Grace

When I was 18, I met Craig Sayle and we became fast friends. Craig viewed God differently than anyone I'd ever met. On the subject of grace, Craig explained that salvation wasn't about me, but about Jesus' sacrifice on my behalf. I responded with something like "yeah, when I was lost and didn't deserve His love, He loved me anyway." Craig said "you don't deserve it now, Jason...but He loves you anyway. The only difference is that you've accepted His gift...but you're still undeserving of it. THAT is the beginning of grace."

In the years since, I've seen God's grace demonstrated in more ways than I can count. As my understanding of grace has become clearer, it's become more evident that it's not about me. I am beginning to understand Paul's plea that he decrease and Christ increase in his life. 

If not for the reality of grace, I have no hope. If not for the evidence of grace, I have no peace. If not for the presence of grace,  I have no purpose. Without the example of grace, I don't have the capacity to love.

In short, there's one thing I'm sure of: without grace, I have nothing. If I don't extend grace to others, I cheapen the reality of the grace in which I survive. Unless I share grace, I take for granted the very grace that allows me to take my next breath. 

Life in the reality of absolute grace is a learning, and humbling process. I wish I was farther along than I am.

Who is God?

Over the last few months, a number of conversations have caused me to think on the question of God's identity.

God isn't holy, He is the definition of holiness. God doesn't love, He is perfect love. God doesn't have a sense of justice, He is justice. God doesn't act mercifully, He is mercy. God isn't gracious, He is the essence of grace. God doesn't hold eternity, He is eternal. He is all these things and more, all intricately tied together. One cannot talk about God's justice without considering His love. One cannot consider His love without also considering his holiness at the same time. He is always everything that He is. His love does not come to us without holiness, mercy, justice, and grace. God defined Himself to Moses...I Am. If we try to define Him differently than that, then we leave some part of His character out of the picture.

We try so hard to understand God...to conjure ideas and words that describe Him. The main problem with that is that we humans are finite beings and cannot fully comprehend He who is infinite. Because of that, we try to put human characteristics onto God, and that leads to some horribly wrong conclusions. Recently, I heard "How can a loving God willingly send His children to hell? I love my children, and no matter how much they disappointed me, I would never cast them into eternal darkness, to be eaten by worms and burned with an eternal fire." The problem with that question and statement is that the person asking tried to put them self on the same level as God, either by elevating them self, or demoting God. God is beyond our understanding because He is infinite and we are finite. All we know is what we can measure. God, on the other hand, is immeasurable. being measureless, we cannot comprehend Him fully...thus the need for faith.

I'll use "time" as an example of this. God exists in the eternal present tense. He always has been and always will be. That is impossible for us to grasp because everything we know is based on time. Our clock starts ticking when we are born, and it counts down until we die. Our life is measured in years. Years are measured in months. Months are measured in days. Our days are measured in hours. Hours are measured in minutes. Minutes are measured in seconds. That is all we know. God, on the other hand, doesn't operate in time. He created time, but it holds no meaning for Him. If I could get a physicist to explain quantum mechanics to you, in a way you could understand, until you put quantum mechanics into practice in your life, it would hold no real meaning for you. God is the same way where time is considered. He understands it (because He created it), but because He doesn't operate in it, time is meaningless to Him.

Below is an illustration I came up with that shows this more clearly than I could describe. There is a dot above a line. The line has an X at either end. The X on the left represents "creation" while the X on the right represents "judgement day." God is represented by the red asterisk.



Everything that mankind understands and experiences falls somewhere on that line; past, present, and future. God, in the eternal present tense, doesn't experience a past, present, or future. In eternity, creation and judgement can be viewed as simultaneous events.


If that is a mind-boggling concept, then consider that everything about God is equally difficult to grasp. If He is who He claims to be, then logically we cannot expect to fully understand His nature on this side of eternity. "Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known."


God isn't afraid of our questions. We can ask anything, but He is not obligated to tell us everything we want to know. God is God, and we are not. He is omnipotent and we know less than we think.

Identity

I'm Jason, the son of Mike and Ginger; grandson of Boot and Catherine, John and Mozelle. I'm Christy's husband. I'm Kaylee's daddy. I'm Elisha's daddy. I'm Katie and Lindsay's brother. I'm uncle to Emma, Ellie, Kendall, and Josh.

I'm a friend to some, acquaintance to others, and unknown to most. I'm a customer and a provider. Some would call me "proud" and "arrogant," while others would say I'm "humble" and "too self-critical." I'm a church member and a committee member.

Some call me a cynic, others say I'm honest. I'm caustic and abrasive to some, while quiet and shy to others. Some people think I'm wise, others consider me a fool. I'm known as a malcontent and a visionary. I've been called "cold" and "tender hearted."

So, what is this...a personal inventory? Not really. It's about who I am, really.

When I was young, I saw tendencies in myself that I did not like. I'm critical by nature, and rarely focused on positive things that were part of my personality. I determined, around the age of 12, that I would not allow the negative tendencies to rule my life. The older I got, the more those tendencies would make their way to the surface...and I hated that about myself. Whether I gave in to those tendencies or not, I saw them as weaknesses that I should overcome...to the point where they never reared their ugly heads. There was a constant battle in me to NOT be defined by those things that I hated. It seemed the more I fought them, the worse they got. Now, before anyone starts wondering, I'm not talking about "sin" per se. I'm talking about character traits...personality issues...attitudes. All of those things can lead to sin...but sin is not the subject here.

In my youth, the concept (and reality) of Grace was essentially non-existent. "Grace" was a buzz-word; a punchline. I didn't understand it, and I suspect that very few in my life did either. I knew what grace meant..."unmerited favor"...every good baptist knows that. The problem was that beyond those words..."unmerited favor"...grace meant nothing to me. I knew I'd been saved by grace through faith...but nobody took the time to try to explain it to me. Probably because nobody in my life understood it.

As I've grown to understand grace...mostly by it's evidence in my life...I've come to grips with the fact that if God can love me, knowing me better than I know myself, then I am a fool not to try to see me as He sees me. I was created in His likeness...we all were. Think about that for a second. As different as we all are...as unique as the billions upon billions who've ever walked the Earth...we are ALL created in His likeness. God delights in His creation...and I believe He delights in the diversity of it, specifically. If He'd wanted us all to be alike, He could have used a cookie-cutter and just stamped us out. Nobody would ever have a personality conflict, a difference of opinion, or an argument. He chose to make us unique, yet all of us made like Him. It took a long time for me to like myself...knowing me as well as I do. It took longer for me to really accept me for me...the good, the bad, and the ugly. God made me, just as I am...and He loves me for being me. He delights in ME being ME!

Those who know me well understand that I don't care much what people think of me. My integrity is important, and one of the greatest needs in my life is to be able to look myself in the mirror. Many years ago, I found it difficult to do so because I was living my life to please others...to be what some folks "expected" me to be. I'd tried for SO long to live up to the picture of me that others wanted to see. Those people I respected most...those I wanted to please...they had an idea about who I was supposed to be (because they loved me and wanted the best for me), and I tried to live up to that as a standard. I failed MISERABLY and was, in turn, miserable myself because I wasn't being true to who God had created me to be. When I broke those chains...that bondage to the expectations of others...I was truly free. Free to be me, just as God made me.

I am who I am...and you don't have to like it...but God does...and every day I'm less concerned with what others think or expect. God expects me to be the best Jason I can be. Most days, I fail...but life's much easier with a goal of being all the Jason I can be, and not worrying about other things. When I live to please God, and not man, I fully experience the freedom that His grace provides. 

Are you striving to be the best _______ you can be or are you more concerned about how others see you? Are you striving to live as the image of God you were created as, or the image someone else says you should be?

By the way, I'm pretty sure that I am everything i listed above...and much more.

the good + the bad + the ugly = Jason, just as God made me.

Fatherhood

I cannot deny the joy my girls bring to me daily. There are times, however, when things just aren't very joyful.

Every Wednesday, I take off a half-day to watch my daughters so that my mother-in-law can cook the dinner served at the church. I'm thankful to be in the flexible position that allows me to do this. Our afternoons together are usually uneventful by most people's standards. Today has not been what I'd call "uneventful". I guess some background would be in order before I get to today.

Some may see me as tough or rough. Someone referred to me as "manly." I suppose those terms could be appropriate in a physical context. What most people don't realize is that I have an extremely weak stomach when it comes to smells and can nearly lose my mind when dealing with my 2 year old's brand of logic. Show me anything, it won't bother me...but let me get a whiff of something nasty and things can get bad very quickly. As a matter of fact, I have thrown up on each of my daughters while changing nasty diapers. I hope that doesn't scar them for life. Get Kaylee talking about why she should be allowed to do something, or trying to match wits with her daddy in some other way, and I become a complete moron.

Today, I'd been home for maybe 15 mintues and had just finished lunch when my mom-in-law left for the church. Kaylee and Elisha came upstairs with me and I thought we'd just play until time for naps. They were watching "Max and Ruby" and playing quietly, so I went to my bedroom. Seriously, not more than 3 minutes had passed before I thought "it's too quiet" and went back to look in on them. Elisha is walking down the hall toward me, fingers in her mouth, and something just didn't look right. As we got closer to each other, I could see green around her mouth. I wondered what she was chewing on, but then I noticed her hands were green also. 2 more steps down the hall and I could see Kaylee standing in a corner, smacking her hands on a shelf. 2 more steps and I see the puddle of green paint Kaylee's playing in. My reaction was a natural one. I said "Kaylee Michele! What are you doing?" My wise and honest 2 year-old said, "Painting my room." I said, "And your sister?" Kaylee replied "No daddy. Elisha's not my room. Her helping me." Elisha evidently decided to taste the paint because her lips were green, as was her tongue. She had it in her hair and splatters on her clothes. Kaylee had paint under her right eye, on both hands, and all over her clothes.

(My creative wife started painting the girls' room a few months ago. It's an elaborate concept of Noah's Ark, with animals all around. For a number of reasons, there hasn't been much progress on the room lately. My guess is that Kaylee and Elisha decided to help Mommy out.)

There is green paint in the carpet of their room. There are little green footprints leaving the room and entering the hall. There are little green handprints in a number of places, from their room to the hall to the bathroom. Daddy's not good at giving baths, and neither Kaylee nor Elisha was excited at the prospect of a daytime bath without Mommy. Normally, they both love bath time. Not today.

After the bath, Daddy needed a break and declared it "nap time." Elisha shook her head vigorously and kept saying "no." Kaylee informed me that Elisha wasn't tired, so nobody needed a nap. More often than not, I know better than to argue or debate with a 2 year old. Not today. Well, within 10 minutes, Elisha was sleeping soundly, so I took her to her bed. Kaylee wasn't where I left her, so I called out for her. She was under my bed. She said she'd take a nap IF she could sleep under the bed. Any good daddy knows that request was out of the question. I told her people don't sleep under beds and that she needed to lay down on my bed and get ready for a nap. Reluctantly, she crawled out and climbed up onto the bed.

The conversation went something like this. Kaylee: "I need sleep under my bed." Daddy: "No Kaylee. We sleep on beds, not under them." Kaylee: "Daddy, I need to." Daddy: "Why do you need to?" Kaylee: "Because I need to." Daddy: "But why do you need to?" Kaylee: "I need to." Daddy: "Why?" Kaylee: "I love you, Daddy." Daddy: "I love you too, but that's not answering my question." Kaylee: "I need sleep under my bed." There were some tears mixed in (hers, not mine), but this repeated for at least 10 minutes.

Knowing her stubbornness (although I have NO idea where it could come from), I told her she could sleep on the floor with her feet under her bed. So, I spread her blanket on the floor. She said "Thank you, Daddy" and laid down and was asleep within 30 seconds.

Feeling rather stupid and defeated, I started scrubbing the carpet in the hall to erase the footprints.

I can't wait for Christy to get home and do her mommy-thing so easily.

Lesson 8,944: don't argue with a 2 year old. (evidently, I haven't learned this one yet and am forced to repeat it over and over.)
Lesson 47,641: nothing is outside the reach of a determined 2 year old, no matter how little she is and how far "up" something has been placed.

More funeral thoughts

Attending a recent funeral made me think of my uncle’s funeral nearly 2 years ago.

Ricky was, for lack of a better term, a rounder. From dictionary.com, a rounder is described as: “a dissolute person, usually a man who is morally unrestrained.” Yeah, that was my uncle. He lived his life for him. He didn’t love anyone or anything more than himself, except possibly, cocaine. His pall-bearers wore NASCAR shirts. I may have been the only person, other than the funeral directors, who wore a tie. They played some odd songs, ending with one about “I’m the last rebel; I'm a loner; Nobody loves or understands me” or something to that effect. It was surreal that even in death, he tried to play the victim role. He wanted sympathy and attention, even in the plans he laid out for his own funeral.

I hadn’t talked to him for a number of years before he killed himself. Ricky did call a family member on Easter Sunday a year before he died. He told the family member that he was in the final stage of cancer and was about to die. By all accounts, that was a lie. My guess is, based on his history, that it was a ploy to get sympathy or money. A long-time friend of his found what ultimately was his suicide note, his goodbye to the world. Tim loved Ricky like a brother, despite all the mess he had to go through to remain friends. Tim told me about the note...and that while it didn't expressly say he was going to kill himself, it eluded to that fact. It wasn’t a traditional suicide…no overdose or gunshot. He drove into an 18-wheeler at a high rate of speed, probably drunk or high, and got decapitated. That ended a life full of opportunities missed.

At his “visitation” and funeral, I saw some family members I’d not seen since my grandmother’s funeral in ’97. Attending were a great aunt (the “matriarch” of the family), a great uncle (the spitting image of my grandfather), and a host of 2nd cousins and their spouses. There were a number of stories being told, most I’d heard before. I found it funny how time changes a person’s memory though. Some of the stories being told, I’d actually witnessed. Other stories, I’d heard from my mom, my grandmother, or Ricky himself.

My great aunt, sister to my grandfather, was telling versions of stories I’d never heard before. Oh, I’d heard the stories…just not her version of them. She told everyone how my grandmother “never wanted Ricky.” I, of course, hold a different view of reality. My grandmother had a difficult pregnancy with my mother. Difficult pregnancies in 1950 weren’t anything to take lightly. My grandmother was not excited when she found out she was pregnant again 3 years later. That, all these years later, turned into her not wanting him.

My aunt also said Ricky was mistreated, abused, and never loved. This could not be further from the truth. Ricky was a problem from the time he was very young. His wild nature could not be controlled, no matter what my grandparents tried. He stayed in trouble all throughout his childhood. I suppose my grandparents’ inability to control him fueled the “mistreated” view. As far as abuse is concerned, I heard the story she referred to from my mom, my grandmother, and Ricky himself. When he was 14 or 15, he took a loaded gun to school because he was being picked on. We’re talking about 1967 or ’68. He got caught and was promptly expelled. When my grandfather got home from work, he got the full story and went to confront Ricky, and to find out why it happened. Ricky got defensive and, during the confrontation, hit my grandfather. My grandfather told him that if he tried that again, he’d better be man enough to deal with the consequences. Ricky took another swing and my grandfather “beat the stew out of him” (my grandmother’s words). That was the only time he was ever “abused.”

As far as love goes, I cannot begin to list the ways our family tried to show him love. I can’t count the times my grandmother paid for him to go to rehab. I can’t remember the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th “chances” he got from me alone…much less everyone else. In my grandmother’s will, money was set aside for the express purpose of paying for his funeral. She was wise enough to know that he’d die alone and penniless. She bought him a plot in the cemetery, a casket, and paid for it all. Had he been unloved, she wouldn’t have had the forethought to do that for him. I wanted to ask my aunt whom she thought was paying for that funeral and set her straight, but I kept my mouth shut.

My aunt told a story of my grandmother’s “refusal” to buy him a plane ticket home from California when my mom died. The truth is that she DID buy him a plane ticket. As a matter of fact, I drove her to the travel agency to purchase it. He turned it in for cash and bought drugs with the money. I think he showed us how much he loved my mom with his actions. Again, I kept my mouth shut.

I also wanted to tell other stories…stories that could not paint Ricky as a victim. He chose his life and lived it on his terms. I wanted to remind them that he joined the Navy out of high school to prevent himself from going to jail. I wanted to explain how he spent most of his time in the Navy in the Brig. I wanted to remind them of his 2 failed marriages and 3 children with whom he had no relationship. I thought they needed to know about how he bragged about his $1000 per day cocaine habit in the early 80’s. I wanted to explain to everyone that after he roughed-up my great-grandmother for drug money in the summer of 1991, I went looking for him. If I’d found him that day, we’d have had his funeral many years earlier and I’d have been in jail. I wanted to tell them about his moving back home to “take care of” my grandmother when she was sick with cancer. He hadn’t been back 24 hours when he started taking things out of the house and pawning them or selling them outright for drug money. I wanted them to know that after the settling of my grandmother’s estate, that he sold her car before the ink was dry on his signing the title. He bought cocaine with the money. He was not shy about admitting when he used drugs, and told me regularly. There are many other stories I could have told. Wisely, I kept my mouth shut.

So, what is my point? Am I just bashing my uncle? That is not my intent. I loved Ricky. Until I was old enough to realize what he really was, there was nobody I’d rather have spent time with. This is just my therapy. It’s my way to get things out. My grandparents were good people. They were far from perfect, but they did their best with Ricky. He chose his life. He chose rebellion. He chose self-destruction. There was nothing my grandparents could have done to prevent it. My grandmother prayed for him multiple times every day until she died. He was constantly exposed to the truth. He chose to live in hell when he was alive. A lot of people who loved him were singed by his flames. I hope that somewhere in his life, he got things right with God. I hope that the hell he lived on earth was not a fore-taste of his eternity.

Mother's day thoughts

Today is Mother’s Day. Today, like every other day, I’m thinking about my mom.

She died after a 2 year battle with cancer in 1995. Mom was a sweet lady. She was one of the most human people I ever met. In the last couple of years of her life, she lost her pretense. She realized that so much of her life was wasted on trying to live up to expectations she put on herself. She’d also tended to project other people’s expectations onto her life. Weakness and faults weren’t “supposed” to be shown in the life of a Christian. You had to play the game, and play it well, in order to impress others and maintain status in the church. In those last couple of years, she allowed her insecurities to show. She was self-conscious about her weight. She worried that she was insignificant to those she loved. The week before she died, she told me her greatest fear was that she’d be forgotten after she was gone. She told me how much she regretted that she’d miss meeting my wife, seeing me get married, and getting to hold her grand children. I cannot go a day without looking at my daughters and hating the fact that they’ll never know Grandma Ginger. I can tell them stories, but that’s 2nd hand knowledge. It’s not good enough for me. Sometimes, I get frustrated about it. I still don’t understand why God had to take her at only 45. It doesn’t seem fair to me, but I am projecting my limited view of fairness onto God…and that’s just wrong. He knows what He is doing, always. I have to trust in that.

I miss my mom. I still, nearly 13 years after her death, cry for her from time to time. Ok, so maybe I cry for me missing her. I think about my girls not having her love showered on them. I think about my nieces and nephew never knowing her and it makes me sad. I think of how my sisters have had to grow into womanhood with out her influence, since they were 18 and 15 when she died.

These last 13 years have been long without Mom being around. Every day, I look forward to seeing her again in Heaven.

A few years ago, John Tesh cut a song with Dalia singing lead called “Mother, I Miss You.” The chorus expresses how I feel more eloquently than I could begin to say it.

“Mother I miss you. Nights I just wish you were here with me so we can laugh and talk again. Mother I miss you, but I’ll just kiss you and send it on the wind. ‘Cause you know I plan to see you again.”

Also, it was on Mother's day 2 years ago that we brought Kaylee home from her stint in the NICU. She was so tiny.

This week

I went to a funeral earlier this week. The wife of a friend/co-worker was killed in a car accident. She was only 39 with 2 teen-age children and 1 grandchild. The tragedy of the situation of someone dying so young was tremendous. My friend truly married his best friend and he is beyond distraught. Just seeing the physical toll on him was heartbreaking, the emotional scars not-withstanding.

They live in a small town; a close-knit community. There were many family members at the funeral, along with a good number of friends and acquaintances. I believe my friend will ultimately be ok because his family and friends have truly rallied around him. They will give him the support he needs. They will encourage him. They will also kick him in the rear when he needs it.

They played a number of country songs, including “This One’s For the Girls” and “I Hope You Dance.” One of her sisters came up and read the obituary straight out of the newspaper. Then, the minister stepped to the podium. He explained that he was from a Baptist church in the small town where she grew up. He mentioned that he hadn’t seen her in nearly 20 years, but he remembered her as a “vibrant child and teen, very full of life.” He then went on to talk about the person she’d become (from her sisters’ descriptions); how she tried to encourage people to take advantage of the moment, and how she wanted people to get the most out of life. He didn’t say much about her beyond that, but he didn’t really know her. I mean, at her own funeral, the person who said the most, didn’t even know her. He couldn’t reflect on personal memories to even give people a good word-picture of whom she really was. I’d never met my friend’s wife, and even at her funeral, I could not learn anything substantial about her. That made me sad. I know, of course, some things I’d picked up from my friend, but even those things weren’t really of any substance. After nearly 40 years of life, nobody stood to say anything on her behalf. The preacher did his best to encourage the family to band together and take care of each other. He read from the “standard” funeral Biblical passages (John 14:1-3 & Ecclesiastes 3:1-8). He talked briefly about God’s love, His comfort, and how He will never leave or forsake us. It was an impossible position for him: to eulogize someone with whom he had no relationship. I felt bad for the preacher…but that’s not the point, and I digress, as I am prone to do.

In reality, I wasn’t there for her. I was there to support my friend. I was there out of respect for his pain and heartache. I wasn’t there because she meant anything to me personally. Again, I’d never met her.

In my 35 years, I’ve been to a lot of funerals. Most were somber affairs, while others included wailing and screaming. A couple of them were truly “going home” celebrations where God’s presence was tangible; where hearts and lives were changed.

The funeral of my friend’s wife was one of the saddest I’ve attended. It begged the question in me: “What are people going to say at your funeral?” That led to another question: “What do you want people to remember about your funeral?”

The 2nd question is a little more difficult. It comes from the fact that years from now, I doubt I’ll remember much about my friend’s wife’s funeral other than the music, the fact that nobody from her family stood up and said anything about her, and the overwhelming sense of hopelessness in that small funeral home chapel. When the last song played for your memory is “Free Bird”, what does that really say?

This is not a cultural issue. It is not an issue of education or ignorance. I think it is totally about a spiritual vacuum. I am not trying to judge a dead woman’s life…because I never met her. I have nothing but a funeral to use for a basis for judgment, and that is not fair. It’s not a spiritual indictment of her, my friend, or their family and friends.

Ultimately, it made me more sad and amplified the tragedy of the entire situation.