Scarface

            It was the dreaded day…the day we received our school pictures which had been taken several weeks earlier. Most of my Junior High friends were excited about the prospects of writing flirtatious notes on the back of their pictures and distributing them to the opposite sex. The girls were especially giddy to receive their own portrait back and didn’t mind saying how beautiful they found themselves, not having developed that false sense of humility and self-criticism which would not become socially acceptable until high school.

            Most everyone was excited, except the few who couldn’t care less. Not me. I was terrified. As a teenager who suffered from severe acne, which could not be hidden no matter how much tinted Clearasil® I applied in the morning, picture day was tantamount to horror day! I dreaded it from one year to the next throughout my teenage years. When I received my pictures they were shoved inside my desk or the back of my notebook. I didn’t look at them for fear someone would see them. I couldn’t stand the embarrassment. I would take them home, unopened until my mother asked for them. She would always open them with a smile and reassure me that I would “grow out of it.” I never did.

            Finally, my last year of high school a nurse in our church told my mom about a new experimental vaccine. A culture would be grown, using my facial blemishes as the base, and then a vaccine made which should help with the acne. My mom signed me up and every week I visited the home of a local nurse to get my injection. The remedy was almost miraculous. Within a few months my face was clearer than it had been since I entered puberty.

            But the miracle wasn’t perfect. As my face began to clear of the massive pimples which had been all I could see in the mirror for years, I realized there was a new form of embarrassment looking back at me…scars. My face was covered with deep, rough, pockmarks. My heart was broken…the cure seemed incomplete…I no longer had the pimples, but everyone would always know…by simply looking at my face…where they had once raged on the battlefield of my face.

            That was over 40 years ago. The scars are still there. They will always be there. There are occasionally days which go by when I don’t think about them…but not many. They are a constant reminder of what was.

            I tell this story, as uncomfortable as it is, to remind myself and those of you who read it, that bad actions and decisions leave scars. Sometimes they are our decisions and sometimes they belong to other people. Sometimes they are innocent mistakes and sometimes they are rebellious acts…but few of them will come and go without leaving a mark…a scar.

            Is that cause for dismay, hopelessness, dark despair? It could be…if we allow it to drag us to a place where there is no light. But it doesn’t have to be that way. I learned a little trick years ago that helps me when I look into the mirror. Except when absolutely necessary, I don’t look at the scars, I look into my eyes. When I look into my own eyes, I try to see hope and light and the future…not the past. Do I still have scars…yes…I just choose not to dwell on them or let them control my life.

            I’m assuming most of you have some scars too. Maybe not the kind I’ve written about today. Perhaps they are much more serious, the kind on the inside that make your heart ache or that just won’t go away no matter how hard you try. For whatever it’s worth, here is my sage advice: Stop trying. Stop looking. Stop thinking about the scars. Look into your own eyes. Look for light, for hope, for the future. If it’s been a while since you looked, you may have to dig a bit, take some layers of hurt off and lay them aside, but keep looking…there’s light in there somewhere…and hope.

Dealing with Past Lives

            Lately, I’ve had contact with lots of people from my “past” lives. All of us have pasts, but “past-ors” are unique. Every move we make, we leave behind an encapsulated life of its own. For us, it’s not just leaving a job; it’s leaving family and friends, victories and defeats, secrets, struggles, sorrows, couples we married and sadly, some we buried. With each move it starts all over again, but if we’re honest, really nakedly truthful, pastors never get over their past.

            It’s funny, because again, if we’re honest, sometimes when we leave a place, we can’t wait to leave. Sometimes the hurts and wounds have piled up and created such a mountain of sadness that someplace else…any place else, seems like a God-send. And for a while, we’re relieved, we are “better.” But then, six months or a year later, someone from that past life calls out. Maybe they post on Facebook® or send a card. Or maybe they call and say they’re passing through your “not-so-new-anymore” place and would like to stop and see you. And then they say it…the phrase that rips you in two and shoves a knife into your chest all at the same time. They say it, or write it or post it… “We miss you pastor.”

            It’s a heart attack of a different kind. Your heart aches, you feel yourself bleeding from the inside-out. You miss them too…no really, you long to be with them again, to pastor them like you used to, but you dare not express it, you can’t say it, especially in public, because you would feel unfaithful to your new flock if you ever spoke those words and so you don’t…but you know inside that it’s true…you’ll never get over your past.

            I have several “pasts.” Some are over forty years old now. The weird thing is, pasts are like fine wine…they get better with age. They don’t fade or die…they linger on. The circumstances that made you leave…or run…or hide, those things fade. Sometimes you can’t even remember why. But the friends, the laughter, the hugs and happy tears…they only get stronger with time.

            And so I have lots to remember and be thankful for…because lately I’ve been hearing it a lot… “We miss you pastor.” And since the past is like a good wine, allow me to make a toast…to Stanley and Max, Frank and Bugs, Carol and Bobby, Tim and Rose, Jeff, Sherry and Karen and Brother Lloyd. To Bob and Ollie, Toni and Betsy, Dean and Loren and Kelly and Jerry. To Carol and Sue, Hagen and Josh, Dana and Jeff. To Mark, James, Wesley, Daniel, Blind Mike, and hundreds of others along the way…Cheers! You are not forgotten and I miss you too!

Have you blown it?

     Here’s a question we all have to deal with from time to time: What do you do when you’ve blown it? When you’ve taken a wrong turn, missed your exit, goofed up, stepped in it…how do you deal with it?

     I know a lot of folks who have a very fatalistic view of life. They believe if you miss your perfect opportunity or bail on a good situation you’ll never again be happy or fulfilled or complete. Wow! What a horrible way to live…or should I say exist?

     No, from my where I sit, I think God…and life are a lot more forgiving than that. Few of us get it right the first time around. And by the way, I don’t think God’s in the business of holding our mistakes and missteps against us. I’m convinced He is interested in helping us get it right, or at least get closer, when we get up and try again.

     As a pastor, I’ve counseled a lot of folks through the years, and based on hundreds of hours of listening to people confess their mistakes, I don’t really think their biggest problem is getting God’s forgiveness. I think the biggest obstacle most folks have is getting their own forgiveness. We (especially those of us in the church) have been bamboozled into believing God is mad at us when we mess up. We figure if God can’t forgive us, how can we forgive ourselves?

     We all mess up. And the good news is, there’s forgiveness, there are ways to right most wrongs and life has a way of coming back around so that we can jump back on where we fell off.

     So you made a bad decision? Maybe you rushed into a marriage…or out of one…or both. Maybe you bought lottery tickets instead of paying the electric bill. Maybe you said some harsh words to a son or a daughter, or maybe your mom or dad. You wish you hadn’t, but you did. It’s O.K. We’re not perfect, we make mistakes, it’ll be alright.

     I write all of this as a sort of confession. I’ve come to the conclusion lately that I’ve made some bad decisions. No, it’s not what you think. Jane and I are fine. We’ve never been more in love. No…it’s just in analyzing my overall situation in life, I realize it’s the product of my own decisions. There are a few I wish I could do over but I’m not really sure how to do that and the truth is, I’m getting to the age where do-overs are getting harder and harder to come by.

     What I’m trying to do each day is remember a couple of really important things…at least they’re important to me. One, I believe in a God who loves me.  I cannot comprehend His unconditional love for me. I cannot do anything nor could I have made any decisions which would have made Him love me more or less than He already does. Two, I am surrounded by family and friends who love me almost as unconditionally as He does. They have stood the test of time. Some of you are in that group. You love me in spite of the fact I am not perfect. As a wise woman named Jane once said, “love is even though.”

     So the next time you’re ready to beat yourself up over something you did or didn’t do, be careful. You’re about to hit someone who is loved very much. The ones that love you wouldn’t want you to do that. Take it from them…you are loved and it’s going to be alright.