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Dare to go deeper?

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It has been a strange experience. All through the book, I’ve not known how to answer the usual questions: What’s it about? Are you enjoying it? Who’s your favorite character? There have been times I couldn’t wait to read the next bit, and other times I’ve wished it would go away and leave me alone, stop rocking my world and making me squirm. But the book, or the One speaking through it, has refused to let go. He has kept drawing me back into the story. It has mirrored, become, part of my story. I haven’t been able to distance myself from it enough to analyze or judge it; I haven’t been reading the book so much as it, or it’s Ghost-Writer, has been reading me. Reading my heart and His. Aloud. Together. He’s been holding up a mirror where I’ve glimpsed myself in one character after another, seen the places I’ve received His grace and the places I’m still turning away.

I’m learning it all over again. His invitation is always the same: come closer. It’s always welcome and gentleness and perfect love. But when I’m running away, when my heart is closed and hiding and full of shame, the Voice echoes differently. It’s as George MacDonald says of the drunken cabby who had just beaten His wife:

“And this misery was the voice of the great Love that had made him and his wife and the baby and [the little boy] Diamond, speaking in his heart, and telling him to be good. For that great Love speaks in the most wretched and dirty hearts; only the tone of its voice depends on the echoes of the place in which it sounds. On Mount Sinai, it was thunder; in the cabman’s heart it was misery; in the soul of St John it was perfect blessedness.” (At the Back of the North Wind, p. 156)

I see again the picture he gave some weeks ago of Himself, head thrown back in gentle, inviting laughter, hand extended to take mine. “Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, and come with me.” What if the first place he wants to take me when I take his hand is deeper into me? What if he knows that for me to hear His voice truly, we have to go together into the deepest caverns, open them wide and clear out the junk that distorts the love-echoes of His voice?  Dare I go with Him even there?

I remember again the Song of Solomon, which by now is becoming familiar. It’s not all smooth sailing and passionate kisses. Though the story begins with the urgent desire of the beloved for her lover, it’s not long before she’s hiding from him, suggesting he go away until a more convenient time, then desperately longing and searching for the one she can no longer find. The larger movement into oneness is marked by the individual dance steps of push and pull, coming close and running away and coming close again.

I am so glad!

It comforts me when I face my messy heart once again. His love can handle this. No, more. His love is the reason I’m seeing the mess at all. It’s the being drawn closer that painfully stretches the cords which hold me back, away from Him. And where did I hear it said, that the closer one gets to the light, the sharper the shadows appear? Until, that is, the one approaching is so close to the light that the shadows disappear entirely in the consuming brilliance. The same love-light that reveals also heals, burning through cords and making pure. And though the process may be painful, it’s all part of entering – or being entered by – that great love that longs for union.

And yes, yes, I can trust this love.

Yes, Lord. Please take me deeper.

 

(By the way, that book I’ve been reading? It’s Sensible Shoes by Sharon Garlough Brown. Don’t bother if you want to stand back and solve someone else’s mystery or critique someone else’s romance. But if you dare to let God hold a mirror up to your soul? If you dare to take His hand and let Him lead you deeper? Then pick up a copy and a journal and a box of Kleenex and get ready to discover Love pursuing you right into the middle of your mess.)

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What He really wants us to know

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There are just two weeks left in this Easter season. Two weeks before Pentecost and the celebration of the Holy Spirit coming in power upon the first disciples.

In these first five weeks of Easter, where have you glimpsed the risen Christ?

I’ve heard him in the joyful laughter of my young friend staring death in the face and seeing right through it to the face of her beloved Jesus. I’ve felt him in the arms of my seventy-something friend who hugged me close after my talk. I’ve heard His voice in a conversation on the way to the bus, been fed chicken soup and spaghetti and salad prepared by Him through the hands of His people, seen His humility and passion, His love and gentleness and longing as I watched a group of leaders fight a love-battle for each other’s hearts and the hearts of those they lead.

The risen Jesus is in His people.

I know that.

That’s why my answer to the question, “Where have you been most surprised to glimpse the risen Jesus?” makes me laugh with amazement and joy.

I may get chills when I hear His words from the mouth of another, but I’m not surprised to hear Him there. Somehow I expect Him to be in them. But when, for a few days, He opens my eyes to see Him orchestrating conversation after conversation, putting His words in my mouth, hugging through my arms, Him in me, I stand in awe.

Maybe it’s because I know my inner landscape all too well. Who would have expected to meet Him here? But He has chosen, and He has come, and this is where He wants to meet me. Not just out there. In here.

I find myself identifying with the disciples’ wonder as they discovered the authority given to them. They remind me of growing-up children discovering that the matches they’ve been given really light, the microscope really works, the gun they’ve been given is loaded and live and intended to be used to fight for the freedom of hearts. “Lord, in your name even the demons submit to us!” (Luke 10:17) They’re surprised. Rejoicing. Perhaps still a little unsure what to make of all this. Who are they, really, and how do they live this new life?

Jesus reassures them. He has been watching the whole process. “I saw Satan fall like lightening.” (v. 18) The Greek verb means “to observe something with sustained attention.” (BDAG) I think He was watching with pleasure, delighting to see His beloved ones come to life, begin to discover who they were and where they fit in the structure of the universe.

He wanted them to know that, standing in His strength, they had nothing to fear from the enemy. “I have given you authority to trample on snakes and scorpions and to overcome all the power of the enemy; nothing will harm you.” (v. 19) In Greek, the verse begins with the command, “Look! Pay attention!” “Look! I have given you authority. . . You do not need to live in fear of the enemy!” (cf. 1 John 4:4; Col 2:15; Eph 1:19-23) He wanted them (wants us!) to know this.

But then he turns their attention. “Nevertheless, do not rejoice at this, that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.” (v. 20)

Don’t delight in being powerful, but in being loved.

Don’t focus on what you can do, but on who you are. Beloved. Sought. Chosen.

Don’t think your security is in your ability to defend yourself and others from the enemy, though I want you to have and use that authority. Your safety is in the eternal hand that holds you and will never let go, that loves and pursues and writes your name in indelible red ink in the Lamb’s book of life.

Isn’t it wonderful? The One who passionately pursues us isn’t willing that anything – even doing His work – should distract us from pressing in close to Him, living the intimate wonder that we are loved.

Go in peace, dear friend. You are loved.

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How to live confidently (without being perfect)

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At first, at least, many of us fear it. But it’s so true what she says, that that same fearful vulnerability is “also the birthplace of joy, of creativity, of belonging, of love.” (Brene Brown)

Dr. James Houston, with his 90 years of experience, would agree. In his words, “friendship is based on the mutual sharing of weakness.”

It’s one thing to know the value of vulnerability, and quite another to be willingly vulnerable. There’s no substitute for just taking the plunge – again and again and again – and discovering that, though it might or might not get easier, the rewards are worth it. But here’s a little encouragement to help you dive in the first time. Or the thousandth.

You are made in God’s image. You are a unique prism, reflecting Him like no other. If you don’t let us see you, we miss out on seeing that bit of God’s beauty reflected in you. You are being crafted, written, shaped, not just for yourself but for us too.

“Our story is who we are, and if we deny it, we deny not only our own selves – we deny the very Author Who’s writing this redemptive epic.” (Ann Voscamp)

A friend puts her hand on the books. “These are God’s. They’re given to you to share.” And I can’t help but think of Jesus’ statement, “The words I say to you are not just my own. Rather, it is the Father, living in me, who is doing His work.” (John 14:10)

I hear the hesitation. I’ve felt it too. “But that’s Jesus talking about himself, not about me.” True. He was a unique channel of God’s self-revelation. He listened perfectly, obeyed perfectly. We don’t. But Jesus follows that statement with the startling words, “I tell you the truth, anyone who has faith in me will do what I have been doing. He will do even greater things than these, because I am going to the Father.” (John 14:12) And it’s only a few lines later that he tells us how this is possible: “I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you.” (John 14:20)

Our words aren’t inspired the way Scripture is. We can get things wrong. Still, over and over through Scripture, the declaration is made: “I have put my words in your mouth.” (Is 51:16, 59: 21; Jer 1:9; cf. Ex 4:12; Matt 10:20; Mark 13:11; Luke 12:11-12; 21:14-15; Eph 6: 19) It’s God’s way. He puts His words in our mouth, writes His laws on our hearts, puts a Counselor within us to lead us into all truth. By some miracle of grace, He chooses to speak into us and through us. “. . . it will not be you speaking, but the Spirit of your Father speaking through you.” (Matt 10:20)

If all those promises feel like too many words and you need one single line to tuck in your heart and carry with you into every vulnerable situation, try this one:

“I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you.” (John 14:20)

Those fifteen small words (all but one three letters or less) wrap us around and fill us, defusing our two biggest reasons for hiding.

“It’s not safe to share.” No. Maybe not. You might be rejected, unappreciated (. . . though I daresay it will happen a lot less when you share your real self than when you show us your mask.) But even if it does happen, you won’t be alone. You’ll never dare to open your broken places and find yourself rejected by God. “I am in my Father and you are in me. . . .” Your life is hidden with Christ in God. There’s no safer place than tucked into Jesus who Himself is in his Father.

And those quiet fears that you don’t really have anything worth sharing? That whatever’s inside of you is, at best, ordinary, at worst, garbage?  “. . . I am in you.” When you drop the mask and let us see into the real you, you’re not just sharing your (broken yet beautiful!) self with us; you’re sharing the God of the universe made flesh for love of us. The crumbled open places of brokenness? Those are the places we glimpse little rainbowed refractions of the Light of the universe who has made His home in you.

The sculpture with its open brokenness tells the honest-to-God truth: real confidence grows not out of flawlessness or whitewash but out of leaning close and offering the daily given grace – and finding our broken selves loved.

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I’m leaving this morning to share bits of brokenness and grace with a group about to begin my Bible study. Pray for us, will you?

Though I won’t be around these next few days to respond to comments, might you consider sharing anyway? What fears keep you from letting yourself be seen? When have you experienced grace in vulnerability – either in your own, or in someone else’s daring to trust you with their heart? What helps you take the risk of showing us your real self? You might even want to risk loving your brothers and sisters today by responding to the comments they leave.

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Where you really need to look

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We spotted them first as we were eating breakfast. Thousands of them, all moving in one direction right across the bridge that’s held together with cross-shaped spikes in the heart of the hard places.

The next time I saw them I was only a few feet to their side, moving against their flow, so I could watch their shapes, their faces. Some ran, some walked. Children jogged alongside. Some of the runners were red-faced and sweating while others looked like they did this for a living. A dad ran with a baby in a stroller, and an older gentleman with a brace on his left knee limped along with a cane.

My eyes filled with tears though I couldn’t say why.

Perhaps it was the memory of my former housemate’s near-death experience during the same event two or three years ago, and thankfulness for the gift of a heart that faithfully beats.

Perhaps it was awareness of the greater gift of being called to run this race at all. Awareness, and the longing to run it well.

Or maybe it was the way they seemed to run as one that touched me so deeply. Each ran at their own pace, yet they were all part of a whole, with gentle and generous room for people of all ages and abilities. A girl of perhaps eight smiled as she jogged along, delighted to be part of it all. No one was less than another, no one running alone.

As I reached the end of the bridge I could see below me a ribbon of runners stretching away to the west as far as I could see. A few moments later, I passed another road where the ribbon stretched away to the east. It was as though I was being shown a picture of the followers of Jesus, stretching back through the ages and into the future, people of all ages and races and speeds, running together toward the one goal. We are part of something much bigger than our small selves. 

I neared the church and read the sign outside where the week’s sermon title is usually posted. “Just keep running” it read.

We sang. (What song are you running to?)

We read: “Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus. . . “ (Heb 12:1-3)

And we listened, the pastor’s words full of challenge and encouragement.

“What kind of race? Faith.” This race is not about how fast we move, how much we do. It’s about trusting Jesus.

“’The sin’ that so easily entangles is unbelief. All other sins flow from this one.”

Ouch.

These weeks in particular I’ve been struggling with fear, unsure how even to understand it. Is fear simply an emotion? Is it sin? Temptation? An attempt by the enemy to take me out of the race?

I think and I pray and I think I understand:

Fear is an emotion, not itself sin, though it can flow out of the sin of unbelief or, if we feed on it, can lead us into that sin. Fear, for me, is one of the enemy’s most effective weapons, an arrow dipped in poison that can paralyze. A lens that makes me near-sighted, keeping my eyes on myself rather than on Jesus and the bigger race I’m part of. A mirror that distorts, making everything look impossible when the truth is, with God, all things are possible.

But fear can also be a wake-up call, a barbed and painfully jabbing reminder that I’m in the battle. An urgent invitation to lean harder into Jesus and look for the truth (including the truth of a living and active Jesus) rather than settling for appearances. It can be a call to look deeper, to see what I’m clinging to when I should be clinging to Him. Control? Security? The affirmation of others? Above all, fear is a call to fix my eyes again on Jesus.

I hear once more the pastor’s words: “Fixing our eyes on”: it’s an unusual verb which literally means to look away. We look away from everything else in order to look toward Jesus. We look away from the progress we’re making, other runners, our own feet. We look away from the sins and the sin. And we look at Jesus.”

We look away from the fear, which is dangerous only in its ability to distract, and look back to the One who himself faced fear and kept right on running. We fix our eyes on the One who now runs alongside us and in us, giving us His own strength and courage and teaching us to trust.

The benediction brings grateful tears: “You’re going to press through. You are. Because Jesus called you into the race and He’s going to make sure you finish.”

Ultimately, His perfect love will cast out fear. In the process, as we fix our eyes on Jesus, we discover that even so unlikely a place as fear can become a place to experience once more His perfect love. And so we run in hope, looking hard into His face and discovering the joy that comes when we find Him loving us in the tough places.

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How to live the Resurrection now

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This beautiful 31-year-old is teaching me how stunningly beautiful the resurrection life of Jesus can be in us. Even (especially?) in the valley of the shadow of death.

For six years now she has been living the reality of brain cancer. Three surgeries, chemo, radiation, a marriage, a baby boy born six weeks early so she could have her third brain surgery, and through it all, fear giving way in the presence of God to faith and courage, joy and peace and beauty.

And March 30, the day before Easter, this facebook message from Christina:

“Well, I am very peaceful. I’m thankful for the beautiful sunny day and I love my pain patch. Everyone should get one. So…early Wednesday morning, I had a grand mal seizure in my sleep, and Doug woke up and cared for me and called 911. My parents arrived—I woke up in the hospital to a paramedic (good friend) telling me what had happened. I had an MRI which showed a brain full of tumor lesions. This explains a lot of my struggle with pain and energy. I am at the end of my treatment and starting hospice care. I am at home and loving it. I feel better than I’ve felt in months. (Good drugs☺) AND I have a GREAT GOD! A most kind, heavenly Father. Please pray for peace for my friends and family and to be able to use time with people to its fullest. And pray that I stay in a really intimate place with the LORD.”

I read the words and my heart fills. . . with sadness for baby Isaiah who will grow up without his mother. . . with gratefulness and awe at the beauty of Jesus, palpably present even on the other end of Facebook. . . with longing for Christ’s life to be so visible in me. And, if I’m honest, with inadequacy: with this life lived so brightly among them, what does my story have to add when I go down to share in two weeks?

I sit down to pray. My hands want to do something. I reach for clay, find myself forming one after another tiny person, Christina, Doug, Isaiah, JoDee, and others in their life and mine, a brother, a friend, a mentee. I hold each in my hand, pray for the one imaged, and place each back into the Hand that never lets go, hugging them to Jesus. There’s a tiny figure for me too, reminding me that we’re all together in this place before the Father, all small, all vulnerable, all treasured.

Each tiny figure is just an inch long, lacking arms and legs because my skill with clay is elementary. The lack of limbs makes the tiny persons look more like embryos than adults, and God reminds me that we’re all as helpless as embryos when it comes to making anything significant happen in or around us. Oh, we can wiggle and squirm and move a lot, but the actual growth? Everything that really matters? It’s His work. All we can – and need – to do is to stay connected to that Other who nourishes and cleanses and gives life.

Christina lives this. Part of the beauty of Christ in Christina is her willingness to share not only the victories but the struggles, the deep, intimate places where Christ meets her. The resurrection life of Jesus has been just as present, just as visible, in those moments of fear and insecurity when she chose to let him into the struggle as in these more recent moments when His life has flooded in with a settled joy and a peace beyond understanding. And these later moments could not have happened without the earlier moments of struggle which made space to learn to trust.

That’s the point of resurrection life. It’s new-creation life. And that means (at least) three things.

1) The way for new-creation life is always paved by some kind of death. Someday it will be that death when we leave behind these crumpled caterpillar bodies. Until then, it’s each little death, each moment of facing into the fear of our vulnerability and opening hands clenched around control. We enter life only by embracing Christ in death.

2) We can’t make life happen. All we can do is open to it, receive it by receiving the One who lives it in and with us.

3) This new-creation life is being slowly, perfectly formed in each of us who are hidden in Him. We live now in a thirty or seventy or one hundred year gestation, cushioned in the love which protects us in this vulnerable time of formation until we are born into face-to-face living, seeing the One who has borne us. Then, for the first time, looking into His face, we will truly see. Him. And ourselves.

“Dear friends, now we are children of God, and what we will be has not yet been made known. But we know that when he appears, we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is.” (1 John 3:2)

Christina – Thank you for living so open to Jesus. Thank you for letting us see His beauty in the hard places of life. When you see Jesus, give Him a hug from me and tell Him I’m so looking forward to being born into His face-to-face presence too. And in the meantime, we’ll keep hugging your family to Jesus. Love you!