Currently viewing the tag: "New Testament"
But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. (2 Corinthians 12:9, ESV)
When I was in ninth grade, my biology teacher made us create something for the annual “Invention Convention.” Other students—the ones who were good at biology and everything else—actually invented things. They spent weeks researching and constructing clever things that ran on little motors or batteries that they wired themselves.
I spent approximately ten minutes on my invention, the night before it was due. I cut ten ovals inside ten squares of clear Contact paper, stuck them in a little box, and called them “Neat Nails.” The idea was, stick the plastic squares over your fingers, leaving your nails uncovered through the oval holes, and then polish your fingernails without getting any on your fingers. Neat Nails!
Would you believe, Neat Nails actually went to Oklahoma’s State Invention Convention…and won third place? I even got a medal. Hilarious, really, because truly, no one deserved a science award less than I.
I shouldn’t have won, and I felt bad for it. What about the kids with motors and batteries and actual, you know, inventions? My medal wasn’t fair to them. In fact, to this day, when I paint my nails and get polish on my fingers, I remember Neat Nails and feel guilty. I must be the only soul who can recall a thing about the Oklahoma Invention Convention from over two decades ago, but I still can’t forget how undeserving I was.
In a way, God’s grace is like that third place medal. Unearned, and totally undeserved. Grace is “unmerited favor,” the scholars say. Quite simply, it’s a gift from God.
This week, I’ve been overwhelmed by own lack—my failures and sins as a wife, mom, and woman of God. God’s grace is enough—more than enough!—to make up for my shortcomings…but I have to accept the gift. I have to quit trying to earn favor and manipulate outcomes in my own strength. God offers me the medal of His grace, and He wants me to accept it.
And even more, He wants me to enjoy it. After all, when I give my children a gift, don’t I want them to enjoy it, rather than feel guilty for having it? God says, “Child, you have won My favor—not because of your goodness, but because of Mine. Accept My gift! Rest in it. And enough with your fear-filled guilt and shame. I want you to enjoy the medal.”
- For more on this topic, read Shame and Grace by Lewis Smedes.
“It is a terrible injustice,” asserts my beloved Anne Shirley in Anne of Green Gables, “to be falsely accused.” Oh, Anne, I agree! To be accused of a mistake that I didn’t make? Or of a character flaw that I don’t possess? Well. That, as Anne would say, is just about “the most tragical thing that has ever happened to me.”
I absolutely hate unfairness.
Especially when it comes to me.
Maybe that’s why it bothered me so much a few days ago when Andy apologized for something he didn’t do. Someone corrected Andy, and Andy even showed me an email proving that he was in the right, but he didn’t fight back. He just took it.
“It’s not a big deal,” Andy said. I disagreed, perhaps a little too strongly. I “encouraged” him to think it over and defend himself. Andy thought it over…and remained silent.
This terrible injustice has bugged me for two days. Finally, this morning, I told God on Andy. After all, if my husband wouldn’t listen to my advice, perhaps the Holy Spirit could intervene.
“God, make him bold enough to defend himself,” I prayed, but the words didn’t feel right coming out. They weren’t exactly the problem, somehow.
“Oh, no,” I said aloud, realizing God’s Spirit was about to nudge me instead of Andy.
“Why is this bugging me so much?” I asked the Lord. Instantly, He brought to mind Philippians 2:
Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others. Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus: Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient to death—even death on a cross! Therefore God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name that is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. Philippians 2:3-11
“It’s bugging you,” God impressed on me, “because it’s pride.” The selfish ambition in me didn’t want Andy to let himself be treated unfairly. But Andy had the same attitude as Christ—the attitude that says, “It’s not about fair. It’s about others.” In humility, Christ laid aside His rightness. He emptied himself of His deity, and endured the terrible injustice of being falsely accused, and suffered the most tragical thing that has ever happened…all because He loved me. He did it because what I needed was more important to Him than what He deserved. The message of the cross—the message we’ll celebrate on Sunday—is this: God is terribly unfair.
God, thank You for Your terrible injustice on my behalf. I’m saved because of it! Will you cleanse me of my pride? Wash away every last trace of selfish ambition, and let me have the same attitude as that of Christ Jesus—the attitude of a humble servant. Thank You for considering me ahead of Yourself. Thank You—thank You!—for the life that is mine in the Name above every name, the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.
Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus. Philippians 3:12-14
When I was a little girl, my dad had Philippians 3:14 on a figurine on his office desk. It showed a runner, pressing on toward the goal. The runner was formed out of nails, and he ran toward two poles to mark the finish line. I remember flicking my finger on the sharp, twisted metal nails every time I was in his office. That plaque was there as far back as I can remember.
Philippians is one of my dad’s favorite Bible books. He can recite long portions of it from memory, and I’ve heard him preach on it many times. He often quoted Philippians 4:13 to me when I was afraid: “I can do everything through him who gives me strength.”
Philippians is one of my favorite books, too. God has spoken to me through it time and time again. But I wonder…would I have been so interested in this little book, were it not for my dad? First, I loved Philippians because my dad loved it. And then, I loved it because it spoke to me.
My point is this: our personal “run for the prize” influences those around us. My dad didn’t memorize Philippians or keep a plaque of Philippians on his desk to teach me anything. He did it because God was speaking to him in his own faith journey. And yet, like a spectator in the grandstands, I watched him run. First, I watched my dad press on toward the goal, and then, I began to chase after the prize myself.
The question is, who is watching me run? My children, yes, and my husband. Maybe a friend or neighbor is watching my faith. Maybe I don’t even realize it, but my race is influencing theirs.
So, I’ll press on. I’ll press on so I can win the prize. I’ll press on because God has called me heavenward. And, I’ll press on because someone is watching me run.
Tap, tap, tap. Is this thing on?
Check—one, two.
This poor blog has been neglected for so long that I imagine you’ve moved on to other writers who actually, you know, write. I don’t blame you. But it isn’t that I haven’t been writing. I just haven’t been blogging. I’ve been writing for a women’s event at our church…writing and writing and writing for it, actually.
But alas, it’s over now, and here I am.
I have so very much to say, which is not a surprise, but I still can’t quite get it all into words, which is. For now, let me say that God has shown Himself to me in some powerful and palpable ways. For a year now, I’ve battled fear and insecurity more than ever before…oh! I wish I had the words to tell you all about it! At the risk of sounding dramatic, I’ve felt completely oppressed. But by Christ’s grace and power, I wrote through the struggle for Real Life’s women’s event, and in the end, God somehow used the very things that oppressed me to set me free, and “to bear much fruit for His glory,” as John would say.
I feel as though I’ve been in a battle and come out on the other side, limping a little and nursing my wounds, but victorious.
Victorious!
Victorious, not because I accomplished anything, but because “God worked in me according to his good purpose.” Victorious, not by my own power, but by the “Christ who gives me strength.” Victorious for one reason alone: He is faithful.
He is so faithful.
I’ve found myself repeating that sentence over and over again lately, and it never fails to amaze or bring a tear. Actually, Sunday night, that sentence brought more than a tear. It brought a full-on ugly cry. At church, just after the “victorious” women’s event, we sang “Never Once,” and I was a puddle. A year’s worth of struggle melted into a heart full of praise.
Hear Matt Redman’s song below. I can’t quite put my whole story into words yet, but I can tell you the only three words that matter: You are faithful.
Recently I was sitting in a meeting—paying only a small amount of attention, quite frankly—when the leader said something that made me laugh and reach for a pen to write it down.
“Well, you can’t worry about that,” she said, in answer to someone’s question. “You just have to munch away on your caterpillar leaf, every day.”
I laughed, first of all, because I couldn’t help but picture everyone in the room munching on leaves. But I also laughed because her simple words were very wise. Too often, I get bothered by other people’s business. “Why did she say that?” “What was he thinking?” Or, I get upset over my own “bang-ups and hang-ups,” as Dr. Seuss would say. Fear, doubt, hardships—all things that distract me from obedience. From simply doing the things that God instructs.
A caterpillar munches away on his leaf, every day, until he enters his chrysalis and emerges a beautiful butterfly. Transformed! Changed because he simply did his thing.
“You need to persevere,” the Hebrew writer says, “so that when you have done the will of God, you will receive what he has promised.” (Hebrews 10:36)
Or, in other words? “You just have to munch away on your caterpillar leaf, every day.”
We Stormses are hardly what you’d call rule-breakers. In fact, I rather enjoy keeping the rules, and the mere thought of breaking one makes me feel a little itchy inside. I’ve also, for better or worse, passed on my rule-keeping tendencies to my children.
However.
In spite of the fact that we don’t, as a rule, break the rules, lately we’ve had a few run-ins with our home owners association. Nothing much…one parking violation, and one tree-climbing violation…but oh. My. Lands. The reaction!
And to be clear, we did break those two rules. We parked where we shouldn’t have parked and we (well, one of us, anyway) climbed where we shouldn’t have climbed. We were in the wrong and we accept the consequences.
However.
The drama? The over-the-top meanness? I think we can all do without that. A few ladies in our HOA take rule-keeping to a whole new level. These women make Javert from Les Miserables look like a pansy.
One of us came home in tears today, and finally got composed enough to say, “I was in a tree, and an HOA lady came by and said, ‘Hey, KID, get out of there!’ So I jumped out, and then she said, ‘Did that hurt when you landed?’ I said, ‘No.’ And then she said, ‘Well, it SHOULD have hurt…I WISH it WOULD have hurt…because YOU are a BAD kid who did something BAD, and it should always hurt when you do something BAD.’”
Excuse me?
You wish it would have hurt?
The rule-breaker and I hugged and dried our eyes and blew our noses, and yes, we discussed that we were wrong to climb the neighborhood trees (which, by the way, are so puny that we can jump out of the tops of them). At the time, I was outside sanding varnish off an old rocking chair, so during the eye-drying and nose-blowing, I took my frustration out on that poor chair. I was so angry with Mrs. Woman-who-was-never-a-child-and-has-too-much-time-on-her-hands that it’s a wonder I didn’t sand it into a pile of toothpicks.
But then, the rule-breaker walked back outside and said sadly, “Maybe that lady was so mean ‘cuz she had just, like, buried her sister or somethin’.”
“Maybe,” I said, “and I’m proud of you for trying to understand her.”
“I guess,” continued the felon, “that I’m supposed to ‘love my enemies, and pray for those who persecute me,’ right?”
“Right.” (That, or, just sand the daylights out of a rocking chair.)
So, that’s what we did. Right there, in the middle of rules and rocking chairs, we took turns praying. We asked God for help remembering to not climb trees, and we especially asked for extra love for someone who may have just buried her sister or somethin’. The rule-breaker even asked God to bless her. Finally, we thanked Him for His forgiveness…to her, and to us. And then, we blew all the sandpaper dust off the rocking chair. Every last particle.
It, and we, were ready for a new start.
My son is 12.
Need I say more?
I could go on. I could write about his tension between being big but not quite big enough. I could tell what a mix Nathan is of confident and afraid, grown-up and childish, intelligent and ridiculous, mature and yet…not very. Hygienic but also at times, so very not.
I could tell you all these things, but really, all I need to say is just this: my son is 12.
We all understand.
And we all understand Mary’s confusion, then, at her 12-year-old Jesus. He left the family caravan and decided to stay a little longer to teach the teachers.
“Son, why have you treated us like this?” Mary asked when she finally found him three days later. Why, Mary? Because your son is 12.
Jesus explained that he had to be in his Father’s house. He seemed surprised that Mary didn’t read his thoughts. I know the look on his face, because I’ve seen it on Nathan: astonished at her astonishment. Mothers and 12-year-olds often view one another with mutually astonished faces. Luke explained, “But they did not understand what he was saying to them.”
Oh, Mary, don’t try to understand. Your son is 12!
Luke then recorded that Jesus returned home, obeyed Joseph and Mary, and grew in wisdom, stature, and favor. (He didn’t stay 12! A word of hope.) Of Mary, Luke wrote, “…his mother treasured all these things in her heart.” No need to explain more there, either. We mothers get that. Mary treasured Jesus’ teaching that day in the Temple, just as she’d treasured his birth in the stable (Luke 2:19). No doubt she’d treasured up a million other memories, too, from the Christ’s first smile, to his first tottering steps, to the prophecies Simeon and Anna had pronounced over him.—Mary “marveled” at those words (Luke 2:33).
We moms treasure every bit of it, and the parts that seem the least treasure-worthy at the time, well, perhaps someday those will turn out to be the most precious.
Mary had a treasuring heart, and like mother, like Son. Years later, Jesus spoke of a treasuring heart this way: “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (Matthew 6:19-21)
Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. Mary’s heart treasured her son, the Christ of God. She treasured, not just her memories of motherhood, but also the God who had chosen her. Mary’s heart overflowed with treasure.
Lord, let me treasure You, as Mary did. Let my hope not be here, in the temporary, in security, or even in people. Let me hope in You, and build my treasure on You. And the things I store up now that seem the least treasure-worthy, well, perhaps someday they will prove most precious. Give me a heart like Mary’s, Lord, because You are my greatest treasure! Amen.
- Like Mother, Like Son – part 1: A Willing Spirit
- Like Mother, Like Son – part 2: A Believing Mind
- Like Mother, Like Son – part 3: A Worshiping Soul
The summer I was pregnant with Nathan, Andy and I took a group of grade schoolers to church camp. Hot sun, hard bunk beds, and a vanload of hyper children made for not-so happy times for the uber-pregnant. I met a woman there, though—another pastor’s wife—who gave me this advice about delivering my firstborn:
“When I had my babies…when I was in labor and having all those contractions…I just praised God.”
Excuse me? I thought. Isn’t it supposed to be painful? I must’ve looked at her like she was crazy, because she continued, “No, I’m serious. I just sang and thanked God the whole time, and it really helped. You should try it.”
I decided that this woman was, in fact, a nut. I’d heard of women screaming in labor, but never singing. Still, I determined to try her worship idea, or at least a variation of it. I grabbed my spiral notebook and copied down all the verses on God’s “help” and “strength” that I could find.—If a verse said anything about God being with me and giving His power, I wrote it in the book. My doctor was a believer, so he wouldn’t mind. I wrote page after page of truth, and then, I did what pregnant women do best. I waited.
I waited, but not as long as I’d planned. I waited until August 1, when Nathan David decided to come six and a half weeks early. Andy and I went to the hospital, thinking I was having terrible back spasms (which turned out to be back labor…oh, was I brilliant). For some reason, even though I didn’t realize I was actually in labor, the only thing I brought with me to the hospital was that spiral notebook. From the moment we arrived, everything went like a blur. The nurse announced I was already dilated to eight centimeters…a placental abruption was discovered…the surgery team waited right outside my door…and through all the chaos and rush and fear, Andy stood beside my bed, held my hand, and quietly read those spiral-scriptures to me, over and over and over.
Turns out, not only was my doctor a strong Christian, but the nurse on-call that day was, too. She was also a pastor’s wife, and she said she “loved” hearing scripture throughout. At the end of the scariest day of my life, I had a tiny, flesh-and-blood testimony to God’s miraculous power. We all knew that God had—pardon the pun—been our mighty “deliverer.”
Amazing.
“My soul glorifies the Lord,” began Mary’s song in Luke’s gospel, “and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.” No one had to advise Mary to have a worshiping soul about her own delivery; she praised sincerely, humbly, adoringly. Mary worshiped God for his greatness and holiness. She praised his mercy and might. But most beautiful to me is this: after Mary’s waiting was over…after she received her tiny, flesh-and-blood miracle…she held in her arms the very embodiment of all that she worshiped! The things for which she praised God were the very things that her baby came to be. He was Emmanuel. God with us. God in the flesh. Like Father, like Son.
“The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.” (John 1:14) We have seen his glory…and Mary held his glory!
Mary delivered the mighty deliverer! She worshiped God with her soul, and then she held God in her arms.
Amazing.
Eleven Christmas seasons ago, I was pregnant with Anne Elizabeth. Born on December 14, little Anne even got to be Baby Jesus in our church’s Christmas performance. Jesus, it turned out, was very hungry that night, and cried “his” little lungs out through the entire show.
Something about being pregnant in December made me feel extra motherly, and Luke’s gospel telling of Christ’s birth jumped off the pages of Scripture to me that year. I was especially taken with Mary herself, as though she and I were somehow connected by our round bellies and swollen ankles. I saw four attributes in Mary to emulate in my own life, and the first is this: Mary had a willing spirit.
As a young, engaged virgin, Mary’s angelic encounter must have been overwhelming at best. Terrifying, too, and even absurd. “Mary, I know you’re a virgin and all, but you’re about to be pregnant. And also, your baby will be God.” Crazy! But “nothing is impossible with God,” Gabriel concluded, and Mary replied, “I am the Lord’s servant. May it be to me as you have said.” (Luke 1:26-38)
May it be to me as you have said. It doesn’t get much more willing than that. I can’t think of the last time I uttered anything close to Mary’s response, at least not without months of arguing and wrestling and trying to figure things out first. Mary did none of that. Just simply, “May it be to me as you have said. I’ll do whatever you say, Lord, and I’ll take whatever you give. I’m your servant.”
And, like mother, like Son. More than three decades later, Jesus himself would speak very similar words to his Father, on an agonizing night in a garden. “Everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will.” (Mark 14:36)
Nothing is impossible…everything is possible.
May it be to me…not my will but yours.
Oh, what God can do with a willing spirit! With Mary’s willingness, God brought the Messiah into the world. With Christ’s willingness, He brought salvation on the cross. I wonder…if I had the willingness of Mary and Jesus Christ, what impossible feat would God accomplish through me?
Maybe He’d restore a relationship.
“Amy, I want you to forgive her. Let her off the hook.”
“Okay, Lord, I will. I’ll do whatever You ask.”
Maybe God would quiet an anxiety.
“Quit telling me this is impossible, child. Trust Me.”
“I believe You, Father! May it be to me as You have said.”
Maybe, if I were willing, God would use my life to bear much fruit for His glory.
“Just remain in me, and let my words remain in you. I’ll do more than you can more than you can even imagine.” (John 15:7-8; Ephesians 3:20-21)
“Oh, use me. I’m your servant.”
Lord God, You accomplish the crazy. Nothing is impossible with You! Grant me a more willing spirit, Father. Make me more like Mary and more like the Christ. What can you do—through me—with a willing spirit? Whatever it is, God, may it be to me as you have said. I’m your servant. Amen.
June 21, 1997–the day I dressed in white and changed my name from Miss Amy Dunson to Mrs. Amy Storms. So much went wrong in our wedding that remembering it still makes me cringe. Amid the bridesmaids’ dresses going missing, the photographer getting in a fight with Andy’s grandma, and the flower girl spilling water down the front of her dress, I forgot to pull my veil over my face. No blusher for this bride. And I could’ve used it, too, to hide my tears as I cried my way down the aisle.
Veils aren’t always a good thing. To the believers in Corinth, Paul wrote about the veil Moses wore after being in the Lord’s presence. Paul said that some people have veils, not over their faces, but over their hearts. The veil keeps them from experiencing God’s salvation and freedom. “But whenever anyone turns to the Lord,” Paul wrote, “the veil is taken away.” (2 Corinthians 3:16)
A veiled heart keeps us from God…oh, let’s remove the veil! No blusher for the Bride of Christ. Lord, let us turn to you, and let nothing separate us from You. Let us encounter You, as Moses did. Give us minds to know You better and hearts to love You more. (Ephesians 1:17-18) Let us be as Paul described: “And we who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.” (2 Corinthians 3:17-18) Amen.
