Confessions of a Pharisee

I have a confession to make. I'm a recovering Pharisee.

My spiritual life isn't that complicated. In fact, I could divide it up into three parts: Birth to Salvation at 16; Salvation to Faith Crisis at 30; Restoration and Growing in Grace til now at 48.

At 16, I was very aware of my need for acceptance, identity and purpose and so, I walked forward at an altar call to officially and publicly accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. Somewhere during that second phase of life I found acceptance, identity and purpose in Christianity and in my involvement with my church, friends and family. I was happily married and raising my little ones in "the way they should go". Life was good - that is - until it crashed.

There was no moral or medical crisis that happened. No financial melt down. No natural disaster or legal nightmare that caused that fateful crash in '92. It's hard for me to say exactly what happened. I simply grew more confident in my spiritual walk, and less dependent upon the work of the cross. As confident and strong in God as I was (or thought I was), I didn't see that in reality, I teetered dangerously on the edge of a deadly cliff. That's one of the tragic symptoms of pharisaism: blindness.

I opened myself up as a target, believed a lie, forsook the true gospel and collapsed in on myself. My arrogance and superiority were utterly exposed and I lost all sense of acceptance, identity or purpose. My faith was shipwrecked - and it felt completely unfixable.

Recalling that second phase of my life, I've often thought: "Oh how full of yourself you were! All that judgmentalism just oozing out everywhere. It's a wonder anyone could stand to be around you! Who likes Pharisees? Even Jesus yelled at them!"

The other day I happened upon some notes from the year prior to "The Crash of '92". Some of the notes were prayers I'd written, but one page had notes from a discussion I'd led at a women's group. I cringed as I read through the points about sin and repentance - I'm sure blasting my poor sisters out of the water with all kinds of discouraging words and condemnation. Ack.

Then I began to read the prayer entries of that same year, and my heart softened a little towards the writer...me, the Pharisee. Nowhere in those entries did I read anything that said, "Oh Most Holy Father, Thank you that I am not like the lowly good for nothings around me." No. Rather the prayers seemed to regularly cry out for God to drive out the filth and sin from my own heart. "Gut out the garbage in my soul, God! Why am I so wretched??" Huh. The judgment laid up in my heart towards others, was also weighing down on me. I wasn't letting others see this terrified inner self at all. I was covering it up with glowing Christianity and if anyone were to challenge my motives, surely I would respond like a true self-protective Pharisee. "Not I!" But in the secret place, where I poured out my heart to God, my fearful soul was laid bare. I had no peace concerning the grace of God or freedom from my sin and selfishness. I was a Christian who declared Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior, but had never truly opened my heart and received the free gift of His forgiveness and grace. Sad.

I don't know. It just got me thinking. Perhaps Jesus was yelling at these lost souls in order to get past the barricade of self protection. Perhaps He was shouting a loving but loud wake up call - "HEY YOU! WHITE WASHED TOMB - YOU KNOW YOU'RE TERRIFIED! COME HOME!" Maybe He was looking beyond all the prideful good works and seeing the frightened child in need of grace.

Revealing my still recovering judgmental heart, I will make one more confession: Pharisees bother me. You'd think I'd have patience for them since I'm still in recovery, however, I'm frustrated with exposed self-righteousness, the unwillingness to consider mercy, and the sense of superiority. But reading those old prayers of mine provided a bit of insight into what might be going on inside the hidden heart. I wonder if rather than finding fault with the arrogance of the Pharisee, and returning my judgement for theirs, perhaps I should consider the possibility that underneath that hard, prickly exterior is a very lost and frightened soul simply in need of acceptance, identity and purpose.

Mercy still triumphs over judgment.

Sticky Notes

"The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair."

I recently read this quote by American writer Mary Heaton Vorse, while checking out a friend's facebook status and it struck a chord inside me. "Huh. That's so true", I thought. But... that was the extent of my response. I couldn't click the "Like" button. I personally believed it to be true, but I wasn't sure I "liked" it. By no means do I consider myself an artist or a writer, yet this quote hounded me for several days after I read it. I went back and read it a few more times - still not wanting to commit myself to "Like" it.

Since I was a child, I've been encouraged to take the time to write. I've written little things here and there, but I've been terribly inconsistent over the years. A few months ago, I sensed the Lord say to me "You don't need a title, an outline or chapters - just sit down and write something - anything!" I'm not sure what I'm waiting for. I regularly have scattered questions and thoughts of God and His grace swirling around in my heart and mind - like a whirlwind of loose sticky notes trying to come into some order of understanding. On occasion, I find the time to sit down and apply myself to prayerfully study through those questions and wonderings, but I'm ashamed to say that I rarely take the time to put those things into writing. I journal when I can, but even those entries aren't very consistent and they're mostly filled with incomplete phrases and run-on sentences, processing through personal issues as God grows me in faith.

My daughter-in-law, Jennie, has a blog here on this "blogspot" and I so enjoy reading her "Mauer Musings", catching up on her life even though I'm usually already caught up. (We live just a block away from one another and get to see each other regularly - one of God's grace gifts to me.) She's pioneered for me, the way of "the blog". My 14 year old son, Sam, has helped me set this one up. I'm not at all convinced the "blog" is my style or will work for me, on the other hand, I'm willing to give it a shot.

I remember several years ago, that I wanted to set aside a room in my home as my special "prayer closet". Have you ever done that? I thought it might be a good idea because I was finding it difficult to set aside the time needed to give myself to prayer and I blamed it on the distractions of a very busy life. I thought having a special room in the house would help me stay committed and undistracted so I could spend hours in prayer. Of course you can guess what happened to my "prayer closet" - it quickly became a lovely storage space and the only prayer I prayed in that special holy place was, "Dear Lord, where did I put that purple sweater?" Honestly, that's kind of how I see this site. A special place reserved as a landing strip for all those swirling sticky notes. I will say right upfront however, that if I do not follow through and "just sit down and write something - anything", then I promise I will not place the blame on my very busy life. No. The sole cause will simply be because I lack the art of applying the seat of my pants, to the seat of this chair.

Lord, please grant me a sticky seat. (as well as sticky knees!)

PS - Sam just looked over my shoulder and said, "Ha. Mom, you're a blogger!" We'll see.