the cross

 Jews demand signs and Greeks look for wisdom,  but we preach Christ crucified: a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles,  but to those whom God has called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. ( I Corinthians 1:22-24)

It's offensive and not a nice conversation starter in polite company.

In fact, according to Greg Gilbert's chapter in Don't Call it a Comeback: The Old Faith for a New Day, sophisticated Greek and Roman people did not "even utter the word cross in polite company." It wasn't uncommon either for the Roman government to line major roads into the cities with dying, dead and rotting humans who had undergone crucifixion, for display purposes. Shock value. Rotten flesh, writhing misery, stench, slivers in already shredded flesh, bodily fluids.

That is a far cry from the shiny smooth gold ones attached to the front of many churches.

Last week as we were driving we listened to this CBH CD of old songs, songs that unless I specifically purchase recordings of them from many decades past, one would not hear anywhere else. It occurred to me why we sing very few old cross songs much anymore: they are raw. And they don't have happy peppy themes involving rivers flowing and such. And they make me feel bad about myself. They don't lead me to believe I'm the one one who was wronged. I am the one who was wrong.

We, as Christians, want our message to be liked. Just like we like to be liked. We'd much rather be the one offering the sweets and not the castor oil. So apparently somewhere along the way, we've sanitized the message. Like it's our message to tamper with. Like we thought up the whole idea of redeeming generations of mislead, lost, even beligerent people by taking their place, dying a nasty crimnal's death. Like any of us stepped down out of heaven and was willing to be put on public display, in maximum agony.

No, wait, that's not right. No, but that's what Paul means when he says "Jews demand signs and Greeks look for wisdom,  but we preach Christ crucified: a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles".

A "stumbling block" and "foolishness" for those who change their name or message to be less offensive to those they supposedly want to reach. Of course, that would seem logical if we are the ones trying to bring them in. But when God is doing the bringing and we get that straight, then we offer the message, straight up, no spin, leaving God behind the scene drawing hearts to Himself.

Really, there is so much in our churches that we've wiped pristine, polishing away the raw roughness and beauty of the original message. We get hung up on clean carpet and having enough space that we (perhaps) inadvertently put a "closed" sign for God on fingerprint-less front doors.

Oh I would much rather be involved in something that neither I nor my children get dirty or contaminated with germs. I like places that I can put in the same two hours a week and get in my clean car and drive home while patting myself on the back for my work.

But many times, the places where God is working are hot and have germs. There are dirty people there too with germs. Sometimes they take longer than my allotted two hours and they get in my face. And things are rarely predictable and calculated. Usually it takes a long time to see results too.

In her book, "If", Amy Carmichael writes this: "If monotony tries me, and I cannot stand drudgery; if stupid people fret me and little ruffles set me on edge; if I make much of the trifles of life, then I know nothing of Calvary love."

well said

It is easy to think you have a heart for orphans on the other side of the world, but if you spend your time at home resenting the imposition your children are on you, you do not. You cannot have a heart for the gospel and a fussiness about your life at the same time. You will never make any difference there if you cannot be at peace here. You cannot have a heart for missions, but not for the people around you. A true love of the gospel overflows and overpowers. It will be in everything you do, however drab, however simple, however repetitive.        

(from "Motherhood as a Mission Field" by Rachel Jankovic)

Many people have said to me, 'What a pity you had such a big family to raise. Think of the novels and the short stories and the poems you never had time to write because of that.' 
And I looked at my children and I said, 'These are my poems. These are my short stories. '

- Olga Masters

In regards to this quote, I will never presume to think that I have some amazing journalism skills (like Olga) that are somehow locked up just waiting to be released as soon as my last child is off to wherever children go so their parents can be successful. My skills were just good enough to fill a reporter's job for just short of 2-1/2 years at a very small town newspaper (because no one else applied). By the grace of God, I finished college, got married and attended journalism institute before I brought children into the world. And mercifully, I got my need for employment fulfillment outside the home before my own offspring arrived.

But what I love about that quote is that for Olga her children were much more of a valuable investment of time than those years of writing would have been.

Back in my short years at the newspaper, there was always something to discuss in polite company. Pipestone has some colorful characters, some in dark shades and others in more uplifting shades. By default, I learned a little about a lot of different things and I could converse. People are interested in current and local events.

Then there's raising children. They need food and diaper changes. They need help knowing what is really dangerous, like walking across the road into the neighbors yard and climbing tall ladders to see if they can do it. Like they have since time began. Nothing done in the course of 24 hours is written in publication. At least, for most of us the goal is not to make an appearance in the police news column. And really most people aren't in the least bit interested in the new recipe you made for supper or hearing that you got all the clean clothes put away in an afternoon with not too many interruptions.

More entertaining is hearing about what is going on in the real world.

But several others have done taken up the responsibilities I held at the Star since I left. I was replaceable, completely. But as the mother of my children, I am not replaceable, at least not as easily. That is not to say that many others could be far more efficient with the laundry, food preparation and cleaning. And many more would be far more effective at effective discipline measures regarding sleep and chores.

Still, somebody must be responsible for raising my children. They aren't like house dogs or hogs in a pen that just need to be fed on a regular basis. And oh what a weighty assignment it is!

Sin drenches every part of this life. Temptation to pursue what feels good lurks commonly. And I, as  redeemed but oh so prone to wander, attempt to direct my children away from what causes me and them to stumble, while tripping frequently. I cannot ensure that my children will never make mistakes. But if living a more simple life, doing my best to maintain the communication between my Father and my children's father, lets us release them into adulthood with a minimum of emotional baggage, I will humbly consider that success.

It is essential to have style when one is scraping paint.

growing things

Morning glories gathered in the ditch on Anneka's fourth birthday...

Humid jungle weather the last several weeks have grown the beans large in these parts...

Anneka's birthday bouquet and her new dress