Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

Jennifer Dukes Lee TellHisStory

For When You Fail to Love Well {or, More Accurately, When You Fail to Love At All}

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As a kid I was always a little afraid of the Ten Commandments. They seemed so grave, so foreboding, so be-all-and-end-all. In my mind I imagined the Ten Commandments to look a bit like tombstones, carved into great slabs of granite, hanging ominously over my head and haunting me with the threat of eternal damnation if I dared cross the line.

I understood the Ten Commandments as a form of punishment: You will do THIS and THIS and THIS…or else. I missed the point entirely. I didn’t see the laws as God intended – as a means to guide and teach me; as a ten-step program, so to speak, intended to help me live in the most kind and loving way possible.

Many years later Jesus finally set me straight when he succinctly summed up all Ten Commandments into two concise statements. “Love God with all your heart, soul and mind. And love your neighbor as yourself.”

Love, Jesus said. The aim of all Ten Commandments is to help us to love.

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I like that, don’t you? It sounds so simple, so easy: Love God, love your neighbor, the end. We don’t have to follow a whole long list of rules and laws. Those rules and laws take care of themselves if we do one thing right: if we love well.

All we have to do is love. How easy is that?

Turns out, not so easy.

If you’re anything like me, you end up loving a whole lot of other things in your life more than you love God and more than you love your neighbor.

We love our jobs. Our salaries. Our houses. Our cars. Our bodies. We love feeling important, successful, smart, pretty, witty.

And as for loving our neighbors? Yeah, we know how that goes in real-life.

We know how well we love our neighbor when he gets the promotion we desired for ourselves. We know how well we love our neighbor when we gossip behind her back. We know how well we love our neighbor when he doesn’t look like us, or think like us, or share the same political/religious/social beliefs we do.

The truth is, it’s not the law that’s flawed. It’s us. We don’t always love well. And sometimes? Sometimes we fail to love at all.

Which is why we need Jesus. Jesus came to love us and to love well for us. He didn’t come to abolish the law, but to fulfill it – to fulfill it where we fall far short.

Jesus came to fill the gap with his love, a gap left wide and gaping by us. His love completes the law utterly and completely, because Jesus himself is love.

“Don’t misunderstand why I have come. I did not come to abolish the law of Moses or the writings of the prophets. No, I came to accomplish their purpose.” (Matthew 5:17)

And don’t forget: I’d love to hear your story of the woman who has most influenced your faith journey. Would you consider blogging about her and entering your story into the #MyFaithHeroine contest? Entries must be submitted by October 22, one week from today – details here. 

How to Open Your Eyes and Really See

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As a kid my sister thought the priest was God. It was his ornate robes that misled her – his “uniform” gave him such an aura of authority and power, she assumed he was the Big Man himself.

I wasn’t much better off. While I knew enough to realize the priest wasn’t God, I still acted like he was. I was so focused on following the rules to perfection, I missed the point of faith entirely. I worshipped the law and the man in the fancy robes, and missed God.

Early on in the Book of Mark, the Pharisees — who were the ultra-religious rule-followers of the day — criticized Jesus for forgiving the sins of a paralyzed man who had come to hear him preach.

“‘Only God can forgive sins!’” the Pharisees claimed, appalled by Jesus’ bold proclamation and his gall. (Mark 2:7)

They missed the irony in their own statement, of course. They couldn’t see that it was God himself standing right before their very eyes.

The Pharisees had a very clear expectation of what God should look like and how he should act. The fact that Jesus was born in a barn in Nazareth, dressed like a wandering shepherd and kept company with the lowlifes of society simply did not jibe with their definition of God. They expected a mighty ruler, someone who established authority instead of subverting it.

The Pharisees didn’t recognize God because they expected him to look like someone else. They expected him to look more like them.

I get that. Sometimes I mock the Pharisees for their obvious flaws, but the truth is, I am a Pharisee. I miss God when he’s standing right before my very eyes. I miss God because he doesn’t look like I think he should.

I don’t see God in the man on the corner, holding a tattered cardboard sign in the sweltering heat.  But I see him easily in the people I admire and the people I want to emulate. I see God in the people I want to like me.

I don’t always see God in the person who practices faith differently than I do. But I recognize him easily in the people who sit next to me in the pew each week.

I don’t see God in the people who live by standards I consider less-than or flawed. But I recognize him in the people who seem to live exactly like I do.

Turns out, I see God in the pretty places, where everything and everyone look good and wholesome and right; where the rules are followed and standards are upheld.

I see God where I am comfortable and in the people who put me at ease.

I see God where you might expect to find him — in stained glass, in blossoms and birds and spectacular sunsets, in people who look and think just like me.

Like a Pharisee, I see God where I want to see him, not where he really is.

The beautiful truth is that God is in every place and in every person. And what the crowd exclaimed the day the paralyzed man stood up and walked home with his mat in hand is true for me and many others, too:

“We’ve never seen anything like this before!” (Mark 2:12) we exclaim in awe. Because we’ve never really opened our eyes to see.

{This post originally ran in the Lincoln Journal Star.}

Sharing with Jennifer’s Tell His Story community:

How to Be Done with Not Enough

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I recently whitened my teeth for the first time ever. And the last.

Two hours after I’d dropped the gooey, used strips into the trashcan, I was standing at the stove when a jolt of white hot pain stabbed my lower left incisor and traveled like a lit fuse along the nerve, through my nasal passage and deep into my eye socket.

Within twenty minutes, my teeth felt like the White City under Orc attack. You know the final battle scene in The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, in which hundreds of thousands of Orcs launch boulders the size of Volkswagens and flaming fire balls at the White City for what seems like six hours straight?

Yeah. My teeth felt like that.

Even the slightest wisp of air was excruciating, forcing me to speak with my mouth barely open, my lips tucked protectively over my teeth.

Rowan told me I looked like a Muppet.

I took to my bed (I realize this sounds like hypochondriacal hysteria, but I assure you, it was not), emerging only to Google “relief for teeth whitening pain” and to swallow more Ibuprofen.

The silver lining was that all those hours in bed gave me ample opportunity to think about the reasons I’d whitened my teeth in the first place. After all, until recently I’d been perfectly happy with my teeth. They were straight (five years of braces, thank you very much). I had a decent smile. All in all, not much to complain about.

Until, that is, I began to notice the teeth of everyone around me, gleaming and white-as-a-freshly-fallen-February-snow.

I eyed the teeth of the SuperSaver cashier as she smiled and handed me my receipt.

I stole stealthy glances at my hairdresser’s teeth in the mirror as she styled my hair.

I even ogled my pastor’s teeth.

The truth is, I hadn’t given my teeth a second thought until I’d begun to compare them to everyone else’s teeth.  And that, I believe, is the heart of the problem.

Comparison. It’s the reason why American women spend nearly $500 billion a year on beauty products and cosmetic procedures like Botox, tummy tucks and breast augmentation.

We yearn to look like everyone else: the movie stars and the models and even the mom next door. We see what they have – less gray, fewer wrinkles, more curves, a firmer butt, whiter teeth – and suddenly, the way we look isn’t good enough.

Not skinny enough, not grey-less enough, not smooth enough, not young enough.

After four hours in bed on a beautiful summer afternoon, I came to one simple conclusion:

I’m done.

I’m done with just one more pound lost, one more errant hair tweezed, one shade brighter, one shade whiter, a few less gray hairs and then I’ll be satisfied I swear.

I’m done with asking my husband, “Do I have wrinkles? Do I look like I’m 44? Should I color my hair? Can you see my muffin top through this shirt?”

I’m done with comparison, done with feeling less-than.

A few weeks ago I spotted two elderly ladies at the beach where I was vacationing with my family. I didn’t know anything about them – whether they were sisters or partners or best friends; whether they were longtime residents of that sleepy seaside town or first-time visitors, just there for the afternoon like me.

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I watched them for a long time. I couldn’t stop staring at their broad smiles and their lively eyes, at the way they surveyed each incoming wave, waited for the perfect one, and then flung their bodies onto their boards and rode with their toes curled all the way to shore, their faces beaming.

I stood with my feet in the cold Atlantic and watched as they rode wave after wave. I saw their aging bodies – the wrinkles, the sags, the stooped shoulders, the veined legs – but it was their faces that held me rapt.

Everything about them embodied freedom, satisfaction and joy. They were two of the most beautiful women I have ever laid eyes on in my life.

I want to be like those ladies on the beach – unashamed and alive.

I want to be like those ladies on the beach, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that I have been created fearfully and wonderfully by God. Created perfect in him.

I want to be like those ladies on the beach, free and full of life.

The day of the teeth-whitening debacle, as I recalled those two ladies on the beach, I made a new declaration. I took a good long look at the crease between my eyebrows, the streaks of grey, the less-than-perfectly white teeth, the loose skin under my arms, the callouses on the bottoms of my feet.

And then I tossed the remaining Whitestrips in the trash, and set my sights on riding a surfboard with unabashed glee.

For The Times You Say to Yourself, “I’ve Done Enough.”

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homelesscanyouhelpTwo weeks ago I rolled down my mini-van window at the exit of SuperSaver’s parking lot and handed three dollars to the man with the cardboard sign and the dilapidated back pack. When the light turned green, my son Rowan and I continued on with our Saturday morning errands. At our next stop, a different man stood at the corner of Barnes and Noble. This time I drove past without stopping.

“Why didn’t you give money to that guy?” Rowan asked from the backseat, leaning forward to meet my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Why’d you give money to the first guy and not the second guy?”

“I can’t give money to everyone, you know,” I snapped over my shoulder. “I already gave money. I’ve done enough for one day.”

“Well that sounds greedy to me,” Rowan replied. “Especially because I know you have money in your wallet.”

Although I thought of a few choice words to retort, I didn’t say anything more to Rowan. But I did fume all the way home. The reason I was so angry, of course, was that I knew he’d made a good point.

I’d considered circling back to the Barnes and Noble parking lot and handing three more crumpled bills out the window, but I’d dismissed the thought. I was busy. I had other errands to run; I didn’t have time for another homeless man.

Plus, I reasoned, it’s not like I’d done nothing. After all, I’d given to one homeless man. I’d already done enough.

I realize dispensing dollar bills on street corners may not be the most efficient outreach strategy. My point here is not to debate how to best care for our city’s homeless population,  but to illustrate another issue altogether. You see, my problem that day wasn’t my inaction, per se, but my attitude.

My “I’ve done enough” attitude was a red flag — a sign I had, as James warned, let the world’s values corrupt me.

The world tells me the man on the corner is a drunk or an addict or just plain lazy, someone not worthy of my attention, my compassion or my money.

The world tells me he’s made bad choices and deserves his lot.

The world tells me not to bother, because he’ll spend my three dollars on Jack Daniels or meth anyway.

The world tells me that if I’ve already done something, then I’m good; I’ve done “my part;” I’ve done enough.

But God tells me something radically different.

God tells me it doesn’t matter who I think is worthy of my attention, my compassion or my money. He tells me to care for those in need, period — without judgment and without assurance that the money will be spent in an appropriate way.

God tells me I don’t need to know for sure whether the homeless many will make good use of my money or not.

God tells me I am not to judge.

God tells me that those who are in need are, in fact, my problem.

God tells me to care for the needy first and myself last.

I’m sure this won’t be the last time I pass by a homeless man and look the other way, because the fact is, God’s message of compassion and self-sacrifice is difficult to follow consistently. But I also know that when I ignore his message, I allow the worst of religion — judgment and exclusivity — to overpower the best in me.

What about you? Have you ever thought to yourself, “I’ve done enough”?  

This post originally ran last month in the Lincoln Journal Star. I’m reposting it today because I can’t seem to string together a single compelling sentence these days!

Sanctuary

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Dog ownership has come with a few surprises, some good, some not-so-good.

Who knew, for instance, that dogs enjoy a rollicking roll in animal carcass? I discovered that on a walk last week when I felt a tug on the leash and glanced down to witness Josie rubbing her head in a motley pile of bones and wisps of fur. Please enlighten me on the evolutionary benefits of cozying up to a dead rodent. I’m kind of missing how all that jibes with the survival of the fittest.

Pile of smelly bones aside, Josie’s good qualities do overshadow the bad. One of the things I love most about her is that she helps me slow down to see.

Last week when we were out for her afternoon constitutional, we cut across the golf course that runs along the backside of our house. When she stopped to sniff, I noticed a concrete bench off to one side of a stand of pine trees, so I sat.

And you know what happens when you sit, even for a few minutes, right? You notice. You notice everything you’ve missed in your go-go-go life.

There were about 100 birds in that pine stand – red-breasted nuthatches, chickadees, grackles, robins, mourning doves and even a red-belly woodpecker. I couldn’t see the woodpecker, but I heard his cackle amid the chorus of other bird calls, hundreds of them tweeting and twittering from high among the branches.

I sat and listened to the birds, to the wind blowing hard like the Holy Spirit through the boughs, to the steady thrum of cars hustling up and down the boulevard across the greens. As winter’s chill seeped through the seat of my jeans, my eyes rested on the calm of March’s stripped-down landscape – bare wood, stiff grass, blue sky, the pattern of branches like a lace doily on the ground.

I’ve lived in the same house next to the same golf course for the last thirteen years, and never once have I noticed the pine stand or the concrete bench, though both are less than an eighth-mile from my front door. But last week, my dog gave me a reason to try a new route. And when I did, when I sat still for a few minutes, the sun warm on my back, the cold March wind in my hair, I realized she’d led me straight into a sacred sanctuary.