|
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
Print Dear Reader, Today’s column contains two questions and one answer. I wanted to say the same thing to both letter writers, so I’ve combined them into just one column. Gabby Dear Gabby, Thank you so much for the words of wisdom you have dispensed through the years on ninetyandnine.com. Your “down-home” advice has helped more than you know, and I’ve really come to rely on your guidance, since there’s really no one in my life I can turn to, except my precious Jesus, of course! I don’t mean to write a novel, but I have a feeling my problem is going to take some explaining: I went to church all my life until a few years ago when I left for a while. During that time away from church, I did a lot of things I’m ashamed of, including committing fornication. When I returned to church everyone knew what I had done. It’s been a struggle (and I know I brought it on myself from what I did), but for the sins I committed, I have paid in ways I never contemplated. Even so, in retrospect I am thankful for the heartache because I learned things and matured in ways that wouldn’t have been possible without it. Recently my pastor told me that I would never be able to be a Sunday School teacher at church. His words, almost exactly, were this, “We can’t put you in a place of leadership because your situation is not one we want people to look to and follow. We have to hold up as examples people who’ve never messed up. You’d never be able to be a good leader anyway, because the fact that you’ve sinned will always be in the back of people’s minds. They’d resent your leadership, especially if they’ve never messed up.” I sat there and feebly pointed out that I had worked hard to prove myself and overcome my sin. “You have,” he replied, “and you’ll always be a valued member of our church.” I also said I didn’t agree, because everyone, according to the Bible, has sinned and there are no degrees of sin. He replied very vehemently that, yes, there are degrees of sin because God has always dealt more harshly with immorality than any other sin. Ever since that conversation, I’ve been feeling like a second-class Christian. I’ve cried to God to help me keep my heart right and not to let my spirit become bitter or resentful. I want to work for God, but now I’m wondering if my church would ever make a place for me. I’ve always been taught that there’s never a good reason to leave your church for another one other than marriage, but now I’m wondering if I would be justified. Is my pastor right, Gabby? I know I want to be saved and I’ll do whatever I have to in order to make it to heaven, but this just doesn’t seem right to me. I’m reluctant to take this to anyone else because I don’t want to put my pastor in a bad light, but getting the honest opinion of someone wise and experienced and neutral would be such a relief. If you can help, Gabby, I’d be most appreciative. Discouraged in the Deep South Dear Gabby, I’m drowning in the “Almighty pastor, insignificant saint” syndrome. There is no reward system in place. Why work, when there’s no recognition? For some reason, in spite of six billion folks on our planet, it seems that pastor doesn’t feel inclined to allow anyone to really be called, other than Junior, who will one day take over the reins. Please forgive me for springing this on you, but it is frustrating for me. I’m feeling squashed by the blue-collar, ram-it-down-our-throats doctrine leadership. I don’t seek intellectual freedom, but, rather, a place to be heard, to teach, a place where ministry can flourish. Aching in Arkansas Dear Discouraged and Aching, Spelling has always been easy for me and, the year I was 10 years old, our school sponsored a spelling bee at the community center. The whole town was invited and I was very excited to show off my abilities. I practiced and practiced in the weeks before the event. I spelled every word I could think of and every word my Mama and Papa could think of. I asked them to quiz me whenever they were within earshot, at the breakfast table, while cleaning, while we walked to church, even at night when the two of them would come into my room to pray with me before bedtime. I even took to silently spelling the words I heard in other people’s conversations, and had to be reminded several times to answer when they’d ask me a question. (I didn’t hear their questions—just the new spelling words I was silently practicing.) My goal in life as a 10 year-old student was to win that contest and the savings bond prize. More than the prize, though, was that I wanted to beat Freddy C. Pendergras, the rich, spoiled son of the founder of our town, and the second-best speller in the school. At first, Freddy C. seemed worried because he was not a good loser and everyone knew I was the best speller, but a couple of days before the bee, Freddy C. suddenly stopped looking concerned and began, instead, to look like his usual sulky, superior self. “You’re gonna lose, Gabby,” he said to me the day before the bee, when all the kids were sitting under the shade tree, eating our lunches of bread, cheese, and apples. (He, of course, was eating his hot meal seated at a small cloth-covered table that James, his family’s servant, had brought to the school.) “I don’t know how you can say that, Freddy C.,” I retorted. “Everyone knows you’re only the second-best speller.” “I’ll win, you’ll see,” he answered with a smirk. The evening of the spelling bee, the community center was abuzz. All the parents were chatting about who would win the bee. I understand that Mr. Hiram Brownley and Clayton Cooper even made a bet on the outcome—and gambling was against the law in our town! Mrs. Gloria Pendergras sailed into the community center, trailed by James, and, deigning not to speak to anyone, sat down on the first row of the center. I noticed that they hadn’t brought food for the potluck. So there I stood, with all the other participants, waiting my turn, with the scent of fried chicken, pickles, and cherry pie wafting through the air. One after another we took turns spelling the words aloud. When someone misspelled a word, they sat down. And they all sat down, one at a time, until it was just Freddy C. left with me. When Miss Gibbons would read a word aloud from the prepared list, I’d spell it. Then she’d read another word aloud and Freddy C. would spell it. The only unusual thing was that he seemed to have a bad cough. Every time Freddy C. was given a word, he’d start coughing, and cover his mouth with his hand. Besides that, we spelled and spelled and spelled. Back and forth we went, round after round. Word after word. And harder and harder words, too. You could feel the tension in the air. Mr. Brownley and Mr. Cooper looked especially tense. Freddy C. and I, however, didn’t seem to feel it. Until Miss Gibbons gave me a word I’d never heard of—“xebec.” “Can you repeat that, please?” I asked. It sounded like she’d said, “Zee-beck”. When she said it the second time, it sounded just like the first time. I looked over at Freddy C. His sneer was even more obnoxious than usual. I had no idea how to spell this word. How did you spell a word you’d never even heard of? Finally, I made a guess on the spelling and got it wrong. My heart sank. I had to sit down with the other losers. Freddy C.’s smirk got “smirkier,” if that’s possible. “Freddy C., can you spell xebec?” Miss Gibbons asked. “Sure” he said, coughing a bit, and politely covering his mouth with his hand. “X-e-b-e-c.” “That is correct. Freddy C. you are the winner.” The town let out a collective sigh and began to applaud politely (all except for his mother, Gloria who stood to give him a standing ovation, clapping with enthusiasm—and James, who immediately began to clap when Gloria glared at him.) It was over. Freddy C., the town’s second best speller had won the spelling bee, beating me—the best! I didn’t know how it had happened; all my preparation, all my confidence, for no use. I’d humiliated myself, my parents, even my town. And I’d never own the savings bond I’d wanted so badly. That would have been the end of it if my sister Susannah hadn’t overheard Freddy C. telling James that it was a good thing he’d stolen the prepared list of words so he could write them on his hand. And wasn’t it a good thing that he pretended to cough so he could read the spelling of the word each time his hand came up by his face? Susannah was horrified and reported what she heard to me. (I must confess; I was out back feeling sorry for myself.) Immediately, my unhappiness turned to rage and I marched in to confront Freddy C. And he admitted it to me! He even showed me his hand where all the hard words were written. The peculiar thing was that when I went to tell Miss Gibbons what had happened, Freddy C. was suddenly nowhere to be found. And when he finally did reappear, and Miss Gibbons asked to see his hands, he showed her two damp, very pink, and very clean-looking hands with no sign of ink on them at all. The smirk remained, however. So, the whole contest was unfair. And I was livid. Out for blood, if I hadn’t been just 10 years old. Until my wise Mama pulled me aside the next morning and insisted I stop my bad attitude. “But Freddy C. cheated!” I said to her vehemently. “You’re right, he did,” she acknowledged. “It’s not fair!” “You’re absolutely right. It isn’t fair.” “But I’m the better speller!” I cried. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” she asked me calmly. “I’m the better speller!” I repeated. “Yes, you are. And when this whole experience is just a memory, you’ll still be a good speller. Freddy C. will still need extra help.” “What are you trying to say?” I asked her after a long moment. “Gabby, dear, I’m so proud of you for who you are and how hard you’ve worked. You’re correct, it’s not right that Freddy C. won the spelling bee by cheating. But, more important than winning the contest is for you to understand the lesson God is trying to teach you through the whole situation.” “What is that?” I sighed. Mama always seemed to know what God wanted me to learn. “You worked hard and prepared. You learned the spelling rules and applied them to the words you were spelling. You did the right thing.” I nodded. “This isn’t about Freddy C.,” she said. “This is about you, Gabby. The things you learned don’t disappear after the contest is over. You’ll always be able to spell, because you worked hard to learn spelling. That will be with you for your whole life and no matter what the situation is, when you need to use that skill, it’ll be available. No one can take that away—and it certainly doesn’t wash off in the fountain out behind the community center.” She was right. What am I trying to say to you, Miss Discouraged and Mr. Aching? I’m telling you what my wise mama said to me all those many years ago. This isn’t about your pastor, right or wrong. It’s about you and what God is trying to teach you. You don’t prepare yourself just to “win” the ministry position. You prepare yourself because it’s the right thing to do and because it pleases God. And when the time is right, that preparation will be there and God will be able to use you and your talents. Does that mean that you don’t feel pain over what seems to be injustice? Not at all. But God only requires us to prepare ourselves, and to have the right attitude, even when life doesn’t seem to make sense. Just think, when God is ready to use you, you won’t have to fake a cough so you can sneak a peek at the stolen answers on your palm. You’ll have the preparation already in your heart, right where it belongs. Sincerely Sincere, Gabby
ninetyandnine.com © 2004, ninetyandnine.com ---------- Gabrigail VanBurden has been offering advice for longer than most of you have been alive. Email your practical Apostolic life questions to Gabby@ninetyandnine.com and be prepared for some straight answers! |
|
|
