Removing the Beam

One week recently during Torah portion, a brother discussed the “leaven of the Pharisees” and what that meant to him.  It was a brief comment, but it got me thinking.  What was the “leaven of the Pharisees?”  Based on the teachings of Yeshua, it was self-righteousness.  

Desiring to understand this, I began asking for it to be revealed in areas of my life where I might be holding on to any of this leaven. One area of danger for me which was revealed, when I set about removing the beam from my own eye, is the idea of pride in the truth that I have been blessed to be able to understand.

As I began to explore this matter in my spirit, I began seeing my brothers and sisters in belief display these behaviors; it was like looking in a mirror of my own past attitudes.

Those walking in the light of the truths that fall under the umbrella of “Hebrew Roots” are very blessed individuals. I began my own journey down this narrow path 16 years ago. I kept Rosh Hashanah for the first time on my birthday in the year 2000, a very interesting year. Since that date my knowledge and understanding of Torah, and the Tanakh as a whole, has grown tremendously.

Looking back, I would use the expression that I was “on fire” for the truth. I ran around my world telling my friends and family just how lost and sinful they were, how pagan their actions were, and generally just being more “righteous” then everyone around me. What I did was alienate nearly everyone that I knew. I blamed them for that, of course. They just didn’t want to hear the truth. They just weren’t ready to accept it. It was their fault that they continue to wallow in their sin.

I see this manifest in so many ways around me now as I seek to grow in this way. Sometimes it’s in the titles that we allow others to give us, or not give us, as the case may be. Some lift themselves up by refusing to take any title, as if somehow that elevates them. Some think the specific titles they take on somehow elevate them. By calling themselves “Torah Adherent” or “Hebrew Roots” or “Un-Christian.”  I see them mocking other believers in their desire to lift themselves up. They are better than a “common pagan cult Christian.” They are certainly better than a “Messiah rejecting Jew.” Their truth is the ultimate truth, and they are special to have been given it.  They fail to realize that titles are irrelevant to our Father and his life giving truth, and only speak of our own pride in our own deeds.

This thinking is exactly the Pharisees leaven. It is exactly what Yeshua was warning us about.

Today’s Hebrew roots believer often behaves as if only they will enter the kingdom. By their belief system great followers of God will not enter the kingdom. People like William Booth, and Martin Luther, and John Calvin, and the list goes on and on, are out, because thousands of years later Yahweh has kindly opened the door and allowed them to peek inside. I know, because I’ve been guilty of this particular sin of pride.

It is not our job to judge those around us. It is not our job to judge other believers. It is not our job to condemn them. Someone whose feet we are not fit to wash has already been given that job. Yeshua did not turn away from the sinner or the pagan or the tax collector. But they do. Their truth is more valid than His truth, so they will turn away from them all.

Somewhere along the line I began seeing myself behaving this way. I saw that I was only pushing people away, which eliminated any opportunity I had to actually show them the truth.  Instead I was just showing them how perfectly I kept it. I saw that behavior changing in me.   

Instead of confronting them with their sin, I began to merely quietly lived by faith. Those around me began to see the blessings that came into my life because of my obedience and my faith. The more that I was open about what I was doing and why, without condemning what they were doing and why, people began to change around me.

This past year was very rough for me, and I went through a great number of difficult life changes, and there was a lot of physical work involved. Through this, I have kept my Sabbaths. In fact, some weeks I have deeply desired and longed for them.  I began keeping the Sabbath 25 years ago, the majority of my adult life. It was a very peculiar thing in my family and in my life and in my community and in my social group. Yet, I persisted, because I immediately saw the benefits in my own life. After so many years, I would say it is the Cornerstone of my faith.

The Torah commands us to work six days, then rest one. I make every effort to work as hard as I can for six days every single week, and crash on the seventh day. As people came alongside of me and began working with me through this last year, they realize how hard I worked, and were very grateful for my Sabbaths. My daughter and my brother, who contributed the greatest effort, looked forward to the Sabbath every week because they knew they would not be hearing from me asking them to do anything. Now my brother keeps the Sabbath. By following my example, he is seeing these blessings manifest in his own life. Not because of me, but because it is the truth and Yahweh graciously allowed that truth to shine through me.

At Sukkot last year I began praying that I might be a credit to my god, Yahweh Elohim, King of the universe. The first step in being a credit to him means giving him ALL of the credit.

Link to the full teaching

This clip is from last week’s Torah service, something Steve said that struck a chord. I love the formats of our weekly Torah portion. It is more like a discussion panel, less like a lecture. As ideas and Scripture flow, I learn a great deal.   I enjoy Steve's teachings a great deal.

I hope that others are able to recognize this particular bit of leavening in themselves, because I believe we all have a tendency to hinge our holiness on how much holier we are then the next guy, instead of measuring ourselves in the mirror of Ruach.

Shalom and may you be blessed.

Ancient Wind - Ancient Blessings

A favorite slide from the Seder

 Friday night an ancient event happened in my home. I taught my grandchildren to keep the Passover. Sometimes in my life there are experiences where I feel like a great creaky door has opened to ancient pasts, and the cold breeze of history blows through it and into the present.

This week leading up to the Passover was stressful for me. My chronic illness was flaring up. I felt tired, and in pain, and completely overwhelmed. I knew that I had to get leaven out of my house, prepare a Seder, and prepare dinner, and I couldn't seem to make the time to do any of that. I got some things done, some small things, and a whole bunch of lists made, but I couldn't seem to get anything substantial done. By Thursday evening, I was so discouraged I gave up and went to bed early.

The Bible tells us not to be discouraged. As often happens, I failed to see Yahweh's perfect timing.

My grandchildren, Pandora and Ziggy, arrived at 6:30 on Friday morning. I began the process of cleaning my house and getting the leavening out, at first still feeling the stress and pressure. Then I began to see Yahweh's perfect timing and I began to feel that ancient wind. My stress turned into joy.

My grandchildren began helping. As they helped, I told them what we were doing and why. I talked to them about puffed up pride and simple humble matzoh. I thought about the many generations of people who were doing the same thing that day, and the many generations that had come before.

I was surprised how truly helpful the littles were. By midday, the leavening was out, the house was mostly clean, and the kitchen was cleaner than usual. Then I took my grandchildren to the market. Together, we got the last few items needed to complete our Seder, and I bought them a pretty pinwheel, and some matzoh, and some kosher wine, and some bitter herbs, and I rejoiced to share that moment with my wonderful grandchildren.

My daughter helped me prepare the lamb. The hands of three generations prepared the Passover meal, and as it went into the oven, perfectly on time, those ancient winds blew stronger. Soon my other two daughters arrived, and we finished the preparations together.  My daughter's boyfriend, the newest family member, arrived just as dark began to descend; perfect timing.  My house was full of the people I love as the angel of the Lord passed over us, figuratively speaking.



It was a challenge to customize a Seder to the attention span and interest of toddlers and preschoolers, but I think I managed to be blessed. And as I served the lamb and potatoes and we crunched the matzoh and drank the sweet delicious wine, that ancient wind blew through my soul, clearing out the stress and helping me see that I was in Yah's timing all along.



I may never have all of my children and grandchildren for Passover again, as the littles will start school soon, and they will be undoubtedly busy during this time. I am grateful for this one perfect gift.

I feel the ancient winds of time rise up and blow when I speak the Shema:

4“Hear, O Yisra’ĕl: יהוה our Elohim, יהוה is one!

5“And you shall love יהוה your Elohim with all your heart, and with all your being, and with all your might.

6“And these Words which I am commanding you today shall be in your heart,

7and you shall impress them upon your children, and shall speak of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise up,

8and shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as frontlets between your eyes.

9“And you shall write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates.   

 

My favorite slide from the Seder slide show

Deuteronomy 6

Thank you for helping me obey, Father, Yahweh elohim, melech ha olam, King of the Universe.  I am grateful that you see me.  May you bring us shalom.

If you would like to see my Lego Seder Story, go here:  The Story.

Credit for and all rights to the images goes to: http://www.bricktestament.com/exodus/   

Empty Corners

This doesn't look like much. In fact, it's the opposite of much. It's an empty corner.

One of the first things I realized when I began moving out of my duplex and into my house was how amazingly much furniture and stuff and junk that I had. In those first days, especially, it seemed very overwhelming to me, with furniture stacked to the ceiling in some rooms. The feeling was very claustrophobic, almost frightening.  Now that I'm here, I have a huge craving for empty spaces. I no longer want rooms full of furniture, I want everything in its place, and as few of those things as possible.

Nevertheless, there were a few things I had a hard time giving up. I don't try to actively cling to the memories that I have when I see them, but I'm certain my inner reluctance in dealing with them have impeded me, and for reasons that don't even make sense, I became reluctant to move forward.

What used to stand in this corner was a dilapidated, beat-up roll-top desk and a rather unique slanted desk that was custom-made for me. Both of these things have connections with Storm. Both of them are useless in my new home.  Both of them have occupied their spots in this corner for about a year now.

The larger desk Storm made for me. It had a tremendous footprint, but barely any usable space. My husband had made it out of the tops of a double tiered coffee table. He had made it specifically for me. It was too tall, and much too big, and had entirely too much unusable space.  Functionally, I really didn't appreciate it at all. Aesthetically, it appealed to me in almost every way. It's slanted profile made an interesting conversation piece, and the clean simplicity of it gave me a glimpse into Storm's artistic side. He was a designer and maker by nature, and I love the opportunities I had to see his mind at work.

Next to it was the roll-top. That ugly thing sat inside my front door almost since I moved back to Salem. It's made out of that weird, heavy particleboard, and the roll-top is not wood at all. It was missing a front handle for the drawer, but basically it stood on its own legs and everything works. The dog food used to sit underneath of it, so it is dirty and covered in hair. Every day I would come into my house and there would sit the accumulated pile of our life crap. Storm usually would put his wallet there, and the dog leashes usually ended up there, the cats liked to walk on it, and I usually found the daily mail there. It's cubbies were excellent for storing things that you might need and accumulating dust, but most often it was a place for things to be forgotten. I hated the ugly thing, but its importance in my life is lasting, and every time I look at it I think of how much Storm loved that poor, ugly thing.


Yesterday, I pulled out all of Storm's 3 inch long drywall screws and took apart the desk. Today I carried out the boards, and watched someone else carry out the roll-top desk. They sounded like they were really going to love it, and I'm glad. It deserves a little love.

Eventually, the heavy tabletops will be refinished and turned into plant shelves, and the rest of the wood has gone out to the pile to be re-purposed. I should've done this weeks or maybe months ago, but I somehow couldn't bring myself to do it. I had nowhere to put the things that were on them, and the cold, wet weather made a handy excuse, but somehow I just couldn't let them go.

Now they are gone. I couldn't call them back if I wanted to. Instead I am left with an empty corner. The corner will be filled soon enough. The dogs will be using it as a thoroughfare, and I'm sure the boxes and totes and hoarding of life will fill it in short order.

Right now that empty space feels like a great big possibility. Like it could be almost anything in that corner.  About a year ago, the world I called my life became utterly shattered, and I have spent the time sweeping up the fragments; physically and metaphorically. Each day, I try to take my  life closer to order from chaos; each and every slice of space and order feels like peace of mind. Today, by making myself put away these specific things and to experience that empty corner, I willfully let go of a tiny piece of my sorrow, and by doing so I willfully fought back against the darkness, and let a shining ray of peace in to replace it.

Psalm 30:11-12

11 You have turned my mourning into dancing for me; You have torn off my sackcloth and girded me with gladness, 12 So that esteem might praise You and not be silent. O יהוה my Elohim, I thank You forever.

Saying, "I Love You."

I've been thinking quite a bit since Storm's suicide about the way people respond to loss and pain and hardship. I have conversations with lots of people on the Internet about their losses and everyone responds differently.  There are some who seem to cling to their pain and guilt and loss, unable to move forward in their lives. Then there are those who feel the loss, who will allow the pain to overwhelm them for a while, but then they begin seeking for a way out and the way to healing.

I think I'm one of the latter. I may not have always been. I admit that I did not experience great loss into my adult years, though that doesn't mean that I had not felt pain. I've been pondering why it is that one person will cling to the pain and the other will cling to the healing.

When I was a young girl I spent a great deal of time at camp each summer. I was fortunate to be part of the family at my local Salvation Army church and they provided my home family the means for me to go. My mother was never a healthy woman. For most of her life she smoked like a chimney and then blamed her ill health on everything but the smoking. She would have great coughing fits that wracked her body. Sometimes I would wake up at night to hear hacking and coughing and I would worry that my mother was dying.

When I was ten years old this was on my heart when I went to summer camp. My grandfather, her father, had died the previous year and I was afraid that I was going to lose my mother. I'm not sure what set it off, but one day after morning devotions I started crying. The counselor, really no more than a teenager, pulled me aside and asked what was wrong. I spilled the whole thing. This young lady whose name I cannot even remember told me one of the wisest things I've ever heard, and some of the best advice in my life.

She told me there was nothing I could do about my mother smoking or my mother's health. She told me that all I could do was tell her that I loved her every single day. I told her that my family wasn't the kind of family that said I love you very often. She told me it didn't matter. She told me to tell her anyway because she would like hearing it even if she didn't say it back.  She told me it wasn't about me hearing she loved me back, but her knowing that I loved her, in case she died tomorrow.

I went home and did exactly that. I would hug my mother and tell her I loved her. At first she didn't seem to know what to do about it, but eventually she began saying it back. I started doing the same to my father with a less obvious result and with less frequency.

Fast forward 40 years or so.  I began having a conversation with a friend online. This friend told me how she felt like her parents blamed her for her grief, and how she was sure that they didn't love her. She told me that her father was retired military and that they were not good at expressing their feelings. She was sure he would never say that he loved her, so she was sure that he didn't.

Her assumption was that my father was demonstrative and open with his feelings. She did not know me well enough to know that my father is also retired military, and not so good at expressing his feelings. She didn't know that my family of six children and two parents were not very good at expressing their feelings. From her perspective,  everyone's family is better than hers and more loving.

The difference between the two of us is that I don't let it stop me. I don't let his lack of response stop me from telling him that I love him. I don't think he doesn't love me or that he's not proud of me because he doesn't say it out loud. In fact, I can clearly remember two times in my life when my father told me out loud that he loved me. That still doesn't stop me from telling him. Before I leave him I kiss him and/or hug him and tell him that I love him.

So why does one person assume they're loved, and the next one assumes indifference?

I think it's a choice. I think I choose to be loved. I think I choose to believe the best in others, especially those I love. I think I choose to move forward even when the ghosts of the past haunt me. I chose to tell my mother that I loved her even though I knew she wouldn't return the expression, though she eventually did. I know now that my dad is simply going to pat me on the back and nod when I tell him that I love him. I choose not let that stop me, and I am certain that he loves me back.

I also choose not to live in grief.  I choose not to wallow in it, I choose not to feel guilty for things that are not mine to own, and I choose to find the light in life every day. I choose to love my family for who they are, and not who I think they should be.

My mother lived many more years and I told her I loved her as often as I could fit it in. She died in 2012. There are many things that I wish I had said to my mother. There are almost as many things that I wish I had never said. The one thing I'm certain of is that my mother knew that I loved her, and I have no regrets for a single time that I said so.