He removed the high places and broke the pillars and cut down the Asherah. And he broke in pieces the bronze serpent that Moses had made, for until those days the people of Israel had made offerings to it (it was called Nehushtan).
1 Kings 18.2
A good reminder, this morning, that even the gifts of the Lord can be misused. That which was holy and set aside for a good purpose, that which was intended to bring us back to the Lord, can become that which keeps us from Him. No practice or tool or ceremony or book or camp or feast or fast or prayer- none of these hold our hope or our life, our true salvation. They are intended to bring us to Him, the Author of our salvation, as He desires to be found. They are intended to place our focus back on him. The moment they become our focus, they switch from being blessedly helpful to incredibly damaging. We can make idols out of 'sacred' things just as well as we can make idols from 'secular' things*. 'Sacred' idols are often simply harder to see, because they appear so nice and religious. But do they point us to Christ, and set our faith on Him? Do they bear in us true love for the true God, and love for His people? If not, it's time to kill the snake. It was never meant to be the point- it was always meant to point to Jesus.
I like snakes, personally. But sometimes they got to go.
*I don't actually believe in much of a division there, between sacred and secular. If creation does not do so, surely the incarnation trumps gnosticism. And if that requires clarifying, let me know. It would make a good post later.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Monday, June 23, 2014
To Fix and to Heal
I am a fixer, born of fixers, in a land of broken things. I often find myself under the leaky sink, or on the porch with a flat tire, or in the yard with a broken chair from the side of the road*.
And when I find myself broken, my own heart in dissaray, I quickly become my own project. I look back and analyze my behaviors, my decisions. Where was sin, and where was failure? I look long and hard at the present. Where am I missing the mark, and where do I have the wrong idea entirely? And I graph out the future. What scenarios will do what to/for me? What will I say or do to recover?
The first time I remember this experience of self-consuming introspection was many years ago working on summer staff at Camp. I was desperate to hear God's voice, but could not perceive it. I spent hours praying for a 'diagnosis', hours searching scripture for a reason or a method or an answer. I wept for my inability, and pressed ever further into my own self-analysis, to the point of despair.
I remember when I came out of it, too. I went to bed one night, halfway through the summer, just worn out. I was tired of fighting, tired of trying to do what I could not do, tired of endless self-analysis. So, in my top bunk in the corner of the staff house, I simply asked for joy. That my frustration and despair would be gone, and joy would replace it. After months of seeking to fix my situation, I gave up, and asked that I would be healed.
And, sure enough, the next morning broke with joy. Steady, stable, deep joy. Joy without explanation, healing without diagnosis.**
It's hard for me to want to be healed without knowing what is wrong. Because if I can recognize and understand my problems, I believe I might have some control over them. If I know why I don't perceive His voice, I can place myself such that I can perceive it. If I know why I hurt, I can prevent hurt from recurring.
But I forget that, when I find myself emotionally broken, my reason is broken as well. And even if my reason was pure, right understanding does not produce right love (1 Corinthians 13:2). My ability to diagnose my problems is impossibly flawed, as is my every solution.
In seasons of hardship I desperately seek to figure it all out, to understand and to fix it, whatever it may be. But recently the Lord has been reminding me that all of it -my world, my community, my heart- is not mine to fix. It is His to heal. And He is faithful to do it. He simply asks that I let Him. It is a humbling, frightening surrender; but it is the very path into joy. Introspection can be a great tool unto holiness; but when it becomes my hope for recovery, it proves a horrible master. There is greater hope in the mystery of a God who took on flesh. And here, where my understanding fails, a better Master is found to heal.
---
*I found two matching wooden Adirondack chairs, one year apart, in front of the same house downtown. Both look great now, though I'm still looking for just the right hinge-pin.
**I heard God's voice, too. But that is a story for another day.
And when I find myself broken, my own heart in dissaray, I quickly become my own project. I look back and analyze my behaviors, my decisions. Where was sin, and where was failure? I look long and hard at the present. Where am I missing the mark, and where do I have the wrong idea entirely? And I graph out the future. What scenarios will do what to/for me? What will I say or do to recover?
The first time I remember this experience of self-consuming introspection was many years ago working on summer staff at Camp. I was desperate to hear God's voice, but could not perceive it. I spent hours praying for a 'diagnosis', hours searching scripture for a reason or a method or an answer. I wept for my inability, and pressed ever further into my own self-analysis, to the point of despair.
I remember when I came out of it, too. I went to bed one night, halfway through the summer, just worn out. I was tired of fighting, tired of trying to do what I could not do, tired of endless self-analysis. So, in my top bunk in the corner of the staff house, I simply asked for joy. That my frustration and despair would be gone, and joy would replace it. After months of seeking to fix my situation, I gave up, and asked that I would be healed.
And, sure enough, the next morning broke with joy. Steady, stable, deep joy. Joy without explanation, healing without diagnosis.**
It's hard for me to want to be healed without knowing what is wrong. Because if I can recognize and understand my problems, I believe I might have some control over them. If I know why I don't perceive His voice, I can place myself such that I can perceive it. If I know why I hurt, I can prevent hurt from recurring.
But I forget that, when I find myself emotionally broken, my reason is broken as well. And even if my reason was pure, right understanding does not produce right love (1 Corinthians 13:2). My ability to diagnose my problems is impossibly flawed, as is my every solution.
In seasons of hardship I desperately seek to figure it all out, to understand and to fix it, whatever it may be. But recently the Lord has been reminding me that all of it -my world, my community, my heart- is not mine to fix. It is His to heal. And He is faithful to do it. He simply asks that I let Him. It is a humbling, frightening surrender; but it is the very path into joy. Introspection can be a great tool unto holiness; but when it becomes my hope for recovery, it proves a horrible master. There is greater hope in the mystery of a God who took on flesh. And here, where my understanding fails, a better Master is found to heal.
---
*I found two matching wooden Adirondack chairs, one year apart, in front of the same house downtown. Both look great now, though I'm still looking for just the right hinge-pin.
**I heard God's voice, too. But that is a story for another day.
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