Leaving the Salt Shaker

Many thanks to the anonymous poster who commented on the last blog – especially because you gave me the courage to write something else I’ve been thinking but had been afraid to post.

A while back, I read an article that described in more detail what I’d heard rumors of – that many conservative Christian groups are pondering a “mass exodus” from the public schools. As I read the article further – and others like it – I got angrier and angrier. This sentence was the one that got me:

Shortt and Baucham urged every Southern Baptist church to investigate whether is local school district had a homosexual club or program legitimizing homosexuality and, if so, to “inform parents of this fact and encourage them to remove their children from the district’s schools immediately.”

As I have already said, my first reaction was anger. Why would we do something like this? What good could this possibly do? It seems utterly selfish (and strangely un-Christlike) to say, “I’m going to steer far clear of anything that doesn’t promote my values.” If we took this to its logical extreme, we’d have to pull all our missionaries out of countries that were hostile to the Gospel.

Now, my reaction is more sorrow than anger. Sorrow that we would so easily pull away from the largest “home mission field” we will ever have – a place where we could potentially show God’s love to every one of our nation’s future leaders. A place that can be a vast learning ground for children who need to know how different their God is from everyone else’s. A place where people need God’s love and light as much as people in the 10/40 window.

Many will argue, “they’re only kids!” I’ve heard this before, and it’s true. And before I continue, I’ll state my own place in the debate: I spent middle and high school in a Christian school, and received a wonderful biblical education. I went to a Baptist university where I was nurtured even further. I still have fond memories of teachers and professors who were great influences on me – in matters of math, literature, history, sports, and spirituality.

But I also know that I was in college – probably 20 years old – before I got to know my first really non-Christian friend. And only then did I finally begin to understand that what I believed was different – and worth sharing. I’m very glad for my own journey, and know many others who “survived” Christian education just fine. But I also know many who have wandered from their faith because – at least I think this is why – they never saw what a difference it could make.

I also have two little girls who will, in a few years, begin their own journeys of education – both academic and spiritual. I hope and pray I will have the courage to send them to public schools – no matter how “dangerous” they may seem. I applaud parents who can look at today’s schools and, rather than walk the other way, can say, “Welcome to your mission field.”

If there was ever a time when our schools needed Christian children, it is now! If there was ever a time when our Christian children needed to stop being sheltered and start learning that believing in Christ DOES make them different, it is now!

Jesus said, “You are the salt of the earth.” But how can the salt do any good if it never leaves the salt shaker?

Mission Field

I hear so many Christians bemoaning the fact that our world – our nation especially – is not as Christian as it should be. But could it be good that things are going the way they are in our world?

I, for one, welcome the changes. Our society is not “Christian” anymore? Good. It means people will have to take the Gospel at face value rather than just equate it with what it has become. Kids aren’t growing up in church and having prayer every morning in school? Good. Maybe when they ARE presented with the truths of Christ, they won’t be negatively prejudiced against it.

I think the Gospel has been in chains in America for some time – the chains of organized backburner religion. We make Christianity such a cultural thing that we leave it there – it’s social, a thing we do on Sundays, a thing that has no place in the home or in our habits or our everyday lives.

In that light, maybe here – the Deep South, the Bible Belt – is as challenging a mission field as the deepest untamed places of the Middle East. At least there they can see a clear difference between the Gospel and their own religion. At least there they can accept it or reject it at face value – assuming, that is, that someone will go to tell them. Or as much at “face value” as they can when a Western “Christian nation” is pushing their own version of Christianity.

Here, it’s different. Here, all things Christian – whether they are the real Gospel or not – are all relegated to the same place. “I’ve heard this all before. Who’s that knocking at the door? It’s Jesus again. He belongs over here.” And we leave him alone. Never mind that this is a different Jesus than the one we’ve always known – one who calls us to take up our cross, to be willing to suffer and die to ourselves. One who calls us to actually SEEK OUT the “least of these” to minister to them, rather than waiting for them to come to us. One who came to bring fire and division, not “world peace.”

Just thoughts… very open to comments.

Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?

How could I have missed this, so many times I have read this passage? I’ve always taken comfort from the fact that Jesus has endured all that I have endured (Heb. 4:15; 2 Tim. 1:8, 2:3, 2:8-10). But I always related this to physical hardships, for Jesus certainly endured many of those. It’s a comfort and a challenge – a call to stand firm even against persecution and difficulty. For as we participate in Jesus’ glory, so will we be called to participate in his suffering. He told us as much himself (“Blessed are you who are persecuted…” and “Unless you drink the cup that I must drink…”).

But as I sat in a midweek Lenten service this afternoon, I read this passage again as if for the first time. And then I looked back on Jesus’ struggle in the Garden as he prayed for the cup to be passed to another. Is it possible that I have suffered with Jesus – and he with me – even in these ways?

Could it be that Jesus, divine and perfect as he was, was afraid to do what needed to be done – even though he knew what glory would follow? Or did he know what would follow… that’s a question for another time. But could it be that even as I have struggled, and still do every day, to live the difficult calling that God has laid on each of us, as I have tried to muster passion, courage and love… could it be that Jesus has been right there struggling beside me even then?

Could it be that Jesus, having endured nearly all, had a wavering of faith even at that moment? And could it be that even in those times when I have knelt and cried, beat my hands against the floor, feeling I had lost all sight of God, and even wondering if God existed… could it be that even then, Jesus was there suffering with me?

Could even doubt and fear be part of the sufferings we endure with Christ, a part of the “glory yet to be revealed” (Romans 8)?

Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?

On Zacchaeus

We’ll call this next couple of posts “catching up” – things I would have put on the blog a while back if I’d HAD a blog. This is a journal entry from sometime in December, but it still reflects what I feel today.

I often relate to biblical characters for different reasons. Today, I feel like Zacchaeus.

Zacchaeus was separated from Jesus in several ways. First, he was at the back of a crowd pressed around Jesus, and he was a small man so he could not get through, desperately as he wanted to. Second, he was short, so he had no chance of seeing Jesus over the crowd.

But there was another barrier that kept Zacchaeus at a distance – he was a tax collector, and he knew his lifestyle was sinful. I imagine that Zacchaeus’ distance wasn’t caused so much by a physical barrier as a spiritual one – a distance he felt from Jesus that no pushing, shoving, or jumping could overcome. And so, resigned to this fact, Zacchaeus climbed a tree to watch Jesus work and speak.

I feel this spiritual barrier sometime. It’s so difficult to feel a closeness to God sometimes, and I have a tendency to feel that it’s something I’m doing. My busyness, my own sins, my emotional state, the kinds of television programs and movies I watch. Can these things keep me at a distance from God? Yes, in a way – mentally, emotionally, these things can distance me from godly thoughts and actions, and so can affect my spirit.

And so, in these times, I climb that old familiar tree. I grasp the lowest strong limb, now worn smooth by the rubbing of my hands, and pull myself up. I step from branch to branch, my feet fitting easily into well-known grooves and niches. And I make my way up to the top and wait and watch.

Sometimes nothing happens. Sometimes, I sit and do the familiar things I’ve always done and ache for something to happen, but it doesn’t. I climb back down the tree to go about my business as usual. Maybe tomorrow I’ll climb and I’ll see him.

And then sometimes, I get to the top and wait and watch. And just as I’m about to give up and climb down, I hear a voice. “Come down, I am here.”

What a wonderful feeling to know that the God of the universe, and the savior of the world, is here in the room with me! He comes wished-for, but unbidden. Just because I climb the tree does not mean he is in some way made to appear. He comes at his own times and places, and finds me up in the tree – feeling distant and separated, just straining for a view of hope and warmth. He calls me down, and we eat together.

And as we do, I give up my sinful ways (for the thousandth time), and I commit to give back what I owe and then some. And once again, things are right in my world.

Forgot to mention…

Because it took me a few times to get used to it…

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I think that’s it! Enjoy.