After I title a blog, I typically hit tab to shift into the writing space. Unfortunately, blogspot tends to take the same keystroke to mean 'publish an empty post', which confuses everyone. So, apologies there.
Boldness. Something I've been working on. In the last few weeks I've watched several hours of teaching on the gifts of the Spirit and on evangelism online. I firmly believe the church is failing to reach out as regularly as it should. By church, I mean us. By reaching out as it should, I mean as we should.
We are not reaching out like we should be.
If we really believe what we say, then our hearts should overflow with love for our neighbors. It doesn't always, I get that. But, if it's all true, then it should, and anything less than that is missing something. Being broken people, we will always be missing something, until God sets things straight in the end, somehow. But in the meantime, we are called to live lives of obedience and love, which requires boldness.
So, boldness. It's hard for me to be bold in Greenville, because the atmosphere is so closely linked to the fear and anxiety of last year. It's hard to want God to lead me to people to pray for when I sill feel somewhat unresolved at times, when I still feel tension (which I will probably address in a coming post), or when my friends expect different of me. Expectations are hard to change, and Greenville feels like it expects introspection and implosion, not joyful serving and loving of those around me.
It's hard for me to be bold around people that are/know my family. Not my immediate family. Frankly, they're ballers who love the Lord and who are limping after Him as all we broken people are. But they love me and support bold things. I'm more concerned with my extended family, because I just don't know how they'd react if an old friend told them their cousin/grandson/nephew was seen laying hands on somebody and praying for healing just off Maybank highway in broad daylight.
It's hard for me to be bold when I've knowingly not been attentive to the Spirit. Happened this weekend. I knew God might call me NOT to spend time with an old acquaintance, but I wanted to anyway, and so I didn't ask. Sin. And that messes with you, for obvious reasons (Isaiah 59:2).
Last week the Lord led me to repentance there, just reminding me of how good His is, of how rich life is with Him. It was beautiful. But this morning, I am once again intimidated by men and their judgements, which is ridiculous. The Lord is good, and He loves me, but I'm still anxious about it. I know the Lord loves them, and is good, and He healed Chris last week when I reached out to pray for Him at Juanita Greenberg's. Lord, you were there, directed my words, and healed his back. I felt your leading, and was quick to respond. If I'm not quick to obey, then I'm quick to get introspective and frustrated, which mixes my motives all up. And so I'm sitting at a coffee shop, wondering if I should talk to the lady behind the counter and ask if she has a hip problem (because it's the first thing to come to mind), or whether I should walk back across the street and pray for the guy with the cane over there. Hm.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Get Out of the Water
Joshua 4:15 came to mind Wednesday night as I was asking the Lord for a word of some kind. The section the passage falls under is titled something about the pile of stones the Israelites make as they cross the Jordan. They collect stones as they go through, one for each tribe, and then pile them on the far side of the river. To cross the river [currently at flood stage, by the way], the priests carrying the ark step into the water, and a path dries up before them, much like the Red Sea earlier in Exodus. The water piles up, and the people go through on dry land. Verse 15 describes the Lord speaking to Joshua, telling Him to command the priests to get out of the water. The people have come through, and it is time for the ark to follow.
The exodus of the Israelites from Egypt and into the Promised land mirrors my soul again and again. Their constant failure to remember the Lord, but His faithfulness in rebuke and discipline. Their fear of hunger and defeat, and the Lord's constant provision. A time of wilderness, wanderings, of unsettled waiting and following, and even being drawn to return to Egypt, knowing what it would entail, but tempted towards its certainty nonetheless. My heart finds itself in the newborn Israel.
In the past I have understood the crossing of the Jordon to mirror the entry into heaven. The wilderness is done, the wandering is over, the desert left behind for cultivated fields and established cities. The promised land. And this analogy could work, and we could learn much from an understanding like this- heaven will involve work, but will bear fruit in righteousness, and God will dwell so near and intimately that His tangible presence will be known, as in the temple.
Yet this Wednesday, the Lord seemed to want me to think about the crossing of the Jordan in a different light. Instead of the Lord dividing the Red Sea through Moses's outstretched hands, this time the Lord uses the priests, the common folk of Israel, to be His geography-shifting conduit. Step into the water, and it will cease to flow. And so the priests take a tentative step into the river, only to be amazed as it is pulled away to both sides, creating a dry path, and piling up far away.
Imagine, as the priests stand in the river, the mixed feelings they must have felt. There is clearly wonder, carried into worship I'm sure. I would expect some singing, some bouncing with excitement. But they stay there for a while, as the Israelites cross, as they collect stones, as they build the memorial. I wonder if the priests began to feel the gravity of their purpose and placement. Their presence, their holding the ark and standing in the river, meant the survival and progress of a people group, the very new life of a nation. Did they become self-conscious, fearful?
I spent the night in a friend's apartment yesterday, and we stayed up late discussing depression and anxiety, control and the way we find security in our wrestling with doubt. If we give in, will we still pursue the Lord? Will we still know Him? If we give up fear, could we really find ourselves motivated by love when all we know, it seems, is that fear? It is a dreadful question, with all the dreadful trappings that come with fear and mistrust and despair. The Lord has presented Himself, revealed Himself in love and encouragement in my life and that of my friend, yet we have somehow, in the midst of crossing our brokenness to Him, found ourselves driven to know Him not by love, but by fear. We have read scripture because we feared losing truth, gone to worship because we feared losing community, prayed because we feared losing our salvation, despaired because we feared the root of all this fear in our hearts, and despaired because we know its fruit. We both desire and have desired to be motivated by love. Yet how can we even claim to know love, so full of fear? Perfect love casts it all out, Hallelujah. But does what appears to be perfect fear cast out love? Does it prove that we never had love at all?
And so we cling desperately to our fear, because its all we know by way of connection to our Lord. We cannot let go of our doubting, because to let go of the greatest motivation towards 'worship' and 'devotion' [if you can call it that] could leave us devoid of all desire to know God, unconvinced by grace, unsaved by love. What if surrendering despair leaves us wanting only sinful things, sex and pride and control and money? We are sickly, and we cannot help but know it. Sin is in us so strong, and doubts and fears loom and pile up, and we find ourselves holding them back with our questioning and fear, holding back the things that will divide us from the Lord, holding back the iniquity of our emotional voids and the apparent loss of our first love, holding back our utter failure, lest it sweep over us and drown us alone. Fear, doubt, despair. We the priests press our backs against the piling water, dig in our heels, weep and shudder for our failures, and throw our shoulder with all the weight we can against the Jordan. Lest we drown, in the very thing that has always divided us from the Lord: a cold, dead heart. Who can deliver me from this body of death? Lord, I am afraid that no one can. Because, after all we've been through together, I think the body of death may still be there. Does not my despair prove it so?
Wednesday, in confusion and repentance and seeking the face of the Lord, the words of the Lord to Joshua were spoken to me as though from Heaven. Command the priests to come out of the river. You cannot stand there any longer. You cannot hold the flood; indeed you never could. The piles of doubt and despair that so invade your thoughts, that consume you, that force you to remain vigilant, present in the river to secure a path to the Lord, have not been laid aside by your strength, your discipline, your devotion or your study. You did not enter the river by your faith. Neither can you cross through in your faith. Even now, as you press and strain against the walls of water, so thick and heavy to destroy you, even now you do not add a drying breath to your protection. For the very presence of the walls of water, your perception of them, is a sign of my work in you. Outside of my grace, the river would remain, and you would never have seen the dry land beneath it, nor noticed the waves that now build on either side. And I tell you, it is time to get out of the river. Come on up. Come with me.
To step out of the river could mean so many things for so many people. It could mean reading a book for fun instead of theology, taking depression medication instead of trudging through, staying in suburbia instead of moving to Nicaragua, buying something you want. It might mean intentionally pursuing gratitude and worship, setting aside time to trust the Lord in prayer before each shift at work. It might mean going to church and offering your services where you never felt capable before. It might mean asking out that guy or girl out who you never felt good enough for. It might be applying to grad school. It might mean watching a movie, going fishing, eating out. Staying home. It doesn't particularly matter, because it's not about you, or me. The wall is held by the Lord, and even the freedom to step away is offered by His voice.
My prayer, of late, is the the Lord consume me, sanctify me with healthy desires and ravish my heart far from the temptations of lust and greed. I am offering to Him all those things which need to be done, that I should really be doing. And I'm quitting some of them, to better hear His voice and better live in rest. Because to live in fear is not to walk with the Lord, however much I think it is. There is life on the other side of the river. But I have to get out of the water.
------------------
Texts that have influenced this post:
Joshua 4
Isaiah 50:10-11
Hosea 6
Mark 3:22-30
The exodus of the Israelites from Egypt and into the Promised land mirrors my soul again and again. Their constant failure to remember the Lord, but His faithfulness in rebuke and discipline. Their fear of hunger and defeat, and the Lord's constant provision. A time of wilderness, wanderings, of unsettled waiting and following, and even being drawn to return to Egypt, knowing what it would entail, but tempted towards its certainty nonetheless. My heart finds itself in the newborn Israel.
In the past I have understood the crossing of the Jordon to mirror the entry into heaven. The wilderness is done, the wandering is over, the desert left behind for cultivated fields and established cities. The promised land. And this analogy could work, and we could learn much from an understanding like this- heaven will involve work, but will bear fruit in righteousness, and God will dwell so near and intimately that His tangible presence will be known, as in the temple.
Yet this Wednesday, the Lord seemed to want me to think about the crossing of the Jordan in a different light. Instead of the Lord dividing the Red Sea through Moses's outstretched hands, this time the Lord uses the priests, the common folk of Israel, to be His geography-shifting conduit. Step into the water, and it will cease to flow. And so the priests take a tentative step into the river, only to be amazed as it is pulled away to both sides, creating a dry path, and piling up far away.
Imagine, as the priests stand in the river, the mixed feelings they must have felt. There is clearly wonder, carried into worship I'm sure. I would expect some singing, some bouncing with excitement. But they stay there for a while, as the Israelites cross, as they collect stones, as they build the memorial. I wonder if the priests began to feel the gravity of their purpose and placement. Their presence, their holding the ark and standing in the river, meant the survival and progress of a people group, the very new life of a nation. Did they become self-conscious, fearful?
I spent the night in a friend's apartment yesterday, and we stayed up late discussing depression and anxiety, control and the way we find security in our wrestling with doubt. If we give in, will we still pursue the Lord? Will we still know Him? If we give up fear, could we really find ourselves motivated by love when all we know, it seems, is that fear? It is a dreadful question, with all the dreadful trappings that come with fear and mistrust and despair. The Lord has presented Himself, revealed Himself in love and encouragement in my life and that of my friend, yet we have somehow, in the midst of crossing our brokenness to Him, found ourselves driven to know Him not by love, but by fear. We have read scripture because we feared losing truth, gone to worship because we feared losing community, prayed because we feared losing our salvation, despaired because we feared the root of all this fear in our hearts, and despaired because we know its fruit. We both desire and have desired to be motivated by love. Yet how can we even claim to know love, so full of fear? Perfect love casts it all out, Hallelujah. But does what appears to be perfect fear cast out love? Does it prove that we never had love at all?
And so we cling desperately to our fear, because its all we know by way of connection to our Lord. We cannot let go of our doubting, because to let go of the greatest motivation towards 'worship' and 'devotion' [if you can call it that] could leave us devoid of all desire to know God, unconvinced by grace, unsaved by love. What if surrendering despair leaves us wanting only sinful things, sex and pride and control and money? We are sickly, and we cannot help but know it. Sin is in us so strong, and doubts and fears loom and pile up, and we find ourselves holding them back with our questioning and fear, holding back the things that will divide us from the Lord, holding back the iniquity of our emotional voids and the apparent loss of our first love, holding back our utter failure, lest it sweep over us and drown us alone. Fear, doubt, despair. We the priests press our backs against the piling water, dig in our heels, weep and shudder for our failures, and throw our shoulder with all the weight we can against the Jordan. Lest we drown, in the very thing that has always divided us from the Lord: a cold, dead heart. Who can deliver me from this body of death? Lord, I am afraid that no one can. Because, after all we've been through together, I think the body of death may still be there. Does not my despair prove it so?
Wednesday, in confusion and repentance and seeking the face of the Lord, the words of the Lord to Joshua were spoken to me as though from Heaven. Command the priests to come out of the river. You cannot stand there any longer. You cannot hold the flood; indeed you never could. The piles of doubt and despair that so invade your thoughts, that consume you, that force you to remain vigilant, present in the river to secure a path to the Lord, have not been laid aside by your strength, your discipline, your devotion or your study. You did not enter the river by your faith. Neither can you cross through in your faith. Even now, as you press and strain against the walls of water, so thick and heavy to destroy you, even now you do not add a drying breath to your protection. For the very presence of the walls of water, your perception of them, is a sign of my work in you. Outside of my grace, the river would remain, and you would never have seen the dry land beneath it, nor noticed the waves that now build on either side. And I tell you, it is time to get out of the river. Come on up. Come with me.
To step out of the river could mean so many things for so many people. It could mean reading a book for fun instead of theology, taking depression medication instead of trudging through, staying in suburbia instead of moving to Nicaragua, buying something you want. It might mean intentionally pursuing gratitude and worship, setting aside time to trust the Lord in prayer before each shift at work. It might mean going to church and offering your services where you never felt capable before. It might mean asking out that guy or girl out who you never felt good enough for. It might be applying to grad school. It might mean watching a movie, going fishing, eating out. Staying home. It doesn't particularly matter, because it's not about you, or me. The wall is held by the Lord, and even the freedom to step away is offered by His voice.
My prayer, of late, is the the Lord consume me, sanctify me with healthy desires and ravish my heart far from the temptations of lust and greed. I am offering to Him all those things which need to be done, that I should really be doing. And I'm quitting some of them, to better hear His voice and better live in rest. Because to live in fear is not to walk with the Lord, however much I think it is. There is life on the other side of the river. But I have to get out of the water.
------------------
Texts that have influenced this post:
Joshua 4
Isaiah 50:10-11
Hosea 6
Mark 3:22-30
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Juanita Greenberg's
I did want to share a story. So we went to Juanita's last week after the missions meeting. By the way, I'm going back, because I want to yell grace and see Jose again [a nine-year-old who God loves more than I can fathom].
So, we went to Jaunita's. On our way out, passed a guy drinking alone outside at a table, talking on the phone, obviously angry. I've been thinking about boldness a lot lately, and praying for people, and loving radically. So, after saying goodbye I went back out front and interrupted his call with a 'hey, how long are you going to be on the phone?'. He was obviously not appreciative, and said 'what, man?' to which I responded, 'i just want to talk to you for a bit.' He softened immediately, and said, 'ok, like two minutes.'
I grinned on the inside. I stepped away from the table until his conversation ended, and he called me over. He said 'what's up man?'
'Hey, so, I know this is strange, but, as I was walking past, I really got the sense that God loves you a lot and wants you to have peace in Him.'
He was kinda quiet for a minute, and then said something along the lines of 'hm, ok, yeah.'
'So, do you know Him, do you believe in Him or?'
'Yeah, I mean I believe in God and all.'
'Are you involved in any community around, or...'
'No, to tell you the truth I'm not.'
And then he started opening up. He asked about what I do, and then told me about college, and dropping out, the car crash that he's recovered from but that lead to pain med addiction, which shifted to heroin because it was cheaper. And then going through rehab, getting a job, meditating in the mornings.
So I asked if there were any lasting problems from the wreck. He said, not really, except his back. What about his back? It hurt, every day.
'Ok, I know this is weird too...' And I told him about when God healed my knee, and then asked if I could pray for His back. He said, yeah man, ok. I asked if I could put my hand on his shoulder. He said, ok man, do what you gotta do. So we prayed, and I asked him how it felt. He said, yeah it feels better. I told him to be honest, he didn't need to make me feel good. And he said, no, I wouldn't lie to you. It feels a little better. So, I explained how Jesus prayed twice for the blind man in scripture, and asked if I can pray again. Do what you gotta do, man. So I prayed, and asked how he felt. He said, I mean, I'm still sore, i worked a long day, my legs..
'Yeah, ok, but what about your back?'
'I mean, it feels better.'
'Like, is it hurting?'
'I mean, I don't know why, but it's not. Maybe it's my mind or something. This is weird man.'
'Yeah dude. It's not your mind, it's God, because He loves you.'
'Yeah. So, why did you want to come talk to me?'
'Because, God loves you, and wanted you to know that.'
I told him, if he needed anything, come visit me at Kudu. He said thanks, he might, and then I left him, a little confused, but healed, out in front of Juanita Greenberg's. I jumped and clicked my heels in the parking lot, worshipping, wanting to yell but keeping my cool. The Lord is good.
So, we went to Jaunita's. On our way out, passed a guy drinking alone outside at a table, talking on the phone, obviously angry. I've been thinking about boldness a lot lately, and praying for people, and loving radically. So, after saying goodbye I went back out front and interrupted his call with a 'hey, how long are you going to be on the phone?'. He was obviously not appreciative, and said 'what, man?' to which I responded, 'i just want to talk to you for a bit.' He softened immediately, and said, 'ok, like two minutes.'
I grinned on the inside. I stepped away from the table until his conversation ended, and he called me over. He said 'what's up man?'
'Hey, so, I know this is strange, but, as I was walking past, I really got the sense that God loves you a lot and wants you to have peace in Him.'
He was kinda quiet for a minute, and then said something along the lines of 'hm, ok, yeah.'
'So, do you know Him, do you believe in Him or?'
'Yeah, I mean I believe in God and all.'
'Are you involved in any community around, or...'
'No, to tell you the truth I'm not.'
And then he started opening up. He asked about what I do, and then told me about college, and dropping out, the car crash that he's recovered from but that lead to pain med addiction, which shifted to heroin because it was cheaper. And then going through rehab, getting a job, meditating in the mornings.
So I asked if there were any lasting problems from the wreck. He said, not really, except his back. What about his back? It hurt, every day.
'Ok, I know this is weird too...' And I told him about when God healed my knee, and then asked if I could pray for His back. He said, yeah man, ok. I asked if I could put my hand on his shoulder. He said, ok man, do what you gotta do. So we prayed, and I asked him how it felt. He said, yeah it feels better. I told him to be honest, he didn't need to make me feel good. And he said, no, I wouldn't lie to you. It feels a little better. So, I explained how Jesus prayed twice for the blind man in scripture, and asked if I can pray again. Do what you gotta do, man. So I prayed, and asked how he felt. He said, I mean, I'm still sore, i worked a long day, my legs..
'Yeah, ok, but what about your back?'
'I mean, it feels better.'
'Like, is it hurting?'
'I mean, I don't know why, but it's not. Maybe it's my mind or something. This is weird man.'
'Yeah dude. It's not your mind, it's God, because He loves you.'
'Yeah. So, why did you want to come talk to me?'
'Because, God loves you, and wanted you to know that.'
I told him, if he needed anything, come visit me at Kudu. He said thanks, he might, and then I left him, a little confused, but healed, out in front of Juanita Greenberg's. I jumped and clicked my heels in the parking lot, worshipping, wanting to yell but keeping my cool. The Lord is good.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
The Spirit and the Flesh, or Bread and Butter and Asteroids
I once read that we never stop being tempted towards the flesh. Nor are we ever given a perfect sense of direction. But, the writer continued, as we mature in the Spirit, we become more and more aware of the differences between the two. We learn how to tell when we are in the flesh, and when we are in the Spirit. Similar to sailing, we begin to pick up on channel markers, begin to know the currents and the winds, such that we can sense a listing, one way or the other.
I am beginning to know when I am in the flesh because I feel thin, stretched, flying blind. I feel like Bilbo, like butter spread over too much bread, or an asteroid slowly pulling away from light into space. I feel like a rubber band, straining out towards the marshmallows (have to be in Impact to understand that one). I feel like I'm running out of gas, and I don't know when I'll hit empty. Like I'm running on fumes. Typically it develops some frantic-ness.
It's not quite the same as being tired. I can be tired, running on high but low on sleep, low on free time. I can miss a morning devotion, or miss worship one week, and I can be fine. There may be fleshly behavior out there, but I haven't charted those waters yet.
Instead, my flesh is more apparent when I get hooked on something new, when all of my mind is absorbed with a new fad. Wood turning, or contra dancing, or surfing, researching instruments, or any number of things, good or bad or neutral. Even with things the world would call good. Ministry. Church dynamics. Loving people. Seeking direction. When I sense a frantic-ness, a keeping-my-head-above-water-ness, a desperation, then I'm in the flesh. I think. And honestly it's much less common in what I'm doing than in what I'm thinking. My thoughts can fall into the flesh much quicker than my behaviors.
When I realize that I'm in the flesh, on a bad day I just keep kicking, swimming, thinking. I keep spreading, stretching, running. But, on a good day (and more and more regularly), I've learned to step back. I pray, often physically on my knees, as a sign of submission. And I offer it to God. I say, Lord, I like the idea of turning wood. But, I have a lot going on right now, and I'm totally fine if you would rather me focus elsewhere. I surrender it to you.
Sometimes it takes a few times of prayer. Sometimes it means I walk away from whatever I'm doing/thinking about. Sometimes it means I keep doing it, but trusting Him to accomplish what needs to be done. Sometimes, God surprises me and lets me have what I want, like the time he gave me a mandolin after I surrendered pursuing it.
But the key is surrender. Walking in the flesh, for me, is usually an assertion of control wrapped in lust or coveting. Surrender is the antidote- and true to much of Christianity, repentance thereto feels like death to self in the moment. An object in motion will remain in motion unless some external force is exerted upon it, right? Choosing the flesh, even unconsciously, pulls us from the presence and peace of God, and our pride carries our souls along, the inertia of an asteroid broken from it's orbit and slung into space. Choosing the Spirit again, in surrender, can only come as a challenge to pride, pulling us to ever-concentric circles of faith. And that pull, redirecting our paths against our pride, takes force and tension- the force of a greater gravity, the tension of contradictory desires. In repentance we submit to the gravity and will of the Lord once more, in a way that may be painful yet results in a wonderful breathing and relax soon thereafter. Trusting the Lord does that.
And typically when I give up striving, pursuing, stretching, I realize I didn't need whatever I was so concerned about anyway. It falls away, unnecessary and sometimes even silly. As it turns out, Jesus is all I need. The living bread satisfies, so long as it's what I'm eating.
-----
A small footnote here:
I tend to fall into a similar pattern in decision making. I get antsy, anxious, frustrated, spread too thin. I get frantic. And then I pray, and surrender whatever I'm wrestling through, and try to believe on God for what He has spoken to me. Namely, that He loves me, continues to be in relationship with me, calls me to write and to worship, and to pursue being the church and making disciples. God revealed this to me and a friend of mine as we were talking about leading worship- often in leading worship a song implodes. It just doesn't work. And I had, often, sought to repair the sinking song with prayer. I'll just pray the song into application. If it doesn't fit, make it fit with prayer. God's done that before, lead me into praying something unexpected that leads to greater engagement in worship. And so I try to manufacture it. Which, needless to say, fails. The Lord desires us to act, to follow, out of peace, not fear. Not frantic save-the-ship emotions. He wants us to follow in trust and in worship, which, once entered, offers much greater freedom.
I am beginning to know when I am in the flesh because I feel thin, stretched, flying blind. I feel like Bilbo, like butter spread over too much bread, or an asteroid slowly pulling away from light into space. I feel like a rubber band, straining out towards the marshmallows (have to be in Impact to understand that one). I feel like I'm running out of gas, and I don't know when I'll hit empty. Like I'm running on fumes. Typically it develops some frantic-ness.
It's not quite the same as being tired. I can be tired, running on high but low on sleep, low on free time. I can miss a morning devotion, or miss worship one week, and I can be fine. There may be fleshly behavior out there, but I haven't charted those waters yet.
Instead, my flesh is more apparent when I get hooked on something new, when all of my mind is absorbed with a new fad. Wood turning, or contra dancing, or surfing, researching instruments, or any number of things, good or bad or neutral. Even with things the world would call good. Ministry. Church dynamics. Loving people. Seeking direction. When I sense a frantic-ness, a keeping-my-head-above-water-ness, a desperation, then I'm in the flesh. I think. And honestly it's much less common in what I'm doing than in what I'm thinking. My thoughts can fall into the flesh much quicker than my behaviors.
When I realize that I'm in the flesh, on a bad day I just keep kicking, swimming, thinking. I keep spreading, stretching, running. But, on a good day (and more and more regularly), I've learned to step back. I pray, often physically on my knees, as a sign of submission. And I offer it to God. I say, Lord, I like the idea of turning wood. But, I have a lot going on right now, and I'm totally fine if you would rather me focus elsewhere. I surrender it to you.
Sometimes it takes a few times of prayer. Sometimes it means I walk away from whatever I'm doing/thinking about. Sometimes it means I keep doing it, but trusting Him to accomplish what needs to be done. Sometimes, God surprises me and lets me have what I want, like the time he gave me a mandolin after I surrendered pursuing it.
But the key is surrender. Walking in the flesh, for me, is usually an assertion of control wrapped in lust or coveting. Surrender is the antidote- and true to much of Christianity, repentance thereto feels like death to self in the moment. An object in motion will remain in motion unless some external force is exerted upon it, right? Choosing the flesh, even unconsciously, pulls us from the presence and peace of God, and our pride carries our souls along, the inertia of an asteroid broken from it's orbit and slung into space. Choosing the Spirit again, in surrender, can only come as a challenge to pride, pulling us to ever-concentric circles of faith. And that pull, redirecting our paths against our pride, takes force and tension- the force of a greater gravity, the tension of contradictory desires. In repentance we submit to the gravity and will of the Lord once more, in a way that may be painful yet results in a wonderful breathing and relax soon thereafter. Trusting the Lord does that.
And typically when I give up striving, pursuing, stretching, I realize I didn't need whatever I was so concerned about anyway. It falls away, unnecessary and sometimes even silly. As it turns out, Jesus is all I need. The living bread satisfies, so long as it's what I'm eating.
-----
A small footnote here:
I tend to fall into a similar pattern in decision making. I get antsy, anxious, frustrated, spread too thin. I get frantic. And then I pray, and surrender whatever I'm wrestling through, and try to believe on God for what He has spoken to me. Namely, that He loves me, continues to be in relationship with me, calls me to write and to worship, and to pursue being the church and making disciples. God revealed this to me and a friend of mine as we were talking about leading worship- often in leading worship a song implodes. It just doesn't work. And I had, often, sought to repair the sinking song with prayer. I'll just pray the song into application. If it doesn't fit, make it fit with prayer. God's done that before, lead me into praying something unexpected that leads to greater engagement in worship. And so I try to manufacture it. Which, needless to say, fails. The Lord desires us to act, to follow, out of peace, not fear. Not frantic save-the-ship emotions. He wants us to follow in trust and in worship, which, once entered, offers much greater freedom.
Friday, June 1, 2012
Love, A Prayer from Ephesus
Lord, I know it's not a feeling
But Lord, I can be as disciplined as anyone
and it doesn't earn me a thing.
You desire mercy, and not sacrifice,
steadfast love, and not rituals,
But all I can do is beat my body into submission
and wake up early
and read, and try to pray.
I can write scripture on my arm, and I can talk to people about it all.
I can try to be humble, and I can try to serve more than I take.
I can repent, and I can be obedient.
But the thing closest to me
is that over which I have no control:
My heart.
I have tried so many times to hand it to you
and I keep looking down and finding it in my hands again.
So, I kneel before you, day in, day out,
in the alley behind the shop,
or between the beds in my room,
and beg you to take it from me.
Rekindle it, take my books and kindle fire,
take my prayers and infuse them with passion
Love, Lord! Love! Take me back to my first love!
Because I remember singing with you, dancing before you,
with the Ipod on loud and the lights dim so no one would see me.
And I remember praying in secret and seeing your fruit.
Oh, I remember that time you gave me visions and they came true,
that time I was focused so on Your glory and worth that
Nothing. Else. Mattered.
Or when You healed me, or spoke to me, or gave me visions.
And God, that was beautiful.
Lord, if I need to go to NewSpring and try to lead worship, because I will know You more there,
let me know! Because I'll BE THERE. I hope. I'd want to be there, if it was for You.
And I know my pride wants to be right, and to do a new thing, and to lead, and to 'cast vision', which was a mega-church pastor's idea anyhow,
And Lord, if I need to move to a slum in Malasia and start a house church, hoping to multiply,
or go to Syria and offer myself as a shield between the military and civilians,
let me know! Because I'll BE THERE. I hope. I'd want to be there, if it was for You.
And I know my pride wants to be right, and to be known and affirmed, to lead- and that it's scared of doing something wrong.
But God, my theology,
or my ecclesiology,
is as dead as lust or greed,
if it's all about me
and not about You.
It's sacrifice, not mercy.
Ritual, not knowledge of You.
And even though all my flesh chooses the former,
and even though pursuing you sometimes feels like washing the beach,
I trust that your tide will come. And I will wait, and walk, and wait.
Come, oh God of my memories.
Come, oh God with me now.
Come, oh coming Lord.
Make me new.
But Lord, I can be as disciplined as anyone
and it doesn't earn me a thing.
You desire mercy, and not sacrifice,
steadfast love, and not rituals,
But all I can do is beat my body into submission
and wake up early
and read, and try to pray.
I can write scripture on my arm, and I can talk to people about it all.
I can try to be humble, and I can try to serve more than I take.
I can repent, and I can be obedient.
But the thing closest to me
is that over which I have no control:
My heart.
I have tried so many times to hand it to you
and I keep looking down and finding it in my hands again.
So, I kneel before you, day in, day out,
in the alley behind the shop,
or between the beds in my room,
and beg you to take it from me.
Rekindle it, take my books and kindle fire,
take my prayers and infuse them with passion
Love, Lord! Love! Take me back to my first love!
Because I remember singing with you, dancing before you,
with the Ipod on loud and the lights dim so no one would see me.
And I remember praying in secret and seeing your fruit.
Oh, I remember that time you gave me visions and they came true,
that time I was focused so on Your glory and worth that
Nothing. Else. Mattered.
Or when You healed me, or spoke to me, or gave me visions.
And God, that was beautiful.
Lord, if I need to go to NewSpring and try to lead worship, because I will know You more there,
let me know! Because I'll BE THERE. I hope. I'd want to be there, if it was for You.
And I know my pride wants to be right, and to do a new thing, and to lead, and to 'cast vision', which was a mega-church pastor's idea anyhow,
And Lord, if I need to move to a slum in Malasia and start a house church, hoping to multiply,
or go to Syria and offer myself as a shield between the military and civilians,
let me know! Because I'll BE THERE. I hope. I'd want to be there, if it was for You.
And I know my pride wants to be right, and to be known and affirmed, to lead- and that it's scared of doing something wrong.
But God, my theology,
or my ecclesiology,
is as dead as lust or greed,
if it's all about me
and not about You.
It's sacrifice, not mercy.
Ritual, not knowledge of You.
And even though all my flesh chooses the former,
and even though pursuing you sometimes feels like washing the beach,
I trust that your tide will come. And I will wait, and walk, and wait.
Come, oh God of my memories.
Come, oh God with me now.
Come, oh coming Lord.
Make me new.
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