The Grim Reality of Betrayal

There is so much in the Gospel of the days leading to the Crucifixion that makes me squirm. When I read it, and I put myself in the scene, I wonder what I would have done. Would I have stayed awake in the Garden of Gethsamane? I’d like to think so, but I know well all the times I’ve fallen asleep, both figuratively and literally. At every turn, in the account of those last hours, there is the betrayal of Jesus’ closest friends. 

Judas is the ultimate betrayer. With a kiss, he handed his friend over to the enemy. He knew how his betrayal would hurt Jesus. He gave his assent to that kind of pain. Still he did it. Christ knew that Judas would betray Him, and He chose to be betrayed. With Judas’ kiss, Jesus allowed Himself to enter into the pain of every one of us who has ever been betrayed by a dear and trusted friend. Where to turn when someone we love betrays a promise or a vow or our trust? Turn to Christ, who knows the anguish of that particular pain. See Him walk unflinchingly in its reality. 

Christ had the power to have the earth open up beneath Judas and his conspirators and make it all go away. He chose to stand and be delivered unto them instead. Moreover, He used Judas as an instrument to complete the work He’d come to do. God redeems betrayal. God can use the times we are betrayed to bring about His greatest good.

Then there’s Peter. When I read the account of Peter’s denial of Jesus, I literally feel that awful feeling in my stomach that creeps up into my throat and makes my face flush with shame. He was so close to Christ. He had just promised never to deny Him. And there he stood in the busy crowd, protesting that he didn’t know Jesus—not just once, but three times.

Three different times, Jesus’ best friend claimed he didn’t even know Him. The placement of this event in the Gospel and the literary drama surrounding those moments of emphatic disassociation lead me to believe that God thinks this moment is very important for us 2000 years later. It is pivotal, enduring Biblical literature, to be underlined and starred and pondered in our hearts. When we do that, we find that Christ is particularly tender toward those who have been betrayed. Clearly, He is also poignantly merciful toward those who betray.

Perhaps you are scanning your own memory now, thinking of any time you could have stood with Peter, lurking outside the courtyard, cowering behind a pillar and lying straight up about a friend. Nothing? What about the crowd that called for Barabbas? Were you in it? One day, were you faithfully walking alongside a friend as did all those people as Jesus entered Jerusalem to shouts of “Hosanna,” only to find yourself shouting “Barabbas” just a few days later? Perhaps you didn’t shout it. Maybe you were swept along in an online discussion and you just quietly clicked “Like,” nodding your assent as the crowd said things they’d likely never say in person. Or perhaps there was no crowd at all. Instead, there was just a fleeting comment to only one other person — a betrayal of a confidence, an offhand whispered bit of gossip. We betray one another. And every time we do it, we betray Christ.

Betrayal requires intimacy. We cannot be betrayed by someone unless we have made ourselves vulnerable by drawing near to them. Christ models for us the intimacy and the betrayal. He lets us see how much He loved His disciples, even though He knew they would deny Him. Peter was so faithful when he was close to Christ. When he separated himself, just a little bit, and believed himself to be anonymous in the crowd, he sinned. We know that his sin deeply grieved him. And we know that Christ forgave Peter and trusted him again. 

To get to Easter, we walk through the grim reality of betrayal. We see there that God calls us to repent of our own sins of betrayal and to forgive those who have betrayed us. Even as we forgive, we know that only Christ is the perfect friend. Only He is without blemish or blame in a relationship. He beckons us beyond the darkness of human failing to the hope and promise of Easter and to true friendship in Him.

Into the desert with our lies

Lent can be a long stretch of time for some of us. From every corner comes the call to repent — the exhortation to make a full accounting of our sins, to see our messes in the light of day. Some of us are very good at that. Some of us go to the desert with Jesus, intending to spend Lent in His company, and we get distracted by the devil.

We hear all sorts of temptations. Beginning with the simple recounting of a conversation gone awry or a stray thought of envy, we are led to evaluate and analyze each conversation of the day or every spoken word or fleeting thought this week. I should have said that differently. I should have held my tongue altogether there. I should not have spent so much time lingering in that coffee shop, clicking through Facebook. From there, we think of the to-do list with more than half its items yet unchecked. We remember the dust bunnies under the bed, the clothes at the bottom of the hamper, the fact that we called for takeout twice last week.

And now, the tempter in the desert is hissing loudly in our ears. Not good enough. Not patient enough. Not organized enough. Not diligent enough. The hissing reaches a wild, unfettered crescendo. Not enough. Never enough. Never will be enough.

The accuser is taking up residence inside our heads, and he is speaking to us in our own voices. We hear him talking; the things he’s saying — we are allowing him to say — are things we’d never say to another person. We’d never be so unkind, never be so accusatory, never be so relentless. Somehow, though, the self-evaluation of this season has given way to well-entrenched habits of self-recrimination. We talk to ourselves inside our heads in ways that would astonish people who hear us speak aloud. 

The enemy has taken up residence, and it’s his voice that is drowning out God’s. God calls to repentance along the path to forgiveness. The devil just holds us in the bottleneck of accusing. There is no progression to reconciliation. Again and again, he accuses. His voice, if we let it, grows so loud that we can’t hear our own, and we certainly can’t hear God’s. All we can hear are the dark lies of the serpent. 

The light is on for us.

Photo credit: Christian Foss

In the quiet of the confessional, we speak aloud the fruits of our genuine examinations of conscience. Then we hear aloud the words of His forgiveness. Forgiven. Finished. 

Stop the internal conversation. The things which are truly sins have been forgiven by the Savior on the cross. The rest of that incessant babble in our heads? The accusations that tell us we aren’t good enough for God? Not sins at all. Those are the words of the devil. 

Fresh from the confessional, we replace those words with His word. 

“So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: Everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new. All this is from God, who reconciled us to Himself through Christ and has given us the ministry of reconciliation; that is, in Christ, God was reconciling the world to Himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and entrusting the message of reconciliation to us. So we are ambassadors for Christ, since God is making His appeal through us; we entreat you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God. For our sake He made Him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in Him we might become the righteousness of God." (1 Cor 5:17-21)

Every time the evil one hisses lies inside our heads, we square our shoulders and speak confidently, “I am a new creation.” Every time, until it fills the spaces where the lies once festered. 

And the silence of Christ’s peace will be our Easter joy.

Peace that Passes Understanding

“Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God: and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:6-7**

It had been eight days since I last saw him. This season of work travel and children scattered far and wide and aging parents has us stretched thin and missing each other. He found me upstairs in the furthest corner of the house, away from the late evening hum of teenagers.

"You look worried," he said.

He hasn't seen me in over a week and the first impression is one of worry. First, that's very perceptive. Second, oh dear, where is the peace that passes understanding? I am a creature of habit. I like to settle into rhythms, to work out kinks, to make life run along familiar, predictable tracks. 

But it doesn't.

Just as we figure out one stage of life, we move to the next. Life shifts and lurches and sometimes the fault beneath my feet nauseates me as it violently rocks. I want to make sense of all of it--to understand. And I want to be understood.

I have more than twice the number of children as my friends with large families. This life of extravagant abundance of souls doesn't look anything like the fundamentalists of my 20s and 30s said it would. Those lies reverberate some days: What's one more? There's always room; babies don't need much. They can sleep in a dresser drawer, padded soft. If you're diligent and organized and intentional enough, the Lord will bless your efforts and you will meet all their needs, all the time. And my favorite: Homeschool them. Invest the time--all the time--when they are little, you won't have any of society's teenage ills under your roof as they grow. We know that's not true.

One more is one more. And even when it is added to six or seven or eight, it is another whole person on whom all the many aspects of good parenting must be bestowed. I want to offer to my friends who have two children and seem bewildered by my present challenges the explanation that everything they do for theirs--everything they feel--I do just as much with each one of mine. 

A baby might be made comfortable in a softly padded dresser drawer turned into temporary makeshift cradle for a very little while, but when he is fourteen years old and six feet tall, he needs a bed. Oh, and there will come a time that he will outgrow his shoes every three months, so it's a good idea to start saving for that right around the time that you transition him out of the dresser drawer.

I love this life. I wouldn't trade a single moment of those 81 months of pregnancy (all those overdue babies making up for the one who came three months early, so that my average is just about nine average gestations). I wouldn't trade 22 years of diapers, sometimes three children at a time. And I definitely wouldn't trade more than twenty continuous years of nursing babies. I've loved every hour spent sitting next to a child as she figures out how to make sense of letters printed on a page. And yes, I've loved the hours behind the wheel of a car, with a teenage boy as my front seat companion. It turns out that I've gotten quite the musical education by allowing them to choose the station and spin the dial as I drive to soccer or basketball. We moved from Matchbox 20 to Blink 182 to Brad Paisley to Taylor Swift to Ed Sheeran--each boy in succession tuning me to himself at the radio controls. It's been quite a ride.

But I thought I'd have it all figured out by now and instead I'm still surprised that the sheer numbers dictate that nearly every day, there will be something new to wrestle. I want to understand. I want to flip to the end of the book and read the last chapter so that I can let go of the tension and relax into the middle of the story.

And I want to be understood.

Me, the crazy lady down the street with all the kids. 

I am worried. Times nine. 

And He tells me to be anxious for nothing. Nothing.

Come; crawl up on My lap. When you are tired of being the grownup and when you just really want someone to take care of you, turn your face expectantly to Me and see that I hold peace. Make supple your heart. Soften. Ask. Come humbly to Me and know that I see you.

I know your needs and I understand them perfectly.

Already, I know. 

And I will stand guard.

Are you worried? Can I pray peace for you, too?

Every Good and Perfect Gift

THINK

Every generous act of giving, with every perfect gift, is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change. James 1:17

PRAY

I'm committing this day to seeing the gifts you give, Lord. All of them. Open my eyes. 

ACT

Peter Kreeft writes, 

"All the things in this world are gifts and signs. As gifts, they point beyond themselves to the divine giver. As signs, they point beyond themselves to the God they signify and reveal, as a letter reveals the writer. And since God is love, the one thing everything signifies is God's love to us. The whole world is a love letter from God...

...This way of looking at things, as gifts and signs rather than simply as things in themselves, is not our usual way of seeing. Try this new way for just one hour and see the difference it makes. See the sunrise not as a mindless, mechanical necessity but as God's smile. See a wave not just as tons of cold salt water crashing down on the shore but as God's playful action. See even death as not just a biological necessity but as God tucking us in at bedtime so that we can rise to new life in the morning.

This is not a trick we play on ourselves or a fantasy. This is what the world really is. It is just as true to say that every snowflake is a gift of God as it is true to say that every cent in a father's inheritance is a gift to his children. It is just as true to say that every leaf on every tree is a work of art made by the divine artist with the intention that we see it, know it, love it, and rejoice in it, as it is true to say that every word in a lover's letter to his beloved is meant to be seen, known, loved, and enjoyed. This is not fantasy. What is fantasy is the horrible habit the modern world has gotten itself into, the habit of thinking that what the world really is is only atoms and chance, only what the senses and science reveal, the view that everything else is mere subjective fancy."

Do you see the gifts in your world? What does His love letter to you say?

~*~*~*~

If #morningrun blesses you, please share the image so that others can find us here?

Motherhood can feel like the loneliest vocation in the world. Surrounded by children, who frequently bring us to our knees, both literally and figuratively, we can be overwhelmed by isolation. Mothers need community. We can be community for one another. We can encourage on another and hold each other accountable. If you like these short devotions, please share the image and send another woman here. And when you're here, please take a moment to pray with another mother who is visiting. Leave a comment and when you do, pray for the woman whose comment is just above yours. Just a moment--blessed--will begin to build community.

I like to pray when I run in the morning. Often, I listen to Divine Office and pray Morning Prayer or the Office of Readings. Then, I just take up a conversation with God. I'd love to pray for you! Please leave your prayer requests below and we can pray for each other, no matter how we spend our morning prayer time. Meet me back here tomorrow and I'll share the ponderings from my #morningrun.

When Lent looks like a car crash (or two)

Keep your lives free from the love of money and be content with what you have, because God has said,

“Never will I leave you;
    never will I forsake you.” Hebrews 13:5

We have been hammered with unexpected, unbudgeted expenses lately. Two ER visits, a plastic surgeon, an orthopedist, an ambulance, countless pediatrician co-pays, dad's car needing major repairs, mom's car in the shop for a week after someone hit me, and then...

...last week in the peace and calm that is a snowstorm that keeps us all hunkered down and safe from the world, a snowplow hit our third car. You can't make this stuff up. On the same day my husband was retrieving my car after being repaired from the first accident of the month, I was filing a hit-and-run claim with sheriff on the second accident. 

I want to look up at the sky and remind God that we are working super hard to provide here and these big ticket deductibles are starting to scare me. 

Instead, I go for a walk. 

I inhale the absolutely stunning artistry that is a snow day. He can do this! All of this! This glistening, crystal-dripping, opulent beauty. It's His handiwork.

God is God.

He knows all about the insurance companies. He knows all about the work schedules, and the school schedules, and the intense travel schedule in the spring-- and all the demands for fully-functioning automobiles. He is God.

He blankets the whole world in tiny crystals fashioned one at a time. 

And yes, he knows about the beast of a snow plow that took out a 2006 station wagon that isn't even our oldest car. God is bigger than snow plows. 

I was up at 4:00 this morning. Usually, when I awaken at such ridiculous hours, I manage to get up without waking my husband. This time, he was awake, too. He asked what woke me. 

"I don't know, " came my reply, "but my first thoughts were of rental cars and faulty web links."

Perhaps I went to sleep in a cloud of worry.

Perhaps.

And perhaps this morning was a good time to press the re-set button and to focus on contentedness. It was still snowing when the car was hit. Snow covered all the broken pieces of plastic and glass. But with the sunlight, the top layer melted, and there, crushed and fragmented, are the remnants of money invested in a material thing. Cars, houses, clothing, even food--all these things that take up so much brain space, they are easily crushed and broken.

Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life[?“And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin.  Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.  If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’  For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.  Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. Matthew 6:26-34

God has no need for money. His exquisite blanket cannot be purchased at any cost. The grasses of these fields? They are clothed in crystal! Faith rises above worry. Even above money worry. I am called to be content. I am given grace to be faithful. I have to remind myself until it's embedded deep within me: He will never leave me. He will never forsake me. Even if I'm stranded with a disabled vehicle, God is bigger.

He'll come get me. 

{Dump your money woes in the combox this morning. Let's pray for each other!}

~*~*~*~

If #morningrun blesses you, please share the image so that others can find us here?

Motherhood can feel like the loneliest vocation in the world. Surrounded by children, who frequently bring us to our knees, both literally and figuratively, we can be overwhelmed by isolation. Mothers need community. We can be community for one another. We can encourage on another and hold each other accountable. If you like these short devotions, please share the image and send another woman here. And when you're here, please take a moment to pray with another mother who is visiting. Leave a comment and when you do, pray for the woman whose comment is just above yours. Just a moment--blessed--will begin to build community.

I like to pray when I run in the morning. Often, I listen to Divine Office and pray Morning Prayer or the Office of Readings. Then, I just take up a conversation with God. I'd love to pray for you! Please leave your prayer requests below and we can pray for each other, no matter how we spend our morning prayer time. Meet me back here tomorrow and I'll share the ponderings from my #morningrun.