Being Remarkable

Many mornings, I begin my day in the company of some remarkable people. I’m not sure what makes them remarkable. It’s certainly not their backgrounds. Everyone comes from a different place and none of those places are remarkable. It’s certainly not their experiences because many of them have lived remarkable lives for all the wrong reasons. Maybe it’s the fact that these folks see their imperfections and are willing to talk about them, but I think what makes the remarkable is something else.

On the wall, across where I sit, is a print of a Rembrandt painting of Jesus. It’s one of those paintings where the subject looks at you regardless of where you’re sitting. The eyes are not eyes of judgement, they’re more searching, more understanding, and whenever I look up at the painting, particularly when people are sharing some of the hard stuff, Christ seems to be listening with the kind of understanding for which most of us can only pray.  

Today, because it’s Maundy Thursday, I imagine Christ leaving the confines of the frame and sitting among us. At one point, He stands and goes into the kitchen, fills a bowl of water, and grabs a roll of paper towels. When he returns, he slowly and deliberately works his way around the circle. Taking off our sneakers and sandals, he begins to wash our feet. He doesn’t look up from his work except when someone shares something particularly real. When that happens, he looks up as if to say, “I get it.” 

It is then I realize what makes this group remarkable. It’s not the people sitting in the circle. It’s the one kneeling at their feet.

Amazing Grace

Perusing the books in a local, independent book store, I noticed a colorful volume prominently displayed on a shelf of its own. The colorful cover caught my attention, but it was the title, Amazing Grace, that drew me closer. It turned out to be the history of a local parish. 

If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was a fitting title for any book about a church. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the book describes a place where all are loved, all are invited into the grace-filled arms of God. But the fact is, I do know better, and I turned and walked away in disgust.

The parish whose history is told in the book is one of many in the Episcopal Church choosing to leave the denomination because of the decision to ordain homosexuals. Still stinging from the decision to ordain women in the seventies, I suppose, this recent decision by the Church was simply too much. Now, such churches want to join the more conservative Anglican Church, as they call themselves, but the decision comes at a significant cost – they can leave but can’t take the buildings with them.

I came to Christ because of God’s amazing grace. I was so far from who I was created to be, so far from someone deserving God’s forgiveness and love, which makes it impossible for me to shut the door of the Church on anyone. I have had friends hit me over my head with their red-letter edition of their King James Version of the Bible and tell me how wrong I am, but “here I stand,” to quote Martin Luther. 

When grace is offered to someone as underserving as I, it’s then hard to pick and choose to whom it will be offered next. Who knows, maybe it should even be offered to churches and people who see things differently than I. 

That would be amazing.

Under Construction

My mother always reminded me to look not at the person standing center stage, but the one standing beside him or her. It was a lesson she taught not only with words, but also with the way she lived her life. I was reminded of her advice (and example) this week when I traveled to Charlotte, North Carolina, to visit the Billy Graham home and library. I’ve always been interested in the man, but I have been equally fascinated by the woman who stood beside him for all those years. 

I must confess I have a complicated relationship with the Evangelical Church. Attracted to the passion found under its tents, I’m repelled by what seems like conditional grace. It is because of this feeling, which might be my stuff, that I approached the Graham library tentatively. 

It was heart-warming to walk through Billy’s childhood home, and inspirational to walk through the doors at the base of the glass cross in the barn wall, but my soul was filled not by the home, the library, the legacy, or the man. It was filled by the woman buried beside him.

Outside the library, off to the side, are Ruth and Billy’s graves, marked with wonderful natural stone. On his, there’s a cross above his name, as I expected, but over hers was a Chinese symbol. Surprised, I found out it was a symbol, or letter, she’d seen when living in China. It translates, “Under construction, thank you for your patience.” When she first saw it and learned what it meant, she said it was what she wanted on her grave stone.

I am not sure there’s a better message for Lent, or any other season, because no matter how hard we try to hide it, we are all under construction and can thank God for His infinite patience.