Finishing up this morning, I noticed this unusual detail in Matthew’s gospel (chapter 27) which made me think about an old story in a new way. The detail appears in the story of Judas, the betrayer, who — for thirty pieces of silver — agreed to lead the religious Big Shots to Jesus.

At most Easter observances, if anyone mentions Judas, it is with disdain. The fool. Greedy louse. I’ve heard it said, “He obviously never repented, because he killed himself.” If he had truly repented for his betrayal, then of course the story would have ended “happily ever after.” Right?

Another good example of folks who have to have all the answers. Frankly, I’m not convinced. Who knows how Judas and Father God interacted in those last minutes. Father God knows his heart. I do not. But back to my revelation. . .

In my version, I read this, “When Judas, who had betrayed him, realized that Jesus had been condemned to die, he was filled with remorse…” Reading into the meaning of this sentence, I don’t think that Judas ever believed that his betrayal would end in Jesus’ death. To misquote a contemporary country song, “What was he thinking?”

Did he think that by having Jesus arrested, Jesus might be forced to take his place as the rightful King of the Jews? Was Judas’ move a political one? Did he foresee a nation free of the Romans? Did he think the arrest would widen Jesus audience? Would this play finally convince the leading priests and teachers that Jesus was who he said he was?

We can’t know what Judas was thinking. We can only speculate. But the passage does tell us he was filled with remorse. Sadness. Sorrow. He’d done the unthinkable, and now, it was out of his hands. It was his fault and his alone. There was no turning back.

If only Judas could have hung on for three more days. He might have gained a new perspective. Just three days would have been enough. The grave would be empty, and the Son of God would have proven his identity. All would be nothing more than a bad memory.

And here was my “ah-ha” moment: How often do we find ourselves caught in that moment of remorse? Of sorrow. Of loss. Or guilt. Or hopelessness. And how often do we give up just THREE DAYS before the whole picture begins to make sense?

If you are in the process of holding on, I beg you to think of our friend Judas. Just three days would have made all the difference. He gave up too soon. Will you?

Two of the servants immediately go to work investing the gold. In the process, they earn more for their master. But one servant buries his gift, unwilling to risk his master’s wrath. When the master returns, he commends the two who have invested their gold. But he condemns the one who has done nothing.

The remarkable line is this. The servant defends himself with these telling words, “I WAS AFRAID.”

He was. Afraid the master wouldn’t approve. Afraid he wouldn’t be successful. Afraid that he didn’t have the skills to turn a profit for the master. And his fear was so profound that it immobilized him. This poor servant had the ability — we know that from the text. But  he let fear make his decisions for him.

What struck me was how often most people let fear incapacitate them. Yes, we do it when we refuse to serve in our churches (what if I fail? What if people think badly of me?). But we do it too when we refuse to do the things we know are right. I do it, when I refuse to bare my heart in the midst of a misunderstanding. (What if this person uses something I say against me?) I do it when I’m afraid to invest time in the lives of others. (What if I don’t have enough time to do the things I need to get done?) I do it when I refuse to give away my finances (What if I don’t have enough resources for my own needs?)

Even though I don’t think of myself as a fearful person. Sometimes, fear keeps me from obedience. I don’t ever want to be the servant who responds, “BUT  I WAS AFRAID!”

How about you? Does fear ever make you shake in your boots?

Not long after she returned home, I found this passage in the book of Proverbs: (chapter 24:11) I admit, I’d never noticed it before.

“Deliver those who are being taken away to death,
And those who are staggering to slaughter,
Oh hold them back.
If you say, “See we did not know this,”
Does He not consider it who weighs the hearts?
And does He not know it who keeps your soul?
And will He not render to man according to his work?”

It made me think of those brave souls who sacrificed all to defend their Jewish friends against the horrors of Hitler’s regime. Risking their families, their fortunes, their very lives, they did what they could to stop the deaths. I recently read of one woman who became an electrician in Poland, so that she could sneak children out of Jewish Ghettos. At the end of her work day, she put babies in her equipment bag and carried them out to her truck. Her german shepherd dog, trained to bark at everyone, made so much noise that the baby’s cries couldn’t be heard by guards. In all, she saved over 2000 children — one soul at a time.

It reminds me too that we believers cannot burry our heads. When it comes to the unborn, to the genocide in parts of Africa, Bosnia, and other locations, to the children traded by sex traffickers, we cannot turn away. Our God weighs the hearts. He knows what we know. He expects us to respond on behalf of the innocent, on behalf of those who cannot defend themselves.

I find that a heavy responsibility. It would be so much easier to attend services, sing worship songs, go to Bible studies. And while those things are good, our God expects more.

What are you doing to defend the defenseless? Any ideas? Anything we might do together? I’d like to know!

Bette

You see, on the cello, you can play a single note in many, many different positions, on different strings, with different fingers. While sight reading, you must play along making snap decisions, answering the question, “How and where am I going to play that note?”

Under the best of conditions, it isn’t easy — playing the right note at the right time along with your fellow musicians. (It can be horribly embarrassing!) But when someone else has marked all over your music, it can be downright confusing. Such were the marks I found when they handed out this quarter’s music. Here I am trying to think my way through the Concerto for Guitar by Vivaldi, while simultaneously evaluating (and dismissing as crazy) the marks left by some prior musician.

(Here’s a link to the music. You might enjoy it! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lBJ8BmFPt3U&feature=related)

And so today, I simply made all those marks disappear. Thank you Wite Out!

You see my objective is to obey the composer. Vivaldi didn’t really care which finger I use, or even which string I play on. Old composers rarely even cared which direction the bow was going. All those marks have been given to us by modern editors. He only cared that I played the notes as written.

And it makes me think about our Christian culture. One thing we specialize in (in our modern era of publishing) is giving one another “advice” on how to walk the Christian Walk. Ten ways to conquer your temper. Five ways to renew your marriage. Seven tips to fulfilling ministry. In our culture, this advice is a little like the markings on my Vivaldi music.

They may help me play the music, or they may just slow me down, leaving me confused and frustrated.

In the Christian walk, it is wise to know which marks are left by the Composer, the Giver of LIfe, and which are left by well-meaning bystanders. Whose marks do we obey? I think that the Bible, the Word of God provides for us all of the notes and melodies which our Composer requires. Don’t let the well meaning advice of bystanders confuse you.

For instance: Scripture says, “Don’t forsake the gathering of believers.” What kind of church you prefer, when you attend, and the focus of your church — well, God has left those decisions up to you. Scripture says, “Pray without ceasing.” But it doesn’t tell us what that prayer should look like. Even the “Lord’s Prayer” seems to be a pattern to follow, not a chant to recite. He tells us to use our gifts to bless the body and grow it into maturity. But he allows us to discover where and how to use those gifts. Do you see my meaning?

Scripture, like music, leaves us a great deal of room to find our own way. Of course God himself provides us the wisdom we need to play our part! When we get hung up on the instructions of humans, rather than the clarity of the Composer, we are inhibited rather than released.

When it comes to the well meaning advice of the Body of Christ, I say, don’t be afraid to use the white-out. Go back to the original score. Check out the notes. The rhythms. The melodies. Play those carefully. Exactly. Slowly. Find which techniques work for you. Practice. You will improve. I promise!

Evening Quiet Time? Go for it!
A single life? Live it happily!
Singing your prayers? Let it ring!
Doodling your prayer requests? Let me get you a new set of ink pens!

He wants you to succeed in playing his music. Go back to the original score. Find your melody. Play it with gusto!

bette

Great, huh?

We Christians know the power of revelations. As the Holy Spirit lives inside his children, he provides an unending well of insight, though these insights are often accompanied by repentance (sorrow over our actions) and a dynamic, unexplained, heretofore unexperienced power to grow or change. I had one of these recently, and the indwelling Holy Spirit used the experience to encourage someone I love very much.

This someone is in crisis. In her eyes, the future looks bad, and the “now” is exceedingly painful. The past, which she has chosen to leave behind,  looks more and more enticing as the moments go by. I am afraid she is tempted to move backwards.  As we were talking the other night, I believe the Holy Spirit gave me insight into an experience I had recently. My own epiphany. Here’s what happened:

My daughter  and I were climbing a hill on an organized bike ride.  It had been a long and difficult day. Rain. Mud. Cold temperatures. Many difficult hills. Generally though, Maggie leaves me in the dust on those hills. But we hit one at the fifty mile mark that surprised us both. It was a short steep climb, the kind where you find yourself standing up to power through. At the top of this hellish hill, the road made a stark 90 degree turn. Maggie saw the road turn and gave up. She got off her bike and started walking. I’d never seen her do that.

At the same moment, I powered around the corner and finished the hill.

What was the difference? Surely not my fitness level, I’m 30 years older than Mags (and significantly fatter!). Here is the secret. I’d looked ahead and realized that the hill was nearly over. I’d spotted a mailbox up the road and decided, “I can make that mailbox.” It was hard. I was gasping for air. But I made it. Why? Because I’d spotted the end from the middle and I KNEW that that miserable hill wouldn’t last forever.

In emotional terms, my friend in crisis is in the middle of her own hill. She can’t see the end. The now is painful. She is gasping for emotional air, her legs are burning, and she doesn’t see how she can possibly finish. Part of her wonders, “Will this pain ever end?” She is tempted to get off the bike. To Quit. To. Give. Up.

I told my friend about our bike ride. And I reminded her of so many folks who go through dark difficult seasons. None of us know when one of those troublesome times will end. When the illness will end. When the marriage will get better. When the cancer will be pushed back. We are tempted to give up. To turn back. To get off the bike. When you are thinking that way, remember what I told my friend. My epiphany:

Don’t do it. Though you do not realize it, you may be almost to the top of the hill. You cannot see the end, but that doesn’t make it far away. It is simply out of your field of vision. Stay on the bike. Don’t give up. Breathe deeply.  Keep your eyes on the road in front of you. Tap into the strength which is greater than your own. Don’t be distracted by the view, or lack thereof. Whatever you do. Stay on your bike!

How about you? Do you regularly receive insight from the Holy Spirit? Care to share a story with us?

Bette

We’d anchored our boat in Montegue Harbor, British Columbia and tied a friend’s boat up alongside for the night. In boating parlance, we call that “rafting.” After making certain that we were well anchored, we made dinner and sat down to feast on board Ron’s boat. As we were eating, Ron looked up and said, “We’re dragging anchor! Look how close that sailboat is!”

The boys (our two husbands) ran up to the pilot house to check our position. The GPS would confirm that we’d moved off our anchor. But a scan of the harbor and a check of the instruments showed us that we hadn’t moved at all. They rejoined us  at the table saying, “Must just look like we’re closer, maybe due to the wind or current. Sure seems strange though.”

We didn’t think much more of it, until suddenly I looked out the back of our boat and said, “My gosh that boat is going to run into us!”

Scrambling, the four of us ran outside. Ron leapt  into his dingy (which was tied on the end of his swim step), just as the errant sail boat slid into the pontoon. He’d caught it just in time. Now what?

We managed to get fenders out and enough lines to tie the fifty foot vessel alongside Ron’s boat. We banged on the hull. No answer. We called out to the owners. No one was on board. Quite literally, we’d inherited a sailboat. In the rules of the sea, an abandoned boat becomes the property of those who rescue her. Ron worried about when the owners would return. “What if they aren’t back tomorrow morning? Will our anchor hold with this extra weight?”  I assured him, with blustery confidence, that they would be back before dark. What worried me though, was how they would respond to discovering their vessel tied up alongside a strange boat. Would they accuse us of trying to steal her?

About forty minutes later, the sound of a small outboard motor grew louder, and sure enough, the sailboat’s owners, four adults on board, came along side in their dingy. The man in front was snapping pictures as they approached. No one looked happy. “What happened?” they asked. “Why is our boat tied onto yours?”

Their astonishment soon turned to disbelief. “I set the anchor. We waited for hours before we left the boat. It was solid as a rock. There’s no way she came loose.” The boat’s captain was adamant.

“She wasn’t just dragging anchor,” we responded. “She was completely loose on the tide, her anchor line completely slack. If we hadn’t stopped her, she’d be in the Queen Charlotte Islands by now.” A slight exaggeration on my part, I admit.

The captain could hardly swallow his disbelief. He was so certain of his technique, absolutely confident that the boat couldn’t have come loose. His wife, on the other hand, quickly understood the situation, and her surprise gave way to gratitude. “How can we thank you for saving our boat?” she said. “What might have happened? It could have been clear out in the channel, or grounded on a rock, or the beach. I can’t believe you saved her! Thank you.”

In the end, we used the dinghies to untwist the anchor lines and set the sailboat free. The captain and his crew were profoundly grateful for the safe return of their expensive vessel. As the sun set, we enjoyed a great desert in the twilight.

All was well. But the experience got me thinking. How often have you observed a fellow traveller drift off the security of his spiritual anchor? Maybe he’s been enticed by a dangerous habit, an unreliable relationship, a slacking off of the disciplines that keep us tied to Christ, our savior, our anchor. And maybe, just maybe, someone you know has gone adrift. Have you the skills to catch the vessel before it slips off to sea? Are you willing to risk your own vessel to save another? Would you risk being misunderstood in order to keep someone else from losing all?

Our experience with a real sailboat got me to thinking. I don’t take those risks easily. I’m afraid of the confrontations, the misunderstandings. In fact, I myself have endured the false accusations of well meaning friends. But I think we owe it to one another. Keep watch. When a ship goes drifting,  yours may be the only vessel who can rescue. Are you willing?

Has your drifting boat been rescued before? Mine has. Thank heaven for the ones who care enough to speak.

Bette

But on June 4th, we had a frightening training ride,  and in the process, we discovered a very powerful lesson. It began on a sunny Saturday morning with the plan to complete 60 miles of the Burke Gillman Trail, in Seattle, Washington. Some of you know that  the BG isn’t finished in the Ballard portion, and just six miles into our ride, as we headed west, we turned a corner to make an alarming discovery. I had swung wide, ending up on the “wrong side” of a set of unused railroad tracks.

Maggie managed to end up on the traffic side of the tracks, riding safely parallel to them. I, on the other hand, was on the shoulder side of the tracks, with these two iron rails (running parallel to our direction of travel), lying between me and the riding lane. I needed to cross those tracks; but I knew I was in trouble.

The cardinal rule of bike riding is NEVER, EVER cross railroad tracks without crossing at a 90 degree angle. I knew that. I said out loud, “Oh boy. I’m in trouble. I don’t want to be here.” I said it several times.

But I never stopped to think through the problem. I was too anxious to cross the tracks, to keep going, to make progress. We had so far to go, you know? I knew the rule, and I must have decided that I could successfully break it (though I don’t really remember making that decision). I swung wide and took a sharp angle toward the first rail. Crossed it. Still up.

Crossing the second rail, my tire caught in the space between the rail and the pavement. I went down like a rock from a jet airliner– at maximum velocity — never even removing my hands from the bar hoods. I crashed, elbow first, hips and knees only slightly behind, into the pavement, landing directly in the traffic behind me. Luckily, no car was nearby, and a rider behind me blocked the traffic lane while I tried to get off the pavement. At the moment of impact, I got a terrible cramp in my left calf. Wrenching myself out of the pedals, I danced in the street to rid myself of the cramp, before collapsing on the side of the road and weeping in pain. I thought I’d broken my left elbow.

The pain was so intense that while Maggie cleansed it with an antibiotic wipe, I never felt her digging out the gravel.

We managed to get me patched up, go to a repair shop (where they re-hung my front deraileur), and finish our sixty mile ride. I was sore, but not dead, and for that I am very grateful.

I got to thinking about that set of tracks and the cardinal rule that I’d broken. Why did I think that I’d get away with it? Why didn’t I stop and make a safer plan? Why the big hurry? Why the foolish decision?

Isn’t that like sin? Don’t we think we’ll “get away with it?” Just this once? I’m too busy. It’s too important. No one will notice. I won’t get hurt. No one else will get hurt. And we do what we KNOW BETTER THAN TO DO.

I’ve done it. I’ve had that fleeting thought, “this won’t work well.” And I’ve done it anyway. Lost my temper. Said something I later regret. And like the bicycle, I’ve found myself on the ground in a virtual heap.

Makes you think doesn’t it? Had a rail trip you up lately?

Bette

I rode along with my son as he drove across the United States in a cross-country move to San Francisco. We covered 12 states in five days. Three thousand miles. All of it (except for about ten miles on each end) on Interstate 80. An amazing trip. (We live in an amazing land). Here’s the story:

Two weeks ago, my hubby and I flew to Brooklyn to help Eric move. We spent two days in his apartment, working. We separated the things that would go with the movers from the essentials that would ride along in the car. We packed boxes, cleaned floors, threw away trash. We packed suitcases, filled garbage bags and chose electronics to be recycled. And then we filled a POD with his stuff and watched as a forklift loaded this plywood box filled with all his earthly belongings onto a truck. (I highly recommend this method, by the way).

As of today, it’s already arrived in San Francisco.

Interestingly, when we had his apartment inspected, the man who helped us told us something interesting. We needed to formally ask  for Eric’s damage deposit back; the manager had  advice. “You want your whole deposit back?” He said, “Tell them you lost your job here. Tell them you got fired.”

Eric hadn’t lost a job. He was moving just one month short of his one year lease date. I said, “Well, he does have to be in San Francisco for a new job. He had no choice about that.” (Eric will be doing a fellowship in research at a facility in San Francisco).

“No. Don’t tell her that. Tell her you lost your job, that you couldn’t help it, you had to leave. Tell her that.”

He made no bones about it. Lying was the only way we’d get our deposit back.

Then this week, I went to a training event at REI in Seattle. The lady speaking was a Tri coach. She told us about a client of hers, someone she had trained as a tri-athelete, who was about to start a race. This was the story: “She asked me if she should wear her wet suit for the swim. She didn’t think she would. It didn’t feel right to wear it. She asked me about it. Now, she had been my client. I had trained her. Now she was my competitor. I told her, ‘don’t wear the suit.’ And, I beat her out of the water. She should have worn the suit.”

The coach, who was now her competitor, lied.

I won’t bore you. But I’m amazed at the ways that lies have become acceptable parts of language. The old expression, “If the lips are moving, he’s lying,” seems to more applicable every day. It’s everywhere. And truth be told (that’s the point after all), it’s easy to slip into half-truths and slight of hand when it comes to honesty.

Here are the ways that I fail to tell the truth: I may not actually out and out lie to you, but I will carefully lead you down a blind alley. As a result, you’ll come to a false conclusion; but I didn’t actually tell you anything that wasn’t strictly true. Sometimes, I let you assume falsehoods without correcting you. Sometimes, I leave out details that are condemning. I’m especially good at these slight-of-hand mistruths when it comes to being late.

I’m often late. I get busy. I lose track of time. And then, five minutes after I should have left, I look for my keys and can’t find them. Later, when I arrive late, I say, “I couldn’t find my car keys.” True. BUT, if I’d started on time, I would have been LESS late. Do you see what I mean?

It’s the same thing when I tell my husband about something I purchased. I start out saying, “It was 30% off.”

Today, the Puyallup School District has lost a great principal. Scott Brittain was “investigated,” by his supervisor for “insubordination, and lying.” In frustration, Scott resigned. Personally, I’ve never known a better principal. Scott is a gifted administrator who will find a job with another school district. We  lose.

I don’t know if Scott really lied. No one ever will; the investigation was closed. But when I think of the ways that lying is commonplace in our world, and the ways that I mislead others, even when I so value truthfulness, I am saddened.

How about you? Have you been instructed to lie at work? Have you been tempted to lie to keep someone else from being hurt? Have you struggled with personal honesty?

When it comes to liars, I will never  be the one to throw the first stone. I am afraid of the bruising that I deserve. When I observe others casually throwing truth out the window, it makes me realize how very steep and slippery the slope of truth may be. It’s hard work staying up on the cliff of truth. I think it’s worth it. How about you?

On one of those adventures, I got an enduring picture of Grace, (as in “By Grace you are saved, thru faith, and  this is not of yourselves, it is the gift of God.”)

Every morning, our boat was full of divers. On board we separated into groups, based on our abilities and the purpose of our dives. Getting so many individuals in the water takes time, and frequently, those of us who were first had to wait in the water while the others put on their gear and jumped in. One morning, after jumping off the boat, I realized that the current was very strong. Before I’d cleared my mask and checked my gear, I was further from the boat than I intended. To get back, I’d have to swim up stream. I filled my BC, rolled over on my back and began kicking.

Moments later, when I checked on my progress, I realized that I’d been swept even further away. Now, this wasn’t a crisis, mind you. I wasn’t going to drown. No one was going to lose me in the ocean. But I wanted to stay with my group. I wanted to drop underwater with all of them nearby, so that we could dive together along the reef. I kicked harder.

It didn’t take much time before I realized that I couldn’t make it back to the boat on my own. I continued to drift away. In the midst of wondering what I should do, a giant wave came along and tossed me toward the boat. At that moment, I kicked with all my might and to my surprise I arrived exactly where I needed to be.

Without that wave, all the effort in the world wasn’t getting me to the boat. All the wishing and hoping wasn’t moving me forward. But the wave provided power beyond my own. It came at just the right moment, and it stopped my wayward path.

That, my friends is Grace. It is all around us. It is God’s power, made available to humans, which enables us to change direction. Whether you need to quit drugs, stop watching porn, stop cheating on your wife, or move toward God, begin a new life, open a new chapter, and start a new habit, God has the power to pick you up and move you forward. Like a wave tosses you toward a boat, God’s grace can put you where you need to be. It offers power beyond your own.

He loves to provide the Grace when you need it. You have only to ask. (Some believers think of Grace only as a “salvation event.” It’s not. It’s the means by which we continue in our faith. It’s an everyday event, whether or not you see it.)

Someday, perhaps, I’ll tell you about a time when God’s Grace changed the course of my life.  In the meantime, what about you? Have you ever been carried by a wave of Grace? Care to share?

Bette

Last week in orchestra, most of the cello section was absent. I was there alone with our section leader, a guy named Wayne, who plays like taffy. Long stretchy bows, with not a hint of scratch or squeak. You never hear him change his bow direction. Wayne reads music like I read words. No hesitation. No errors. He sight reads music with the most glorious attention to every detail. Honestly, a genius.

But last week, in a particular piece, Wayne missed an entrance. It was after five beats of rest, and Wayne, somehow, just didn’t show up.

The first time  it happened, I simply jumped in where I belonged. But it frightened me. Wayne never makes a mistake. I must have screwed up. I kept playing, but my mind was back at the error, recounting the rests, wondering how I’d made such a terrible mistake. I mean, it had to be my mistake, right?

Our director headed us back to top of the music. This time, when Wayne didn’t jump in, I didn’t either. I was spooked, too freaked by the event to do what I knew to do. His hesitation fed mine. My hesitation turned into paranoia. The paranoia digressed into absolutely irretrievable stage fright. I was a gonner.

Even as it happened, I couldn’t believe that a five beat rest could undermine an entire suite. It did.

The next morning, I realized how much orchestra mimics the Body of Christ. You see, like the members of the orchestra, we depend on one another. We are leaning on each other, listening for one another to function in our gifts. If you hesitate, I will too. If you fail to enter at the right time, I will doubt myself, and stay quiet too. I’m listening to make sure that my notes harmonize with yours, that I play in perfect tone, that my style suits yours, that my silences give your solos greater weight. I want my accompaniment to let your solos soar. I want your accompaniment to be the foundation for my solo.

And all of us must be listening to our Great Conductor.

We must enter when he directs. We must grow louder as he deems. We must whisper with our instruments so that the message of the music has greater and greater effect. He decides which notes depict the music’s theme. He emphasizes them by coordinating the body so that those notes have the greatest significance. He pauses to let us work out the kinks, to listen to one another, to practice our parts.

And then, when all is well, he taps his wand and begins the Great Concert which brings glory to his Father.

I ask you. Are you hesitating? Are you listening? Have you quit because the player in the next chair missed his entrance?

Or, are you courageously following the Great Conductor?

Me? I’m working on it!

Bette