(…continued from God of My Story, Part 5…)

Have you ever been hurt by people claiming to be Christians?  Have you ever thought the church to be hypocritical?  Have you ever scoffed at those people who claim to be so righteous but who seem to be just as bad as the rest of the world?   

Oh, yea, I’ve been there.  Sometimes even today, I still wonder and still encounter some very interesting people.  But I also remember that we are all still sinners. 

Romans 5:8 But God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

We still mess up and have junk in our lives, but He can and does help us with that, for we are still growing in our relationship with Him.

But I learned the hard way about this and nearly walked away from it all, this precious new relationship, only days after surrendering my life to Him.

The following Sunday, after I prayed my first sincere prayer to Jesus Christ, I arrived at church eager and excited to share with my church (not just my place of employment any longer) of my news!  I headed to the organ to set up and to plan how I would play the service and L met me quietly in the hallway with a look of worry on her face.

Uh-oh.

“Tara,” she whispered, “something is going on this morning, just play the prelude and, I’m sorry, but you cannot ‘walk forward’ at the end of the service.”  (Traditionally, “walking forward” in some churches basically means getting up at the end of the service to publicly share with the church of your decision to accept Christ as your Savior, baptism follows at the next baptism service.)

I blinked.  “Ok.”  This wasn’t good.

As service time neared, I began the organ prelude and watched as the church members began filling the pews, then I watched, nervously, as the pastor’s entire immediate and extended family filed in and filled the front pew in front of my organ. 

My heart sank.

It brings tears to my eyes to even think about it and my heart hurts to dwell on it too much, so I’ll say it quickly.  After the prelude ended, I believe a deacon or the music minister stood up and said something then the pastor read his letter of leave of absence due to serious allegations of misconduct.  (No need to share details on a public blog.)

Tears filled my eyes.  The service ended mere minutes later and I was relieved to go home without having to play another note.  This was a well-loved church and pastor in the community.  I  loved them, too.  What…?  I drove home to my apartment in shock and sat in the silence and cried and just waited for my roommate, T, to come home from her church.  Thoughts battled in my mind…

These supposed Christians act like this?!  What hypocrites and liars!  Do you really want to be a part of them if this is what they do to each other?  This cannot be happening!  What do I do now, Lord?  I feel all alone.  Forget all of it, forget the decision you made and just move on – these Christians are all bogus anyways, just like the rest of the world!  What wants to be a part of them anyways?  Is this what the church is like?  Who needs church and religion…I could just do it on my own…no, just forget about it…

Just.  Hang.  On. 

T arrived home finally and cried with me and comforted me.  What a Godly woman she was to me.  God surrounded me, in His great wisdom, with so many who could walk me down a right path during a time that was causing me great doubt and conflict.

But it was not over yet.

Either that same Sunday or the following Sunday, the pastor of another church in town who had been at his church for over 20 years resigned after admitting to an affair.  Doubts fueled a new fire in my mind again.  Unbelievable.  In the weeks ahead, more would happen in the situation regarding my pastor at the church I attended and worked for.  A dear friend, N, would make time, even at personal cost to herself, to be sure I did not hear anything from hurtful sources, but would instead come to me quickly and privately to explain and pray with me and encourage me as I processed this especially in my new walk with Christ.

God had His Hand of protection on me always, helping me to grow and to trust, working through those around me.  One of my required classes for graduation was a Religion in Life class.  Our text book?  Henry Blackaby’s Experiencing God.  Wow, did I experience Him that term!  I learned a lot and saw lives changed through that class as well.  Dr. T was incredible.

Do you see?  I was right where God wanted me – in that college-I-had-rejected-but-now-loved.

I never spoke with or saw that pastor or his wife again, but they hold a special place in my heart.  I learned so much from them, more than words can quantify.  The following spring, when things settled down somewhat at church, I was able to publicly tell the church about the decision I had made that previous fall.  They rejoiced with me, and then I was baptized on Easter Sunday by an interim pastor at the evening service.  What a precious memory that is to me even to this day. 

Through these experiences, I learned that Christians are not perfect.  Oh, so imperfect.  But through it all my God is ever true and always faithful, never changing.  That I can trust.  And are there hypocrites?  Sure.  Because we try and we fail and we try again. 

Romans 7:15, 17 -20  For I do not understand my own actions… For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.  So now it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells within me.  For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh. For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing. Now if I do what I do not want, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells within me.

Hebrews 12:1  Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.

And we keep trying, with the Holy Spirit’s help.  We are forgiven, loved, and have the Holy Spirit to help us grow.   The church is made up of people who have a relationship with Jesus Christ and Jesus Christ loves His church!  However, all the people in church are sinners, too,  messing up all the time – and that includes those hypocrites that we need to forgive, and then we can ask the Holy Spirit how to handle those relationships.  But do not let them keep you from church. 

Are you really going to let a few hypocrites and sinners, just like you and me, get in the way of an incredible life-changing and life-saving relationship with the One and Only, Jesus Christ?  Do not give them the credit they do not deserve and do not let them have that power over you.

But what about that one-god-over-all-religions thing?  What happened to that?  Being good?  And heaven?  Did I know for sure now?

Oh, yea…

…to be continued…

(…continued from God of My Story, Part 4…)

Relationship.  What does that mean?  Surrender.  No way I’m surrendering to anybody.  But…  Relationship.  I wanted to be loved, valued, cherished, protected, and adored, too! 

But just saying the words does not get you there.  You cannot just say the words at a marriage ceremony then walk away.  You work on the relationship, you commit to life with that person. 

Relationship.  My heart was craving something I could not put my finger on.  Some of the people around me, whom I observed, had something special that I wanted.  Some of the people around me said that they had something special that I could have, too, but what they demonstrated seemed so hurtful at times.  Why would I want that kind of relationship?  I didn’t get it…  Aren’t Christians supposed to be kind and loving and friendly?

I was confused.  But still seeking, watching, and God knew.  He put me right where I could not get away from it.  A job.  At a church.  

I am often asked how I could have gotten a job at a church without being a Christian.  Easy.  Organists were and still are in short supply.  The roommate I mentioned in part one?  She was the staff pianist there and we knew we worked well together.   Was she praying for me?  Probably.  I’ll have to ask her…

For almost two years, I played two services each Sunday.  It was an old Hammond organ, and challenging to say the least when you are really just a classical pianist, but I had fun regardless.  The pastor and his wife were so kind and friendly, I’ll never forget them.  She led the college Sunday school class.  And his sermons – gosh, I still remember them.  Those are memorable sermons when you remember them over ten years later.   The music minister and his wife – so precious.  They call us even now if they pass through town. 

I watched, I observed, I learned.  I soaked  it in.   The walls were coming down stone by stone…pride by miserable pride…

The fall of my senior year.  November.  Late November, I believe.  The church was hosting a revival service and it was a Wednesday night.  I shattered, I could hold up my resistance no longer.

I wanted a relationship with Jesus.  I wanted Him to be mine.  I wanted to be certain of my future, and certain of forgiveness when I messed up (sinned).  I wanted to surrender my all to Him.  Was I giving up my freedom to Him?  Yes and no!  It was a joyous surrender and a joyous freedom that words cannot explain. 

I knew.

With tears in my eyes and unsure of what to do next, I grabbed my former roommate, L, and told her to please come to my apartment when she was finished because I needed to speak with her.

She knew. 

Somehow I knew that it would be my last chance to accept this relationship, to circle “yes” on this proverbial slip of paper.  Somehow I knew it was a Life or Death moment, with the weight of eternity in the balance for me.  It felt Heavy.  I had never felt anything like it before.  I knew I had a choice, to say no and reject Him – again – yet, I also knew that this time I would run full-fledged into His arms like a child.  My pride had fractured into a thousand pieces and I wanted this relationship more than life itself.  (Little did I know how many years later, it would also save my physical life, literally.)

L arrived and I hiccuped through my tears and we prayed together, something like this…

“Father God, please forgive me of my sins!  I believe you died on the cross for me and my sins and rose from the dead to be my Savior.  I want to have a relationship with you and I want you to live in me and my heart as my Lord and Savior!  Amen!”

The burden was gone.  Gone!  I felt humbled, relieved, happy…did I mention humbled?  But in a good way.  The Holy Spirit, as a result of my surrendering myself to a joyous relationship with Christ, was now a permanent resident of my heart.  I had help for living!  Help!  I was no longer ever alone.  A peace unlike any I have ever known filled me.  Joy unexplainable. 

L took me to our pastor’s home to discuss my decision and to pray together.  We would make my decision known to the church as a whole the following Sunday.  (This is joyous news to share, you do not hide your “light”!)

The following Sunday(s) did not turn out as expected.  In fact, it threatened to shatter my new-found faith.  But God knew way before I did and already had His hand of protection on me and the Holy Spirit in me to comfort me.   Friends were already in place to guide me down a rocky road when I was ready to reject it all so quickly…

…to be continued…

(…continued from God of My Story, Part 3…)

It was so hot in the little lodge that I felt like I could hardly draw a breath.  Sweat Lodge, indeed.  This was more like a let’s-suck-every-bit-of-moisture-out-of-you-then-some-more-while-you-try-to-pray-and-have-a-spiritual-experience lodge.  More water was poured onto the hot rocks in the pit in the center and steamed gushed upward and around us.  I was encouraged to lean down to the edge of the lodge wall and breathe in fresh air before I passed out.  Cool, sweet air…oh, what relief…

This was a way to get closer to God?  The Great Spirit?  ‘Cause it sure is hot in here!

We could only walk in one direction around the fire outside and upon entering the lodge and around the pit inside.  I do not remember everything, but I remember being worried about the details.  Would I get it right?  Would I do a part of the ceremony or actions wrong and anger someone or something?  But I’ll do my best; my dad is here and he’ll help me.  I want to try, I want a spiritual experience.

The people we met who participated in these ceremonies were so friendly and caring, seemingly unlike some of the hypocrites we had met before.   They were so in tune with the world and nature – so why couldn’t it be a perfect match with the God I had grown up with?  He created the world in seven days, we had learned.  Surely, this was the same god?  These people are so good!  How can they not get into heaven, too?  And who am I to say whether or not they will get into heaven, really?  How dare someone say for sure whether or not I was getting into heaven! 

Thoughts like these dominated my mind as I grew from high school into college.  You know, that stage in life where you have no idea who you are or what you believe in and are trying to figure it out.

I continued to compromise my morals and ethics and beliefs in my own mind, but God had His Hand on me the entire time.  Whether I was in questionable or potentially dangerous situations with men, drugs, alcohol, driving (not much to do when you live in the sticks), or what-not, I was always protected somehow.  To this day, I give my God and Savior the glory for that.  Truly amazing.  I will even say unashamedly and unabashedly that I was a virgin on my wedding day.  And that was indeed God’s protection.  I’ll probably never know how much, but I have an idea.  I never tried the drugs either – it was amazingly easy to say no and let them get over it.  I was a poster-child for the Just Say No campaign!

God’s protection there also?  Absolutely.  Look for the hindsight, people, it’s there in your life, too.  You’re reading this, aren’t you?  Perhaps He’s prompting you to look…

I held my own quiet rebellion as I headed off to that Baptist-college-I-rejected-but-God-chose.  I dressed a little differently than everyone else.  (If you know me personally and see me on a regular basis, I am sure that is hard to believe.)  My freshman year composition class I insisted on writing two papers about tattoos and the Bible.  Oh, my sweet professor, I just loved her.  What patience she had!  (She admitted I proved my thesis well.  That makes me grin even now.)  Then I would do things like help circulate a petition against the school cafeteria because the food was horrendous and they charged way too much money for it.  (I was easily let off the required meal plan the next year.  Hmm…wonder why?) 

The quiet rebellion became more permanent.  The weekend before heading back to school for my sophomore year, my mom went with me to get a tattoo.  It doesn’t get much more permanent then that.

Yes, I have a tattoo.  It’s of an angel holding a rose with a moon in the background.  I was fascinated with angels at the time.

Yes, it hurt.  But, I usually forget I even have it.  (My kids call it a “pretty picture.”)

But throughout this quiet rebellion, and my arguing and my challenging of all the Baptist-ness and Christian-ese around me, Jesus Christ was planting seeds.  There was a concert one night at the large Baptist church near campus and I was invited to go along with several of the other students and new friends.  It was a Christian group, sharing the message of salvation.  (I think they are a popular group now.)  I do not recall the words, but I remember being strongly affected.  As we walked back to the campus that night, I was so glad it was dark so no one could see my tears. 

I just wasn’t ready for surrender yet.  Pride, so much pride.

There was another event later that year – Tony Campolo if I recall correctly.  I wasn’t particularly fond of his style of communication, but at the “invitation” to surrender your life to Christ someone next to me wanted to go down to pray and asked me if I wanted to go as well.  I said, “Sure!”  I prayed the prayer of salvation, and apparently that was it.  I was saved!

Um, ok…not so much.  Pride again. 

I had only said the words.   Oh, how many times had I said the words over and over and over again over the years!  But I had not surrendered to truly letting Christ into my heart and my life, letting Him take over and walking into the freedom of a relationship with Him!  I would not know the difference for another three years. 

Oh yes, I continued to argue.  And challenge.  And observe.  And question.  And take it all in.

Then I got a job as a part-time staff organist at a Baptist church near the campus. 

God has a sense of humor with me, remember?

…to be continued…

(…continued from God of My Story, Part 2…)

So you may be wondering how a girl like me, if I was taken to church by my parents and my aunt during childhood, how did I end up believing there was one god over all religions and being good was good enough, among many other things?

Let me digress for a moment to explain how I got to that point.

I do have distinct memories of being in the Catholic church as a child and receiving First Communion, even being nervous about confession.  Heck, I’m pretty certain I even made up sins just to get through confession!  Hmmmm, maybe I should confess that…

I have very sweet memories of talking to my parents about Jesus, always teasing and testing when Mom would reassure us that Jesus was everywhere.  “Is he on my head, Momma?” 

“Yup!”

“Is He on my shoulders?” we giggled.

“Sure is!”

“Is He…..on the stove?”

This would continue into fits of laughter as we imagined the most silliest places Jesus could be.  Years later,  these memories would have an opportunity to rush headlong into my mind without warning. 

One hot summer day, I was leading a cave tour at that same cave I mentioned working at above.  A storm had rushed upon us and living in a tornado-prone area, I took my tour-group rather quickly into the cave – the safest place in the park. 

My group consisted of a grandmother and her five-year-old grandson.  Big group, I know.  Slow day. 

I gave the tour as confidently as I could, but I was a tad nervous trying to listen to the storm overhead and watching the light system flicker.  As expected, the lights went out at the deepest part of the cave and I handed my small spare flashlight to the little guy while I reassured them that someone would come to us shortly with a lantern and to update us on the storm. 

The grandmother then asked if I  was ok.  Way to display confidence there, Tara.  The little boy then pipes up.  “It’s ok to be scared,” he said in the sweetest little voice.

“Yup, you are right, it is ok to be scared,” I replied.

“You want to know why?” he prompted.

“Ok, why?” I said, jumping at the bait.

“Because Jesus is everywhere!” he grinned and said so excitedly.  It was contagious.  My fears about the park above being gone from whatever tornado had ravaged it while we were below had evaporated.

“You are absolutely right!”  I was flooded with memories of my own conversations about this very subject from my own childhood.

“He is on my head, on my shoulders, and beside me and everywhere!” he continued.

(I’m grinning just typing this.  I’m quite certain he is a full-fledged evangelist these days.)

At that point, I heard a rushing sound coming from the entrace of the cave.  I was certain at this point it was a tornado directly overhead, but thankfully it was only the woosh of a latern as another guide came to assist us out of the cave with more light than my two flashlights could provide. 

The storm had passed, all was well, and a little angel had tried to get my attention in a way that was familiar to me. 

Do you think I paid attention? 

Not at that moment in time, no, but it was something I never, ever forgot.  It was something that chipped away at my heart.  I may not have paid overt attention, but a part of my heart obviously noticed.

Something that my heart never forgot either were the days I spent in church as a child.  My parents or my aunt would often take us to the local Presbyterian church (Cumberland Presbyterian if you are interested in flavors) for Sunday services.  We attended off and on while growing up there.  I played piano there as well.  I would get bored, but the people there were special and loved on us and continue to do so.  (Chris and I were even married in that church.)  That was Christ planting seeds as well. 

Sometime during my senior year in high school, my parents befriended a Native American couple and began exploring that belief system.  And as any child would do, I began to explore along with them.  

Could this be the same god – the God of the Catholic church, the Presbyterian church, and the Great Spirit this Native American couple talked about?  Why not? I thought. What was so wrong with that?

And thus began my walk into what I thought were the peaceful waters of a one-god-world.

…to be continued…

…continued from God of My Story (part 1)…

My experiences during college and high school were varied.  It is probably safe to say that some even put me closer to God than others.  My brother and I worked as cave tour guides for a few summers together, and in our free time we would go to private property cave exploring, or spelunking, as some would say.  (But “spelunking” is such a wierd word to me for some reason.  I prefer “cave exploring.”  Call me strange.)  And if crawling between several tons of rock with barely centimeters to spare doesn’t make you pray a little bit, I am not sure what will. 

Oh, the adventures we had!  There was one cave that I ventured into twice with Mike.  Only twice and that was probably two times too many.  It was on a private farm about twenty minutes from home and its entrance was a pit in the middle of the woods.  We had to rappel down to the bottom and climb the pile of mud and branches further down.  Deeper into the cave, we had to rappel again and beyond that was one of the most beautiful sites I had ever seen.  It is amazing to know that only a few people have or will see such an amazing site that is below the surface of this earth. 

Hang in there, I’m getting to the point of this side journey.  This particular cave and my two trips into it have left an indelible mark on me.

We had to rappel back up the second height, make our way to the pit then work on rappelling back up that one.  At this point, I was pretty tired (no, I was not in the necessary physical shape to complete two rappels and climbs in the same trip – hindsight, remember?).  My brother and his friend left quickly for the top to notify our safety net that we were ok, otherwise they were instructed to call cave rescue if they had not heard from us by xyz time.   I was left by myself in the bottom of the cave for a bit while they did that and for them to prepare to help me up that last climb. 

It was a loooooooon little bit.

I lit a candle to save battery power.  And I sang.  Prayed to the God of all religions.  Sang hymns and Christmas songs.  (My parents and aunt always made sure we went to church so I was very familiar with church and hymns.)  Talked to myself. 

Did I mention I am scared of the dark?

It was very scary, and a bit disconcerting, but all was well.  My brother and his friend returned, and it was a joint effort to pull me out with me climbing – bats circling about me the whole way.  I collapsed at the top, then we hightailed it to the car before the coyotes could get too close.

I had an opportunity some time later to return to the same cave with my brother and my dad.  On one hand, a great bonding experience, right?  On the other, am I crazy?  Bonding happened indeed, but I think God won out on that one. 

On our way back out of the cave on that second trip, I was in worse shape and simply could not pull my own weight on the second climb up.  I had to sit on top of the pile of mud and branches and debris at the bottom of the pit while my dad and brother worked their way up the rope system, waiting for them to get to the top so they could pull me up. 

I had a friend with me.

A baby copperhead snake.

He was sitting about a yard and a half from me, curled on a branch.  Fortunately, cave temperatures stay cool consistently and he was not interested in moving.  But I do not think we ever took our eyes off of each other. 

My fear of the dark had just multipled to include bats and snakes.  Ugh.

God was indeed becoming more real to me in that moment.  He heard a lot from me that night.  I was never so glad to get out of a cave, and I have not been back in one since.  (My brother also insisted he was never taking me again until I could pull my own weight – yea, yea, yea – brothers, schmothers.)

Perhaps God was trying to get my attention?  It would have worked if I had been paying attention…  Did He have His hand on that snake?  I believe He did.  Did He calm my anxieties when I could have completely freaked out? 

You bet.  If only I had been paying attention…

But all in good time.  His timing is perfect.

…to be continued…