Hope Really Floats

Hope is a flighty word. It is pie in the sky or wish upon a star or genie in a lamp. But it really isn't - if your hope is in Something.

But we don't consider that Hope. Hope is what we place in the stock market, or in a spouse, or in a job, or in our children. All notoriously unreliable. So why do I do it? Because these things give me identity, they give me joy, they give me security. They also disappoint me, hurt me, kick me out, and desert me. So is my hope misplaced or not hope at all. I think I will rename those. They are wishes like when you blow out candles on your cake. Gone with the smoke that whispers from the wick.

Hope is something I place. In hands sure enough to cup me in them. Arms strong enough to lift me up. And love that will never let me fall. Because it never fails. Hope assured.....

Beggars

"Could it be that beggars know how to open their hands trusting that the crumbs of grace will fall?"


Sue Monk Kidd in When the Heart Waits

Emptying our hands because we cannot receive unless they are. How willing are we to do that? Are they really empty and we just can't see it. That we do not hold them out because we think we own what we imagine is inside it. Maybe I have to get to a point that I could empty them, before I realize they contain nothing but the next thing He will place there.....Hmmmmm

Peace Squared

My brother's clothes caught on fire when I was 8 and he was 6. He was burned very badly, but survived. I guess the trauma of that day made me very fearful of fire. In the day, open flames were a part of life. There were space heaters and wall furnaces. Fireplace were more open than not. So fire was not something you could totally get away from. Late at night, was the worst. I would stay awake worrying about another fire. Sometimes crying myself to sleep.

I remember my mom coming into my room and holding me. Just her presence was enough. It stayed my fears and allowed me to fall asleep. When Jesus came to the upper room to see the disciples, he said, "Peace be to you". I am thinking that was more a greeting they were used to. But I can only imagine the tangible peace of his very presence in that room. I am here, they did not kill me, I am still alive. Don't worry.

After he showed them his hands and side, he said again, "Peace be to you" Jesus was not one to repeat himself without reason. The men in that room had betrayed him. In the garden when they could not stay awake. Peter in the courtyard, denying he knew him. The others, who were not even there to do that. The second peace was for that part of them. To take away the guilt of what they did not do - their sins of ommission.

Peace squared - way cool.

The Trial

Guilty

His death, our sin

Convicted of murder

The Judge pronounces the sentence

Life



jo

Old Clothes

I just finished the course I am taking,"Living the Questions". The teachers of the course are my dear friends and the direction of this series was to look at what we believe and more or less question. I have thought of myself over the last year as a progressive, and these friends were the same.

However in the course of lectures, I was uneasy. There were comments about "those folks" that believe in rapture, once saved always saved, literal heaven and hell, creation. They were snidely made and we even laughed at their expense. But it was like being in a crowd of people, picking on a kid with thick glasses and acne and you know you are just one set of contacts and a dermatology appointment from that guy. You are not him anymore, but you don't want him picked on. You have literally been in his shoes.

Several folks in the class mentioned these same feelings to me, afterwards, and I started to think about it. I don't want to go back to the way I believed before, but I don't want to be classified with the other side. A new, more progressive group. I finally realized, I don't want to be on a side. I want to be me.

Kind of like wearing a suit of clothes and they no longer fit. So you change into something more comfortable. And then they grow too short, so you strip and put on another set. This is right. For awhile. And then you change again. The process continues again and again. And then one day, you notice a picture of someone wearing the stupidest set of clothes you have ever seen and you realize you are looking at an old picture of yourself. And you wonder how in the world you could have ever thought that was fashionable or right. And then suddenly, you look down and realize in a few years you will be looking at a picture of yourself with the clothes you are wearing and you will think the same thing.

I don't want to wear another set of beliefs. I don't want to make fun at the other guy - the old me. I don't want to be identified with any sect, tribe, or belief system. I am slowly seeing that I am a free thinker and that God really likes that in me. I can wear or not wear whatever I want,it doesn't have to own me. I realize in my heart of hearts, I really want to be naked so He can clothe me. With Himself. So that when I look in the mirror, all I see is Him in me.

Ahhhhhhh......

Mary M.

Today I am thinking about Mary Magdalene. Whenever I have pondered the cross, I have thought Of Mary of Jesus. Being a mother, I cannot imagine what it would be like to sit at the cross, seeing your child suffer and die. As mothers, we can filter out all the pain and anguish they may cause in our lives and love them in spite of it. How very painful to see one so pure and spotless, the flesh of your flesh, dying so inhumanely and so unfairly. It boggles my mind and I can't go there today.

But I can go to Mary M., commonly called Mary Magdalene. Just as Jesus was called a Nazrene because he hailed from the town of Nazreth, Mary received her surname from the town she originated, Magdala. I guess it would be like calling one person Mary Blue for her eyes or Mary Blonde for her hair. Something to differentiate between the two. In the gospel of Luke, Jesus exorcised seven demons from her. Prior to that she was said to be a notorious sinner. I heard a preacher call her a disciple of Christ, and for the first time I realized that there were more disciples than the twelve. Joanna, Salome, and the Mother of Jesus were the ones to go to the tomb that Sunday morning after the Sabbath to care for Jesus' body.

The scripture in John tells of the visit of Mary M. to the tomb. After the disciples come and then leave, discovering the tomb empty, Mary is left in the garden. She is asked by, who she sees as the gardener, why she is crying and who is she looking for. She explains she is looking for her Lord. He says one word, "Mary" and she knows it is him. We discussed this in my class this past Easter Sunday. Why did she not realize it was him and why did she suddenly recognize him.

There is something about your name. I have heard more than one NDE story (near death experience) describing the person who is dying going toward the light and he/she hears the voice of a loved one that has passed before them. They say the person's name, many times coupled with words like, "It is not your time yet". They recognize the voice, maybe in the way the person said their name.

Mary perhaps had heard it as he called forth the demons from her ravaged body. As he showed her mercy where none had before. As he thanked her for her support of her ministry. As he might have acknowledged her from the cross. She knew his voice when he called her name.

Oh, to hear him say my name. I can almost hardly wait.

Little Cross With the Man on It

So......you know what that is

A crucifix. A cross displaying a dead/dying Christ on it..I never liked those crosses. As a Methodist, we don't put the little man on our crosses. The closest we get to having something on the cross is our trademark flames shooting from it. During Lent, we drape it in dark purple and if we are truly bold, we drape it in white on Easter - ooooooohhhhh - very daring.

I am teasing, but we really don't like to see a suffering Jesus. And I really wonder if the religions that do have him affixed, have become somewhat desensitized to the whole thing. I heard the sermon of Adam Hamilton from his blog, Seeing Gray, the other day. He showed a old black and white picture of a slave that had been beaten severely for trying to flee his master. His back is a massive collection of rough scars, crisscrossing top to bottom. Much like Jesus' back might have been, had he lived long enough to tell the tale. I had never seen the picture of this man, much less the story that followed. Evidently the slave was successful in one of his attempts and did reach freedom. A journalist took this picture and circulated it widely throughout the northern states. Complacent northerners were incensed and the picture did much to excite and promote the anti-slavery sentiments already brewing there.

What did the picture of Jesus dying on the cross do? Did it have any affect on those who saw it. The soldiers, the friends and family, the disciples. How about the people that heard about it from Paul and Barnabas or Peter and John. After a moving message, did they describe the pain and agony of Christ as he slowly died on the cross. That the pure, sinless Son of God died for the miserable sinners they were. I can only imagine.

No, I will do one better. I have been there. I have heard the story of his death and suffering and been moved to tears, moved to guilt, and then moved to grace. Moved along the flow of the blood from his precious, bleeding side. Amen, brother.