Ready to be crucified?

I had a staggering thought the other day: am I ready to die a death like Jesus for the sake of defending the gospel, to acknowledge that he alone is God, and there is no other way to heaven--no matter the consequence?

We have comfortably been raised in America with the concept of Christianity as a "take it or leave it" religious option, as if it were a benign choice like giving your money away to a certain organization. No consequence if you choose one organization or the other. Sure, some may disagree, or even challenge the idea that it is excluding another, more important cause, but overall, it's your choice.

In reality, how many true followers of Jesus are there in America? Am I a true follower?

If someone held a gun to my head asking me to denounce my faith, to be honest, I wouldn't fear too much simply because of the kind of quick death that would come from a bullet. It may be painful for a moment, but it would soon pass.

But to die a death like Jesus and even some Christians past-a prolonged, wrenching, excruciating execution where even time feels like muscle fibers slowly tearing--where a second feels like a minute, and a minute becomes three hours--would I have the strength, the deep knowledge of my own conviction to be able to withstand such a horror?

This thought aroused in me such a piercing feeling of gratefulness that I live in this country and not in an area where my faith in Jesus Christ is reason for slaughter.

Jesus came into the world to save me--a continual sinner--so that I can have hope beyond a bullet to the head, beyond alienation and criticism from the world, beyond poverty and riches, beyond mediocrity and hopelessness. I We have been saved from a world that does not accept us into an everlasting family that has no end.

Dying year

I had just sat down to an opening paragraph of a new chapter when I noticed out of the corner of my eye something red falling just outside the window.

At this point in the year I typically love all of the familiar elements of a Minnesota autumn--the smell of drying leaves, the plethora of pumpkin spice-flavored products, and the reappearing of bright orange jack-o-lanterns on doorsteps.

I sometimes am even disappointed with a 70-degree forecast because it's too warm to wrap a billowy, woven scarf around my neck. I am inspired by the student "models" at the University of Minnesota West Bank "runway." Everywhere I see oversized sweaters hanging heavily atop a pair of twig-like legs, supported by tiny little boots. I wonder if anyone else notices the imbalance of proportions. Seems like a strong, fall wind could knock these models over like a big sack of flour.

The reality is that my summer has died, along with its memories and creations. Although it saddens me every year to see leaf upon leaf fall to the ground and the grass loses its pigment, this death brings comfort to me in several ways. I cannot say that 2016 was a great year. I do not feel proud necessarily of any remarkable traits I have strengthened, work I have completed, habits I have ceased, or relationships I have improved.

With winter coming, I can almost rejoice at the fact that whatever dissatisfaction I have with myself, I can let it die, along with the leaves, plants, grass, and flowers.

I can embrace the dying of summer--of mediocre living, of minimal participation, of self-serving activities, whatever it might be--and look forward to the newness of life that death allows. This is a time for reflecting, of preparation, of examining.

Let me not forget this motivating thought when it is ten degrees outside and all I want to do it walk outside barefoot in a sundress, wiping sweat from my brow.