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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)