Not too long ago, I was at the gym early one morning, and I felt unusually aware of God’s love and presence in my life (and that’s saying something, because the only thing I’m usually aware of at that hour is my need for more sleep). Anyway, although I felt groggy, I began internally singing the words of a simple worship song to Jesus. However, I had trouble focusing on the song due to the speakers at the gym, which were blaring OutKast’s song, “I Like the Way You Move.”
Tag: grace
Where are You, Jesus?
I’m usually the first one to greet my daughter every morning when she wakes up. I hold her torso against my chest, she presses her face against my neck, and I rock her. Before long, though, she starts squirming as the need for her morning milk exceeds her need for morning hugs.
Father God, the Nose-Wiper
Sometimes, my baby girl thinks I’m an awful father. I do mean things like laying her down to sleep, taking pieces of paper out of her mouth, and pulling her away from wall outlets. Today, I’m awful because I’m trying to help her get over a cold. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but here’s the problem: although my daughter likes to have her nose kissed, she does not otherwise want it to be touched.
Church of the Holy Hot Flash
“Oh Lord, I’m having a hot flash again,” said my Aunt Kathy Jo, wiping sweat from her cheek while setting up for Thanksgiving dinner. “Somebody turn on the air conditioner – I can’t take it.” I chuckled at her honesty and then complimented her outfit. It was a departure from the more formal Thanksgiving attire of years past. With her black hat, shimmering with rhinestones, tight black pants, and white, denim jacket, she looked less like Martha Stewart and more like Salt n’ Pepa.
You’ve Fallen, and You Can Get Up
Last Tuesday, I mistakenly decided to be cool. I walked out of the house in my snazzy, faux, black Hugo suit, a white shirt, and no tie. I was going to work, but I looked more like I was going clubbing. I walked past my beat up, 1996 Honda Accord, strutted down the sidewalk, and walked down the street to catch the public bus. About fifty yards from the bus stop, I saw my bus go past the 7-11, make the stop, and then move on.
Bickering our Way to a Better Marriage
At the end of our wedding reception, my wife and I walked past the rows of cheering family and friends, climbed into the getaway car, and drove away, utterly euphoric. On the way to the hotel, all the bickering we had done during the engagement seemed to evaporate. Truly, this was a fresh start. I remember thinking, “Wow, those vows really did change me. I don’t believe we’ll ever argue again.” We would not, in fact, argue again – until four days into our honeymoon.
Face-plant Into the Arms of Jesus
This is a continuation of my previous post. After years of self-induced, spiritual stress, I finally realized God wasn’t the shin-kicking, cosmic scorekeeper I had imagined. For the first time since I was a kid, I knew my salvation was secure, and obedience seemed like an opportunity, rather than an obligation. I was a changed man, a Jesusy flower child, feeling saved all over again.
Did Mel Gibson Kill Jesus?
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.
Grace in the Pediatric ICU
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.
He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not
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).
I Fought the Law, and the Law Won
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.
How to Scare the Hell out of an Insecure Christian
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!”
The Religious Party Pooper Gets a Little Crazy
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.
Time to Play "Top-That-Testimony!"
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.
Party Pooper for Jesus
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…
Joshua Rogers 