Jesus Ranks in the Top Ten...

A Thursday Theology guest post by, Phil Michaels:

“…you thought that I was one just like yourself…”

---Psalm 50:21b (inspired through Asaph)

Maybe there’s no God. Or, if there is a God, maybe that God is nothing at all like I thought.

But…for just a moment, if you will, bear with me, and let me go with the presumption that the Scripture that says, “God created humans in the image of God” is descriptive of a truth about all of us: We are like God. Most Christians, Jews, many Muslims, and a good number of other people ascribe to this as a truth, so I’m not alone here in going with a presumption that as much of 2/3 of the human population believes to be true (and no, that consensus doesn’t make it true (consensus never does)…but, let’s just go with it for a moment…)

This is not the same as saying we are God-like. It is to say, as the Scripture does, that we are made in God’s image (The precise Hebrew is “צֶלֶם אֱלֹהִים‎,” or transliterated, “tzelem Elohim” – in Latin that’s “imago dei”; and for those who speak English, “the image of God”). We are “like God” but not “God-like.” There is much in us that bears the stamp, the image, the likeness of God…but there are also some qualities we do not bear. There is a difference, an otherness, between Creator and creation, between God, and us. We are the same, yet different.

Being human, we all make mistakes, and sometimes the mistake we make is the same one Asaph speaks of in Psalm 50: We think that God is just like us.

God is not just like us. God is not just like you. God is not just like me.

But oh, how often we wish that God was, even if we don’t realize it.

God is not in the image of a pastor.

God is not in the image of a professional athlete.

God is not in the image of a political leader.

God is not in the image of a published book.

God is not in the image of Phil.

So…what is God’s image?

One Word: Jesus.

I could be wrong about this. Perhaps no human can show God’s image. Perhaps no thing can show what God is like. Perhaps there is no God, at all.

But…if we can point to any human who has lived as being God’s image, I cannot imagine any clearer picture than that of Jesus Christ of Nazareth.

And if I am honest, Jesus is not anything at all like me. Jesus is not a reflection of who I am. I know who I am. I know who Jesus is. And Jesus, quite decidedly, is not me! I am not God-like.

And yet…somehow…just maybe…in spite of this, it is possible for me to become like Jesus. To become like God. I’ll never be God (we should all be thankful…I can’t imagine how badly I would mess that up…wait, maybe I can…). But maybe there is a possibility that I could be like God? Like…Jesus? More like Jesus than I was when I was born? Or when I was a child? Or an extended adolescent? Or…today?

Most days it seems I cannot even live up the very minimal requirements of the roles I have and the person I should be as a human. How could I expect myself to ever be like…of all people…Jesus?

I think it has to start with acknowledging, not only with my mind, but with my heart and soul, that Jesus is not like me. Jesus is not “one just like myself.” I am not the starting point. Jesus is. I am also not the ending point. Jesus is. This is probably why Scripture says that Jesus is “the Alpha and Omega, the Beginning and the End.”

Again, Jesus may or may not be your ‘#1’, but on any list of “Top 10 Best People of All Time,” Jesus Christ of Nazareth is going to be right up there, right? I mean, from all that we know of him, it’s pretty difficult to find fault with the guy!

For me, I think I need to acknowledge that Jesus is, indeed, ‘#1’. And I am not. If this all sounds pretty generically evangelical at this point, I apologize…sort of…but, not really. Maybe it is time to stop getting hung up on what things sound like, or what labels people (myself included!) might put on things, and simply acknowledge what is true:

Jesus is God-like.

I am not God-like.

But…thanks be to God…Jesus is transforming me and making me more like…Jesus…

The Healing Comes in the Waiting

The following is a guest post, by my friend, Debbie Whiting,

whom I met while on my educational journey at NNU.

Debbie is a graduate assistant, minister, and wife.

She also lets me crash at her house whenever I descend on Nampa,

which is pretty awesome!

This piece speaks to vulnerability,

looking for God in times of waiting,

and should, perhaps, cause us to pause to consider

how we care for those who minister to us

when they’re hurting…

***

 

A few months back, I suffered a concussion. I’d never had a concussion before—at least not one that was diagnosed—but figured I’d be fine after a few days of rest. After all, it wasn’t a serious concussion! I didn’t even hit my head, just my chin when I fell. No big deal.

Lie in bed and nap that weekend, let the kids play outside with the neighbor kids, and go back to work on Monday…

Follow up with my primary doctor in a couple of days as the ER doc recommended, just as a precaution...

Little did I know how much that ‘minor’ concussion would change my life.

Fast forward to now, just four short months later, but four months that have felt like an eternity. I am in several types of therapy to heal from my minor Traumatic Brain Injury, and while my therapists tell me I am making slow and steady progress, it is not fast enough for my liking. I want to be better now; I don’t want to be stuck in recovery! Hearing that I am progressing, and even seeing the progress myself, does not change my desire to be better now. What is it with wanting things done on our time? Why is it so hard to give up the control we didn’t actually have in the first place? I wouldn’t have chosen to get a concussion (or to deal with mental illness, exacerbated by a brain injury—that’s a different story!), but it still happened to me, and it is my choice how I respond to it. How will I respond in the time of recovery, of waiting? Will I be impatient; frustrated at my seeming lack of progress, or will I embrace this time of slowing down and allow myself to heal?

I’m not good at waiting. Sure, I can be patient and have lots of patience when it comes to dealing with other people.  But for myself? I want to be better already and skip past all the work! Sometimes I enjoy the process of bettering myself, such as taking a graduate class and learning so many interesting things. It doesn’t seem much like work when I’m learning about things outside of myself. But when it comes to dealing with my own issues? I’d rather skip past it all! I don’t want to deal with the vulnerability that comes with not having it all together. Being in recovery means the world knows there is something wrong with me, something imperfect, something that needs to be fixed. Sure, everyone has something they need to work on, but why can’t mine be something I can hide? It’s not exactly easy to fake nothing is wrong with me when in conversations I forget what I was saying mid-thought, or I wince in pain from the constant headaches that came with my mTBI, so I can’t pretend I don’t need to recover from this concussion. But still, I wish recovery could go faster and I could be cured without all the excessive waiting and healing.

Maybe if I do my therapy exercises faster my healing will come sooner. Makes sense, right? The harder I work, the sooner I’ll be healed, done with therapy, and out of recovery? I tried that, yesterday, during my vestibular therapy (that’s therapy dealing with the inner ear, for all of you who aren’t versed in concussion treatments!) working on a balance exercise. The exercise was to turn in a circle, 360 degrees, and stop. Sounds easy, right? That’s what I thought! I neglected to remember I am in vestibular therapy for a reason and turned too quickly. Not the best idea—it made me feel a bit dizzy. I am supposed to wait for my symptoms to subside before moving on but was eager to get through therapy, so I could heal faster. So, I did another 360 turn before my symptoms had decreased enough. I felt even worse after that turn. My head was reeling, my eyes hurt, I felt a bit nauseous, and the floor felt like it was moving. As usual, my therapist asked how I felt, and I told her the truth. She gently reminded me doing the exercises was supposed to help me feel better, not worse. Trying to do the exercises faster will not make my healing come faster but can actually set me back!

How is it that the more we rest, the better we heal? Why is hard work and exertion not the answer for recovery? In order to heal, I must be still. In order for my dizziness and nausea to subside, I must wait. It is in the waiting that the healing comes. For my brain, the waiting tells my brain it is okay. For my soul, waiting, resting in God, is where the true healing begins.

When There Isn't Anymore...

The following is a guest post

written by my friend, Vicki Freeland,

whom I met through Nazarene Teen Bible Quizzing ministry.

Vicki is the local director of a growing quiz program,

a wife, and the mom of four precious little people.

She enjoys research and offers so much more than expected

as she teaches others passionately.

Vicki agreed to share a part of her story,

and because I know how important that is

to growing as a community,

I am so thankful for her post.

I'm also incredibly thankful for her friendship!

*****

There are days that you KNOW will be extraordinary … and you make special plans to capture the memories of those days. October 11, 2003 was such a day for me – to the extent that I hired a team of photographers to capture as many moments as possible so that I could remember every single detail. Every detail of this day from hair styles, to makeup, to the guest list, to the dress and tuxes, to the cake and the music, had been planned weeks and months in advance, and I didn't want to forget any of it.

And then, there are days that even though you don't know exactly WHEN they will happen, you know that they WILL happen, and so you make plans to capture the memories of those days… September 8, 2008, January 15, 2010, December 6, 2012, and April 15, 2015 are dates of this type for me—the dates that my children were born. The camera was fully charged with extra batteries packed and ready to go, everything in readiness to capture the memories in all of their newness and wonder and awe.

And then, there are days that start out quite ordinary—but suddenly turn extraordinary … and you find yourself with photographs seared into your soul, as clearly as you see the photos in an album or on the computer hard drive … except you can't erase them, photoshop them, or delete them … and you remember every ... single ... detail ... with razor-sharp clarity that stops you in your tracks with the searing pain that the photos bring to mind. September 9, 2011 is such a day for me. What started out as a fairly normal Friday took a very sharp turn into an extraordinary day when my husband met me at my in-laws' house and told me that my dad had passed away.  I remember forcing everything from my mind in order to write down a schedule and instructions for the care of my barely 3 year old and my 1½ year old for my in-laws. I remember staring at the pan of Rice Krispy treats I had made for the quiz party that evening and wondering how I was going to get them to the party. I remember calling my youth pastor and asking him if he could drive the bus to the quiz meet the next day because I couldn't be there. I remember seeing my grandma walk into my parent's house, shaking with the shock of the news.

The whole week became a blur, yet details remain seared into my soul: walking into church with my family on Sunday morning and my daughter innocently asking, “Where's Grandpa?” My sister stopping short at her question. I remember singing “In Christ Alone” that Sunday morning and lifting my hand in praise, tears streaming down my face. I remember seeing faces of friends that I hadn't seen in years, and never expected to see this side of eternity, as they came through the line at visitation. I remember being in such a daze that I completely blanked when my husband's boss (and company owner) came through the visitation line. I remember my brother beginning his sermon at our dad's funeral with the words, “I always knew I would be preaching this sermon, I just never knew when.” And I remember hearing Pastor Keith's voice as he read the eulogy letter I, my sister, and my sister-in-law had written, our attempt to summarize all that our dad had meant to us. I remember my husband explaining to our children that Grandpa was no longer here and that he had gone to heaven. When we took our children to see the casket, my 3 year old looked for a long moment then asked, “Where you going, Grandpa?”

I only learned later that my mom had found out that dad had passed away earlier in the morning but had forbidden anyone to call or text me, as she knew I was driving to Fort Wayne that morning with my two children. She feared that learning the news while I was driving would have caused me to lose control of the vehicle (it probably would have) and I could have caused an accident. I also later learned that my mom was unable to tell me herself, so she called my husband out of work, told him, and asked him to tell me, because she couldn't. I have always been “Daddy's Girl." She didn't have the strength to tell me that my daddy was gone.

There were 11,532 days between the date of my birth and the date of my father's death. I can't say that we were on the best of terms every single one of those days … but I do know that he loved me fiercely, protectively, and with the best that he had. When you're a daddy's girl, and daddy is suddenly gone, lots of little things disappear, too. There are no more long “whenever” chats because he's not driving his truck all over the country. There isn't someone to just call up and ask a random theological or Biblical question. There isn't someone to “come fix this” because you've exhausted all your knowledge and he's probably done this 400 times before. There isn't someone to purchase the collectible key chains for when you see the one he doesn't have yet.
There … just … isn't.

And yet, I have been blessed far more than others. I had a dad who I talked to more than a lot of kids talked to theirs. I had a dad who not only knew the Bible, but opened up his vast library to me and taught me how to use the research tools in his library, so that I could find the answers to the questions I had. I had a dad who not only “fixed it” but taught us HOW to fix it, so we wouldn't be stranded by the simple things. (To this day, patching nail holes in drywall always reminds me of my dad teaching me how to “do it right.”) The keychains …. I still haven't gotten over that one. I saw one just a few weeks ago and reached for it out of habit and impulse … then realized that there was no one to add it to their collection.

I was able to place the first two of my four babies in his arms and watch him be the most amazing grandpa to them. He got the biggest kick out of playing with them and just delighting in them and they adored him. I KNOW that the last words I said to him were, “I love you,” because that is how my family has always “signed off” either on the phone or in person. I KNOW that my siblings and I were the last people on his mind before he passed away, because when we finally got his belongings from the trucking company, in his leather portfolio where he jotted down all his notes and random thoughts were our names, as if he had a final thought for each of us:

Marcus

Vicki

Brian

Sarah

Lynette

Josh

He wrote down each of his kids' names—his three biological ones and the ones he gained through our marriages… they were never “in-laws” to him, they were “his kids.”  I had a dad who modeled for me a life of obedience and devotion to God and family, a dad who never gave up, and a dad who did his best. I had a dad who showed me what hard work and perseverance could accomplish and one who showed me that, no matter what level of education I had, to never stop learning. 

And then, the man who had modeled all these things for me, just wasn't there anymore.

Nine days after my dad passed away, my senior pastor announced his call to a new area of ministry and announced his resignation to our congregation. I felt like a double-orphan … abandoned and left utterly alone. … and yet, I learned a lot of things during this time of my life, too.

I learned that the prayers of friends can literally breathe life into your lungs when you feel like you can't take one more breath. Those same prayers can propel one foot in front of another when you don't have the strength to move. I learned the power of a promise kept can overcome the pain of the moment.  And I learned that, throughout his life, my dad was doing his best to show me what my heavenly father was like:

My heavenly father delights in me, like I saw my father delight in his grandchildren.

My heavenly father rejoices and celebrates me, as my father did when he flew across the country to     attend my honor society induction at Purdue.

My heavenly father loves me, as my dad showed me in every way he could imagine to do so.

But even more than all that my dad was, my heavenly father is more. He has shown me that, even though my father could not know where I am every moment, He does. On the first anniversary of my dad's death, I was at church—but not mentally “in” church, if that makes sense. Our (new) pastor opened up service that morning by reading Scripture … not un-heard of at our church, but slightly out of the normal … and I listened with half-an-ear's worth of attention … but was snapped to attention when I realized that he was reading my dad's favorite verses … proving that even if no one around me knew my heart that morning, God KNEW where his little girl was, and he KNEW how heart-broken she was.

A few months ago, I was in church following our worship pastor through the lines of a very familiar song, the lyrics of which contain the phrase, “Everlasting Father.” Now, this phrase is very biblical, and taken directly out of Scripture (Isaiah 9:6-7). I've always understood this phrase to mean that God is the Father of everything and cares for everything he created as a father oversees his household, and I don't think that's an incorrect interpretation. However, to the hurting heart of this little girl, I saw something very new and different that particular morning. “EVERLASTING” - from my first breath to my last … “FATHER”—I have a DADDY! 

First Questions

My friend Wendy is working on some guest posts for this site.
Something I love about Wendy is that she is not afraid

to ask the hard questions,
and she's also not afraid to send me her really rough draf
in the middle of the night
that is more consumed with questions than answers.
There are too many people in the world who claim to have blind faith.
Blind faith is not what it's cracked up to be.
In case you haven't noticed
Jesus does a lot of healing in the pages of Scripture,
and that healing often comes in the form of giving sigh
to those who cannot see.
If we have questions, we should ask them.
If we know people who have questions, we should allow them to ask.
We can't learn anything unless we wonder...
And so, here's a list to start
courtesy of my dear, sweet friend who isn't afraid to put it out there...

*****

Has God made us and left us?  Has God decided we are just messing things up so badly even he can't help us?  Seriously? Is this about free will?  Do you want to live in a world where a deity forces you to worship him?  What would be the point, and would it be genuine?

Sometimes when you pray, doesn't it seem like God is ignoring you?  Waiting for you to take that first step?  Waiting for you to take that leap of faith? 

Why does God let bad things happen?  Why does a two year old get cancer?  Is that free will?  How did the child choose this?  If nothing is beyond God, did he choose this?  Or does he not care?  And when the mother prays and cries with all her heart and her child still dies, is God there?

Does it go back to sin?  Have we been separated from God from the first sin? When sin has nothing to do with something, what is going on?  Can God intervene?  Why doesn't God intervene?  Why does God intervene sometimes?  Are some people's prayers more worthy?  Is it random?

Does it all boil down to a chain reaction?  What if someone else exercises free will that takes mine away?  Are our free wills intertwined?

Are you frustrated?  Furious?  Confused?

Having faith is not knowing the answer.  Not being okay with it.  Searching.  Seeking knowledge.  Understanding you may never have the answers.  But ... it's okay to ask the questions.  And ... it's okay to be confused and angry.  It's OK.

Body and Blood

The following is a guest post

for which I am incredibly thankful

as I participate in the Compassion Conference this week!

This post was written by my friend, Emily Greenhalge,

whom I met through some online discussion groups.

Emily is the pastor of discipleship and small groups

at GracePointe Church of the Nazarene

where she has been serving for five years,

figuring out the "calling thing"

as she travels through life with her family,

fueled by coffee!

*****

Some people call it Eucharist, or the Lord's Supper, or Communion.  Each of these names is important, each of them meaningful.  The mystery of the body and blood found in the elements of communion is a topic of much discussion and has been for centuries.  Most agree it is a means of grace, but we all have a different perspective on what that means.  Some say the elements physically or spiritually change into the body and blood of Christ as we partake.  Others say they merely represent the body and blood, that any deeper meaning is dependent on our own spiritual condition and understanding.  In between lies a spectrum of folks who deny that the substance of the elements change but affirm the presence of Christ in the act of partaking. Whatever you believe about it, we agree it is sacred.

Jesus gathered his friends around the table at Passover and explained what was about to happen.  "This is my body," he said.  "It will be broken for you.""This is my blood, poured out as a new covenant."  In those statements, Jesus not only made clear that the new covenant would be rooted in his death; he also  made clear that all of his disciples were welcome at the table.  Peter, who would deny Jesus three times that very night, was welcome at the table.  Thomas, who would be called the doubter because he didn't immediately believe in the resurrected Christ, was welcome at the table.  Even Judas, the one who had already decided to betray him, was welcome at the table. 

When we offer the Lord's Supper in our communities, we offer it to anyone who is journeying toward Christ.  The new convert who doesn't have it figured out yet, the aged saint whose testimony goes back generations, the visitor who felt like today might be a good time to start going back to church; they are all welcome at the Table.  The grace that goes before is present in the elements as we offer them. 

As I take my place among millions who have gone before me and stand with me every week, I consider the historic significance of the words I repeat to each one who stands before me to partake, "This is the body of Christ, broken for you; the blood of Christ, spilled out for you."  The sweet lady I know as our missions president approaches, holding her husband's hand and leading him along to accept the bread and dip it in the juice.  He suffers from dementia, but he always has tears in his eyes as he praises God for the grace offered in this moment.  My friend Lane rolls up in his wheelchair.  We always kneel down a little so he can reach.  The big guy who always takes more than one and says "I'm a big boy, I need a lot of Jesus."  Between tears, I continue to speak the words, "This is the body, broken for you; the blood of Jesus, spilled out for you."  Toward the end of the line, I see my own three kids and my husband.  With great emphasis, I speak each of their names, "Toby, this is the body of Christ, broken for you.  Malachi, the blood of Jesus, spilled out for you.  Leah, take and eat."  The same words have been spoken by celebrants for a millennia, the same grace offered to participants. 

The precious grace of God invites us all to the table.  And at the table, we are all the same.  We are sinners in need of a saving God, a broken people in need of the body broken for us.  The sinner just beginning to seek Jesus is offered the same grace as the saint just a breath away from Glory.  And so it is at the foot of the Cross. When we come to Jesus, every one of us is in need of the healing and restoring grace found in him.  And as we continue on the journey, we remain in need of that grace. 

I taste the sweet homemade bread soaked in the fruit of the vine, and I see again that the Lord is good.