and tired of being harangued and told what to do.

So he lashed out.  Soon, they each started saying things to deliberately hurt the other.  Mom, who would never let us fight with each other, never express our anger or our frustration (thanks for the baggage, dear lady) watched the two of them stomp up the stairs to finish fighting and throw some good punches while they were at it.  

And then she made that ... sound ... the one that froze us in our tracks, the one that meant she was just about to lose her temper.  "AUUGH!!"

Both brothers halted in mid step.

"You guys fight just like cats and dogs!" she cried.

Something about the "over-the-top" way she said it just struck them in the right way.  I saw the oldest, at the top of the stairs, whirl around and drop to all fours on the four-by-four landing.  

His face contorted, his mouth opened wide, and his eyes narrowed as he glared at his brother.  He held up his right hand in a claw-like manner.  And he HISSED.

Not to be outdone, the younger brother put his hands on the stairs and started climbing them on all fours, got within five feet of his brothers face and started BOW-WOW-WOW-WOWOWOWing at the top of his voice.  

"REEEEEEE-AAAAROW"  came the high-pitched reply from the top of the stairs as oldest brother swung his "paw" at his brother's face.  

"RAGRRRRR-RO-RO-RO-RO-RO!!!" went the younger.  

"Pa-AHHHH-T!!" said the elder, and as his "claws" connected with the other's face, we heard "YIIIII!" Then "GRRRRRRROWF!!" 

By this time my mother, my father and I were laughing so hard that the tears were streaming down our faces and our bellies were sore.  

The boys had had their "good fight" and everyone forgot what the argument was about.  

After a few more "wuffs" and "rrwowfs", one boy went one way and the other the opposite way.  Neither of them lost.  And all of us won.

Longer

Love songs have been written since music was invented.  

The church is full of love songs.  Promises we make to God, affirmations of devotion to Him, great intentions all.

Take one song that many people love.  The lyrics go (in part), "Jesus, lover of my soul, Jesus, I won't ever let You go, .... though my world may fall I'll never let You go..."  

I like the sentiment. But ... I know how fickle and how weak I am.  If my eternal destiny depends on my ability to hold onto God, then quite frankly ... I am sunk.  I'm well aware of my limitations.  And so is God.  A re-write I've been known to sing is, "Jesus, Lover of my soul, Jesus, You won't ever let me go.... though my world may fall You'll never let me go."  That is truth based on His promise, "Look, I am with you always, even to the end of the age."  I can get behind that, because His is the only love that is steadfast.  

I love to read the chapters in the Old Testament book of Isaiah (especially chapters 40 through to 55), written to people who were living lives that were an affront to everything God was; yet, He extended His love to them.  The drawing to the right (above) depicts one of my favorite affirmations of His love.  "See! I will not forget you.  I have carved you on the palm of My hand." Since before the world began, and since God is timeless, exists outside of time so that He is in all places at all times all at once, and knowing how awfully I would treat Him, He loves me.


The little song I've included below, written and sung by Dan Fogelberg, speaks to me when sometimes even Christian songs can't.  I hope it touches you as well.  Have a wonderful time with Him.

A Little-used Key to freedom

One of the things in my childhood that gave me some stability was the cartoon show, "The Flintstones."  I'd never miss an episode and even after the series ended, I would watch the re-runs until I knew the songs and the dialogue by heart.  I didn't know it was based on "The Honeymooners" ... I just loved how Fred would always get into trouble, he'd always get mad at Barney, he'd always feel the need to lie to get out of trouble, and Wilma would always forgive him in the end.

But only after he used the key.

One of my favorite episodes is about a show that Wilma and her lady friends are putting on.  They need an act and they want Fred to find one for it.  He comes up empty.  Wilma pressures him while he's watching TV and... well ... watch for yourself! It's hilarious!!



 Fred does meet Rock Roll.  He gets him to perform, but just before the show he comes down with laryngitis and can't do it.  He gets Fred to pretend to be him while a record of his hit song plays.  You guessed it - the record develops a skip - and the house of cards comes crashing down.


The Key I mentioned before, the Key that Fred has to use, and in fact, the Key to every episode of The Flintstones is this:   "The truth will set you free."  Hm. That sounds familiar.


Nothing more complicated - or should I say simple - than the truth.  I wonder if I were more forthright, more cut-the-crap in my life, and just said how I felt, whether it would make a difference.  Any time I HAVE done it... it was hard, but it did work out.  So I need to cultivate a lifestyle of rigorous honesty, first and most importantly with myself and with God, and then with others.  

Time for some self-talk.  Tell the truth Judy; own up to your mistakes and your attempts to get approval or acclaim - even if it hurts - and things will work out okay.

Running on Fumes

You know the feeling.  Slowly, surely, your reserves have been depleting.  Every encounter saps more and more out of you.  Every demand, every injustice, every arrow life can throw at you just takes more and more out of you.

Before long, your emotional reserves aren't just getting low, they've reached the bottom of the tank and you're "running on fumes."  You know that unless you get filled up, and soon, you're going to run out of gas and possibly be stranded without anyone to help. So you start making a fill-up your top priority.  I know that feeling.  There's a desperation that sets in.  All other considerations aside, the most important thing is to get the very thing that will satisfy and bring peace.

I used to try to fill that void with all kinds of things.  Usually I would find someone to dump on, manipulate, or otherwise try to force into meeting my needs.  It never worked.  It might be a stop-gap, but it never fully satisfied. And it ultimately led to people staying away from me, avoiding me, judging me.  I was creating the very thing I feared the most: isolation.  That's when I'd look for something else to fill the empty, lonely, or angry feeling.  Most of the time it was food.

Food is one of those insidious things.  You need it to live.  You can't quit food cold turkey, it doesn't work that way.  Even the term "cold turkey" is about food (aghh!)  But a food addict uses food to change how she / he feels.  And it does do that.  Temporarily.  

It's an addiction for some people.  And I'm one of those people. It's no longer a joking matter for me.  I can't laugh this off, and more and more it annoys me when I hear people joking about how they are "full gospel preachers."  It's a very lonely, frustrating place to be.  I eat and eat and eat until it hurts, then eat some more.  The full feeling releases the body's natural endorphins, and it drives away the loneliness or the anger for a while, but it always comes back.   The inevitable result is obesity and the health problems that accompany it.  Not to mention the guilt... oh, the guilt and the shame.  Depression can set in.  This in turn just fuels the desire, the compulsion to eat.  It's a vicious cycle and I fully admit that I am a food addict.  I know that my addiction to food will kill me if I don't get mastery over it.  Yet I can't stop using food to change the way I feel.  Not by myself.


Slowly I am coming to the place where I can admit to myself that I am powerless over this. It's bigger than I am - and that's saying something!  I've tried every diet out there.  While some have worked temporarily, none have allowed me to keep the weight off.


But I've noticed something.  As I recover from my even greater compulsion to control and fix people, I find myself weighing less than I did a year ago. My therapist told me that this might happen.  

This time of year I always gain weight; most people do.  But this time last year I weighed 10 pounds more than I do now.  To me it's an indication of a deeper spiritual process.  I can feel full emotionally and this is a byproduct of recovery.  As I learn over time to look after myself, be good to my inner child and stop defining myself by what others think of me or by how successful I have been at getting them to do what I want, I fully expect that the chains of food addiction will no longer burden me and that the weight problem will take care of itself because emotionally, spiritually, I'll keep on being "filled to overflowing."

That's what I call healing from the inside out. 
 

Stressed OUT !

Yes, lately it's been a very stressful time.

I'm in "refugee status" at work because they're carpeting my floor and the fumes really kick my MCS (Multiple Chemical Sensitivities) into high gear.  So I asked for other accommodations, which they found me.  The first week was great. Then there were some personnel changes in my immediate vicinity which caused my sensitivities to flare up again. Briefly put, someone right next to me was using lots of mousse every morning in her hair.  Plus she used "deodorant" (a misnomer if ever there was one) and either hand lotion, fabric softener or Febreeze, or a combination of two or more of those. She wasn't the only one; there were about six or seven people in that closed office who were wearing some sort of product and they all had to pass by my desk on their way in and out of the room. The effects are cumulative, which means that they build and build in the system so that the longer I am exposed, the less it takes to trigger a reaction.  By noon I was in bad shape.  But I stuck it out because hubby was at a coffee meeting with a friend all afternoon - something I do NOT begrudge him.

Anyway, the combined effect was that it was impossible for me to take a full breath of air yesterday.  I would try to force some air into my lungs, and that last cubic cup of air just couldn't get in there, it was like trying to breathe water.  I was irritable.  I was angry.  I was exhausted from having to struggle for breath.  I felt alone and abandoned.  And those things are never a good combination for me.  So ... when my supervisor took me to task for something I had done (overstepped my authority in something) ... I freaked out.

I lambasted the guy verbally.  I'd hit my saturation point, it was near the end of my work day and I was fed up.  So I blew.  Just like the old me.  And as usually happens whenever I lose my temper, it threw my whole day off, and I didn't sleep well last night.  The extra cup of coffee and the can of Pepsi I had at work to try to open my airways, didn't help my insomnia problem either.

This morning I woke up early (why not? I couldn't sleep well anyway) and had a shower, started a pot of coffee, woke hubby and then made an omelet. A good start to the morning.  When I got to work, the girl that had been there yesterday was not in today. That improved the air quality by about 40%.  Enough for me to manage to get through the day.  I know she'll be there again tomorrow but right now it doesn't bother me as much as it would have if someone had told me that yesterday.

The difference?  Well, it's a combination of things.  I had a chance to recover from the effects of yesterday even though it was near midnight before I could breathe fully.  I could review the events of the day objectively - once removed from the toxic atmosphere.  And I suddenly realized that I had allowed my spiritual "gas tank" to get low; I had forgotten to remind myself that God loves me no matter what!  When I'm running on "Empty" I get ... how does a new friend of mine put it? ... oh yes, "cranky."

Yes, I screwed up yesterday.  Part of it wasn't my fault - and as little as 2 years ago I couldn't have seen that.  I am learning to accept God's forgiveness, let myself off the hook because He already has, and then move forward. (Sighhhh....) Lesson learned.

This time. 

A Little Booklet

I first read this little story when I was 16 and at a little Bible camp outside Bouctouche NB.

I have gone back to its simple story again and again.  Today, I would like to share it with you.

My Heart Christ's Home ~ ~ by Robert Boyd Munger

One evening I invited Jesus Christ into my heart. What an entrance He made! It was not a spectacular, emotional thing, but very real. Something happened at the very center of my life. He came into the darkness of my heart and turned on the light.

He built a fire on the hearth and banished the chill. He started music where there had been stillness, and He filled the emptiness with His own loving, wonderful fellowship. I have never regretted opening the door to Christ and I never will.

In the joy of this new relationship I said to Jesus Christ, "Lord, I want this heart of mine to be Yours. I want to have You settle down here and be perfectly at home. Everything I have belongs to You. Let me show You around."

The Study
The first room was the study--the library. In my home this room of the mind is a very small room with very thick walls. But it is a very important room. In a sense, it is the control room of the house.

He entered with me and looked around at the books in the bookcase, the magazines upon the table, the pictures on the walls. As I followed His gaze I became uncomfortable. Strangely, I had not felt self-conscious about this before, but now that He was there looking at these things I was embarrassed.

Some books were there that His eyes were too pure to behold. On the table were a few magazines that a Christian had no business reading. As for the pictures on the walls--the imaginations and thoughts of the mind--some of these were shameful.

Red-faced, I turned to Him and said, "Master, I know that this room needs to be cleaned up and made over.  Will You help me make it what it ought to be?" 

"Certainly!" He said. "I'm glad to help you. First of all, take all the things that you are reading and looking at which are not helpful, pure, good and true, and throw them out!" Now put on the empty shelves the Books of the Bible. Fill the library with Scripture and meditate on it day and night. As for the pictures on the walls, you will have difficulty controlling these images, but I have something that will help."

He gave me a full-size portrait of Himself. "Hang this centrally," He said, "on the wall of the mind." I did, and I have discovered through the years that when my thoughts are centered upon Christ Himself, His purity and power cause impure thoughts to back away.

So He has helped me to bring my thoughts under His control.

The Dining Room

From the study we went into the dining room, the room of appetites and desires. I spent a lot of time and hard work here trying to satisfy my wants.

I said to Him, "This is a favorite room. I am quite sure You will be pleased with what we serve."

He seated Himself at the table with me and asked, "What is on the menu for dinner?"
 
"Well," I said, "my favorite dishes: money, academic degrees and stocks, with newspaper articles of fame and fortune as side dishes."  These were the things I liked--secular fare.

When the food was placed before Him, He said nothing, but I observed that He did not eat it.  I said to Him, "Master, don't You care for this food? What is the trouble?"

He answered, "I have food to eat that you do not know of.  If you want food that really satisfies you, do the will of the Father. Stop seeking your own pleasures, desires, and satisfaction.  Seek to please Him. That food will satisfy you."

There at the table He gave me a taste of the joy of doing God's will.   What flavor! There is no food like it in all the world.

The Living Room

From the dining room we walked into the living room. This room was intimate and comfortable. I liked it. It had a fireplace, overstuffed chairs, a sofa, and a quiet atmosphere.

He said, "This is indeed a delightful room.  Let us come here often. It is secluded and quiet, and we can fellowship together."

Well, as a young Christian I was thrilled. I couldn't think of anything I would rather do than have a few minutes with Christ in close companionship. He promised, "I will be here early every morning.  Meet me here, and we will start the day together."

So morning after morning, I would come downstairs to the living room.He would take a book of the Bible from the case. We would open it and read together. He would unfold to me the wonder of God's saving truths. My heart sang as He shared the love and the grace He had toward me. These were wonderful times.

However, little by little, under the pressure of many responsibilities, this time began to be shortened.  Why, I'm not sure. I thought I was too busy to spend regular time with Christ. This was not intentional, you understand. It just happened that way.

Finally, not only was the time shortened, but I began to miss days now and then.  Urgent matters would crowd out the quiet times of conversation with Jesus.

I remember one morning rushing downstairs, eager to be on my way.  I passed the living room and noticed that the door was open. Looking in, I saw a fire in the fireplace and Jesus was sitting there.  Suddenly in dismay I thought to myself, "He is my guest.   I invited Him into my heart! He has come as my Savior and Friend."  I stopped, turned and hesitantly went in. With downcast glance, I said, "Master, forgive me. Have You been here all these mornings?"

"Yes," He said, "I told you I would be here every morning to meet with you. Remember, I love you. I have redeemed you at great cost.I value your fellowship. Even if you cannot keep the quiet time for your own sake, do it for mine."

The truth that Christ desires my companionship, that He wants me to be with Him and waits for me, has done more to transform my quiet time with God than any other single fact.  Don't let Christ wait alone in the living room of your heart, but every day find time when, with your Bible and in prayer, you may be together with Him.

The Workroom

Before long, He asked, "Do you have a workroom in your home?" Out in the garage of the home of my heart I had a workbench and some equipment, but I was not doing much with it. Once in a while I would play around with a few little gadgets, but I wasn't producing anything substantial.

I led Him out there. He looked over the workbench and said, "Well, this is quite well furnished.  What are you producing with your life for the Kingdom of God?" He looked at one or two little toys that I had thrown together on the bench and held one up to me.  "Is this the sort of thing you are doing for others in your Christian life?"

"Well," I said, "Lord, I know it isn't much, and I really want to do more, but after all, I don't seem to have strength or skill to do more."

"Would you like to do better?" He asked. "Certainly," I replied.

"All right. Let me have your hands. Now relax in me and let my Spirit work through you. I know that you are unskilled, clumsy and awkward, but the Holy Spirit is the Master Workman, and if He controls your hands and your heart, He will work through you." Stepping around behind me and putting His great, strong hands under mine, He held the tools in His skilled fingers and began to work through me. The more I relaxed and trusted Him, the more He was able to do with my life.

The Rec Room

He asked me if I had a rec room where I went for fun and fellowship. I was hoping He would not ask about that. There were certain associations and activities that I wanted to keep for myself.

One evening when I was on my way out with some of my buddies,  He stopped me with a glance and asked, "Are you going out?"  I replied, "Yes." 

"Good," He said, "I would like to go with you."

"Oh," I answered rather awkwardly. "I don't think, Lord Jesus, that You would really enjoy where we are going. Let's go out together tomorrow night. Tomorrow night we will go to a Bible class at church,but tonight I have another appointment."

"I'm sorry," He said. "I thought that when I came into your home, we were going to do everything together, to be close companions. I just want you to know that I am willing to go with you."

"Well," I mumbled, slipping out the door, "We will go someplace together tomorrow night."

That evening I spent some miserable hours.... I felt rotten. What kind of friend was I to Jesus, deliberately leaving Him out of my life, doing things and going places that I knew very well He would not enjoy?

When I returned that evening, there was a light in His room, and I went up to talk it over with Him. I said, "Lord, I have learned my lesson. I know now that I can't have a good time without You. From now on, we will do everything together."

Then we went down into the rec room of the house. He transformed it. He brought new friends, new excitement, new joys. Laughter and music have been ringing through the house ever since.

The Hall Closet
One day I found Him waiting for me at the door. An arresting look was in His eye. As I entered, He said to me, "There is a peculiar odor in the house. Something must be dead around here. It's upstairs. I think it is in the hall closet."

As soon as He said this, I knew what He was talking about. There was a small closet up there on the hall landing, just a few feet square. In that closet, behind lock and key, I had one or two little personal things that I did not want anyone to know about. Certainly, I did not want Christ to see them.

I knew they were dead and rotting things left over from the old life. I wanted them so for myself that I was afraid to admit they were there. Reluctantly, I went up with Him, and as we mounted the stairs the odor became stronger and stronger. He pointed to the door.

I was angry. That's the only way I can put it. I had given Him access to the library, the dining room, the living room, the workroom, the rec room, and now He was asking me about a little two-by-four closet.I said to myself, "This is too much. I am not going to give Him the key."

"Well," He said, reading my thoughts, "If you think I'm going to stay up here on the second floor with this smell, you are mistaken. I will go out on the porch."  Then I saw Him start down the stairs.

When one comes to know and love Christ, the worst thing that can happen is to sense Him withdrawing His fellowship. I had to give in.  "I'll give You the key," I said sadly, "But You will have to open the closet and clean it out. I haven't the strength to do it." 

"Just give me the key," He said. "Authorize me to take care of that closet and I will."

With trembling fingers I passed the key to Him.  He took it, walked over to the door, opened it, entered, took out all the putrefying stuff that was rotting there, and threw it away. Then He cleaned the closet and painted it. It was done in a moment's time. Oh, what victory and release to have that dead thing out of my life!


Transferring the Title

A thought came to me. "Lord, is there any chance that You would take over the management of the whole house and operate it for me as You did that closet?  Would You take the responsibility to keep my life what it ought to be?"

His face lit up as He replied, "I'd love to! That is what I want to do. You cannot be a victorious Christian in your own strength. But you must give Me the authority to proceed, since the property is not mine."

Dropping to my knees, I said, "Lord, You have been a guest and I have been the host. From now on I am going to be the servant. You are going to be the Owner and Master."

Running as fast as I could to the strongbox, I took out the title deed to the house describing its assets and liabilities, location and situation. I eagerly signed the house over to Him alone for time and eternity.  "Here," I said. "Here it is, all that I am and have, forever. Now You run the house. I'll just remain with You as a servant and friend."

Things are different since Jesus Christ has settled down and made His home in my heart.




Blessings today!

Light my Candle

One of the things we do every Christmas Eve as a family is go to the Christmas Eve service at our church.  It's a candlelight service.  Every person over the age of about 10 is given a candle ... unlit ... with a cardboard ring under it to catch the wax.

At the end of the service, a single candle which has been burning throughout the carol sing, is used to light the candles of the people on the end of each pew.  That person lights the next person's candle, and so on.

Our kids love to go to this.  They sing the carols with gusto and their favorite part is the candle-lighting part... the pastor says a few words of inspiration and then we all sing "Silent Night" as someone plays the piano or a guitar.  After that, our family goes out looking at Christmas lights in the city, and after that, we all traipse home and sing Christmas carols around the tree, and we have hot chocolate and maybe watch Christmas specials until it's time to go to bed.

I love watching the flame on a candle. Even when I was a child, I'd watch the single tongue of fire piercing the darkness when the power would go out in the evening during a winter storm.  I'd lose myself in its subtle variances of colour and strength, watch how it danced and in so doing, invited the shadows to dance with it.  It drew me, like some indescribable force telling me that it represented purity, passion, power. Calling me to something more, to something higher.  Still does.


I remember a candlelight service I attended once many years ago in a little country church.  There might have been about fifty people there, maybe less.  Everyone had their candles, unlit.  The pastor asked us to move with our candles to the outside of the room and make a circle all around the edge of the sanctuary.  Once we were in place, he had someone turn off the lights, revealing only one candle burning at the front of the church. Then he lit the first person's candle on either side of him, and we lit each other's candles until everyone's was burning. 

The pastor started by saying, "I'm not going to speak very many words tonight.  All I will say is that God has given each one of us who believes in Jesus a light inside.  He has reached into the darkness in each of us ... and lit our candles.  Now, since these candles we've just lit tonight represent that light in each of us, and God in our lives, I would like you to try a little experiment with me to see what happens."  

We all looked at him quizzically. 

"Please take your candles, and keeping them upright, slowly lower them down as low as you can get them without bending or squatting."  We did.  The light level in the room diminished significantly. "What just happened?" he said, and we told him it got darker. He nodded.  "Now, just as slowly, I want you to lift them up again, and keep going until they are as high as you can get them."  We did, and we saw the light grow in the room until it was twice as bright as when they were in front of us at chest level.  

"I think you get the point of my sermon," he said softly.


We did.
 

Nativity Debunked

When I was a child, my mom had this little chintzy nativity scene that showed Joseph and  Mary beaming down on Jesus, who was beaming blissfully lying scantily draped with cloths in strategic places, on His back in a wooden manger.  The whole scene was bathed in the glow of a comet-like star, shining upon the inside of a wooden barn with a thatch roof.  It was replete with the requisite camel, donkey, cow and sheep, and adorned by richly clad shepherds and angels and wise men, oh my.

Bunk.  No halos.  No music. No glamour.

Historians paint a different picture of the "stable" in which Jesus was born, and the Bible leaves clues that fill in the rest of the story.

The stable was not in a barn.  It was in a cave.  People who had cows in that region often kept them in nearby caves away from any rain that might fall and where they would be easy to corner and milk in the morning.  

Jesus was wrapped in swaddling clothes.  These were strips of cloth that were tightly wrapped around the child's entire body with only his head sticking out. They did this to make sure his arms and legs grew straight; it was a common belief (probably fueled by the incidence of rickets).   The manger was not made of wood.  It was most likely a hollowed-out boulder.  When Jesus was wrapped in the swaddling bands and placed in that manger, it looked like He was prepared for burial... a mummy in a tomb.

The shepherds only looked after the sheep in the hills outside Bethlehem in the few months prior to Passover.  It was their job to watch over the Passover lambs, not only for the feast but also to watch for the one lamb that would be the sacrifice that year: perfect, with no blemishes.  Shepherds were considered the riff-raff of society.  They lived in the outdoors and would most certainly not have had clean clothes or smelled like a rose either.  Not likely anyone trusted them; after all, they were paid out of the temple treasury.  

Their arrival at the stable might have caused some concern to Joseph and Mary as they saw them approach.  As they heard the remarkable story of angels shouting the praises of God in the skies outside the town, and of the sign they were told to look for - their fears subsided.  

The wise men (and nowhere does it say there were only three; in fact, there were probably so many of them that their procession caused no small stir in Jerusalem when they arrived and asked to see the newborn King) did not show up that night.  In fact, it was over a year before they showed up.  The star that led them there had shown up in the far east - and they knew to go to Israel.  Naturally they assumed that it would be the capital where they would find the Child.  We know that they took over a year to get to Jerusalem because of Herod's reaction when he asked them what time the star appeared and then, when they didn't show up to report on Jesus' whereabouts, he had every child under the age of two years old killed.  

Talk about paranoid.  He was well known for being afraid of being knifed in his sleep or poisoned by members of his own family. He was very serious about any threat to his "throne".

No, by the time the sages gave their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, the little family was living in a house in Bethlehem, no longer in a stable (after all, the census was done and the population of Bethlehem had gone back to normal).  Scripture tells us that when the magi got to the house (not the stable) where He was staying, they gave their gifts.  

These lavish gifts would hold them in good stead in Egypt, for what good would the skills of a carpenter do in Egypt, where the only trade that paid anything at all was that of stone-mason?

Two or three years in Egypt.  And when the time came for them to return to Israel, they finally returned to Nazareth, with Jesus and probably at least one younger sibling in tow.  And Nazarene tongues which wagged six years previous started wagging all over again.  We might be tempted to think of the nativity and the early life of Jesus as somehow sheltered, protected, with angels "ahh-ing" all over the place.  But Jesus and His family knew poverty, pain, persecution, and peril from the word go.

God saw fit to allow it ... so that He could relate to our pain and rejection, our hardships, our feelings ... as one of us. 

Not Less Than

Someone reminded me today of something when they sent me a private message regarding the post I put up yesterday, A New Kind of Friendship ( click here to read yesterday's post if you haven't already. )

I had talked about being in relationships where people treat me as an equal, not above or below.  This person said he/she was having a hard enough time just with feeling "not less than" - that it was a daily struggle.  I have a lot of respect for this person and I hope he/she starts to feel more comfortable inside where it counts.

Those comments got me to thinking about something that probably doesn't get much press in Christian circles.  


I've heard a lot of sermons on Romans 12:1,2. Present your bodies a living sacrifice, ... don't be conformed to the world but be transformed by the renewing of your minds.  But not many talk about the very next statement.  Paul goes on to say, "I say to you, by the grace of God which is given to me, not to think of yourselves more highly than you ought to think, but to think soberly, since God has granted to all the measure of faith." (vs. 3)  Did you get that?  Paul is telling people not to get too full of themselves, but he's also implying that they ought to think SOMETHING of themselves!!


This flies in the face of a lot of church tradition which passes itself off as doctrine.  You know, the "such a worm as I" doctrine.  If a person is self-assured (another word this individual mentioned to me today, more about that later) that person is often judged by some in the church as being prideful or arrogant.  But Paul didn't say to not think anything of ourselves.  Just not to think of ourselves more highly than we ought.  Paul knew, as Jesus did before him, that a healthy self-concept is necessary in order for us to be able to love our neighbours as we love ourselves. The thing is, a healthy self-concept is a lot easier when we can believe and accept the great love of God for us. 

Don't we all need to know that we are "not less than"??   Not only that we are no more worthy than someone that society may have marginalized  (see previous post called Created by God) but also that we are no less worthy than someone that society might acclaim?

The term "self-assured" (which earlier today my friend mentioned to me) speaks of someone who is comfortable in his or her own skin.  But the word literally means that one has assured oneself, or spoken assurances to oneself.  I remember having to do this in my journey of recovery the last 22 months.  Daily at one point.  I've written about that period in my life before on this blog - the daily affirmations of worthiness, of value, of hope, that I had to say over and over to the frightened little 6-year-old child in me, the child who thought she was such as screw-up, the one who was always told she couldn't do anything right.


Those days are behind me, and the voices I heard in my head, the ones that told me I was defective, crazy, or bad, are reduced to a murmur rather than a shout.  When they get louder, that's when I know I have to start talking to that little girl again.

She's learning that she's not less than.  It's a pretty cool feeling.