Jenkins - Scandalon: Running from Shame and Finding Gods Scandalous Love

scan-dal (skan dl) n. 1. Any act or set of circumstances that brings about disgrace or offends the morality of the social community; a public disgrace. 2. The reaction caused by such an act or set of circumstances, outrage: shame. 3. Any talk damaging to the character; malicious gossip 4. Damage to behavior; a disgrace. 5. One whose conduct brings about disgrace or defamation. ( The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language )

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N ot just one, but a series of scandals hit my life, either of my own, or of someone elses making. Wherever youve been or whatever youve experienced, you might find a bit of yourself in my story.

I began writingin a magnificent house in Pebble Beach, Californiashortly after the worst scandal came to a crisis. Daniel, a warrior in my life, whom I knew from church, gave me his keys and said, The house is yours. I dont need itIll be traveling all summer. Use it whenever you need to.

So I found myself at his massive kitchen table, watching the surf change from sky blue to aqua to navy and white. Daniel would call occasionally and ask, What color is the ocean today? Then hed describe the eagles flying overhead from his mountain climb, the big catch of his deep-sea fishing off the coast of Canada, or the cuisine at a Beijing business banquet.

I typed. When the issues became too difficult to deal with, I turned off the rented computer, zipped on a sweatshirt, and walked in the salty air. It was seven miles to the town of Pacific Grove, where a small bookstore served coffee and homemade cakes. Another mile or so brought me to the Asilomar conference grounds. There I would settle into an oversized, knotty pine chair beside the stone fireplace, cozy on chilly summer evenings. After more writing or a game of ping pong, I was ready for a sound sleep, occasionally disturbed by the barking seals on Seal Rock.

When summer ended and it was time to go back to school, I packed up the computer, put the pages in a file folder and went about the painful task of getting on with life. I began practicing the art of covering up, a skill I developed for emotional safety and survival.

As the years unfolded, the task of writing my story took much longer than I had anticipated. The condition of my heart delayed the journey. You see, I wanted to be loved byand accepted byeveryone. I craved attention. Besides, anger and fear were getting in my way. Both emotions gnawed at the remnants of my wounded soul. The process of trying to describe my ordeal seemed too complex a task; so, in my attempt to hide the pain, the pages of my story kept going back into a cardboard box to rot and gather dust.

I expected the haunting memories to float away and to make sure they did, I employed the use of several destructive crutches. I tried sleeping, taking pills, disengaging, eating, shopping, and finally moving halfway across the world in a frantic effort to get away from the pain. No matter how far I ran, the memories followed. They were like a festering, seeping wound. Hiding and covering up could not begin to heal me.

Even after an exciting and audacious move to China, the painful shame lodged like a stone cold monument in my heart.

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You I have called out from beyond the stars, from below the earth, from My own imagination, to find your life within My heart. From end to end, your life will I hold together. Nothing can happen to you outside My knowledge .

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I was raised as a pastors daughter in a vibrant denomination that taught the necessity of being saved and living a holy life. Our family life was built around the weekly line-up of church activitiesSunday services, prayer meetings, choir rehearsals, and Wednesday night potlucks with tuna noodle casseroles, jello with whipped topping, and macaroni salads. There were missionary society meetings, revival services, visitation programs and fund-raising campaigns. Our family sat around the TV on Saturday nights, folding Sunday bulletins. Many times my mother entertained newcomers on Sunday evening and a good portion of Saturday was consumed with cleaning the house for company. There were never-ending tasks of washing windows, dusting baseboards, arranging flowers and baking cakes. I learned to do things without complaining. I learned to talk with peopleinteresting people, dull people, those I admired and those I tolerated. Connecting with others was something we did.

In spite of the life skills and excellent biblical understanding that I absorbed from my family and church, some unhealthy messages were picked up along the way. Somehow, I was convinced that if I fell or backslid, if I ever really messed up, I wouldnt be good enough for God. If scandal landed in my life, that would be it for me spiritually; my journey with God would be over. However unfounded, this fear would open the door to a fierce spiritual battle in my adult life.