Joint Worship with Grace

For printable MAP, click here.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Sunday School – 9:30am

Morning Worship – 10:30am

Directions to Grace Community Bible Church

6N171 Gary Avenue, Roselle, Illinois

 From Barrington Road:

Take Lake Street (Rt. 20) East

To Gary South

The church is on the Left (East) side of Gary.

I am reading a book called “Licensed to Kill”, by Brian Hedges. It talks about Mortifying Sin: putting to death our sinful nature and replacing it with holiness through submission to God. After I was saved, one of the first sins the Holy Spirit convicted me of was my strong desire to be the center of attention. I felt compelled to give up any behavior that even hinted at self-glorification. For example, when I turned forty, I decided that I would like to celebrate this event by renewing my wedding vows in the church with my husband, Dan. He agreed but it created something of a dilemma since I was trying to relinquish my need to be the center of attention. Instead of reading a poem aloud, as part of the ceremony, I convinced a friend to read the poem in my place.

I first encountered my need to be the center of attention shortly after I met my husband. He was a young artist at the time desperately trying to penetrate a difficult market. One day, we were trying to visit a prestigious gallery in Boston, and the gallery owner asked if I was an artist as well. I knew from experience that if I answered no, his eyes would glaze over and he would slowly drift away. Instead, I said,” Yes”, “I color”. “Oh” he replied, “You are a colorist?” I had no idea what he was talking about but I assumed that he was referring to an artistic concept or technique.  “No, I color with crayolas and coloring books.” He looked at me as if I inhabited an alien planet and quickly walked away. My husband’s prospects for obtaining a show in this gallery were pretty much dashed.

Several years later, my attention seeking side reared its ugly head at the Children’s Museum in Indianapolis. The museum staff had set up an easel and some pencils next to a statue and Dan began to copy the statue onto the paper with confident marks. The drawing was so life-like and depicted so masterfully, that he quickly drew a crowd. The pushing and shoving by the crowd to get a glimpse of his masterpiece proved to great a temptation for me and I felt compelled to start my own drawing. I covered my drawing with my hand because I knew my audience would be instantly repelled by my total lack of talent. I proceeded to draw a stick figure of an elephant. Sure enough, I drew a large crowd and I was really enjoying the attention. The crowd groaned in dismay collectively when I uncovered my picture for the grand reveal.

This brings me to the final point of the story. Perhaps the most moving eulogy that I ever heard was dedicated to a missionary’s mother. It was based on 1 Thessalonians 4:10-11: “But we urge you brethren that you… aspire to lead a quiet life, to mind your own business and to work with your own hands as we commanded you.” The most complimentary thing that this son could say about his mother was that she lived a quiet life. It was a revolutionary concept to me that there was something heroic about being quiet and unnoticed. I realized that day that when you put god in front and center, all the applause in the world is reduced to a meaningless clatter. I must confess that I still have an occasional urge to sing: “All of me, Why don’t you take all of me?” when I get in front of a crowd, but that urge is growing weaker. I can only pray that what I do, I do for God’s glory.

Some prayers are like songs we sing: happy and jubilant, celebrating God’s mercy. Other prayers are like sad songs: plaintive and repetitive. If my mom’s nursing home was set to music, it would be entitled, “The Last Resort”.

My mom had been hospitalized recently for several days due to dehydration from a virus and kidney complications. My sister and I discussed the best plan of care for her after discharge and agreed that since mom needed to be in a nursing home for a week, I would fly toConnecticutto be at her bedside and oversee her care. I flew intoConnecticutthat night and drove to the nursing home the following morning. The sun was streaming into the car window, the sky was a pale blue, and there were puffy white clouds dotting the horizon. As I drove up to the nursing home entrance, it looked like an affluent resort with well-trimmed lawns and gardens brimming with Azaleas and Marigolds. I walked into the nursing home and that is where the illusion of luxury ended. Inside, I was assaulted with the repugnant mixing of odors: a combination of stale urine and disinfectant. Specks of dust glittered in slim patches of sunlight like little stars. There was a small plaintive voice wailing in the background “Where am I? Why am I here?” Later I was to learn that this voice belonged to Betty, a hundred and one year old resident who was residing on the Rehabilitation wing until a more permanent place could be found for her.

Betty spent most of her day in the outer alcove, her face tilted towards the sun like a fading flower hungrily trying to absorb the last rays of nourishment from the dying light. Sometimes I would walk by her wheelchair, and her head would be slumped over. She still had a remarkably full head of lusciously thick gray hair and her arms were pitifully thin like a small child.

On other occasions, she would be sitting in the hallway, uttering her terrible cry again and again, “Where am I? Why am I here? Is someone going to bring me to breakfast?” A staff person would interrupt her mournful tirade to answer her questions and reassure her. She would immediately forget their answers and launch into her sad song again in a voice that sounded so broken.

Sometimes after breakfast, Betty would look outside and see the Indigo blue of the sky and the trees heavily laden with leaves stained crimson red and a deep golden yellow. She would begin to cry, “I want to go outside and see the sun. Won’t somebody take me outside to see the sun?” The sound of her voice was like a knife that cut deeply and repeatedly.

Once, I asked the staff why she couldn’t go outside.  “She might wander off,” they replied. Once or twice, I did spot her outside, her head tilted to the sun, and the blessed silence that surrounded her enveloped me in a blanket of peace like the delicate melody of a wind chime on a still day.

My mother’s room was like a dark, silent tomb. She preferred to have the lights off, and her privacy curtain was partially drawn. The window by her bed was tightly shut so as not to let a gasp of air escape and the blinds were closed. My world shrank to this dark little space and I sat by her hour after hour as she quietly snored. Occasionally, my mom’s eyes would suddenly open. She would look at me and mutter, “This is the place that people come to die.” “Not yet”, I would silently pray. I was not ready for her to die yet.

Sometimes I would join my mom at the dining table where she sat with a few other regulars. There was a gentle and pleasant woman who used to attend baking school long ago. She laughed in amusement as she sampled Key Lime pie and shook her head muttering, “Oh no, no, no.” One day as I chatted with her about raising her children, I wondered how her life ended up here. Once upon a time, she was a mom. She cooked and cleaned and drove her kids to school. She fussed when they were sick and soothed them when they bled. That morning she quietly begged for someone to return her to the room but the staff was too busy. I was not allowed to help her so after hearing her life story, I silently watched as she messed in her pants.

Nine days after her admission, my mom was finally discharged. After spending a week taking care of her, I had one more homecoming ritual that I needed to complete. Every year that I made my pilgrimage home, I leafed through old photos that my mom had stuck in an old shoebox in her closet. The last morning of the trip, I pulled down the box and started sorting through the photos. I gazed at a photo of my two year old pig-tailed self. I was bathing in a tub and my dad was crouching by my side. I looked so young; like a fresh peach and my dad’s face was smooth and unlined.

I found another photo. This time it was a photo of my mom in her early 20’s. She was posing flirtatiously and her smile looked so young and hopeful. I thought about how quickly life passes for each of us. Life doesn’t just pass – flesh decays and even hope fades. I thought about the verses beginning in Isaiah 40:6: “All flesh is grass. And all its beauty is like the flowers of the field. The grass withers and the flower fades… but the word of God lasts forever.” If this were not true; if God were perishable like the rest of humanity, I think that I would start weeping and never stop. It is nice to remind myself where the truth lies.

I hate change. My distaste for change is best illustrated by a trip to San Francisco. I accompanied my husband Dan, on a business trip. He casually pointed out a restaurant by the wharf and said, “You have to try their crab”.

I returned to the restaurant the next and as I glanced at the menu. I was overwhelmed. They must have served crab about 300 different ways. I wanted to try the crab he recommended but which one was it? I settled on soft-shelled crab because it had a vaguely familiar ring. The waiter brought a steaming hot plate and settled it in front of me. “Will there be anything else?” he asked. I wanted to say, “How do you eat it?” I didn’t though because I felt shy, as uncharacteristic as that seemed.

As I stared at the crab, I realized I was seriously out of my element! I sipped my water, ignored my crab, paid my bill and left. At that moment, I made a decision: I needed a hotdog.

I grew up in Connecticut, frequented New York and considered myself a New Yorker of sorts due to our proximity to the city. I recalled with great longing, the hot dog vendors situated on each street corner selling their wares. In New York, you gave the vendor your money, and they handed you a steaming hot dog sandwiched between sheets of waxed paper and smeared with ketchup or mustard. It was simply heaven!

I crossed the street to Ghirardelli Square. I visited their infamous chocolate shop and sampled their chocolate. Later, I sat by a splashing fountain and was almost lulled to sleep by the warm sun, the melodious rhythm of the water and a guitar player who was strumming a Latin love song. I didn’t though. I had a mission and I couldn’t be deterred.

I walked by a row of charming Victorian Houses converted to shops and then I climbed a hill. The “hill” was so steep that gravity was barely able to keep me upright. Sweating profusely and at the end of my rope, I flagged a cab. The cab driver pulled over and said, “Lady, inSan Francisco you don’t flag cabs. You go home and call them.” This shocked me. In New York I had perfected the nonchalant wave and whistle. Somehow, this made me more determined than ever to find a hotdog. I craved the familiar.

I slowly trudged up the hill. I found my hotel, and rudely demanded that the concierge direct me to the nearest hotdog stand. I stomped out of the hotel and headed in the opposite direction. At this point, you might call me a dog with a bone. Anyway, I walked for miles until I was weary and despairing. The houses were becoming increasingly seedy and if commonsense prevailed, I should have turned back. I approached a woman who was standing on a street corner minding her own business. I ran up to her, and shouted, “What kind of city are you running here and where are your hotdogs?” She looked at me with disgust and said, “Lady, I don’t know. Go away!”

I trudged down the road, totally despairing. I entered a take out Chinese restaurant and asked the proprietor to sell me something. “What do you want?” he asked. “I don’t know”, I muttered. “It’s not a hotdog.” “Lady, you have to order.” I grudgingly gave my order, ate the food and left.

All this is just to illustrate how much I hate change. San Francisco was bright and sunny. The music was melodious and the people were actually pretty patient now that I reflect on my abysmal behavior. I missed all the blessings of the day. I was too busy looking for the old and familiar. Who knows how many times Christ metaphorically tried to offer me a steak and I missed the experience because I wanted a hotdog. If only I had admitted my ignorance to the waiter. I would have experienced a different San Francisco and more importantly, San Francisco would have experienced a better me. If only, I admitted my ignorance and fear to Christ and leaned on him instead of my own understanding.

by Barbara Giordan (Barb and her husband and son attend Grace Covenant Church in Elgin, Illinois)

I originally grew up in a working class neighborhood; tidy little houses painted somber shades of mostly grays and browns. The men worked as policemen, teachers and plumbers. The women stayed home, drank coffee together, chatted on the phone, and minded their kids and houses. We moved to a larger house when I was five years old and I felt like I had left paradise behind.

My best friend, Tara, lived across the street. We spent hours trying to swing from the sweeping branches of a Weeping Willow tree that graced her front yard. Other times, she would crawl behind an over-stuffed brown recliner that faced a picture window in her living room. I would sit on it and ask the chair questions. “What is your favorite color?” What games do you like to play?” Tara would pretend to answer for the chair and I recall feeling as if something magical was happening. Part of me recognized that the chair sounded a lot likeTara, but after a while, it seemed like the chair had become animated.

There were other children that I played with. One girl, named Robin, lived in a house that always smelled musty and dank because her mother kept the windows shut and the blinds drawn tightly. She had a baby brother who would try to soothe himself to sleep by rocking back and forth on his chubby little hands and feet in his baby carriage. Robin would shake the handle of the carriage vigorously when her mom wasn’t looking causing him to stumble and fret. I would watch this torture with a wide-eyed fascination and horror.

I also loved to visit Sammy and play on his smelly old tire swing. His dad would lovingly tend to his garden of Sunflowers and Tomatoes while we swung and sang songs together. Sunflowers have been my favorite flowers ever since.

We moved from this neighborhood when I turned five. I remember my mom perching on the side of my bed one evening, telling me that we would be moving to a new house. She said that it was a bigger house with huge woods beside it and a stream running along side it. It sounded very picturesque and I was excited. It didn’t take long for me to realize that the stream was filled with Skunk Cabbage: a green plant that grew abundantly in swampy areas and smelled like its namesake. The lush woods that I had imagined did exist but it was cut down shortly after we moved in to make room for new homes carbon- copied in shape and color.

A few months after moving, I had a dream that I had never forgotten.  I was back on Adley road playing with my old friends. The sky was an Indigo blue and the sun was a fiery yellow. We were laughing and playing in a woods until we stumbled upon a fairy that lived in a hallowed out tree. The fairy was dying, and the magic of Adley Road was fading along with her. In the end, I was weeping and all my friends had suddenly disappeared. I had been haunted by that dream for years and a part of me has tried to recapture that place ever since.

Last year, when I made my annual pilgrimage home, I was flummoxed to realize that the little gray house, which I had enshrined for so long, had been razed to the ground and a new house had been built in its place. I was surprised to realize that it really didn’t bother me. Somewhere along the way, I had realized that the neighborhood that I had built in my mind did not exist, it never had. I found out that the little girl that I had played “Magical Chair” with grew up in a home where her father beat her mother regularly. My friend Robin, who used to torment her brother, had a mom who grappled with severe mental illness. Sammy, the boy who played on the tire swing with me, lost his dad to a heart attack at a very young age. I was too young when I lived onAdley Roadto perceive the brutality, madness and death, but it was there all the same.

Now, instead of looking back, I look forward to a place that is truly paradise. In this Eden, there flows a river bright as Crystal, and a tree that yields healing fruits. It will be day continually as the Lord’s face shines as bright as the sun. There will be no more tears, no more fears, and no deaths to mourn; only an endless time of worship.

Dear saints,

Family Harvest –After the morning service on Sunday October 2nd, we will have our annual Family Harvest Fellowship.  Please bring something to grill (or a main dish to pass) and a desert. The grills are available to use in whatever way you like. We’ll have a fire, so bring some marshmallows.  Dress casually for the day or bring a change of clothes for the afternoon. You might also want to bring a Lawn chair, outside games, and some bug spray!  We will end by dusk.  There will be no evening service, but please bring your instruments for a singspiration to end the afternoon.

Looking forward to our time together!

Love,

Pastor Matt

—————————

Matt Black
Lead Pastor | Tabernacle Baptist Church, Hanover Park, IL
630-710-4110 | puritan21@gmail.com | www.GodCentered.info

Part 1

Part 2: Don’t go to a “flat screen” church.