Redeemer

 So she went down to the threshing floor and did just as her mother-in-law

 had commanded her.  And when Boaz had eaten and drunk, and his heart was

 merry, he went to lie down at the end of the heap of grain. Then she came softly

 and uncovered his feet and lay down.  At midnight the man was startled

 and turned over, and behold, a woman lay at his feet!  He said, “Who are you?”

 And she answered, “I am Ruth, your servant. Spread your wings over your servant,

 for you are a redeemer.”  And he said, “May you be blessed by the Lord,

 my daughter. You have made this last kindness greater than the first

 in that you have not gone after young men, whether poor or rich.  And now,

 my daughter, do not fear. I will do for you all that you ask, for all my fellow

 townsmen know that you are a worthy woman."  (Ruth 3:6-12, ESV)

I have always been drawn to the story of Ruth.  If you have never read it, it's a lovely, surprising, tragic, amazing story--part biography, part family history, part historical record, part love story.  It begins as the story of one family, becomes the story of one woman, and in the end becomes the story of a new and different family.  And Ruth herself is the central character, the one who ties the threads of the story together.   

It begins with a typical, two-parent, two-child family, and their move to a new country.  Both sons, young men, come of age and marry women in that place--one of the new daughters-in-law is Ruth.  But exceptional tragedy strikes this unexceptional family, and the father and both sons are lost, leaving three widows behind.  With no providers and no prospects, the three women are left with no choice but to retreat to the safety of their respective families.  Naomi, the mother, sets out for her home country, and sends her daughters-in-law back to their homes.  But Ruth, in a remarkable act of cultural rebellion, refuses to return to her family of origin, and instead returns with her mother-in-law, to try to eke out a subsistence together in what, to her, is a new land among an unfamiliar people.

In Naomi's homeland, two women surviving alone, with no man to earn for them, protect them, or represent them, are in a fragile and vulnerable position.  But an eminently respectable man, Boaz, a prominent community member, soon begins acting as their benefactor, and ultimately, his kindness and respect leads Ruth to ask him to consider a far greater act of generosity--becoming the man to care for her (and, in this culture, for her mother-in-law as well), officially, legally.  Permanently.

I often puzzle over Ruth.  In many ways, she fascinates me.  Why, I wonder, did she refuse to go home?  Why stay with Naomi, why defy the odds?  Where did she gather the strength for this, and for so much more--the difficult journey to a new land, the back-breaking work she did to support herself and Naomi, the amazing vulnerability she showed in approaching and offering herself to a powerful man who might have ruined her in every way with his rejection?

But as much as I am compelled by Ruth, in the last couple of years my thoughts have been captivated by Boaz.  Who is this man?  I find it so remarkable, the story of what he did for Ruth.  In our day, the magnitude of it is difficult to comprehend, but in Ruth's time, the ramifications of it were astounding.  He saved her life, and her future--not only with companionship and love, as we are first inclined to think of in our romanticized, modern culture--but legally, socially, and economically.  He erased not only the pain of her personal past, but the tragedy of her family line--Naomi, who earlier in the story names herself "bitter" with loss, in the end renames herself "joy", as she cradles her new grandson.  All of these are things that were completely outside Ruth's power to do for herself or for her family. 

And yet, his response in the passage above is not to assure Ruth of his own generosity toward her.  Instead--look carefully--he THANKS HER.  He talks about her kindness, her worth.  He considers himself the lucky one here. He sees, not his own act of blessing, but hers.  This man, Boaz, is strong enough to lead, to save, yet secure enough for humility.  This man of integrity does what is right for Ruth, even when it flies in the face of the expectations of others.  He takes the role of redeemer, he pays the price, he changes Ruth's life, not out of a sense of his own generosity or goodness, but out of a selfless love for another.

So how is this possible?  What can make a man see things, see people in this light?  There is only one thing that I know of.  Boaz is not using the world's math; Boaz is seeing things in the way of the Kingdom.  He does not see Ruth as a poverty-stricken immigrant widow, unloved, undesirable, and of no worth.  He sees Ruth as God sees her--as a woman of beauty, a woman of valor, a woman worthy of being desired, loved, honored.   How incredibly fortunate was Ruth, to be found by this redeemer who acts to save her life, to assure her future, and to bring beauty from the ashes of her past, and in the process, sees himself not as the benefactor, but as the recipient of a beautiful gift.

And how like that other bridegroom is Boaz, that divine bridegroom of us all, who arrives at the altar of marriage possessing all the wealth, all the status, all the power, and gives himself up for his bride, the church, who cannot save herself, and can never repay his act of love.  And yet, that bridegroom is motivated, not by a sense of his own obligation, or even his own generosity or goodness, but by a deep love and desire for his bride.  This is that same story, the ultimate story, of a God who, in spite of his immense, incomparable greatness, created us, not so that we could love him, but instead created us to be loved.

The most beautiful thing about this story, for everyone, is that this God, the one who seeks us, desires us, redeems us--this God is out there.  But another beautiful thing about it is this--I believe that means this man is out there too.

Beloved

"I'm always late because I'm a procrastinator and I procrastinate because I'm overwhelmed and I'm overwhelmed because I'm a perfectionist and I'm a perfectionist because I need affirmation and I need affirmation because I feel unworthy and I feel unworthy because somewhere, sometime, something in me cracked and the idea that I am lovable leaked out... I broke."

I've been thinking today about this passage from a recent post by Jamie the Very Worst Missionary.

I've shared it with many of my women friends, especially many of my single mom friends, and it resonates with every one.  Many have messaged me back to thank me for sharing, to say how it went straight to the heart of their own fear, anxiety, and struggle.  I want to ask us all today--why is that?  Why do we all feel so unworthy?  Why do we believe we are unlovable, unacceptable?  I think back to a long-ago conversation with a beloved friend, one of those people who makes the world better just by being in it.  His life was filled with good deeds, and his heart with nothing but kindness and good will for other people, specifically, and humanity, generally.  But he spoke that night on the phone about a nagging feeling of incompleteness.  Somehow, these things could not make him enough.  No matter how good you are, how hard you try, nothing you do on your own can ever make you good enough.  You cannot make yourself lovable, acceptable, beloved. 

Religious people will tell you they have the answer to this conundrum.  "That's why we need Jesus," they will say--"because we can't do it on our own."

Raise your hand if you just heard me say, "That's why we need Jesus--because Jesus can help us be good enough."

Yep.  That's what I thought. 

Why is this so hard?  Why must we insist on making ourselves good enough?  On seeing even Jesus as simply a system of self-help so that we can finally accomplish it?  Why is it that, as my friend Bill said recently, "We're Midwesterners!  We have to EARN our grace!"  My pastor, Randy Boltinghouse, just finished preaching through the New Testament's parables of grace, and a few Sundays ago he spoke about the story of the Pharisee and the tax collector.  In the story, the tax collector asks God for forgiveness, and goes away accepted, but the Pharisee simply thanks God that he is already so righteous.  The Pharisee doesn't ask for anything, Randy said, because he doesn't think he needs it.  I guess that might be right.  But I suspect the Pharisee does know.  I suspect he knows, and is afraid to admit it, even to himself.  Especially to himself.  We are all afraid to admit that we are in need of grace.  Why?  Because we think Jesus will be horrified at how much fixing up he has to do.  In fact, maybe our worst fears about ourselves will be realized, and he will even declare us unfixable.  Jesus himself will confirm what we have always known, deep down--we are unlovable.  Unacceptable.  Even he cannot do anything with us.

But grace is not about fixing us up and making us good enough.  Grace is about accepting us as we are.  Randy spells it out for us this way:  "Through Christ's sacrifice, we are accepted before we start.  He will refine us later, yes.  But he qualifies us first."

Grace is not there in spite of the mess-ups.  Grace, as Jamie the Very Worst so beautifully puts it, is there FOR the mess-ups.

I've written in an earlier post about Henri Nouwen's claim that being God's Beloved is the core truth of our existence, and how truly possessing that knowledge will affect every relationship in our lives.  But it not only touches our relationships--it is realized in our every individual action.  The procrastination, the perfectionism.  The way we see ourselves when we look in the mirror.  Behind everything we do, we find we are carrying that aching emptiness, in the space where we should be holding tightly to the consciousness of being the Beloved.  But there is hope for us.  We can realize our true identity, if we are willing.  It can happen, and, as Jamie the Very Worst says, when it does....

"...Jesus finds me like that, leaky and late, and He scoops up the pieces and makes me new. I'll probably break again tomorrow, or in like five minutes, but He'll keep scooping, again and again, until the day I finally get it, until the day I learn that I was created to be loved. And that day, that glorious day, the angels will sing in Heaven and, by God, I. will. be. on. time."

10 Things I Wish I'd Learned Sooner

1.  Not everyone is trying to do the right thing, or even to do their best.  Sometimes people don't care, don't try, don't know any better, or actually don't mean well.

2.  While giving the benefit of the doubt is important, and so are second chances, it is vital to know the difference between the generous gift of grace and the unhealthy absence of boundaries.

3.  If you take a day off, the world won't come to an end.  Everything does not ultimately depend on how much you personally can accomplish in a prescribed amount of time.

4.  You deserve to be treated well.  And it is your responsibility to put yourself in a situation where that is going to happen.  (My dad actually told me this one when I was 19.  But it has taken me the last 24 years to really understand and begin to apply it.)

5.  There will be some people who just don't like you.  It might be you.  It might be them.  It might just be the way it happens.  Either way, you can live with it.  Everyone doesn't have to like you; you only have to live with yourself.

6.  If the weather is really bad, stay home.  Nowhere you have to go is that important.

7.  Sometimes, you'll know that you have done the right thing, and you will be the only one who thinks so.  That's OK.

8.  Sometimes, you'll think that you have done the right thing, but you will have screwed up royally.  That's OK too.  This is what grace is for.  There is no prize for always having done the right thing.

9.  Sometimes, you'll have done everything right, and things will still go horribly wrong anyway.  Doing the right thing is not a promise of any particular outcome.

10.  When you're eating mixed nuts, don't pick out all those brazil nuts that you hate and eat them first.  Still pick them out--make no mistake.  But when you've found them all, go throw them away.  You hate those.

I Like To Think of Jesus

As the holiday season rolls around, I know we all have special thoughts and memories that we call to mind each year.  Many are probably the traditional practices and messages of Christmas, or the family experiences and personal memories that each of us holds individually dear.  But for me at Christmastime, each year as the season approaches, my mind becomes occupied with one simple, obvious thing.  That's right, you guessed it--it's Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. 

While I'm aware that Talladega Nights is not specifically a Christmas movie, I can't go through a Christmas season without thinking of it constantly, and for very good reason.  If you've seen the movie, you know that one of the funniest themes throughout (especially in the end credits) is a bit where the characters all talk about how they think of Jesus.  Some are really ridiculous ("I like to think of Jesus as a mischievous badger."), some actually more philosophical ("I like to think of Jesus as a dirty old bum...but then I say, wait a minute, there's something--I don't know--special about this guy."), but the one most present in the movie itself is Ricky's insistence on thinking of Jesus as a tiny baby in the manger.  While other characters and family members try to point out that Jesus actually didn't remain a baby forever--"Jesus was a man!  He had a beard!"--Ricky insists that he likes the tiny baby Jesus best.  Friends and family can pray to whatever Jesus they like, he informs them, but he will stick with the cute little baby Jesus in the manger--"little 8-pound 6-ounce baby Jesus, don't even know a word yet."

And as all the world around us celebrates this season of Christ's birth, how true, I think.  Everyone loves that tiny little baby Jesus in the manger, the one who can't even speak a word yet.  That little baby Jesus is so easy to love, to celebrate, sort of like a precious little Christmas mascot.  A Christmas tradition of childhood.  What a great team he and Santa make, that cute little baby Jesus.

The inconvenient truth, of course, is that the little baby did grow up.  He learned some words.  He said some things.  They were not as warm and fuzzy.  They required something of us, something more than feeling good and buying ourselves a bunch more stuff.  He asked us to do the unthinkable.  To love others in a way that denies ourselves.  To love him above all else.  To put aside everything and follow him only, fully, truly.  Turns out we would rather he hadn't learned to talk.  And so, we have followed in Ricky Bobby's footsteps, celebrating him only at Christmastime.  Pray to whatever Jesus you want, worship whatever Jesus you like, the rest of the time.  We like the tiny little baby Jesus best.

But ignoring the grown-up Jesus, unfortunately, while it may keep us more comfortable in the short term, also means missing out on anything that little baby in the manger might have to offer.  Because the coming of that tiny baby Jesus is worthless, meaningless, hopeless, without the mission of his adulthood, the reason that he came.  All the joy, peace, and love that the baby Jesus has come to signify in the Christmas season are only possible because of the acts of sacrifice and redemption that are to follow.  I wrote in my earlier post about God's Plan B that Christmas was always coming, but it was so much more than Christmas--the manger has always existed in the shadow of the cross.  That is the only place it makes sense.  The coming of that tiny baby was not simply to give us God's message of love and peace on earth--we already had that memo.  That's why those who see him as a prophet or teacher or some other kind of heavenly messenger have missed the mark.  We cannot help ourselves by simply receiving the message.  This fallen people will never follow the instructions well enough to piece together the shattered fragments of our broken world.  Messiah, not messenger, was the only solution.

In his letter to the Corinthians, Paul tells us that if that grown-up Jesus did not die, was not raised from the dead, that our faith is worthless; "if we have hoped in Christ in this life only," he says, "we are of all men most to be pitied."  Only through death and resurrection can this Jesus become our sacrificial substitute, can he redeem his own creation, can he defeat all that works against our good, even that last enemy, the enemy death itself.  And when this happens, says Paul, just as we have all been asked to die to ourselves, we will all be made alive in Christ.  "O Death, where is thy victory?  O Death, where is thy sting?"  This is not the work of a tiny baby, no matter how special.  This is the work of a knowing, willing, and loving Jesus, the man Jesus, the one with a beard.

So think of Jesus, if you like, as that tiny baby.  Cute little baby Jesus, there in the manger, "in his little golden diaper."  Heck, think of him as a figure skater in a white jumpsuit, who does interpretive ice dances of your life story.  If you stop at the manger, it really makes no difference--the figure skater is just as meaningful.  But I like to think of Jesus as a man.  A man who bears the image of heaven, who abolishes every evil and enemy, a man with all rule and authority and power, a man who sacrifices all to bring redemption and resurrection.  A man who is the very God of heaven.  That's my Jesus.  Take your pick.