Healing a Broken Heart

"He heals the broken-hearted, and bandages their wounds." Psalm 147:3 

A Promise.

Several years ago I had an experience that broke my heart. It doesn’t matter what at this point—I didn’t expect it, and the shock of it certainly added to my hurt. I write this as encouragement to others, so hang on a minute. Literally years I thought that piercing pain would never fade; almost physical pain. My heart understood, almost more than at any other time I can remember, what it feels to break.

I’ve had a literal broken heart before which the doctor fixed up fairly easily with a stent; 40 years ago a young man broke off our engagement after he met a young woman from Mississippi with long blonde hair; I’ve had the usual of life’s other bumps and bruises. This, though, differed, and I kept waiting for others involved to mend the situation—or, at least WANT to resolve it--which never happened, or for time to resolve the state of affairs some way.

And waited.

Almost harder for me, I wanted to follow the teachings of my faith and forgive others, not let this seemingly inconceivable situation make me act in an Unchristian way. I wanted to say, “Never mind; it’s all right.”

Well.

I failed miserably at that. I know the teachings, and I thought I did well not to slap the several people who said to me, “You know you have to forgive.”

“Yes,” I replied, “I know. And I do forgive—I will myself to forgive. But, I cannot make myself feel forgiveness, and I just cannot make myself want to be reconciled. But, I do forgive.

Really.”

Some mornings I woke up and, literally, could not catch my breath. I always made myself get up, though, afraid if I didn’t I might, someday, just mold and never move again. Of course, I knew that not to be true; but it felt that way.

                                                                                                                         

I cried on the way to work; frequently found quiet, lone places during the day and wept, afraid to be found by others, then picking up myself by my proverbial bootstraps and trudging on. Once I realized that others involved truly had no intention of changing anything, knowing my value to people I loved had seemingly fallen below things of truly lesser value, I fell even lower, sadder, these folks who meant so much to me.

But reciprocal love is not required.

Though I did not do well with my faith’s teachings, I did remember some basic teachings of Christ:  “But I say to you, love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who spitefully use you and persecute you,” (Matthew 5:44). And, so, in desperation I prayed, “Got bless This One and That One, Her and Her” (of course, I used their names). After a few. . . hundred times, I even found myself meaning it.

I don’t know how much change those simple prayers, said from despair and need, made--for me or for them. As much as I could, though, I clung to that verse from Matthew’s Gospel. “I can’t feel that forgiveness; but I do mean the prayer,” was as far as I got most days—for a long time.  On my trip to Israel  few years ago, I put my hand on that Western Wall—one of the holiest sites on the planet—and prayed for those whose very names still wounded me, until that little Jewish school girl shoved her way past who she felt, I’m sure, was the invading American at ‘her’ spot in the wall, and pried my hand away. I also prayed for my family, of course, for friends. But deeply and sincerely I prayed, “Bless This One and. . . .”

I started, just a little, to heal, tried to find joy in other places, played with dogs, rode horses, worked, did find new friends, but the energy to fight my way through the sadness each day, to grieve the loss of these people I so loved drained my reserves. It got better, but, man, I gotta say, well, not fun. And, I prayed, “Bless This One and. . . .”

One night, as I listened to a Bible teacher on youtube, I heard her read this verse, “The LORD is near to the brokenhearted And saves those who are crushed in spirit.” (Psalm 34:18).

I don’t remember the context, the topic of her talk, what came before or after, but I felt the world stop for a second, and I latched onto that verse with both hands and all my heart. “The LORD is near to the brokenhearted. . . . He is near to the brokenhearted. . . . He is near. . . He is near…..”

Of course it is part of a longer Psalm. But, I wept as I looked at those words. Even this morning I heard a minister talking about another topic, in another portion of Scripture altogether, saying, “The promises in the Old Testament are for those times, but they also can apply to us now in our situations.” Of course, he said it better. What I know is my sad, broken heart warmed a bit, and again tears started, this time for healing. This is the beauty and miracle and power of Scripture; God’s Word still speaks, and I found an anchor in the sea of loss and aimlessness in which I had slogged for some years. I’m not positive if you look in your Bible, you won’t see little curved, fingernail-shaped indentations in the verse from me hanging on so hard to that verse. He is near. . . it doesn’t say He is near if we are brokenhearted over bad things we have done. It doesn’t say He is near if we are heartbroken over spiritual things, or if none of what has broken our hears is our fault (which is good as about 99 percent of the time I have caused my own difficulties) or if we are handling it well (I assure you, I. did. not). It says, “He is near. . . “ and the requirement? Brokenhearted.

We often hear stories of conversions of people in prison or people who have gone through horrific situations “finding God.” Well, maybe it is in those difficult, lost times we turn, just a bit, and find ourselves running into Him, near.

But, isn’t he always near? Oh, I think so. We just get so content and sure of our own lack of need that we don’t look for Him maybe. But, get our heart broken? Find ourselves alone? Feeling lost? No idea what to do? We turn—and run into the Father who loves us.

“He is near. .. . . .”

For quite awhile, I just clung to it, believing, because to not believe it led back to the darkness of those beginning days of loss. I started to take tentative steps out of my rather insular existence, found a church again, continued to seek counsel, found again friends from years ago with whom I had studied Scripture, and, being me, continually found—and sought—comfort from my four-legged friends, even lost some of the weight with which I had kept the world at bay.

This past year, I realized, I do forgive, even though I still don’t feel it much. And I said to God, “If you want me to do more, You have to change me; I cannot do what I cannot do.” All relationships are not healed, but vast steps have been taken; I have talked with those folks, and asked forgiveness for my part. I do not know if ever here we will be the friends we were—I do not know that I even want that. Or, for that matter, if they do. But, I know it is better, and, sometimes, I even handle things okay. I still do not handle all things well; but I know He is near to us all.

And, this past summer as I did a Bible study with my friends from those years ago, another verse spoke from the pages of the Book as we studied it. In Joel, a small, “minor” prophet in the Old Testament, after the priests of Israel pray to God for mercy after a time of locusts eating all their crops. God answers them by saying, among other things, “Then I will make up to you for the years the locust has eaten, The creeping locust, and the stripping locust, and the gnawing locust . . . “ (Joel 2:25)--actually, is the verse on which the teaching was that I heard this morning (though he said it all with a Scots accent, which made it even better). In that Bible study last summer, I read this verse and felt the same warmth in my heart—no longer so broken that it takes my breath, still sad at the loss, but able to wake with the day and look forward to the good—that I felt on hearing that beloved verse from the Psalms so many months before. Other translations say “I will restore to you the years.” Either way—make up to you or restore to you—what hopeful words. Those literal years are, of course, over. The past few years are gone; the starting of this new decade, though, have already begun with more hope and, well, fun than I thought I might ever have again in surprising situations.

I have reached the time in life where much more life follows me than leads ahead; if time crawls in youth, it flies as the years pass. As much as I truly wanted to fight my way out of that difficult time and again see light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, I could not even seem to crawl up to the lip of the tunnel, or find even a dim glow at the end once I started moving forward at all. But, God is a God of miracles; I am so very grateful for the healing I have experienced, even as slow as it felt, at least it has come.

This morning as I listened to the minister, about whom I have never heard, talk about this beautiful promise in Joel, he said two things I hold. The priests prayed, “Spare Your people, O LORD.” Bringing that verse to our New Testament Covenant times, we pray “Spare us” because Christ chose not to be spared, but, as we celebrate in this Season of Giving, wrapped Himself in the flesh of an infant and visited us so that He could sacrifice Himself and make mercy our gift.

And, then, after promising to restore years, God continues in verse 27 to say that, “ Thus you will know that I am in the midst of Israel, And that I am the Lord your God, And there is no other; And My people will never be put to shame.” We cannot get back those specific years we lost; but, God, the Great Alchemist, can take the remaining years and pack into them more—more abundance than we lost, more love than we lost, and, He says here, more knowledge and communion with Him.

It was a tough few years. But, then, who doesn’t have difficult years? I had hoped by this time in life those kinds of heartaches would not show up; well. . . . But, this I know:  I, who have done this life of faith so poorly for so much of my life, had the gift—truly a gift—of just enough faith to pray, “Bless them.” And God, Who looks to find any smidgen of faith we show so He can bless it, so He can count it as righteousness (Romans 4), took my cracked, sad heart and worked the restoring that only He can; He used the too-rare times I was in Scripture to share His message with me; and I see Him restoring to me years with joy and hope not just in the situation where I so felt shattered, but spilling over into all of life.

He is near; He restores.

He has promised. If I, who so poorly follow and practice the tenants of this faith, can find such reality as to see it so plainly, I know for sure it is available to us all. We can just open the Book and start to see.

Frayed Value

The knitting/crochet/fiber arts community (lest I get chided before I even start, I know some combine all forms of thread work in “fiber arts;” I am trying to include it all) is frayed now. The leading site for patterns—some free, but many, MANY designers have sold their work there and, according to some sources, become wealthy—for particularly knitting and crochet work put out a statement a few weeks ago that no patterns in support of President Trump or any hint of that kind of thought would be allowed on their site because, obviously, he, his administration, and everyone who supports or voted for him are racist bigots, intolerant of some protected classes of people, and that site will have no part of it. This site WILL be inclusive of ALL people, but if you voted for Trump, obviously, you are a horrible person and ARE NOT WELCOME.

We include everyone—unless we don’t.

If you think I exaggerate, you would be incorrect. At first, the rallying cry “Stand with ______!” (the name of the site) echoed across the Internet. However, that got pulled when someone understood that some people cannot stand—handicapped people are, after all, a protected class. So, now it is “I Support _____!” I officially belong to that handicapped group of people—and the inability to stand—just stand— for very long on my damaged foot is difficult for me; I take strong meds each day to be able to be mobile. I am better than previously, but, still.  They removed a pattern that said “God is Love” as hate speech, but all Trump bashing, profanity included, is apparently allowed.

I have laughed some at this—Madame Defarge from A Tale of Two Cities comes to mind, sitting, knitting into a garment of some kind the names of her enemies. Facebook groups for the refugees of this site have sprung up like mushrooms in a humid spring. Yet, even now, some designers have, literally, given up their source of income because they will not lie and say they believe all their conservative friends are racist, homophobic bigots. Web designers are working on creating sites to allow the selling and posting of patterns for some vendors no longer allowed on the original place. Even people who think Trump is NOT GOOD will not stay on the site because, well, the tossing out of my peeps—even my conservative peeps—is the tossing out of me. That’s a brave thing to do when your income is impacted.

Knitters.  Crocheters  Fabric Arts.

Unbelievable.

I saw a moving quote the other day that I researched and found to be from an ancient Greek poet and playwright. The quote is “And even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.”

In the context where I heard it, it reflects the death of a character. In my research, I learned the translator put a bit of a spin to bring it into the Christian tradition, because, of course, in the 400-plus years before Christ when Aeschylus wrote the play “Agamemnon” from which the quote comes Christianity wasn’t around, certainly not in Greece where they worshiped multiple Gods with multiple purposes.

When running for President, Robert Kennedy quoted this passage when he spoke to a crowd in Indianapolis, foregoing his planned campaign event to tell them Martin Luther King had been killed. He then continued, “What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence and lawlessness, but is love, and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our country, whether they be white or whether they be black.” I would continue whatever protected class is being impacted.

Of course, immediately what someone shouts is, “But Trump voters are not good people and don't want all that.”

And, for the most part, that is incorrect. It’s just wrong. I can’t tell you the number of people who have said to me, upon learning I lean towards conservative thought, “But you seem so NICE.” Generally—not always, but, generally—I AM nice. So are 99.9% of all conservative people I know.

So are 99.9% of the liberal people I know. I also know it is possible to be friends—good, close, loving friends with people who are 180 degrees away from you politically. I know that because I am close friends with many—and married to one, mother to another. It can get interesting, but we manage.

In the administration before Trump was elected, all eight years of it, about half the country—people of all races, genders, orientations, all of it—disliked much of what happened. There were some bad things that happened because of that disagreement, but that’s where the.1% comes in—on both sides. However, what most of us did was work, vote, work, talk with each other, pray, work, vote, elect a majority of state legislatures, worry—we did worry—and the “demonstrations of the Tea Party” make what happens now look very tame. 

What I know is, even more than TALKING at each other, we need to LISTEN and try to learn. It is truly possible to discuss policy and take personalities out of it. Coming from Arkansas, I had strong views about Hillary Clinton. Even throwing those views out, I disagree with her policies—and disagreed with most of what she and Bill did in Arkansas. I lean conservative, and I vote with those who seem to make mostly conservative choices; however, that doesn't mean I think people who want other views evil.

And, please, God, we have got to stop calling each other Nazis. Nazi soldiers threw Jewish babies in the air for target practice to see how many times they could hit them before they hit the ground—just for sport. I could list other atrocities, but, Dear God, that’s enough. No Americans are doing that. Some hide their faces to keep from being held accountable for their actions—shame on them. But no Americans are Nazis like Hitler’s Germany.

And, so, I grieve for one of the communities of fiber arts where people have always been so helpful and so kind. The owners of this newly-exclusive web site still have millions of subscribers. They do own the site, so they can do what they want. However, in their effort to make everyone feel welcome, they have proven their lack of tolerance. NO ONE I know of wants to support racism, sexism, homophobic acts or thoughts, any other “ism." Most people—most people—most of the time are doing the best they can to live life well and truly everyone I know would stand against the hateful policies of which we are accused by those people to whom we contributed some of our hard-earned money in order to get, well, patterns and yarn. Think of that. YARN. In this world of “gotcha” moments, why is it so hard to say, “We’ll have to agree to disagree.”

I confess I have never before been afraid to talk in public places about my political views, even when a movie was made with George Bush’s head on spikes. That was reprehensible, but I didn’t feel like someone might come at me. I’m not sure now, such is the animus towards Trump voters.  It makes me sad.

We ARE a diverse country; different shouldn’t automatically be a value judgment. I admire Richard Grenell immensely; he is the openly gay Ambassador to Germany. I have admired him for years; he is one of the most conservative public figures out there. We don't agree on everything, but, hey, I don't agree with most of my conservative friends on everything. Because he is on the “wrong” side of the political aisle, the gay community gives Ambassador Grenell a difficult time. Conservative African-Americans get treated horribly. “Protected” only applies, frequently, to the “right kind” of protected class.

We need to listen to each other; we then need to respectfully respond to each other.

It’s possible.

It can be done and done without sacrificing our principles. Those other people? Those ones who say, “I am right, and you have no right to your principles and beliefs?” Let them be the “others.” Don’t let them be the voices that rule. Jesus consorted with sinners. He gave them the gospel. He might not make a community with them—or he might in some instances. But he didn’t expect Rome, the ruling party, to decide who he could or could not be with. He also expected, as much as possible, laws to be obeyed.  "Render unto Caesar. . . ."

Some things cannot be compromised; some principles are worth fighting for.  But, “pick your battles” can serve us all well, truly. Let’s pick battles that make life worthwhile for us all and don’t besmirch good people who are trying to live by their own values that don’t hurt anyone. Then, go work, vote, work, vote, pray if you do, for the leaders of government, for political and personal enemies, work. Eventually in this American experiment, the pendulum always swings—or it always has in the 40+ years I’ve voted.

Otherwise, the wisdom we learn may come from acts that seem that “awful grace of God” that brings the grief that hurts us all. Myself, I’d rather learn easier lessons for awhile--like falling on a pile of yarn. 

Risen: Easter Sunday

In Israel there is some question about the location of Jesus’ Crucifixion and then His burial--a couple of options, mainly because no searchers on either that first Sunday morning 2000+ years ago or since can find a body in either of them.

And in that detail rests the basis of Christianity through the ages.

Though we often overlook the place of women in Jesus' ministry, it matters that women mattered in His ministry so much. And on that Sunday morning, God chose a woman, Mary Magdalene, to first see a tomb empty, and to run to tell the men.

I love the scene in John's gospel where Peter and John react after Mary's news--John, younger, Peter, so desperately heartbroken after his betrayal of Christ during the various trials the few days before, both race to the tomb to see for themselves what Mary could mean. In his gospel, John never says his own name or uses the word, "I." He cannot help himself, though, and as they near the tomb, he has to let us know, "The two were running together; and the other disciple ran ahead faster than Peter and came to the tomb first;" (John 20:4). Two thousand years later, we know, "I ran faster than Peter; I got there first." Peter did, however, enter the tomb before the younger man, whether John feared what he might find or deferred from respect, we don't really know. First or last, the tomb held only the clothes of a dead man—the body was gone.

Soon after, the Gospels tell us, the risen Jesus appeared to Mary Magdalene, she who first announced the news of the Resurrection, then to His Disciples, then to many others. Apparently, Mary grabbed Him, so overcome with joy was she at the sight of her resurrected Lord, her grief replaced with that elation that she must have thought, “You died once, now that You’re here again, I want to be sure You stay!” Gently, He removed her. For some reason, this resurrected body could not be clung to, no matter her happiness. But, no matter her inappropriate reaction, it was to Mary He first showed Himself.

And when she first saw him, the name Mary first called Him that morning, this Lord whom she had followed and served those years of His time here: "Rabboni!" in Hebrew, “Teacher.”  Until Jesus, women could not learn the spiritual lessons He taught. So precious was the teaching they learned, their most beloved title for Him, the one that flowed unprompted from the women's hearts, was Teacher. I have taught school for almost 43 years; those scenes move me every time. Teacher.

The Teacher, whose lessons still resound around the world, lived again, as He had taught them, as, now, some remembered Him teaching, and as His close followers taught to the next followers who taught the next who taught the next. . . . following the Teacher.

The tomb--well, both of the possible ones I know about in that beloved, tiny country--even now contains no bodies. This is the glory and the hope of Christianity. Right away, of course, the conspiracy started, the "cover-up," if you will, with church leaders bribing soldiers to say that unarmed disciples had snuck past heavily armed Roman soldiers--who could be put to death for shirking their duty--while those soldiers, well, slept and shirked their duty and the disciples supposedly snuck that body away. Of course, the Priests promised, we'll make it right with your bosses. So, they spread that story, and, according to Matthew (himself one of the disciples) the story continued “to this day.”

I guess he'd know.

But, for Mary Magdalene and Peter and John and Matthew, all those other folks who SAW Jesus alive after He was dead, those people who themselves died horrific, unspeakable deaths for refusing to say He is not now alive, knowing the truth of that statement, therefore dying either as fools or martyrs, those disciples who started life as pragmatic, blue-collar workers, many fishermen, one a fierce tax collector, women who lived as second class, who could not speak or learn before Jesus elevated their status, those men and women who wanted to overthrow the hated Roman government, but who ended life declaring the man they first thought would bring freedom from Rome but who they died declaring He had brought freedom from death. . . .those men and women and the women and men to whom they have told the Resurrection Sunday story throughout the ages and who tell it now

for them—for us--

the Tomb is empty.

He is Risen.

And if that is not true, then Christianity doesn’t matter.

But, if it is, then it matters more than anything.

Happy Easter, my friends.

Gone: Holy Saturday

Saturday.

Remember that time when you felt the world end? Remember your heart cracking and shattering and feeling you might not be able to get up in the morning? Remember your own, personal season of betrayal and heartache and loss? Remember the long, long day when you wanted just to not see anyone, to not hear from those who thought they won how glorious their victory?

Remember such a day as that?

Jerusalem

On that Saturday after the Crucifixion, how must the followers of Jesus have felt?

He was gone. No more a Savior to deliver Israel from Rome to oust the hated invaders from their holy homeland. . . . no more a Healer when illness struck and they had no where else to go. . . no more a Provider of meals for thousands from crumbs and food pittances. . . no more their Friend who laughed at a wedding, who called to Himself small children for their protection, “do not hinder (the children) from coming to Me; for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these;” no more the Son who loved the mother who raised Him, who truly knew His birth story, no more crowds calling out praises, no more quiet times on the beach or the water fishing, no more. . . no more. . . no more.

Gone.

He had told them; told them that one of them would betray him, and what they thought was, “Not me! Not me!” then missed his naming of the traitor, “What you do, do quickly;” oh, how must Jesus’ own heart have splintered as Judas rose and left the room, though more, surely, as His friend betrayed Him in the garden with the kiss of friendship, a lie and a regret; He gently chided them as they asked to reign beside Him, never aware at the cost of their request; He prayed for them as He left them, “I ask on their behalf;” He warned Peter, that big fisherman, of that very own disciple’s betrayal to come, “A rooster will not crow before you deny me three times;” they heard Him beg His Father for another way, “if it is possible, let this cup pass. . . if it is possible.”

All of that after three years of ups and downs, miracles and magnificent scenes, the crowd’s “Hallelujahs!!” changed to a mob’s “Crucify Him!”

Gone.

Not just the Redeemer. Not just the Leader. Not just the Teacher. . . . .

their Friend.

How exhausted they must have been after the start of Thursday night with a large Passover meal, then Friday morning, a surprise arrest, multiple illegal trials, fear for their own safety, their own betrayals and backstabbings, and, finally, His death.

He had told them to wait; He had told them His death was not the end; He had told them.

As we so often do, they heard their desires and not His Truths.

But, who could believe such as that? Rome—all-powerful, all-cruel Rome—had taken their Hope and killed it, literally, figuratively, in all the ways Hope can die.

Jerusalem Rooftop

And they hunkered down in Jerusalem, unable to leave town on the Sabbath, unable to understand the enormity of their loss, unable to think past the day, and remembered Jesus,

now gone.

Until: Good Friday

They called him “The Teacher,” a term of endearment that moves me every time I see or hear it about Him.

Until. . .

Jesus, Who Scripture tells us was there at the start of the Earth, Who lived a life of perfect holiness, Who never acted from wrong motive or deceit, about Whom Christians believe the entirety of the Bible tells, Jesus, the Son, one-third of the Godhead, Whose first described miracle is to relieve embarrassment for a host at a wedding, Who brought to life the dead son of a widow even at the boy’s funeral in that land where having no man to care for her left women bereft in ways we cannot understand, Who told stories of leaving a group of comfortable, safe sheep to go and find the one frightened, lost, lonely lamb, Who could, even on that last minute, have called to His Father and had legions of angels come for rescue, angels who no doubt looked from the heavens, yearning to be released and end the treatment of Jesus in such despicable fashion, Jesus, who wept at the tomb of His friend just before calling that friend out of a tomb, THAT Jesus lifted the crossbar of the cross on which He would die, having been beaten and battered, torn and bloody, and firmly, willingly, from love and eternal purpose set His face to a hill outside the city of Jerusalem, step by step until He fell from the physical toll of it, and a passerby helped him carry the load to that Place of the Skull. . .

where He was crucified, a death so horrible that those who knew it was coming fought and tried to flee, begged and cried, had to be held by the soldiers as the large nails came pounding down into the flesh of human beings, then a cross lifted and dropped with the thud! of the hitting of the bottom of the hole, more flesh torn, more agony, trying to breathe in a completely unnatural position. . . . and he hung above the world.

He offered forgiveness and grace to a criminal at His side, looked with love at His friends below, made sure His mother had a home and care for the rest of her earthly life, endured for three dark hours, a darkness the world shared, separation for the only time of eternity, separation from the Father with Whom He shares that Godhead, so dear, so loved (“My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?”), He asked that same Father in Heaven who so loved Him, co-sacrificer at that unspeakable time, to forgive the ones so treating Him this way, watched those below gamble for the robe that Pilate had placed on Him and, sooner than might have happened, blessedly, crying out, “It is finished!”

And He died.

The Earth quaked.

The curtain in the Temple split.

A Roman centurion who saw the whole thing said, “Surely, He was the Son of God.”

His friends hastily retrieved His body, to get it from that despised cross before the Sabbath started and they would have had to leave Him there for three days. They tended that broken, beloved body, placed Him in a tomb of wealth, a position He never knew while living a man’s life on Earth.

A large, thousands-of-pounds stone rolled in front of the opening of the grave, then Roman guards were placed to keep any made-up story about His coming back to life from happening. After all, those scallywags who had walked with this Man, who could know what stunt they might pull?

His dispirited disciples went home, Peter lamenting his denial of Jesus during those mock trials, unable to believe his failures.

Judas hung himself, his guilt and grief finding no comfort anywhere.

Pilate slept—or didn’t, as his wife’s admonitions no doubt played over and over in his head. “Have nothing to do with that righteous Man; I have suffered greatly in a dream. . . Have nothing to do with that righteous Man, I have suffered. . . . Have nothing to do. . . . Have nothing.”

The religious leaders celebrated, all their wishes won.

The world slept.

In that whole day, I think no one called Him, “Teacher.”

The Teacher: Holy Thursday

Holy Thursday.

On this day, Jesus sent disciples into Jerusalem to find a setting for their Passover meal, to follow a man with water, to find the owner of the house that man entered, and to say to the owner, "The Teacher needs to have Passover here," or close to that. The house owner had a large upper room ready for them.

The Teacher. That title always moves me; Christ, the miracle worker, the healer, the multiplier of food, the fisherman, the carpenter, and so, so much more. But, here, he Himself, and elsewhere others who follow Him, use that beloved title "The Teacher." Here at the last meal He would have with them, right before teaching them some of the most important lessons they would need as He, their Leader and Friend, their Hope and their Purpose, knelt before them and washed the dust from those sandy, soiled roads of that Holy Land so they would be clean before they ate, and all the teachings and messages shown there, He called Himself, "Teacher."

Teachers instruct. Teachers show. Teachers plan. Teachers live public lives in front of students. Teachers prepare lessons and prepare students. Good teachers frequently involve themselves with students, love students, defend or reprimand students. Jesus did all of that and more.

If asked, "What do you teach," rather than list parables or laws, He may well have said, "I teach men and women, boys and girls. The LESSONS I teach are about living and giving and parables, etc. But I teach the people in front of me who see me each day."

"The Teacher says. . . ."

Jesus came, and throughout His life, living each day to the full, living it "abundantly," still set His face like flint always towards these final days in Jerusalem. And in this, the last full day of His life, he taught.

As a teacher, that title for Jesus always moves me deeply.

"The Teacher says. . . "

That phrase got an unknown house owner to give over his prepared Passover room to The Teacher and His Disciples for that Last Supper where He continued to teach even after one of His closest friends left the meal to go betray Him until, the hour finally came, and He led them out to the Garden of Gethsemane, prayed for His Father, if possible, for a way out, then turned, willingly, towards His eternal, sacrificial purpose. And even there, He taught.

After which, of course, came Friday. And Saturday.

And Sunday.

With The Teacher. . .

Dr. Luke's Knowledge

              In the Christmas season, we think of the baby born to Mary with Joseph, His Earthly foster father caring so lovingly for the infant and His mother. The Gospel writer Luke explains the details unlike any of the other three Gospels, those beloved verses so familiar to Christians and even non-Christians this time of year, the very ones the Charlie Brown characters recited in “A Charlie Brown Christmas” for so long, and still do, I suppose, when allowed.

              Where did Luke get those details? Matthew also tells of the Virgin Birth, that doctrine so essential to Christianity, but the birth story appears only in Luke’s lovely Gospel narrative. To people for whom Bible details are kind of merely suggestions, sources really don’t matter. But, to those of us who believe Mary gave birth to God’s Son by the immaculate conception, Luke’s knowledge of that fact, his details of the place of birth, of Mary and Joseph’s journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem, are important elements to consider, to ponder.

              As is, how might he have learned these aspects of this beloved story?

              We cannot know for sure, of course, while we inhabit this planet. Someday we’ll know. And, truth be told, there are some people who tell us that to try to figure out parts of the Bible stories that are not in that Holy Book makes less the mystery or the holiness of it—that it is an error to do so. I believe they are wrong. At times as I consider those people in the situations described, I will find myself realizing a truth I have missed after a lifetime of Bible exposure; it is not anything I have done except be there in the Word. Our God is a very efficient God—He will no doubt say, “Well, finally there she is back again. Better hit her over the head with a realization since she spends so little time where she should. BAM!”

              How much do I miss by not just opening this Book a few minutes?

              But, I do not feel condemnation….. just the welcome of a loving Father. When my own son contacts me, I am so happy to spend time with him.

Like that.

              So, where might Luke have heard these stories of Mary and Joseph’s start of life together?

              Well, perhaps to know the beginning, we might look at the end, as I heard a minister suggest once.

              A couple of summers ago I saw the hill on which they crucified Jesus and two criminals beside him, there outside Jerusalem. Time and the elements have worn away much of that hill that made the skeleton face so powerfully clear; even fifty years ago, the skull showed itself more plainly in photographs of that area. As Jesus hung on the cross, the Gospel of John tells us that his beloved mother, along with her sister and Mary Magdalene, somehow watched, standing there as he hung dying. With them stood the Apostle John, the youngest disciple, the writer of the fourth Gospel.

          

    Jesus looked from his mother to John and said, “Woman, behold, your son!” He looked at John, “Behold, your mother!” And then, the Gospel tells us, “From that hour the disciple took her into his own household,” (see John 19:25b-27). Could it be that Dr. Luke, who begins his Gospel account telling Tehophilus, a friend? a relative?,  how carefully he investigated  the “things accomplished among us” had, as Mary lived with John, gone to John’s house and talked to Mary herself, hearing from her the story of that young girl visited by an angel, her subsequent visit to her cousin, Elisabeth, of an uncomfortable ride aboard a donkey to Bethlehem, giving birth in a stable and placing her baby in the feeding trough, of the worship of shepherds and the visitation of Wise Men, fleeing to Egypt, all that happened to raise the boy Jesus, those many events she “treasured in her heart,” still so clear in her memory, even after He died for the world's recompense and rose for the world's reconciliation?

              Maybe.

              Maybe not.

              But, I like to think of Dr. Luke sitting with Mary in John’s house hearing the stories, writing down detailed notes for the account he wanted to write, perhaps Mary being one of the eyewitness as he described his sources, so careful to get his account correct.

              Cynics scoff at Scripture, saying, "No proof!" or, "Oh, the copies of Gospels are too far from the original sources." That's not true, really; and recent archaeological findings in Israel show Old Testament stories true in ways thought to be previously impossible.  Scholars much smarter than I am can argue those facts and findings—and have.

              I just love to read the stories, then ponder them myself—what a good word, “ponder.”

              Perhaps Luke got his details from Mary; perhaps not.

              Wherever he learned those particulars, the Christmas season is a time to consider the young girl, heavy with her pregnancy, clutching the back of a gentle donkey, her fiancé trying to find a place to give her rest, finding room only with the animals (which might well have been my first choice), and the birth of God’s Son in humble beginnings. The wonder of that birth caused a split in the heavens and the angels, unable to contain themselves, sang praise to God's Son, the Logos, John calls Him, willing to make Himself so frail and vulnerable for . . . . us. The wonder of it pulled from the Heavenly inhabitants praise they could no longer shield from Earthly beings. God the Father, Himself, no doubt did not try to hold them back any longer, if He ever had. Praise for the marvel of the miracle rocked Heaven and Earth together for those glorious moments!

Maybe--years later--His mother shared her memories with a gentile doctor who politely asked, and who, then, shared them in the Gospel that, better than any other, tells the story in a timeline manner; first this happened, then this, then this..... What better source for those early, tumultuous, incredible years than Mary, Jesus' cherished mother, who treasured in her heart the memorable and mundane days of Her Son. And then, if Luke came calling, researching for truth about the history of Jesus, seeking for facts from those who knew Him best, perhaps she willingly and joyfully shared those memories with Luke--and with us.
Maybe.
 How much poorer we ourselves would be without the knowing.