Celebrations With Grace

Is anything too wonderful for the Lord?

To all my nonbelieving, sort-of-believing, and used-to-be-believing friends: I feel like I should begin with a confession. I am sorry that so often the biggest obstacle to God has been Christians. Christians who have had so much to say with our mouths and so little to show with our lives. I am sorry that so often we have forgotten the Christ of our Christianity.

Forgive us. Forgive us for the embarrassing things we have done in the name of God.

The other night I headed into downtown Philly for a stroll with some friends from out of town. We walked down to Penn’s Landing along the river, where there are street performers, artists, musicians. We passed a great magician who did some pretty sweet tricks like pour change out of his iPhone, and then there was a preacher. He wasn’t quite as captivating as the magician. He stood on a box, yelling into a microphone, and beside him was a coffin with a fake dead body inside. He talked about how we are all going to die and go to hell if we don’t know Jesus.

Some folks snickered. Some told him to shut the hell up. A couple of teenagers tried to steal the dead body in the coffin. All I could do was think to myself, I want to jump up on a box beside him and yell at the top of my lungs, “God is not a monster.” Maybe next time I will.

The more I have read the Bible and studied the life of Jesus, the more I have become convinced that Christianity spreads best not through force but through fascination. But over the past few decades our Christianity, at least here in the United States, has become less and less fascinating. We have given the atheists less and less to disbelieve. And the sort of Christianity many of us have seen on TV and heard on the radio looks less and less like Jesus.

At one point Gandhi was asked if he was a Christian, and he said, essentially, “I sure love Jesus, but the Christians seem so unlike their Christ.” A recent study showed that the top three perceptions of Christians in the U. S. among young non-Christians are that Christians are 1) antigay, 2) judgmental, and 3) hypocritical. So what we have here is a bit of an image crisis, and much of that reputation is well deserved. That’s the ugly stuff. And that’s why I begin by saying that I’m sorry.

Now for the good news.

I want to invite you to consider that maybe the televangelists and street preachers are wrong — and that God really is love. Maybe the fruits of the Spirit really are beautiful things like peace, patience, kindness, joy, love, goodness, and not the ugly things that have come to characterize religion, or politics, for that matter. (If there is anything I have learned from liberals and conservatives, it’s that you can have great answers and still be mean… and that just as important as being right is being nice.)

The Bible that I read says that God did not send Jesus to condemn the world but to save it… it was because “God so loved the world.” That is the God I know, and I long for others to know. I did not choose to devote my life to Jesus because I was scared to death of hell or because I wanted crowns in heaven… but because he is good. For those of you who are on a sincere spiritual journey, I hope that you do not reject Christ because of Christians. We have always been a messed-up bunch, and somehow God has survived the embarrassing things we do in His name. At the core of our “Gospel” is the message that Jesus came “not [for] the healthy… but the sick.” And if you choose Jesus, may it not be simply because of a fear of hell or hope for mansions in heaven.

Don’t get me wrong, I still believe in the afterlife, but too often all the church has done is promise the world that there is life after death and use it as a ticket to ignore the hells around us. I am convinced that the Christian Gospel has as much to do with this life as the next, and that the message of that Gospel is not just about going up when we die but about bringing God’s Kingdom down. It was Jesus who taught us to pray that God’s will be done “on earth as it is in heaven.” On earth.

One of Jesus’ most scandalous stories is the story of the Good Samaritan. As sentimental as we may have made it, the original story was about a man who gets beat up and left on the side of the road. A priest passes by. A Levite, the quintessential religious guy, also passes by on the other side (perhaps late for a meeting at church). And then comes the Samaritan… you can almost imagine a snicker in the Jewish crowd. Jews did not talk to Samaritans, or even walk through Samaria. But the Samaritan stops and takes care of the guy in the ditch and is lifted up as the hero of the story. I’m sure some of the listeners were ticked. According to the religious elite, Samaritans did not keep the right rules, and they did not have sound doctrine… but Jesus shows that true faith has to work itself out in a way that is Good News to the most bruised and broken person lying in the ditch.

It is so simple, but the pious forget this lesson constantly. God may indeed be evident in a priest, but God is just as likely to be at work through a Samaritan or a prostitute. In fact the Scripture is brimful of God using folks like a lying prostitute named Rahab, an adulterous king named David… at one point God even speaks to a guy named Balaam through his donkey. Some say God spoke to Balaam through his ass and has been speaking through asses ever since. So if God should choose to use us, then we should be grateful but not think too highly of ourselves. And if upon meeting someone we think God could never use, we should think again.

After all, Jesus says to the religious elite who looked down on everybody else: “The tax collectors and prostitutes are entering the Kingdom ahead of you.” And we wonder what got him killed?

I have a friend in the UK who talks about “dirty theology” — that we have a God who is always using dirt to bring life and healing and redemption, a God who shows up in the most unlikely and scandalous ways. After all, the whole story begins with God reaching down from heaven, picking up some dirt, and breathing life into it. At one point, Jesus takes some mud, spits in it, and wipes it on a blind man’s eyes to heal him. (The priests and producers of anointing oil were not happy that day.)

In fact, the entire story of Jesus is about a God who did not just want to stay “out there” but who moves into the neighborhood, a neighborhood where folks said, “Nothing good could come.” It is this Jesus who was accused of being a glutton and drunkard and rabble-rouser for hanging out with all of society’s rejects, and who died on the imperial cross of Rome reserved for bandits and failed messiahs. This is why the triumph over the cross was a triumph over everything ugly we do to ourselves and to others. It is the final promise that love wins.

It is this Jesus who was born in a stank manger in the middle of a genocide. That is the God that we are just as likely to find in the streets as in the sanctuary, who can redeem revolutionaries and tax collectors, the oppressed and the oppressors… a God who is saving some of us from the ghettos of poverty, and some of us from the ghettos of wealth.

In closing, to those who have closed the door on religion — I was recently asked by a non-Christian friend if I thought he was going to hell. I said, “I hope not. It will be hard to enjoy heaven without you.” If those of us who believe in God do not believe God’s grace is big enough to save the whole world… well, we should at least pray that it is.

 

Your brother,

Shane

Read more: http://www.esquire.com/features/best-and-brightest-2009/shane-claiborne-1209#ixzz0bDg99BP4

In 1962 I was preaching in Indianapolis, Indiana.  I was

single, and it was Christmas time.  I was headed home to Michigan to enjoy the holidays with my family.  It was an extremely cold day, and it was snowing.

 

The wind was howling out of the North, blowing thick clouds of fine flakes across the road.  It looked like a blizzard.  The roads were icy in places, and there was little traffic.  Somewhere near Ft. Wayne, Indiana, I saw a soldier standing under an overpass.  He had a green army cap pulled as tight and low as possible over his head, his collar was pulled up around his ears, his hands were

shoved down in his pockets, and he had a stuffed duffel bag standing beside him.

 

I was driving a Chevrolet Corvette, and I was going very fast…..faster than I should have been, considering the road conditions.  As I sped by, the soldier jerked one hand out of his pocket and raised his thumb.  My Corvette had two seats….not a front and back seat, but two seats side by side…and I was in one of them.  The trunk was big enough to hold three loaves of bread and a pound of lunch meat.  Not only was my limited trunk space stuffed full with the clothes and boots I would need for my stay in Michigan, the front seat was stacked high as well with the presents that I had purchased for my folks and my nieces and nephews.

 

When I saw the soldier, I was going much to fast to stop, and I was well down the highway before I gave it much thought.  I told myself that I couldn’t possibly get him and his duffel bag in the car.  I debated about the terrible inconvenience and delay

it would cause if I did, and by the time I decided that perhaps I ought to at least offer to help, I was two miles down the road and out of sight.  But my Christian conscience really went to work on me.

 

It was so cold, traffic was almost nonexistent….he was a soldier

and it was Christmas.  The inner battle raged for another three

miles.  Finally, I decided I would never get any peace unless I

offered to help.  So I made a U-turn and went back.  I hoped with all my heart that someone else had picked him up.

 

That way, I could satisfy my conscience and not be inconvenienced…wouldn’t that be great?  But he was still there, looking more forlorn, lonely, and colder than ever. I was disgusted.  I pulled up and rolled down the window.

He came running, stumbling on his numb feet, dragging the

duffel bag.  He leaned over and stuck his head in the window.  His face was bluish, his teeth were chattering. His eyebrows and eyelashes were matted with frozen snow, and he could scarcely speak intelligibly.

 

“Thanks so much for stopping,” he said.  “I had about given up hope.

 

That was not what I wanted to hear.

 

“Where are you going?” I asked, hoping that it was in some

direction that would alleviate me from further responsibility.

 

“I live in Michigan, in Taylor Township,” he said hopefully.

That was really discouraging.  It wasn’t directly on my way, but it wasn’t too much out of my way either.

 

“I’m going to Royal Oak,” I said reluctantly.

 

“Oh,” he said, “I know where that it.  That’s great!  If I could just ride with you to Ann Arbor, it would mean a lot to me.  I’m almost frozen; I can’t feel my ears or feet any more,” he said plaintively.

 

“I don’t think I can possibly get both you and your things in,”

I said.

 

“If you’ll let me, I’ll get in….I promise you.  I’ve been standing

here for three hours.”

 

I told him to try getting in and we began rearranging things.

The duffel bag was almost as big as he was, and there was only

one place for it…the passenger seat.  No matter how he put it in

the car, he couldn’t get in himself.  I suggested that maybe he

could hide it somewhere and come back for it later.  He said

he couldn’t possible to that; it had his kids’ Christmas presents

in it and he wasn’t going anywhere without it.  I finally got out, walked around the car and told him to sit down in the passenger seat.  As he sat there, I wedged the duffel bag between his legs and between the floor and the roof of the car.  I sandwiched all of my presents around him…and I slammed the door.  He couldn’t move, he couldn’t see out either the windshield or his side window…but he was in.  I still don’t know how we did it.

 

Once he began to get warm, he began to talk.  I found out he

was stationed at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri.  “Didn’t I see

you go by about five minutes ago?” he asked.  I really felt stupid.

 

“Ummm, yes,” I said. 

 

“You mean you turned around and came back?!”  I nodded an affirmative.

 

“Why would you do that?”  I paused a long moment.

 

“Well, you see, I was raised in a home where helping people who

were in need was very important.  In addition, I’m a minister…

actually it’s more than that…I’m a Christian, and if it weren’t for

that, I’d probably still be going.  I have as hard a time doing the

right thing as most folks.  I fought with this decision for five

miles.  It’s Jesus who makes me do things like turn around and

come back.  When I don’t do the right thing, I have this feeling He’s looking at me and He’s so disappointed that I can’t stand it.”

 

“Oh!” he said.  “You don’t know how that convicts me.  I’m

going to tell you something I never thought I’d tell anybody.  I’m

no Christian, but my wife is the best person in the whole world,

and she goes to church all the time and takes the kids. 

Truthfully, I’ve done everything I could to discourage her,

but she just keeps going.  She’s all the time trying to get me

to go, telling me that someday I’m going to wish I had.

 

“Do you know why I’m hitchhiking?  Let me tell you a little

story.  I was turned down for holiday leave because I got drunk

and caused some trouble at the base.  I was sick about it.  I

haven’t seen my  wife and kids for six months.  A friend of mine,

who’s single, found out at the last minute that his folks were

coming to visit some relatives who live close to the base during

the holidays.  He went to our commanding officer and volunteered

to take my duty, if he would let me go home.

 

“He gave me permission, but I had spent all my money buying

presents, which I was going to mail home, so I decided to

start hitchhiking.  My family doesn’t even know I’m coming.  I

wasn’t sure I’d make it and I didn’t want to disappoint them. 

I’ve been standing there for three hours, thinking.  I watched

folks drive by, and it occurred to me that some of them must

be Christians, and it made me feel pretty bitter…until I got

to thinking about what a lousy person I am, and I knew if I was

them that I probably wouldn’t stop either.

 

“Let me tell you something embarrassing…I got so cold, so

lonely, and so desperate that I started to pray…honest to God

I did….it was so humiliating.  I told God that if He would help me,

I’d do better.  And you know what?  About that time you showed

up, and you told me that you came back because of Jesus…

now what to you make of that?”

 

“Well, first I’d say that maybe there’s more to Christianity

than either of us thought; and second, I’d say you’d better

start doing better.”  I found out exactly where he lived, and

we agreed that I could get him pretty close before I had to go

in another direction.  I think I knew what I was going to do

long before I actually said anything.  As we approached the

intersection where I was going to let him out, I told him that

I had made up my mind to take him home.

 

About two hours later, we pulled up in his driveway.  It was almost dark.

 

He was really excited.  He asked me to blow my horn, and

I did.  A few minutes passed, and the inside door opened

slowly.  The glass in the outside door was frosted over, and

whoever was looking out could only tell that there was a car

in the driveway.  The outside door opened, and a five- or

six-year old, barefooted boy peeked around the door.  When

he saw my sports car, he came out on the porch and peered

intently at us.  His dad opened the door and stepped out.

 

“Hi, David.  It’s Daddy; I’m home for Christmas!”  He started

to say more, but the boy had seen the uniform and heard the

voice.

 

The boy’s face lit up, and he turned back into the house.  I

could hear him distinctly……”Mama, Daddy’s home!” he

yelled shrilly.  “Daddy’s home!  Mama!  Mama!  Daddy’s home

for Christmas!”

 

The door opened again, and it didn’t open slowly this time….it

was thrown open.  A woman dressed in a bathrobe and house

slippers came running down the steps, her hair flying in the wind,

oblivious to the snow and the cold, eyes and mouth opened wide

with excitement, with joy etched in every line of her face.  “Oh, Carl,”

she said, “Oh, Carl, you’re home.  Praise God, you’re home!  The

kids and I have been praying every day that, somehow, God

would send you home.”

 

She was followed by a skinny, fair-haired, ten-year-old girl

and finally by a tow-headed, blanket-toting, two- or three-year-

old girl.  They kissed and hugged and laughed and cried, and

they danced in the cold and the snow until the soldier finally

disentangled himself from them long enough to introduce me.

 

“This is John,” he said.  “He’s a minister and he’s also a Christian;

and if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be here.  And I’m going to tell

you something, honey, right here and now.  I told John that I had

promised God that I was going to do better, and I am.  I’m going

to stop drinking, be a better husband, a better father…a better man…

and we’re going to start going to church together.”

 

I have never witnessed such gratitude in my life.  They all had

to hug me and kiss me….even the two-year-old….and they told

me what a blessing I was to them and that they owed me a

debt they could never pay.  I was so embarrassed, because

I was so unworthy.  I had grudged the whole thing until

after we had started talking.  I wanted to tell them that

I didn’t deserve any thanks. 

 

I tried to leave, but they simply wouldn’t allow it.  I had to

go in the house.  I had to eat something and drink something;

I had to accept a gift from them…yes, I had to.  They would not

allow me not to, and the more they did, the better and the worse

I felt.

 

I was so embarrassed.  You know why?  I had just witnessed

something private…a family thing…something I wasn’t part of…

something not meant for outsiders…and, yes, I was…I was

embarrassed. 

 

And you know what else?

 

I envied Carl.  I thought that it must be wonderful beyond

description to be loved by a woman like that and missed

like that and to be so unworthy…and I think Carl was just

beginning to understand what he had.  I have learned since

then that only those who have come to know and feel the

love of God can love the unworthy…and I have also learned 

that we are all unworthy. 

 

Carl was home.  I think that at that moment, home meant

more to him, perhaps, than it would ever mean again.  And

when I got to my home and saw my folks and told them why

I was late, they were so proud of me…and I was a little

proud of myself.  Home was somehow brighter, warmer,

more dear to me than it had ever been before.  Every

human longing…bound up in the inherent yearning to

be loved and to be “home” and to experience the peace

and security that “home” signifies…has found its

fulfillment in Jesus who said, “I go to prepare a place

for you.”  Everything we ever dreamed of home being…

what it was or was not…is that place.  Jesus has given purpose,

even to the dream of death, because for those who know God…

that is the way home.

 

“How silently, how silently,

the wondrous gift is given.

So God imparts to human hearts,

the blessings of His heaven.

No ear may hear His coming,

but in this world of sin,

Where meek souls will receive Him still,

the dear Christ enters in.”

 

Jesus comes to us in many ways.  He came to me in the

form of a freezing soldier trying to get home for Christmas.

He came to a freezing soldier in the form of a young minister

trying to find his way to God.  Either one of us could have

missed Him.

 

Jesus will come to you this Christmas too, and His

coming will be in an unexpected way….Don’t miss Him.

 

 

By John William Smith