The Scarlet Letter in Blood

Condemned.

She never even saw them coming. But suddenly they were upon her, wrenching her up from behind as her shriek filled the air. “Silence, you shameful harlot!” the religious men bellowed at her. Their insults they threw at her like stones, and as she parted the veil of hair across her face, she shuddered—the deepest, most sinister hatred ever seen blackened their eyes. Her shriek caught in her throat, but her tears poured freely from her eyes as the men, arrogant in their righteous indignation, hauled her to her feet and dragged her through the streets. Sandaled feet scurried out of the way, anxious to avoid contact with such a woman. Children sucking thumbs gazed unblinking at the spectacle before them until their mothers rushed up and herded them far, far away to air untainted by such a sinner. Bearded men stood stoically along the road, nodding their heads in alliance with the woman’s accusers, and watching until she was out of sight. A public spectacle of shame—it had no meaning for a woman who was about to be a public spectacle of death, and her tears flooded her sallow cheeks unheeded. Her breath came fast and shallow, and she closed her eyes to steady the horizon that dipped and churned before her.

Suddenly, she heard the murmuring of hundreds of people, and through her tangle of hair she could see the crowd parting. Her accusers dragged her with a final ferocity, and threw her down to the floor of the temple; she caught herself with her hands. “Teacher!” she heard the men say, their voices ringing with self-assuredness. “This woman was caught in adultery, in the very act. Now Moses, in the law, commanded us that such should be stoned. But what do you say? (John 8:4-5)” The crowd erupted in vociferous horror and indignation, and the room echoed with their exclamations, but noise dimmed in the woman’s ears, for she stole a glance upward at the One who was called upon to decide her fate. Her eyes met His, and her heart wrenched within her at what she saw in His beautiful eyes: love.

Condoned.

A beautiful, richly blessed life. A loving, committed husband. This woman, however, is strangely unsatisfied, and desperately miserable. Nothing makes her feel good anymore, nothing in her existence is worth doing, and life seems but a burden. Confusion abounds.  So she simply walks out. She leaves her husband amidst his pleadings to work on their marriage, turning a deaf ear to it all, for she must work on herself. She finds satisfaction in another man, and then another. Finally, she is living the life she wants, the life she had only dreamed of before, and she is stuffing her inner emptiness with food. And then, in a moment to remember, she meets a religious man in India, and as she stands before him and he tells her she must forgive herself, she finally feels—as empty as before.

But the audience of this latest Hollywood offering Eat, Pray, Love (which I have not seen, only researched) is told that now she is fulfilled. The audience gets up off of their popcorn littered seats cheering for this woman who had the courage to fulfill her own selfish desires in utter disregard for God and those around her. But when the theater is empty and the cameras are gone, Liz Gilbert, whose sad story was glorified for this movie, will feel just as empty as before. She will still feel “sad, brittle, and about seven thousand years old.”

The woman in John 8 faced brutal death and condemnation; Liz Gilbert faces suffocating life and commendation. The woman of Scripture was dragged before all the people, her oldest friends, and her family in deepest shame; Liz is flaunted on the red carpet. The adulterous woman was empty, broken, and helpless; Liz is empty, but very proud of her sin. The condemnation broke the woman of John 8, and the commendation will break Liz, too. Though our society does not drag people to the town square to stone them for adultery, they might as well when they glorify sin, making a public spectacle of its supposed nobleness—the result is just the same. The one brings physical death, but the other brings spiritual.  I don’t know Liz, but I do know that without Christ she is still the same woman she was before her quest for self-fulfillment, except that now she is working desperately on forgiving herself.

But what of the one we know only as the “adulterous woman”?

We left her panting for the air that would not come, wiping her tears with a hand already wet, and meeting the eyes of the One she had never known, but who had planned this moment of meeting for her from the beginning of time. She is trapped, deserving of death, and as she looks around at the upraised arms gripping  the sharp stones, she realizes that this is the end. Max Lucado writes:

“What does Jesus do? (If you already know, pretend you don’t and feel the surprise.)

Jesus writes in the sand.

He stoops down and draws in the dirt. The same finger that engraved the commandments on Sinai’s peak and seared the warning on Belshazzar’s wall now scribbles in the courtyard floor. And as he writes, he speaks: ‘He who is without sin among you, let him throw a stone at her first.’ (v. 7).

The young look to the old. The old look in their hearts. They are the first to drop their

stones. And as they turn to leave, the young who were cocky with borrowed convictions do the same. The only sound is the thud of rocks and the shuffle of feet.

Jesus and the woman are left alone. With the jury gone, the courtroom becomes the judge’s chambers, and the woman awaits his verdict. Surely, a sermon is brewing. No doubt, he’s going to demand that I apologize. But the judge doesn’t speak. His head is down, perhaps he’s still writing in the sand. He seems surprised when he realizes that she is still there.

‘Woman, where are those accusers of yours? Has no one condemned you?’

She answers, ‘No one, Lord.’

Then Jesus says, ‘Neither do I condemn you; go and sin no more.’ (vv. 10—11).

If you have ever wondered how God reacts when you fail, frame these words and hang them on the wall. Read them. Ponder them. Drink from them. Stand below them and let them wash over your soul. Or better still, take him with you to your canyon of shame. Invite Christ to journey with you back to the [adulterous moments] of your world. Let him stand beside you as you retell the events of the darkest nights of your soul.

And then listen. Listen carefully. He’s speaking.

‘I don’t judge you guilty.’

And watch. Watch carefully. He’s writing. He’s leaving a message. Not in the sand, but on a cross.

Not with his hand, but with his blood.

His message has two words: Not guilty.”

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The Day After the Year After I Say "I Do"

I consider myself to be a fairly level-headed woman. I don’t have any illusions about marrying Josh Groban, and I don’t harbor a secret crush for Jimmy Stewart. I know guys, but I don’t chase them, flirt with them, or treat them like a girlfriend. Honestly, though, I still long for marriage as the God-created norm. Unfortunately, I don’t just long for it, however; I join the millions of other girls who have the spectacles-tinted-the-same-hue-as-the-flowers-genus-rosa syndrome: I idealize marriage.

I think about it, and pray about it, and hope for it, and prepare for it—nothing wrong with that! When I start to think that living in close quarters with another sinful human being might be as close to heaven as one can get on this earth, and when I begin to daydream about my “perfect” husband who will catch me when I faint, bring me breakfast in bed, and come home with roses every single week, and when I start to put a husband in the place only God should hold in my heart, then I have idealized marriage to the point of idolatry.

Several years ago, a dear relative of mine suddenly remembered that she had twin nephews (on her husband’s side, so no relation to us) our age who had been homeschooled and raised in a Christian home. Since then, there’s been no stopping her, and she finally managed to orchestrate an extremely awkward meeting a few months ago in which both sets of twins said a polite “hello” and then did everything in their power to avoid each other. While this lady was singing her nephews’ praises, however, her husband seemed to grow more and more uncomfortable.

Finally, as though to counteract her propensity towards matchmaking, he launched into a lecture on marriage. “I told my daughters before they got married,” he began, “that marriage can’t be about you. It’s not to fulfill you and serve you, but to fulfill and serve the other person.” The more I’ve thought about that advice over the years, the more I’ve recognized its wisdom (despite the—ahem—unique circumstances that prompted said advice).

I’ve lived under the same roof as my parents for 20 years, watching as they sanctify each other through their marriage. Sure, there’s roses, chocolate, dates, and stolen kisses. But there were also the nights where I crawled into bed with them after yet another nightmare, and the days when the whole family was sick and no one felt like doing anything, and the times when disagreements came and voices rose. Through it all, though, I’ve seen their unconditional, unwavering love for the Father, and therefore, for each other.

After seeing such a beautiful picture of a real marriage for so long, I don’t know why I struggle so to get the Hollywood perception out of my head. The two are night and day—a slice of my homemade whole grain sourdough baguette versus a mouthful of cotton candy. But each and every day, as I say to God, “Where’s my prince charming?” I already know the answer. My prince won’t always be charming, and my charmer won’t always act like a prince. He won’t fulfill me, and he won’t wait on me hand and foot. He will be a sinful man striving to be like a sinless God, holding my hand and supporting me as I hold his hand and support him along the Narrow Way. God will bring us into each other’s lives to further His sanctification in us—and that won’t always be a pleasant, delightful prospect.

When I get things in perspective—when I look to God for my fulfillment and to my future marriage as another means of increasing and glorifying the kingdom of God, I’m still just as excited for the day I say “I do,” but I’m even more ecstatic for the day after the week after the month after the year after I say “I do.”

"He must increase, but I must decrease." ~John 3:30

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"Scripture taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved."

Clicking

Girls can be mean. Or so I’ve been told. And my own experience would seem to corroborate the scientific fact that every girls carries with her the potential to be mean. There were times when I claimed a monopoly on my friends—“I’m reserving this whole row of seats around her so don’t even bother coming within five yards”--without even thinking through how much that hurt others. And there were times when the monopoly was flipped and I was suddenly nonexistant to girls who had been good friends before another girl came along. It hurt.

These days, of course, friend dilemmas are much less middle school-esque. Or maybe they’re just middle school in a college sort of way. We have logic this time around, which goes something like: “We just don’t click. That girl—she is so sweet and lovely and wonderful. Funny thing, though—we don’t click.” So we sigh “oh well” at the mysterious lack of clicking and run across the room to the girl we click noisily and jubilantly with. But what of the girl left behind?

I am not denying, but acknowledging, that there are girls you naturally hit it off with (including for me, for example, every girl who has ever read my blog :-). And I am not denying that there are those girls with whom you can chat and laugh and enjoy their company—but you simply don’t have anything in common and you are always wracking your brain for a new topic of conversation to keep the small talk going. And I am definitely not denying that if God has given you the gift of a close friend—a kindred spirit—then you should cherish that gift and value it greatly, for it is a special blessing from God. What I have realized, however, is that that is not even a shadow of an excuse for overlooking the other girls with whom you may not click.

What relevance does being a tomboy versus a girly girl or a music-lover versus a gardening whiz have on two girls who are bound by the blood of Christ? For that matter, what relevance does homeschool grad versus public school student or stay at home daughter versus working girl have on showing the love of Christ? None whatsoever!

James 2:2-6 commands us not to show partiality to the rich girl, not to flock to the side of the girl who is always well dressed with cute shoes and perfect hair, while leaving the girl who missed the memo on the fall fashion trends and couldn’t afford them even if she hadn’t with just a "Hi." So while you might not catch us being partial to the girl who drives to church in a convertible, handing out friendship in proportion to riches is definitely not all James is referring to.

James 2:8-9 says, “If you really fulfill the royal law according to the Scripture, "You shall love your neighbor as yourself," you do well; but if you show partiality, you commit sin, and are convicted by the law as transgressors.”

Any partiality--not just partiality based on riches.

Partiality based on outward appearance, partiality based on age, partiality based on interests, partiality based on convictions she has or doesn’t have, partiality based on personality, and yes, even partiality based on the aforementioned “clicking.” It’s all sin if it means not showing love to a neighbor. There is nothing wrong with the honest truth that someone may never be your best friend—the problem comes when you never even give them a chance, when you go out of your way to avoid that person. 

I have made so many mistakes in this area; so many lessons about friends and partiality I have learned the hard way. Here’s one of them: girls definitely have every potential to be mean and catty, but God created us to love and nurture regardless of common interests—to cry with each other when we are hurt, to e-mail each other just to say “I was thinking about you,” to run across the parking lot to give a hug, and to be the first to walk up to a new person and say, “Hi, I’m Lauren.” That's what the second greatest commandment is all about, and it has nothing to do with clicking with a person.  It does, however, have everything to do with the fact that you may never know how much one little action of love might mean to a person’s lonely, yearning heart, and that you may never know just how much you needed her timely encouragement and love.  And someday, as a side bonus, you may be talking to that person, hear something in the background, and wonder, "Just when did that clicking sound start?"

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Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

When you are dying—when you stand at the gate of eternity—you see things from a different perspective than when you think you may live for a long time….Every time I saw the smoke pouring from the hideous smokestacks I knew it was the last remains of some poor woman who had been with me in Ravensbruck.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

But I was not afraid. Following Betsie’s death, God’s Presence was even more real. Even though I was looking into the valley of the shadow of death, I was not afraid.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It is here that Jesus comes the closest, taking our hand, and leading us through. One week before the order came to kill all the women of my age, I was free. I still do not understand all the details of my release from Ravensbruck.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

All I know is, it was a miracle of God.

“Invictus” or “unconquered”—beautiful words put together that touched my heart and sorrowed my soul. For, in the midst of the courage, the optimism, and the determination, is complete and utter faith in man—humanism. Corrie ten Boom’s story made of simple, real sentences challenges even the most adroit reader because of the unfathomable atrocities she survives. Yet, despite the grimness and in the midst of her courage, optimism, and determination is complete and utter faith in God.

How natural, how right, it seems to say, “No matter what, I will determine my destiny! I will control my soul!” It seems positively American to whittle oneself a walking stick rather than lean on a Divine shoulder. It is habit to wake up each morning and bow to idols—ourselves—in submission. It is politically correct to hold man’s thoughts on evolution, healthy eating, homosexuality, and divorce in higher esteem than Scripture. Man fights viciously for his own rights, desires, needs, and reputation. Americans sacrifice unborn babies on the altar of their own selfish volition.

We worship ourselves. In the direst of circumstances, we look inward with faith and determination. We are humanists. “For do I now persuade men, or God? Or do I seek to please men? For if I still pleased men, I would not be a bondservant of Christ (Galatians 1:10).”

Humanism is a lie as old as time, beginning from the first temptation of the serpent who suggested that Eve could become like God. Man is not God; man is a lowly, sinful, depraved creation capable of no righteousness except through God and deserving of nothing but hell. If that sounds harsh, it is because humanism has not only infiltrated our movies, music, books, politics, and education, but also our theology and churches. We are born humanists, selfish and materialistic little deities around which the world revolves. Once God picks us up out of our filth and saves us, we are not vaccinated against humanism, though; having a Biblical worldview equires daily cleansing in the Word and daily deference to a sovereign God.

Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Humanism sounds so heroic, but what place does chance have in a Christian's life?

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,

Humanism sounds so pragmatic, but what place does fear of the future have in a Christian's life?

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Humanism sounds so beautiful, but it is a lie. Because ultimately, the strait gate will matter. At the Great White Throne, captains and masters are no match for the fate of one's soul; it is God Who will remain unconquered, and not man.

“I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that you present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service. And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God. For I say, through the grace given to me, to everyone who is among you, not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think, but to think soberly, as God has dealt to each one a measure of faith (Romans 12:1-3).”

Picture Credit
Italicized Poem: Henley, William Ernest (1888). A book of verses: Invictus. London: D. Nutt.
Quotations interspersed with "Invictus": ten Boom, Corrie. Tramp for the Lord. Pillar Books, New York, 1976.
"Scripture taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved."

Just a Station

“Wow—so you’re 20 now!”: the phrase I’ve been taking in a lot lately.

Depending on whether you’re 15 or 50, that may seem either like the transition into adulthood or the height of youth. For me, it seems like both.

I am no longer a teenager. I have purportedly entered the realm of “adulthood,” the third decade of my life. And it is strange. But the other side of the coin is that when I started to say, “Well you know, when I was little…” my great-uncle laughed uproariously. Hmm.  It’s all in your perspective, I admit; so thankfully, this week I found a new one.

I was scouring cross stitch samplers, reproductions of actual antiques, looking for a new pattern to try, and I found this one by a girl named Mary Jones.

In painstaking letters made of perfect little crosses that filled square after tiny square she stitched:

Mary Jones is my name New York is my station

Heaven is my dwelling place And Christ is my salvation

When I am dead laid in my grave and all my bones are rotten

When this you see Remember me that I be not forgotten

August 14 AD 1801 and in the 15th year of America's Independence

I was somehow struck by this Mary Jones who two hundred and nine years ago begged us not to forget her, not to ignore the impact she had on her station while she waited for her dwelling place. I don’t know how old Mary Jones was, but whether she was twenty or ten, I can hear this living heart’s cry of hers so clearly that it is almost strange to me that she now truly is dead, laid in her grave, and her bones rotten. Yet the message of her words is so vibrant that we know that even as she worked thread into linen with her earthly silver slip of a needle, her mind was on the things God was working in her on earth and for her in Heaven. Did she know that in the next millenium, girls would ponder the very same thing?

And as I pedaled my bike last week, in the midst of our 42 mile long ride, my mind did go to the same place. I was over halfway through the ride after a grueling seven hours. My legs were cramping, the sun was setting, the night was getting cold, and I had just realized that the last miles were uphill.

And then God gave me a gift: a glorious lake with seuqins of light scattered along the surface, and waters that mirrored the sky--richly pigmented of pinks and golds as the sun lowered in the horizon.

With this gift came my second wind, and I was ready for the transition, which I had heard whispered about.

A long bridge (shown in the picture on the left)loomed in the horizon—a huge uphill battle, which my family and I all fought together—together screaming in delight as we flew down the other side. But soon, even more uphills appeared, the sun had long since set, the air was cold, and darkness frowned upon us. It was then that I remembered the gift of beauty, the glimpse of Heaven that God had granted earlier, and that I thought back through the whole day.

The day had mirrored—in some small, minute way—the way my life, your life, and Mary’s are lived out. We all started carefree, racing down the path, taking breaks often, and laughing as we did so. And no, the joy never disappeared, but it deepened. And the transition did come when we faced the uphills, the deep theology discussions as we peddled side by side, and the exhaustion of moving forward without an end in sight. And there we are right now, peddling away endlessly. But Mary—she has already gone ahead to the last part—she went through the dark forests, passed the one mile marker sign, and hurtled down the unseen path, unable to glimpse even one step ahead but living in faith because that dark place was only her station. The lights that came into view soon enough were her dwelling place, and they were her joy. So as I stared at Mary’s words, looking ahead at the path that lies before me, I realized that I should take it from someone who has really been there. This earth is only my station, and turning twenty is only another step forward to my dwelling place.