Whitewashed Undead

“Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! You are like whitewashed tombs, which appear beautiful on the outside, but inside are full of the bones of the dead and every kind of impurity.” Matthew 23:27

A clump of hair fell from Sapphira’s temple revealing blood and bone beneath. She snatched it from the vanity, spread super glue along the perimeter of the tissue, and reattached it to her skull. 

John popped his head into the bedroom. “This is your thirty-minute warning, Phira,” he said in a poor imitation of a robot. His self-satisfied chuckle bounced down the hallway and into the bedroom like one of those obnoxious tiny rubber balls the kids liked so much. 

She frowned, and that stupid hole in her cheek reopened. If he’d just leave her be, she’d already be done with her hair and makeup. 

“Okay, babe!” Her voice was as sticky sweet as her morning latte.

More super glue to seal the puckering flesh below her cheekbone. A lot more. Sapphira tapped her foot and held the hole closed while it dried. 

“Good enough,” she mumbled, scraping bits of crusty glue from her fingertips. 

She picked up the bottle of liquid foundation and dabbed a generous amount onto a stained sponge, then began applying it to her face. Although the label indicated this shade was “Fair,” it still appeared dark against her deathly pale skin. She continued to apply it over her entire face, neck, ears, and chest before moving on to her hands. The rest of her skin, either too pale or rotting, would be covered by long sleeves and a smart pair of black slacks. 

John’s crooning baritone voice filtered through the door. “You’ve brought me up from the grave—” 

Sapphira shot to her feet, marched across the bedroom, and slammed the door. How did he expect her to be done in time for church with all that noise? Some people were so inconsiderate. 

Back in her vanity chair, she brushed out her thin hair ever so slowly. There were few spots left that weren’t clinging on by super glue and a prayer. She tapped her foot—

Her foot? Where did it . . . ?

Sapphira scanned the floor beneath her, but only a dark smear could be seen on the carpet. She looked toward the door and spotted the foot halfway across the room, deep crimson blood soaking through the white, nylon sock. Throwing the hairbrush against the mirror, she growled deep in her throat. 

Now she’d have to sew the whole thing back on, and she wouldn’t have time to curl her hair. What would Lettie say when Sapphira walked in looking like one of those moms who wear jeans to church—or worse, yoga pants. If only her trusty glue were strong enough to keep her foot secure.

With a heavy sigh, she sat on the end of the bed, removed the dirty sock, and started to stitch the skin together. 

One, two, three, four. . . .

A drop of watery blood splattered onto the third stitch. 

“Wha—?” Her fingers skimmed over her face, looking for the offending wound. Moisture met fingertips beneath her nose. Her brain must be oozing again. Such wonderful timing. 

Ignoring the rhythmic drip against her ankle, Sapphira finished attaching her foot. Then she leaned across the mattress, snatched a tissue from the bedside table, and shredded it. After rolling the strips into balls, she shoved them up her nose. Breathing was overrated anyway. 

The bedroom door swung open, and John stepped in holding a worn Bible and a stupid grin. “Ready to go?”

Sapphira ground her teeth in annoyance. “Sure, sweetheart! Just a sec.” She pulled on a clean sock, and bent down for her flats. 

John appeared at her shoulder, and Sapphira craned her neck to meet his gaze.

“Ouch, hun. I never understand how you can turn your head so far. Are you ok?” His brow furrowed with concern as he searched her eyes. “You always look so tired. Maybe you should go to one of those sleep studies.”

Slipping her shoes on, she said, “You worry too much. I’m perfectly fine. In fact, I’ll be even more fine when we’re at church worshipping our savior.” She stood and pasted on a smile, careful not to reopen the hole in her cheek. “All set!” 

The Waiting Place

In Dr. Seuss’s book, Oh the Places You’ll Go, there is a waiting place—a “most useless place.” Where people of all shapes and sizes are “just waiting.” In Seuss’s defense, he was implying these people lacked initiative to do something with their lives. But despite the truth of that, God still keeps us in that place at times. In a recent sermon, my pastor Mark Rogers said, “. . . when it comes to God, the waiting place is never a useless place. God gets so much done in the times that he has us waiting.”

Many of us feel the tension of the waiting place right now—whether still in partial quarantine, searching for a new job, or waiting for schools to reopen. God knows waiting for future grace is difficult. That’s why he instructs us not only to have patience, but courage. Psalm 27:14 says, “Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!”

The Bible often uses words like strength or courage when discussing waiting (Jas. 5:8, 11; Is. 40:31; Ps. 33:20; Col. 1:11). If courage is strength in the face of fear, what does that have to do with waiting? If we’re honest with ourselves, we’d see that fear is a vice that often accompanies waiting—a fear of future suffering, of not being in control, or even of what God might bring. But the Lord tells us, “let your heart take courage” (Ps. 27:14) because our God can bring goodness from any amount of suffering, present or future. 

During my husband’s job hunt, he often reminds me that God is cooking, and we must wait. We can smell the feast he’s preparing for us, and it only makes us hungrier. In that time of eager waiting, our faith is increased because we know God will be good to us—we can smell the food! We’ve eaten of his blessings before, and can almost taste what’s to come before it arrives. With such eager longing to experience God’s goodness in this world and the next, is it surprising how much courage is needed to stay in the waiting place?

I enjoy experimenting in the kitchen, and my three year old, Peter, likes to help. A couple months ago, Peter and I were preparing falafel patties when I turned away for a second, telling him not to touch anything. When I turned back, he’d dumped half a bottle of lemon juice into the bowl of chickpea flour. Had I not immediately poured off the juice, the whole thing would have been ruined. 

I love how eager he is to help, but at his age, I can’t look away for even a moment in case he decides to continue cooking without me. He thinks he knows what needs to be done, but he ends up ruining the food instead. 

We are often like a small child when God is preparing a way for us—eager to fix when we’ve been told not to touch. But in the waiting place, all our efforts and plans will fail or produce sour consequences. 

Another Peter struggled with putting his own plans above those of his teacher. In Matthew 16:21-23, Jesus tells his disciples about his death and resurrection. “Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him, ‘Oh no, Lord! This will never happen to you!’ Jesus turned and told Peter, ‘Get behind me, Satan! You are a hindrance to me because you’re not thinking about God’s concerns but human concerns’” (CSB). 

Peter was essentially saying, “You may be the Messiah, but I still know better than you. What you’re saying will never happen.” Such sentiment deeply lacked faith, which is why it produced such a strong rebuke. Peter must have been shocked by Christ’s words. Perhaps he thought he was somehow loving Jesus by saying he wouldn’t die in such a way. 

Perhaps we also think our intentions are good when we refuse to wait and submit to God’s plan. Instead it shows that same lack of faith as Peter.

I’m a fixer by nature. When there’s a health or developmental issue in my family, I won’t stop searching for a solution—even if it takes years. Sometimes my persistence produces good results. But at other times, I push past every dead end God errects in my path. In the end, I have to repent and deal with the consequences of my scheming and lack of faith.

Rogers said, “There are things that only God can do, and so we often find ourselves waiting on him to act. . . . We all know that waiting can be hard, right? It’s much more natural to try to make things happen ourselves—to push, and plan, and scrape, and sometimes even manipulate in order to make things happen.”

What would it look like to have faith when your life is characterized by waiting? It wouldn’t look like obsessive hunting on the internet. It wouldn’t look like hovering over all your problems feeling hopeless. It would be prayerful, courageous, and faithful. “The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him” (Lam 3:25).  If you’re in a season of waiting, God is preparing a feast. His goodness and faithfulness will never fail. 

What Women Do and SBC 2019

The Southern Baptist Convention 2019 was a momentous occasion. Not only had I never attended before, but everything from the resolutions to the panels to the coffee dates were alive with the whirlwind of change.

Sexual abuse.

Racial reconciliation.

Women’s roles in the church.

No one was afraid to talk about the SBC’s dirty laundry. We didn’t always agree, but that was okay. We talked about all of it in painstaking detail and invited the whole world to watch. Then we voted that sexual abuse and racism were grounds for expelling churches from the convention. And I couldn’t be more proud of our leadership for their humility and resolve in these areas.

While remaining steadfast in conservative, Biblical principles and complementarianism, I saw men—leading men—affirm the value and voice of women in the church. At the SBC Women’s Leadership event, our president, J.D. Greear, expressed his excitement about the new generation of women and change we are ushering in. And while he was glad for what has already taken place, he reminded us that we are only starting to scratch the surface.

The SBC (along with other conservative denominations) are just beginning to see the effects of the minimization of women in churches—especially in the South where legalism over leniency is more common. And I would have to agree fully with Greear—there is much to be done, not primarily in the convention but in church culture.

I was in a state of awe during the convention. There was so much to see, hear, learn, and read. I couldn’t have done it all if I’d wanted to. And I was just so darn happy to see change finally taking place in so many areas, I didn’t immediately feel where it was still lacking. But as we drove out of town on Thursday morning, I finally put my finger on it.

No one asked me what I do.

You know those moments when you get stuck at a table with a bunch of people you don’t know? You’re forced to make small talk, ask where they’re from, what they do, how many kids they have. But people in the church don’t ask women what they do unless they’re alone.

I asked my husband how many times he had a chance to tell someone he’s a philosophy professor and PhD student. It was so many, he’d lost count. When he asked me the same, I recounted the one time I told someone about my various writing endeavors—at the women’s leadership event. It was at a place where there were no men at the table and women only had eyes and ears for one another.

That realization stung deeply. All the implications crashed down around me. I could list all the reasons why they ask him and not her, but there was one that stuck out to me above all the others: they already knew. Or they thought they knew, and they didn’t care to know more.

All the people at those tables and booths subconsciously assumed I was a stay-at-home mom and my husband had a real job. And I assumed right along with them. Don’t think I’m trying to be high and mighty in my critique here. You can bet I did it too. I am guilty of not wanting to hear about other women’s kids and schooling choices because I think (wrongly) that it’s boring and ordinary. Nor do I immediately assume they have something they do outside the home or in their spare time. It’s not something I would ever have admitted to until now since it’s mostly subconscious.

But here’s the thing—I am a stay-at-home mom. My husband really does have a job outside our home. I change diapers, cook the food, fold the laundry (sometimes), and then some. And all those things are extremely important. There were seasons—and rightly so—of my life where that is all I did, and all I was able to do because my kids were little.

But that isn’t the whole story for me. I am a woman who loves the church and the people in it. He has gifted me as well as every woman to serve his church in some capacity. He has gifted you, sister, to serve the body for the sake of the kingdom.

I have things that I do apart from my family. And if we were honest with ourselves, we look a lot more like the Proverbs 31 woman than we usually give ourselves credit for. We care for our homes, our families, start businesses, use our teaching/serving/leading gifts in a multitude of venues, and pretty much git it done.

I know a lot of men in SBC churches who think very highly of women. Some of them even read theology books written by the opposite gender. But I can’t help but wonder if they would think to ask that woman, the one sitting at a table with her husband, what she does.

This is a glorious season of change in the church. Let’s all work together for the sake of the gospel.

Confessions of an Insomniac

Based on Psalm 42 and 23

I wrote this during one of the worst seasons of loneliness and debilitating fatigue. Although I was depressed and in poor health, I had hope that God would stay with me and help me. And he has. He is always good. 

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Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my salvation and my God.

I reach for his word and my hand falters. Fatigue eats away at my flesh like rot. The smell overtakes my senses. 

Does he prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies?

Hope in God, O my soul.

Sleep eludes me. Every night I lie down, “God have mercy on me.” 

My salvation and my God.

I wake dizzy, addled, exhausted. I should be productive. I should read, I should write. My Bible falls open before me. 

What did I just read? Try again. 

Nothing. I remember nothing. 

Hope in God, for I shall again praise him. 

I wish my friends were here. But really, I wish I wasn’t here where I have no friends.

Busy. This place is so busy. These people are so busy. 

Why are you cast down, O my soul? Hope in God!

Why do I neglect your word? I’m thirsty. I’m hungry. Your word is my only hope. 

Have mercy on me. I’m so tired. 

My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.

I read. What did it say? 

I’m losing my mind, and I can’t remember what I just read. Can’t remember how to sleep.

Prepare a table before me, and my cup will overflow. Quench my thirst, my salvation and my God. Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.