Fuzzy Pants and Sacrifice

I was comfy in my purple fuzzy pants and house shoes while waiting in my van for my daughters to run in to the store for a few groceries. Passing the time, I composed and sent to a friend a linguistically beautiful and profoundly philosophical text:

“Hey lady…what’s up with you today?”

Instead of the expected, “I just got up” or “haven’t had my coffee yet,” I received this back:

“Had a much needed prayer time, laid some burdens on His altar, received answers to prayer, responded in love to an awful situation, and pondering the discomfiture of carrying His cross. How about you?”

Me:

“Um…sitting in the Walmart parking lot.” (I didn’t mention I was sort of still in my jammies.)

So I need to get a life–or at least get dressed in my “daytime clothes” earlier in the day. And look up the meaning of discomfiture. It sure sounds like something that is the opposite of comfortable.

Syn.: confusion, disquiet, humiliation, uneasiness

All that about carrying His cross? Hmm, maybe I am not carrying His cross. Maybe I’m just wanting Him to carry me, hoping for the easy life, the smooth road. Trouble-free, pain-free, sacrifice-free.

I’ve been thinking about how as an American Christian, I am so…so…so American. I’m afraid I have American-ized the gospel so much that it doesn’t much resemble The Gospel. I wonder what it actually costs me to be a Christ follower. I haven’t gone without food so someone else could eat. I haven’t held a secret Bible study in fear of government officials punishing me. I haven’t been spat on, shot at, jailed, or martyred for my faith. Frankly, I have paid very little on this journey serving the One who paid the ultimate price.

I don’t pretend to know how the sovereign God chooses to bestow His blessings and on whom. And I don’t ever want to assume that I am blessed because I am an American. Or because I deserve it. I want the Lord to show me how to live out the real Gospel while surrounded by abundance and freedom and a zillion choices in the cereal aisle when others live in poverty, bondage, and hunger.

At least I think I do. As long as it means I can stay comfortable.

© Janice Powell 2013

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