Reformed SHEology

It was the summer of 1987. At thirteen, there was not much for me to do aside from having the occasional friend over, completing my assigned summer reading for school, and watching television. One of the television shows I watched religiously was A Current Affair (not to be confused with the Australian program by the same name). A Current Affair was a New York based, television tabloid show that focused on scandals. Unsolved murders and celebrity deaths were a regular topic on the program, but the Summer of 1987 was an unusually popular season for death. That's because August of 1987 marked the 10th anniversary of Elvis Presley's death (August 16) as well as the 25th anniversary of the death of Marilyn Monroe (August 5).

Every weekday I watched this program. It seemed there was an endless amount of stories to report about Elvis or Marilyn: how lonely they were in life, how they both tried to reduce their emotional pain with drugs, superficial relationships, and material possessions. Both their lives ended in despair, as neither felt truly loved. Yet they both left behind millions of adoring fans who continued to grieve over their loss years after they passed. I was captivated by these stories. My interest soon grew into an obsession. Before long, I had posters of Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Natalie Wood, and Sal Mineo all over my bedroom walls.

I began the eighth grade that September. I continued to watch A Current Affair after school, and within a few weeks into the school year, I was faced with a frightening realization: I am going to die one day.

One night I had gone to bed and it just hit me. My life is going to end, just like everyone else who came before me. As I lay quietly in my bed, I suddenly became very aware of the sound of my own heartbeat. I imagined my heart stopping one day, my skin growing cold, and my body being placed in a coffin. I imagined the sound of dirt being shoveled on top of the coffin. It was dark. I would never see the sunshine again. My skin would rot, my hair would fall out. I envisioned worms crawling through my eye sockets and nasal cavity. I reasoned with myself that when I die will not be conscious of these things; that I was only feeling frightened because I was imagining my burial as though I were being buried alive. But it didn't help. I was scared. I did not want to die, but worse, I knew there was nothing I could do to stop the process.

I was literally paralyzed with fear the entire night. It felt as though there was a crushing weight on my chest and I could not breathe. I just remained on my back, staring at the ceiling, my arms pressed tightly to my side, and I stayed that way until morning. I was too tired to go to school that day, but I had no choice. So first period, I found myself in P.E. class.

My teacher came over and tried to help, but all I could manage to tell her was, "I'm going to die! I'm going to die!"As I exited the locker room, I looked across the gymnasium at my classmates practicing basketball drills. Suddenly, an intrusive thought entered my mind: "One hundred years from now, not one of these children will be here anymore." I imagined the gymnasium suddenly empty, the bouncing basketballs abandoned on the floor. The fear gripped me again, and I started to panic. My fear gave way to uncontrollable sobs and I started hyperventilating. A classmate asked me what was wrong, but I couldn't answer. My teacher came over and tried to help, but all I could manage to tell her was, "I'm going to die! I'm going to die!"

I don't remember how I got to the nurse's office. I just remember lying there paralyzed again. It was not long before I heard the sound of my mother's voice consulting with the school nurse. The nurse told me that my mother was taking me home. I was glad to be able to process this a bit with my mom. But once we got in the car, my mother became very angry with me.

"What is wrong with you?" she screamed. "You're thirteen years old and you're acting like a baby! Do you have some kind of mental problem?"

"No, mom." I squeaked.

"Well do you want everyone to think you have a mental problem?" she asked.

"No." I whispered.

"Then knock it off! Don't you dare embarrass this family!"

Before you think my mother was horribly cruel in her reaction, there is something you need to understand about Italian-Americans. We do not air our dirty laundry outside the family. (This blog, and especially this story, is an extreme violation of this cultural code of honor.) We also have a tendency to ignore problems within the family, hoping they'll just smooth out on their own. It is all part of fare bella figura, which basically means "to create a beautiful figure (or image)". We will knock ourselves out to present an overdeveloped facade to outsiders. We are a proud people. We don't want anyone to think we have any problems.

I went home that day and stuffed my feelings down as far as I could, but they kept resurfacing. In public, I was a happy, well-adjusted child. But privately, I was hiding a secret from everyone: I was mortal, I knew it, and I was terrified.

In hindsight, I now know that what I had experienced that day was a series of severe panic attacks. Obviously, this is not the end of the story, but allow me to end here for today to reflect upon my favorite, most cherished psalm, Psalm 116.

Praise be to One who conquered the grave; who died that I may live.

The following is an testimony of one of those amazing encounters when afterwards you ask yourself whether or not you entertained an angel. It was, for me, a life changing moment.

My husband and I travelled to Wiltshire with the children to visit my aunt and uncle in Chippenham. I often thought about the spiritual climate in the South West as it is steeped in new age. This is crop circle country and home of the famous festival, Glastonbury. It was this thought that occupied my mind as we made our way into the town centre after parking the car. The walk is a beautiful one, along the banks of the river Avon, with weeping willows draping their branches over and into the fast flowing water. My thoughts began to shift towards wondering about the church and how much of the body was in the area and what it was like for them to live in such a spiritual climate. Suddenly, I found my thoughts being interrupted by what I thought to be some kind of commotion in the high street ahead. As we approach the noise, to my surprise I found it to be a open air preacher! I knew I had to speak to this man and encourage him.It was like the questions I had just been contemplating were, to a degree, about to be answered. At this point in my Christian life I had never met a street preacher or even witnessed myself. I knew I had to speak to this man and encourage him.

After he finished preaching I introduced myself as a sister and told him what a great job he was doing. He smiled and said thank you and that was that. I then made my way to the shop where my husband and children were waiting. After paying for our goods we came out of the shop when I noticed the preacher off his box completely surrounded by a group of young teenage boys, many on bikes. Now I had never in my life witnessed so what happened next can only be described as a miracle!

My First Witnessing Encounter
After asking my husband if he would watch the children and wait for me I found myself making my way to the group of boys. On hearing one of their questions, all being asked in mockery and trying to catch the preacher out, I opened my mouth only to find I had a answer ready not only for that one question but for them all. There is noway it was knowledge I already had and was sharing with them. I couldn't have known these answers but here I was answering them. If that wasn't enough the boys began to listen intently and their questions became more serious! The one ringleader tried to lead the others astray by asking silly questions but even with him I felt compelled to to speak to him something specific. He pretended to be offended but you could see him thinking about what was said.

Matthew
One young boy in the group, Matthew, really blessed me. Never before or since have I seen such conviction and thirst in a boy of his age. I knew I had to give him my Bible. As I gave it to him all the boys eyes widened and they looked at the Bible with awe. I mean these are young teenage boys we're talking about here and they were looking at the Bible with such awe. At this point the ringleader had given up trying to get the others to do what he wanted. As Matthew opened the Bible he saw passages I had highlighted and asked why had I done that. So I proceeded to tell him how some had a specific meaning to me that he could do the same and he would know what I meant if he was to prayerfully read it. To this day I wonder how Matthew is doing and he has often been in my prayers over the years.

The boys then began to disperse and soon I find it was just me and the preacher. He told me his name was Joseph and thanked me for helping him out. But I knew it wasn't me. What had just taken place was nothing short or a miracle! From that moment on it was my hearts desire to witness and I could never make excuse: "But I don't know what to say."

do not be anxious how you are to speak or what you are to say, for what you are to say will be given to you in that hour. Matthew 10:19

I never did see Joseph again and upon enquiry no one knew him. Not many words were exchanged between us and I like to think of him as an angel sent from God. Although, Joseph, if you are reading this I want you to know how your obedience to the great commission blessed me and changed my life. Every time I'm in Chippenham I look out for you.

My first memories of religious education were in the first grade. I was raised Roman Catholic and every Monday I had to leave school early to attend CCD classes. At that age, the message is made very simple: God loves you, Jesus is your friend, pray to Him when you are afraid, etc. I happily attended those CCD classes. They were so comforting and fun.

By the time I was eight, these classes started getting complicated. I was bogged down with having to memorize prayers, learn the names of what seemed like a million saints, and obey all sorts of rules. One thing that always brought me comfort was whenever we talked about Jesus. There was just one thing that puzzled me, though. I kept hearing this phrase, "Jesus died to pay for your sins," but I didn't have a clue what that meant. Because we were often encouraged to be good little girls and boys, I had always assumed that a person enters heaven on the basis of their good works. If I was a good girl, God would then allow me into heaven when I died. So it left the Jesus question unanswered. Why did Jesus have to die?

That year my mother and I watched Franco Zeffirelli's Jesus of Nazareth on television during Easter Week. The evening the crucifixion scene aired, the question surfaced again, this time, from an actor in the film. An observer in the crowd muses, "He saved others, why can't He save Himself now?"

I turned to my mother after watching this and asked her, "Why did Jesus have to die?" She responded by rote, "To pay for our sins." Frustrated, I said, "But what does that mean? I don't understand! It's like that man said. He helped others, so why couldn't He help Himself? Why didn't He jump off the cross and show everyone How powerful He was? Why did He just stay there and say nothing?" My mother looked at me and simply said, "I don't know."

I was so disappointed. I was the type of child that needed a reason for everything, and at that moment I could find no reason for Jesus to have remained on the cross when He could have just escaped. Dissatisfied, I decided to come up with my own theory: the reason Jesus remained on the cross was because He wanted to "show off" just how powerful He was by raising Himself from the dead. Yes, that would certainly have much more of an impact than merely escaping the crucifixion! I was so pleased with myself, I went to school the next day and shared my theory with all my little friends. Thus, at the tender age of eight, I became the youngest false teacher I know.

Looking back on my childhood, I can see God was faithful to me. He did not leave me empty-handed. It may have taken ten years after I first asked this question of my mother, but I eventually got the answer I was looking for. The reason why Jesus remained on the cross is simple: He chose to stay there:

“Therefore My Father loves Me, because I lay down My life that I may take it again. No one takes it from Me, but I lay it down of Myself. (John 10:17-18a)

Reader, no amount of good deeds will grant us entrance to heaven. If we claim we can get there based on our good works, we nullify God's grace and make the cross of Christ null and void (Galatians 2:21). Jesus had to die, because apart from His death, there is no other way for men to be saved. Think about it. If it were possible for you or me to get to heaven on our own simply by "being good," then Jesus died for nothing!

Imagine you were in a court of law, and you committed several heinous crimes, and you were found guilty, what would be your defense? If the judge posted bail at $50,000 dollars or sentenced you to life in prison, and you couldn't pay the fine, you'd go to jail for life. But let's say that at that moment, someone stood up in the courtroom and offered to post bail for you. Then, and only then, could you go free, because justice has been served.

This is what Jesus did on the cross. You see, all men are criminals in God's courtroom. All have sinned against God by breaking His law (the Ten Commandments). Only there is no sum of money will get us out of prison. Our bail has been posted at death. Jesus died to pay the fine, so we don't have to go to God's jail (hell). For further information, please click here.