"That" Woman

Of all the women in the Bible, the one with whom I identify most is Mary - the one from Magdala, the one out of whom, the Bible says, Jesus cast out seven demons. The one who was considered a 'sinner' - some say an adulteress, even a prostitute.

She was "that" woman.

"Husband - are you ogling 'that' woman?"

"No sweetie, go and play over there. You don't want to get close to 'that' woman." 

"Ladies, let's cross to the other side of the road. 'That' woman is walking on this side. We all know what she does." 

Her reputation crucified by her past actions, Mary was used to being ostracized by women and shunned by the religious elite ... and she was used to the rest of the men (single or not) looking at her like she was a piece of prime filet mignon they wished they could afford. Some of them could. Perhaps they did.

She felt used up, dirty, evil, worthless, rejected. She would never be accepted by the religious community; she'd stopped trying. Nobody had ever befriended her for who she was - only what she could do for them. 

Until she met Him. 

He didn't look at her with lust, the way the men of the village did. And he didn't treat her with disdain like the rest of the rabbis did. 

He accepted her. Maybe ... though she wondered how it could possibly be ... maybe He even loved her. Not in an erotic kind of way - but more like what she had always wanted her own father to love her. Tenderly; as if she was a treasure to be protected and cherished.

He liberated her on the inside with that love. In a single moment, and in the months that followed, He released her from years upon years of torment from her inner demons. 

Hope, gratitude, and all the love she had dared not give, sparked within her. 

She abandoned her former lifestyle, and joined the growing band of His followers, which included people from all social levels, including Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea, sitting members of the Sanhedrin, the religious elite - who knew? But that was the thing about Jesus, she thought to herself. It didn't matter who you were or what you had done - He loved you. He was always thrilled to see you.

Before long, because she was there all the time, she was in the inner circle, and well-known to the disciples and to the women who followed Him. It was strange - and wonderful - to be treated like a valuable member of a group that was closer than family. She was acutely aware of who and what she had been. She marveled that she was so warmly welcomed by all who surrounded this amazing Rabbi - whom she called 'Rabboni' - 'My Great Master.' It was the highest esteem that her language could afford.

"He who has been forgiven much," Jesus told a curious Pharisee one day, "loves much." 

Mary loved much.

When Jesus was arrested and crucified - words could not express her grief. He was her life, her heart. She could not imagine how she could ever go back to her former life after He had touched hers so profoundly.

She found herself turning to them: to His mother, and to Mary of Bethany, Lazarus' sister. Together, they made plans to honor His body with the traditional embalming spices and linens; He'd been buried so close to sunset, the beginning of the Sabbath, that there wasn't time to do a proper job. 

It was those two women - those two very respectable women - with whom she went to carry out the solemn task. They wondered how they could ever manage to roll the stone back from the door of the tomb when it took several men to do it before. 

Perhaps the soldiers would help. 

But - the soldiers weren't there. And - shock of shocks - the stone WAS rolled away! 

Tremulous, they peeked inside - and saw a man sitting there in a pure white robe. They listened incredulously as he told them that Jesus wasn't there anymore - that He was alive! "Go and tell His disciples." 

The other two Marys - each touched by the miraculous power of God in their lives - were amazed and joyful, and ran as fast as feet could fly to tell the eleven who were left - and in hiding - what they'd seen and heard.

But 'that' Mary couldn't bring herself to believe. Jesus' crucifixion was too fresh. She was convinced that this was some kind of cruel joke, that someone had taken His body and made off with it. She stayed outside the tomb and crumpled to the ground, distraught, as billows of grief overcame her. 

And then He was there. As soon as He spoke her name ... she KNEW it was Him.
 
"Rabboni!" she cried, still on her knees, and clung to His feet, deep sobs of joy and relief pouring out of her as she did. 

His first appearance after His resurrection wasn't to the religious elite. It wasn't even to the disciples, and as a matter of fact, He'd not even seen His Father yet. He stopped in the garden outside the tomb that early morning for one reason and one reason only. 

Because it was her. Because she was 'that' woman. 'That' woman ... who had learned to love ... with all of her heart.

The Fisher

He fished for a living. Together with his brother and other burly, well-muscled men, Peter could hold his own on a boat - or in a fight. 

But one day his brother came running up to him, out of breath. "I found him!" he exclaimed. "The Anointed One! I'm sure it's the Deliverer!" 

He was skeptical. "Really? how can you be sure?"

"Come and see!" Andrew told him. 

Peter followed - from afar. He watched this fellow from Nazareth touch sick people and they would instantly be well. He listened to this man teach, watched him love, care for people. He couldn't help himself. Maybe Andrew had been right.

And then, one day, it happened. Jesus called him to be one of His inner circle. "You'll fish men," He told Peter.

He left his nets behind for good. Ever impulsive and whole-hearted in whatever he did, Peter embraced this Master with everything he was. He soaked in the strange, compassionate teaching like a spiritual sponge; Jesus touched something in him that had never been stirred before. For the first time in his life, he felt truly loved. He marveled like a child at the mystery and the power of God shown in the miracles Jesus did, the things He said, and His willingness to touch the untouchables. 

He was absolutely sure that Jesus was the Messiah, that it was just a matter of time before the Master would burst forth and deliver them all from their oppressors, the Romans. He expected it to happen any day. 

Until the day that the opposite happened. The time was ripe, the soldiers were right there; it was perfect. 

He even took a swing with his sword at one of the arrest party - missed his neck and cut off his ear instead.  Jesus stopped him, and healed the man's ear.

Now. Now was the time; something amazing was bound to happen. 

Only ..... Only He didn't call the hosts of Heaven to come charging to the rescue. 

He let them arrest Him and take Him away. What??

Peter was dumbfounded. The tide had turned! How could this happen?

He'd built his life on the Master. He'd forsaken everything. Now ... the only One who could do anything to turn it around ... wasn't doing it. 

And anyone who was associated with Him would be the next target. He knew it as sure as he knew his own name. As much as he was unafraid to face the whole arrest party, he feared the Sanhedrin and their guards; they had the ear of the Roman governor and that made him very nervous! His fear made him want to cut and run - but his love for Jesus, and his curiosity about what might happen next, made him stay close - even if at a distance. Even while his world was falling apart.

And then ... someone recognized him. 

Peter felt trapped. He backpedaled. All he wanted to do was get away, find a place, lick his wounds. Bewildered, unsure, insecure, he denied ever knowing Jesus. Not once, but to three separate people in the space of a few hours. 

And suddenly Jesus was looking at him. One glance was all it took. The Master had said he would do this - and he (ever impulsive, ever leading with his heart) had promised that even if the others ran away, he wouldn't. He knew that Jesus knew what he'd done. His eyes brimmed with tears. He ran out into the night, into the dark, alone. This was so unusual for Peter; he usually liked the crowd - it invigorated him. Not now. Now, he buried his face in his hands and burst into deep, wracking sobs - for how long he didn't know and he didn't care. 

He was a failure. 

Even after Jesus rose from the grave - the greatest miracle of all - Peter still doubted himself. He decided to go back to the sea, to what he knew, to the life he'd abandoned three years ago. That, at least, he knew how to do. Besides, Jesus would never have any use for him. He'd dropped the ball. He had royally messed up. There was no going back.

Even that didn't work. All night he fished. Not one fish.

"Throwing Fishing Net During Sunset" courtesy of noomhh at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

He and his friends the Zebedee brothers were rowing back into shore in the dawn light when a voice called out to them. "Throw the net on the other side of the boat," it said. 

It went completely against what they were used to doing. Yet ... something about the tone of the Man's voice made them obey. 

Immediately, the net filled with fish - all kinds of fish - so many that the net almost broke! The men were laughing and sweating, straining against the sudden influx of wiggling, flopping fish.

Their laughter died down as they caught each other's eyes. Only One Person could do that. "It's the Lord," John said. 

Peter let go of the net - for the second time in his life - and jumped into the water. He rushed toward the shore, to the growing, tantalizing smell of frying fish. Jesus had cooked breakfast. 

The Master never said a word about the pall that hung between them. Both men knew Peter had denied knowing Him, that he was awash in shame. No, now it was more important to feed the body. They'd worked hard all night, and hunger was a great distraction.

After breakfast, Jesus and Peter found themselves alone - apart from the others - talking. 

"Do you love me more than these?" Jesus asked. 

Peter had learned his lesson about promising the moon. "You know that I like you," he replied.

"Feed my sheep."

"Do you love Me?"  Peter again affirmed that he liked the Master - as a brother or a friend.

Again the mysterious command. "Feed my lambs."

The silence was deafening. "Peter ... do you like Me?" 

Ouch. "Lord, You know all things. You know that I like You." 

"Feed my sheep."

In the space of five minutes, Jesus let Peter know that he was completely forgiven, that He was willing to start where Peter was - in the midst of his insecurities and self-doubt, and He refocused his attention on what really mattered: not comparing himself to others, but concentrating on his own relationship with God and listening to whatever it was that God had called him to do with his life. 

Seven weeks later - after Jesus had returned to the Throne, Peter's life would change completely.

He was about to get a much bigger net.

Wanting to - don't make it so

"I'm gonna live every moment of my life for Him. I'm gonna hold onto His hand."

"I won't rest until I've made myself like Him...."

I can't count the number of times, the number of people I've heard utter statements like these. Their desire is - as is mine - to live for Jesus. 

The problem with these kinds of statements is that in spite of how heartfelt they are, how well-intentioned they may be, they are doomed to failure. The truth is, there is no possible way that any one person can persevere that much, hold on that tenaciously, or make him or herself like Jesus. No. Way.

"Without Me," Jesus informed His disciples, "you can do nothing." 

NOTHING. 

I heard someone recently stand in front of the group of people I was in, and tell us what church members "should" be doing - the attitudes they "should" have and how they "should" make their mark on the world. What this person was describing was absolutely ... impossible. No amount of human effort can produce the truly joyous and free experience known as the abundant Christian life. 

If it were possible to do this by ourselves, Jesus would never have had to die.
 
It's BECAUSE we can't live the way He wants by ourselves that we need His grace in the first place. And once we experience that grace to change our spiritual DNA, do we really think we can say, "I can take it from here, God..."??

Like the southern gospel song says, "I can't even walk without You holdin' my hand." 

No really, I mean it. If I had to depend on MY holding on to HIM ... I KNOW I wouldn't make it. If I could do anything - anything at all - then I would have something to boast about. And I don't. I couldn't. It would all be wood, hay, stubble. Those are the things done in the flesh: things done using human effort. 

And they won't stand up to the flame of His passion.  The works HE does in us are the only ones that will last. They are the gold, silver, precious stones that will endure...

"The Cross and the Hand" courtesy of njaj at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

I can WANT to live up to the shoulds and oughtas until the cows come home - whatever that means. The point is that even though I might be able to sustain "good behavior" or "a witness" for a little while, it would be exhausting.  

You want to know how I know? 

I tried - for decades!!! Out of experience, I can honestly say that I just don't have the strength to sustain it - to endure in every circumstance. So wanting to - doesn't make it happen. At least, not consistently. Paul knew this struggle. "The good that I want to do, I don't do. The evil that I don't want to do, I end up doing. Oh wretched man that I am! Who shall deliver me from this body of death?" (Romans 7)

It's in leaning on Him, depending on His moment-by-moment unmerited favour and presence, that I can grow in grace. 

That doesn't come from me. 

It just doesn't.  It comes from utter dependence on Him. That way, if anything good happens - I know it's His doing.

In Direct

I'm learning something new. Well, actually it's old - but it's new to me.

I'm learning how to cope with being hurt by someone - whether inadvertently (which is usually the case) or on purpose.

I've always known THAT I was not supposed to go blabbing my stuff to other people and participate in the most common church activity there seems to be: backbiting, gossiping, and spreading discord. 

Yet it seemed to be the only way for me to get the message out without actually confronting someone - something I dreaded, so I just didn't do it. I didn't know how, and I didn't care to know either. After all, it would mean that I would have to change. And I didn't want to change; they were the ones who were supposed to change, not me. 

And people got hurt; their reputations got hurt. 

And I stayed hurt, too. Nothing got resolved; as a matter of fact, it usually got worse over time as I built my imaginary castle of perceived slights, false assumptions and expectations of being hurt further, and I thickened the walls with other people's opinions, people who already had axes to grind.

I raised the passive-aggressive approach to an art form. All that did was isolate me and attract more of the same sort of treatment - this time for real.

Learning how to put my head down, brace myself, burrow in and go directly to someone instead of to everyone but that person - that was hard. It was hard because I was ... terrified. 

Two friends spending happiest time together - courtesy of
imagerymajestic at www.freedigitalphotos.net

Even after I'd learned to be honest with myself about how I was feeling, even after I had learned to set boundaries for myself with others, and was even starting to set boundaries around myself in some situations, the direct approach was something at which I quailed. I ran from it at every opportunity. 

Until I couldn't anymore. 

Until I didn't have the luxury of talking trash about someone because I really, truly liked - even loved - that person, and I didn't want to run away anymore. Not from my friend. Keeping the relationship alive was more important to me than my fear. 

But I wanted to be honest too. If my perceptions were correct, we needed to work things out. And if they weren't - I needed to know instead of assuming wrong things about my friend. 

So ... I wrote an email.

Hey - I write. I'm a big believer in the backspace key - and I was afraid of spilling out words I could never un-say. 

So anyway, I wrote - told my friend how I felt, how I was hurting - and left the door open for a response.

And the response came, tempered with gentleness. As I had hoped, my perceptions were wrong, based on my own feelings of inadequacy, and the door to restoration had been opened. Before the end of the day, we worked out our differences. 

Love won over fear. 

And nothing awful happened. Huh.

Over Looked

Ever been the one left standing by yourself when folks are picking teams?

I have. It's not a nice feeling. It's like the team captains saw you, but didn't want you. Or perhaps they just picked their friends - or the ones who were the best at scoring goals. Being small in stature (as I was and still am, obviously) was a liability. I always got the impression they were looking over my head - like I was invisible or something. At any rate, I spent a lot of time on the sidelines when I was a kid.  

Being overlooked sucks. 

I thought high school was a thing of the past.
Just saying. 

"Teenage Girls Gossiping" courtesy of Ambro at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

I don't know. Maybe it's because I'm under five feet, and I've been treated like a non-entity so many times (people looking past me at someone else who's taller, better looking, or older - or younger), that I'm more sensitive to it today. It's a deeply wounded place for me. And - it seems - when there is such a place that's raw and hurting, it turns into a magnet for more of the same. People can be cruel without even meaning to be. 

And when they actually MEAN to be - it's even worse. Especially ... especially if it comes from someone whom you like, whom you wish liked you. Even a little. Or who (worse yet) has told you that you're special to them - but who chooses to be around others when the crunch comes. 

I've been in situations where I've been right there - RIGHT THERE - when someone needed something I had to offer, something I had offered to provide  on many occasions. And ... they picked someone else. Right in front of me. 

Over and over again. I get so sick of it happening time after time, every time. I try to be gracious about it; I try to follow the advice of those who blithely offer it: "Don't let it get to you." The truth of the matter is that it hurts.

It hurts a LOT. And it happens most frequently ... in the church. The sense of being betrayed that rises up in me is hard to escape - and hard to stomach. In fact, it feels like someone took a good running start, and kicked me in the gut.

The psalmist wrote about this phenomenon.

"It is not an enemy who taunts me; I could have borne that.
It is not my foes who so arrogantly insult me - I could have hidden from them.
Instead, it is you - my equal, my companion and close friend.
What good fellowship we once enjoyed as we walked together to the house of God." (Psalm 55:2-14, NLT)

The psalmist then prays for nasty things to happen to folks like this. I can understand that sentiment all too well! Treatment like that makes me want to blow this pop stand ... sky high. Many times, I've wanted to just walk away and never look back.  Oh no, not walk away from God - don't misunderstand me. I just get so tired of ... being overlooked, taken for granted, ignored. 

And it's not that I'm after any kind of recognition or applause, or for people to call attention to me and tell me how wonderful I am just because they think that this is what motivates me. It doesn't.  Sometimes, though, I feel like the person who's been at a company for a long time and the younger, better looking people come in and rise to the top, even though that person is just as qualified for a promotion. Nobody even thinks to offer it to him. After all, that's the way it's always been. And hey, he might even turn such a promotion down - but how would they know if they never asked? it never even crossed their minds.

So ... more and more, I've been choosing to be around people who like having me around, people who appreciate my contribution. Tragically enough, that seems to be those who are NOT in the church. Either the church people don't like me, or they have no clue how to show love and consideration. Or maybe they don't want to be associated with someone who freely admits that she doesn't have it all together. It messes with the "Christians are supposed to be perfect and mature at all times" fallacy.

You can only take so much pain before it gets to be too much. At that point, you start to shut down, shut people out, shut up, and shut off.
 
So ... if anyone wonders why I hesitate to volunteer for things anymore in the church - perhaps it might help if they stepped inside my size 7 footwear for a while. I'm sure they wouldn't want to stay in my shoes for very long.  

I know I don't.