I love reading stories. They fascinate me, some are entertaining, some are thought provoking, some inspire and encourage, some challenge me, some just make me feel good, some disturb, some disgust and some I have regretted reading. Such is the nature of stories. They have certain powers attached to them...
The Bible is full of stories. At it's center is the greatest story ever told, it tells of how much God loves us humans; imperfect, stubborn, rebellious, sinful people, who never quite manage to even return a fraction of His love back,even at our greatest. Who let Him down over and over again, who never seem to get the point, and yet He never seems of stop showering us with grace...
And then there are sub-plots in this grand story. One of my favorite ones is how God changes a person's life. You read about ordinary people doing extraordinary things. You read about extraordinary people doing ordinary things and then you get to know some people who discover that God loved them in spite of what they did...The amazing stories of these people make the Bible believable. If the Bible depicted it's heroes like myths do, it would have been nothing more than a fairy tale. some fantasy world to aspire to. Just a mere good story.
But no; Bible heroes are ordinary, imperfect and flawed people like us. They show amazing faith and courage, but the times when they messed it all up is also recorded for us, lest we doubt them being real. You read about Abraham, father of nations, doubting the God he chose to follow, you see Moses, God's friend, take matters into his own hands, a man after God's heart, David, commits adultery and murder.. Fast forward to the New Testament and you read of the disciples full of doubt and scared to death even with Jesus at their side, then there's the Apostle Paul stoning Christians to death... the list goes on and on. It's amazing how God changes lives, and how he can use any of us, all of us,in fact. He doesn't look for the perfect ones, the clean record ones or the strongest ones, he only looks for the willing ones. Those that hunger and thirst for Him....
It always fascinates me when I come to know the story of someone I know whose life got transformed by God. You cannot help being amazed when you come to know that the pastor of your church had spent most of his youth in sex, drugs, alcohol and rock n roll; the really friendly lady at the welcome desk was sexually abused as a kid and had grown up in all sorts of pain and bitterness, that guy on the stage who confessed to having lost count of how many women he had slept with, the worship leader who used to be a drug addict; though some are more dramatic then others, every person has a story.
These people are proof of what God can do with a life. When I met them, I could never have looked at them and imagined the things they say they have done. Too many people think you have to be good to be accepted by God, that somehow Christians are a bunch of clean people, who have it all together. Here's a revelation for you all, if that were the case none of us would qualify, saints would have to be dethroned. We've all messed up at one time or the other. Our stories have dark corners. That's what God's love is all about, that's why these men and women go around calling him the Saviour, that's why they all have a story to tell.
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Monday, January 31, 2011
Winter chills and snow storms
We go through life in a rush, always busy, sticking to routine, out of breath, running around from one thing to another. And then sometimes, God disrupts the schedule. He changes the lights to red, and causes us to come to a halt. The stop signs come in a variety of shapes and sizes, sometimes it's a lost job, sometimes it's sickness, sometimes it's the loss of a loved one, sometimes it's people, sometimes it's friends and family, and many a times, it's just a bad day. And occasionally God brings in nature. For me, it was Snow. And lots of it. It disrupts our daily life, brings cars and planes and people to a crippling stop. But it also changes our vision. Snow makes black things look white, the ordinary becomes beautiful, and the beautiful comes ordinary. We no longer admire the snow-covered car as beautiful, but we surely admire the trees in the back garden, that were there all along, but had never gotten our attention. The streets we cross everyday,the roads, the houses, the people, everything looks beautiful. Majestic. Sacred. Why? it's a change of lens, a different filtering of light, another perspective. Some coloured pictures look more elegant in black and white. And all stop signs are there for a purpose. They keep us safe. I thank God for the red lights He's placed in my life, (I might have ran over a lot of people without them; provided I didn't kill myself first), but sometimes I wonder wouldn't it be better if God didn't have to use a megaphone to get my attention? What if a gentle whisper was enough?
Friday, December 4, 2009
The Midnight Church
As we come to the end of another year, many people take some time out to analyse their lives. Every sensible man takes a moment, at least, to look back on what they have done, what they didn't do, what they accomplished, what they didn't, how many new year resolutions they managed to keep, what good they did , what bad etc etc. For the Christian it is a time of thankfulness, to be grateful to God, most importantly because they are still breathing, and for His faithfulness to them during the year. Sadly, we as Christians, often neglect to fully appreciate our dependence on God, not only for fulfilling our materials needs, but also for sustaining our spiritual life. We might never forget to thank for his blessing, but we do often forget to thank God for the fact that, if we are still clean in a dirty world, its because of Him, not us. Self-righteousness in the church causes terrible damage. Philip Yancey illustrated the fact very well in an article in CHRISTIANITY TODAY entitled, 'The Midnight Church'. Written back in 1983, I think nothing much has changed in the last twenty five years. Its about time we get the point, we should be looking up to Him, rather than looking down on people.
THE MIDNIGHT CHURCH
by Philip Yancey
Its members consciously lean on each other
I attended a unique "church" recently, one that exists without a denominational headquarters or paid staff and yet attracts millions of committed members. Its name is Alcoholics Anonymous. A friend had invited me during a poignant conversation in which he confessed his problem to me. I'd like you to come with me," he said, "and I think you'll get a glimpse of what the early church must have been like." When I pressed him for details, he simply smiled and said, "Come, You'll see."
At 12 o'clock on a Monday night I entered a ramshackle house that had been used for six other sessions already that day. Acrid clouds of cigarette smoke hung like tear gas in the air. I soon sensed what my friend had meant in comparing A.A. to the early church: a well-known politician and several millionaires were mixing freely with unemployed dropouts and dazed-looking-kids who wore Band Aids to cover needle marks on their arms. The group conveyed obvious warmth, and conversations tended to be intimate and intense: alcoholics can expertly cut through a facade of polite aloofness or feigned strength.
When we went around and introduced ourselves, it went like this: "Hi, I'm Tom, and I'm an alcoholic and a drug addict." Instantly everyone shouted in unison, like a Greek chorus, "Hi, Tom!" Then Tom, and each person there, shared a personal progress report on his battle with addiction. For many, these fellow members are the only prople in the world who treat them with care and respect, and even a ritual can have profound meaning.
Quaint phrases such as "One day at a time" and "You can do it" decorated the dingy walls of the room. My friend mentioned that those archaisms hint at another similarity to the early church. Most of A.A.'s received wisdom is passed down in the form of oral traditions from its founding members of more than 50 years ago. Nobody much uses A.A. 's up-to-date brochures and public relations pieces. Mainly, they rely on an old book called the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, which tells the stories of the early members' lives in stilted, almost King Jamesian prose.
A.A. owns no property, has no headquarters and no consultants and investment counselors jetting across the country. Its founders intentionally built in restrictions to kill off anything that might lead to a bureacracy. They believed their program could work only if kept to its most basic, intimate level: the relentless support of one alcoholic giving his or her life to help another. Yet A.A. has proven so effective that 250 other organizations have sprung up in deliberate mimicry of its program.
There are good historical reasons for the parallels to an early church structure: the Christian founders of A.A. included a conscious commitment to God as a mandatory part of their treatment. The night I attended, everyone in the room repeated the 12 principles, which acknowledge total dependence on God for forgiveness and strength. In the testimonial time , it was jarring at first to hear people use religious terms equally in profanity and in expressing their dependence on God - both with utter sincerity. Agnostic members often first substitute the euphemism "Higher Power," but after a while that seems inane and they revert to "God."
My friend often reflects on what he calls "the Christological question" of A.A. A deeply committed Christian, he has put his intellectual faith in abeyance while struggling with simple survival. The A.A. "church," which has none of Christianity's underlying doctrine and centrality of Christ, keeps him alive. The Christian church seems irrelevant, vapid, and gutless to him. He is not alone, for others in his group tell stories of rejection, judgment, "a guilt trip." A local church is the last place they would stand up and declare, "Hi, I'm Tom, I'm an alcoholic and a drug addict." No one would holler back, "Hi, Tom."
My friend admits he will find his way back to the church someday, and he has not abandoned the doctrine. In fact, he says A.A. has resolved for him some of the most troubling paradoxes of the faith - the free will determinism conundrum, for example: How can a person accept full responsibility for actions knowing that family background, the economy, and hormonal imbalance all contribute to to that behavior? A.A. is unequivocal: it requires every alcoholic to admit full and complete responsibility for all behavior. Rationalizations are forbidden. Or take the doctrine of original sin: It will take maybe 10 seconds to convince an A.A. member of that doctrine at which so many balk. A.A. members express the truth every time they introduce themselves. No one is ever allowed to say "I was an alcoholic."
For my friend, immersion in A.A. has meant salvation in the most literal sense. He knows that one slip could - no, will - send him to an earthly death. A.A. members have responded to his calls at 4 A.M., finding him in the eerie brightness of all-night restaurants where he has been sitting for hours at a formica table filling a notebook with the sentence, "God help me make it through the next five minutes." Now he is approaching the one-year anniversary of his last drink - an important milestone by A.A. reckoning. And yet he knows that 50 per cent of those who reach that milestone eventually fall away.
Standing inside A.A. and looking with a curious observer's eye at the local church, my friend wonders about the plinth of undergirding doctrine on which his new "church" rests. Meanwhile I stand inside the local church and looking with a curious observer's eye at A.A., wonder instead why A.A. met his needs when the local church did not. He had attended a progressive church that offered a similar climate to that found in A.A. There too, millionaires mixed with dropouts and members offered acceptance, not judgment. Why was it not enough ? I asked him to name the one quality missing in the local church that was somehow provided by A.A. He stared at his cup of coffee for a long time. Then he said softly one word: dependency.
"None of us can make it on our own - isn't that why Jesus came?" he explained. "Yet most church people give off a self-satisfied air of piety or superiority. I don't sense them consciously leaning on God or each other. An alcoholic who goes to church feels inferior and incomplete."
He sat in silence for a while; then a smile began to crease his face. "It's a funny thing," he said at last.-"What I hate most about myself, my alcoholism, was the one thing God used to bring me back to him. Because of it, I know I can't survive without him. Maybe God is calling us alcoholics to teach the saints what it means to be dependent on him and his community on earth."
THE MIDNIGHT CHURCH
by Philip Yancey
Its members consciously lean on each other
I attended a unique "church" recently, one that exists without a denominational headquarters or paid staff and yet attracts millions of committed members. Its name is Alcoholics Anonymous. A friend had invited me during a poignant conversation in which he confessed his problem to me. I'd like you to come with me," he said, "and I think you'll get a glimpse of what the early church must have been like." When I pressed him for details, he simply smiled and said, "Come, You'll see."
At 12 o'clock on a Monday night I entered a ramshackle house that had been used for six other sessions already that day. Acrid clouds of cigarette smoke hung like tear gas in the air. I soon sensed what my friend had meant in comparing A.A. to the early church: a well-known politician and several millionaires were mixing freely with unemployed dropouts and dazed-looking-kids who wore Band Aids to cover needle marks on their arms. The group conveyed obvious warmth, and conversations tended to be intimate and intense: alcoholics can expertly cut through a facade of polite aloofness or feigned strength.
When we went around and introduced ourselves, it went like this: "Hi, I'm Tom, and I'm an alcoholic and a drug addict." Instantly everyone shouted in unison, like a Greek chorus, "Hi, Tom!" Then Tom, and each person there, shared a personal progress report on his battle with addiction. For many, these fellow members are the only prople in the world who treat them with care and respect, and even a ritual can have profound meaning.
Quaint phrases such as "One day at a time" and "You can do it" decorated the dingy walls of the room. My friend mentioned that those archaisms hint at another similarity to the early church. Most of A.A.'s received wisdom is passed down in the form of oral traditions from its founding members of more than 50 years ago. Nobody much uses A.A. 's up-to-date brochures and public relations pieces. Mainly, they rely on an old book called the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, which tells the stories of the early members' lives in stilted, almost King Jamesian prose.
A.A. owns no property, has no headquarters and no consultants and investment counselors jetting across the country. Its founders intentionally built in restrictions to kill off anything that might lead to a bureacracy. They believed their program could work only if kept to its most basic, intimate level: the relentless support of one alcoholic giving his or her life to help another. Yet A.A. has proven so effective that 250 other organizations have sprung up in deliberate mimicry of its program.
There are good historical reasons for the parallels to an early church structure: the Christian founders of A.A. included a conscious commitment to God as a mandatory part of their treatment. The night I attended, everyone in the room repeated the 12 principles, which acknowledge total dependence on God for forgiveness and strength. In the testimonial time , it was jarring at first to hear people use religious terms equally in profanity and in expressing their dependence on God - both with utter sincerity. Agnostic members often first substitute the euphemism "Higher Power," but after a while that seems inane and they revert to "God."
My friend often reflects on what he calls "the Christological question" of A.A. A deeply committed Christian, he has put his intellectual faith in abeyance while struggling with simple survival. The A.A. "church," which has none of Christianity's underlying doctrine and centrality of Christ, keeps him alive. The Christian church seems irrelevant, vapid, and gutless to him. He is not alone, for others in his group tell stories of rejection, judgment, "a guilt trip." A local church is the last place they would stand up and declare, "Hi, I'm Tom, I'm an alcoholic and a drug addict." No one would holler back, "Hi, Tom."
My friend admits he will find his way back to the church someday, and he has not abandoned the doctrine. In fact, he says A.A. has resolved for him some of the most troubling paradoxes of the faith - the free will determinism conundrum, for example: How can a person accept full responsibility for actions knowing that family background, the economy, and hormonal imbalance all contribute to to that behavior? A.A. is unequivocal: it requires every alcoholic to admit full and complete responsibility for all behavior. Rationalizations are forbidden. Or take the doctrine of original sin: It will take maybe 10 seconds to convince an A.A. member of that doctrine at which so many balk. A.A. members express the truth every time they introduce themselves. No one is ever allowed to say "I was an alcoholic."
For my friend, immersion in A.A. has meant salvation in the most literal sense. He knows that one slip could - no, will - send him to an earthly death. A.A. members have responded to his calls at 4 A.M., finding him in the eerie brightness of all-night restaurants where he has been sitting for hours at a formica table filling a notebook with the sentence, "God help me make it through the next five minutes." Now he is approaching the one-year anniversary of his last drink - an important milestone by A.A. reckoning. And yet he knows that 50 per cent of those who reach that milestone eventually fall away.
Standing inside A.A. and looking with a curious observer's eye at the local church, my friend wonders about the plinth of undergirding doctrine on which his new "church" rests. Meanwhile I stand inside the local church and looking with a curious observer's eye at A.A., wonder instead why A.A. met his needs when the local church did not. He had attended a progressive church that offered a similar climate to that found in A.A. There too, millionaires mixed with dropouts and members offered acceptance, not judgment. Why was it not enough ? I asked him to name the one quality missing in the local church that was somehow provided by A.A. He stared at his cup of coffee for a long time. Then he said softly one word: dependency.
"None of us can make it on our own - isn't that why Jesus came?" he explained. "Yet most church people give off a self-satisfied air of piety or superiority. I don't sense them consciously leaning on God or each other. An alcoholic who goes to church feels inferior and incomplete."
He sat in silence for a while; then a smile began to crease his face. "It's a funny thing," he said at last.-"What I hate most about myself, my alcoholism, was the one thing God used to bring me back to him. Because of it, I know I can't survive without him. Maybe God is calling us alcoholics to teach the saints what it means to be dependent on him and his community on earth."
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