Tag Archives: grace

Valentine’s Day Surprise


Surprise!

If all else fails, try the latest in Valentine’s gifts: a heart-shaped peanut-butter sandwich.  Mind you if you do try this, all else in the romance line probably has failed; if not, it almost certainly will.

I somehow do not think that this is going to catch on with Hallmark or Walmart.  McDonalds, perhaps?  Maybe not.

Fear not, Dear Readers, my wife did receive a little more than this — mainly because I had to make up for not doing anything last year.  Fortunately, however, love is not measured by Valentine’s gifts, or the lack thereof; love is a gift of God’s grace, which we are learning to give each other every day.

I used to think that if you love someone, when the stresses and strains of life threaten to overwhelm, you have the support you need; the other person is there for you.  I now realise that when the focus is on God’s love, and on giving that love to another, you practice that giving every day during the good times.  And when struggle and pain arrives, you continue to give because the focus of your life shifts from the circumstances (good or bad) to the joy of giving and the joy of love.

Of course, realising it and making it a natural, every-day part of our lives are often miles apart.  We need to practice giving love every day; it’s much too important to wait for the 14th of February to come along, even if it does come with heart-shaped peanut-butter sandwiches.

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Do Angels use Nicknames


English: A cup of coffee.As I write this at a local coffee shop the coffee-cup placemats ask a question: “If there was a book about your life, what would the title be?”

I guess the answer would be different depending on who was writing it, but I was reminded of a discussion at work the other day.  Someone said, “I have discovered the nickname my staff have given me.”

“Oh, yes?  Of course we’ve all got a nickname (or two),” someone responded.

“All of us?” I asked hopefully.

“All of us,” everyone chorused.

It got me thinking.  My guess is that most of us would love to know what others call us, but we’re pretty glad we don’t.  And if we discovered one of the less-flattering ones we’d probably shrug it off: They don’t understand me, after all; they are biased, and anyway, who are they to point fingers?  (I could call them a few names, if it comes to that.)  It’s certainly tempting to ignore what others think of us. 

But what about how God sees us?  Do the angels have nicknames for us? What would yours be? Do we want to know? The Bible speaks about a Book of Life.  What would the one about my life be called? 

I have a good idea what my book would be called outside of God’s grace.  “Guilty” would be prominent in the title.  So much pain and suffering caused to others—the consequences of my actions still felt.  God’s grace doesn’t tear out those pages.  To throw them away would be to forget how much I need forgiveness; it would be to ignore the wonder, the extravagance, the power of God’s grace. What God does is to write across them: “Forgiven” and “Loved by God”. 

To remember the past everyday, even to remember how much we have been forgiven, is a painful thing.  The danger is that we might become mired in self-pity or self-loathing, neither of which is God’s way to deal with the past, and neither will bring the healing God desires.  But in remembering lies the opportunity every day to wonder afresh at the unimaginable, underserved love of God; his gracious healing of enormous wounds through the suffering of Jesus.

I think my book would be called, “Lest we forget.”  What do you think?

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Tears, Grace and an Alabaster Jar


A story based on Luke 7:36-50

Everyone knew Mary.  Not to talk to of course; no one did that except the children who taunted her at every opportunity—and her customers I suppose, but they only came out at night.

No one knew where she had come from; probably chased out of her previous village.  She had a one-roomed house on the edge of town where she had lived for the past few years.  Few people knew her name.  Whenever the women discussed her around the well she was ‘that woman’.

“Why she had to come here; it’s a disgrace.”
“Why the men at the synagogue don’t do something about it.”
“Probably because they’re men.”
“Yes, my husband thinks it’s a joke”
“I told my husband that if I catch him so much as glancing in her direction….”

A woman of ill repute she certainly was.  Of course there had to be men of ill repute too, but one never spoke about them.

The only person who ever engaged in conversation with Mary was Hannah.  Poor old Hannah.  She’d been ill for twelve years.  Bleeding, you know.  No one ever talked about it of course, or talked to her much.  Her illness made her unclean so she couldn’t go to synagogue, which pretty well cut her out of polite society.  No one would visit her or invite her over.  She and Mary would go to the well around mid-afternoon when no one else was there.  Mary would draw the water for Hannah of course—Hannah wasn’t allowed; couldn’t have someone unclean polluting the village water supply.

They made a sad pair: two outcasts reaching out to each other, passing the time of day.

Then Jesus came to the village—along with crowds of people.  Where they all came from I don’t know.  It turned out that Jesus was on his way to Jairus’s house.  Jairus’s daughter was very ill; some say she died and that Jesus resurrected her, but I don’t know about that.

Hannah and Mary were at the well when they heard Jesus was coming.  Hannah made up her mind.  “I’m going to speak to Jesus,” she said to Mary.

“He won’t talk to you in your state,” Mary said.

“I’ve heard differently,” Hannah replied.  “I’ve heard that he cares about outcasts like us.”

“This I’ve got to see,” said Mary.

When they saw the crowds, Mary thought Hannah would give up.  She wasn’t very strong at the best of times, but she was determined.

“Maybe I won’t be able to talk to him,” she said.  “But if I can just touch his cloak, I’m sure that will be enough.   There is something very special about him.  They say God is really blessing him.”

“Well,” said Mary.  “Any decent man who’ll give you and me the time of day has to be pretty special.”

They made their way through the crowd, ignoring the jibes and the sideways glances.  Mary was surprised.  Usually people would crowd her out if she tried this on her own but they didn’t like to touch Hannah, so they tended to made way for her, and Mary slipped along in her wake as it were.  At one point some kid shoved Mary and she stumbled—his friends laughed, but the two women pushed on.

When they were right behind Jesus Hannah hesitated, then she reached out and touched the edge of his robe.   Hannah pulled back quickly as if she had been burned.  Mary saw that something significant had happened but, before she could say anything, Jesus turned round.  “Who touched me?” he asked.

Of course everyone thought that was a pretty silly question, given the crowd, but Hannah and Mary knew exactly what he meant.

Then Jesus looked at Mary; she caught her breath; the world seemed to stand still as he held her in his gaze.  Then he turned to Hannah.

She heard Hannah telling Jesus what she had done and heard Jesus saying that it was OK.  “Your faith has made you well,” he said.  “Go in peace.”  Hannah was overwhelmed; she turned and stumbled through the crowd.

Then Jesus looked back at Mary and smiled.  Mary didn’t know when someone had last smiled at her.  Leered, yes, smirked; but a genuine, warm, caring smile?  She was transported back to when she was a little girl, and her father came home from the fields.  He would smile lovingly at her when she ran out to greet him, just as Jesus was smiling now. Tears filled her eyes.  He seemed about to speak.  But just then some men came from Jarius’s house and the crowd closed in around Jesus to hear what was going on.  Mary was jostled back to the present and fought her way out of the crowd, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Mary couldn’t sleep that night.  That smile; those eyes.  She felt as if Jesus knew everything about her: her childhood, her lousy choices, her miserable existence.  He could see it all but instead of turning away in disgust, as most good people would do, he welcomed her with a smile.  His eyes seemed to say, “It’s OK.”

She had to see him again, but where?  How?

She saw Hannah the next day.  Hannah was so excited.  She had been to the priest; in seven days she’d be clean.  She had also heard news that Simon had invited Jesus to supper that night.

Simon was a Pharisee, an important man in the village, always pointing out where others were breaking the law.  He always made a point of crossing the road or turning his back whenever Mary was around.  If anyone was to throw Mary out of town, it would be Simon.

Simon’s dinner parties were well known.  Naturally, only the most important people in the village were invited to sit around the table—usually when some dignitary was passing through.  Of course, according to our custom, anyone and everyone could wander in and listen quietly to the conversation.  Only invited guests could speak and interact, but it was always worthwhile listening to the discussions around Simon’s table.

“I’m going,” Mary said to Hannah.

Hannah was horrified.  “You can’t go there.  They’ll, they’ll….  I don’t know what they’ll do.  It’ll be the last straw.  Simon will have an excuse to throw you out of the village.”

“I don’t care,” said Mary.  “I have to see him again.”

There was no persuading her otherwise.  Mary spent the afternoon trying to work out what she was going to say or do.  She wanted to take a gift but she had nothing of value.  Her most precious possession was an alabaster jar of perfume; it was all she had that had belonged to her mother.  She decided to take it with her.  Whatever happened she mustn’t cry.  Tears had hardly left her eyes since Jesus had first looked at her on the road.  Was that only yesterday?  It seemed like a lifetime ago.  But if an opportunity arose to talk with Jesus that night there would be no time for tears.

Mary arrived just as Jesus and the other guests were being welcomed and shown their places.  No one noticed her at first, and when the stares and the whispers started Mary was already ensconced in a corner of the room.  Mary had eyes only for Jesus, and she noticed that Simon was not as welcoming of Jesus as he was of other guests.  He didn’t kiss him on the cheek or even offer him water to wash his feet.  Simon wanted to meet this Jesus but, it seemed, he didn’t want Jesus or anyone else to think they were equals. 

When the food was being served Jesus turned, saw Mary, and smiled at her.  Mary was overwhelmed; all her resolve went out the window.  All the pain and rejection of a lifetime, all the sin and failure, poured out in tears that rolled down her cheeks.  She fell at Jesus feet, weeping silently, her tears forming rivulets in the dust on his feet.  Soon the dust was washed away; she loosened her hair and used it to wipe his feet dry.  There were gasps from around the room as her hair cascaded down, and more as people saw what she was doing.   But she was beyond caring, or even noticing.  She remembered her mother’s perfume and she poured it out over Jesus’ feet. 

Simon was horrified.  The other guests were silent, waiting to see what Simon would do.   Everyone knew Mary’s reputation, except Jesus, it seemed.  How could Jesus not know?  If his prophetic powers couldn’t help him then surely basic social skills, and the reaction of the crowd, would tell him that something was badly wrong.  Simon was about to speak but Jesus broke into his thoughts.

“Simon,” he said. “Imagine two men owed vastly different amounts to a moneylender.  Neither could pay him back, so the moneylender cancelled the debts of both.”

There were chuckles from the guests around the table, and from others around the room; no one could imagine a generous moneylender.

“Now Simon,” Jesus said.  “Who would love the moneylender more?”

Well, no one loved a moneylender, but a moneylender who forgave debt?   The answer was obvious.

“The one who owed him more, I suppose.” Simon answered warily, irritated that Jesus was taking this disgraceful situation so lightly.

“You are right,” Jesus said.  Then he looked at Mary.  “Do you see this woman here?”

Well of course he did.  Simon wished he couldn’t, of course, and he certainly didn’t want any more attention drawn to her.

Jesus went on, “When I arrived you didn’t give me any water to wash my feet, or olive oil to anoint my head, and you didn’t greet me with a kiss; but this woman has washed my feet and dried them with her hair; she has not stopped kissing my feet and she has anointed them with perfume.  The great love she has shown, proves that her many sins have been forgiven.  On the other hand, those who have been forgiven little, show little love.”

Mary hardly heard any of this exchange.  All she knew was that here was a man who accepted her as she was.  For the first time in her adult life she was being treated with respect and love.

Then Jesus turned to her and she heard him say, “Your sins are forgiven.”

Of course, that caused another scandal around the room, but Jesus ignored it and said to Mary what he said to Hannah the day before, “Your faith has saved you.  Go in peace.”

“Peace?” Mary thought to herself.  She hadn’t known any peace since she was a little child, but there was peace here.  In spite of all the rejection, irritation and hostility around the room, she could sense a peace she had never experienced before.  Mary knew where she fitted in the story Jesus had told Simon.  She was the one who owed the most; probably more than anyone in the room.  But, perhaps unlike anyone else there, Mary didn’t take her position for granted, not even her place on the floor at Jesus feet.  She knew she was there by grace alone.  Jesus had reached out to her.  He had accepted her gift, the little she had to offer, and had welcomed her into his space.

Mary didn’t know what the future would hold, but she knew there and then, on the floor of Simon’s house, that whatever happened she would follow Jesus. 

She glanced up and saw Simon’s face; a shiver of foreboding travelled down her spine.  She didn’t know whether the hatred she read into his features was directed at her or at Jesus, but she had made up her mind.  She would follow Jesus whatever the cost, wherever it led.

The above story (based on Luke 7:36-50) was inspired by a friend who suggested that this woman must have seen or met Jesus before. Somehow that story just had to be told.  First told at Prestbury Methodist Church, 29 January 2012. Tomorrow I’ll post the prayer that goes with it.

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Rapture or Disappointment: 21 May 2011


Russian Icon of the Second Coming used for All...
Image via Wikipedia

Well, thank you to all those who have been reading my ‘wonderings’ over the past few weeks.  A special welcome to the new visitors who have been looking at what I wrote about the May 21 predictions of the ‘end of the world’.

I guess I won’t be seeing you next week.  The subject will no longer be relevant or we won’t be here to talk about it.  Please note the “we” in that last sentence.  Those who are adamant that Jesus is coming again tomorrow might be surprised.  While I think they have a narrow veiw of the Bible and a very limited understanding of God’s revelation, I too believe in the second coming of Jesus.

Nowhere does the Bible say, “If you believe on the Lord Jesus, and work out the day of his coming, you will be saved.” So when, where and how, I do not know but 21 May 2011 is as good a day as any.

So, if Jesus comes tomorrow, well and good.  If not, how sad.  Sad for the ordinary folk involved, and for the children.  I’m not worried about the leaders.  They should know better and, anyway, they tend to dust themselves off, make a few excuses, and get on with their lives.  But the ordinary folk?  Does anyone care?  Does anyone help them deal with the uncertainty that such a massive disappointment must cause?

It will also be sad because the whole exercise turns people away from Jesus and towards us and our clever calculations of the second coming.

Fortunately Jesus is bigger than our follies, our unbelief, our misunderstanding, and our misrepresentation.  And God’s grace is deep and wide enough for us all, however far we have fallen, and however far we have wandered.  That is one thing this wondering preacher knows from his own experience.  So, if we are still here on 22 May, may we practice that grace and continue to believe in God’s mercy towards the foolish and the arrogant, the sinners and the saints.

Oh, and do keep coming back.  I’d love to have you, and do feel free to leave a comment.

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First Impressions: Guns & Flowers


 First Impressions Count

Canna x generalis
Image by dinesh_valke via Flickr

This was brought home to me again last week. I received a call at work and the voice said, “Here’s a voice from the past—like 42 years ago.” In fact I later realised it was more like 45.

I tried to do my sums and come up with a name, to no avail. He told me who it was.

Nick had moved in next door to us when I was about 11. They had a long sloping driveway that allowed for endless hours of boxcar/go-cart fun, hurtling down and swerving off to the left onto the grass patch at the bottom of the garden near the front gate (alternatively turning the cart over on the turn and skidding down the driveway on hands, knees, heads or whatever).

Photo by Anthony Catalano via Flickr

We also camped out in a tent in his garden. I would reduce my father’s supply of Navy Cut and we’d make ourselves some cob pipes to cough and splutter ourselves to sleep. It wasn’t long after they moved in that we made the most difficult of all the moves my family made in my first twelve years of life—others included

Zimbabwe, South Africa, UK, Pietermaritzburg. This time we moved across the road but, because no one took it seriously (we were seasoned movers after all) nothing got packed properly and the resultant mess became a Darwinian soup in the front bedroom.

I digress. Nick reminded me of an early over-the-fence conversation.

Me: “Come see my cannas.”

Nick: “OK.” (Thinks): “Cool! He’s got guns and cannons and stuff.”

He said he came over and what does he get? “A bunch of bloody flowers.”

I guess if you’re 11 and you haven’t got anything cool to show off, you have to make do with what you’ve got.

It struck me again how important first impressions are. And, at the same time, how unimportant they are. That was a memory Nick has carried for more than forty years. Mercifully, I had forgotten. It could have destroyed all hope of friendship: “I don’t want to hang out with someone who thinks flowers are cool.” (Of course, we didn’t ‘hang out’ in those days.) As it happened, our interest (or was it desperation) was strong enough to explore beyond the first impressions and we went on to do really cool stuff.

First impressions are critical because they can destroy all hope of a friendship before it even starts. On the other hand, first impressions are much less important than we make out. If only we have the courage to stay with this person, dig beneath the surface, discover who they really are.

It is a measure of God’s great mercy and unconditional love that he is not swayed by first impressions. He knew from the beginning what he was getting with us. He even knew that what lies beneath the surface isn’t much better. The possibility of friendship, transformation, all of these come not from within us; they are not things that lie beneath the surface and just need a bit of love to release. They do not exist. Our ability to relate to God, to become like him, is a sheer gift of grace. That gift isn’t there because God saw something deep within us that just needed a bit of polishing—we have nothing to offer this gracious God. He loved us, plain and simple. For reasons that are beyond our comprehension, God loves us and chose to offer us friendship, transformation, the opportunity to become fully human.

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