He is Risen!

He is Risen!!

When I decided to travel with Jesus, I checked my heavy baggage at the cross. But for some reason I still have some carry-ons that should have been left behind with the rest of my luggage. It's surprising what kinds of things I insist on traveling with--things that just slow me down, hinder by ability to do what I need to do, or take up valuable time keeping them secure. Guess I'd better dump those too.

Jesus died so I didn't have to be weighed down with my luggage (sin). He wants me to give it all to him. If that is all he did, that would have been enough. 

But then, up from the grave he arose.

He is Risen Indeed!!!

That would have been more than enough for me, but not for God. He went even further and sent us the Holy Spirit. WOW, what a mighty God we serve.

May your celebration of the Resurrection be glorious,

Jan

Discover Jesus Moment #7

As I have occasionally said, my mind takes me to some interesting places when I think about what to journal. Yesterday, while writing about my experience at my first Passover Seder, I was also thinking about the challenge put before those of us at my women's Bible study of Revelation. We are to discover what Jesus is revealing about himself as we go about our daily lives.

While taking a break from writing, I reread the scripture for this week's lesson--Rev. 7. It paints a glorious high-def, 3D picture of a great multitude from every nation, tribe, people, and language standing before the throne and clothed in white robes. They are waving palm branches and singing praises to God. Also worshiping God are angels and the 24 elders. In the midst of all this glory, John is asked by an elder, "These in white robes--who are they, and where did they come from?" John answered, "Sir, you know." With that, the elder proceeds with his explanation. "These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb..."

Whoa. Just a minute. My mind did a double take at this statement. I know that Jesus shed his blood as an atonement for my sins. But, they have washed their robes and made them white? They did it. Christ gave the blood, but they had to do the washing. Hmmm. I wasn't sure what role the tribulation played in all this. For all I know, we could be in it right now, but the implications of doing my own laundry really got me to thinking. In order to wash my dirty, sin-stained garments, I need to:

• Recognize my clothes are dirty. Thankfully the Holy Spirit gladly shows me the stains.  
• Take them off.
• Wash them in the blood. 
• Watch the stains be removed and the dirt come out as the cleansing unfolds.
• Not be ashamed of my nakedness.
• Recognize that this is a continuing process that won't end until I join those gathered in that glorious throne room.

Then I can sing out with the rest of the white robed multitude, "Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb." Rev 7:10 

 Amen

Here is my Discover Jesus Moment #7.  Jesus bears my sin as he sheds his blood. I bare my soul as I present myself naked before him, filthy garments in hand.

I am not going to elaborate on the above points. The Spirit will lead each of us in different directions as we read and/or contemplate them. You go where you are led, and I will go where I am led, but each path will ultimately lead us AGAIN to the foot of the cross. See you there.

In the meantime, I have laundry to do, both spiritual and earthly.

 Jan

Remembering the Passover

Year: 1961
Location: Tel Aviv, Israel
Occasion: Passover Seder

I was just nineteen years old at the time, but experiencing a Seder meal with Orthodox Jewish friends and a great-aunt had a life long impact on me. I really didn't know what a Seder meal was all about, but I knew it was extremely important to our friends. They had been getting ready for weeks.

The women had been cleaning their homes from top to bottom. By weeks end, there was not a crumb in sight except for the small pile left for the children to find while conducting a thorough search of the rooms. Then dad used a long turkey feather to brush those crumbs into a wooden spoon. After all crumbs were found, he burned them. The house was now kosher for Passover. All leaven was gone.

The women had also unpacked and washed their Passover dishes and tableware. Their everyday dishes were put away for the week. All was ready except for the cooking and Seder plate preparation. A lamb shank needed to be roasted as did an egg. Parsley and bitter herbs were washed, apples and nuts were diced then mixed with honey, cinnamon and other spices. Matzah and wine, kosher for Passover, were purchased along with all the food for the celebration meal. Finally, the table was set with gleaming plates, sparkling wine glasses, snow-white linens, and flickering candles. On each dinner plate was a beautiful illustrated Haggadah (order of service) and most importantly, the family Seder plate as a center piece.

It was finally time for the guests to arrive, and the remembrance of the Exodus out of Egypt to begin. I had no idea what to expect.
 
We all slowly made our way to the table and watched the mother light the evening candle and pray a prayer of blessing. "Baruch atah Adonai elohaynu melech..." Blessed are you, Adonai our God, Sovereign of the Universe...

As I am trying to take it all in, the youngest child suddenly pipes up, "Why is this night different from all other nights?" The answer to that question sped up my introduction into Jewish culture, faith, and tradition. I suddenly found myself on a fast learning curve. As the child's questions continued along with the answers, the entire story unfolded before my eyes. It recounted the days of slavery and bondage in Egypt, the ten plagues, the smearing of lamb's  blood on the door posts to ward off the Angel of Death, and the parting of the Red Sea.

Woven into the story was the singing of ancient songs. It was while listening to the songs I didn't know, in a language I didn't understand, that I noticed the tears being shed. The older men at the table, with skull caps covering their heads and full beards covering their faces, were weeping openly while singing about the "yam" or sea. The emotion of being led out of Egypt was as real to them that night as it had been to the Hebrew people as they fled through the parted waters two thousand years earlier. Then, within minutes, the tears of sorrow turned to tears of joy. God had redeemed his people. Light of the promised land shone in their eyes as they clapped their hands and sang songs of rejoicing.

That unashamed emotion deeply touched me. Even though I had gone to church all my life, attending Easter and Christmas services as well as Sunday school and Vacation Bible school, I had never ever seen any emotion shown. I had never seen tears shed over Christ's death on the cross. I had never seen joy and awe at the telling of the Christmas story or over the pronouncement, "He is risen." If the emotions were felt, they weren't shown. The only joy I had seen was over Christmas presents and Easter baskets. I had much to learn.

Since then I have learn so much about God's work and faithfulness in the life of his chosen people over the course of history as well as with his people today. I have also learned it is OK to laugh, cry, raise my hands, and dance in the presence of the Lord. I can also shout "Amen, Alleluia," and "Praise the Lord" when so moved, but I can also commune in silence.

I have also learned about remembering. A member is a part of something bigger. For example there are members of a body (arms and legs) and members of organizations. When "re" is added to the word, it means to become a member again. The weeping men at the Passover meal were not merely thinking about God's mighty work in Egypt, they were living it, becoming members of that mass of people fleeing for their lives, becoming one with them. Remembering.

As Maunday Thursday, Good Friday and Easter approach, I really want to remember.


In Christ,
Jan

He is Risen or Pass the Peeps

I was sitting in front of a floral shop this afternoon, and waiting for my daughter-in-law. While I sat there, I looked at the assortment of colorful banner and flags you can hang outside your home. "Happy Easter" most of them said in bright pastel colors. Each one was decorated with either cute, long eared bunnies, fuzzy yellow chicks, colored eggs of all sorts, or flowers ranging from tulips to daisies. This subtle messaging that lumped Easter, eggs, chicks, bunnies, and spring flowers into one big springtime holiday event reminded of my son's experience years ago.

He was living and going to school in Phoenix, Arizona. As Easter drew close, he went to buy a card to send home. He looked at card after card, trying to find just the right card with the right pronouncement of "He is risen." My son thought the lady next to him was doing the same thing until she suddenly exclaimed aloud, "I can't believe the Christians are trying to take over Easter, too!"

This story took place in the 80s. I wonder how many people think the same thing today. I'm afraid it is many more than we can ever imagine. To most folks, Easter is not about "He is Risen", it is more about pass the Peeps, espy the eggs, and chew off the chocolate bunny's ears. How sad.

The church has an incredible amount of work to do while it is still light. Let's invite someone to come hear the Easter message this Sunday, the message of not only "He is risen", but also of "He died for your sins". What good news of hope that is to a hopeless world.

Preparing for Easter,
Jan

Why Do I Run The Race?

I have to pack for a scrap-booking retreat today. As a result of being gone, I probably won't blog again until Sunday evening. I will also be attending a Seder dinner with my son and daughter-in-law. I'm looking forward to a fun weekend.

Anyway, I was at a cold, windy, rainy track meet yesterday. Two athletes, one a 800 meter runner and the other, a miler, each had quite large leads in their awesome runs to victory. After learning their winning times, they each were disappointed that they hadn't run faster. They both said it is hard to run your best race when there is no one ahead of you to overtake, and no one attempting to overtake you from behind. Hmmmmm! They seem to run their best when they are either running from or toward something.  Their comments got me thinking.

Here is the question I am posing today. What makes me run the race that is often mentioned in scripture, the one run before the great cloud of witnesses in Heb 12:1? What makes you run the race? Am I (are we) running from something or someone or toward something or something?  Just askin'. Here are a few scriptures to prime the thinking pump.

Prov. 18:10
Isa 10:3
Isa 40:31
1 Cor 9:24


Happy running,
Jan

I Am A Bell

If you play the white keys on a piano at a consistant tempo, from a high C to a lower C, you have played all the natural notes. If you change the rhythm, you have the first stanza of "Joy to the World". It's all in how it's played. There are whole notes, half, quarter, sixteenth notes and more. There are triplets and trills. There are rests and sustains, pianissimos and fortissimo. Then there are sharps, flats, clefs, measures, and time signatures. And don't forget pizzicatos.  Combine these in different orders and we have the sounds and songs we love as well as the sounds and songs we might not like at all. That is music.

That is also life. I like to think of myself not as keys on a keyboard, but as brass bells in the Lord's hand-bell choir. I have several sounds, several note, that need to be played when called for. Some times I play softly, sometimes loudly, and sometimes not at all. Some songs just don't need my notes. Others have me sounding quite often.

At times I am a whole note that is held onto, It's nice when everyone is a whole note at the same time, resonating together, but I love providing a background tone as others play their notes. When I'm a sixteenth note, I have to be quick and alert, especially when we are in syncopated rhythm. It can be quite challenging.

Throughout the song it is absolutely necessary to keep my eyes on both the conductor and the music, and my ears tuned into the other players. We need to be together. If I don't watch the conductor, I can easily ring in too soon, too late, or completely at the wrong time. As a result, the   music changes. There are even times the listener will cringe at a discordant sound. For example, playing a C natural when the C# is called for doesn't sound very good.

As I said, I see myself as bells, notes in the Lord's choir. If the music I am part of is going to bless others, I can't choose to play my own song while the the conductor is directing the whole choir in something else. I can't decide to be a whole note when the music says I'm a sixteenth note at this point in the song. I can't choose to rest when I am an important part of the melody. I can't play loudly in a quiet section, or ring out so quietly in a fortissimo section that I can't be heard at all. I can't decide to play like I'm in a joyous polka when I am really in a funeral dirge. I have to follow the directions in the music, and the beat given my the conductor. That is all part of being in a bell choir.

When all is done well, the resulting music touches hearts, and is a blessing to not only the hearers, but also the bell players themselves. When we, as bells, live life well, according the the directions in the Word and the beat given by God, the resulting music of our lives also touches hearts and bless everyone who hears.

Trying to play my right bell at the right time and tempo for the glory of God and the blessing of others,
Jan

I've Become My Grandmother

I think I've said this before, maybe not. I know I have thought it many times. Life is so strange! Maybe it isn't life that is strange, but it's the passage of time that is strange. Something is very strange. It didn't seem like too many years ago that I was going though a period of "lasts": my last high school exam, my last day living in my home town, and last day as a teenager. These were always followed by firsts: first day living in a foreign country, first day of college, and first date ever.

The years flew by. There were the first years of marriage, first child, and first days of kindergarten.  Quickly following were first band concerts, first athletic events, and each child's first solo drive in the car. Then, in a matter of a few short years, each concert, each game, and each meet was unbelievably the last one.

Time, as it tends to do, sped on. In rushed our kids' marriages, first grandchildren, and first meals in our children's homes. Within moments our children now got to experience their kids' first days of kindergarten, first band concerts, and first athletic events. The circle continued moving.

The oldest grandchildren have now graduated from school, gotten married, and have their own homes. What wonderful firsts for all of us. Sadly though, in the midst of these new firsts I am once again seeing  "lasts". Tonight is the last elementary school Science Fair in which a grandchild will participate. Then, in a blink of an eye, grandchildren will graduate from high school for four consecutive years. Then, four years later, the last one will be gone. Unbelievable. Round and round it goes.

By the time all this happens, my children will probably be grandparents. Their grand-kids could be starting school. And "firsts" start all over again.

All this round and around of firsts and lasts started my head spinning while I was just innocently sitting here wondering what to write. Strangely, I found myself staring at my thin-skinned, blue-veined, age-spotted hands. They reminded me of Grandmother's hands. I vividly remember sitting on her lap as a girl and watching her veins pop up after I had pushed them down. She seemed quite old to me, at least fifty. Her old hands with their pop-up veins kept me fascinated for long periods of time. Now, as I stared down, I discovered that her hands have attached themselves to the ends of my arms. Now that is a first. And their pop-up veins still fascinate me.

Somehow, somewhere, in the spinning of time and the cycle of firsts and lasts, I have become by grandmother. How did that happen?

I'm going to go ponder life's mysteries for awhile--be back later,
Jan