Angels and Demons

Have you ever noticed how our culture has a fascination with angels and demons?

It seems that people are okay with having a benevolent individual to look out for them, kind of like a geni who can rub a bottle and make all dreams and wishes come true. Or a demon with the capabilities of  causing an individual to act out irrationally, perhaps the catalyst behind all wrong human actions.

You see, both angels and demons remove personal responsibility from actions and outcomes, and thus are much easier to square with modern depictions of reality than an all knowing Creator. There isn't any accountability. Only a benefactor or a force, either for good or evil, completely removed from the individual.

My grandmother's favorite Christmas symbol is an angel, its enveloping wings welcoming one with open arms. It is as if an angel has the ability to erase sin and undo wrong. In most Hollywood films, the angel  grants a second chance. A chance for renewal. A do-over.

In a recent movie I watched, A Little Bit of Heaven, Whoopi Goldberg is Marley's (Kate Hudson's) angel. Marley is recently diagnosed with terminal cancer and the Whoopi character gives her three wishes.


Immediately, Marley tells the angel her first two wishes: She wants to fly, and she wants a million dollars. But her third wish she puts on hold. Like a fairy godmother in Cinderella, Marley's wishes are granted. But they prove to be largely unsatisfying. Until her third wish: to fall in love.

Eventually, Marley meets a sweet young man, her doctor, named Julian. As they take an evening stroll, Marley asks Julian if he believes in God. He says no. Her reply, "You know what, I'm really jealous of people who believe in God, of people who are so sure where they are going after they die."

The conversation ends there, and you get an inkling that she might have wasted her third wish. Of course, the theme of love is something that almost every human being can grasp or at least have a cursory understanding of. The love of a Savior, they long for, but prefer to stick with the wish-granting angel instead.

As the story takes it's predictable course of action, Marley dies right after she professes her love for Julian and Julian finally says that he does, in fact, love her, too! Her eyes close. The music becomes somber and she passes away.

Despite the fact that I knew she would ultimately die in the end, I found myself crying over her passing. She was godless... but at least she had an angel, right? That's the message the movie sent. And as all the people were standing around mourning her death, I couldn't help but cry for their emptiness.

Before her death, Marley sweetly remarks, "I want to put the F-U-N back in funeral." And rejoice in her memory they did. But the ending was so empty.

You see, things are different when a Christian passes on. Rather than worshipping the legacy of the past person, we worship the saving grace and mercy of our Savior. A person's passing is a time of rejoicing in Christ's sacrifice, not in human achievement. There is an acknowledgement and a surety that God, not just angels and heaven, do exist!

The renewal, the do-over, if you will, comes through Christ's death on the cross, long before you or I were ever born. In choosing Christ, there is renewal, there is sanctification. There is assurance and finality in our fate.

Culture's recognition of the ethereal points to the understanding that Christ has written eternity on the hearts of all men. But it's complete denial of any deity speaks to it's confusion. Perhaps we aren't making the message clear enough.

A recognition of the ethereal yet a denial of a deity. That is one of the many cultural twists on Biblical principles that manipulates truth into a cultural lie.

Marley had good reason to be jealous of people of faith. "Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine..." is something all Christians openly acknowledge. I wish that Marley had found that, that the Hollywood producers would have recognized her true desires. But I guess that wish will have to wait for another day.

Lessons from "My Lazarus"

As I had so many times before, I walked past the homeless man, a pang in my heart as I saw his blue gray eyes gaze in want at those who simply passed him by.

I was one of those people. And like the many times before, I did not stop to help. The typical concerns plagued my mind. Wasn't it unsafe for me as a woman to help a homeless man. All I had right now was money, and even that was in the form of a debit card. Even if I did have cash, wouldn't he just use it to buy alcohol or drugs? And I comforted myself with the thought that I was not fueling some neurotic addiction. Perhaps my passive brush off was better for him after all...

But the image of him kept coming back to me. And the same thoughts that usually plagued me after I have come to the conclusion that what I did was right, began to haunt me. How had he gotten to this point? His misshapen appearance, and eyes ever wanting, with nothing to fill his mind, his heart, or his stomach. Was he, like so many Americans, out of work because of the economic downturn? Did his parents kick him out? Did he have a wife or kids?

To this day, I don't know his story, and likely never will. I was disappointed in myself.

As I ventured into the local Starbucks for my lunch break, I sat down and opened up my Bible. I have been reading through Luke. And that day, it just so happened that the passage I was reading was the story of Lazarus, sitting at the gates of the rich man, his sores so bad that even the dogs licked them. All that Lazarus wanted was to eat of the scraps of the rich mans table, the leftovers. But even that he was denied.

Most of us are familiar with the story of Lazarus, the rich man ends up in hell and Lazarus in heaven. As he rots in hell, the rich man begs Lazarus to "dip his finger in water and let it touch the tip of his tongue". In short, the rich man is miserable and he begs that Abraham and Lazarus tell his ancestors that God does exist and that heaven and hell are very, very real.

Abraham's reply: They have the prophets, but not even if a man was raised from the dead would their hearts believe.

How striking! The poor man seated at the hand of one of one of the greatest men of the Bible, and the rich man burning in hell. The prediction of Christ's resurrection laid out before both of them.

The story was convicting enough. And I soon began to tear down the street searching for the closest ATM I could find. I took out some money for the homeless man I had seen. My Lazarus. I would not neglect him.

For the first time in my life, those thoughts that had plagued me became a non-issue. This was not about me, or about the homeless man, this was about whether or not I had enough faith in God that He would use the funds as a blessing.

But that's still not entirely what the story of Lazarus is about. Sure, it's about doing unto the least of these. And of course, it has to do with loving and caring for the poor, and speaking up for the oppressed. But more than anything, it was about recognizing that Christ is so much bigger than my finite mind and actions.

As I rounded the street corner, and looked at the spot where "My Lazarus" was seated, I saw that it was empty. I had missed my chance. He was gone. I have not seen that homeless man again. I ended up giving the money I had extracted from the ATM to another homeless man, but it still struck me that I had literally missed my chance.

And I was distraught. Again.

But I had learned my lesson: Whether I gave money, or food, or something to drink, or a blanket, I have the proof of Christ right in front of me and it's just got to be shared. Even if a man is raised from the dead, and He was, many will not believe. But the next time the Holy Spirit brings an individual, homeless or not, to your attention, perhaps it's because that homeless person is one of the few, like Lazarus, that will see the light of heaven. If only you will share...

Saying 'I Don't'

Our professor once told us, "The day you say 'I do' is the day that you also say 'I don't' to everyone else." He said this as an encouragement, telling all of his doting sophomore students that contrary to modern day fancy's perhaps leaving our options open wasn't the best policy. That our culture had forgotten that making decisions were important. And that every new decision meant a new door opening as well as another door closing.

That 'I don't' phrase had stuck with me ever since, causing me to wonder whether marriage was really for me. Besides, everyone had always told me to be careful, to keep my options open, to be sure that I wasn't closing the door on "the real Prince Charming'. 

To be honest, I was quite scared of the closing door. And that's not entirely unnatural, since our culture teaches us to prefer a half open door, to a completely closed one. That's why living together before marriage is so easy, and the divorce rate, even in the Christian community is at 50% (and likely rising). Besides if the door is half open, there is always a chance to slip through the small opening while you still have a chance. 

It didn't take very long for me to realize that the door half open policy was not the thing for me. Our pastor reminded us that marriage was a covenant, just like the covenant we make to God when we are saved. That covenant is unchanging because the God whom we serve is unchanging. (I am reminded of the verses: "Jesus Christ the same yesterday and today and forever." ~ Hebrews 13:8) Since God is forever, His covenant with us is permanent, making covenantal marriage permanent, too. So, I decided to take the leap of faith.

What I thought was going to be leaping from one mountaintop to another, turned out to be merely a step down the aisle... literally. Contrary to all my biggest fears, getting married has been easily the most freeing experience of my short lifetime. 

I don't believe that I ever truly understood the term "servant leadership" until I was married. It was then that I realized that outside of my own Dad and a handful of other males, I had never experienced God-led leadership. It was incredible to witness the outpourings of my husbands innate desire is to care for me, not to rule over me.

And I couldn't help but think that if my husband, who has been given a position of leadership in my life loves and cares for me so much, how much more does my Father in heaven, the ultimate leader in my life, love me? If my husband, born with a sinful nature yet regenerated through Christ, can love me this much, how much more can a perfect Savior love me?

I was in awe. Dumbstruck for a moment as I contemplated such visions of grandeur. 

Suddenly, I realized that society's divorce rate and lack of commitment was not the problem, but merely a symptom of a much greater  spiritual problem. It is not that I am advocating young marriage, or that I think marriage is for everyone. God clearly calls individuals to singlehood, but for those of us who have chosen marriage, why not proclaim the joys of it?

Society hears the grumblings. "Why doesn't he pick up his dirty clothes?" "Why does he always leave the dirty rag sitting on the counter?" "Why are his shoes always strewn about the house?" 

But do they hear the joy? "I thank God that my husband serves me so marvelously." "I am so grateful that my husband loves and respects me." "I am thankful for my husbands servant leadership."

The joys are not questions like most of the complaints. They are reality. 

I like to think of marriage as God's way of demonstrating His love in a way that is tangible and real. Making it easy to give a reason for the hope that I have inside of me, and much easier to have faith in things physically unseen.

My professor was right. I take great joy in the open door, and you know what, I am equally, if not more blessed by the myriad of closed ones. I found "the real Prince Charming' long before my husband, and my husband is God's gift of Prince Charming on earth. I said 'I do'. But I'm just as glad I also said, 'I don't'.

If Wrinkles Could Tell Stories

One thing I've learned from living in a city, is that wrinkles do, in fact, tell stories. Or else, they inspire me to make up the stories of individual people's lives and remind me to be grateful that my face will not always be so smooth.

I remember the first time I thought about wrinkles. I was on a missions trip and one of the men who went with us, Bob, had what our culture colloquially call "crows feet". I loved them and I turned to my Mom saying, "I can't wait until I have crows feet." She chuckled as she turned to me and asked me why on earth I should have such a desire. I told her that they were a sign of much smiling and laughter, and that was the story that I wanted my face to tell.

I am sure that we have all seen remarkable faces that seem to withstand the test of time. Abraham Lincoln's wrinkles continue to tell stories through his statue in the Capitol building. It is rumored that one side of his face is more tight and staunch, while the other side is more soft and compassionate. The one side of his face is supposed to resemble his famous "Honest Abe" title, while the other is supposed to demonstrate his love for the American people. Wrinkles do, in fact, tell stories.


But what of the ordinary person? Do their wrinkles tell stories? As I strolled through the metro I saw the face of a person that was sure to tell a story. I have never seen anyone with such sad wrinkles. The old woman's face was gaunt, as the wrinkles hung in the shape of a frown; the folds of skin sagging from her cheeks almost enveloping her mouth as she forlornly gazed off into the distance. These were not the wrinkles of a sour woman, but of someone who had lost hope. Her eyes gave it all away, for they looked on as if they could see no more. Even the light cast on her face from the metro could not muster up a shimmer in her face. It was as if she had been overcome by a never ending darkness and a inescapable depression.

I will never meet this woman again, but her wrinkles gave the etchings of a story that will  not remain untold. I suppose I shall never know the exact stories of all the people I see in the metro or on the street, but perhaps the stories that their faces tell have less to do with their outward appearance and more to do with their outlook on life.


While most commercial entities like CoverGirl and Glamour Magazine are trying to sell women of all ages products to eliminate wrinkles, make us look younger, and dye our hair, 15 year old me was set on finding me a pair of those crows feet. And even though modern cosmetic companies try to sell us products to erase the wear and tear of time, God tells us that wrinkles and gray hair are a sign of wisdom. 

Could it be that modern culture is trying to erase our stories?

I'll leave that question for another day, but for now, I think I'm going to go and find me some crow's feet. 

These two words

Our society is afraid of two words: submission and surrender. Each word rings differently in every persons ear. And even each gender and each culture reacts to these words in totally different ways. But generally, these two words always get the cold shoulder.

The idea of submitting and surrendering has such "no-can-do" implications to the average person, especially to your typical American.

Women in society are taught that submission is fatal. The feminist movement reminds us daily that women are too strong to let a man hold open the door, that we can be independent, no-strings-attached, loose individuals who "wear the pants". So, we find the idea of submission rather revolting.

In the same way, a man is equally appalled at the word surrender. Why would he surrender? Society tells him that he must fight to win, regardless of the cause. He must be strong, cold, and utterly immune to emotion.

While the term submission may not be entirely revolting to everyone, the idea of surrender is utterly frightening to most, if not all people. In the context of war, surrender means defeat. The soldier who surrenders has lost, failing his country, his leaders, and his people.

It is no wonder that our society is so afraid of those two words. To surrender or submit is to allow oneself to experience  fear, vulnerability, and most of all dependency. To surrender or submit is to admit that we are wrong, have faults and are weak. It is to admit that we have lost.

Only time will tell what truths call us to battle. In this life, only loyalty to leaders or our country could compel such images of self-sacrifice. That is why the soldier is so highly esteemed. For only as we enter into a journey such as war do we find ourselves becoming acquainted with something so much greater than ourselves.

Could it be that surrender and submission in our modern day society

 have such negative implications because we are soldiers for the wrong army?

Regardless of whether we serve the finite army or are members of the heavenly cavalry for God, the same sacrifice is required. Death to self. Self-sacrifice is required. 

The problem is when we only fight in the earthly army, for the true cause is yet unknown to us. And we try to find it on the battlefield. Where we will either win or lose. Ourselves.

But the heavenly battlefield can be best represented on that earthly battlefield if only we have eyes to see that our God is a God of justice. When he asks us to take up our cross, it is only because He has already taken up His.

In both scenarios we die to ourselves. But we only have eternal life in the presence of God when we fight the heavenly battle regardless of whether we win or lose here on earth. We have a guaranteed victory in heaven. He has already won.

But our personal victory starts with two words: submission and surrender. To God.

Oh, Cell Phone, Come Make us Humble?

As I was walking through the airport a few weeks ago I was struck by the astounding number of people who appeared to be bowing their heads in reverence. Even their arms were situated in a prayer-like position.

 My first reaction was shock. Could it really be that so many people were praying in the Dallas Fort Worth Airport?

Not soon after, my hopes were dashed. As I traipsed through the airport, I saw more and more people with their heads bowed, but as I took a closer look, I realized that there reverence was directed at...a cell phone.

A mere cell phone.

The most reverent thing that our society could do was bow their heads to a cell phone.

Almost immediately, the lyrics to the popular Christian song, Give us Clean Hands, came into my head:

"We bow our hearts, we bend our knees. Oh Spirit come make us humble. We turn our eyes from evil things, Oh Lord, we cast down our idols."

but this time, the lyrics just weren't the same. Society was re-writing the song to fit their own needs:

"We bow our hearts, we bend our knees. Oh cell phone come make us humble. We turn our eyes toward evil things. Oh Lord, we embrace our idols."

This may be an over-exaggeration, but I felt like it made a necessary illustration:

Society has not totally eliminated God in its own mind, but rather, has embraced God and their idols simultaneously! Just like the Israelites in the Old Testament our cell phones are like the golden calf.

Now, I don't mean to appear radical. I certainly use a cell phone regularly, and it is not the cell phone itself that is inherently wrong. The reaction to this post should not be to throw your cell phone out the window, or flush it down the toilet, or pray that your brother runs it over with his car.

The appropriate reaction is merely to think. What is our society coming to, if the only time we bow our heads in reverence publicly is to our cell phone--- an object which has neither grace nor mercy, possesses no justice, has no ability to redeem, and has a shelf life of about 2-5 years?

How foolish we are, indeed.

I suppose I can only pray that one day I can walk through the airport, or ride the metro, or meander down the sidewalks of D.C. and genuinely see people praying to the God of the universe. Today is not that day. But maybe, just maybe, I will be lucky enough to see it some day... even just once.

Notes Incomplete

Some say that music speaks to the soul and causes it to gaze upon things celestial and unearthly. This may be true, but sometimes, on occasion, the very music itself seems incomplete, leaving one feeling empty and alone.

As I lay in bed, trying to fall asleep, I was listening to classical music (something that those who know me, understand I do very infrequently). Classical has never really been my style, except when I was dancing ballet or playing piano. But on this particular solemn and gray night, I was listening to a beautiful track from the cinema The Painted Veil.

The forlorn crooning of the piano is beautiful and was supposed to put me to sleep. But instead it struck a chord in my soul, causing me to miss the silence of the outside world. Or rather, miss the more natural soundtrack that God had pre-prepared for me outside.

As the rain hits the glass on the window of our basement apartment I am reminded that the rain is entirely out of my control. My life is dictated not only by the weather, but also by the conditions in which I live. And it is in that moment, that my thoughts are drawn upward to more existential questions such as, "How much do I really acknowledge God?", "Do I love Him with all my heart as I ought to?", "What will heaven be like?", "And what will the music be like there?"

These musings of a mortal woman frustrate me to no end. I desperately want to understand the eternity. But every raindrop is a little note from God, reminding me that summers are always filled with deep thought and contemplation and usually contain at least one or two lessons from my Heavenly Father.

I wait expectantly for them to come, but until then, I will be grateful for my God-given soundtrack. Setting my mind on things above and not things of this earth and reminded of the following verses which tell me that I cannot be both friends with this earth and friends with the God of the universe.

And I go back to my thoughts, never an original one produced, and wonder if that just might not be the lesson I am to learn over the summer.

Moments Left Unspoken

I am not the One

to be remembered for all time.

Forgettable, unmentionable, erased from all minds.

My life is but a series

Of moments left unspoken.

Forgotten.

Unmemorable.

But noticed all the time.

By One who sees things all

And wants them for His own

And seeks to teach the world

All the lessons yet unknown.

His praise and commendation do not come until the end

Whence we wait upon His judgment

To determine our own end.

Yet his grace and admonition

Prevail for some and mend

Cost ever more his blood

For which He was sent

But His presence ever wanting

Both before and after time.

Until the break of dawn

On that awaited day

I'll seek His face remembering

That my time is for His sake.

Face to Face and Eye to Eye

Have you ever thought about how very big God is and how very small you are?

As I closed my eyes to go to sleep this image popped into my head:

God is our Father. And we are His children. Rather than viewing this as an abstract metaphor, I began to meditate on this thought quite literally. And suddenly I think I saw how it applied to myself.

I was a little girl, and God was my Father. We were strolling along through life and all of the sudden, He reached for my hand, right at the exact moment that I was reaching for His.

Now, to keep this in perspective, God was ever so much taller than my small, toddler-like frame. I was just old enough to comprehend my need of assistance. Just old enough to understand that I needed His overarching protection.

I was in awe of God's height and His stature was quite daunting. But His height was not the object of my attention. At such a tender age, my thoughts were fixed only on His hand. If only I could grasp it.

You see, the unique thing about this whole scenario was that I was just short enough to where I couldn't quite grasp His huge hand. And He was just tall enough that I knew I would have to strain to hold His in my own.

These images seemed to paint perfectly the image of the way that God the Father trains us up in His ways. He tells us in Colossians 3 to "set our mind on things above". In this picture, the toddler recognized their need to do just that. In a great determination to palpably know the strength and protection of His hand, the toddler's eyes were averted upwards.

But at the same time, this upward glance seems like just enough to keep me walking. To continue the stroll with my Father. The hope of His love is enough to keep me reaching upwards.

But alas, I am still in the toddler stage. For though I have looked upon His hand, I cannot yet grasp it. And besides, the hand is only the first step in the right direction. While my eyes are set upwards, they have not yet reached the "high places". For they have yet to meet His eyes.

Perhaps that is for another day. But for today, I am content to reach for the higher places, and hopeful that one day I shall grasp His hand, and He shall grasp mine. And on that day we will meet face to face and eye to eye.

The Spiritual Anorexic

Sometimes, I feel like a spiritual anorexic---eating of the Lord's fruits only when I absolutely must.

While the food sits before me--- the Lord always lends a listening ear, my Bible at the foot of  my bed, and my prayer journal calling out for me to write in it--- sometimes I just don't partake of it. That is... until I absolutely have to.

This mentality, similar to that of an anorexic, ignores what is most necessary for my nourishment, and looks only to selfish desires. Besides, it's absolutely imperative that I finish my school, talk to every friend, and participate in every last activity that I possibly can, right?

The first thing to go is what? Naturally, eating.... and occasionally sleeping as well.

Why is it that the two things that are most important to human existence are the first things to go? Better yet, why is it that the reason why I'm alive (God) is the first thing to be swiped from my schedule as soon as busyness arrives?

It struck me that spiritual anorexia is, in fact, a rather common malady with serious consequences.

How can one bear true fruit when they aren't eating enough to nourish themselves?

It occurred to me that I didn't want to just be a brain with an undernourished spiritual body! Instead, I want to be a tree. And I didn't just want to be any tree... I want to be like the Giving Tree.

The Giving Tree was raised from seed to maturity by a young boy, who later turned into an old man. Throughout this tree's lifetime, it lent it's branches for the young boy to climb on. It offered it's shade for the young man to sit under. It offered it's trunk for the young man and his special someone to carve their names into. And finally, it gave up it's very branches and it's life for the old man to use as income. It gave of everything that it had so that this young man would be happy.

It was once a strong tree bearing good fruit because it was nourished well, and it was grateful to the young boy for the care he took of the tree when the tree was in its youth. But even when that tree was no longer equipped with physical fruit, it continued to give its first fruits for the boy, until it did not have any more to give.

The Giving Tree was selfless, much like our Savior. And while I can never be the Giving Tree, I can be one who lives and serves as an image bearer of Him!

But I cannot grow into the image of the Giving Tree if I am not growing in knowledge of His Word.

Therefore, "Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus." ~ Philippians 3:13-14