Confessions of a Nobody #4 – Walking in the Hornet’s Nest

 There they were, holding signs that had a picture of a young man on a poster board, with words that read “CAR WASH for FUNERAL EXPENSES.” I drove past them, on my way to the thrift store to get some things for my daughter. In the car with me, were two young people who came to live with us, after some months of homelessness and drug issues.

“I think that car wash is for him, Mama T,” the young man in the back seat of my car said quietly. He was sitting next to his girlfriend and his eyes were fixed on the people on the street.

“Do you want me to stop?” I asked

“No, you can keep going,” he said.

His curly hair was getting long and his eyes began to water. The loss of yet another friend was a lot. Since he had come to live with us, he discovered that one of his brothers got locked up and the other one was on house arrest. Both under the age of 18. His girlfriend held his hand and did not say a word.

We arrived at the thrift store and got out. The couple lingered outside to smoke and my daughter and I went in to find some things for her Sadie’s Hawkins dance. When we were done, he asked me if he could go back to the car wash to see if anyone could give him and his girlfriend a ride to the candlelight vigil. So I drove back to the corner where everyone was.

When we parked the car, the group assumed that I was another customer, there to support the funeral, with a car wash. My car needed one, but I was not there for that purpose. The young man and I got out of the car, and my daughter and his girlfriend stayed inside.

There were close to 50 people there; all helping, grieving, remembering. As I walked closer to the group, all eyes watched me. The smell of marijuana was thick and the tattoos on their bodies, indicated they were from the Bulldog gang. Against the wall, one man, close to my age, tensed up to see what I was doing there. He glared with a fierce intensity as I walked up to the young man’s cousin. She had a joint in her hand and put it behind her back, so that I would not see it. She looked at me, confused, and then at the young man. The young man hugged her and she responded with, “This sucks man.”

He introduced me and I gave her a hug. Her stiff body would indicate that she did not expect my embrace; but I continued to engulf her in my Mama T way, until she relaxed. He introduced me to all the people who came around him. One by one, I hugged them and shared my condolences. Joints were being passed around and sadness hung in the air. My heart was broken for them, for the loss of a life so young.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I turned around to see a young man that looked familiar.

“Remember me?” he asked.

“You look familiar,” I said, “but I can’t place where I know you from.”

“I met you at the Hall. You were talking to me and my mom and dad. Your husband was breaking it down to my dad, remember?” he inquired.

“Oh yes, I do remember.” I said with a hug. He too knew the young man who had just passed away. One by one young people started to come around me, curious as to who I was. I clearly did not belong there, hugging and talking to this community of people. Yet, there I was: talking, embracing and encouraging them in their loss. Many of them knew Will, one of our Bible Study boys who was killed just two weeks earlier, so their sorrow was heavy. As the smoke and conversations rose in the air, the man who was standing by the wall began to soften. No longer did he stare me down with a fierceness. His posture changed, he leaned back against the wall with his arms crossed and began to talk to the people around him, eyes off me. I was told that he was the father of the young man, who had just passed. So his intense, silent inquiry was understandable to me.

There I was, me, a 41 year old, urban missionary, standing in the middle of Bulldogs from McKenzie Street. Loving them, hugging them, and being accepted by them. I looked at their faces: broken, sad, lost and angry; and had compassion for them. I had just walked into a hornets nest and was not stung. They were swarming around me, checking to see if I was a threat, to see if I had fear, to discover what my motive was. The love that was exuding out of me, from Jesus, was so powerful, that it was like smoke to a bee hive. It calmed them, and took away the threat. I did not look like them, I did not belong, but they saw Jesus in me, and although they may not be able to articulate what was happening, they were experiencing the love of Jesus.

 So many times, we, as Christians look at a situation with judgement and condemnation and miss an opportunity to be the hands and feet of Jesus. So many times, we are stricken with fear and cannot even get out of the building called “church” to bring Jesus to the dark places. So many times, we believe the lie that people who want Jesus, will just show up to church, because, you know, it is church. We live in a post-Christian nation. People are not going to show up to a building to find hope. So many people don’t even know who Jesus is. A lot of people see Christianity as an elitist, judgmental, controlling organization that has no room for sinners or the broken or the lost.

The young man, who lives with my family, continued talking to his cousin and then asked me if I could take him to his Grammie’s house, which was a few blocks away from the candlelight vigil. He wanted to pick up the letter his brother had sent him from the Hall. I drove into Bulldog territory, filled with joy that I was shining a light in a dark place. I gave him a sympathy card for his friend’s mom. He looked at it with bewilderment, as this gesture was a middle class occurrence that he was unaccustomed to.

“If you don’t want to give her the card, you don’t have to. But it’s what we do when someone we know dies.” I said.

“Oh, okay,” he understood. “No, I like it, I think she will too.”

He got out of the car, with his girlfriend and walked up to the door of his Grammie’s house. My daughter and I drove away. She looked at me and smiled. She too felt the joy of just being the light. Not preaching, not condemning, not expecting… Just loving, just giving, just being the hands and feet of Jesus.

If only more people with the light inside of them, walked in the dark; to give hope, to show love, to be present. They are looked at as the scum of the earth, a gang, this gang. But they are human beings with souls and hearts, who need Jesus. Open your heart to those you look down on. Give your hand to those, who you think are beneath you. Share the love of Jesus to those who do not know him.

You will find that LOVE is the most powerful weapon on earth. The LOVE of Jesus, shown to a broken world, is the ONLY thing that will change people, change our city, our state, our nation, our world. No amount of programs, laws, events, organizations will do that. You may think you are a NOBODY, that has nothing to offer this broken world… but if you know Jesus, if you have experienced his love in your own life… you are a somebody- who has the most powerful weapon on earth- AGAPE LOVE.

GO… go and change the world… by showing God’s love… start with one person, today. You will be amazed at how powerful your act of love is. It starts with one, then another, then another.

Matthew 11:19

Why I am who I am... Part 1

I am an extreme advocate for those who are oppressed, discriminated against, demeaned and devalued, wounded, beat down, discouraged, timid and forgotten.

I am very vocal about my discontent to those who oppress. I had a revelation that people who intimidate, oppress, devalue or wound are really just BULLIES, grown up.

With that revelation, it made me realize that the people who dislike me, are the very people who are bullies. They don't like that I stand up for myself or others. They don't like that they can’t intimidate me or scare me or push me around. So they try to get others to dislike me by lying and gossiping about me and my family. Their way of life, BULLYING, is challenged by how I live my life, and it infuriates them.

Even my husband, at times, has a hard time swallowing my “in your face” approach to life, as he was created by God to embrace the world differently. Yet, he laughs at my rants and raves and hugs me as tears flow down my face in frustration at the pure wickedness that saturates the hearts of mankind. He, is patient, diplomatic, patient, quiet, and demolishes mindsets and oppression in a very covert manner. I wish I was more like him. It is an amazing gift and character trait that the Lord has given him.

I was not created that way. I was told my whole life that the way I approach this life is harsh, angry, aggressive, conflicting, intense, intimidating. So I spent the better part of my early years, denying who God created me to be. My denial did not change me, in fact, the more I tried to pretend I was someone else, that was acceptable to our society and the "church", the more I relied on who God made me to be to survive.

I am almost forty, arguably close to the half-way point of my life. The last 20 years have been spent in Parentland. Raising kids with the sole purpose of protecting them from what I experienced my first 20 years. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it solidified my being in Christ. The concrete of my soul set and I began to appreciate the raw nature of my existence.

Many people wonder at why I am the way I am. I did for many years and I am finally coming to that revelation. Let me show you, if you will, a glimpse into the making of Teresa Beukers:

I was born in the mid 70’s. Mom was a hippie, dad was a military man. Both grew up with extreme rejection. Dad was a product of rape, born to a 15 year old girl who had no one to turn to for help. Mom, was born to a mom who was treated like dirt by her husband, unfaithful and angry. Both were neglected. Dad ended up in an orphanage at the age of 7 and mom ended up raising her siblings in fear.

It was not a match made in heaven. They were both broken and lacked the experience of true love. I was the first born. They loved me and doted on me. I was their savior. I was looked at as the child who would keep their marriage intact. 3 years later, when my newness wore off, and marriage problems persisted, my mom announced a baby boy. The golden child, the very thing my father wanted more than anything. They worshiped him. They adored him. Even still, his deity was not enough to save their marriage. My father cheated on my mom, countless times and she was slipping into a world of hopelessness and depression, that she never recovered from.

My mom ended up in the hospital for “back surgery” after my brother was born. Years later, hints from friends and neighbors and herself told me otherwise. We stayed with Dorothy Woods, our next door neighbor, during her stay in the hospital. Dorothy, my surrogate mother, African American, funny, beautiful, amazing cook. She treated us like her own children. Rocked me on her lap as she sang to me. I loved her. I did not know that she was a “different color.” She was just Dorothy. A woman who loved my brother and I. She became the foundation of my love for people of all colors and races and religions.

By the time my mother came home from the hospital, my parents’ marriage was over. I recall fights and broken items around the house from my dad’s fits of rage. My mom was always sad. She was being bullied by him and did not know how to stand up for herself. She watched her father do it to her mom, and her mom slip into manic depression, so lacked the knowledge of skills to cope with the abuse. She stayed married to my father, tried to work it out, and tried to find faith.
She started going to different religions to find solace and healing. Not long after, she became pregnant with my sister. By this time, she was putting me on a bus every Sunday to go to the local Baptist church. I learned about Jesus. I felt love. I felt empowered. I felt peace. I learned that I had a voice. People listened when I spoke and were amazed at my hunger for truth.

One day, as I was playing my Fischer Price record player, with my Christian records, my dad yelled at me and told me to turn it off. I asked him why. I was 5 years old. I remember it vividly to this day. He was laying on the deep brown velvet couch in the living room. He didn’t want to listen to that Jesus nonsense and told me so. I remember thinking that he was wrong for telling me I couldn’t listen to something, just because he didn’t believe. I told him “no!’ He flipped out on me, grabbed me by the arm, threw me into my room and told me to stay there for being defiant. I did not cry. I refused to cry.  Looking back, I see now that at an early age, I saw the hypocrisy of his actions. He was being defiant towards God, but expected me not to be defiant towards him.

My mom carried my sister full term, and she was born 3 days after Christmas when I was 5 ½. Six months later, right before my 6^th birthday, my father walked out on his family. My mom was in her robe, holding my six month old sister, my brother, had just turned 3. I was standing there, next to my mom, holding my brothers hand, watching as he drove away. When he turned the corner, my mom walked into the house, put my sister in the swing, went into her room and just cried. It shattered her very core. So deep, that she was never able to recover. Even as she sat on her porch, diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, given 6 months to live, she told me how much she loved my father and how she had never fully healed from his abandonment and rejection.

She remarried 2 years later and I was swooped into another life of pain, rejection and abandonment. The first 5 years of my life proved to be the very foundation for who I am, even now. For me, life was cruel and unfair. It was unpredictable and harsh. I had to learn how to survive. I took care of my brother and sister as both my mom and step dad worked crazy hours. We had a nanny take care of us, when they were at work, so I was being raised by someone else’s standards during the day, and my mom and step dad’s standards during the evenings and my father’s standards on the weekends. It taught me how to be flexible and aware.

A year later they had a son, and so began my life of servitude. He was treated like a Raja, like I had read in Secret Garden. I started taking care of him when he was in his crib. Waking up in the middle of the night to give him a bottle or rock him to sleep. His room was upstairs next to mine and my parent’s room was downstairs on the other side of the house. They didn’t have monitors back then, they had older siblings. I became a mother at 10 years old. I did my sisters hair before school, I made lunches for all 3 of us. I helped with homework, set the table, did the dishes and changed diapers. I changed sheets when my sibling wet the bed and helped them with baths and chores. I was no longer a child, although I desperately wanted to be one.

Painting a Picture...

Last week I wrote a blog called, "Sunday Morning Dread" where I express my struggle with the American church. 

Someone commented on that blog and below you will see the comment and my response. 

"Your brush is very broad, Teresa. The American church is a big place. Are you sure that you don't men the local part of it that you are involved with?"-comment

My Response:

If I meant the local church I am involved in, I would have said that. But I clearly stated "THE AMERICAN CHURCH" The "broad brush" is for a purpose. I have gone to churches all over The West Coast, and Texas. I have friends, who go to churches all over this country and it is not hard to watch a church service anywhere in his nation with the advancement of technology and some online streaming. 

If you study the history of the American church, by in large, you will discover that almost every church in America has Catholic roots, and the Catholic Church is rooted in the Jewish Priesthood.  Then the Catholic Church  split and then split and then split again and again again since Jesus. Even Vineyard has Carholic roots. 

Let me bring you back to First century Christians. There were two Types of believers... Those as recorded in the Binle and those who were Pharisees, who believed Jesus, but tried to re-establish the priesthood in the New Covenant. The result was Catholism. The two groups flourished together and separate of one another. 

By the time The Roman Empire had peaked, Constantine had become a believer of Jesus Christ and had written a decree that Christianity be the National religion. He turned the pagan temples into places of worship and like the Pharisees, established a level of government hierarchy in the church to maintain control. This was very similar to the Priests of the pagan temples.

After Rome fell, the Dark Ages were upon this world and faith in Jesus was scarce. The Catholic Church maintained a level of Political influence and survived. Most expressions of Christianiy died at that point, because people were mandated to sacraficing to the pagan gods of that time. So true remnant believers went underground. 

By the time of the Rennaisance, believers began to surface and the Catholic Church would not allow any Bible to be copied unless in Latin, so the masses believed what was told to them and the priesthood beast grew and grew until it looked demonic! 

In steps Martin Luther, who broke off from the Catholic  church but still maintained similarities. Then other denominations broke of from Lutheranism, and then broke off from those .. Etc.. All having roots in Catholism. 

One of he first noted "Remnant" church to surface, was The Pilgrims  The Pilgrims longed for a true Biblical expression of worship that did not tie them to any type of governmental control of religion. 

The government control at that time was King James, ie. The King James Bible. The Pilgrims were persecuted so fled to America to be able to have the freedom to worship God in the "true" Biblical form. 

They worshipped in America without any interference until the Puritans arrived. The Puritans were a group, who like many groups before them, wanted a reformation of the religion they were a part of. Unlike the Pilgrims who wanted NOTHING to do with any kind of "religion", the Puritans wanted to change things about their religion that benefitted them. 

The Puritans eventual exerted ultimate power and authority of religion and drove out and/or persecuted those who did not comply with their religious viewpoints. So, once again, the "priesthood" way in the Christian church came to America. 

From the Puritans, so many denominations broke off. Eventually the Catholics and Lutherans made their way to America and even more denominations broke off. Even today, our Non-denominational churches are, in fact, a denomination. 

Most churches follow the "Priesthood" pattern in the church, which was supposed to die when Jesus did. He was the final High Priest coming in the perfect Mechezledeck Priesthood. The final sacrifice for the atonement of our sins! No more temple, no more priests, no more sacrifices! 

Yet, almost every church in America follows this man made structure in the organized church today! There should not be 1 person over the church! It is supposed to be collaborative, as demonstrated in Corinthians! Jesus is the Head of the church, Ephesians says, not a man! 

Please give me Biblical truth that states we are supposed to sit and listen to one man talk about the Bible. And please use the scripture in context. Don't give me scripture about Paul preaching in the temple, because that was not church! That was evangelism to the Jews and Gentiles, who did not know Jesus! 

Please give me Biblical reference that says communion is done without a meal. Please give me scripture that says we are supposed to tithe post resurrection. Please give me scripture that says we are supposed to have an order of service that is the same each Sunday. And please give me scripture that says we are supposed to go to Bible college and get a degree to be worthy/qualified/ equipped to minister the gospel. 

The problem is... People in this country are so programmed to believe that the way we do church is correct, that they don't even question it. People are so programmed to believe that the pastor is at the head that they don't even know that Jesus is the head of the church and the cornerstone/foundation of the church. People are so programmed to believe that worship is music and songs that they miss out on the intimate encounters with the living God in the everyday, mundane tasks of our life. People are programmed to believe that God is an emotional experience that they can't even grasp what a a relationship with God looks like. People are so dependent on the programming, that they don't know how to depend on the Holy Spirit. People are so used to the church looking like the world... Corporate America... That they are walking away by the masses. People are so used to powerless doctrine that get slaughtered when the enemy comes. 

I could go on and on about how the American church has gone so far astray that people who make a commitment to be a Remnant Believer of Jesus Christ are looked at by the "priesthood churches" as dangerous. 

It is to be expected though, the Bible does warn about it...

" for the time will come when they will not endure sound doctrine, but according to their own desires, because  they  have itching ears, will heap up for themselves teachers; and they will turn those ears away from the truth and be turned aside to fables. 2 Timothy 4:3-4

Ephesians 4:11-16  and Acts 2:42-43 pretty much sums it up! 

My prayer for the American church  is that we may be filled with the knowledge of His will in all wisdom and spiritual understanding; that we may walk worthy of The Lord, fully pleasing Him, being fruitful in very good work and increasing in the knowledge of God; strengthened with all might, according to His glorious power, for all patience and longsuffering with joy; giving thanks to the Father who has qualified us to be partakers of the inheritance of the saints in the light. He has delivered us from he power of darkness and conveyed us into the kingdom of the Son of His love, in whom we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins.

Colossians 1:9-14

Worship

What does that mean exactly? I grew up going to church and first we had worship and then the announcements and then the sermon. Worship, to me, was songs you sang at church. I wanted to be a worship leader one day, because I loved to sing the songs that were sung in church and it was the closest I felt to God.

When I was 18 years old, I decided that I was no longer going to go to church and research other religions to be sure this religion I was raised with was the truth. I was in love with a young man who was Mormon and I wanted to know what the difference was between his religion and mine. That led to a year long journey of self discovery and intellectual awareness of other religions. I read for hours and prayed to this all knowing, all powerful being, asking for his/her direction to the truth. My young and wild heart ached to know if there was, in fact, a reason for my worship; if this God was even worthy of being worshipped. I was intelligent enough to know that we did not evolve from some cosmic chaos, but that there was an infinite creator who had brought this world into existence. I just did not know which avenue of faith was the truth about this creator.

By the time I was nineteen, I had studied many religions, but realized that the truth was the God of the Bible. That Jesus was, in fact, the Savior of this world and this was a religion of love and truth, not condemnation and hate. (Although, some Christians preach that...even though it is not truth). I had to wrap my mind around what worshipping this God meant. What did it look like. How was I supposed to do it? 

It wasn't until recently that I have come to a pure and truthful understanding of what true worship is...

We were recently invited to attend a prophetic worship conference. My entire family went to experience whatever it was that God would have for us. Within 5 minutes it was easy to discern that this was an event that was meant to evoke emotion in the human psyche that fed the soul and tricked the mind into believing that there was some secret way to “tap” into the heavenlies to experience God. The worship leader was instruction people what to do and how to “let go” to experience the fullness of God. I looked around the room and everyone was swaying and moving their arms around to “experience” God in a way that could only happen in this way.

I looked over at my kids. My daughter, who can easily discern the atmosphere, was angry, she said, “This is boring mama.” My boys were chuckling at the theatrics of it all. My oldest, who is black and white with no gray said, “I DO NOT WORSHIP LIKE THIS!” and with conviction stood against the wall with his arms crossed. My middle son, who is sensitive to the spirit of God, was quiet and observed the crowd, carefully taking it in, trying to determine the heart of it. My husband in persistent prayer, waiting to see if something was going to change. I was pissed, like my son, at the abuse of leadership, in their manufactured “experience” of worship.

We left. The kids were so thankful. We talked for almost an hour about what true worship is. We talked in depth about different expressions of worship, different genres of worship, and different perspectives of worship. We talked about how people worshiped God in the Bible. What “sacrifice of praise” means.

Worship is expressed in ways that cannot be controlled or taught or manufactured. It is expressed in the way we live. In how we see the world, in how we respond to adversity. It is expressed in the pain and the joy, the love and hate. It is demonstrated in ways that we sometimes miss.

We worship God when we are walking and notice something beautiful in nature, and stop to delight in the wonder of it. We worship God when we are thankful for our children and cherish their little intricacies. We worship God when we anger overtakes us at the injustice of this world. We worship God with the tears that fall down our faces when we lose someone we love. We worship God in the sports we play, when we give our all and depend on the gifts he gave us. We worship God in the jobs we go to; when we do things we do not want to do and suffer at the hand of our authorities. We even worship God in the raising our fists to him with explicit words flying towards the heavens in rage, because there is an intimacy there that the Lord desires to have with us. In all of our range of emotions and experiences, the fact that we include this Creator, this God, and our Jesus into our everyday lives is a form of worship that is often overlooked.

Yes, singing about the goodness of God is a form of worship. It is a way to express our gratitude and love in song with music. But it is only one form of expression. I am learning how to soak in His goodness, delight in his acceptance of my sinful being; appreciate the blessings, praise Him in the trial; fall in His presence, surrender into his arms. This is worship.

The worship we experience in church is just a type of worship. It is like writing a love letter to the one you love; or a love song. It is a memoir, if you will, a record of the great and marvelous things that our Lord has done. It is a poetic utterance of gratitude and love for this Creator, who gave us life.