I got on Facebook one day last year and noticed that an acquaintance had posted a rant about a sensitive social issue. I was a little surprised – the status update, which was sure to offend a significant portion of the population, seemed unnecessarily caustic and over-the-top.
Most of my childhood, I was raised by a working, single mother who usually couldn’t make it to daytime school events. Every once in a while though, she would slip away from work and come to school for something special. It meant the world to me when she was able to do that.
Erin was my best friend in middle school, and God knows I needed one. I was getting bullied at school and lagging behind in my efforts to make friends with the boys in my grade. But she was a better friend—male or female—than most kids ever have. When my parents separated in eighth grade, she was the only person to whom I revealed that I had actually spent a couple of hours crying about it. She told me she felt honored that I trusted her.
Last week, one of my articles got published over at Boundless. It felt like it was my birthday. For a year-and-a-half, I’ve been consistently cranking out articles that have been mostly read by my mom and her quilting guild. The next thing you know, the traffic meter on my blog zooms upward, new people start subscribing, and I’m on the phone with an agent who’s offering me a chance to co-write a book with Beth Moore (okay, that last part didn’t actually happen).
Sometimes you run across a story that demonstrates God’s love in a way that a theological explanation never could. Today, I’m featuring one of those stories from guest writer Evan Bell. If God’s been nudging you to take a risk, to give more than you thought you had to give – read this article. You may just walk away with the courage to follow Him down a path that will change your life forever.
This is a continuation of my previous post. Two days before the opening of The Passion of the Christ, I sat in front of the television, wide-eyed, anxiously awaiting Diane Sawyer’s prime-time special – an interview with Mel Gibson, the film’s director. At the crux of the interview, Sawyer squinted her eyes, tilted her head, and asked Mel Gibson the big question: “Who killed Jesus? Was it the Jews? The Romans?” I leaned forward, curious what Gibson would say.
This is a continuation of my previous post. My seven-month-old nephew, Canaan, was in a semi-comatose state, a victim of an unforeseen intestinal disease. He had been through two emergency surgeries in two days; his small intestine and kidneys were failing. He had 12 machines hooked to his body, two respirators down his throat, and his swollen small intestine was hanging in a bag above his body.
This is a continuation of my previous post. After four years of living like a legalistic, modern-day Pharisee, I was exhausted, humiliated by failure, and desperate for freedom. Despite my good intentions, I had turned my life into a spiritual circus act. I followed as many rules as possible, only to discover that following the rules can’t make you holy – but rules can make you very aware of your sin (see my previous post).
This is a continuation of my previous post. Three years into college, I had done everything in my power to grow into the man evangelical Christianity wanted me to be. But I could never do enough, and the pressure was making me physically sick and leaving me with a sense of worthlessness.
This is a continuation of my previous post. The visiting evangelist paced back and forth, vigorously preaching the fear of the Lord. He had a microphone, but Lord knows he didn’t need one. He shouted at the packed room of petrified charismatics, denouncing a litany of sins – and not just the classic ones. He zeroed in on rebellious attitudes, careless words – and, yes, he even condemned those who engaged in “habitual mas-tur-bation!”
This is a continuation of my previous post. I nervously invited the two, attractive, college freshman girls to join me for lunch. I hardly knew either of them. After they put their yellow trays on the table, I took a deep breath and formally stated my intentions.
This is a continuation of my previous post. I began my journey into rabid, spiritual legalism during my freshman year of undergrad. I didn’t start out aiming to be a stress ulcer in the Body of Christ. I just wanted to get my life right with God, so I began praying that God would send along some friends who would help me live for Him.
This is a continuation of my previous post. I sat in the recliner uncomfortably watching Steve, my college pastor, flip through the channels. At 20-years-old, I was two years into a self-imposed, religious fanaticism that focused more on following rules than following Jesus. And Steve was violating one of the central tenets of personal holiness: thou shalt not watch non-Christian television [insert thunder and lightning here]. But I enjoyed spending time with Steve, so I bore with him as he watched TV (after all, it was his house). However, I did not – no, I could not – look at…
Lisa Wink, a friend from church, was 33-years-old and still wasn’t married in 2007, despite years of waiting for a husband. I probably would have asked her out if I were single, but I was already happily engaged to my 26-year-old fiance. “Josh, I’m serious. I’m at the end of my rope,” she said, standing outside church after a Christmas service. “It’s getting harder to believe I’ll ever get married.”
Recently, I complimented two different men in separate conversations, encouraging them to consider mentoring younger guys. They both had the same response: “You wouldn’t say that if you really knew me.” It mildly startled me to hear this fearful, knee-jerk response from both of these two, respectable men. Of course, I wondered, “So, if don’t really know you, then what are you really like?” I could be wrong, but I seriously doubt that either of these men are privately peddling child pornography or cheating on their wives or embezzling money from their workplaces.
Joshua Rogers 