Do I Have to Call Myself a Christian?

"Yeah, I believe.  It's just that when I think about calling myself a "Christian" it makes my stomach turn.  It just has bad connotations for me. I guess I could become a Christian, but if I did, I would have to call myself something else. I could call myself a Lutheran, maybe, but not a Christian. I don't like what that word has come to mean."

These are the words I heard this week.
And it broke my heart.
I couldn't argue with this person. Her reasons for not wanting to allow Christ into her life were because she thought she would have to label herself a "Christian" and that was not something she wanted to do.  To her "Christian" meant:
Republican
Narrow-minded
Judgmental
Hypocritical
Arrogant

And she didn't want those labels on her.

Now, I know this is going to upset my Lutheran brothers and sisters, but think about this a minute...
The person quoted above would rather be identified with Martin Luther than with Jesus Christ!
Martin Luther was a remarkable, courageous, pillar of the faith. A history changer. The Father of Protestantism. Used by God.

He was also an anti-Semite. 

In his treatise entitled On The Jews & Their Lies (1543), he said he believed Jews to be "an idle and lazy people, such a useless, evil, pernicious people, such blasphemous enemies of God."  This is just one snippet. There are many more. My point is not to beat up on Luther, but to just let you in on where my thoughts went when my friend said she would rather be associated with Luther than Jesus. She would rather be identified with a great man, albeit a flawed one, than with the perfect man, God incarnate, who was without flaw, Jesus Christ.

That saddens me.

And sadder still is her reason why.

It's our fault. We Christians blew it. We made "Christian" a dirty word.  In the book UnChristian by David Kinnaman, he reveals that 16-29 year olds perceive Christianity to be anti-homosexual, judgmental, hypocritical, too political, sheltered, and proselytizing according to Barna Group Research   ( Get Book Here ) I can see why. I've been judgmental, narrow-minded and arrogant at times. (See my blog entry entitled member of the AKC Club for one example.) 

Why is she OK with being called a Lutheran? Because the ones she knows are loving. Open minded. They are service-oriented. Humble. She knows them and would be willing to be called one of them.  Just don't call her a "Christian."

 

Yesterday, a Christian I love and respect called to tell me that she and her husband are leaving a church because they found out the Sunday School teacher was a Calvinist. (Not the pastor mind you, the Sunday School teacher!) This would be the second church they have left because of "Calivinism." She and her husband believe both pre-determinism (Calvinism) and free will are in the Bible, but lean toward Arminianism (Free will). She said, "You know, most Calvinists say that if you don't believe the way they do that you're not a Christian!"  I said, "Most CHRISTIANS say if you don't believe the way they do you are not a Christian!"  She didn't respond.  During the silence I thought...Oh, all the reasons we divide. And the world is watching.

And while they watch us argue, point, divide and accuse, they are running to identify with someone, something, anything that helps them find their purpose, meaning and hope for living --- money, a career, artistic expression, spiritual healers, individualism, church, love, meditation...none of which are bad, just not enough. None of them can be. They are just reflections of a greater light. Simple shards of the complex, perfect original --the wholly wonderful, beautiful Truth.

Jesus Christ is what they're searching for.

But when they find Him, they don't want Him because of me, because of "Christians."  

That kills me.

And it's killing them, too.

They die lost and hungry while we argue about whether we choose God or God chooses us.

They die in despair while we debate whether or not you have to be baptized to be saved.

They languish away in loneliness without a friend in the world, while we link arms in friendship to take a stand against Prop. 8, abortion, homosexuality, immigration.

They chase a dollar while we chase our tails.

We tell Democrats, Liberals, gays, feminists, heck even divorced women, they can't possibly be Christians.

We yell "Sinners!" and hold "God hates fags!" signs at funerals while families weep.

We build million dollar mega-churches with giant auditoriums and Bose sound systems while just down the street, 6 people sleep on the floor in one small room, curled up in bed-bug infested sheets.

We get caught sleeping with someone who is not our wife, molesting kids, watching porn, stealing money to support our lavish lifestyles. When we get caught, we lie. Then the truth comes out and the jig is up so we shed big fat tears on national TV and ask Jesus to forgive us. But the damage is done. Jesus may forgive, but the world won't. Those who would want to know Jesus, say "not if it means I have to be ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE." Can you give me something else to call myself? Can we invent a new word or something? 

 

The truth is, there are so many wonderful Christians out there. I know many of them. They don't just throw money at the poor, they sacrafice their time, talent and treasure. They lift the poor from the floor and place them in beds. They get rid of the bed-bugs, build houses, and fill gas tanks and refrigerators for those in need. They repair homes after floods and hurricanes. They take sports equipment, food, job skills training to the far corners of the earth. They dig wells and pass out mosquito nets. They sit with their arm around tearful widows.They buy baby formula and Christmas gifts for immigrants. They adopt kids with special needs born to drug-addicted mothers. They are loving and welcoming and reach out to all with the love of Christ. Their life reflects his love. They are peace-seeking, peace-making and peace-giving. Some call themselves Lutherans.  Some Baptists.  Some Catholics - ALL call themselves Christians.

As do I.

So c'mon Christians, let's take back the name from the ones who stole it away for their own purposes and tarnished it. Let's put an end to the bickering over theology. Let's stop pulling Jesus left and right in the political world for our own selfish purposes. Let's stop judging. Lying. Cheating. Dividing. Let's keep giving, serving, loving, hoping and praying. Let's be loud about our love for Christ and for the world.  Let's drown out the haters. Let's shine like lights in the darkness - like a city on a hill!  Let's answer the prayer of Jesus in John 17 and UNIFY. Not for our causes, but for the cause of Christ who came to seek and to save.  

Let's put CHRIST back in CHRISTian!

 

 

  -Hope A. Horner

copyright 2023 - Contact author for publishing authorization on g mail - hopeh1122

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bienvenidos, Angel

I wasn't going to be "human" much longer if I didn't listen to my growling stomach, so I asked a friend to join me at my favorite hole-in-the-wall Mexican taco shop downtown. This tiny family restaurant made each taco the way they were supposed to be made--two small layered corn tortillas covered with diced chicken, special green salsa, cilantro, and way too many onions. I could taste them already. We parked across the street from the restaurant and jumped out. The sun was setting behind the library as we walked toward dinner.
"Disculpe, Señorita?"
I turned my head. Next to me on the sidewalk was a woman so short I could see the top of her head. Her ash brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she was dressed in a plain white shirt and beige pants. She sounded like a small child.
"Yes?" I stopped walking.
"Do you know where is Lyons?"  She asked in broken English.
"Sure," I pointed directly ahead of me. "You're almost there. Just keep going and when you get to the end of this street, by the library, make a left. That's Lyons Avenue."
She looked where I pointed, but her face told me she wasn't quite sure. I took a few steps forward, pointed again toward Lyons and said, "You're almost there." She looked in the direction I pointed and nodded. I continued toward the restaurant, my head dizzy with hunger.
"Disculpe, uh, señorita um..." I heard her voice again and turned around.
"Tengo hambre." She said softly. She looked at me briefly and then stared at the ground. I hesitated. You're hungry? You probably just want money, I thought. There were quite a few people who begged on the street corners and in front of the liquor stores in this part of town. A few weeks ago, a homeless man told me he was hungry only to turn down my food offer and suggest I give him the cash instead. I decided to call her bluff.
"Quiere a venir con nosotros? Vamos a comer."  I told her we were about to eat and asked her if she'd like to join us. To my surprise, she agreed.
The three of us walked in silence a short block to the taco shop. There was a long line to order food as usual, and most of the tables were full and the ones that weren't, were dirty.  Left over radishes, Styrofoam plates, and half empty salsa cups needed to be cleared off tables. I didn't care. This place was the real deal--messy tables and all.
The three of us got in line and waited with the rest of the hungry guests. After a few minutes, we made it to the counter and placed our order in Spanish. My friend and I each ordered four "tacos de pollo" and our new dinner partner ordered a burrito. We all got different sodas. The cashier handed us our number and walked to one of the few open tables near the window.  I used a handful of napkins to wipe off the table before sitting down.
"Come se llama usted?" My friend asked of our dinner guest who was sliding into the booth seat across from us. I noticed her feet barely touched the ground underneath the table.
"Faustina."
"Mucho gusto Faustina." My friend and I said together. Faustina responded "Mucho gusto" and looked around the restaurant like a very small person in a giant's world.
"Vive aquí?" (Do you live here?) My friend asked.
"Sí," she replied. She told us she had been living in the San Fernando Valley with a friend who lost her place so she had taken the bus out to this area to live with a friend who had an apartment just down the road.
Our order number was called and I went to grab our food. It all fit on a green tray which I carried back to our table. Both my friend and Faustina were sitting in silence.
I passed out the plates.  "Where are you from originally?" My friend asked, continuing the conversation and trying to break up the awkward silence. I sat down.
"Bolivia," she replied.
"Bolivia?" I asked, my eyebrows raised in surprise. I was not expecting her to say Bolivia. She might as well have said Mars. She nodded. I used a radish to scrape a few onions off one of my tacos and wondered How far away is that? I didn't ask. I took a bite of the taco that now had just the right amount of onions and tried to picture South America in my head. Her eyes darted to me several times and I could tell she was uncomfortable. I wondered if my white skin told her I was judging her. My friend sensed the discomfort and began to share a little bit about her journey to America. She was originally from Mexico and had been brought here by family when she was very small. Faustina took a big bite of her burrito and nodded as my friend talked.

When my friend stopped talking to take a bite of her taco, I dabbed my mouth with a napkin and asked Faustina in Spanish what part of Bolivia she was from. Faustina swallowed hard and held her half-eaten burrito in front of her.
"La Paz." She replied softly.
"Oh, La Paz!" I said, "Es el capital, no?" She nodded yes while her eyes searched my face.
"Bienvenidos." I said with a smile. Her eyes softened and began to shine like dark, wet gemstones. A smile formed in the corners of her mouth.

"Why did you leave Bolivia?" my friend asked.
Faustina's smile disappeared as she answered in Spanish. "So much poverty," she shook her head. "Bolivia is so poor--one of the poorest countries in South America."  With that, she continued to eat. She was obviously very hungry and not shy about taking big bites. We all ate in silence, occasionally looking up at each other and exchanging awkward smiles. She appeared to be in her thirties but I wondered if maybe she was actually much younger. She had a plain, but friendly face--like the face of someone you would trust with your children, but something about it--the lines in her forehead and the creases in the corners of her eyes told me she had seen and experienced a lot.
My friend shared a little bit more about how she came to California from Mexico, talking about her father and the Bracero work program--the diplomatic agreement which allowed Mexican immigrants to come to America to work. Faustina did not elaborate on her journey, only saying that she came here all by herself. I tried to picture where Bolivia was on a map and how many countries she would have to pass through if she walked here or came by train. I wondered how long it took her to get here, if she had paid someone to guide her or if she had followed others. Recently, I had watched a special on CBS on the Darien Gap, the swampy, jungle pass between Columbia and Panama which thousands of migrants use each year to move through South and Central America on their way to Mexico and then on to the United States. Many never make it through this gap--succumbing to the roaring rivers, bitter cold, hungry tigers, or violent gangs. I wondered if she had passed through that area or if she had somehow found her way to America by way of the ocean, coming in through Florida. I thought about the courage it would take to come so far all alone and how bad--how desperate things must have been for her in Bolivia to take that kind of risk.
"That must have been scary," I said in Spanish.
"Si." Her voice was very soft. She looked down and took the last bite of her burrito as I finished my final taco. My friend nibbled on a radish, emptying her plate of everything but green specs of cilantro.
"Listas?" I asked if we were ready to go.
We stood up and emptied our trash carefully into the overflowing bin behind us. We pushed open the door and stepped out into the cool night. I was glad it was late September and the hot summer nights were over. I zipped up my jacket as a slight breeze brushed against me. That's when I noticed Faustina didn't have a jacket and was in a short-sleeved shirt. My friend noticed too, and immediately took off her sweater and held it out. Faustina seemed startled by the gesture at first, then slowly stuck her hands through the armholes. It fit perfectly, like it was made for her. She looked at my friend with a questioning look like she was wondering how she would give it back.
"Keep it," my friend said.
A smile took over Faustina's face. "Muchas gracias! "Dios la bendiga!" (God bless you.)
"My pleasure," my friend replied. "Mucho gusto. Dios la bendiga, tambien."
We both hugged Faustina and said goodbye as the breeze picked up and the street lights turned on. My friend and I stood and watched her walk toward Lyons Avenue one tiny step at a time, her narrow shoulders wrapped in a sweater, her hair pulled back into a small, tight ponytail that didn't move. When she disappeared around the corner, we turned around and the first thing I saw was the red wooden cross on the church across the street. My eyes filled up with tears as a verse from the Bible popped into my head: "Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing so, some of you will have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it..." (Hebrews 13:2)

Bievenida Angel.


-H. Horner, copyright 2017.  Use, publish or print with permission of the author only. Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122.

#bodyofchrist #lutheranimmigrationandrefugeeservice #lirs #dreamers #immigrationcompassion
Live in Santa Clarita and love street tacos?  Get the BEST street tacos here:  El Pariente, 24375 Main St, Newhall, CA 91321

Hermana (Sister)

They are sister and brother.
They are sister and brother.
Ellos son hermana y hermano.
She is my mother.
She is my mother.

Ella es mi madre.

She was writing and didn't see me when I walked in the store. The man's voice coming from the small boom box behind her was pleasant and sounded young. He had only a slight accent.

She is my sister.
She is my sister.
Ella es mi hermana.

After each sentence she wrote in a spiral notebook that was open on the counter near the register. I stood there until she lifted her head.
Te puedo ayudar? (May I help you?) She had almond skin, short curly hair and a friendly face.
Si, por favor. Tiene usted cosas para la cocina? (Yes, please. Do you have kitchen items?) I replied. I needed a few things for an upcoming dinner party.

She smiled and nodded for me to come toward her.  I noticed she had a variety of Mexican candies on the counter, including de la Rosa which is my favorite. They're a bit like peanut butter dust so you have to eat them carefully, but they are melt-in-your-mouth delicious. The man's voice behind her continued on.

He is my brother.
He is my brother.
El es mi hermano.

"I'm learning." She said and tilted her head toward the sound. Her accent was thick.
"That's great! Que bueno." I said. I wasn't sure whether to respond in English or Spanish so I used both.
She hesitated, then pushed her notepad toward me and pointed at what she had written with her pen.
"Is right?"
She had written a few sentences in the notepad. Her letters were large and curly. I noticed she had spelled the word "the" "tha."  I told her to change the "a" to an "e."
"Ay!" she exclaimed and crossed out the "a" and made it into an "e."
She was confusing the English "e" sound with "a." "There" was spelled "thar." "Where" was spelled "Whar."
I pointed these out and she corrected them.
"English es muy dificil." she said.
"Si, muy dificil." I responded. She shook her head. She told me in Spanish about her troubles with English vowels and flipped back a few pages in her notebook to show me where she had crossed out her mistakes and made corrections. I told her English was confusing compared to Spanish. In Spanish, you always know how the vowels are going to sound because they don't change. Not in English. The vowel "e" can be pronounced many different ways.

She said she was taking English classes at the library and used these cassette tapes, which she also found at the library, to practice. She grabbed one and handed it to me. I looked at the label. They were from 1995 and called "English on TV." I hadn't seen a cassette tape in awhile so it made me smile. I remembered all my cassettes from back in the 1980's and how they would inevitably get 'eaten' by my tape players. She said she listened to the tapes here at work because she didn't have any other time to teach herself English. She said she was struggling to learn, but the classes and tapes were helping.

The man's voice behind her moved on to new sentences and she wrote carefully in her notebook, occasionally pointing and asking me if her words were correct. Before too long, she was telling me her story-how she was brought to California from Mexico by her parents when she was 12 years old. She said her family settled in Bakersfield and when her parents sent her to middle school there she was so afraid she cried nearly every day for a year. She eventually dropped out. She moved here, closer to the coast, and opened this small business with her husband. The store sold party goods, snacks and dollar store items. In the window was a piñata of Chilindrina, a character from a famous Mexican TV show. Candles, cheap plastic toys and multi-colored paper plates sat on shelves. She told me that most of her family was still in Bakersfield and she felt it was a real shame that many of them, now in their 50's and 60's like her, no longer spoke Spanish, only English.

"You need to speak English," She said, "that why I learn, but two languages is better, no?"  I agreed.
I had just gotten back from Europe where nearly everyone spoke at least two languages. My Italian tour guide spoke four, and was learning a fifth.
"Como se llama?" I asked her.
"Anita." She said.
"Mucho gusto Anita."
"Mucho gusto.Y como se llama usted?"
"Hope..." I paused and then added "Esperanza."
"Esperanza? Hope es Esperanza en español?"
"Si." I said.
"Oh, si Esperanza! Mucho gusto!"

I smiled and walked farther into the store. She had forgotten I had asked about kitchen items, but I didn't mind. The store only had four aisles so I found my way to the right section easily. As I walked, I translated the man's English sentences into Spanish, waiting to hear the final sentence to see if I had gotten it right. I grabbed a small metal cheese grater and a orange juicer and when I returned to the register, I added a "de la Rosa" candy.
"Gracias Anita." I said as she handed me my change and receipt.
Gracias Esperanza!" She smiled.
You are my sister.
You are my sister.
Tu eres mi hermana.

-Hope A. Horner, 2017
Contact Hope on gmail at hopeh1122
Follow on Twitter at http://twitter.com/hopenote

Crutchless

 

Jesus,

You are not my crutch.
Sure, it looks like I need someone to lean on,
Someone to help me take the weight off this nagging, nasty ache, but -
I'll hobble through this pain on my own. 
No, really -- Don't even take me under my arm.
Don't try to assist me.
Thank you very much, but
I GOT THIS.
See? I have one good leg.
I can hop toward what deadens my pain,
I can make it to what soothes, satiates, calms.
Really. I'm almost there.
I might fall to a crawl these last few steps
But please don't gasp when I do,
Don't lean down with a helping hand.
I mean, no offense, but God helps those who help themselves, right?
OK then.
If I stumble, I will pull myself up
And keep on keepin' on!  One hop at a time.
You know, Jesus,
It's not that I don't appreciate the help you offer.
I don't resist you JUST because you made me so independent, so strong, so self-sufficient.
It's also because I am not sure you can handle the heaviness of my shame,
The weight I carry of knowing this injury is self-inflicted.
So this limp is mine to bear.
Anyway, Onward and upward! 
Take it as it comes! Roll with the punches! Suck it up! Buck up! Tough it out! Power through! Push on! Keep on! Soldier on!
Wow. I sure am tired.
But I can do this.
Crutchless.


-Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2012.  
Blog: godisstillspeaking.blogspot.com
Email hopeh1122 on gmail
Follow on Twitter at HopeNote