What made him so revolutionary?  Well, He declared His fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy:

“The Spirit of the Lord is on me,
   because he has anointed me
   to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners
   and recovery of sight for the blind,
to set the oppressed free,
   ¹⁹ to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

It’s not every day that someone walks around declaring the year of the Lord’s favor.  The favor that protects and sanctifies.  The poor, the prisoners, the oppressed.

What’s so revolutionary about this is the idea that people who were often blamed for their own suffering were declared favored by the Lord.  The unemployed, the thieves, those people who sinned and are now blind are favored by God?  What?!?  Didn’t they bring this upon themselves?  Shouldn’t they be punished?  But instead they’re going to be set free?  Huh?  This turned over a few tables, for sure.

Why did Jesus then go on to touch and heal these people?  Showing the power of His Grace, exactly what the favor of the Lord can do, the blind could see, the lame could walk, and the manifestation of God’s favor was truly tangible.  They had done nothing to earn this favor, and yet their lives became a realistic demonstration of the Lord’s favor.  In a world where only the self-righteous were heeded as spiritually worthy, this was revolutionary for sure.

If we’re going to join Jesus in his revolutionary acts, it’s time we realize His favor for ourselves.  No, we’re not necessarily deserving, knowledgeable, clean cut, good deed doers, or fancy schmancy.  But the Lord’s favor is upon us all the same.  So how will that manifest in our lives, becoming a tangible expression of God’s grace?  How will we get up and walk?  How, and what, will we see?  And how could this change Christian culture as we know it?

Which is great, because after randomly checking the stats of this blog, I saw that someone had googled the phrase “How do I make God like me?” and landed on this blog.  And now I suddenly have something to say:

You can’t.

It’s not that you can’t make God like you because you’ll never be good enough. It’s not because you sinned or because you stayed home from church last week, last month, last year. It’s not because you didn’t pray, try, listen hard enough.

It’s because, for one thing, we can’t MAKE God do anything.

It’s because, for a second thing, you can’t MAKE God like something He already favors.

It’s kind of redundant, you know?

So let’s stop trying to make God like us, and, realizing that He already does, use that energy for something more useful like, say, I don’t know, loving our neighbor and stuff like that.

(Caveat: This all happened before we were “saved,” but not by much.)

You see, Audrey Brown, the girl down the street, was a Mean Girl.  She stole my best friend away from me, told me I couldn’t play with them, and basically acted like she commanded the universe with her fingertips.  I dreaded this girl; she had the ability to make life miserable.

One day, she had done something mean – she probably told me her Cabbage Patch Kid was better than mine or something – and I went home to vent to my mother, who was working in the kitchen.  Upon hearing of the injustice I had suffered at the hands of the Mean Girl, my mom stopped by the refrigerator and offered me some comfort.  “Well,” she declared defensively, even all-knowingly, “Audrey’s going to grow up to have a Big Butt just like her mother.”  And she could say that because she, herself, did not have a Big Butt. 

Now, I have a lot of wonderful childhood memories involving my mother.  My mother baked the best Christmas cookies anyone would ever taste, she let me pick out the latest in Esprit fashions (she was quite fashionable herself) and she cared for me when I was sick by bringing me perfectly golden, buttery toast.  She always carried Kleenex in her purse, curled my thick blonde hair patiently and without burning me, let us build forts in the family room, and displayed all the crafts we made as outlined in our purple Make and Do Childcraft book. 

But this is probably my most favorite memory of all.  

Because my mom had my back that day.  Or, as my sister-in-law put it, it was my mom “not taking any crap.” With one spunky, snarky sentence, I knew we were a team, and it didn’t matter what Audrey did to me, because whatever meanness and injustice she caused, it would all be repaid one day with a derriere the size of Texas longhorn, and we all knew what that meant.  Okay, so I didn’t know what that meant, but my mom did and I figured she knew what she was talking about.  Bottom line, it would all be okay because Audrey was going to have a Big Butt, suffering some cruel fate for all of adulthood.  My mom said so.  I felt vindicated.  Justified.  Empowered. 

So when Audrey pushed one too many buttons while riding the bus home from school, taunting me and being the very Mean Girl that she was, I lashed out.  Fed up with her bullying, I decided to tell her the truth about her buttock’s fate so she could know the same pain she caused me on a daily basis.  I turned around on that green pleather bus seat and shouted, with fervor and resolve, my feet shaking in their velcroed Zips, “OH YEAH?  WELL MY MOM SAID THAT YOU’RE GOING TO GROW UP TO HAVE A BIG BUTT JUST LIKE YOUR MOM!”

There.  That took care of it.  I could tell, as she was speechless for probably the first time in her life. 

I went home and ate my Twinkie, feeling very brave and confident.  Feeling good.  That is, I felt fantastic until the phone rang.  “Hello Kim, this is Mrs. Brown, may I please speak with your mother?”  My stomach turned with dread.

However, for some reason my mother never said a thing. 

Later, I simply figured she was too proud of me.

Like I said, this was all before we were saved.

An excerpt from my memoir, this is a story from a time when I thought the last word was mine, not God’s.  Grace for the offender?  What?  Stay tuned for future episodes of thoughts on true justice.

Air Giving.

As our pastor explained in his sermon on Sunday, our elders, including my father, have spotted congregants taking invisible checks out of their coat pockets and depositing them into the velvety basket thing during the offering.

What the hey?  Is this some form of Kingdom Cash?  Are they storing up treasures in heaven? 

I fear not.  Jon Acuff has written over at Stuff Christians like about wishing everyone knew you tithe electronically. And we all know we’ve done it.  Feeling that we appear like a cheapskate (or worse, like Cain) when the offering plate goes by and we don’t visibly donate, we internally argue with our fellow churchgoers:  “But I did tithe!  I’m a good little Christian tither!  I’ve done my part!”  Yes, sometimes we want credit for our actions.  Because then we’ll be in good standing with our spiritual peers and will enjoy a decent spot in the church-wide potluck line.  (Okay, our church is too big for a potluck, but I have fond memories of potlucks at smaller churches in childhood days.)  Generally, though, both this internal conversation and the VIP pot luck line would remain in our psyche.

But actually donating imaginary greenbacks?  That goes just a little too far.  Further than internally desiring a little Christian pat on the back.  It indicates a spiritual need even deeper than crock-pot lasagna. 

So let’s talk about this deep spiritual need that prominent placement next to the beanie weenies cannot satisfy.  Here a couple of issues I think are the root of the problem:

1.  We don’t feel accepted at church.

Caveat:  This may or may not be due to actions of the church or its members.  It may be a residual issue from a past church, or from painful junior high memories that skew current perceptions of acceptance and rejection.  (Not that I would know about either one…)  Whatever the case, we want to feel included and don’t mind giving in to a bit of peer pressure to fit in with the crowd.  It’s hard enough to fit in with the world.  So we subscribe to a faith that tells us to be in the world but not of it.  The only thing left is to be a part of the group that’s not a part of the world.  And where would we be if they shunned us for not looking like a big giver? 

2.  We don’t feel accepted by God.

Not that tithing imaginary money would improve our omnipresent God’s view of us.  I mean, it’s not like the Big Man upstairs doesn’t already know everything about us.  He’s Big Brother on steroids.  So we can’t impress Him with invisible checks.  However, if we truly felt that He liked us just as we are, then we wouldn’t care whether or not our brothers and sisters in church liked us just as we are.  We wouldn’t need the immediate affirmation that the impression of a big fat check provides.

And, by the way, if the rest of the congregants felt totally favored by God, then they wouldn’t be needing to judge those who appear not to give. Not saying they do judge, but if that’s the case and our imaginary tither’s self-conscious antennas are dead on, then everyone’s really in the same Grace boat.

I’m sorry people feel compelled to feign offerings at my church.  I’m sorry the church world has told them they are not enough if they don’t give.  I’m sorry human-sized faith has done that to them.  I’m sorry Ungrace has done that to them.  And I’m sorry if I’ve ever perpetrated that cycle.  You know me and my big fat fancy purse….

The truth is, through Grace we already are accepted just as we are, tithe or no.  Church or no.  Christ conquered rejection just after crying out “My God, why have you forsaken me?”  So it has no hold on us – in any form.    

In the world or at church.

Ideally, we would all rejoice over gifts together at church and give them over to God while we praise and worship Him as one body of believers, regardless of the origin or amount of the offerings.  But while we wait for our spiritual self-esteem to heal and mature, let’s declare solidarity with Air Giver, and let that velvety basket thing pass us all by without depositing a thing.  Then, having made our online contributions in secret, the left hand (or congregation, or Pharisee type people) won’t know what the right hand is doing.  Or the other way around.  I can never remember.

About a year ago, Bjoern and I saw U2 at Soldier field in Chicago.  That was an expereince of Grace at its finest.  Not only did I get down like it was nobody’s business,  U2′s music embodies Grace effortlessly.  If I had to redefine church, it would be a U2 concert.  I could move freely and express the Grace we’ve all been given, empowering us to go out into the world with open arms.  My favorite song is “Magnificent.”  I’m thinking about those lyrics today as I wrap up the first quarter of my new teaching job, knowing that my first purpose is to sing for God, to praise Him and worship Him all the days of my life.  That truth has given me a new vantage point to live my life.

And if you’re like me, that song will make you move in mysterious ways….

One sunny day I bound into Wild Oats with both energy and impatience.  Lenna had clung to me a little longer than usual, so I was pushing it today, each second of coffee procurement planned exactly as not to cause tardiness at school.  We couldn’t have children waiting on me unsupervised, could we?  And I was a responsible little teacher.  To make it to school on time, coffee in hand, I had exactly one minute to park, thirty seconds to get into the store, thirty seconds to retrieve my coffee, thirty seconds to pay, and one minute to get back in the car (walking slowly as not to spill all over my fancy teacher’s uniform of khaki colored chinos and a turtleneck sweater, always accessorized by a bracelet).  Generally, there were never lines this early in the morning, as most of the big shoppers seemed to stock up around noon when they were hungry, something they say never to do or you buy too much.  Anyway, this was a critical aspect of my time allotment strategy.

My plan was foiled, however, by an unusually early big shopper.  Her cart was piled high with all the wonderful foodstuffs Wild Oats had to offer:  natural breads and cereals, organic milks and yogurts, blue corn chips, fresh vegetables, spaghetti ingredients.  I know all this because I had to stand behind her at the only open checkout line and wait.  So I got a good look at her cart.  I’m always curious as to the groceries other people purchase.  It’s a strange habit.

Normally I’m a very patient person.  Normally, that is, when I have time. I have to have time to be patient.  But I had only thirty seconds allotted to pay for my coffee, and I was getting a little restless.  As the seconds passed, I tried to hide my growing impatience and fear of tardiness with a fake smile, looking around me like “la di da, everything’s just fine here, nope I’m not worried about being late you just take your time there and I’ll just wait here, little old me with my cup of decaf.”

I really wanted to appear as a nice, patient person.  But I knew the truth.  Inside I was rolling my eyes and visually scanning each grocery item before me as if I’d be able to ring them up faster.  I almost began to dance impatiently; the way young children do when they are in the process of potty training and have to go.

No, I was not Nice Patient Person today.  I was I’m Going to Be Late Let’s Get a Move on Here Person.  And I wasn’t particularly proud of that.  It wasn’t their fault that Big Shopper had gotten into line just one second ahead of me.  It wasn’t their fault she was Big Shopper.  And it certainly wasn’t their fault that I had cut my coffee run too close today.  Bottom line, it wasn’t their responsibility to get me to work on time.  And my behavior needed to align itself accordingly.

Just as I was weighing my options (wait, pay for my coffee and drive dangerously fast, or put my coffee down and leave), the manager glanced over at me while he was packing bags.  He saw that I only had a cup of coffee, but just to make sure asked, “Is that all you’ve got?”

“Yep, just a cup of coffee.”

He nodded his head toward the door, “Go ahead and get outta here.”

“But, um, what about paying for my coffee?  I owe you $1.75.”

“Aw, it’s okay, just go.  You’ve been waiting a while.”  He waved his free hand toward the door.

“No, really, I don’t feel good about not paying you for my coffee.”

What I had really been thinking – like I was back in the first grade – was: I don’t deserve free coffee after my hopefully invisible impatient behavior and attitude.  I really don’t deserve to get off scot-free for this.

“Just go,” he replied.

“Can’t I at least leave you a couple bucks?  You keep the change?”  After over two decades of self-punishment, I didn’t see any other way around this.

“No, just go.”                                                                   

At this point, my arguing with him was going on ridiculous, but I had begun to open my mouth again anyway.   Before I could get another word out, he looked me squarely in the face and very patiently, kindly, and gently said, without the slightest hint of frustration:

“It’s okay.  I have the authority to do that, you know.”

And so does God, the manager of my life.  An excerpt from my memoir, this was a moment that taught me to accept His forgiveness and grace.  So now I want to ask you: 

When has God shown you that He has the authority to pay for you, covering you with his unmerited favor?

But when Ella left my body, her little, clear eyes went ping! and she instantly took in her new environment, desiring to understand her new surroundings.  I sensed immediately that she was special and all we could ask for in a daughter.  She was, and is, everything, complete just as her name means. 

When Lenna made her earthly appearance, her arms were stretched out to the world, her hands open wide, as if to say, I’m here now!  I’m ready! And again I knew right away that she was powerful with the strength of a lion just as the name Lenna implies. 

All of these things I remember every night when I check on them before I go to bed.  Straightening their covers, I see their little faces, which are mature and developed by day, yet soft, round, and exactly the way they looked as sleeping infants by night.  And so, every night I am taken again by the same awe and wonder at their magnificent existence.  These people came out of my body, and here they are.  They are wonderful, fantastic, special, people.

The idea that someone else, or even the world, could tell them otherwise feels like a kick in the gut.  The idea that they could be told they are less than, other than fantastic, the idea that they could be told that they are naked, that they are rejected as they are feels like an excruciatingly painful blow.  The idea that these girls, whom my husband and I love and favor over anything else in the world and whom we find beautiful and strong and pure, could be rejected is my worst nightmare.

Though I have come to realize that even worse than this punch to the stomach is the notion that these girls night believe them, the people, the world.  And even worse than that is the possibility that they might not only believe that their clothes aren’t cool enough and are therefore unworthy of acceptance, but that they might also believe that their very being, their very existence is unfavorable.  That they might believe the very opposite of what their father and I tell them every day would be the most devastating blow.  Excruciatingly painful.

On the same note, I can understand God’s desperation.

I can fathom how desperately he wants us to know that He favors us, our beings, our existence.  I think maybe I can comprehend how God felt when Adam and Eve hid from Him because they were naked, rejected, leaving God to ask, Who told you that you were naked?  This very question alone implies that the beginning of rejection did not stem from our Creator, but from the lie that Jesus came to eradicate, being God’s plan to show us the truth by conquering rejection and destroying it permanently so we would not hide from Him anymore. 

He must be so desperate for us to know the truth, I think.

I want so badly, more than anything, for Ella and Lenna to believe the truth.  I so desperately want to prevent them from believing the lie that they are anything less than fabulous just as they are.  And as I strive, just as their father, to make the right choices everyday and show them our unchanging love for them, I have come to realize that, no matter how perfectly I love them or their father loves them just as they are – regardless if they are the same or differ than anyone else – they have to believe that we do.  They have to choose to resist the lies surrounding them and believe the truth Bjoern and I offer them.

And, on that same token, I think we all have to believe that God favors us.

All the signs and wonders in the world won’t help anymore if we don’t believe what we’re being shown.  It is up to us to believe, to have faith.

And, after all I’ve experienced, I now choose to.

I pray and hope Ella and Lenna do, too.

I feel like this song is the epitom of grace.  Listen closely to the lyrics…

There came a point in time when I realized that those girls weren’t even all that they were cracked up to be.  They weren’t even all that pretty.  Or smart.  And I found a hundred other faults with them - like, they looked fat in their cheerleading uniforms, for example – all meant to make me feel better about the rejection I had experienced. 

Could this be what’s going on with author Anne Rice?  She stated on Facebook last week:

Anne Rice “For those who care, and I understand if you don’t: Today I quit being a Christian. I’m out. I remain committed to Christ as always but not to being “Christian” or to being part of Christianity. It’s simply impossible for me to “belong” to this quarrelsome, hostile, disputatious, and deservedly infamous group. For ten years, I’ve tried. I’ve failed. I’m an outsider. My conscience will allow nothing else.”

It hurts when the group that’s supposed to accept you as you are makes you feel like an outsider.  It hurts when you try to belong and then don’t.  I’ve been there before.  Not just in the eighth grade, but at church, too.  We attended a church when I was in middle school where I stuck out like a sore thumb due to my wildly colorful Benetton leggings and giant fish earrings, I’m pretty sure.  That, and my alternative way of viewing the world and Christianity.  I still reel from this experience.  And honestly, I’ve said some not so nice things in return.  Behind their backs, at home, with new, more “accepting” Christian friends.

It’s so easy to protect ourselves with this outer layer of Teflon.  We reject so rejection doesn’t stick to us.  How often do we apply for jobs, fail to get them, and say “I didn’t want that job anyway?”  How many times, when we feel snubbed by a neighbor or coworker, do we say, “Well, I never liked him/her anyway?”  I didn’t want it anyway, well that was a piece of crap anyway, that was a bad idea anyway, never would have worked anyway.  Anyway, anyway, anyway.

Anyway, that’s what I think could be going on with Anne Rice.  It’s even more hurtful to feel rejected by your faith system than a bunch of ugly cheerleaders.  And I think she needs to be shown grace and acceptance, just as she is.  

One last thought:   even if we’re not always shown grace, at church, in organizations, in groups of fellow, flawed humans, it’s still up to us to show it.  To “be the change,” if you will.  Because, at the end of the day, I will fail to show someone grace, too, and I don’t want to be rejected for my failures.

A question for you:  When have you rejected your rejector?  And how could you identify with Rice?

So Solomon was the richest man of all time.  He was the wisest man of all time.  He was also, very posibly, the most loved man of all time (with 700 wivesand 400 concubines).  He had asked of God and received everything he had asked for in abundance.  He had received even more than he had asked for.  God poured His favor on Solomon.  Back in that culture, wealth and wisdom were signs of God’s favor.  Solomon had a lot of God’s favor.

And he forgot.

He didn’t trust God to keep the kingdom safe, so he married foreign women to foster peaceful relations with neighboring lands.  God had told him not to do this.  He did it anyway.  He splurged his wealth on a palace twice as big as God’s temple.  Hm.  He spent a lot of time with his wives.  And other lady friends.  (I’m beginning to wonder how many descendents of Solomon are running around the gloe today.) And he began to worship their idols, just in case.

So I’m thinking, if Solomon had all the proof in the world that God favored him, and he forgot it, was insecure in it, and took matters into his own hands to protect and sanctify himself, what does tht mean for us?

It means we forget, too.

Despite everything God has done for us through Jesus, we forget that all this favor has been bestowed upon us for doing absolutely nothing.  And so we go do wacky things to try to protect and sanctify ourselves, like (fill in the blank).  Luckily, though, God’s grace covers that, too.  So any of the self-protective shenanigans we humans pull is already understood by God and forgiven, because nothing can separate us from His love, His favor.

So, all in all, Solomon’s insecurity in God’s favor, despite everything indicating otherwise, makes me feel normal.