The Gospel of Whitney

I was cheering on contestants of The Voice when a small ticker began to run across the screen. Tickers rarely bear good news. I held my breath and read:

Whitney Houston ... confirmed dead ... 48 years old ... Beverly Hills hotel ... cause of death unknown.

The tension twisted in my chest. 

Whitney Houston was the Jersey Girl from New Hope who sang with a church-infused power and grace that captivated me from the time I was 9 years old. She was black and unequivocally beautiful, and I wanted to look and sound like her. In a musical landscape of forbidden music (everything from Madonna to Prince), she was a safe place with parental approval (they must not have listened closely to Saving All My Love for You).

Whitney Houston was also the addict who destroyed the voice that made her famous. The princess who chose the bad boy. She had everything we wanted--fame, money, good looks, talent--and she frittered it away while we tutted and criticized and dreamed of how we would do better if we had what she had.

Whitney Houston’s memorial highlighted hope within the tension. Kevin Costner revealed his Baptist roots, and said that Whitney is now singing before God, no longer wondering or worrying whether she is good enough. Tyler Perry spoke of a grace that carried her; because nothing could separate her from the love of God, not even when she was in the stratosphere of a drug high. 

Whitney Houston was a famous example of the best and worst in us all. The person we rooted for even as we ridiculed. In her last public performance, she sang Jesus Loves Me, arguably high. She fought hard with her demons, and tried to overcome them by sheer will. She tried to get clean. She tried.

And don’t we try? Singing and slurring the gospel message, trying to wipe our faces clean of sweaty, rank worry and fear so we appear fine? Singing loud to everyone with ears that Jesus loves us, hoping the message sinks in to our questioning souls? (Because if Jesus loves us, really, then why didn’t He save me from ______?) Muting the hurt that led us to the deep and abiding desire to turn down the volume of our private pain through, what? Drinking? Drugs? Sex? Legalism? Work? Silence? Avoidance? Porn? Shopping? Hoarding? Binging? Purging? Control? Denial?

Or for me in this case, sharp criticism. I thought to myself, for Kevin Costner and Tyler Perry to practically sing, Yes, Jesus loves Whitney at her memorial service is typical; treating the dead like they lived as saints (how many times has Whitney Houston been referred to as an angel?). All is absolved, all is forgiven. Hollywood types don’t tend to know their theology. I believe the words of Acts 4:12 to be true.

Then, this still, small thought arose: What if the song that Whitney Houston, Tyler Perry and Kevin Costner are singing to us right now is also true? 

Well, that would be scandalous.

Like a baby boy born to a woman who was pregnant before she got married. 

Or a man who let a woman of ill repute wash his feet with her tears and costly perfume. 

Scandalous...

Like a man who allowed an unclean woman touch his garment for healing, and then called her “daughter.”

Like a rabbi who let women sit at his feet to learn. 

Or like a man who defended an adulterous woman in front of a rabid and condemning crowd. 

Scandalous, indeed, to surround these women with a song of gospel love. 

Jesus’ love is scandalous. His grace is unfathomable. Whitney Houston’s tragic and untimely death pains my soul because she didn’t get to scrub clean her image and restore her voice. She was seemingly overcome by her demons. Is the dirt in her life evidence that she was not saved? 

The Bible chronicles those whose lives and stories didn’t end as well as they began (think: Lot, Samson, Miriam, Moses, David, Solomon, Saul, the Prodigal Son and the thief on the cross dying next to Jesus). As the thief bore the condemnation for his crimes in his body, Jesus promised him paradise. The thief exercised faith; Jesus honored it with His scandalous love. This is John 3:16: You believe in Me? You won’t perish. You will live forever. I would imagine that those looking on saw two dirty, bloodied criminals meeting their end. They couldn’t hear the song playing in the heavenlies: Yes, Jesus loves me.

I don’t wish to glorify ending badly--I can just hear Paul’s words in Romans 6:1-2 concerning sin and grace; should we purposefully continue in sin so that God’s grace may abound? Absolutely not!

I give glory to the scandalous love of God, for me and you. Do you believe that Jesus loves you? Then here is the ticker scrolling on the screen of your life:

For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor heavenly rulers, nor things that are present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Learning a New Language

I will bless the LORD at all times;
   his praise shall continually be in my mouth. Psalm 34:1

I’ve been reading Ann Voskamp’s life-changing One Thousand Gifts, and have become increasingly aware that my language is one of spoiled grumbling, thanklessness for the daily provision, rather than gratitude for the GIFTS that have been so generously bestowed. I am an Israelite, looking at the manna and sighing…again…and not recognizing it for the miracle it is. 

So I’m begging for grace to change my grumbling into gratitude, thankful for the opportunity to learn a new language. Voskamp compares learning new habits to driving out old nails using new ones. HARD work, tedious, but SO worth it.  A few thoughts of mine about learning a new language:

One has to continually practice the new language. Since I graduated from high school I’ve had at least 2 semesters of Spanish, Russian, and biblical Greek.  And I can’t remember anything beyond the rudimentary basics of each, because I don’t ever use any of these languages, except maybe “Gracias” at a Tex-Mex restaurant. I have committed myself to learning Psalm 34, and am shocked at how difficult it is to remember I will bless the Lord at all times, His praise shall continually be in my mouth. I’ve started muttering it over and over and over…and I’ve put printed copies in the bathroom, in the laundry room, and in our house on wheels (the car). I am determined to possess a mouth, a heart, of gratitude. I’ve also started looking for the blessings in the everyday – what Voskamp calls “One Thousand Gifts.” Last week that included my 6-year-old’s utter delight at hundreds of noisy starlings making a pit stop in our neighborhood, and a diapered baby plunging himself with abandon into the bathtub with his sister. I have to MAKE myself LOOK for the miracle in the everyday, and not just let the everyday wear me out.

It’s easiest to learn a new language when one is immersed in the culture, in the environment of the new language (ie, move to Paris, and you’ll learn French more easily than if you stay in Texas). I need to be surrounded by examples of those who live with grateful hearts. I need to seek out those who already have this practice instilled, in scripture, in life, in music, in books. And I need to imitate them, learn their secrets. I need to make a habit of sharing my new language with others – I must speak it aloud, in public, not just to myself in the laundry room.

One has to recognize the old language when it surfaces. It’s far too easy to slip back into old habits, old familiar patterns. I have to recognize warning signs that my grumbling-talk is surfacing: my complete and utter inability to say I Was Wrong, Please Forgive Me when I’ve done something that shouts loudly for it, and the inability to voice my thankfulness to Very Important Very Close People in my life, like my husband, for the GOOD GIFTS they give me. I’ve heard stories about people who’ve adopted a new language dreaming in the language that they grew up with. Typically they knew that they’d made their adopted language their own when they dreamed in it. I’m praying that I can get to the point where I dream not in grumbling, fear, or worry, but in gratitude.

Father, Luke 6:45 shows that our words echo the cry of our heart. I’m praying that my new language will reflect a heart that daily overflows with gratitude for the gifts You’ve so generously given. Thank you.

 I finished this a few days ago – yesterday Voskamp had a beautiful post on her blog about the necessity of not just gratitude, but eucharisto, gratitude for even “that which is hard.” You really should go read that now…