Southwood Lutheran Church

Reflections on a Sunday Sermon

Use it On Monday, by Michelle DeRusha

Michelle writes a daily blog about finding faith in the everyday at Graceful. On Monday's she reflects on Sunday's sermon in a weekly post entitled "Use it on Monday." She's nice enough to let us re-post it on Southwood's blog. You can read it here each week and then click over to Michelle's blog for more of her writing.

Two Words

I really wanted to go with Deidra and Jennifer to hear Ann Voskamp speak at the Women of Faith conference in Des Moines this past weekend. Really, really.

But I didn’t go. I didn't go because the Holy Spirit told me to stay home. {although for a few days I pretended not to hear}

You see, Brad ran in the Lincoln Mud Run 5K on Saturday morning – a race he’d diligently trained for over the past few months. {and yeah, it’s as gross and grueling as it sounds: slogging through knee-deep mud, scaling walls and squirming beneath obstacles on your belly}. And even though he told me, “Go, go! Really, go to Women of Faith, you don’t need to stay just for the race,” and I knew he meant it, I felt something else in my gut. I felt the Holy Spirit telling me to stay in Lincoln. To go to the race and support my husband.

Fast forward to Sunday morning, when I read this from Psalm 134:

“Come, bless God, all you servants of God!” (Psalm 134:1, Msg)

In fact, I read it twice to make sure I had read it right. Isn’t God the one who does the blessing, I wondered? Isn’t he the one who bestows all good things, and isn’t it our job to praise him and thank him? So what’s this about us blessing him? What kind of blessing can we flawed and insignificant beings offer the all-powerful, all-knowing, all-creating God? These were my questions as I sat in the pew and listened to yesterday’s reading. And truthfully, I didn’t get much of an answer from the pulpit. Or so I initially thought. The problem wasn’t with the sermon, per se. It was simply the fact that I couldn’t understand or hear the minister well. Pastor Mmanga, who is visiting from our sister church in Uswaa, Tanzania, has a beautiful, melodious voice and a thick accent – and as Brad will attest, I do not do well with accents. That, combined with the fact that my left ear is almost entirely blocked from an infection, had me leaning forward in my seat, squinting (because that helps with hearing, right?) and straining to hear the sermon.

When Pastor Mmanga returned to his seat, I realized I’d gotten just two words from his sermon:

Obey. And trust.

But those two words were more than enough. Those two words made all the difference in my understanding of how we flawed and insignificant beings can, in fact, bless God himself. Those two words got me thinking about that crazy Mud Run race again, and the fact that when the Holy Spirit told me to stay home, I actually listened.

You see, when Brad crossed the finish line filthy and soaked, Rowan and I cheering under our umbrellas as the rain came pouring down, I couldn’t have been prouder of him or happier that I’d stayed in Lincoln to watch the race instead of going to Women of Faith (a race in which he finished first place in his age division and in 14th place overall out of more than 700 runners!). And when I heard those two words in Pastor Mmanga’s sermon I knew why:

When we bless God through our obedience and trust, God blesses us, sometimes in the most unexpected ways.

“Come, bless God, all you servants of God! You priests of God, posted to the nightwatch in God’s shrine. Lift your praising hands to the Holy Place, and bless God. In turn, may God of Zion bless you – God who made heaven and earth!” (Psalm 134)

Have you ever imagined that you, yes you, can bless God?!

You can read more of Michelle's writing on her blog Graceful.

 

Reflections on a Sunday Sermon

Use it On Monday, by Michelle DeRusha

Michelle writes a daily blog about finding faith in the everyday at Graceful. On Monday's she reflects on Sunday's sermon in a weekly post entitled "Use it on Monday." She's nice enough to let us re-post it on Southwood's blog. You can read it here each week and then click over to Michelle's blog for more of her writing.

Why Can't We Just Get Along?

How wonderful, how beautiful, when brothers and sisters get along. (Psalm 133:1, Msg.)

It sounds lovely, doesn’t it? It sounds easy and simple and true.

Yet the reality is, so often we don’t get along. We nitpick about differences in doctrine. We point fingers at others’ flaws. We decide who’s a sinner and who isn’t. We vow to boycott chicken sandwiches or to not boycott chicken sandwiches, and we judge those who don’t do the same.

Really? Is this really what God wants from us? To separate ourselves from “others?” To hang with the “in” crowd and avoid everyone else? To notice the sliver in another’s eye and ignore the log in our own? To bicker and gripe and tear down instead of build up?

Yesterday, right in the middle of Pastor Sara’s sermon on Psalm 133, I heard a commotion toward the back of the church, and when I turned to look over my shoulder I glimpsed an elderly man being carried down the aisle and out into the lobby. Two men gripped the man’s arms and two men carried his legs, as the man’s wife (I presume) hurried behind. A few minutes later I heard a siren just outside the sanctuary windows.

I don’t know for sure what happened to the man. All I know is that when he showed signs of distress during worship, four men, undoubtedly strangers, jumped to his aid and literally carried him to safety.

And that, I thought, as I sat in the pew, is the perfect metaphor for Psalm 133.

That is exactly what God expects from each one of us – and not just with our fellow church members and our own friends and family, but with every one of our brothers and sisters in our neighborhood, in our nation and in our world. He expects that we will stand in the gap, come to one another’s aid, lift up and encourage, support and pray for.

In short, God expects that we will carry others when they are unable to carry themselves.

As I write this blog post, my prayer journal is open next to me on the bed, and I read the verses I jotted last week as I studied 1 Thessalonians. Next to the verses I’d scrawled: lessons for living --

Live in a way that pleases God. (4:1)

Encourage each other and build each other up. (5:11)

Live peacefully with each other. (5:13)

Take tender care of the weak. (5:14)

Be patient with everyone. (5:14)

Always try to do good to each other and to all people. (5:15)

These are the basic human principles Jesus cared about and it’s what God wants us to care about, too. And while this list from 1 Thessalonians is more specific, isn’t this the essence of Psalm 133? Isn’t this what God has in mind when he praises us for living harmoniously with our brothers and sisters? Aren’t these the instructions for how to get along?

Harmony, God tells us, is a precious as oil and as refreshing as dew. And it’s no coincidence that there, right in the midst of harmony, God pronounces his blessing:

How wonderful and pleasant it is when brothers live together in harmony! For harmony is as precious as the anointing oil that was poured over Aaron's head, that ran down his beard and onto the border of his robe. Harmony is as refreshing as the dew from Mount Hermon that falls on the mountains of Zion. And there the Lord has pronounced his blessing, even life everlasting. (Psalm 133, NLT)

You can read more of Michelle's writing on her blog Graceful.

 

Reflections on a Sunday Sermon

Use it On Monday, by Michelle DeRusha

Michelle writes a daily blog about finding faith in the everyday at Graceful. On Monday's she reflects on Sunday's sermon in a weekly post entitled "Use it on Monday." She's nice enough to let us re-post it on Southwood's blog. You can read it here each week and then click over to Michelle's blog for more of her writing.

Obedience is a Gift

Last February, knowing it would probably be the last time he would see his dad, Brad asked me to go with him on his final visit to the hospice in Minnesota. The trip was only possible because my mom had flown in from Massachusetts to help with the kids. The plan was that Brad and I would travel to Minneapolis on Saturday and be back in Nebraska again before school on Monday morning.

I wrestled with whether to go or not. I knew what the right decision was. I knew what I should do, what I needed to do. I felt the answer as clear as any I’d ever felt in my heart. 

But I didn’t go.

I stayed home with my mom and the kids while Brad traveled to Minnesota alone. It was the last time he saw his dad. Jon died four days later.

I told my mom, Brad, my friends and anyone who would listen that I didn’t go to Minnesota because of the boys. They were acting out more than usual, I explained. They were clearly anxious and grieving their grandfather’s terminal illness and impending death. I needed to stay home with them, I reasoned. Two grieving, unruly boys were too much for my mom to handle alone.

This was all true. The boys were suffering; their behavior was more volatile than usual. But that wasn’t the real reason I didn’t go to Minnesota.

I didn’t go because I was afraid.

Afraid to face death, again, just 15 months after losing Brad’s mom. Afraid to face my father-in-law, with his ravaged, emaciated body. Afraid to say goodbye, to say thank you. Afraid to witness my husband’s raw grief. Afraid I wouldn’t know how to comfort him.

I didn’t go with my husband to Minnesota to be with him when he said goodbye to his father because I was afraid. I didn’t get to tell Jon how much I loved him in person because I was afraid. 

And that is, hands-down, my biggest regret thus far in life.

When Pastor Michael preached on the theme of obedience yesterday after we read Psalm 132, this story, a story ofdisobedience, is the one that sprang almost instantly to my mind.

You see, I knew without any doubt what the Holy Spirit was prompting me to do that weekend. I felt the answer in my heart. I knew it in my innermost depths. And yet I disobeyed because I felt the calling was too hard, too ugly., too terrifying. I was weak. I faltered in my faith. I doubted that God would see me through. 

“Obedience is a gift, a gift of faith,” said Pastor Michael during yesterday’s sermon.

Back in February I let fear instead of faith prevail. Instead of trusting God, I fled. Instead of obeying the Holy Spirit and surrendering to the will of God, I relied only on myself. I thought I would have to face fear and death alone. I forgot God was with me. I turned away from the gift when it was offered to me. 

In the end, my disobedience was a grave disappointment. I know that Jon didn’t hold my decision against me, nor does Brad. But I still struggle to let it go. Now that time has passed I’m able to see more clearly how God would have held me by the hand, in spite of my fear and hesitation. In spite of my weakness. 

God would have led me through that terribly difficult visit. If only I’d had the faith to obey.

"When you are disobedient, you are trying to keep some part of your life under your own control. Somewhere in your heart you are refusing to listen to his call." —Dietrich Bonhoeffer

What about you? Have you ever learned a hard lesson about obedience and faith?

You can read more of Michelle's writing on her blog Graceful.

 

Reflections on a Sunday Sermon

Use it On Monday, by Michelle DeRusha

Michelle writes a daily blog about finding faith in the everyday at Graceful. On Monday's she reflects on Sunday's sermon in a weekly post entitled "Use it on Monday." She's nice enough to let us re-post it on Southwood's blog. You can read it here each week and then click over to Michelle's blog for more of her writing.

In Awe of God's Yes

I’ve never been a go-with-the-flow, contented, optimistic person. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a bit disgruntled, prone to negativity and discontent, restless and anxious.

Back in the 18th century I probably would have been diagnosed with melancholia – a little too much black bile.

In the 19th century it would have been the vapors, or perhaps hysteria. I might have been prescribed the rest cure (bring it on, I say).

In the 21st century, of course, my malady is defined as depression and anxiety. I take medication for this. I have every day for the last six years – except for the two weeks a couple of years ago when I quit cold turkey and went all sorts of crazy. We won’t be trying that again.

My point is, I’ve struggled with being happy for pretty much my entire life. I’m not naturally happy. I’m not naturally content. I worry a lot. I’ve bitten my fingernails since the third grade; I suffered from an ulcer when I was in high school. I get tension headaches and eye twitching and irritable bowel and TMJ (shall I go on?) – all products of anxiety.

But (if you're still reading) it’s not all bad news.

I’ve realized recently that what’s impacted my ongoing pursuit of joy and contentment the most in recent years (in addition to the anti-depressant, of course) is the daily practice of thanksgiving.

The truth is – and this is going to sound really basic and more than a little obvious – a person can’t be ungrateful and thankful at the same time. It’s simply not possible to hold both a disgruntled, ungrateful thought in your mind simultaneously with a thankful thought. And so, as it goes, the more thankful I am, the more frequently I consciously offer gratitude and thanksgiving to God, the less inclined I am to be negative.

The act of being thankful has simply created less time, less opportunity, less room for negativity. Gratefulness has crowded out, overpowered, ingratitude.

I know I make gratitude sound scientific and pragmatic, but for me, it is a pragmatic process, because pragmatic works for me. I need an intentional practice, a formula, so to speak, because I am stubborn, and because my brain has been accustomed to working one way – on negative, anxious auto-pilot – for decades. The practice of daily – hourly, minute-by-minute – thanksgiving has retrained my brain.

The intentional practice of giving thanks has broken the cycle of discontent.

I had a revelation during yesterday’s reading of Psalm 128 in church:

"All you who fear God, how blessed you are! How happily you walk on his smooth straight road! You worked hard and deserve all you’ve got coming. Enjoy the blessing! Revel in the goodness! …Stand in awe of God’s Yes. Oh, how he blesses the one who fears God. Enjoy the good life in Jerusalem every day of your life.” (1-2, 4-5, The Message).

In the past, if I'd heard those words, I would have assumed they were meant for someone else. “Yada, yada, yada, whatever,” I would have thought. “Those blessings, that joy, it’s not for me. I’m just not made that way.”

You know what? Yesterday when I listened to the words from Psalm 128 I thought, “Yes.” Yes! Yes! Yes! I am blessed. I walk happily. I revel in this goodness.

And why? Why? Because I am thankful. It really is that simple. I give thanks, again and again and again, for God’s Yes. He rains these yeses on me, day in and day out, in every aspect of my life. And I say yes in return.

I stand in awe of God’s Yes.

Has the practice of thanksgiving changed your life or outlook in any way?

You can read more of Michelle's writing on her blog Graceful.

 

Reflections on a Sunday Sermon

Use it On Monday, by Michelle DeRusha

Michelle writes a daily blog about finding faith in the everyday at Graceful. On Monday's she reflects on Sunday's sermon in a weekly post entitled "Use it on Monday." She's nice enough to let us re-post it on Southwood's blog. You can read it here each week and then click over to Michelle's blog for more of her writing.

The House and the Shack

Last week I cleaned and organized the basement. It hit 105 degrees here in Nebraska, so I figured burrowing into the cool cellar for a few hours wasn’t a bad idea.

I boxed up old toys and books, sucked in cobwebs with the vacuum attachment, rolled up and threw out the dilapidated rug and rearranged some of the furniture. Then I concluded that the bookshelf needed to be shifted over a couple of feet, so that it would be centered on the wall. Since I didn’t want to remove the dozens of books, stack them in piles on the floor, move the shelf and then rearrange all the books again, I decided I’d move the shelf with the books still on it.

I pushed. I pulled. I grunted and groaned and heaved and wrenched my back. The shelf creaked and cracked and threatened to topple. A few paperbacks pitched onto the floor. But the shelf didn’t budge. In the end, after 15 minutes of exhausting exertion and a pulled neck muscle, the shelf was exactly one inch from its original spot. Not two feet. One inch.

I gave up. I left the bookshelf where it was. All my pushing and pulling and sweating and heaving resulted in nothing.

And this, my friends, is the perfect metaphor for my publishing journey.

For the last three years I’ve dedicated hundreds of hours to building a platform. I’ve written more than 700 blog posts, an entire book, a quarter of another and two book proposals. I’ve tweeted, Facebooked, commented, Klouted, emailed, guest-posted and Google Plussed. I’ve pushed and pulled and forced this process along with all my might.

And you know what? I’ve moved it the equivalent of one inch.

Thanks to yesterday’s reading, I now know exactly what I’ve done wrong.

“If God doesn’t build the house, the builders only build shacks. If God doesn’t guard the city, the night watchman might as well nap.” (Psalm 127:1, The Message)

Did you catch that? If God doesn't build the house, the builders only build shacks.

The hard truth is, I’ve tried to build the house all on my own, without God.

Okay, okay, God has sort-of been involved. After all, I write about God every day. I pray. I talk to God. I believe that he inspires my words, and I know that my faith has grown stronger and deeper because of my writing. But still. I have allowed him only a minor role in the construction of this house.

God has been a crewman on this project, not the boss.

As Pastor Michael said in his sermon yesterday, “When it’s apart from God, work becomes labor.”

This publishing journey has been labor -- labor speckled with occasional moments of joy, but mostly labor, with pain, writhing and a fair bit of screaming and cursing.

I know, I know, you’ve heard all this before from me, haven’t you? After all, back on December 31 I resolved to make “surrender” my word for the year. But I haven’t surrendered, not entirely. Or maybe I have…on some days…but then I revert back to my pushing-pulling-grunting-heaving habits all over again.

Good grief I'm a slow learner.

So today, once again (sigh), I surrender. I hand over the plans and the blueprints to God. I allow him his rightful and only role as the foreman, the big boss. And I ask him to forgive me for trying to run the show.

I’m done building the shack. God holds the plans for this house, and he’ll decide whether it will be a mansion or a hut...or something altogether different.

What about you? Have you ever caught yourself trying to build the house all by yourself?

You can read more of Michelle's writing on her blog Graceful.

 

Reflections on a Sunday Sermon

Use it On Monday, by Michelle DeRusha

Michelle writes a daily blog about finding faith in the everyday at Graceful. On Monday's she reflects on Sunday's sermon in a weekly post entitled "Use it on Monday." She's nice enough to let us re-post it on Southwood's blog. You can read it here each week and then click over to Michelle's blog for more of her writing.

Wind in my Face

It’s been a while since I’ve felt this good on the running trail. My legs are strong, posture straight, arms loose, breathing even. I’m loping with strides long and fluid, gait smooth. It feels so good, easy and natural, like I could run three or four miles more. “Yeah,” I think to myself, breathing in the humid morning air, “I’ve got it; we're good.” I’m pleased with myself, proud of my progress, confident and strong.

Two miles later I reach the halfway point and turn around at my usual spot to head back. And that’s when it hits me. The force of the wind literally brings me to a standstill. I stand for a few seconds, hands on hips, sweat evaporating, shock written all over my face. How had I not noticed the trees, limbs swaying, branches bending in the stiff breeze? How had I not felt the steady push at my back, the wind propelling me forward for two whole miles? “

No wonder I felt so great,” I think grimly, chin tucked to chest, head down as I battle. “No wonder it's been so easy.” I’ve had the wind at my back all along. And I hadn’t even noticed.

It's easy to trust God when the going is good. In fact, if you’re like me, you might forget to give him credit altogether. But when chaos descends – when the wind reverses direction and barrels headlong into our face – it suddenly becomes obvious that we have a choice. We can blame God...or we can continue to trust him.

“Those who trust in the Lord are as secure as Mount Zion; they will not be defeated but will endure forever. Just as the mountains surround and protect Jerusalem, so the Lord surrounds and protects his people, both now and forever.” (Psalm 125)

Pastor Greg said it well yesterday: “The choice is yours, and you need to decide if God is for you or against you. Those who trust in the Lord decide that God is for them.” No matter the circumstances.

Frankly, it’s easier to choose blame. There have been times, many times, when I’ve felt abandoned by God, times when I’ve lamented that he can’t be found, that he’s not listening, that he doesn't care about me. I’ve blamed him for my circumstances and doubted his presence. I’ve even doubted his existence.

The more difficult choice, of course, is trust. Trust requires faith – faith that God is there, even when he seems absent. Faith that he loves us unconditionally and blesses us always, despite what our immediate circumstances might indicate. Faith that he does not cause our trouble, but walks through it alongside us instead.

I'll be honest: faith doesn't come naturally to me. I have to fight for it. I don't necessarily always feel faith in my gut, in my heart, like some believers might. Instead, I consciously and deliberately choose it, day in and day out.

Slowly, slowly, I am learning to choose trust, to choose faith – believing that God’s got my back…even when the wind is strong in my face.

You can read more of Michelle's writing on her blog Graceful.

 

Reflections on a Sunday Sermon

Use it On Monday, by Michelle DeRusha

Michelle writes a daily blog about finding faith in the everyday at Graceful. On Monday's she reflects on Sunday's sermon in a weekly post entitled "Use it on Monday." She's nice enough to let us re-post it on Southwood's blog. You can read it here each week and then click over to Michelle's blog for more of her writing.

The Helpmehelpmehelpme Prayer

Ten years ago, on my first day back to work after a year and a half of being a stay-at-home mom, I greeted my new officemate, settled into my chair, switched on my desk lamp and turned toward the keyboard. Not even three minutes into my brand-new job, and I already had a problem…and it was an embarrassing one: I couldn’t figure out how to turn on my computer.

Panic, self-doubt and shame washed over me as I frantically searched the keyboard and the monitor for the on switch. “I knew I wasn’t going to be able to do this,” I berated myself. “I knew I shouldn’t have applied for this job. I knew I was going to be a total failure.” I swiveled toward my officemate, who was busily typing. “Um, can I interrupt you for just a second?”I asked. “Ah, this is kind of embarrassing…but I can’t figure out how to turn on my computer.” In the brief moment before she pointed to the switch on the black tower under my desk, I glimpsed hesitation slide across her features. I could tell she wondered if I was going to make it.

As it turned out, that first question was the first of many to follow in the days and weeks as I settled in my new job. I inquired about the printer, the location of the microwave, the proper formatting for news releases, where the supply closet was located, how to sign my timesheet, the extension for the IT department. I asked what felt like a relentless stream of questions, and although my officemate and other coworkers were remarkably patient and gracious in offering help, after a while, I began to feel ashamed by my seemingly constant need for assistance. I didn’t want to ask for help anymore. I felt like the answer window was closing, and it was time to figure out the rest of it on my own.

I remembered those humbling and terrifying new-job fears and insecurities yesterday when we read Psalm 124 in church. And I thought about how grateful I am that God’s answer window never closes.

“Our help is in the name of the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.” (Psalm 124:8)

The prayer I utter to God most often is this one:“Helpmehelpmehelpmehelpme.” I know. It’s not eloquent. It’s not fancy. It’s more than a little self-centered. Frankly, it must get a little old to be God and hear me mumbling the same pathetic prayer over and over. But what’s simply amazing is that God never stops offering help. He hears my desperation, he hears my panic time and time again, and he doesn’t ever turn away. He never says, “Michelle, your grace period is over. It’s time to figure it out on your own.”

I may not hear an answer to my plea for help right away. I may eventually hear a different answer from the one I desire. But I know I can keep asking. I know he listens. And I find so much comfort in that.

What's your most frequently uttered prayer?

You can read more of Michelle's writing on her blog Graceful.

 

Reflections on a Sunday Sermon

Use it On Monday, by Michelle DeRusha

Michelle writes a daily blog about finding faith in the everyday at Graceful. On Monday's she reflects on Sunday's sermon in a weekly post entitled "Use it on Monday." She's nice enough to let us re-post it on Southwood's blog. You can read it here each week and then click over to Michelle's blog for more of her writing.

Look to the Mountains

About ten years ago Brad and I went camping in the back country of Glacier National Park in Montana. We hiked about 11 miles in to the campsite, where Brad erected the tent on a lovely plateau. Far below us a glacial lake sparkled the blue-green shade of Aquafresh, and above us, enveloping us, the mountains loomed. It was the most beautiful spot I had ever seen. Over our dinner of macaroni and cheese and a Hershey’s Special bar we watched the mountains glow azalea pink as the sun set, and then we tucked into our flannel and fleece for the night.

Two hours later, about midnight or so, I awakened with a jolt. The wind had picked up, and the nylon tent flapped violently as gusts shuddered across the plateau. I panicked. Suddenly I was sweating, dizzy, nauseous.

“Brad! Brad! I feel gross! I think I’m going to throw-up!"

I shook him awake – of course he was sleeping peacefully through it all. “Are we okay?! The tent! The tent! It’s blowing over! I think I’m going to throw up!”

Brad assured me that we were indeed okay, something about the tent material and its tendency to flap loudly in the even the most innocuous breeze.

I decided I needed some fresh air to quell the nausea, so crawled out onto the rock in my socks and stood up. But gazing up at those looming mountains, the glacial snow ripping dramatic, ghostly swaths of white across the darkness, was even worse, even more terrifying. A baffling mix of agoraphobia and claustrophobia swept through me as I stood on the rock shivering in my flannel pjs, my arms wrapped around my chest. The land was so monstrously vast that I felt squashed, like the mountains were an enormous vice squeezing the breath from my body. Suddenly the reality that I was trapped – stuck in this big, lonely, scary place, eleven miles on foot from civilization in moonless, bear-ridden blackness – horrified me.

I ducked back into the tent. “It’s not helping!” I gasped to Brad. “I feel weird! I want to leave! Can we leave now?”

Brad stared at me in disbelief. “Now? Are you kidding? How do you think we’re going to find our way back to the lodge in the middle of the night?”

I realized, of course, that he was right; leaving was impossible. I felt gaggy.

I started to cry. The rest of the night I dozed with my face pressed into a tiny opening in the zipped tent flap, trying to negotiate a balance somewhere between in and out of the tent. Brad was sweet and remarkably patient, especially given the fact that no one in his entire extended family would have ever acted like such a wackjob on a camping trip. At 5 a.m. we packed up our campsite and began the eleven-mile hike back out. The next night we spent in a lodge. All in all, it was not my best moment.

I was reminded of that camping disaster yesterday when I heard these verses from Psalm 121:

“I look up to the mountains; does my strength come from the mountains? No, my strength comes from God, who made heaven, and earth, and mountains.” (1-2, The Message)

I didn’t believe in God at the time I spent that terrified night in the backcountry of Glacier National Park. I wonder now, if I had, would I have perhaps experienced awe rather than simply fear? Or at least awe mixed with fear? I wonder if I would have looked at those massive, looming peaks and felt amazed at God’s power, his awesomeness and might, instead of feeling overwhelmed by my insignificance, smallness and mortality.

Unfortunately, fear alone prevailed that night in the Montana mountains; it took another decade or so for the beginnings of awe and wisdom to follow. But today, nearly 15 years later, as I read those verses from Psalm 121, I’m grateful that I do believe in a God that big, that awesome, that astoundingly and beautifully overwhelming. Sure, I still feel small in the face of such grandeur, in the face of God and the landscape he created, but I don’t feel nearly as insignificant. Because now I know that the God who created the majestic Rocky Mountains also created me.

When's the last time you were simply awed by God? And what prompted that reaction?

You can read more of Michelle's writing on her blog Graceful.

 

Reflections on a Sunday Sermon

Use it On Monday, by Michelle DeRusha

Michelle writes a daily blog about finding faith in the everyday at Graceful. On Monday's she reflects on Sunday's sermon in a weekly post entitled "Use it on Monday." She's nice enough to let us re-post it on Southwood's blog. You can read it here each week and then click over to Michelle's blog for more of her writing.

How to Define the Holy Spirit

Nana, my father’s mother, always referred to the Holy Spirit as the “Holy Ghost.” I remember her dipping two fingers into the Holy Water at Holy Cross Church and making the Sign of the Cross, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost” as she touched wet fingers to forehead, heart and shoulders.

Frankly it gave me the creeps.

As a child, I didn’t find any comfort in the thought of a ghost, holy or not. I often imagined it trailing after us, hovering above our heads as we made our way down the center aisle and into the pew. I was always relieved when we exited out the front doors and down the stone steps after Mass. I assumed Nana put the Ghost back when she made the Sign of the Cross again with the Holy Water before stepping into the parking lot. I imagined that the Ghost swirled back into the basin of Holy Water and sloshed around in there until the following Saturday evening, when the swish of two fingers in the cool water released it again.

As I got older the term “Holy Ghost” fell out of favor, replaced by the less threatening but no less baffling Holy Spirit. This was somewhat better. I thought of the Holy Spirit as a benign force, a little bit like an invisible Tinkerbelle or Glenda the Good Witch, spreading goodness, peace and love like fairy dust.

Those were my two impressions of the Holy Spirit: creepy and vaporous or gentle and sweet. So you can imagine my surprise the first time I read the description of the Holy Spirit in Acts 2:

“Suddenly there was a noise from the sky which sounded like a strong wind blowing, and it filled the whole house where they were sitting. Then they saw what looked like tongues of fire which spread out and touched each person there. They were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to talk in other languages, as the Spirit enabled them to speak.” (Acts 2:2-4).

A noise from the sky? A strong, gusting wind? Tongues of fire? This was not anything like the Holy Spirits I’d imagined in my childhood. This Spirit was powerful, overwhelming, terrifying.

Just imagine, for a moment, what that must have been like for the disciples. Picture the force of a powerful wind, bending trees, kicking up dirt and debris, the grit stinging your eyes and coating your mouth. Picture the flames descending out of nowhere, coming closer, licking the top of your head, your limbs, your hands and feet. Can you imagine the terror…and the awe?

In the presence of such mighty force, there would be no question: you would know unequivocally that you were in the presence of something far beyond normal, something supernatural and awesome.

Although I’m not a kid anymore, I still try to define the Holy Spirit in a way that makes sense to me. I tend to try to box him in, contain him. I try to understand that which cannot be fully understood. I try to define that which cannot be fully defined. Part of me resists the powerful, forceful nature of the Holy Spirit because I am afraid of it – I don’t want to hand over control, to surrender to something so wild and untamed.

Yesterday, on Pentecost Sunday, my dad emailed me a timely devotion written by Franciscan Richard Rohr – a telling and perceptive observation of how many of us, me included, approach the Holy Spirit and what we miss with our narrow definitions and trepidation.

We still wait behind closed doors; fifty days (Pente-cost), fifty years, five hundred years, we are always waiting and hoping, but not really expecting. It is the day we are always waiting for but never prepared for, the day of the great outpouring of fire-laden love, the day that ties all other days together.

Pentecost is actually every day, if we expect it; but, not surprisingly, this is the greatest forgotten major festival of the entire church year. Most come to church expecting no new outpouring, or maybe not even remembering an old one.

Yet it is Pentecost, the day of the great gathering in and the great sending out. The Holy Spirit must get tired of waiting for us, always hiding behind our closed doors (from Radical Grace: Daily Meditations, day 205).

Today, my prayer for me and you is this: May we open ourselves. May we step out of our boxes and from behind closed doors, not merely waiting or hoping for a benign, milk-toast Holy Spirit that fits within the confines of our narrow minds, but recognizing and embracing Him in whatever form He comes. And may we expect, know, that He comes indeed.

How has your perception of the Holy Spirit changed over time?

You can read more of Michelle's writing on her blog Graceful.

 

Reflections on a Sunday Sermon

Use it On Monday, by Michelle DeRusha

Michelle writes a daily blog about finding faith in the everyday at Graceful. On Monday's she reflects on Sunday's sermon in a weekly post entitled "Use it on Monday." She's nice enough to let us re-post it on Southwood's blog. You can read it here each week and then click over to Michelle's blog for more of her writing.

Hope in a Text

I’m about to submit my May column to the Lincoln Journal Star. It’s entitled “What I’ve Learned from Not Publishing,” and it’s a positive examination of how I’ve grown spiritually despite – or perhaps because of – the challenges I’ve faced along this writing journey.

I meant every word I wrote, of course, but what I didn’t say was how hopeless it all feels sometimes. There are days when I want to give up. There are days when I see people I respect and love making the kind of progress I yearn for, and I succumb to jealousy and bitterness. There are days, like last week, when I said to my husband at dinner, “Today I feel like I’m at the bottom of a deep well, and I’m trying to drag myself out inch by inch and am getting absolutely nowhere.”

At 8:43 p.m. that same day, as I sat tucked into one end of the couch, Noah on the other end, both of us with our noses buried in our books, I heard my cell phone chime from the depths of my purse. A text. I didn’t jump off the couch to retrieve it. In fact, I forgot about it until the next morning, when I flipped open my phone in the midst of school-morning bedlam to read this, from Jennifer:

“Praying Isaiah 50:4 over you and your writing tonight: ‘The Sovereign Lord has taught {Michelle} what to say, so that she can strengthen the weary.’”

I had spoken to Jennifer earlier that afternoon – on the bottom-of-the-deep-well day. She had called to ask me for advice, and instead ended up listening as I unloaded all my writing and publishing frustrations into her ear.

And then later that night she sent the text, praying encouragement for me.

I thought of Jennifer, the telephone conversation and that text yesterday as we read these verses from Ephesians.

“I keep asking that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the glorious Father, may give you the Spirit of wisdom and revelation, so that you may know him better,” wrote Paul to the Ephesians. “I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you…” (Ephesians 1:17-18).

That phone call? That text at 8:43 p.m.? Jennifer was my Paul that day, encouraging and strengthening me, and reminding me of the hope God has especially for me. She opened the eyes of my heart.

Has anyone been your Paul lately, encouraging you or reminding you that God has a hope planned especially for you?

You can read more of Michelle's writing on her blog Graceful.