Judgment Kills, Love Gives Life - Kate Norris

The final installment in our series of entries from Judgment & Love, here is Kate Norris' chapter. Again, J&L is a collection of 35 true-life stories illustrating the powerful truth that when love is shown in the face of deserved judgment, lives are changed. To order your copy at the reduced price of $10, go here or click on the button at the bottom of the post.

Don’t Go Chasing Waterfalls by TLC was still blaring on the stereo as I watched the hydro pole—a cement telephone pole essentially—crack just above the imploded hood of the Ford Explorer and fall. I looked at my friend Amanda in the passenger’s seat next to me. We had both hit our heads on the windshield but weren’t bleeding. She began to swear in a stage whisper. We were in her mother’s truck. Earlier that day, Mrs. Anderson had handed me the keys: “This is my present to you since you’re only here for a few days.” She had gushed her respect and trust of me as if I were a surrogate parent. I was the first one of my friends in Toronto to get a driver’s license; they had to wait until they were eighteen.

Nicole’s head popped into my window, “I think it’s gonna blow!” She was wild-eyed and also screaming in a stage whisper. “I heard hissing—so I tried to fit my body out the window but I couldn’t so I used the door.” She was hysterical and instilled panic in all of us. All nine of us spilled out of the truck, some through windows and others through doors. We sprinted across a park and into the night shadows. At a safe distance from a potential SUV explosion we turned around and watched. The car was deathly still as it emitted its final pops and moans.

When we decided it wouldn’t actually blow up the boys were interested in one thing only: what lie to tell the cops. As we walked back to the sidewalk Amanda began to cry. She mostly made a foghorn noise, but I managed to hear that she was describing over and over how gruesomely her mother would kill her. I was ready for handcuffs.

I walked up to a neighboring house and explained what I had done and that I needed to use their phone. They had already called the police. All the boys had run off. As a united front, my girlfriends were denying they were there. Each of us had whiplash but nothing else major, mercifully. I called Amanda’s mother. “Mrs. Anderson, this is Kate. I am very sorry but we’ve had an accident. We are all okay, but I wrecked your Explorer—I drove into a pole. I am so sorry…No, no, we’re all sober.” Unfortunately.

I was ready to go to jail and I thought I might. When the police came they heard “the story” from my friends. Then the main officer took me and put me in the back of his police car. “You’re going to tell me the truth,” he said over his shoulder. I told him everything. I took full responsibility. I heard about “kids like me” and how much I had hurt and disappointed everyone’s parents, who had now congregated outside. I heard about how I could have killed everyone. And it was true. I was judged and found guilty.

I suppose I sat in the back of the cop car for forty-five minutes or so. Only Jessica’s dad came up to me during that time. I tried to open the window and then the door, but they were locked. I realized that made a lot of sense, to hold criminals. Jessica’s dad asked the policeman to open the door so he could say something to me. I was ready for the speech I deserved. “You know,” he said brightly, “I totaled a Porsche once when I took it for a test drive.” I began to cry.
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The Secret History of William Axl Rose, Pt 1: Things Get Worse Here Every Day

There are 101 reasons to love Axl Rose. His music, his voice, his antics, his hair, his moves, you name it – all undeniably fascinating. One of the unsung aspects of his career, however, is the extent to which it illustrates the Christian understanding of Judgment and Love. I'm serious. The crushing power of the Law (the omnipresent "oughts" of life), in both its sacred and secular forms, finds unfortunate yet serious traction in the saga of Guns N Roses, with Axl Rose as its main object (and part of its subject). Yet his story also touches on the inspiring nature of love, the beauty and pain of our inner divisions, and even the unshakeable power of the cross. Honest.

Axl grew up in Lafayette, Indiana as the adopted son of a Pentecostal preacher in whose care he experienced a truly merciless form of Christianity, if it can even be called such. All Law and no Grace, in other words, the sort of Bible church situation which majored in behavior control and church attendance, attempting to keep the lid on the human condition so tightly that it caused vicious splits in the lives of its followers. Axl once described it as follows:

"My particular church was filled with self-righteous hypocrites who were child abusers and child molesters. These were people who'd been damaged in their own childhoods and in their lives. These were people who were finding God but still living with their damage and inflicting it upon their children. I had to go to church anywhere from three to eight times a week. I even taught Bible school while l was being beaten and my sister was being molested. We'd have televisions one week, then my step-dad would throw them out because they were satanic. l wasn't allowed to listen to music. Women were evil. Everything was evil. I had a really distorted view of sexuality and women. I remember the first time l got smacked for looking at a woman."

So Axl is sadly the product of the worst kind of religion: ultra-bootcamp Pelagianism compartmentalized to the point of cruelty (not to mention completely at odds with its founder). It wouldn’t be a leap to say that the distance that young Axl had to travel to escape, both geographically and lifestyle-wise, correlates pretty closely to the toxicity of his circumstances in Lafayette. As soon as he could, and after finding out that the preacher in question wasn't even his biological father, he hopped a bus to LA, following his friend Izzy Stradlin, where he proceeded to dive headfirst into one of the more decadent scenes in the country. Or so the story goes. We all know that strict parents often produce rebellious kids, that the Law does indeed tend to increase the trespass, but still, there is only one Axl Rose. And his story just begins there.
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Me, My Oughts, and I

The penultimate installment in our series of entries from Judgment & Love, here is Bonnie's chapter. Again, J&L is a collection of 35 true-life stories illustrating the powerful truth that when love is shown in the face of deserved judgment, lives are changed. To order your copy at the reduced price of $10, go here or click on the button at the bottom of the post.

Like most teenagers living in developed countries, I worried about the way I looked. I knew I wasn’t fat, and even though I wasn’t quite as thin as some other girls, it didn’t really bother me at all since there were always other characteristics that made me feel good about myself—good grades, a lot of self confidence, a happy personality, and good friends. My body was never a very large part of my identity until I lived abroad and gained twenty-five pounds over six months. Somehow, that set off a siren in my head that something was not okay: I was “fat.” Not knowing what to do (and never having been on a diet before), I resorted to desperate measures to remove this “bad” part of my self-image: I developed an eating disorder.

According to Biological Psychiatry, 80% of women in the United States exhibit signs of an eating disorder at some stage; between 1-5% of adolescent women meet the criteria for diagnosis of an eating disorder, including an estimated 19-30% of college-age women. I became a statistic.

Some girls revel in their ability to manipulate how much they eat. When I was in high school, I remember a girl triumphantly told me she had only eaten three mints over an entire day; I thought that was the stupidest thing I had ever heard. Another girl told me about how to manipulate your throat to make yourself gag; that grossed me out. When I became desperate enough, however, these strategies seemed less strange and more “effective.” I thought I could stop once I had lost the twenty-five pounds. But I didn’t.

At this point you might say, “Oh, but you didn’t know better.” Of course I knew better. I was a Christian, and I knew my identity shouldn’t be determined by how I looked: I am “a child of God,” a “temple of the Holy Spirit,” and free from the bondage of sin and death. Children of God shouldn’t have to worry about mortal bodies that will eventually turn to dust. Temples of the Holy Spirit should certainly be presentable to the Lord. Christians who have been freed from bondage shouldn’t have obsessive- compulsive disorders. But knowing these things didn’t really change my behavior—in fact, it made me feel worse about myself. I would be reminded of my identity in God and the promise of God’s deliverance during my morning quiet time, and four hours later at lunch I would either not eat, eat too much, or count the calories in my salad with tuna (no dressing), and feel like a complete failure.

I talked to counselors and other Christians, had account- ability partners, read books, and prayed that something would change. I had already lost the twenty-five pounds, maybe more, and looked terrible. But I didn’t and couldn’t stop, and I hated myself for it. (I figured that God probably didn’t hate me, but He wasn’t going to be entirely happy with me until I shaped up.)
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Some Things Never Change - RJ Heijmen

Continuing with our series of entries from Judgment & Love, here is RJ Heijmen's chapter. RJ is head minister of St. Paul's Church in New York City - you can subscribe to his terrific podcast here. Again, J&L is a collection of 35 true-life stories illustrating the powerful truth that when love is shown in the face of deserved judgment, lives are changed. To order your copy at the reduced price of $10, go here or click on the button at the bottom of the post.

"We love because he first loved us." (1 John 4:19)

A few weeks ago, I was in the kitchen with my wife Jaime, and it had just happened again. For the umpteenth time in our nine-year marriage, she had told me how something was going to turn out, I hadn’t believed her, and, of course, she had been right. Again. What exactly she was right about is beside the point, and I can’t remember anyway. What mattered was that, once again, in spite of her long track record of levelheaded, accurate prognostication, I had in my foolish pride doubted my wife and, once again, she had been one-hundred-percent correct.

Humbled and frustrated with myself, I took a deep breath and sighed it out. I turned to her and asked, “Am I ever going to believe you?” She looked at me with love and a bit of mischief in her eyes and said very matter-of-factly, “No.”

This may not seem like an important marital event, but it is a moment I will always remember. In her simple one-word response, Jaime let me know that, in spite of myself, she loved me and she always will. While she uttered only a single word, her delivery spoke volumes. What Jaime was really telling me in that instant was that she accepted me as I was, loved me in spite of my arrogance and lack of trust, had come to terms with the fact that I would probably never change, and wanted to be with me anyway. If that is not God-like love, I don’t what is. It broke my heart and set it ablaze all at the same time. With one word, Jaime’s love crushed my pride and self-loathing; it put me in my place and raised me up.

A friend once told me the best marriage preparation wisdom he had ever heard came from a speaker who, as the first order of business, looked into the audience and asked the question, “How would you feel if ninety-five percent of your spouse-to-be never changed?” There was an uncomfortable silence as the room full of people preparing to make vows of eternal love all recognized the extent to which they were secretly hoping to mold their partners into something more desirable. Relationships do not require people to be flexible, to change and grow. What people need is unconditional acceptance and love, the kind of love that says, “Even if you never get any better, I will still love you.”

This kind of one-way love can become the inspiration for change. This is true in all relationships. Although I could have never predicted it, my father only began to be the father I always wanted when I let go of my expectations and started loving him for who he was. My wife would have been completely justified to be angry with me for my lack of belief in her, but that would have only created greater defensiveness on my part. I wish this were not the case, but it is. Yet by some miracle, Jaime withheld righteous anger and judgment and offered something unexpected and undeserved in their place, forever changing me.

A Prescription For Perfectionists - Sarah Richey

Continuing with our series of entries from Judgment & Love, here is Sarah Richey's chapter. Again, J&L is a collection of 35 true-life stories illustrating the powerful truth that when love is shown in the face of deserved judgment, lives are changed. To order your copy at the reduced price of $10, go here or click on the button at the bottom of the post. 

The day I graduated from college, I had a lot going for me. I was graduating with honors, had a new job in youth ministry, was buying an apartment and moving to a new city, and had a hand- some young fiancé to go with me! My expectations for that Summer and my new life were high and when people would ask, “How are you doing it all?” I would demurely say something about taking it in stride, enjoying every minute, not worrying about the details. What I didn’t tell people was that for a few months prior, a steady sense of fear and foreboding had gradually taken over my thoughts. In reality, I was so consumed by being the perfect graduate/bride/youth minister/homeowner that I floated through the two months before my wedding in a haze, not wanting to make any mistakes. God forbid that I become Bridezilla or not actually be perfect for my new job. I started having tension headaches and trouble sleeping. I lost all hope in the future; it was as if fear had knocked out my drive to hope and dream and I became numb as I smothered the fear and kept up the appearance of a young, thrilled, bride-to-be.

About a month before the wedding, my parents took me to see a doctor to check out my headaches. She was a Christian, had married young while in medical school, and was now a successful doctor in the city. During the physical she kept asking, “Are you sure you’re not stressed about anything? You’re getting married, that’s a pretty big deal.” I kept replying that I was fine, not at all worried, so looking forward to the big day. I remember her looking at me and wondering if she could see straight through to my terrified little heart. “Uh huh,” she said, “Well, you’re completely healthy, maybe try some allergy medication and see if that helps. Sarah, you have a lot going on right now, it’s normal to be a little stressed.”

People still talk about how calm a bride I was on my wedding day, although all I remember is feeling paralyzed, afraid it was all going to go terribly wrong. I wasn’t afraid of marriage, I was afraid of failing to meet all the expectations I had built up in my mind about who I was and what people expected from me and how the perfect 22-year-old should act and get married. I was constantly judging myself, weighing every move, and critiquing everything I did.
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The Blue Movie and the Old Story - David Browder

Continuing with our series of entries from Judgment & Love, here is David Browder's chapter. Again, J&L is a collection of 35 true-life stories illustrating the powerful truth that when love is shown in the face of deserved judgment, lives are changed. To order your copy at the reduced price of $10, go here or click on the button at the bottom of the post.

I did not realize this as a young boy, but my family broke the stereotypical mold in Alabama with their real and palpable agnosticism. As any child would do, I followed their lead and Christianity remained an afterthought in my progressive, south Birmingham neighborhood. Due primarily to my parents’ divorce, I found myself in a boys’ preparatory boarding school named The McCallie School in Chattanooga, Tennessee at the age of 15.

It was there that I providentially came under the influence of a Christian man and football coach named Terry Evans who (I would later find out, but not in so many words) embodied what I would later come to understand as the interplay between the Law and the Gospel (M. Luther). He was an ordained Presbyterian minister and my dormitory head for two years at McCallie. The man would stay up until all hours of the night, making sure the students under his charge were not engaged in any mischief. Most of the time, we were. When we were found out, consequences were swift and sure. So terrified were my roommate and I of Coach Evans that we actually planned to move out of “Bible Belk” (the derisive name all the kids had for the dorm) into another dorm where we were sure we could get away with more. Sounds like a good plan, right? Well, Coach Evans somehow talked us into staying in Belk, and it was one of the best decisions I have ever made in any phase of my life.

One particular time (never give teenage boys too much free time. . . a poor idea is likely to ensue), my roommate and I figured out that we could hook a camcorder to a computer monitor, get our hands on movies of ill-repute, and charge admission for the viewings in our dorm room. Coach Evans, a veteran of many long years in the dorm wars, was on to us in a very short time. The punishment could have been severe at a place like McCallie. My roommate and I were convinced it was the end of the line. But, when it seemed sure the ax would fall, it did not.

In fact, Coach Evans selected us to be prefects, senior leaders in his underclassman dorm, the following year. The idea that swift justice would not accompany a great misdeed was an utterly foreign concept. A place of honor instead of a ticket home? Perplexing. Astounding. At that point in my life, Coach Evans represented God to me. Previously I had expected strict, ethics-based exhortation. Suffocating and binding rules. He showed me something different. His incredible pardon planted a mustard seed in my heart that (after some trying times) I could look back on and recognize. I could see that Christ was the Friend of sinners and the Balm of Gilead. It probably saved my life quite literally.

This is not to say that I no longer failed Coach Evans. Au contraire, mon frère. Like Jean Valjean who quickly repaid the bishop’s grace with another grave sin in Les Misérables, I let him down in major ways at least twice more. But, that is not the point. My feelings toward him were positively and substantially reoriented. Because he represented God to me, I felt I could trust God in what would (a couple of years later) turn out to be the darkest period of my life. With no conditions or expectations. Not an emphasis on making me better but an emphasis on going from dark to light. Death to life.

The Wedding Dress - Nancy Hanna

Over the next few weeks, we'll be offering, for the first time, a few entries from our first book, Judgment & Love. Edited by Sean Norris and featuring contributions from nearly all of the regular contributors to this blog, J&L is a collection of 35 true-life stories illustrating the powerful truth that when love is shown in the face of deserved judgment, lives are changed. In other words, these are sermon illustrations par excellence - and ones which actually happened! To order your copy at the reduced price of $10, go here or click on the button at the bottom of the post. This first one comes to us from The Rev. Nancy Hanna and it's quite a doozie:

She came into my office three weeks after her mother’s funeral, at which I had officiated. She was deep in the throes of disposing of her mother’s house and belongings: a private and painful activity (on the level of hearing the clumps of earth thud onto the top of the coffin lid) unaccompanied by hymns or prayers or family members huddled close. She alone was cleaning the closets, packing the china, and removing the framed photographs from the walls. Her two sisters had gone “home” to their own spouses and children and busy lives in other cities and she—divorced with grown chil- dren in college and first jobs elsewhere—was back home. . . alone.

“How’s it going?” I asked her.

“Slowly.” Her eyes were down, watching her hands twist a moist Kleenex in her lap.

“There’s so much stuff; so many decisions. . .” her voice trailed off. Then she said in a burst of energy, “My sisters left the day after the funeral! They just. . . left!” She began to cry.

“You’re feeling abandoned.” “They left!” Now she was sobbing. I waited. “Now I have to pack up everything, get it to UPS, and ship it—even the photographs!” “The photographs?”

“There’s this wall in my mother’s bedroom where their wedding portraits hang. Just theirs; mine isn’t there.”

“Where’s yours?” Silence; a long pause. “There isn’t one. Never has been.” “Oh?” “Yes. I was two months pregnant on my wedding day; it was 1958. There was no white wedding dress. My mother said it would be inappropriate. I wore a suit. There were only a dozen guests. One of my husband’s aunts cried throughout the ceremony. It was awful.” Her mother’s judgment of her according the to standards of the time had crushed her.

My mind flashed to a wall in my mother’s bedroom: the “bride’s wall.” On it were the bridal portraits of my mother’s mother, my mother, my sister, and me. I am wearing the same headpiece and veil as my mother. For two years the photographer displayed my photograph in his window. I was eighteen, slender, and the lighting was good. Best of all was the dress: a white, long- sleeved, empire waistline brocade with satin-covered buttons all down the back. Simple. Rich. Elegant. Perfect for my January 1, 1965 wedding day.

Like the woman sitting in my office, I was two months preg- nant on my wedding day. My parents and my boyfriend’s parents had granted our desire to marry and raise our child. During the busy week before New Year’s Day, my mother took me shopping for a dress. “Something simple. It will be a small wedding. Some- thing simple; something dark; tailored.” We walked into the wedding clothes shop in our suburban village. She steered me toward the mother-of-the-bride section. My heart sank. As she searched through the rack, the white brocade bridal gown caught my eye; it was on a mannequin. I walked over to it and began to finger the material. My mother watched me. She left the mother-of-the-bride dresses and came to my side.

“Would you like to wear this one on your wedding day?” she asked.

“Yes. Oh, yes. Yes!” “Then you shall.” My grieving parishioner is quiet and still now. I say a prayer; we agree to talk again soon. My mother’s gracious gift of love has borne fruit: I am a wounded healer, thanks be to God.

p.s. To download Nancy Hanna's inspired final sermon, "The Final Word" click here. Or just listen now: