Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

sin

When Advent’s Not All Pretty and Perfect

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It begins with inappropriate words uttered over the breakfast table, followed by a discussion of those inappropriate words, followed by a retraction of the promised ice cream outing to Ivanna Cone scheduled for that evening. Then here’s the crying and the wailing and the gnashing of teeth (by both child and mother).

And the next thing I know, the nativity has been rearranged on the coffee table.

Baby Jesus sits in the very center, but instead of the tiny clay wise men and lambs and Joseph and Mary gazing down at him in a close-knit circle of adoration, Rowan has moved each of them to the far corners and edges of the table, with their backs turned to Jesus.

Every lamb, every goat, every angel is turned away from Emmanuel.

“You know, honey,” I say to Rowan when I spot the new arrangement, “even when you turn your back on Jesus, he still lives in your heart.”

No response.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe a revelation of sorts? Maybe I expected Rowan to look up at me all gracious and repentant, a flash of illumination written across his face. It’s Advent, after all. Isn’t Advent supposed to be pretty and perfect? All glittery and shiny and beautiful? A season of anticipation and awaiting and love?

But he didn’t. Rowan turned his back on me, too, and walked away.

There I was, poised to point my finger and start ranting and raving, when I caught another glimpse of those wise men and the sheep turned away from Jesus. And it hit me hard. I do it, too. I’m no different than Rowan. I turn my back on Jesus, too. I walk away from him. I can’t point my finger at Rowan without first pointing at myself.

In the end, the lesson I intended for Rowan is really meant for me. I need the reminder, too – that Jesus is Emmanuel. God with us. No matter what.

I need to remember that even when I turn my back on him, he still lives in my heart. He doesn’t abandon me. He doesn’t walk the other way.

Emmanuel.

God with us.

Amen.

 Have you ever had a revelation like that — did you ever suddenly realize that God is with you, no matter what? 

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Linking with Jennifer and Emily today:

Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: Ink on the Page

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{A belated Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday post from me this week, as I am getting accustomed to my new digs here on WordPress. The link-up will be back next week, God willing, once I figure it all out!}

Sometimes I just don’t want to hear what God has to say to me. Particularly when I know I’m in the wrong.

A couple of weeks ago I had a temper tantrum of epic proportions. I yelled and stomped and slammed, and I even intentionally dumped the paper recycling all over the kitchen floor. It was downright ugly, and later I was ashamed.

The very next morning, I opened my Bible, and among the first verses I read were these: “Don’t sin by letting anger control you.” (Ephesians 4:26)

Can I just tell you, that was NOT what I wanted to hear? I was already feeling guilty about my infantile behavior, but to hear it about it from God just made me feel worse. It somehow made it more real, like I had to own up to it.

That morning, when I read those pointed words about anger and sin, I felt a little bit like King Jehoiakim when he read Jeremiah’s prophecy about the ruin God planned to rain on Judah if the people didn’t change their ways:

“Each time Jehudi finished reading three or four columns, the king took a knife and cut off that section of the scroll. He then threw it into the fire, section by section, until the whole scroll was burned up.” (Jeremiah 36:23)

The morning I read the Ephesians verse about sin and anger, I felt a little bit like tearing out that page of the Bible, crumpling it up and throwing it into a fire. Because to see that verse in black ink on the page, I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I’d been wrong, and that I needed to repent. And that wasn’t what I wanted to hear.  

“The words of the wise are like goads,” it says in Ecclesiastes, “their collected sayings like firmly embedded nails – given by one Shepherd.” (12:11).

Do you know what a goad is? It’s a wooden pole with a sharp metal tip or nails attached to the end of it, used by shepherds to keep cattle or oxen moving — a cattle prod.

This is exactly why I need to read the bible every day: Because sometimes I need a good, hard prod. God holds me accountable. Otherwise, it’s too easy for me to brush my sins under the rug. Too easy to veer way off course and then make excuses for my bad behavior. To chalk it up to stress or exhaustion or to blame the kids or my husband. Or to pretend it didn’t happen. But the thing about the Truth is that I can’t ignore what’s right there in front of me in black and white.

It’s true, God’s word is compassionate and merciful, forgiving and hopeful, a balm to heal all wounds. But sometimes God’s word is also a good, hard prod intended to keep us moving in the right direction. Sure the prod-words hurt; sure they make us wince. But if we listen and heed, if we don’t stubbornly and arrogantly toss them away like King Jehoiakim, they have the power to transform.

 

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For the Medusa Mother Days {or, When You Need to Pray for Spiritual Growth}

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I dumped the entire contents of the paper recycling box onto the kitchen floor. On purpose. And then, with my slipper, I scattered the Best Buy flyers and the sports sections and the torn envelopes and the practice spelling tests and the flattened Cheerio and elbow macaroni boxes. By the time I was done my kitchen floor looked like the floor of a dog kennel. And then I left it all there, just like that. I walked upstairs to my bedroom and slammed the door behind me.

Suffice to say, I did not demonstrate kindness and compassion when my kids most needed it that weekend. I did not exhibit patience and strength when the situation most called for it. And I did not love God, or my neighbor, or my own family, with all my heart. Instead, I ranted, raved, complained, bemoaned, wept, slammed cabinets, scattered the recycling and all but foamed at the mouth. And then, on top of everything else, I felt guilty.

I didn’t feel any better Monday morning. In fact, I felt worse. Not only was I a Medusa mother and a deranged housewife, I was also clearly a Christian fake, preaching one thing here on Monday morning for the Hear It, Use It community, and living another way the rest of the week.

I sat on the couch with my Bible closed on my lap. What was the point, I wondered? Here I was, smack in the middle of Ephesians, close to completing my first cover-to-cover reading of the Bible, and what had I accomplished? What progress had I made? Clearly I was not transformed. Clearly I had not grown spiritually or grown in my relationship with God. Was I not, quite possibly, worse off than when I’d begun? After all, I knew more now; I knew better. Yet I was still making the same, wearisome, stupid, awful mistakes. I was still the same self-centered lunatic of a mother and wife that I’d always been.
 
I opened my Bible anyway that Monday morning, more out of habit than for any other reason. I draped the black ribbon over the leather cover, settled my glasses on my nose and began again where I’d left off a few days before, halfway through Chapter Three.

As I read the section entitled, “Paul’s prayer for spiritual growth,” I knew instantly that although he’d written it for the Ephesians long ago, the prayer was meant explicitly for me that Monday morning. In fact, when I copied the prayer into my journal, I altered the words slightly, to make it a prayer for myself.

I’ve read this prayer in my journal every morning since then, and I’m including it here today, just in case you, too, are having a Medusa mother, deranged housewife kind of day. Because, after all, there’s hope in God, through God, with God. There’s always hope.

A Prayer for Spiritual Growth (Adapted from Ephesians 3:14-21)

I pray that from Your glorious, unlimited resources, You will empower me with inner strength through Your Spirit.

I pray that You will make a home in my heart as I trust in You.

I pray that my roots will grow down into Your love and keep me strong.

I pray that I will have the power to understand how wide, how long, how high and how deep Your love is.

I pray that I will experience this love, though it is too great to understand fully, and that I will be made complete with Your fullness of life and power.

And I pray that You accomplish infinitely more in me than I even think or ask.

Glory to You, forever and forever. Amen.



With Jennifer, Emily and Duane:

 

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Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: Small Temptations, Big Consequences

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Last September I completed the Shop-Not Project: 365 days without shopping for clothes, shoes or accessories – a major challenge for this Paris Hilton protégé.

Throughout that long year I was tempted to cheat, but surprisingly, it wasn’t the big-ticket items that nearly undid me. I didn’t pine (much) after the Coach purses or the Vera Wang wedges. Instead, it was the small, seemingly innocuous temptations that threated to derail the project. In fact, I nearly destroyed nine months of not shopping with a single pair of $9.99 Target flip-flops. I shuffled around the store with those tag-bound flip-flops on my feet for a full 20 minutes before I reluctantly returned them to the rack.

The truth is, falling prey to small temptations can have big, long-lasting consequences.

Take Eve, for example. After listening to the serpent’s rationalization for eating from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, the Bible simply reports that she “was convinced.” Genesis 3:6 goes on to say this:

“She saw that the tree was beautiful and its fruit looked delicious, and she wanted the wisdom it would give her. So she took some of the fruit and ate it. Then she gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate it, too.” (NLT)

Can’t you hear Eve’s justification, her rationale for eating the fruit? “It’s just a piece of fruit; what’s the big deal? I’m only going to eat one…what could possibly happen from one piece of fruit?”

On the surface, it’s a small temptation, a small sin: simple act of disobedience. But as we well know, it was a small temptation with tremendous, eternal consequences.

Think about the minor sins we’re tempted to commit every day. Maybe it’s office gossip. Or an email flirtation. Maybe it’s fudging the numbers a tiny bit on your expense report. Or yelling at your kids. Just like Eve’s fruit, these temptations, these sins, don’t seem so dire on the surface. Yet each has the potential to lead to even greater sin and grave repercussions.

As I stood in the shoe aisle of Target with those $9.99 flip flops on my feet, I didn’t consider the potential fall-out that might result from the purchase. I wanted them, and they were easy to justify. Now, though, I can see how those plastic flip-flops may not have been such a small, silly temptation after all.  I suspect if I’d walked out of Target with those flip flops in hand, they would have made the next tempting purchase easier to justify, too.

Can you think of a small temptation you’re wrestling with right now that might lead to bigger consequences down the line?  What’s one thing you might do to resist such temptations in the future?

And before I forget…the winner of the God of All Comfort gift basket from last week’s drawing is Amanda Sakovitz! Amanda, please email me your mailing address so Donna can send you your gift!

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Welcome to the “Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday” community, a place where we share what we are hearing from God and his Word.

If you’re here for the first time, click here for more information. Please include the Hear It, Use It button (grab the code below) or a link in your post, so your readers know where to find the community if they want to join in — thank you!

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Thank you — I am so grateful that you are here!



Bad Knee, Good Soul

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The knee is bad for a while, all puffed up, like there’s a golf ball bean bag just under the skin. It doesn’t hurt. But it’s grotesque. The kids like to poke at it like a jelly fish that’s washed up on the beach and then grimace, gleefully exclaiming, “Gross!” and “Ewwwww!” while begging to touch it again. When I look down at my legs exposed in shorts, the right knee bulges, the shape of a large egg.

I know what caused it: too many of Jillian’s Shred push-ups down on my knees, girl-style, the worn Oriental carpet in my living room no match for the hardwood floors underneath.

But despite the hideousness of a goose-egg knee, I procrastinate visiting the orthopedist because I know a needle, a big needle, awaits. And I don’t like needles. They make my feet sweat and my neck turn clammy.

It’s exactly what I suspect. “We’re just going to draw out some of that fluid that’s built up in there, and then give you a nice shot of cortisone to help with the inflammation,”  the doctor says briskly, all sporty in his polo shirt and kakis. I’m reclined on the table, an absorbent cloth that looks like a mini mattress pad under my right knee. I turn my head to the wall; I don’t want to see the size of the needle.

A sharp prick; it doesn’t hurt, exactly. But my feet, and my palms, sweat nonetheless. “Try not to let it squirt out,” the nurse says softly to the doctor, a slip of gauze between her fingers, and I blanche, imagining the liquid that sat on my kneecap for the past six weeks shooting out of my leg like a geyser. Is there not a word more medical, more professional, than “squirt” I wonder to myself, hands clenched, fingers white.

I feel the syringe drawn, and I imagine the putrid liquid being syphoned from my knee. A second needle is inserted. “Here’s the cortisone now,” says the doctor, pushing the plunger. Just a second or two later, he’s applying the band-aide. We are done.

I sit up, swing my legs over the edge of the table, shake hands with the doctor, apologizing for my sticky palms. Right before the PA slides the neoprene sleeve over my leg, tight and black like a wet suit, I notice the golf ball swelling is gone.

I wish I could remove all the distasteful parts of myself like that, I think later, on the drive home from the clinic. Jealousy, greed, impatience, doubt, short-tempered yelling, pride and selfishness – a quick prick of the needle under the skin, and all my bad qualities would disappear, syphoned away, disposed into a waste bin.  Even I, with my sweaty feet and clammy neck, would take a needle for that – the chance for a clean slate, the ugly parts of me tossed away like medical detritus.

I don’t realize it right away. In fact, it takes me a day or two. But then, the knowledge hits me hard: I don’t need a needle plunged into my soul. I don’t need my sins drawn out with a syringe. Because the fact is, Jesus already did that, just for me. He took a nail clean through to absorb my flaws, my sins, my very worst parts. And because of that, because of him, I’m left not swollen and bloated and foul, but clean and new.

My body may be broken, my mind and heart may be flawed, but my soul is made pure.

{And a little reminder…if you have a quiet summer story, stop by here Friday to link it up with Graceful Summer. I’d love to read about your small, sweet moment}

With Ann, Jennifer and Emily:


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