Healing Like Rain

The Lord is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and rich in love. The Lord is good to all; he has compassion for all he has made (Psalm 145 v.8-9)

Healing is like rain. What I mean to say is that healing is the product of  the showers of truth. When we allow light and truth to enter our hearts, healing is the result. I have discovered recently that the torrential thunderstorms of life that I tried to avoid, in reality, brought the best crops of restoration, joy, and peace in my life.

Healing comes in the unsettled ways live reaches us: death, relocation, new job, and separation from my family and home. I know because all these things hit my life.  I uprooted myself from everything I had a new call to move to South Africa. I had a call I was to begin a journey, a supposed adventure but it was at the cost of the familiar.

What began as an adventure turned out to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever experienced? I left my classroom of 10 years, my home of 10 years, and my family. Nothing stays the same. Neither people nor places. So, when I returned I was hit with a full storm of emotions: who was I? Where did I belong? How would I or could fit into two worlds? The deluge of coming home to what was not really my home anymore and saying associates and students who no longer associates was more than unnerving. Add to that my church closed the same month I came home.  The deluge seemed ready to sink my craft. Bolts of lightning and frightening rumbles of terrible thunder rocked my world as relationships came unglued and the support I thought would be forthcoming did not appear. Luckily, my small boat was tied to a larger one whose Guide is God.

In the midst of this storm, there was a pilot on the boat next to. He pulled my small ship closer to his larger one and I grabbed the ladder that he had thrown overboard and quietly gathered the strength to enter into his boat. There his gentle ministrations brought healing to my chafed spirit and soul: un-dealt with issues, unmet desires, unhealed hurts. All these rivulets of scars He healed with His tender attentions.

Hebrews 12 states no discipline seems pleasant at the time but it achieves a harvest of righteousness for those who are trained by. That difficult season in my life has produced a firm foundation. I trust completely in God to captain by ship. I do not rely on men to do what only God can, and I resolutely know that no matter many storms hit my life,  He will bring my safely to harbor. Psalm 145: 17: God is just in all his ways; and is kind in all he does. If I did not believe that, I would have given up a long time ago.  Meditate on these promises from Psalm 145: “The Lord upholds all those who fall down and lifts all who were bowed down (v.14). “The Lord is near to all who call on him to all who call on him in truth. He fulfills the desires of those who fear him; he hears their cry and saves them" (v.18-19).

I pray that no matter what storms hit your life; you will not get out of the boat with Jesus -even if he is sleeping in the stern. One cry from your voice will awaken and will speak Peace to you and the storm, If He doesn’t quiet the storm outside of you, He will quiet the one within, just as he did for me.

Standing under the umbrella of Grace.

MJ

 

The Ten Forgotten Virgins

We talk about the Twenty Virgins: Ten Foolish and Ten Wise. But there is a forgotten story of ten other virgins. We know them as concubines, not quite wives, but not really whores. Who were these women? Like all women, they began as virgins. They were likely the daughters of kings, royalty in reality, but they ended their days as witless victims to a man’s lust or greed of power. I take my story from a small segment found in the book of Kings, Embattled King David is forced to flee Jerusalem as his son, Absalom, attempts a coup d’état. In his wake, he leaves ten concubines and their children to guard the palace and its belongings. One has to wonder what David was thinking.

Absalom said to Ahithophel, “Give us your advice. What should we do?” Ahithophel answered, “Sleep with your father’s concubines whom he left to take care of the palace. Then all Israel will hear that you have made yourself obnoxious to your father, and the hands of everyone with you will be more resolute.” So they pitched a tent for Absalom on the roof, and he slept with his father’s concubines in the sight of all Israel. Now in those days the advice Ahithophel gave was like that of one who inquires of God. That was how both David and Absalom regarded all of Ahithophel advice. (2 Samuel 16:20-23).

Absalom’s decision came from tradition; it was a conventionally Eastern idea. The grossest insult that one could offered to a king, and that a king a father, would be to lie with his wives and concubines, and this choice would strengthen the breach between David and Absalom.

 It was irreparable; it was vain to hope for any reconciliation. We talk of David and Absalom, Joab and Ahithophel; yet, few wonder, however, what happened to the ten concubines that were left behind. In scripture, they appear to be merely glossed over. Certainly, the Bible scholar is little concerned with their fate. Humiliation. Shame. Degradation.

 

 When the famous king is forced to leave Jerusalem with his wives, concubines, and children, it  is a day of great sadness. Indeed, it is a day of great shame. Critics speak of David’s humiliation but what of that of the women? To be taken, one after another and used, and then tossed away. Was it not bad enough to be left behind in Jerusalem, not taken with the rest of the king’s entourage? But now to add insult to injury, they are to be raped by the king’s son in view of all of  Jerusalem. Public Humiliation. Lest we imagine ourselves any better, when a rape victim is tried in the papers or it is suggested that she invited the abuse, we assume the same posture as those who stood that day and watched Absalom go in and lay with his father’s concubines.

 Ahithophel, one of David’s trusted counselors, advises Absalom to put up a tent of the place roof and publically humiliate his father be having intercourse with his concubines. Why is it that a woman seems to be voiceless at these times? Where were the voices that said, “do not do this thing? If not for the rape of your own sister, Tamar, do not do this thing. Do not use women like your brother Amnon used your sister Tamar and then discarded her. She had no place to go from her shame, these women will neither.”

No, but Absalom is furious; he has held his anger and grievance over David’s lack of action over his sister’s rape for almost ten years. For two years, he waited and plotted the murder of his brother Amnon. After the assassination, which he did during a pretext of throwing a party to which he invited his brothers, he fled to his mother’s country where he remained for three years. When he returned to Jerusalem, he was not greeted by his father for another two years.  Finally, he spent four years plotting his rebellion. Eleven years has passed for him to build up his rage; it must be spent.

At least someone grieved over Tamar; who grieved over these women? Did they cry together as they tried to wipe the shame away as they did the tears? They were now one flesh with father and son. They shared pain now on a deeper level, adding to their sense of rejection and humiliation.

One incident of rape had such great ramifications that it is hard to believe that we believe that there will be not cataclysmic effects for us in this generation. Like David, we are truly asleep at the wheel.

P.S.

Those ten concubines had no more choice in having sex with Absalom then Bathsheba with David. That would be akin to saying a serf or slave girl had a choice in having sex with her master. In fact, most feudal landlords and slave masters considered it their right to deflower a peasant or slave girl.

Still Ruminating,

MJ

Beeteeful Lessons

It is one thing to study something as a matter of academic interest and quite another to view it firsthand. Such is my experience with the bees. I had researched them and talked about them, but now I would learn about them experientially. So, one sunny day two weeks ago, I entered into the world of bees. There, I learned some new lessons.

First, I learned that bees are sensitive to smell. They do not like perfumes. I guess that I can understand this sentiment since they daily smell the freshest and best perfume that the world has to offer: flowers. Anything synthetic imitating the real thing should dissatisfy.



They also can smell fear. Like dogs, if they sense fear, they will attack. During my entire time with the bees, I had to remain quiet, calm, and full of faith. I trusted God's presence in the bees so much that I stood before the nest naked so to speak.: no hat,  no gloves, or mask. Even my lower body was open to attack if they so chose, but I believed that they would not. I walked in as a friend not foe.

Lastly, I want to describe the treasure I reaped: the honey and the honey comb. God's word and godly wisdom is compared to the honeycomb: "They are more desirable than gold, even much fine gold. They are sweeter than honey, even the drippings from a honeycomb" (Psalm 19:10). True sweetness in life takes much work. The bees work hard for their product, and rightfully become enraged when people try to steal their hard-earned work. What if we were as adamant about guarding God's word in hearts, His promises, and our faith in Him, as the bees are diligent in attacking those who attempt to steal their honeycomb? Wouldn't the sweetness of God's presence flow down our lives and into the lives of others because of His loving presence that saturates us?


I left that day with one terrible sting on my hand- that 's all. But isn't that life? If you live afraid, you may never be stung, but have you really lived? The sting of love and  death simply reminds us and others that we have truly lived and that without fear.

Honey-filled,
MJ

What's in a Name?

Heritage is a strange thing. We look in the mirror, and we see our father’s nose, and mother’s eyes. But, what about the deeper things? I have being thinking about my own inheritance from my father. He died twelve years ago; yet, it was not until this week that I could articulate more fully the gifts that he bequeathed to me. That I could do so was only a work of the Heavenly Father and Holy Spirit.

The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship. And by him we cry, "Abba, Father." Romans 8:15

 

The Lord has been speaking to me about the spirit of adoption; I call it the spirit of belonging, knowing that one is a daughter or son. The key to this heavenly adoption hinges on an earthly reality: are we our parents’ children? Do we respect and honor them? We learn how to be children in our parents’ household … or not. If not, we will struggle with trusting God to be a perfect Father. We will struggle with the act of submitting to being a child.

 I found it difficult to understand how to honor a father, long-deceased; a necessary step, but daunting, nonetheless.  My father was no more perfect than anyone else’s; he struggled during his life with illness, addictions, and other problems, but God showed me that much of what I take for granted about who I am- the good in me came from my father.

I had an astonishing dad, not in the traditional sense. I lived in a home that valued history. He barely finished high school, but could have taken on any history professor at Harvard on the topics of American presidency and wars.

He loved to cook, and we watched chefs prepare meals. Something, I am sure not too many African-American dads did in the 1980s with their kids. While my mother baked from a recipe, he baked from scratch, often improvising.  Something,  that I still do this day as I cook and bake for over 100 people at the YWAM base.

He also had a lovely singing voice. The fact that I know Marty Robbins, Sam Cooke, Aretha Franklin, Elvis Presley, Bobbie Blue Bland, Janis Joplin, and Johnny Cash is thanks to him. He introduced  me to gospel, rock, folk, early country, blues, and soul. Later, as I studied music, I would add jazz, classical, and international musicians to those genres.

He was a great athletic. He was invited to play professional baseball with a Houston-based team.  Personally, for over decade, I have taught at YMCA, Curves, and other establishments as a fitness instructor. I have been an enthusiastic bicyclist for twenty-five years.

He was preacher although I am not sure how good of a pastor he made.  My handling of the word of God takes its roots from both my mom and dad. I have preaching since I was 18 years old, but devouring the word of God even before then.

He authentically loved children and fathered orphans. I have worked with children since my teens ; I began ministering to see them protected and loved. Through him, I met and learned about other cultures. His life crossed religious, ethnic, racial, and socio-economic lines. My first travels were with him in the car delivering albums to buyers. I have since traveled to over thirty countries. Now, I am in South Africa working with girls who live in impoverished areas because of him.

Much of who I am is because of him today.

When we think of the gifts our fathers give us sometimes we don’t really see clearly until God shines a light. What our are idiosyncrasies? What sets us apart? If you don’t understand or know who you are, think about your father.

Fathered,
MJ

 

Royal Garments

All  glorious within is the princess within her chamber; her gown is interwoven with gold. Psalm 45:13

The kings' daughters were given beautiful garments to wear signifying their purity and virginity- this practice is noted not only in the Psalms but in a searing tale of family misfortune and dysfunction: this is the tale of Tamar.

Unhappily named after the daughter-in-law of Judah, who had to stoop to unscrupulous means to become with child, Tamar, may have known from the beginning that her life would be full of challenges but she probably did not know the cautionary tale of her ancestor would point the finger at a family member- her own brother.

Amnon, the scriptures said, loved his sister. I am sure in his depraved and maddened state, and he believed he did: he became so obsessed with his sister Tamar that he made himself ill. She was a virgin, and it seemed impossible for him to do anything to her.

But after conspiring to rape her, the scriptures say that he hated her more than he had loved her. After he had raped her, Tamar, tore her garments, for she was no longer pure, and had been disgraced. Though she begged her half-brother to ask for her hand in marriage, he refused thus doubling her shame: “No, my brother!” she said to him. “Don’t force me! Such a thing should not be done in Israel! Don’t do this wicked thing.  What about me? Where could I get rid of my disgrace? And what about you? You would be like one of the wicked fools in Israel. Please speak to the king; he will not keep me from being married to you.” But he refused to listen to her, and since he was stronger than she, he raped her" (2 Samuel 13: 12-14).

Yet, the story does not end on the sad note that the Tamar ended her life a desolate woman in the home of her brother Absalom. No, because David did not deal with his family’s issues Absalom’s rage at his sister’s rape burned within he, and he conspired to kill his brother, which he eventually did. This act then led him to flee from David and eventually to try and usurp the kingdom from his father’s hands. Untold heartache fell on David: Tamar’s rape and desolation, Amnon’s murder, and eventually rebellion that led to Absalom’s death as well.

Too many times, we don’t take rape and incest seriously. We don’t see how they tear at the fabric of the nation, destroying families, society, and the nation as a whole, but David’s saga clearly indicates how one family's destruction leads to chaos and death for an entire nation. As in Tamar’s case, there were accomplices; those who aided and abetted Amnon’s frightful conduct. God forbid that I should be one of these- who by cooperation or by silence inflict pain on God’s precious daughters.

Tamar's tale has three parts: first the gift  of the robe. Like Joseph who was given a robe of many colors, (Genesis 37:4; 21-23) Tamar received a robe which signified favor, status, and esteem. Similarly, Jesus received His special robe (John 9:23-25)- one that was a singularly woven piece- one over which the Roman guards would cast lots.

All three suffered disgrace as the robe was torn from their bodies. First, Joseph; then Tamar, and finally Jesus.  Joseph lost his garment to the jealousy of his brothers; Jesus lost his beautiful garment to the ravenous soldiers, and Tamar lost her rich garment as it was ripped form her body. God also clothed Israel in a garment when He found her in the field and put shoes on her feet and made her beautiful.

Hear God's plaintive cry for Israel, whom God characterizes as a woman:
And as for your nativity, in the day you were born your navel was not cut, neither were you washed in water to supple you; you were not salted at all, nor swaddled at all. None  pitied you, to do any of these to you, to have compassion on you; but you were cast out in the open field, to the loathing of your person, in the day that you were born. 6And when I passed by you, and saw you polluted in your own blood, I said to you when you were in your blood, Live; yes, I said to you when you were in your blood, Live. … (Ezekiel 16:4-7).

Ultimately, such stories can end positively with restoration, Joseph was restored. Jesus is coming back wearing a  new robe: Revelations 19:12 and Rev 3:4-5. Let God restore you. I hear Him say that when He found Anene Booysen,  the young colored South African girl, in that field, mutilated and abused, He picked her up and wrapped her in His robe, and took her straight to the judgment seat. She is at His side now;  it’s is enough.

 So will you let him find you in any field and put his robe of righteousness, mercy, grace on you?

A Fitly-Robed Princess of the Most High,
MJ

My Life in South Africa

South Africa is like no other place on earth that I have lived or visited. Since that amounts to over thirty countries in Europe, the Middle East, Africa, the Caribbean, North and South America, I would say that my experiences are quite significant. In any country where I have lived, I have managed to know the people, making long-term connections, and bond with the culture. I did this by walking the streets, knocking on doors, and greeting people.  Not so in South Africa, there are gates. You must ring the gate to announce who you are. You see, South Africa, at least where I live, in the Western Cape, is a prison state. Everyone lives behind bars, usually with dogs, and security.

To enter most shops, you must buzz to be allowed entry. Every day, there are reports have people held up and robbed in their businesses, so I understand their carefulness. Worcester is known as the Tik, or crack, capital of South Africa and has the leading number of gangs. This seemingly small insignificant town boasts such cold-blood killings that they have made national and international headlines.

So, I walk down the street with mace in my hand because it is common for someone to merely stroll up with a knife and demand your cellphone or anything of value you have. One of my friends was attacked while walking with her son. She had to plead for both of their lives. A typical day in Worcester.

You see, within the the colored community in particular,  most young men are still angry and embittered about the legacy of apartheid. They  are now involved in gangsterism and feel that they are owed something, so they have no qualms about taking it. Just this week, in the supermarket where I shop, a man hid in a lady’s car trunk with the intent of entering her safe zone. You see, once she opened the gate to her house by her remote, locked it, entered her garage and closed it as well by remote, he, with his knife at the ready, would come out, force her into the house, maybe even kill her, and take everything.  But luckily, someone saw him enter the car’s trunk. However, this scenario actually happens every day in South Africa.

This is the world I inhabit. A place where a young girl is subject to attempted rape by a boy of eleven. A place where young men rape, murder, and then pull out the girl’s womb, where a man  sets his girlfriend on fire and she dies from her wounds, where schoolmates kill  a girl and then drink her blood. A place of violence directed every day towards girl children and women, and my friends, it has all but wearied my soul.

The young girl who was almost raped was one of my students.  She is only eleven years, and as she waited to be picked up for dance rehearsal with me, she was lured behind a building and attacked.  It was premeditated. One classmate lured her behind the house, while a second boy waited for her. So, these male children have already mastered the art of finding and hurting females at the tender age of ten and eleven.

I have not even begun to talk about the rampant corruption, greed, and dishonesty in this place. The corruption would make Al Capone blush. But what hurts my heart the most is the constant barrage of abuse and pain leveled at girls and women in this country. It is unconscionable. Nearly every day, some horrific act of violence is broadcasted on the news, and people seemingly are unfazed by it. They continue drinking Rooibos tea and eating biltong.

I feel I am only one person fighting an uphill battle. Yes, there are decent, caring people in South Africa, but I have yet to meet any who are willing in this city to really fight for girls. Plenty talk. I have met none who walk. The kind of suffering that is happening here will take an army of committed people to fight, not one lone American woman. The South African decent men, women, and children must become infuriated at this base behavior, and rise up against it. - A Wounded Warrior,
MJ

 

Attention, Please

At that time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, “Who, then, is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” He called a little child to him, and placed the child among them. And he said: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. And whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me. (Matt. 18:1-5)

Attention: kids seem to crave it  and will do almost anything to get it: ham it up; throw a tantrum; whine, plead, or beg. Even with such theatrics,children are sometimes not listened to; they are not seen. They can easily get lost and forgotten, but sometimes, even worse than being forgotten, they fall prey to misuse and abuse, becoming the target of some one's rage or addiction.

 
Sadly, sometimes, the kind of attention children receive is unwanted and unwarranted as in the case of abuse. When God offers us the option to become a child, He offers us a different kind of attention: loving attention that meets our needs in the best way.  He knows how to stop the tears and sulking. He knows how to hold us so that He can dry those tears. Isn’t it amazing that of all the promises of heaven, the best one, is that God himself will wipe all the tears from our eyes.

 
Still God knows that He wants to spoil us as his children for His delight is in us. Even when others do not esteem us, He does. He knows the reason for every tear, so when He wipes our eyes, He knows exactly what has made us sad or happy. He knows us inside out. Sometimes, that is scary- to be known, but not for a child. A child wants you to see everything- every picture she has drawn, what she learned at school, which one is her best friend,  and she is inquisitive. Thanks goodness because the kingdom belongs to those who have inquiring minds. Jesus, said ask and keep on asking, seek and keeping on seeking. As a child I was quite curious and asked questions, sometimes, at the most inappropriate time. But a question is never ill-timed for Jesus, and He is ready with answers. We have a lot to learn from children.

Children are  not afraid of being known, of being seen, at least until they are taught otherwise. May we grow more childlike every day.

Always willing to be a child,
MJ