Across the Street or Around the World

It was the late 1980s and Steve Green, one of my favorite vocal singer's/songwriter's, penned the following:

There's a call going out across the land in every nation
A call to all who swear allegiance to the cross of Christ
A call to true humility, to live our lives responsibly
To deepen our devotion to the cross at any price
Let us then be sober moving only in the spirit
As aliens and strangers in a hostile foreign land
The message we're proclaiming is repentance and forgiveness
The offer of salvation to the dying race of man

CHORUS: To love the Lord our God is the heartbeat of our mission
The spring from which our service overflows
Across the street or around the world
The mission's still the same
Proclaim and live the truth in Jesus's name

As a candle is consumed by the passion of the flame
Spilling light unsparingly throughout a darkened room
Let us burn to know him deeper then
Our service flaming bright
Will radiate His passions and blaze with holy light

This song is "playing" over and over in my mind as I type this and reflect on our class today. Today we examined creation, but we cannot do justice in forty-five minutes to a creative act by God, coming into being by the spoken act of His voice, in seven days (or eras or generations, depending on your view of creation). As I alluded to in class today, I am not concerned so much with how as with what, and I am not so concerned with what as with Who.

Many generations have passed since the creation of Adam and Eve, and from two people came nearly two hundred nations spanning seven continents. This equates to 6,643,632,481 people as of 2:59 p.m. Sunday, August 27. (To see what this number has escalated to since the time I wrote this, check out http://www.ibiblio.org/lunarbin/worldpop. It's pretty staggering). And each one of those 6,643,632,481 people is unique. And according to Genesis, each one is made in the image of God and has infinite value and worth, whether or not he or she is aware of it.

Today in Come Thirsty we had a handful of countries represented, thanks to Estela inviting her friends to join us. The more I reflect on that, and as I hear Steve Green's song on continuous repeat in my mind, the more I am in awe of God. It all began with God using a bit of creativity. "In the beginning, God created." He didn't hold a meeting, write a doctrinal statement, or inaugurate the first potluck. God spoke, and so it was. And it was good. Indeed, very good.

And so we can all sit in a room today, representing many different countries, cultures, languages, nationalities, tastes, interests, hopes, and fears, but we all represent one God--one God who created. So as the "call goes out across the land in every nation--a call to all who swear allegiance to the cross of Christ," may we stand up and proudly answer it. May we gather together as we did today, many nations and peoples and tongues, knowing that we are all "aliens and strangers in a hostile and foreign land." May the heartbeat of our mission be "to love the Lord our God," and may the message we proclaim be "repentance and forgiveness: the offer of salvation to the dying race of man." For isn't that what creation is all about? Let's proclaim the glory of God!

Broken and Spilled Out

Not all of you may know that I have only been attending First Baptist for six years. The first eighteen years of my life I was raised at another solid, Bible-believing church in Saint Charles. I have many memories: from attending potlucks and pig roasts, to acting in church drama productions, to releasing balloons to celebrate breaking ground for an addition to our church, but one of the memories that is etched most carefully and precisely in my mind is that of the music. I was in awe of the phenomenal talent at our church--our music pastor and his wife had sung with the Metropolitan Opera prior to taking the pastorate position--but I was even more in awe of the musicians' heart for God. Though I heard many songs over those eighteen years that are just a fading memory now, there is one that if I close my eyes, I can still hear being sung by my music minister and his wife: Broken and Spilled Out.

When Bryan Harden, my new music director, called and asked me to choose a song to sing as a solo at our East Campus, it did not take long for this song to resurrect in my mind. I remember being impacted by it in my childhood, and I wanted others to be as moved as I had been. The words are so powerful--connecting a woman in antiquity who poured out her perfume at the feet of Jesus, to remembering Jesus Himself--God's perfect treasure--being poured out for us, and finally to our plea that we might be broken, spilled out, and used up for Him. What an amazing cry of our hearts for our lives to be poured out at Jesus feet as a sweet offering to Him!

Here are the words to the song. The cry of my heart is that you might be ushered to the foot of the cross once more as you reflect on the One who was broken and spilled out for love of you:

VERSE 1

One day a plain village woman

Driven by love for her Lord

Recklessly poured out a valuable essence

Disregarding the scorn

And once it was broken and spilled out

A fragrance filled all the room

Like a pris'ner released from his shackles

Like a spirit set free from the tomb

CHORUS 1

Broken and spilled out

Just for love of you Jesus

My most precious treasure

Lavished on Thee

Broken and spilled out

And poured at Your feet

In sweet abandon

Let me be spilled out

And used up for Thee

VERSE 2

Lord You were God's precious treasure

His loved and His own perfect Son

Sent here to show me

The love of the Father

Just for love it was done

And though You were perfect and holy

You gave up Yourself willingly

You spared no expense for my pardon

You were used up and wasted for me

CHORUS 2

Broken and spilled out

Just for love of me Jesus

God's most precious treasure

Lavished on me

Broken and spilled out

And poured at my feet

In sweet abandon
Lord, You were spilled out and used up for Me

TAG
In sweet abandon, let me be spilled out

And used up for Thee

Happy Fourth of July!

The Fourth of July is my favorite, non-religious holiday. Lately I've been thinking about why that is, and I can't quite pinpoint the reason. I think it has something to do with fireworks. These days, you can see them almost any day of the year, whenever there is a big celebration downtown Chicago or the Cougar's hit a home run, but they don't strike me quite like they do on the Fourth of July.

I love fireworks on the Fourth of July. There is something about them that takes my breath away. When I was little, I was terrified of the noise they made, but I still went to see them faithfully year after year. Plugging my ears through each *pop* and *bang,* I stared in wonder as the dark night sky became gloriously lit with every color of the rainbow in a flash of light, then went completely dark again, only to revive with color a few seconds later once more. Even though I cognitively know that the burst of light is coming, it still surprises me somehow when I witness it. Even though I know how beautiful it will be, the experience of it is so much greater than I can even imagine. Even though I know the fireworks will be big, it is not until I see them that I am amazed at how grand and massive and powerful they truly are.

And my thoughts turn toward God. The Light of the World. The second coming of Jesus Christ is certain; it will be wondrous and beautiful. The sky will be filled with a burst of His glory. All people will stand in awe and wonder as the Savior of mankind--the Redeemer and King--appears. And it will be surprising. Like a thief in the night. Like a firework that is lit off before the show even starts. Like the pop and bang that terrified me as a child, but mysteriously, I was drawn to it. I knew I was safe. I know I am safe. I know I am saved. And so I look forward to that coming day, when my knee will willingly bow at the feet of Jesus in awe of His beauty, strength, majesty, and power. Come quickly, Lord Jesus! Come!

Reflections on the Funeral Service: What Do I Know?

Sara Groves: "What Do I Know" from the album Conversations

The Song Which Opened the Funeral Service:

I have a friend who just turned eighty-eight and she just shared with me that she's afraid of dying. I sit here years from her experience and try to bring her comfort. I try to bring her comfort, . But what do I know? What do I know?

She grew up singing about the glory land, and she would testify how Jesus changed her life. It was easy to have faith when she was thirty-four, but now her friends are dying, and death is at her door.

Oh, and what do I know? Really, what do I know?

I don't know that there are harps in heaven, Or the process for earning your wings. I don't know of bright lights at the ends of tunnels, Or any of those things.

She lost her husband after sixty years, and as he slipped away she still had things to say. Death can be so inconvenient. You try to live and love. It comes and interrupts.

And what do I know? What do I know?

But I know to be absent from this body is to be present with the Lord, and from what I know of him, that must be pretty good. Oh, I know to be absent from this body is to be present with the Lord, and from what I know of him, that must be very good.

What do I know? That question pulses through my mind as I watch a grieving family with expressions of sorrow mixed with a sense of numbness walk down the same aisle at church I walk down joyfully each Sunday morning. What do I know? I wonder as I see a mother who looks like she is about to faint make her way into the pew and sit with her husband by her side. What do I know? I judge I know very little as I see a room full of weeping people--more populated than any Sunday morning church service--and the room becomes hazy, blended, collided. I recognize the faces of the director of my kindergarten from nineteen years ago. My elementary and junior high principles who I befriended in the nine years I attended their school. My grade school gym teacher, Mrs. Jukinitz, who my classmates and I jokingly referred to as "Mrs. Juggle-Nuts". The music director of my junior high in front of whom I tried out for advanced choir with butterflies in my stomach. My third grade teacher who still remembers my name after all these years. My fifth grade teacher who everyone was afraid of and supposedly made a kid lick up dirt from the floor. My high school biology teacher whose tests I failed but somehow managed getting a "B" in the class because he knew I worked hard. My ninth grade health teacher who also coached volleyball, my favorite sport. The single Bible teacher who every high school girl had a crush on, momentarily forgetting he was more than ten years older than us. Then there were students I knew, and their parents. Students who I mentored; students who I went to church with; students who I grew up with. They were all there. My worlds collided. But the occasion was death rather than life. So many people I knew, but what do I know?

Laurel's funeral service was beautiful. One and one-half hours of testimony to the godly woman God molded and formed her to be. Friends shared happy memories, and other shared regrets they had because they had not expressed to her their admiration of her before she died. Her faith was definitive of her life, and many in the audience loved God deeper because of her testimony. I sat in the pew and prayed that none of this would be in vain. I prayed that God would bring beauty out of this horrific tragedy. I sat and asked myself, "What do I know?"

To reference another song, there are times "I have to say the words I fear the most: I just don't know."* I do not know why God would take the life of a twenty year old engaged woman who loved Christ deeply and served Him wholeheartedly. I do not know how the tragic and unexpected death of someone they loved can bring those in the family who don't know Christ back to Him. I do not know how her parents will find the strength to go on from day to day, or how her little siblings will fare without their big sister.

But I do know one thing. God is good and God is loving. "I can only see a part of the picture He's painting. God is God and I am man, so I'll never understand it all. For only God is God."* To His wisdom I submit. His plan I embrace. Laurel fulfilled the mission she was born to accomplish.

I may not know fully, but right now she does. Praise God, she knows.

"Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known."

~The Apostle Paul, I Cor. 13:12~

*Lyrics from "God is God" by Steven Curtis Chapman from the album Declaration

Written in the Sky

I love to hear engagement stories. You know, guy buys ring for girl. Guy gets nervous. Guy sets out to do something completely romantic that girl can brag about in the coming days. Magical night comes. Guy gets sick to his stomach. Girl thinks guy is about to dump her. Guy grows too nervous to talk. Girl starts getting agitated. Guy forgets his speech but somehow manages to blurt out "Will...marry...you...me?" Girl cries and forgets to say yes. Guy gets sick to his stomach yet again. Hours later girl randomly blurts out "yes." Couple are so in love they forget the awkwardness. Girl tells her friends how romantic the night was.

I always thought it was cool when a man's love for a woman was written in the sky--literally. Have you ever seen those airplanes that fly in a precise pattern as to write a message? Some men capitalize on those moments and write "I Love You. Will You Marry Me?" in the sky.

As I heard Louie Giglio talk about our awesome Creator God, I couldn't help but think, "Wow! God has written His love for...Himself...in the sky!" Is that a weird thought? That God is in love with Himself? But it is true. And it's not something to feel uncomfortable with, even though it runs counter to our sin nature and at times can sound as pleasant as fingernails on a chalkboard. When we realize God loves God, we can truly begin to live. It's all about God. It's not about us. Wow, does this seem to hit me like a ton of bricks...I mean asteroids lately.

But I think it is also true that God is in love with us. I don't mean that He needs us. God needs no one. I mean that He chooses to love us because we were made in His image, and when He sees us, He sees something of Himself. God created the universe for His own glory, but perhaps He wrote the message of Himself in the sky for us to perceive His glory (see Psalm 19).

Thank you, O Creator, for letting us witness the resounding beauty of the universe. Thank you for writing Yourself into the story of life so that we might know You.

In case you missed this week, I posted pictures above from the NASA website--many of which were seen in the video we saw at Come Thirsty. All pictures are credited to www.nasa.com, which is in no way affiliated with this website.

God is...God

Ah, the monotony of my journey to and from Wheaton everyday. It only takes me about twenty-five minutes to get there (longer in rush hour traffic), but my impatient nature becomes quickly bored with the trip. I am so familiar with the route; sometimes I think I can drive it in my sleep.

To break the monotony of the morning trip back home today, I flipped on the radio to hear the song "God is God" by Stephen Curtis Chapman playing. After coming from my counseling class and hearing about the deep pain that so many people experience on a daily basis, the words to the first verse washed over me like a flood. And I think about my own life. There are these horribly real moments in my life when I have to look at life's circumstances and say, "I just don't know." Then I fall upon the truth that "my life has been formed from the dust." I do say "fall," because this is hard to accept. I want to be in control. Being but a speck of dust is uncomfortable as it strips me of any layer of pride I attempt to cling to.

Once more, I stand in awe of God as the curtain falls on my own self-centeredness and I am ushered back into the reality that this whole gig is about God. Wow. I might not "see the picture He's painting," but I can rest assured "God is God."

Oh Father, might I not grow so familiar with the truth of Your Sovereignty as I am with my morning journey down monotonous streets. Might the steps I take in my daily walk with you be in tune with the cadence of this life. May I feel the pulsating beat of the passion and energy of being in relationship with You. Let Your holiness bring me to my knees once more, as I recognize that I am only dust. You are God. I am not. And while "I may not understand it all," I rest in this truth.

"God is God" performed by Stephen Curtis Chapman on the CD entitled Declaration:
Verse 1:
And the pain falls like a curtain
On the things I once called certain
And I have to say the words I fear the most
I just don't know
And the questions without answers
Come and paralyze the dancer
So I stand here on the stage afraid to move
Afraid to fall, oh, but fall I must
On this truth that my life has been formed from the dust

Chorus:
God is God and I am not
I can only see a part of the picture He's painting
God is God and I am man
So I'll never understand it all
For only God is God

Verse 2:
And the sky begins to thunder
And I'm filled with awe and wonder
'Til the only burning question that remains
Is who am I
Can I form a single mountain
Take the stars in hand and count them
Can I even take a breath without God giving it to me
He is first and last before all that has been
Beyond all that will pass

Bridge:
Oh, how great are the riches of His wisdom and knowledge
How unsearchable for to Him and through Him and from Him are all things
So let us worship before the throne
Of the One who is worthy of worship alone

Chorus repeated

Needing a Little Yada!

Ah, a new year. Welcome to 2006! Did you create any New Year's resolutions? I already thought about the New Year's resolutions I would aspire towards this year, and which ones I would inevitably break...hopefully making it through at least the first day.

But there's one I pray God will help me keep this year. I resolve, with the help of the Holy Spirit, that I will experience Christ to a greater extent this year. I'm not talking about mere feelings or emotions, but the essence of the Hebrew word yada. To review from our study in James, yada means both knowing and doing--experiential knowledge. This is a revolutionary thought. After all, our culture has ingrained in us that knowing is doing. How many times do you walk away from a sermon, feel convicted, but never really do anything about it? Is your life transformed by the Gospel, or is all that head knowledge merely accumulating like dust mites in the attic? Conviction alone is not sufficient, and knowledge without action is useless, or as James puts it, "faith apart from works is dead" (James 2:26b). Don't let society fool you into thinking that knowledge alone is power. Knowledge put to use for the glory of God is power!

So get a little yada into your life this year. I know it's what I'm craving.

For All Twenty-Two

Twenty-two people. It feels colossal. That's my immediate family. Nope, that's not a typo. I'm not talking about extended. Not even grandparents. This is just my parents, siblings, and their wives and kids. And next to salvation, I count them to be my greatest blessing this Thanksgiving.

What is it that you are thankful for? Pause and praise God for His goodness this Thanksgiving. But don't stop there. Praise Him each and every day. Try making a running journal of your praises. Then in times of trial, you will be reminded of God's goodness in your life. This is my cyber-journal of my praises for today. You see them pictured above.

I am thankful for my oldest brother Mark, his wife Carol and their three girls: Kirsten, Brittney, and Lindsey. Mark has taught me the importance of knowing what I believe and being able to defend my beliefs.

I am thankful for my second oldest brother Randy, his wife Lori, and their daughter Joy and son Matthew. Randy has taught me how to love people regardless of who they are or what they have--simply because they are made in God's image.

I am thankful for my third oldest brother Brian, his wife Cyndi, and his four children: Breanna, Christopher, Jeremy, and Zachary. Brian has taught me what it means to have a life of service and he has revolutionized my life and philosophy of ministry. I am majoring in Christian Formation and Ministry largely because of his influence.

I am thankful for my brother Kevin, his wife Melissa, and their three children: Christina, Luke, and Rebecca. Kevin has taught me what it means to be a good listener, to show empathy and compassion, and to give of oneself. Thanks to him going out of his way each week, we have a place to meet for Come Thirsty. And not once has he complained.

And finally, I am thankful for my parents. I am who I am because of the way God has worked through them. If my dad had not sacrificed everything he had to send five children to Christian schools and my mom had not prayed daily for her children, my brothers and I would not have the relationship with Christ we now have. My dad has taught me the meaning of sacrifice and my mom has taught me what it means to rejoice when another is rejoicing and mourn when another is mourning. Together, they taught me how I have to walk the walk, not just talk the talk.

This is my family. They are my legacy, my heritage, and my greatest earthly joy. Thank you, my dear family, for teaching me how to love God. For you, I am eternally grateful.

Arms of Comfort

I absolutely love being an aunt. There is nothing greater than having twelve nieces and nephews. But this week I had to do the worse aunt duty possible. No, it wasn't changing dirty diapers; it was going to the shot lady, as I not-so affectionately call her.

This week Christina and Luke had to go for their flu shots. Since my grad school is in the area, I volunteered to go with them, thinking it would be another time of bonding with the kids.

My nephew was up first, and as the needle was injected into his leg, he calmly and rather unconvincingly said, "Ow. Ow." No tears, no shouts, no problem! Even though his reaction was undramatic, my niece began crying loudly and clinging to my neck, knowing she was next. I held Christina while Luke got his shot, then her mom went to pry her away from my arms. Her screams grew louder. "I WILL NOT LET YOU TAKE ME!" My heart began to break as I was trying to push her away from my arms while she clung on with all her might. She refused to let her mom take her, and she chose me to hold her for the upcoming ordeal.

Now I must say at this point that my worse phobia in life is needles. I'd rather be confined to an enclosed space, touch a snake, conquer a high cliff, eat octopus, whatever. Just keep the needles away. So when Christina boldly proclaimed to the nurse through her screams, "I AM GOING TO KICK YOU!!", I was feeling her pain. The nurse stated matter-of-factly, "Mam, I want you to hold the little girls' legs down. Cross your legs over hers so she cannot move."

At this point, my niece began to shake uncontrollably. She and I have an extremely close relationship, and I was feeling like I was betraying her as I numbly obeyed the nurse's command and held her little body down so she could not move. My niece asked me why through her sobs. All I could do was try to explain the concept that this injection would prevent her from future illness, but a four-year-old cannot rationalize like an adult. She didn't understand, but she knew that my love for her was too great to allow anything to hurt her permanently. She trusted me in spite of that awful moment. I had all I could do not to cry along with her as I held her shaking body in my arms and the needle was thrust into her leg.

As I reflect upon that experience, I am reminded of my relationship with Christ. Trials come my way that I cannot make sense of in light of my limited understanding. I cry out to God, "Why?", but any response I receive seems inadequate. I can fight all I want, but ultimately I must fall back into His arms, trust, and surrender. I don't understand, but He does. He knows that these trials will refine me until I reflect His beauty. And in the painful and slow process, He cries with me as He holds me in His arms.

Have you felt those arms of comfort in the midst of your trial? Have you watched the tears fall from His face as He walks with you in the fire? Rest assured, your Master knows. And His love for you extends beyond comprehension.

Changing Seasons

Ah, fall is here! The leaves are changing colors, the air is becoming crisp once more, and taffy apples and hot apple cider abound! Overall, I love fall.

Fall reminds me of change--some of which I welcome more than others. I stand amazed as the leaves change color, but I look down in disappointment as the ground beneath me begins to turn cold, the flowers wither away, and I know winter is approaching.

This reminds me of spiritual change. Sometimes God takes us down an unexpected path that we would not have designed for ourselves. Our hearts grow cold and hardened, and all we see as we look down the path ahead is the dead of winter. We begin to shout as the Psalmist cried, "How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and have sorrow in my heart? How long will my enemy triumph over me?"

It is in the midst of this despair, confusion, and loneliness of heart that God redirects my vision to focus my gaze on Him. The Psalmist concludes the thirteenth Psalm by stating, "But I will trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing to the Lord, for He has been good to me." Trusting in God is a choice, not a feeling. It is not natural; it is an act of the will. But as we choose to do so we learn how to "sing to the Lord" and our blinded eyes are opened to the ways "He has been good to me."

This week, try trusting, even in the midst of despair. God promises you will have a guide to walk with you as you travel down the path through the darkest winter into the glorious spring that awaits on the other side.

Specks of Paint on the Canvas of Life

There is an amazing little art technique that has fascinated me since I studied it in Art Appreciation back in college. Pointillism, created by George Seurat, uses tiny, miniature brush strokes carefully placed on a canvas. Up close, these dots don't seem like anything more than colorful, elaborated periods on a piece of paper. But when you stand further back...presto! a beautiful masterpiece appears! The artist had intended all along to use these seemingly insignificant little brush strokes to create something of beauty.

And that is a lot like life. The other week, I faced situations in which I experienced that humility I have been reading about in Andrew Murray's book. My first reaction was one of anger and frustration. I poured out my heart to God and he gave me the illustration I just mentioned. It's as if God was saying, "Jen, you are focusing your gaze on the dots on the portrait of your life. Don't you realize that the dots are not the end product? They only contribute to the beautiful masterpiece I am painting. I am the Artist. If one of the dots is not how I want it, I can paint over it. But what you see and what I see are two completely different portraits. Step back and look at the whole breathtaking picture, not just the specks of paint on the canvas of your life."

Humility

No, I am not about to share with you my most embarrassing moment, although I have a plethora of them. Rather, I have been reading the book entitled Humility by Andrew Murray of late. It is exactly the type of deep literature for which I was thirsting. His writings are challenging me to dive deeper into my relationship with Christ. Oh! how I realize how much I have yet to learn and how much I need to be spurred on towards new growth. It is one of those books where I need to read and re-read every few sentences to let the profundity of the words sink deep into my soul.

More quotes from this great book will most likely follow, but for now, here are two to whet your appetite:

"Believer! study the humility of Jesus. This is the secret, hidden root of your redemption. Sink down into it more deeply day by day. Believe with your whole heart that Christ--whom God has given us--will work in us, making us what the Father wants us to be."

"It was because this humility was not only a temporary sentiment--wakened up and brought into exercise when He thought of God--but the very spirit of His whole life, that Jesus was just as humble in His fellowship with men as with the Father. He counted Himself the Servant of God for the men whom God made and loved. As a natural consequence, He counted Himself the Servant of men, that through Him the Father might do His work of love. He never for a moment thought of seeking His honor, or asserting His power to vindicate Himself. His whole spirit was that of a life yielded to God that He might work in it."

This is My Calling

A year ago last February I entered the chamber of the Most Holy One and questioned where He was directing my footsteps. I had been told I would be offered a contract by Westminster Christian School, but I had heard nothing since that promise was made. My impending graduation was three months away, and I was anxious to have the paperwork signed, settling my full-time employment. One night I cried out to God, "If I don't hear from Westminster by tomorrow, I shall take it as your sign that I am to apply at another school." I went to sleep peacefully, knowing that my future was in God's hands.

The next morning, the principal of Westminster called me saying, "Jenny, God woke me up in the middle of the night, and YOU were on my mind. I was wondering why we haven't heard back from you, then when I came into the office this morning, I noticed the contract we were to have mailed to you sitting on the corner of the secretary's desk. Apparently, it had not been mailed. No wonder why we haven't heard from you! I will get it out TODAY in the mail!"

Here I am fifteen months later, having completed my first and last year at Westminster, praising God for working in and though my life in the brief time I have served at the school. My eyes filled with tears today as I read notes from students, received many hugs and words of affirmation, made promises to keep in touch, and looked for one last time into the eyes of students in whom I have invested all that I could possibly give. These are the students I have prayed for, rejoiced with, mourned over, and most importantly, told about my Lord. They have been my calling.

There is no doubt in my mind that God called me to work with them this year. The heart of my ministry is not wrapped up in lesson planning and grading, though it often feels like it. It is in the glowing faces of students--students who love Christ, students who reject Christ, students who are bundles of cheerfulness, and students whose very countenance reflects pain and heartache. Seventy students to whom God has called me to minister. Seventy students who have the opportunity to see Jesus in me day after day. Seventy students who want nothing but a teacher who loves and accepts them unconditionally, even though the world may tell them they are worthless failures. Seventy students whom God has entrusted to me to spread His message of truth.

This has been my calling. Thank you, God, for one wonderful year in which I could catch one small glimpse of your inexpressible glory through the eyes of these high school students.

The Day of Revealing

The day I had been waiting for this week arrived. I had the opportunity to give my poem to my student, not quite sure what her reaction would be. She is a profound writer; I write for fun. She is metaphorical; I am matter-of-fact. This would be interesting, but I knew God called me to write the poem for a reason; now it was His turn to work in a heart.

She melted as I told her I wrote a poem just for her. I told her I had shared it with no other student. She read it, enjoyed it, and suggested an alternative ending. I encouraged her to re-write the ending for me, and she did. The result was beautiful and ironic. I ended my poem in despair, just so I could touch her, but she ended the poem with joy and victory. Regardless of who you are or where you have been, regardless if you rejoice continually or wallow in self-pity, you cannot help but see beauty in pain, hope in despair, victory through death, and joy through sorrow when you fall before the foot of the cross.

The revised poem with her changes in bold text:

Cries from the Cross
By Jenny Schulenburg and Her Dear Student (whose name I will not publish)

Disfigured and dismembered; indistinguishable figure
Neither boundless beauty nor faultless form.
Despised, detested, deserted, discarded.
Nothing but anguish, affliction, and agony,
All imbrued at the foot of the cross.

Carted away to the tree of torture
Sorrowful sufferer led to the slaughter
Servanthood enslaved, yet surrendered
Stricken and smitten; silent when shattered.
All imbrued at the foot of the cross.

Blood splattered from broken brow
Penetrated and pierced, poked and prodded
Fragments of flesh lay lifeless and cold
Vicarious sufferer; sanctioned sacrifice.
All imbrued at the foot of the cross.

Slash and stab and slice and sever
Snap, shiver, shout, scream
Sorrow silenced as death clouds over
Soul submitted; spirit succumbs.
All imbrued at the foot of the cross.

Heavens crack and choke and chatter
Creator and King is crucified
Savagely seeking the sinner to blame
For all this demoralization and degradation.
All imbrued at the foot of the cross.

All my brooding bad blood
Feels this pain; wants to heal this pain
It is done; I have killed the sinless Savior.
My hands and hammer all
Imbrued at the foot of the cross.

Is there no salvation? No forgiveness?
Am I a malevolent murderer? Misunderstood menace?
Am I gripped by talons, tainted, tormented?
Not at the foot of the cross.

Cries from the Cross

As a high school English teacher, I am blessed to minister to many students, each with different needs, hurts, and pains. One student who especially touches my heart is nothing like me. If I could pick one student with whom my life seems to hold no comparisons, it would be her. She hates life, hates people, hates beauty and joy, and most alarmingly, hates that Jesus and Christianity represent hope and happiness.

But there is one passion we both share: writing. She writes amazing profound, though morbidly grotesque pieces that make my eyes water as I read them, knowing that these black, typewritten words on white paper reflect a life filled with pain, hurt, and heartache. She told me all she can write are pieces that are morbid; after all, she is a "cutter." I compliment the depth of meaning in her poetry, then look into her deep, searching eyes as they gaze at my face, seemingly unable to comprehend how I can be so happy, feel so loved, and be so fulfilled.

As I thought of how I can reach her--I an English teacher without any major training in psychology or counseling--the words of the Paul in I Corinthians 9:22b echoed in my mind: "I have become all things to all men so that by all possible means I might save some." So I got into her world. I wrote a poem for her that is morbid and grotesque. I wrote a poem about Christ on the cross. The result is gruesome and hideous. It is the kind of piece which I did not think I could produce. Then I remember that God works in our lives for multiple purposes. Maybe writing this poem was not only so I could impact my student's life, maybe, just maybe, God wanted me to revisit the cross of Christ one more time. Maybe I needed to come face to face with what He accomplished on my behalf and stare at it in the face once again. For this heinous, ugly act was done on my behalf. It was because of me.

Here is the poem:

Cries from the Cross

Jennifer Schulenburg

Disfigured and dismembered; indistinguishable figure.
Neither boundless beauty nor faultless form.
Despised, detested, deserted, discarded;
Nothing by anguish, affliction, and agony.

Carted away to the tree of torture.
Sorrowful sufferer led to the slaughter;
Servanthood enslaved, yet surrendered.
stricken and smitten; silent when shattered.

Blood splattered from broken brow.
Penetrated and pierced, poked and prodded;
Fragments of flesh lay lifeless and cold.
Vicarious sufferer; sanctioned sacrifice.

Slash and stab and slice and sever;
Snap, shiver, shout, scream.
Sorrow silenced as death clouds over.
Soul submitted; spirit succumbs.

Heavens crack and choke and chatter;
Creator and King is crucified.
Savagely seeking the sinner to blame--
Turn the mirror and see it's me.