From the East

Almost exactly one year ago I woke up at three in the morning in the Vista House with some kind of panic attack.  I had fallen asleep in fear, sometime around 10, after trying to read the Bible and or pray for an hour or so on the downstairs sofa.  I finally laid back on the cushions, and closed my eyes, unable to read or pray.  I was paralyzed with fear, and clutched the Bible to my chest.  I heard a friend in the other room joking, ‘There goes Drew again, holding on to that Bible.”  My lips turned up faintly, briefly, and I thought, oh, you have no idea.

It had been a year of struggle, a year of fear, a year of doubt and uncertainty.  I never struggled with sharing my fears with my friends- most knew.  Still I lived in a fear that I would get it wrong, that I didn’t know the truth, that I had believed a lie.  My life, my path, my plan had been founded solely on my understanding of God, and if I was wrong, I would lose the kind of relationship I have with my friends, my family, my self, and my future.  And I was scared because I was more fearful of losing those relationships than I was of losing my relationship with God.  Because, deep down, I didn’t feel like I had one.

I had spent hours in prayer, reading, waiting (though with little diligence).  I had taken Sabbath days (though fewer and fewer as the year wore on).  I had stepped into leadership, I was mentoring younger men, I was encouraging sisters in the faith, leading worship, reaching out to the outcast, living in community.  And I felt like God had become silent.  Scripture tasted dry, dusty.  Prayer echoed like an empty cave.  I was looked up to- I could tell.  When some of the freshmen saw me, I knew they thought I was mature in my walk, that I was dying to self, obedient, open and humble.  Inside I felt like my spirit was dying, I was unsteady, seemingly deaf to any command I could obey, open and humble because I was desperate for help.  I appeared virtuous and felt hollow.

I woke at three in the morning and felt tempted towards several things, including self-harm (which had never seriously crossed my mind in a moment of desperation), and, as crazy as this sounds, even seeking solace from temptation and fear by walking away from God and to the enemy.   I could not pray, I could not read.  I texted those I knew loved me and would pray for me and begged them to, then waited.  Eventually, so scared that I would do something rash, I got up, wrapped a blanket around myself, and sat out in a rocking chair on the front porch.  I brought the Bible, and my phone, in case someone texted me back.

My dad texted back quickly, actually, and said that he and my mom were praying.  That meant the world.  After a few minutes he asked if I wanted to talk.  Misery loves company, the text read.   We talked from 3:30 until 6:30 or so.  In the morning.

The house got up to pray, and found me on the sofa.  I told them about the night, and cried.  We were all pretty broken up at that point.  It had been a hard year for most of us.  All of us.

The next few weeks were survival at best.  I was near tears constantly.  At one point I was reading a short story on a picnic table outside of the dining hall.  In it a son dies of AIDS, and I had just finished when a friend I was to meet for lunch hopped up joyfully and asked ‘How’s it going?’  I lost it, to my friends great confusion, and passed the story to her.  It’s called ‘In the Gloaming’, by Alice Elliot Dark, I believe.  I’ll loan it to you, if you’d like.

I wrestled with fear, dark, dark temptation, and doubt for months, from April until August.  I met a genuinely demonic man in downtown Greenville and felt the sickly temptation to join him.  I experienced almost daily ‘catastrophic spirals’, in which I would collapse into various fears of confusion and uncertainty. I would literally get on my bicycle and ride for hours, trying to cleanse my mind with constant, feverish thanksgiving to blot the thoughts of what if and what else, literally thanking God for everything I thought of or saw.  I remember one particular ride in which I thanked God for telephone poles.

I spent days doing construction at the Radius building to take my mind off things.  I wrote a few blogs, though many I never posted.  I was participating in community, challenging those around me, though I was not listening to their calls to choose faith, to walk.  I loved eating together, hated sitting under teaching together.  I felt condemned by every mark of the Christian, of every desire we ought to have.  Because I felt fear, and confusion.  Did I love God?  Did I want to?  Did He love me?  Was I saved?  Did I love at all?  What did it matter?

I threw myself into the study of the role of pastor, attempting to work my way out of the pit.  In some ways it worked- in order to effectively love and guide and care for others I had to set aside my mental struggles.  But, because it was momentary and not a perspective change, it did not transform my heart.

My Timotheos community eventually trapped me in a car ride, and one of the leaders chewed me out for not believing the words of my community and of scripture.  He said there was nothing else I could get-  what else did I want?  And he challenged ('ordered' would not by far from accurate) to not do a thing that night before I worshipped God and thanked Him for what He had revealed.  And he said he'd ask me about it tomorrow.

I was driving.  Probably not the best time to be told that kind of thing.

Yet it was timed perfectly.

I didn’t know whether to get angry or cry.  I was so frustrated, because I felt as though God had defaulted on something, but I couldn’t say what that something was.  And I was so frustrated because I was being told to worship.  Worship?  All I wanted to do was blame God, yell at Him, confront Him.  Why haven’t you directed me?  Why haven’t you established the works of my hands?  Why don’t you answer me?

But my friend said, very clearly, that if I don’t do that, there would be nothing else to be done for me.  He said the community had done it’s part, God had done His part, repent and believe.  And he said he’d ask me if I had done it the next day.

I didn’t want to.  I thought about going to the radius building, but it was dark and I didn’t really want to.  I wanted to go home.  I stopped at Waffle House to write, planning on worship/reading there, but the Juke Box was blaring and it wasn’t the right place.  I got in my car and could only bring myself to gratitude yelling.  I was so frustrated that I yelled my thanksgivings to God.  As I yelled, driving around, I figured I’d go yell them off Paris mountain, because that would be manly and poetic.  So, I yelled all the way up, got to the top, and found several cars of folks making out.  So, I yelled all the way back down.  Imaging these in angry tones.  THANK YOU FOR CHOOSING ME. THANK YOU FOR SPEAKING, FOR BEING A GOOD GOD, FOR THE COMMUNITY YOU HAVE PUT ME IN.  THANK YOU FOR LOVING ME.  If you can’t figure out how to say these in an angry tone, try yelling ‘dang it’ in between each clause-  that’s how it sounded.

I figured if not the mountain I’d go yell over Furman lake.  Less manly, still poetic.  But, at 9:30 on a Sunday night there were parents walking with their kids.  I could yell at them, so I parked illegally by maintenance and ran onto the golf course and yelled over that instead.  THANK YOU FOR BEING GOD, EVEN THOUGH I DON’T FEEL ANYTHING EVER.  THANK YOU FOR PUTTING COMMUNITY AROUND ME TO TELL ME THE THINGS THAT MY FEELINGS DISAGREE WITH.  THANK YOU FOR YOUR SON, WHO DIED FOR ME, EVEN THOUGH I FEEL LIKE HE’S A MILLION MILES AWAY RIGHT NOW.  THANK YOU.

I didn’t feel a lot better that night.  Maybe a little.  But it set a course for me, a course for worship and belief over feelings.  Claiming bigger truths over little ones, even if they contradict.  It's opened me into freedom, into a more steady faith, and given me hope.  It's still hard, but there is less chance of wavering now, because, after having made the choice to follow yet again, God has continued to reveal Himself.

Thursday, I hope to post more about that very thing.  What has God revealed to me in the past year, and how have I been responding to it?

In short, that is from whence I've come, in the past year..

OAR Makes a Comeback, or True Blessings

“Let’s see how far we’ve come; let’s see how far we’ve come.”

I woke with this song in my head.  I’m not sure why, but I think it has something to do with CityChurch.

Last night I attended my first CityChurch lifegroup gathering, at the house of two friends living downtown.  I knew about half of the group, and recognized most of the rest from the lifegroup parties to which I had been invited.  We stood and talked, snacked on some Oreo cupcakes, then sat in the living room in a circle.  A friend lead us into writing thanksgivings from the past year onto coffee filters, to be used as part of an installation sculpture at CityChuch this Sunday.  Then, we had time to share our thanksgivings, and some struggles, with the group.  We ended with prayer, thanksgivings and worship, and prayed for some of the continued hardships, too.

It was a powerful time.  Many shared similar struggles of the past year or three.  Several had wrestled with unbelief, several with doubt and anxiety, some with family and still others with jobs.  And yet we gathered in worship for the many beautiful things that God had brought out of the darkness.  It reminds me of when Moses climbed mount Sinai.  It reads that he climbed into the deep darkness, where God was.

A sermon Todd preached two weeks ago focused on challenging the idea that God is in the pleasant, and not in the rough.  It’s an easy mistake to make.  As Todd said, in blessing we say that God has been so good to us, while in struggle and in hardship we cry out, ‘God, where are you?’   The truth is, He is present regardless of circumstance.

So, what does it look like to repent of this sacred/secular division, this seeing God in beauty and not in brokenness?

First, I think, we look to the cross.  We see Christ, the fullness of blessing, broken.  Was He less blessed, less anointed on the cross?  I doubt it.  As God, he kinda holds the monopoly on blessing.  But then, what can we say?  If even execution and abandonment can coincide with the presence of God, with blessing, perhaps our understanding of the ‘favor of the Lord’ needs redeeming.  One could argue that Christ took this punishment so that we would not have to.  And they would be correct.  The separation of God that Jesus endures will never been encountered by those who fall upon Him as their salvation.  He promises that all that we have given up will be returned to us a hundred fold------- with persecutions, He adds.  Oh, to have left the clause alone!  Yet finding only pleasing returns cannot be the call of the Christian.

Second, look still further at the life of the Lord who walked amongst us.  He was tempted, he grew hungry and tired.  He grew angry with the Pharisees, heart-broken over oppression and legalism.  He had no place to lay his head, no equal in faith or intimacy.  Imagine the loneliness He must have felt!  No one could understand, no one could empathize.  This, the life of the Most Holy, the Most Anointed, the Most Blessed.  Hardship was no stranger.

Third, see those who followed Him, those whom He loved.  Stephen, stoned.  Paul, wrecked, imprisoned, beaten. Peter, crucified upside down.  John, exiled.  Mother Theresa, lonely and in anguish.  Bonhoeffer, executed.  So many faithful, walking believers, without some secret sin, without some deserving hell-bent death wish, and yet oppressed, broken, hated, killed, ignored, sidelined, wrestling.  These are the verbs likely to follow the names of the 'blessed'.

Fourth, we remember.  How has the Lord continued in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, richer or poorer?  How has His covenant remained, though all shake, though all be found untrue?    He has revealed Himself, in all seasons.

Let us finally ask a question of our Lord.  What is the greatest end of man?  A question to which I believe He responds, “To come into right relationship with me, so to love and worship, and thus to be made into my image.”

As we look at the past year, we are to be grateful in all things.  All.  This we know.  A tall order, indeed, but the call of the anointed ones, the blessed ones.  But should you dare to track progress towards the goal, to track the growth of intimacy with our God, you mustn’t look towards earthly gains or comforts.  Number not your many satisfactions, nor your physical pleasantries.  Instead, i suggest you ask how your speaking to the Lord has changed.  And then, stare deeply at the face of Christ, and see how you have come to look like Him, more and more.  This is the truest of blessings, the great gain of the faith, the great progress of those sojourning with Him, that becoming like Him in His death, we might become even more like Him in His resurrection, living to God and not to sin.  And this, above all individual struggles recently overcome, encouraged me most last night.  Because the transformation of sinful men and women into the redeemed likeness of the Son of God, in peace, in joy, in love, in intimacy, was happening all around me.  And that, my friends, is a beautiful, blessed thing.

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A disclaimer:  I do not mean to say that we should not enjoy the things we enjoy, nor do I think we ought to stop asking for them, nor should we be ungrateful for those happy, good things we come across.  Surely heaven too will be beautiful, and good, worshipful and enjoyable.  Still, we must not allow this to dominate our analysis of the 'blessedness' of the past year, nor the strength of our walk, nor the goodness of our Lord.  He has bigger gifts to unwrap, even as He heals us now, feeds us now, gives us happiness and enjoyment now.  These are no more than stocking stuffers, yet still gifts from a loving Father, and still worthy of gratitude and worship.  How He cares for even the littlest of things, I am only beginning to grasp.

My next post will go into greater detail about where the Lord has brought me in the past year, so stay tuned.

The Fear of the Lord

Several times recently I have been asked to explain my perspective on 'the fear of the Lord', and so I thought I would share it with you, faithful reader.  I've never called you anything before, reader, so faithful may be a stretch.  But, here's to hoping ;).  And here we go.

'Fear' is loaded with negative connotations, and so it is normal for the reader of scripture to resist the phrase.  One of the most frequent commands in all of the Bible is 'do not be afraid'- how can it be that the Fear of the Lord is desirable, good, beautiful?

Here are two usages of the phrase from the ESV.

"they attacked all the cities around Gerar, for the fear of the Lord was upon them" 
-2 Chron 14:14

"The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom; all those who practice it have a good understanding."
-Psalm 111:10

In the bold verse from 2 Chronicles, the original Hebrew word translated as fear is 'pahad', which can also be translated 'dread'.  In the italicized verse from Psalm 111, the original Hebrew translated as fear is 'yirat', which is closely related to the word for reverence.  Throughout scripture, these words are used at different times and are directed towards different people- those that are in opposition to the Lord ought to 'pahad' Him, while those who are His saved people ought to 'yirat' Him.*

The analogy of white-water rafting helps us understand this concept.  The rafter intimately acknowledges the power, danger, and unrelenting nature of the water, is thrilled by it, and may even experience an edge of dread.  Yet on the raft, the rafter experiences a seemingly paradoxical safety.  The water is indeed dangerous, and yet because of the raft it does not destroy us.  Those without a raft should experience dread, of course, because a right understanding of the rapids should provoke fear.  The difference in response is primarily a question of the relationship of the person to the river.  Are they swimming, or rafting?

A right knowledge of the Holy One is full of power and righteousness and perfection, unto obliterating glory.  Think of God, telling Moses that He will not show His face, lest Moses die; God is not to be trifled with. Yet, as the rafter is hidden in the raft, and as Moses is hidden in the Rock, you and I are hidden in the Son.  And thus our fear is transformed from dread to exhilarated reverence, and our lives from cowering to worship. 

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*  The one exception I have found lies in 2 Chronicles 19:7, in which 'pahad' is used in relationship to the chosen people.  However, it is used as a stern warning against oppression, and so it's a qualitatively different statement- it is mean to threaten the breaking of relationship with the Lord.  Should you oppress my people, dread.  Meaning, should you oppress my people, you will no longer be one of them, but will be outside of my protection.  Thus, the pattern holds.  2 Chron 19:9 reverts back to the use of 'yirat'.

Truth, Unity, and Love

This was written on Good Friday, but I waited to share it until now.  It's best read in that light, and with a Fat Tire, which is how it was written.
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I was very afraid, as my friend came to visit, that there would be some kind of distance between us.  There had been time between us, and miles, a state line or two.  But their potential to separate was not as great as decision.

Last year was dominated, in every way, by a crisis in faith.  Wrestling with doubt, wrestling with faith, questions, fears, anxiety, these defined my very breathing, eating, sleeping.  They defined my relationships, on almost all levels.

And I feared that my friend would ask hard questions, like those I asked myself.
I feared he would ask:
Why don't your feelings match your beliefs?
Why don't you hear God more regularly?  Or more explicitly?
Why doesn't God save everyone?
Why don't all who seek God find him?
Why do some, who have tried to submit to the Lord, walk away from the things that you (I) hold onto? Namely, the authority of scripture and limited salvation.

I feared these for two reasons.
1) Because I don't know.
2) Because I've chosen to believe a set of Truths that outweigh these questions.

I've chosen to believe that the Lord is good, and strong, and that He loves me.  I've chosen to stand on the speaking voice of God and His continued presence in my life.  I've chosen to stand on the general brokenness of humanity and the right of God to do whatever He pleases with us.

But, nothing new has brought these choices.  No new feelings, or sensations, or knowledge, has driven me to this decision.  And these beliefs have been affirmed in community, in meditation and listening, in scripture, and in experience.  It's somewhere I've stood before, but last year I stood more on the questions.  See paragraph 3.

And so, with our last expanse of time together being inundated and defined by indecision, could decision on such hard things break our companionship?  Was I willing to let it break for my decisions?  Part of me genuinely didn't want to.  Our friendship, in many ways, stood with an inquisitive, open-minded-integrity.  The questions have validity, as does uncertainty.  But my fear and doubt had no integrity whatsoever;  the presence of God, His working in the mundane and miraculous is validated time and time again.* I can't with honesty stand any other way.  But to stand with a close friend is tempting, even over honesty.  Do not love this world, He says.

What if my friend was unsatisfied with my answers?  What if I discovered that I was unsatisfied with them?

And so I stood partially in fear.  I could not prove my stance with novel evidence, to him nor to myself.  I had pure choice, based in word and experience, but choice.  Faith, as it were.

But after he arrived, in conversation, he told me of one of his friends.  My friend's walk with Lord could not longer match the spirituality and struggle of his friend.  And he could tell that his friend was broken, and hurt, by his change.  Yet, he could no longer stand with his friend in indecision.  Because he had grown.  He believed new things, with greater depths and certainties.  And he could not console her from a level footing with integrity.  Because he was no longer there.

It was a bizarre moment of encouragement, a moment of remarkable kinship and understanding.  I knew precisely what he meant, for I had feared the very thing just hours before.  It was as though God was affirming my walk with Him, saying, yes, this happens to everyone.  Sometimes faith comes not with peace but with a sword.  Sadly, division often results from truth.  We think that unity is a deep kind of love, and it is.  But love without truth is not love at all.  Unity without truth is not unity at all.  Because unity without truth deceives either oneself or one's friend.  It's coddling, co-depending, sickly-sweet and self-prostituting.  Because ultimately it is love not of the person, but of the relationship.

Unity is so beautiful, and good.  God desires it immensely; He died that unity could exist where only brokenness endured.  And yet it required the breaking of Unity itself.  He was separated from the Father on the cross, and in brokenness, in the separation of sin, the perfect reached into our brokenness and took it on himself.  Brokenness was not excused for unity's sake.  It was borne.  In truth and love the Lord acted, in the joy of Unity to come.  But he did not circumvent truth and love to reach His ends.  Instead He was broken by them.  He did not ignore them.  He could not; it would be against His very nature.

For the sake of love and truth, God suffered brokenness. And, if we fear** Him, so must we.  And it will hurt, as He endured hurt.  Yet in breaking, we will find ourselves part of a greater Love, a greater Truth, a greater Unity than we have ever known.

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*I have a stack of flashcards listing the big moments, though the smaller are more frequent.
**To be addressed in a future blog post, either Sunday night or next Thursday.

A Brief Update

I had a dream last night, of a friend slipping into temptation.  I called him to check in, and, turns out, today was the hardest he's had to fight temptation since meeting a personal God.  He was planning on going ahead with it, but had an unexpected conversation with a passerby that pulled him back into grace.  Funny how God works.  All that frustration with Him not engaging intimately, when He had already given me a dream.

The Past Few Weeks

First, a summary of discouragement.
Second, a log of tears.
Third, a song.
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I decided to try to post more regularly and immediately hit a block.  I've noticed that I often attempt to do things myself instead of waiting on the Lord (praying, listening, waiting), and when I do I tend to grow frustrated with Him for not leading me.  There is more to it than that, but that's a big piece of the past few weeks.  It makes me reluctant to press in to things He has given me vision for.  I don't know if my spirit recognizes that I have distanced myself from him and so it intentionally shuts down, or if in the distance I find myself embittered and frustrated and so in pride don't want to attempt anything that would require Him.  Regardless, I have been frustrated during the past few weeks, leaning towards bitter in the past few days, and I don't think God is to blame, though I attempt to blame him.  This is why my writing has petered off these past few weeks.

I have continued to write, at times, though little worthy of publication.  The psalmist says that to speak in bitterness towards the Lord to the congregation can be a 'betrayal of the generation', an act of which I am steering clear.

I am frustrated when I feel God has not fulfilled His promises to be near, to speak, to reveal His presence.  Like a child who didn't get his desert, I stomp my foot, slam the door, kick the wall.  But, continuing the metaphor, should I step back, I'll see that I've tracked dirt inside, haven't cleaned my room, and continually misuse things the Lord has given me.  And I know my behavior does not correlate to outcomes- He is not a vending machine.  Still, my impetuousness is pretty disgusting.

I am still frustrated, and I'm not sure exactly why.  But, in response, I am doing a handful of things that I have learned to do.
1-Serve others. It distracts me from my introspection and pushes me towards reliance on God.
2-Be intentionally obedient with the little things.  I will not put off writing a blog.  I will not put off writing a letter, fixing a chair, doing my taxes.
3-Remembering what He has done.  Spending time with those who remind me of His glory, looking over my pile of flashcards (real, not metaphorical) of moments when God has revealed Himself.  See Psalm 103.
4-Continue in rhythms of faith.  These I hope to write about in more detail later, but they include things like reading Scripture, worshipping alone and in groups, gathering with believers, taking all my plans to the Lord in prayer, taking intentional Sabbath time, etc.
5-Pay attention to what the Lord may be saying.  Which brings me to my next snippet of the past few weeks.
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I was once encouraged to take note of those things which bring me to tears.  These are big moments, I was told, and often God is speaking through them.  These are the moments that have brought me to tears in the past month or so:

First, a Frontline documentary called "The Interrupters", a gang violence prevention group of ex convicts who are seeking to end gang related violence without challenging the status quo of gang existence and illicit trade.  They intervene when violence is likely, and use their credibility as ex gang members to speak into the lives of agitated youth.  One of the interrupters had been in jail for murder, and when released he vowed to change.  Every year, on the anniversary of the shooting, he scheduled every minute of the day towards violence prevention in an attempt to make amends.  In one scene he is broken, incapable of righting his wrongs, and goes to visit a woman sitting at the grave of another victim of gang violence.  He speaks with her, asks about her grieving process.  Then he asks the mother if she visits his graveside every week.  She responds, every day.  And the interviewer stops, softly startled.  And I broke.

The next morning I was staring at a picture I took in Nicaragua, of a boy with whom I had spent an afternoon, and with whom I developed a small friendship.  As I stared, and remembered walking with him, taking pictures with him, teaching him about the American Noogie and him giving me a hug, it dawned on me that for a moment he may have seen me as a father of sorts.  And I broke.  I wish he had so much more, that I could be so much more.  And it reminded me of how I so long for a father in the Lord.  I hope my friend longs for the same.

Third, I was at Ananias prayer at Saint Andrews, and I remembered that Psalm 44 had seemed important that morning.  I read it out loud to those praying with me, and as I did, I broke.  I began to cry.  Even as I cried, I didn't 'feel' moved.  Yet I cried, and could not stop.  It struck a root.  Some of it was compassion, so hurting for the writer of the prayer, but some was self-pity.  I have felt so deeply forgotten, alone, forsaken, that the words to the Psalm fit like a key in a lock, opening me to a very raw sense of experience and truth.  I recommend reading Psalms out loud.  That was how they were meant to be encountered.

Fourth, stations of the cross at the Cathedral downtown.  The presentation of Jesus' suffering was very moving, drawing me both to my knees and to stand at different times.  At one point, everyone else was sitting, except for one old man an aisle away.  But I needed to stand, in respect and honor, and was glad to not be the only one.

All of these moments related to loss, relationship, and a powerfully seated love. I'm not sure what they mean to me, beyond the beauty that was experienced in the momentary sadness.  However, I remain watching and waiting to see if the Lord draws me elsewhere through them.

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Third, and finally, a song.  Stafford, Ben, and I have been reworking and rewriting it, so it may sound nothing like this in the end.  But, for now, it will do.

Don't Be Afraid (By My Wounds)

As always, if you have any questions, or any insights, drop me a line.

When the Devil Opens Doors

I over-commit chronically.  I'm like that trashbag that you buy thinking it'll fit only to realize it's a tad bit to small.  Still, you stretch it over the edge of the can, and try to use it.  But it's just asking to bust.  I cannot do everything I want to do.  I try, and it leaves me exhausted and self-condemned.  I didn't love everyone well.  I ignored that phone call.  I didn't give them all my attention, because I was juggling my dinner and my blog and texting a friend in a rough spot.  I sign up for it all, and bear the weight, and am borne down.

There are two problems here.  One is that I bear others' burdens.  I make their sanctification my responsibility.  I try to be their Jesus, their Spirit.  I advise, encourage, counsel, comfort, challenge, serve, etcetera, which, yes, we are all called to do.  But I feel responsible for their outcome.  I carry too much responsibility for those around me, and that is the first problem.

But there is another problem.  Namely, that there are too many needs.  There are too many people who need to be encouraged, loved, counseled,  comforted, challenged, served, etcetera.  And I see a lot of them.  The girls at Kudu who walk by drunk, doing cartwheels and flashing the street- they need someone to share good news with them.  The old man who lives on the corner alone needs someone to drink a beer with him and ask him about his life.  The guy wrestling with pornography and faith needs a counselor.  The woman whose mother in the hospital needs relationship.  And I cannot do it all.  I will try to do half.  And I will become exhausted, and I will take time away from listening to the Spirit, from silence, from waiting, and pour it into others.  Which is not wrong, is it?  I'm just loving other people.  There will always be time to seek God later.  It's an easy thing to put off.

Yet this line of thinking is simply off:
If Jesus is my first love, then He should be my first priority.
If all that I do of worth (even loving) is determined by listening to the Father, it should be practiced and waited on.
The verse that says 'seek God while He may be found' hints that it may not always be easy (as we find in the desert times of life).
Even Jesus prayed for more workers.  He couldn't do it all, as He limited himself to human form.

Jesus could do miracles because of the presence of the Spirit in Him.  We have the same Spirit, the same power and strength.   We will run and not grow weary, not grow faint.  Yet even Jesus took time away, evading the crowds.  Was there more work to be done?  Yes.  Would more people have benefited from His involvement in their lives?  Yes.  But His calling was to trust the Father and follow Him.  And the Father didn't always want Jesus engaged with the people.  He needed space, solitude, prayer, even with the Spirit.

Jesus didn't fix everyone all the time.  Instead, He trusted the Father to do as He saw fit.  He knew His mission.

It is more important for me to know the leading of the Spirit, the heart of the Father, the voice of the Shepherd, than it is for me to try to love everyone I meet.  I hate that, and yet am freed by it.

Sometimes the appropriate response to an open door is... to walk away.  Because it may be a distraction from what God really wants from us.  Spirit, I ask for Your discernment, Your wisdom, and for a confidence in Christ for myself and for those I meet.  He is faithful, and God is love, and that is enough.

Learning by Doing

Learning by doing takes grace.  It takes grace on yourself, takes belief that God is within, that God directs, that God loves us and seeks our good.  We have to trust his grace, that's it's big enough to redeem our failures.  Which brings us back to the beginning.

Learning by doing takes grace on yourself.  You have to be ok with the possibility of failure.

The gravity of my sin is ever before me.  Like the psalmist, I know it well.  And I know the ability of my heart to sin even still.  Even though I know there is no satisfaction in it, still I am tempted to seek my joy elsewhere.  And so I am afraid, afraid I will sin, that I will walk away, that grace cannot hold me.  And so I don't want to take risks.  I want to structure my life so that every moment of every day is filled with spiritual things and so to eliminate temptation and time to sin.

Unfortunately, that is trusting in myself again.  Which, by the by, is sin.

You can't win like that.  You can't righteousness yourself out.  You must trust another.  You must be carried.

And part of being carried, oddly enough, is doing things in which you may fail.  Without risk you cannot trust.  Perhaps it is better said that trust risk establishes trust.  At least, I cannot trust without risking.  If I do not risk, I protect myself, but do not let Christ protect me.

It's somewhat like me sitting on the beach in shorts in 32 degree weather, next to a 32 degree ocean.  Jesus offers me a drysuit if I swim.  I can sit in my shorts and 'protect' myself, but honestly my chances are way better in a drysuit in the ocean.  I could never survive by myself in the water.  But at 32 degrees, I can't survive by myself on land either.  Risking involves trusting, and, at least in my heart, is the only way for me to walk in salvation.

Wednesday night I went to worship at SAMP.  They taught on silence.  I was tired.  I layed down in the pews, but sat up when I was afraid I'd start snoring.  The verse that says 'there is a river whose streams make glad the city of God' was in my mind, without any apparent reason.  In the end I got up and went to the front alter to pray.  I noticed an acquaintance praying as I wanted to, prostrate.  I joined him.  After a while he left and a stranger took his place.  He was a stronger man, tattoos hinting at some military service.  He was in a rough spot, and I asked God if He had anything for me to say to this guy.  'Ezekial 34' came to mind, which sounded familiar, but I didn't know why.  I grabbed a Bible and read it- it was a meaningful verse from this summer, and is all about God become our shepherd, and is stunningly beautiful and encouraging.  I asked God if it was for me, or for the group, or for the guy.  I didn't hear anything, but since it had come to mind when I was asking for him, I eventually slid the Bible across the aisle to him and pointed to vs. 11, where the good stuff starts.  He started reading and immediately began sobbing.  A real divine appointment, as we've been talking about in IMPACT.

I was admittedly jealous.  I wanted God to meet with me with the same level of emotion.  So I asked God if He had any scripture for me.  Psalm 45.  So I opened it up.  It was another meaningful verse from the summer.  It says "Let your right hand teach you awesome deeds!", which roughly translated, means have some confidence in me in your.  Receive my grace, and have some for yourself, as you

Learn from Doing.

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Sidenote 1:  I woke up the next morning.  The first chapter I read included 'be still and know that I am God' and  'There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,"  both relating strongly to the night before.  Still not sure what God is teaching me through those, but encouraged to sit on them a while longer.

Sidenote 2: I'm going to attempt to post with more regularity.  Every Sunday and Thursday night.  James Bond almost kept me from posting tonight.  But never fear, I wrote ahead of time.