A culture of unforgiveness

Why can't we forgive in this country? And why, if we brag that this is such a great country, don't we believe in one of the things that set it apart: our justice system?

We live in an age of hatred, rage and unforgiveness, and I believe this attitude holds us back as a society and as a nation.

We're all human. We all make mistakes. We all screw up. We all hurt someone sometime. And a few of us commit crimes.

We have a system in this country wherein a person who commits a crime is tried in public by a presumably impartial jury; if the person is convicted, he or she receives punishment proportionate to the crime, according to law. When the sentence is completed, the convicted person can go on with his or her life.

But that doesn't seem to be good enough for an awful lot of people. At a gut level, they want more. They want blood. And they never, ever want someone who has committed a crime to stop suffering consequences for it.

Look at Michael Vick. I'm not a big fan of pro football, and I don't think athletes or celebrities deserve any special treatment. I also am an animal lover. I cry at those Sarah McLaughlin Humane Society commercials.

What Vick did was horrible and disgusting. Dogfighting is vile, ugly and inhumane. I believe it offends God.

But we have laws to deal with dogfighting, and Vick was tried and punished according to those laws. He admitted his guilt, he did his time, and he paid his debt to society -- a debt that society (that's you and me) determined.

So why doesn't that settle it? Why can't people accept a "Paid in Full" stamp on Vick's rap sheet? Why do they want him banned from the NFL, banned from society, banned from making a living for the rest of his life?

Why are the provisions of the law not good enough for people who are mad at someone for breaking the law? It's as if we agree to sell someone a car for $5,000, they pay the $5,000, and after they've driven off we tell everyone they stole the car from us. "No, what I meant was I wanted them to pay me $5,000 every day for the rest of their life."

Many, if not most, companies won't hire anyone with a felony record, even if that person has fulfilled all the court's requirements for punishment and compensation. A former boss of mine once cackled over a job application on which the applicant checked "Yes" in response to the question "Have you ever been convicted of a felony?" "This guy is too stupid to get a job," the boss told me. I guess he would have preferred for the applicant to lie.

Even when the offense doesn't rise to the level of lawbreaking, no response by the offender ever seems adequate for the offended.

Someone says something offensive or does something unethical and is called on it. The offender realizes his or her error and offers a sincere, specific, public apology. The person might also be fired or resign. "Not good enough!" the offended party cries.

What exactly do you want? You want the person who offended you to be totally abased, to be publicly humiliated, to lose everything he owns, to never have an opportunity to gain it back, and, ultimately, to die by stoning, followed by the body being burned in the public square. There. Satisfied?

Is that the American way? It certainly isn't Christ's way.

We all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. Those of us who have accepted Jesus as our savior have received eternal forgiveness for all our sins -- past present and future, no matter how heinous. By Christ's death on the cross, our debt is paid in full. How then can we who have been forgiven of so much be so unforgiving? How can we who enjoy such abundant grace offer no grace to our neighbors who are just like us?

Punishment has to fit the crime. Penalties have to have limits. At some point the creditor has to stamp the promissory note "Paid in Full." Refusal to do so places the unforgiving creditor in a position of superiority to God, a sin far greater than the original offense. How dare the forgiven not forgive?

Is there not a cause?

My brilliant pastor, Jentezen Franklin, this morning preached on the subject, "You need to get free of 'What's in it for me?'" He used the passage in 1 Samuel 17 where David's brothers and other men tell David what rewards would be given to the man who slays Goliath.

These guys were all focused on the prizes -- great riches, the king's daughter in marriage, and tax-free living for life. But all that talk didn't sit well with David, who said, "Is there not a cause?"

By that David meant there was a better reason than personal rewards to go after Goliath. This thug was insulting their God and everyone who believed in him. What more incentive did they need?

My pastor then lit into preachers who do things not for the glory of God and furtherance of his kingdom, but for self-aggrandizement and income opportunities. Then he turned it onto the rest of us, saying the cause of God's kingdom should be enough motivation to get us to serve others; we shouldn't need any other incentives, such as payment, recognition or fame. Amen and amen.

He kept repeating the line, "You need to get free of 'What's in it for me?'" And it got me thinking about the health-care town hall screamers and the current crop of conservatives in general. (By the way, Franklin himself is clearly pretty conservative, so this message surprised me a little, but he didn't take it where I'm about to.)

This very morning on the way to church I had been saying to My Lovely Wife that the theme of these protests makes me sick. I saw on TV a woman with a look of disgust say of President Obama's proposed plan, "It takes away from those who have been paying for health care for years [and] reduces our health care so that everyone else can have it."

Yes, and isn't that horrible? I mean, I got mine, so SCREW everybody else! Am I my brother's keeper? Why should I be expected to give up a tiny fraction of the abundance that I have so that my neighbor who has nothing might have something?

I've never really been able to put my finger on what it is about conservatives that nettles me so much, but this is it exactly: They go on and on about how great America is, America love it or leave it, God bless America, but they're not willing to give anything up to help their fellow Americans. Anyone who suggests Americans pool their resources to help out the least of these is decried as a SOCIALIST!

I wonder if any of them have ever read the last four verses of the second chapter of Acts. The first Christians were total pinkos.

I voted for Obama in the primary election, but I liked Hillary Clinton's health-care reform plan better. So I'm not suggesting everyone should just go for Obama's plan; it definitely needs work. What I am saying is that it appalls me that people think it's OK to let their fellow Americans -- even children -- go without health care.

Believe it or not, I actually liked George W. Bush for a minute when he was running for president in 2000. That line about ushering in an era of "compassionate conservatism" got my attention. But those words turned out to be not only a lie, but an oxymoron. In today's American politics, conservatism is by definition the opposite of compassionate. It is service only to oneself, regardless of the cost to others.

What's in it for me? How about a better night's sleep knowing some child won't die because her parents' insurance company didn't want to pay for a liver transplant? How about fewer people hitting you up for money while you're walking downtown because medical bills will no longer drive anyone into homelessness? How about the avoidance of a rebuke at the Judgment Seat of Christ when he says, "Inasmuch as you did it not to one of the least of these, you did it not to me."

Memorable birthday

My sister Margaret had a pretty amazing 16th birthday.

In addition to the usual cake and ice cream and gifts, her party included a giant leap for mankind.

I remember all of us gathered in the family room that evening, watching the broadcast. I don't remember which network we were watching, but it was probably CBS with Walter Cronkite and Wally Schirra, because Channel 6 was the clearest station we could receive. It may have been NBC, though, because Margaret liked David Brinkley better. We were a news-watching and -reading family.



Margaret's 9-year-old brother Jim was sitting on the couch (or davenport, as we called it), craning his neck to get a better view of the upside-down image as Neil Armstrong took that momentous step. Even as a 9-year-old, I understood what a historic moment this was.

After Armstrong said, "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind," I asked what that was supposed to mean. Weren't "man" and "mankind" the same thing? Even as a 9-year-old, I was a smart-alecky copy editor in the making.

A year or two later, my dad and I stood in line for four hours at the Capitol Complex in Lansing to get a glimpse of a moon rock. What an amazing time to be a little kid.

The wheel of life

On this, the 90th anniversary of my mother's birth, I present a newspaper guest column I wrote 20 years ago. I believe this was my first published work after college. It ran on the front of the Metro section of the Fort Wayne (Indiana) News-Sentinel, where I was a copy editor.

Wheel of life takes emotions on a wild ride
August 16, 1989

This summer has been a matter of life and death for my family.

The season has always consisted of languorous days spent staying out of the sun and muggy evenings spent sipping iced tea on the front porch. Baseball games on the radio and the smell of ribs on the neighbors’ grill.

Come to think of it, all that stuff has been going on as usual, but other events have marked this summer, and I’m not at all comfortable with the theme.

The cycle started, like summer, on Memorial Day weekend, when my wife and I were driving on U.S. 30 to visit her brother in Chicago. It was fairly early that beautiful Saturday morning, and there was very little traffic. We were sharing cinnamon rolls we had bought at T.J. Cinnamon’s on what was supposed to be its last day in business (it has since been resurrected), getting sticky fingers and having a good time.

We both were looking out the side window at a farm where the cattle were standing near the road. We were searching the herd for calves.

When I looked to the road again, I saw in front of us a wall of steel in the form of a stopped livestock truck. Instinctively, I swerved left onto the median, missing the huge truck by little more than a few inches. After I got my pickup back on the highway, still going about 50 mph, my wife put her hand on my arm. It felt like the hand of God.

Neither of us said a word for five minutes. Later we prayed and she cried.

Apparently even as that brush with death was happening, the pathetic stray cat we had taken in on Mother’s Day was giving birth back home to five kittens.

Kittens are wonderful. They can entertain without trying, delight without cloying. We’ve tried not to get too attached to them, because we know we have to give them all away, but they’re hard to resist.

It has been a joy to watch them grow, explore, learn and play. They make you feel wonderful about life.

Now we learn one of them has a heart murmur, and we have to decide whether to “put it to sleep” (to use the prevalent euphemism for killing something beloved), give it away to someone willing to take a chance, or keep it and hope for the best.

A few weeks ago, our next-door neighbors brought forth a beautiful baby girl. We were – and still are – thrilled for them.

But then another neighbor – four doors down – was stabbed to death, and a curtain of fear and sorrow hangs over the neighborhood.

The wheel of life keeps turning as it always has, but this summer it seems to be spinning so fast that the spokes have become invisible. I’ve been up and down on it so many times already that I don’t know how to take each new scene that flashes past my eyes.

For example, several weeks ago my 10 siblings and I threw a party for my mother on her 70th birthday. It was an event to celebrate this wonderful, funny woman’s long and worthwhile life and her full recovery from a heart attack four years ago.

Nine of her 11 children were there, along with a few other relatives and cherished friends and uncounted grandchildren. It was a beautiful day, full of laughter and love and a kind of closeness with some of my siblings that I cannot remember ever feeling before.

With the kind of summer it’s been, however, I couldn’t help but think about how many more birthdays my parents might have.

The macabre mood of this summer has even managed to take a turn toward the comic.

The aforementioned stray cat has made herself very much at home in our house, turning every inch of it into her personal hunting ground.

We used to have a pet zebra finch named Jenny. She was 6 years old – that’s 120 to you and me. I admired her for her longevity.

Rikki the cat admired her for her white meat.

We came home one day to find the bird cage shattered on the floor, a small pile of feathers in the kitchen and a satisfied look on Rikki’s face.

I guess everybody faces issues of life and death; it’s part of living. But having to do it nearly every day is a bit much. Take me out to the ballgame.

Godfather's Day II

My goddaughter Vannah and I went out on a "date" last week to a new candy shop, where she read me a Dr. Seuss story and we shared delicious frozen yogurt. Aunt Rox came along too, and a grand time was had by all.

When we took her home, Vannah said "Bye!" and ran upstairs to play with her siblings and a 5-year-old visitor.

As we headed for home, it dawned on me that this date was notable for three reasons:

1. It was the first time Aunt Rox had come along with us.
2. It was the first time Vannah didn't throw me an unsolicited "I love you, Uncle Jim" at some random moment.
3. It was the first time she failed to kiss me goodbye.

Vannah is 8 years old now and getting noticeably taller. Her mother told me Vannah grew a whole shoe size in five weeks' time. You can tell her thought process is maturing and her awareness and understanding of the world around her are growing, too. She's becoming less passive and more interested in setting her own agenda.

These are good things. Still, with the sweet comes the bitter, and I'm realizing that she's not going to be my baby girl for much longer. I pray constantly for the life events and challenges she has yet to encounter, some of which are (I hope) decades down the road. I haven't lost sight of the present moment, but she's made me aware that it's a moving target.

With that in mind, here is this year's Father's Day offering, courtesy of former Hootie & the Blowfish frontman Darius Rucker:

Curse you, Facebook!

I have stuff to say, but I haven't been saying it here because I've been spending too much time and energy on Facebook.

Writing whole paragraphs is harder work than dropping a tart sentence here and there as most of us do on Facebook. It's great for the lazy and the unmotivated.

On the other hand, I know that people actually see what I write on FB, however short and shallow it may be, and there's some reward in that. And, legitimately, FB does help me stay connected to many friends and family members, some or most of whom I otherwise would have no contact with at all.

Most times, I spend 10 minutes or less on a Facebook session. Still, once I'm done doing that, I don't feel like doing much else with the computer, so the blog goes wanting.

This has to change. If I'm going to call myself a writer, I have to write.

Kiss me and say you understand

Memorial Day always meant a cookout at my parents' house. My father's birthday was May 26, and the holiday provided most of us an opportunity to get away from work and gather at the house for a party.

Dad knew how to play only one song on the piano, but that's still one more than I can play. He wasn't exactly Oscar Peterson on the keyboard, but we loved it -- loved it -- when he sat down to play Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen. It was an event, like his melodramatic recitation of "Casey at the Bat."

As far as I know, no one ever recorded Dad playing Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen in any format. So, by way of honoring him on this day, I offer this poor substitute:



So here's to you, Dad. Happy birthday. I know you're swingin' with Mom in heaven's ballroom. Next number: "Honey."

Revelation led

We have a lot of electronic billboards around here, the ones that look like giant TV screens and change the ad every few seconds.

One near the Georgia Dome in Atlanta is owned by a company called Revelation LED, which promotes itself on a couple of the panels in the rotation.

The first time I saw the promo's big, bold logo -- REVELATION|LED -- I thought it was an ad for some church. I chuckled when I realized my mistake, but I thought, "What a great slogan that would be for a church: REVELATION LED."

It reminds me of a quote by Israel Houghton on his "New Season" CD (my favorite Christian album):

"Seasons are not governed by clocks and calendars. Seasons are governed by revelation and truth."

It's a great line in a great monologue that gets my blood pumping every time. Hear it for yourself in context in the following file. The monologue follows the song, which is quite beautiful and was co-written by Free Chapel's worship leader, Ricardo Sanchez. The monologue begins at 6:18 of the clip.

Kingdom Coaches

I saw a tour bus today with the name Kingdom Coach emblazoned on the sides and back. I like that name -- not necessarily for a bus company, but as a title for a person, a spiritual guide.

Two of my kingdom coaches are hurting right now. C.David, an inexhaustible font of encouragement and optimism, is mending rapidly from extensive surgery to remove a tumor in his belly; now he's learned he's going to need two chemotherapy treatments a week for six months. Sister Dorothy, who seems to have committed the entire Bible to memory and always calls up the perfect verse to address any concern, is in severe pain from a vascular problem in her feet.

God, please bless both of these my coaches, as well as all the others. They've helped you make me into the player I am today.

Snowy day in Georgia

Buster

Buster had a really good Buster day Friday. He got some treats; he got to go for a walk and eat some grass and smell a freshly dug hole in the ground; he got to snuggle next to Daddy on the couch all night and even drink from his water glass; and he got to curl up in bed with Mommy and Daddy and Gibby.

On Saturday morning Buster got up with Daddy and coached him through getting dressed and ready for work, like every day, then went back to bed. Daddy kissed Mommy, kissed Earle, kissed Gibby and kissed Buster on the head before setting off.

Around 11 a.m., Mommy went to take a bath, and Buster walked her down the hall, talking all the way. And while she was bathing, he went into the den, lay down under a table and went to sleep.

Forever.

Our big boy would have been 18 at the end of May. He was an anniversary gift from Rox's mom to her stepdad when the kitty was just a few weeks old, big feet and big eyes and all. Bob named him Patches because of his mottled coloring.

Patches learned quickly that he wasn't allowed on tables or countertops, so he would sit up straight on a chair or a stool, like a person. Cracked me up, even though I didn't really like the guy very much.

See, Patches and I got off to a bad start. The very first time we met, there were a lot of people in the house and I was sitting on the floor, engaging in conversation with someone at the table.

Suddenly I heard that nasty scream that comes with a cat fight and felt something sharp slicing across my finger. The little bugger bit me for no reason!

I forgave him for that, but I distrusted him for a long time and never did warm up to him much for all the years he lived with my in-laws. He was no trouble, but we were generally indifferent to each other.

Bob and Jeanette lived next to a lake and had a purple martin house in the yard, so there was plenty of wildlife for the kitty to watch. One of them got the idea to put Patches in a harness and tie him outside so he could enjoy the fresh air. He took to it immediately, spending long afternoons, year after year, lazing in the shade of a pine tree -- and often needing pine sap combed out of his fur.

Jeanette and Bob loved that kitty. They let him eat potato chips and ice cream and popcorn. Unfortunately, when Patches was about 12, Jeanette went to heaven. Bob eventually met another nice lady and got married again. They started traveling a lot, and they felt bad about leaving Patches home alone. So on one trip, in late 2005, they brought him along -- to our house. And left him with us.

We were surprised but we welcomed him, as our home had been catless since Rikki had died in 2004. Patches made himself right at home, picking out a spot on the couch for hanging out.

Patches had a gregarious personality and such a stout body that our vet didn't believe us when we told him this was a 14-year-old cat. Dr. Hicks figured him for about 8.

For the same reasons, we didn't think the name Patches fit him very well. Rox had often called him Buster as a nickname, and that became his official moniker. He didn't care; he couldn't hear us anyway.

When he first came to us, Buster would open his mouth but only a squeaky little sound would come out. We soon realized he had gone deaf, but it didn't seem to bother him much. Eventually he got his voice back, and boy, did he like to use it. He always had plenty to say on just about any subject.

One thing he cried for often was a chance to go outside. We tied him up to our back porch virtually every day, and in about a half hour could count on hearing him call out to free him from the spirea bush he always wound his leash around.

It was a natural next step for us to take up the leash and start walking him up and down the block. This he took to with great enthusiasm. He took us on some prodigious walks; I can remember one that covered 12 blocks. In fact, Dr. Hicks told us to cut down on the walking because Buster was losing too much weight!

Buster became a neighborhood celebrity -- the Walking Cat. Drivers on busy Merriman Road would stop their cars to gawk and ask us how we got him to take a leash like that; a few people even took pictures.

A few months after Buster arrived we adopted Earle and then Gibby, and even though he had never shared his home or people with another cat, he didn't seem to mind. And when we moved to Georgia, he saw it as a fun new place to explore. He even knew which driveway was his; he never failed to turn in when we reached it after a walk.

Maybe because I was the one who took him for walks most often, Buster decided to make me his buddy. He wore me down, and I came to love him.

Both of us cherished our couch time together. In the last few months he'd become a little arthritic and had a touch of asthma, but he was a happy cat who had a good life.

I'm grateful that we had that great Friday and nice Saturday morning before he lay down for his final nap. His ashes will go to be with Jeanette, but the warmth of his companionship will always stay here with us.

God bless you, Buster. Thank you for being my buddy. Keep our spot on heaven's couch warm for us, and one day we'll walk and talk together again.

But Valentine's Day will never be the same.

Hair today

I'm letting my hair grow back in.

Not all of it will grow back in, of course, but whatever can grow will be allowed to grow.

My original decision almost four years ago to start shaving my dome was based on a desire to shape my own image, to seize control of my appearance from the cruel hand of nature and genetics. I thought it would make me look mean or tough or whatever; I don't know if it did or not.

What I do know is that just about every balding white guy under 55 is doing the same thing now. I pruned my goatee down to a soul patch a few months ago because the goatee has become part of the standard bald-white-guy look too.

Now I'm comfortable enough in my own skin and scalp to just go with what my daddy gave me. I'm sticking with the soul patch cuz I like it. (And Vannah doesn't want her godfather to grow a full beard.) If I start shaving my head again, it'll be because I want to, not because I'm trying to project an image.

Who knows? A semicircle of gray hair could be the next big trend.

Let's learn from Lincoln

As Inauguration Day nears and we enter an era of new leadership, let those whose candidates lost and those whose candidates won in the recent election be reconciled. In his first inaugural address, Abraham Lincoln, our 16th president (and a Republican!) said this during a time of civil war:

"We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."

God bless Barack Obama, God bless those who disagree with him, and God bless America and the world it seeks to lead by example.

(Photo swiped from http://www.dirtwrites.blogspot.com )

Surprise ending

The nice dog we found and lost Wednesday night was found again by a neighbor this morning.

Our neighborhood association president had received an email plea for help from the dog's owner, and he forwarded it to everyone in our neighborhood.

The neighbor who found the dog called the owner, who lives in an adjoining neighborhood, and the reunion occurred minutes later.

Last we heard, Newton (he turned out to be a boy; our bad) was on his way to the vet to get his foot looked at.

Unfortunately, his brother (who knew?) is still missing. But Newton found his way home, so maybe Archimedes will too. He has a microchip, we're told, so that might help.

Newton's return home was a real community effort. Thanks, everybody!

Easy come, easy go

Late this afternoon My Lovely Wife was just getting home from the grocery store, and our sobriety-challenged neighbor Andy walked up the driveway with a beautiful stray dog following him.

The dog appeared to have a broken right rear foot and a contusion on her left hindquarter, leading me to believe she'd been hit by a car. She was very calm and sweet-tempered, though.

Andy said he wasn't willing to do anything for this dog, but, after hesitating, said if we wanted to seek treatment for her leg he would throw in some money. We didn't commit at that moment to doing anything either, as we felt we were having a dog dumped on us. Andy walked away and we walked inside.

I couldn't stand the thought of that poor dog, with her pale blue eyes and her nice disposition, hobbling around out there, so I said something to MLW. We agreed to put her in our fenced back yard while we made an effort to find her people. She was well fed and well cared for, so we knew someone would be missing her.

We contacted our neighborhood association president, who sent an email to everyone in the neighborhood, and I posted an ad on craigslist. Then we went out to talk to some of our neighbors who we thought might know whose dog this was.

One of those neighbors, a guy named Richard who has an ancient Mustang parked in his driveway, has two dogs, both of whom were accounted for. But he was kind enough to bag up about three servings of dog food to take home to our urchin.

After checking with a couple of other neighbors -- one of whom may have provided a good lead to the owner -- I went home, put the food in a pie pan and took it out to the backyard.

"Doggie! I have food for you! Come and get it! ... Doggie! ... Doggie?"

She was gone.

We searched all over that yard, under the shed, under the deck, behind the composter ... nothing. Gone.

Somehow that dog, who I guessed was half Malamute and half ... something else, had either leapt over the fence with her one good hind leg or squeezed through a narrow opening by the gate. Neither one seems plausible.

I feel terrible about this, and I don't really know why. She hadn't acted afraid or uncomfortable around me at all, and didn't seem to have a problem with our yard. I was trying to help the poor thing, and she took off. I'm almost ... insulted.

Maybe I was looking forward to being somebody's hero when the reunion happened. Maybe I liked playing the role of rescuer. Maybe I secretly hoped I'd get to keep her.

I don't know, but it's all over as quickly as it began. I just hope she found her way home.

Women begetting badly

Matthew's genealogy of Jesus covers forty-and-two generations, but it mentions just five women -- and only four by name. The interesting and fun thing is that every one of those women was scandalous in some way.

Tamar had been married to Judah's son Er, but Er died. According to Hebrew custom, Er's brother Onan was supposed to take on Tamar as his wife to provide offspring for his late brother, but he failed to fulfill his duty. (Onan "wasted his seed on the ground," meaning he pulled out so Tamar wouldn't get pregnant; it is misunderstanding of this Scripture that has led many Christians to condemn masturbation, which in fact has nothing to do with this.)

As Tamar's father-in-law, it was Judah's duty to provide a man to help her conceive, but he reneged. So, Tamar tricked Judah into fulfilling this duty by disguising herself as a prostitute and getting him to sleep with her. When Tamar, no longer disguised, was found to be pregnant, Judah tried to have her burned at the stake. However, Tamar turned the tables by proving that Judah was the father, exposing him as a john and as a man who failed to fulfill his word or his duty.

Judah -- a son of Jacob and patriarch of the largest of the Twelve Tribes of Israel -- admitted in front of everyone, "She is more righteous than I." Tamar gave birth to twins, one of whom was Jesus' ancestor Perez.

Rahab was the mother of Boaz and great-grandmother of David, the greatest king Israel would have and a figure who in many ways was a precursor of Jesus. She was also a prostitute, but she helped the spies who scouted out the town of Jericho for Joshua.

Rahab's son Boaz married Ruth, who was not a Hebrew. She was a minority, a foreigner, a member of a different race, so to speak, but she became David's grandmother.

Next in line is a woman whom Matthew calls "Uriah's wife." Her name was Bathsheba, and David had a one-night stand with her while Uriah was off fighting a war for him. David married her after having Uriah killed. She eventually gave birth to Solomon, who succeeded David as king and was one of Jesus' forefathers.

The last scandalous woman on the list is a girl named Mary, who was an unwed teenage mother whose fiance knew he wasn't the father. Her fiance, Joseph, "desired to put her away secretly." However, an angel of the Lord let Joseph know that Mary had conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit, so he stuck with her.

And, as Jentezen Franklin said, Mary had a little Lamb.

Every one of these women was at the center of a scandal, every one a subject of gossip. And every one is in the bloodline of Jesus, the Son of God and Savior of the world.

God esteems -- and redeems -- scandalous women.