My Obsession With Me

I have a confession to make.

I am addicted to myself.
Maybe I'm not alone in this. Perhaps you're addicted to yourself too. In some ways, I think we all are.

For me, it usually doesn't manifest itself in a prideful, I'm-so-awesome type of way, although now and then it does take that form.

Usually, it's worse than that.

It's self-loathing.

Self-loathing is an addiction, a harmful and destructive drug in every sense. When I make a mistake in class, it's lurking there, waiting for me to slip into its arms and embrace what it says about me, who it says I am.

It is ready to capitalize on every moment of weakness.

When I realize I am not the favorite person in the room, there it hovers, ready for me to swallow that pill and descend into dark and untrue places in which I am small and everyone else is big and tramples over me. When I'm acutely aware of everyone staring at me, when strangers shout at me ("Hey! Foreigner!"), there it is again at my shoulder, saying, "You should hide. If only you didn't look different from everyone else, if only you could blend in." And it spirals from there into deeper self-consciousness, into a fear that spreads and smothers my soul and makes me walk around with a cast-down face and a scowl, in hopes that I might disappear.

Self-loathing is by no means confined to a single phase of my life or a single country. In college, in the United States, I remember days walking around in a pretty summer dress, because, well, I like dresses, and when I caught stares in the corner of my eye, my mind would immediately flutter to "She's thinking, who does that girl think she is, wearing a dress to class? Who does she think she's trying to impress? Why isn't she in Nike shorts and a t-shirt like the rest of us?" It was difficult to believe that perhaps someone might actually be staring because they like my dress; it was even more difficult for me to not care one bit about what I was wearing and feel beautiful and loved all the same. Then the next day I would wear Nike shorts and a t-shirt, and that same horrible voice would whisper, "You're so much uglier than the other girls. Look how fashionable she is. Why aren't you wearing that hipster outfit from Urban Outfitters?" Then the next day I could wear the hipster outfit from Urban Outfitters, and...well, you get the idea.

Here's the thing, though: In the middle of my spiral of self-loathing thoughts, I always hear my Savior and King call out to me, but sometimes His voice sounds far away. I hear Him call out, "All your days were written in my book before one of them came to be!" I hear him say, "I have numbered the hairs on your head, and every one of them is precious, my daughter!" But I shake my head in denial. His voice seems so distant and powerless, whereas the voice of self-loathing is so close and seemingly so invincible, its breath hot in my ear. It's like that quote from Pretty Woman: "The bad stuff is easier to believe." I'm like her. I don't believe Him. I deny His authority. I choose to take the pill without protest.

I give power to that which should have no power and deny the true power of the Lord. I submit to that horrible voice/spirit outside of me and refuse to submit to the one Voice and Spirit I should obey, the one that is living and active in the very depths of my being.

One day when I was admitting all my self-destructive thoughts to my mom, she said, "Have you noticed a common thread here? Me, me, me. I'M worthless, I'M unloved, I'M unlovable. Turn that focus upward and outward instead of downward and inward." This truth has been circulating in my mind ever since. But turning thoughts upward and outward is some heavy, gravity-defying lifting. The problem is that my thoughts literally implode on my soul, and I let them sit there so long without protesting that they get too heavy for me, by myself, to lift. Thus, the truth is crushed, and the lie wins.

The Lord has been patiently and persistently releasing me of this terrible, tenacious stronghold for years, but I keep failing and running back to it. It's always the little things. The self-loathing starts with someone ignoring me, or complimenting someone else instead of me, or me feeling stupid, or someone disagreeing with me in a rude way, and spirals downward, ending with me dissolving into tears, thinking everyone hates me, wondering why I even exist and what use my life is. I can tell the difference between deception and truth, and I know mentally what the truth is, but my heart still finds God hard to believe, and my mouth still finds self-loathing easier to swallow than his promises. As the title suggests, self-loathing is, too, a form of pride, a form of obsession with the self, preferring masochism to grace as long as it means I can refuse His hand. Self-loathing is painful, but it's at least a realm with which I'm all too familiar. A poisonous security blanket. Freedom from comparison with others, unshakable joy, full confidence that I am forever loved? These are relatively new concepts. And, though already accepted mentally, they are sometimes hard to swallow when faced with an indifferent world that seems to so easily smother the Word of God in my head.

I'm reading good ol' Beth Moore, and she's talking about release from strongholds. She writes, "Maybe you can't yet picture being free from that stronghold for the rest of your life. But can you picture it for a day? How about until lunch? How about for an hour?" She said that when the Lord was freeing her of her destructive thought cycles, she would count the days she went without giving in to those thoughts, and the day she gave in, she would start right back at 1 the next day. But rather than getting discouraged, she encouraged us to rejoice that we even have the opportunity to start back at 1. To try again. To be allowed to take our first tentative steps, fail, and yet know we will be picked right back up again and set on the right path. Every. Time.

Right now I would say I'm in the "withdrawal season" from this drug of self-loathing. It might last for a long time. It will be incredibly easy to have relapses. Thankfully, I'm in a rehab program called "Conforming to His Image," and this program will never give up on me or kick me out. Though I may burn out and give up and return to the poisonous security blanket time and time again, His loving hand will not rest until His goal is obtained. He who began a good work in me will carry it through to completion. He will not rest until I am living in victory.

The point is not my failure, but His faithfulness. I am not strong enough on my own; I am crushed under the weight of lies before I can even consciously redirect my thoughts toward the truth, before I can even recall those Scriptures to mind that I have been trying to memorize. It is so much easier for me to think of myself rather than others, to follow a bad train of thought to its conclusion rather than immediately fighting it with the sword of the Spirit. Thankfully, He is faithful to do the heavy lifting for me. If He hasn't given up on me, I know He hasn't given up on you either, whatever your stronghold may be.

Oh, can we all take a moment and praise His glorious name for that?

Audience

from Searching for God Knows What by Donald Miller

"And then it all came together. It all became so obvious, it was actually frightening. Moses was explaining all of humanity, right there in Genesis chapter 3, and because people were always reading it looking for the formula, they never saw it.

"Here is what I think Moses was saying: Man is wired so he gets his glory (his security, his understanding of value, his feeling of purpose, his feeling of rightness with his Maker, his security for eternity) from God, and this relationship is so strong, and God's love is so pure, that Adam and Eve felt no insecurity at all, so much so that they walked around naked and didn't even realize they were naked. But when that relationship was broken, they knew it instantly. All of their glory, the glory that came from God, was gone. It wouldn't be unlike being in love and having somebody love you and then all of a sudden that person is gone, like a kid lost in the store. All of the insecurity rises the instant you realize you are alone. No insecurity was felt when the person who loved you was around, but in his absence, it instantly comes tot he surface. in this way, Adam and Eve were naked and weren't ashamed when God was around, but the second the relationship was broken, they realized it and were ashamed. And that is just the beginning.

"If man was wired so that something outside himself told him who he was, and if God's presence was giving him a feeling of fulfillment, then when that relationship was broken, man would be pining for other people to tell him that he was good, right, okay with the world, and eternally secure. As I wrote earlier, we all compare ourselves to others, and none of our emotions - like jealousy and envy and lust - could exist unless man was wired so that somebody else told him who he was, and that somebody else was gone."

...

"A child learns early there is a fashionable and an unfashionable in the world, an ugly and a pretty, a valued and an unvalued. Where this system comes from, God only knows, but it is rarely questioned, and though completely illogical and agreed upon by everyone as evil, it remains in play, commanding our emotions as something that comes naturally, as though a radioactive kind of tragedy happened, screwing up our souls. Adulterated or policed, the system can grow to something more civilized, but no less dominant as a drive of nature. In youth the system is obvious. If you want to learn the operating system to which humans are subjected, step into a classroom of preteen students and listen to the dialogue. You will hear the constant measurements, the talk about family wealth, whose father drives what car, who lives in what neighborhood, or who is dating whom.

"Here is how it feels: From the first day of school the conversation is the same as it would be if hundreds of students were told to stand in line ranging from best to worst, coolest to most uncool, each presenting their case for value, each presenting an offense to the cases of others, alliances being formed as caricatures of reality television (or vice versa).

"And here is what is terrible: There will be a sort of punishment being dealt to those at the end of the line, each person dealing out castigation as a way of dissociation from the geeks, driven by the fear that associating with somebody at the end of the line might cost them position, as if the two might be averaged, landing each of them in the space between. And so, in this way, students are constantly looking to associate themselves with those higher in line, and dissociate from those of low position. Great lengths will be taken to associate with those at the front of the line. Students will kiss up, drop names, lie about friendships  and so on. Many will hate the most popular and yet subject themselves to their approval s though they were small gods. But the great crime, the great tragedy, is not in the attempts to associate but rather the efforts to dissociate. If a person feels his space in the hierarchy is threatened, that he might lose position, the vehemence he feels toward the lesser person is nearly malevolent."

...

"It must have been wonderful to spend time with Christ, with Somebody who liked you, loved you, believed in you, and sought a closeness foreign to skin-bound man. A person would feel significant in His presence. After all, those who knew Christ personally went on to accomplish amazing feats, proving unwavering devotion. It must have been thrilling to look into the eyes of God and have Him look back and communicate that human beings, down to the individual, are of immense worth and beauty and worthy of intimacy with each other and the Godhead. Such an understanding fueled a lifetime of joy and emotional health among the disciples that neither crowds of people jeering insults  nor prison, nor torture, nor exclusion could undo. They were faithful to the end, even to their own deaths.

"I recently read an interview in which the Nobel Prize-winning novelist Toni Morrison was asked why she had become a great writer, what books she had read, what method she had used to structure her practice. She laughed and said, 'Oh, no, that is not why I am a great writer. I am a great writer because when I was a little girl and walked into a room where my father was sitting, his eyes would light up. That is why I am a great writer. That is why. There isn't any other reason.'"

...

"I would imagine, then, that the repentance we are called to is about choosing one audience over another."

Grace Abounding to the Chief of Jane Austen Lovers

Written as part of the "Broken Hallelujah" series with Prodigal and SheLoves Magazine

When October approached and I had been here a year, I felt I was really getting the hang of things. I could go to the tea shop and help my friends sort tea, I could eat the local noodles without gagging, and I found I was actually WANTING hot peppers in my food. My language had improved a lot. Though my grammar was still oftentimes horrific, I could communicate with people pretty well, and I felt I had grown to understand the culture much better. Crowds and honking didn't bother me as much as they had at first. I could keep my cool in chaotic situations that would have made me lose it a year before, and I could now speak to people in situations where before I would have frozen up. Oh, sure, there would still be moments when I used the wrong tone and had to repeat myself, but even the local people have those problems sometimes. All in all, I was feeling pretty comfortable.

A friend invited me to go to her hometown for the Mid-Autumn Festival. I was so excited to be spending a few days with all local people, even though I was a little nervous about it. But I felt I was ready, and I loved this precious friend. So we squeezed into the crowded bus like so many sardines, moving and pulsing as one with the squeaky stoppings and goings of the bus, and then packed ourselves onto a train where I sat across from a shirtless elderly man who liked to spit on the floor. I smiled as I thought how this was no big deal to me. In fact, I enjoyed the smooth motion of the train and was not too bothered by everyone peering over their chairs or strolling down the aisles only to stop and stare at me. Even the people walking down the aisles of the train shouting as they sold things like toothbrushes and light-up bouncy balls just made me laugh, even when they woke me up.

We arrived at my friend's hometown late at night. It was much colder than my city. The entire town has no taxis or buses, as you can mostly walk anywhere or pay the equivalent of a dollar if you want to take a little 3-wheel red vehicle to get somewhere. Or if you had a lot of people, you could take a bouncy white bread truck. We loaded up in a bouncy bread truck and thumpity-thump-thumped all the way to my friend's home. We walked up the stairs to the apartment, and I ate some instant noodles because I hadn't had any dinner. I looked up at the posters of prosperity gods and the Chairman plastered on the aging walls during the local TV commercials.

When it came time to sleep, we turned off the matchmaking game show and I shared my friend's bed, a hard board covered with a thin blanket but with a big poofy comforter on top. The windows were all open even though it was cold outside; I slept like a baby.

In the mornings we would eat the local noodles and moon cakes. We might go do a short activity in the late morning, then her mom might make lunch that consisted of things like greens, beer fish, pigs' ears, and chicken soup. Then we would have a long nap in the afternoon and maybe get up at 3:30pm. I couldn't understand her mom very well because she spoke their local dialect, but she was so kind to me.

There was nothing at all wrong with what we were doing every day. It was wonderful to be so immersed in my local friend's life and language. We would go to beautiful pagodas and hills and temples, we would go visit her various family members - uncles and grandparents - and we were getting some great rest and fresh air. But suddenly a longing for home gripped my heart so tight and wouldn't let go.

It's not that everything was bad - it was just all DIFFERENT: Meeting all her different family members, who all had shrines to the female Buddha in their homes and looked at me as a big curiosity and yet were incredibly hospitable and gracious to me; eating countryside food all the time; eating the noodles not just now and then but every single day for breakfast; constantly being corrected in my language usage because this was the first time I'd ever had to use it all day every day; not being able to understand anything my friend's family was saying because they would all jovially shout at each other at dinner in the local dialect; sleeping on a bed that, while comfortable to me, was so different from my own; being careful to not step into the squatty as I showered and dumping buckets of water into it to flush it; and waking up to the smell of incense offered to the female Buddha every morning. I realized that even though I'd been here a year, I still had always had my little me-centered refuge of an apartment that I could return to at the end of the day, complete with cheese and hot chocolate and heating.

I felt a strange shyness creep over me. I began concentrating very hard on my food at meals and feeling oppressed by the unintelligible local dialect that was being shouted across the table. I began relishing times in the afternoon when I could read the very western Jane Austen and escape back to my culture and to my comfort zone, glorying that English flowed so easily in and out of my brain.

Then one day, after sitting down at another meal with tons of local people I didn't know all shouting at each other, looking desperately through the fat and organ meat for a piece of meat I wanted to eat, I walked out of the room to escape the noise and jumped out of my skin as a bazillion firecrackers went off just feet from me, followed by a whole wedding party staring at me. I ran to take refuge in the squatty potty so I could find a place where I could rest, where I knew no one was staring at me. When I got the courage to emerge, we then rode in my friend's dad's bread truck, where he bounced frighteningly fast over mountain roads and knocked the side mirror off of a fellow bread truck that was hurtling toward us at an equally dangerous speed. Then he let my friend drive and gave her a driving lesson by shouting at her constantly in the local dialect as she swerved off the road and onto the other side of the road quite a few times. This swerving caused my stomach to churn on top of everything I was feeling.

Tears started coming down before I could stop them.

I was so embarrassed and ashamed of myself. I'm supposed to be hardcore and cross-cultural, right? I'm not supposed to let my American-ness get to me. In my heart of hearts, I love the countryside here and the small towns and their precious people. In my heart of hearts, I knew her family was being nothing but gracious and hospitable to me. Even what sounded like "shouting" to my American ears was not shouting to them, but lively dinner conversation and cautious instruction from a loving father teaching his daughter to drive (and perhaps not wanting to die). They were offering the best food they could give, and incorporating me, a foreigner, into their daily lives during a very traditional festival.

I was so ashamed that they noticed, and of course they immediately began driving back home. When we got there, I escaped to my friend's room and got away with Jane Austen, tears still blurring my eyes as I tried to read. Even though my eyes were reading Victorian prose, my heart was still in Asia, searching...why was I reacting like this? I'd been in this country a year now. I thought I had outgrown all my weird discomfort over things that were not bad, just different. I felt so ungrateful, so in need of the Father's grace. I felt so ashamed because the last thing I wanted to do was hurt my friend's feelings after all the kindness she and her family had shown to me. I felt like a spoiled, selfish American brat. I told God I was sorry for failing him by failing to have constant joy and love for my friends.

And first, quietly, my friend's little brother's girlfriend walked in. She is tall and thin and soft-spoken and graceful. She has a sweet and gentle heart. You would think she'd listened to all of Beth Moore's lessons or something. But she's never heard of Beth Moore. And the only reason she's read a little of the book I read every day is because I've shown it to her.

Yet she came in and quietly put her arm around me, speaking words of comfort in both her language and mine. I kept apologizing, and she kept showing grace and love. Then my friend who originally invited me came in with a cup of tea for me, sitting down and saying, "JC says not to cry. We are your friends and we love you," and even talking to him for me, though she believes differently.

That night as we sat outside drinking oil tea, I made friends with a cute chubby little boy who wanted to practice his English, and his mom gave me all these local gifts because she was so happy her son had an English speaker to converse with. A guy close to my age who was introduced to me by my friend promptly said, "Sorry, I am shy because you are a beautiful girl!" As we all laughed, I thought to myself how we might all have a lot more dates if American guys were that blunt.

And my friend started opening up to me a lot more. Because I had been open with my ugliness and my shortcomings, she began to open up  - about how it is so difficult having divorced parents in the countryside because it is still very taboo there. How she hates the rush in your late twenties here to get married before you get "left over." How marriage should be about true love, not finances or family connections. And I shared in turn what my favorite book says about marriage, what a beautiful picture it paints. She told me the story of the female Buddha and how people in the countryside still revere her because they had nothing else to pray to during the starving times, and they felt they understood her because she had sought a life of suffering so as to identify better with the poor of the world. We talked about poverty and how Father dearly loves and fights for the poor and the sick and the starving.

On the bus ride home, as I continued to read Jane Austen, I meditated on how even when I'm ashamed of myself and feel like a failure, when I feel like a victim of the comfort I have grown up in, Father lavishes me with grace and good gifts and laughter...even, yes, even through the people I feel I've offended. And this is a grace, not that spoils me, but that refines me and helps me grow. This is a grace that gives me security and peace. It is not conditional, it is not given if I am a good girl; it is freely given that I might have the abundant life and be free to love Him in return with all of my heart. And so in the middle of my shortcomings and failures and chains to my own culture and language, my eyes turn not inward but upward and outward, to Him who gives grace and to the precious friends through whom He gives it. And so when I feel completely unlovable, I can rest in the assurance that I am still eternally loved, and I can still whisper a feeble, contrite, yet hopeful "halellujah."

Thoughts on Womanhood

I was a little girl who loved reading - anything she could get her hands on.

From the Bible - even things in the Old Testament that I "wasn't supposed" to read yet (Hey Mom, do you know what's in Genesis 19? Well, if you don't remember, then I'M not going to tell you)...

To history and science magazines like Kids Discover and National Geographic World...

To fiction like Goosebumps and Harry Potter...

To poetry like Shel Silverstein...

and everything in between.

I was a little girl who loved to WRITE.

I would write stories about ducks and aliens and princesses (usually not all at the same time),
poems about nosy neighbors, and endangered species, and towels that became epically-proportioned monsters because no one cleaned them.

I wrote plays, I wrote songs and even composed them on the piano, I designed video games with just notebook paper, with multiple levels and various monsters and bosses to defeat.

Then I began to be told that these things weren't enough.

It wasn't enough to create, to be comfortable in myself as God's creation.
I wasn't supposed to write fanciful stories or dream up video games in my spare time.

I watched MTV and saw women being valued only for their bodies.
I watched much of Christianity and saw women being valued only for their servitude.
I watched at school and saw girls being valued only for their powers of manipulation and exclusion.

so how was I to fight back?

with intellect, right?

No one could value me for only my body if my conversation was good enough. No one could value me for only my servitude if my ideas were good enough. No one could value me just for my popularity (or devalue me for the lack thereof) if I had really good grades.

I became angry and defiant, perhaps not always on the outside but on the inside.

I became prideful.

And I deceived myself by thinking these things were virtues.

The problem was, though, that I found that whatever other virtues I possessed (intellect, good conversation, hard work),
people could still dismiss me if they wanted to.
People could still treat me like just a body, "just a girl," or something else to be written off.
There is no way to safeguard against dismissal.
Or rejection.
Or humiliation.

But I tried, oh, I tried.

I dreamed of being something important, something that couldn't be dismissed
like a lawyer
or a professor
somebody important
an inspiration for other women
and someone all men would respect

I worked hard. I overcommitted myself. I strived, I strived, I strived.

I was not interested in a family
or kids
or being thought of as anything like a "homemaker"

Then my heart began to change.

Now before you think I did a complete 180...
I'm single
I'm just as curious about the world as I ever was
I love "weird" people, the ones who don't quite fit the mold they're assigned, who don't quite say or do what they're "supposed" to
I thirst for knowledge of all kinds
Faith, philosophy, science, history
and most of all

the knowledge of the Most High.

But as I began to let go of my anger
my defiance
my pride
and began to give it to God
to receive his freedom
his lightness
to spend time with these women I used to think I never wanted to emulate -
[devoted wives
moms
homemakers]
I began seeing something.
I used to imagine that all these women were held back,
that they had settled for something less.

But instead I met women who were kind, wise, discerning, patient -
role models,
inspirations for other women,
respected by any man whose respect was worth having.

I began to be estranged from my previously-held ideas that women needed to fight, to be assertive, take no prisoners
because, oddly enough,
I began to realize that there is more fight in a discerning woman than an aggressive one
more resolve in a patient woman than in a selfishly ambitious one
more passion in a caring woman than a detached woman
more confidence in a selfless woman than a narcissistic woman
more beauty in a wise woman than a seductive woman

and as I met women who showed respect to their husbands and the utmost love to their children, and constantly welcomed guests into their homes,
or treated their small groups as their children, took international students under their wing as their adopted brothers and sisters, took the homeless into their homes for meals without fear
I began to realize that what I had heard was wrong
That these women had not given up their dreams or talents
Among them were actresses, painters, linguists, teachers, naval officers, dentists, counselors, scholars
They listened to God and longed to become who He created them to be, down to every last detail.

I thought,
I am created by an amazing Creator
He knew exactly what He was doing by giving me all my abilities, desires and passions
Yet He also knew exactly what He was doing by creating me as a woman with tenderness and compassion for the least of these and the helpless, a deep desire to love and be loved

And I thought,
Why can't I be all the things God has put in my heart? Maybe not all at once, but through the course of life?

Why can't I be a wife, a mom, a writer, a painter, a teacher, a historian, a reader, a scientist, a dreamer?
Why are we often taught that these things are mutually exclusive?

What is a mom, a wife, a homemaker anyway?
Have we created all these trappings around each of these titles that are not of God?
For instance, what if the point of Proverbs 31 is not the things this woman does, but the ways in which she does them - with a noble heart, with wisdom, and above all with fear of the Lord?
Every woman is a unique creation
an image-bearer
reflecting different aspects of His amazing nature

So perhaps being a mom doesn't mean she has to hover around her kids, shuttle them to everything under the sun, and lose a sense of her own self in them
Perhaps it really does just mean she needs to love them with all her heart, and seek the Lord when she can't by her own strength
For man looks at outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.
Perhaps being a wife doesn't mean she has to have a knockout figure, act perfect all the time, fit a certain "mold"
Perhaps it really does just mean she needs to love her husband with all her heart, and seek the Lord when she can't by her own strength.
Perhaps being a homemaker doesn't mean she has to keep everything perfectly clean, buy only cute and matching things, cook like a pro, have something constantly baking in the oven
Perhaps it really does just mean loving her family with all her heart, and seeking the Lord when she can't.
After all, what is a home anyway?
What is making a home?
Is it building walls, is it painting furniture, is it mopping floors?
Isn't a home rather made of people, just as the church is made of people?
Isn't homemaking, then, primarily building up your family, cultivating hospitality, creating a space of openness and freedom and security and laughter?

so say the stay-at-home mom is able to keep a perfectly clean home (or perhaps she scrambles around cleaning up little ones' vomit all day and then is taken down by a migraine and the husband comes home to a mess)
or say the doctor doesn't have as much time to clean her home, but builds up her family with the purest love in her heart, instilling in her children the love of science and the love of helping people that have driven her to her ministry/career,
most importantly, say they both seek the Father and instill in their homes a love of Him above all,

aren't they both homemakers?
Aren't they both equally women - unique, beautiful creations of the Most High?

I hear the phrase "Biblical womanhood" so often, its meaning debated as we try to figure out what that all means.
I think there are a lot of different ways to be a woman
because there are a lot of different ways to be a human
and I praise God that He has given me legs to play soccer with kids, arms to hold them when they're sad, a brain to create stories, a mouth to tell them, and hands that can bake cookies, hold a book, play an instrument, or wield a scalpel.
I praise Father that even though I'm single, and sometimes my feet get black from walking on my ever-dusty floor (you'll understand if you live in this country), I can proudly call myself a homemaker - not because I love to decorate, clean, or cook, but because I love to welcome my precious friends into my home and create a space in which they can find refuge and a warm heart.

And at the end of the day I love to hear my Father whisper above all the other voices that no matter what my daily life looks like, or how my brain is wired, or how many mistakes I make, He sees my heart and its motivations...and He loves the woman He has created.

He will still love you.

"we love because He first loved us."
1 John 4:19

Come, come, whoever you are
Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving - it doesn't matter,
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vow a hundred times,
Come, come again, come.

O to grace, how great a debtor
Daily I'm constrained to be.
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love.
Here's my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above.

Oh what a scandalous love God has shown us. "God is not proud. He will have us even though we have shown that we prefer everything else to Him." - C.S. Lewis

That the sinner, deep in his heart, should never love God of his own volition is a fact. We can never love God or love purity and goodness simply by willing ourselves to do so. We love to fool ourselves, thinking we can love well, thinking we can be good enough for Him on our own...but we will always fail.

Even when I began to follow Him, it was because I wanted Him to stop my pain, not because I wanted to be holy. I wanted to be liberated from depression and anger and loneliness, not from slavery to self.

And this is where His love comes in.

This is where He whispers, this is where He woos.

This is where He comes to us in our deepest fears, in our deepest heartache, when we are confronted with all the crooked places in our hearts, and asks, "Will you let me love you? Will you let me restore you? Will you let me call you my daughter?"

And though we say no, He will still ask a thousand times.
He is a constant lover, who never gives up.

Because He knows that death to self, true repentance and new life, is the only way we can get all the other things our hearts seek. It is the only way we can be truly free, truly alive. It is DIFFICULT, yes. But it is WORTH IT. So difficult, and so worth it, in fact, that He is the only one who can do it.

Gently, gently, we are led to repentance. We can never change by ourselves; if that were the demand, if we who love darkness were to FIRST genuinely love the light to receive it, who then could be saved?

No one.

And that's what makes His love so scandalous.

Ridiculous, even.

He was ridiculed on the cross, and He continues to be ridiculed today.

He doesn't care.

He doesn't love us AFTER we change...He loves us BEFORE.

He loves us while we still hate Him, while we're slandering Him, mocking Him, joking about Him in a bar and then crying to Him from our beds that same night.

He loves us in the middle of our hypocrisy, when we're confronted with the emptiness of our lives while knowing full well how we should be spending them.

He loves even the loveless places in our heart that would make everyone else hate us and turn away, were they to view them.

Even if you never surrender to His love your entire life and curse Him on your death bed, He will still love you.

Even if you turn away and follow your own will, your own way, and walk the wide path of destruction, He will still love you.

Even if you scream at him, angry about your life, about a friend's betrayal, about a tragedy in the family, about the atrocities committed to the helpless around the world,
He will still love you (and He will still love them).

And this love, it is not just a feeling
(though He does dance and sing over you, and angels rejoice because of you; like I said, He is not proud. He is not afraid to show His love).
True Love is not a feeling anyway.
He does not stand on high smiling warmly and thinking good thoughts about you, wishing you well. Prosperity! Happiness! Go in peace!

No.

He will not only lift a finger, He will lift mountains and turn the world upside down to rescue you.

He has hands and feet.

He has a Body.

And His power is beyond all imagining.
It can create planets, it can form humans, it can raise the dead, it can mend the heart, it can cause kings to fall, it can cast out demons, it can heal diseases, it can (will) restore this planet,
And it can change you.

Forever.

Oh, a forever love...isn't that what we all desire? If I could be loved forever, by the Only One who has power to even make my life worth living...what more could I need? What more could I ever want?

When your hair begins to turn gray, and you cry as you look at your deepening wrinkles in the mirror and feel how un-beautiful you are next to younger women,
He will still love you. Cherish you even. Call you beloved, the apple of his eye.

When you have been in a foreign country and haven't worn make-up in ages and feel too fat and too tall and too weird, or like you always have to hide from the stares and whistles that follow you everywhere,
He will still adore you.

When you return home and cry because you want to go back to that other country, because you left a piece of your heart there,
He will still love you.

When no one else understands your feelings or experiences,
He will still understand you.

When you are addicted to something and have tried everything in your own power to fight it, when you have deluded yourself about the magnitude of your own power and self-control,
He will still love you...and yes, even heal you.

When you run, He will pursue.

When you cry, He will hold.

When you scream, He will whisper.

When you are hurt, He will rise in power.

When you are lost, He will find.

Still. Still. Though you break your promise a thousand times, though you wander, though to all others you are a lost cause,
Still.

I pray that out of His glorious riches He may strengthen you with power 
through His spirit 
in your inner being,
so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith.
And I pray that you,
being rooted and established in love,
will have power, together with all God's holy people,
to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ,
and to know this love that surpasses knowledge - that you may be filled to the measure of all the
fullness
of God.

Nothing New Under the Sun and Micah 6

If the wages of sin is death, what exactly is death?

Futility.

It's the abrupt ending of a linear path that otherwise shows such promise of progress, of a better world, of a better life -

and then silence.

Because of sin, the whole creation was subjected to futility. Through painful toil we eat all the days of our lives, and though we labor, the ground still produces thorns and thistles. In painful toil we now strive for successful careers in an economy that constantly pushes back. The majority of people, who have no faces on television and no voices, toil to just eat each day. The last line of the curse upon mankind is futility:

"dust you are and to dust you will return."

King Solomon meditates on this futility: "Meaningless! Meaningless! What do people gain from all their labors at which they toil under the sun? ...Like the fool, the wise too must die!"

When Israel continues to rebel against God and oppress the poor, Yahweh says through the prophet Micah that he will relinquish his blessing, reminding them of the futility of their sin (that is, following themselves rather than God):

"You will eat but not be satisfied; your stomach will still be empty.... You will plant but not harvest; you will press grapes but not use the oil, you will crush grapes but not drink the wine."

Your first reaction might be that all this sounds overly morbid and depressing...but let's be honest: How many times have you had thoughts like this? Feeling anxious because we only have a few short years on this earth, and wondering how not to waste them? Feeling dissatisfied with your current life because you don't want to waste time doing what you're doing? Even in the happy moments, burying uneasy thoughts, wondering why you're still not satisfied?

I write this because I have had these thoughts many times. I think often we try to just dismiss them and crush them because they're not normal and not okay. We have everything; we are supposed to just be happy and not ask those questions. We have no right to be unhappy because we are not starving, we have not had too much trauma in our lives, we do not live in a war-torn country.

The Book of Micah says that Israel would "eat but not be satisfied." Israel had times of great abundance and was the envy of surrounding nations for its wealth. But God said they were still spiritually empty because they kept sinning and would not turn from it, and so he was sending times of scarcity on them. Rather than acting justly and loving mercy, they were hoarding ill-gotten treasures, cheating the poor with dishonest scales, full of violence and deceit.

What was the ultimate punishment? Not necessarily war, although this did come on the people. Not poverty, although times of suffering would follow. Futility. No satisfaction, no enjoying the fruit of their labor, but enduring a meaningless existence. The same punishment that was exacted at the Fall.

I think we continue to feel this punishment today; the Fall's depth has not lessened. Though we may be less primitive, we may have more material things (well, some of us...until you remember that 2 billion don't even have a toilet and 1 billion will not eat enough today), and we may be saturated with all sorts of information and philosophies to tell us whatever we want to hear, we still feel the effects of futility. Though with modern medicine we may prolong our lives, we can never escape physical death...or even worse, the death of the soul, which can happen much sooner.

But Jesus says we can be born again. He says we have a way out of this meaninglessness and futility. Not by transcending the world and detaching ourselves from it, as some would say; not by doing a bunch of things so we can be "good enough" for a deity; rather, by believing He has power over futility - over death and our deathly ways of living. In Him, there is something new under the sun. We have new life, we have new hope, we have direction even when we can't see two feet in front of us. Even while staying in the world, slogging through the mud and grit of life, we hold tightly to the pierced hand of the one who whispers in the crowded street and the back alley,

Behold, I am making all things new!

Suddenly, we can work a dead-end job and still have joy and satisfaction. Suddenly, we can look at unlovable people and see who they were born to be. We can be uncertain of our direction in life and still be able to laugh at the days to come. Our plans can even fail, the soil of our lives still unyielding, and yet we have hope. All because He went through the worst of our pain, endured our darkest thoughts and all the insults we have to hurl, joined us in physical agony and emotional torment, and came out victorious on the other side, not only alive but with a life that will never die, in a Kingdom where the hungry can feast and the thirsty can drink, and this gives us hope that such a Kingdom can penetrate this cursed world. 

Sometimes, when I catch myself chasing after the things of this world, I find myself dissatisfied and struck anew with the meaninglessness of life. But when I look at the only One who is something new under the sun, the only One who can make all things new, and I give my disobedience over to him and ask to be made new...

I eat and am satisfied.

Waking the Dead

Everything was black except one white-clothed figure lying on the ground, golden hair flowing from her head.

I wouldn't normally do this, I thought, but I kneeled over her and prayed, my pounding heart the only sound in the blackness. My hand on her shoulder, I begged God to raise her from the dead.

I don't know how long I knelt there in that dream, but I know that I eventually saw the head lift, golden hair finally leaving the floor, her arms shakily propping herself up. Then, finally, like a baby animal of some kind, she rose to her feet.

I woke up and went about my normal college student morning, hitting the snooze button a few times, probably temporarily forgetting the dream, reading my Bible, spreading some cream cheese on a bagel. Then I got a call from a friend I was supposed to have lunch with.

She said she had to cancel because she was on the way to a hospital where her best friend's little sister lay in a coma.

The golden-haired girl had been in a horrible car accident, had been unresponsive for two weeks, and now no one was sure if she'd ever wake up. A 10% chance of waking. And if waking, then probably no walking. Possible paralysis.

10% chance.

A high school girl. Like I had been just a few years ago.

As I assured her that of course I completely understood, and I would be praying for her, my dream rushed back into my consciousness. I saw that girl getting shakily to her feet. I felt the power of the Most High God rush through my feeble hands and permeate that black room.

I felt it permeate this black world.

And, reopening my Bible and reading the stories of how Jesus raised that 12-year-old girl from the dead and healed a woman who had been bleeding for years, and knowing he is still able, I fasted and prayed most of the day for this girl I had never met and probably never will meet. Emotions that I knew were not my own rushed through me; passion poured through my heart that did not come from my mind but from heaven's. I felt a Father's heart for his daughter. I felt an entire community joining with this one college student in Austin, begging for one small life out of billions. Prayers were lifted that were not from our hearts but from His, power came from our words that was not our own power but His.

In my heart, I felt an incredible assurance. I knew with certainty that this girl would rise, that she would even walk. I knew He'd given me that dream for a reason. I treasured this in my heart, just between Jesus and me.

A few days later I got the word.

She woke up.

Weeks later, she walked.

Supported physically and emotionally by people who loved her, she walked out of the hospital.

As miraculous as this was, and how incredible as it was that Father allowed a distant, unrelated person like me to be a small part of it and watch Him do his thing, her wakefulness wasn't the biggest miracle. Her walking wasn't the biggest miracle.

The biggest miracle was what happened in the next few months, what I wasn't there for but what I can imagine: the mood swings, the progress, the letdowns, a family never giving up hope, taking her recovery painfully slow, day-by-day, moment-by-moment. A girl rediscovering every tiny bit of herself.

When Father shows up and does a momentary miracle, we all rejoice. We are in awe, and we wish we had more moments like that. But one second is not the end. One second may spur the beginning of a life change, one second may mark an important milestone, but the most awe-inspiring works of art take the most time. Relationships take a lot of time. People take a lot of time.

Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead in a matter of seconds. What we are not told was what happened afterward. What would you do if you thought your life was over, and suddenly you were awake again and had that precious time back? Though the miracle took seconds, the life that formed afterward was another miracle.

It only takes seconds for Jesus to raise a body.

It only takes seconds for him to salvage a soul.

May we rejoice even more in the hard, beautiful, refining times that follow, than in that one precious moment.

Why go, and not just give?

David Platt answers a question in his book Radical that I've been confronted with as well in the past. I thought I would share his response with you all.

I remember when I was first preparing to go to Sudan, a nation impoverished by civil war. The trip was going to cost me around three thousand dollars. It wasn't easy to travel into Sudan since they were still at war, and we would have to charter a plane and spend a few extra days to make that happen. I remember one dear lady in the church coming up to me and asking, "Why don't you just send the three thousand dollars to the people in Sudan? Wouldn't that be a better use of money than your spending a week and a half with them? Think of how far that money could go."


I wrestled with that question. Was I wasting these funds in order to go when I could simply give the money instead? Should I even be going? I continued wrestling with that question until I got to Sudan. There I had a conversation with Andrew that shed some light on the question.


Andrew was sharing with me about his life in Sudan over the last twenty years. He had known war since he was born, and he described facets of the suffering and persecution his people had been through. He told me about the various groups, most of them secular or government organizations, who had brought supplies to them during that time, and he expressed thanks for the generosity of so many people.


But then he looked at me and asked, "Even in light of all these things that people have given us, do you want to know how you can tell who a true brother is?"


I leaned forward and asked, "How?"


He responded, "A true brother comes to be with you in your time of need." Then he looked me in the eye and said, "David, you are a true brother. Thank you for coming to be with us."


Tears welled up in my eyes as the reality of the gospel hit home with me in an entirely new way. I was immediately reminded that when God chose to bring salvation to you and me, he did not send gold or silver, cash or check. He sent himself - the Son. I was convicted for even considering that I should give money instead of actually coming to Sudan..... Was I really so shallow as to think that my money is the answer to the needs in the world?"




Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that giving money isn't a wonderful thing. It's beautiful when we sacrifice so that others may have food or shelter or medical care. But going somewhere puts a face on the people to whom you're giving. They are no longer an object of your charity; they are your brothers and sisters. Your dear friends. The same things that hurt them hurt you, and you cry with them instead of just for them.

I remember well when my friend Kevin came back from Rwanda. He worked with a humanitarian organization and grew a deep, deep love for the Rwandan people. It wasn't just that he went, it was what he did when he came back. He talked to all of his friends constantly about how wonderful the Rwandan people are, how kind, how hospitable, how hopeful in the face of heartbreak and past suffering. Because he went, many people, including me, now feel a connection with Rwanda, though we have never been there. We can put faces to the country, and we feel like we have a genuine connection with its people. So not only does going to another country make you a brother or sister to the people there, it stirs a deep love in others when you come back.

Money alone is not the solution. Giving money is just one part of giving our love...and our love - that force that says, "You are my brother, and I hurt and hope with you" - is what really has the power to heal broken nations and broken people.

My "Spiritual Birthday"

I was going through old journals in my closet just now, sifting through things to throw out and keep. I began reading an old journal that I was required to keep for English class in eighth grade. The run-on sentences are embarrassing, I gotta be honest, and it was clear that I wasn't even trying.

That journal took me back to a different time and a different person, one who had little passion for school and yet a desire to prove her intelligence. One who was angry, sad, or confused all the time and yet didn't want to be. One who was angry at the state of the world and dreamed of changing it, yet only had the strength to spend hours playing computer games to escape it. These things had especially defined my life in sixth grade (oh early female adolescence, I do not miss you). I wasn't doing very well emotionally, spiritually, or academically, so I was supposed to live in Gail for only one year so I could get "straightened out." However, when that year was up and I went back to Jacksonville to continue my life, it just didn't feel right. I made a pro's and con's list of Jacksonville vs. Gail, talked to friends and family constantly, prayed...and finally asked Mom and Dad if I could return. They let me (which I realize now could have only been motivated by the truest kind of love in existence - when parents love their kids enough to let them go if that's what's best for them).

But when I got back to Gail, some things had changed. At the age of 13, I had just made a decision that would define the next 5 years (and, as it turned out, 9 years because I went to a Texas university) of my life, and I was afraid I'd gotten everything wrong. Those were some of the most painful months I have ever experienced to this day, that fall semester of 8th grade. And today I read a journal that honestly embarrassed me, and not just because of grammatical issues, until I got to this entry in which we were asked to share the best part of our life right now:

9/26/2002

The best part of my life right now is my newfound trust in Jesus, that he will help me through some rough things that are going on in my life right now. It just makes me feel so happy to wake up everyday and know that he will take care of me and that no matter how bad things are, there's a reason that they're happening, a reason so great I could never even imagine what it is. That helps me stay happy through the good and the bad.


Even though just a month earlier I'd made a decision that I thought was life-changing, this moment was the one that was truly life-changing. I didn't understand much at that point (even though I'd known all the Bible stories from a young age), I still had very little fruit of the Spirit in my life, and a lot of what I thought the Bible taught was misguided...but I understood the most important things, that Jesus loved me enough to have a perfect plan for my life if I would only trust him. That he was my savior, king, confidante, and guide...that he was the only way to Truth. This day wasn't the only turning point; each day is a turning point. Each day I am being saved from my sins and my flesh that wages war on my soul; each day I am being protected from a very real enemy and a very cruel world by nothing less than the one true God. But I'm glad to be reminded of when it really began, this beautiful passionate journey of living for Jesus and receiving the abundant life.

Wake Up.

"Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you." Ephesians 5:14

I have been meditating on this verse for a long time. Thankfully, it is not just a command to us; it is also a promise for others:

"Your dead shall live; their bodies shall rise. You who dwell in the dust, awake and sing for joy!" Isaiah 26:19

Jesus has awakened me, and I am thankful. But I want the other dead to live as well, to wake up and embrace the lives they have been given rather than live in fear. Why do we have so many dead people walking around?

How many people I know who have resigned themselves to occupations they don't like, to hating work and then drinking alcohol to forget work and then drinking coffee in the morning to stay alive for work. Students hate school and yet let it master them, being anxious and jealous, never feeling smart enough or good enough, and putting down fellow students to make themselves feel better. Americans eat well, drink well, and work hard, and yet are starving.

What is wrong with us? Have we no hope? We only have 80-something years to live if we're lucky, and we're spending it like this? And all too often, if we do quit school and go off to "find ourselves" or "truly live," we only end up in poverty, drinking all the time to forget our actual lives. Why are we so dead, and how do we resurrect ourselves?

I thought about how to best sum this up. Of course, Jesus is the one who conquered death, who raises us from the dead, and who will grant us eternal and abundant life. But what is it about Jesus that makes his promises so eternal and steadfast? Faith, Hope, and Love. It's no coincidence that "faith, hope, and love abide (1 Corinthians 13:13)." What does "abide" mean? It can also be translated as "remain" or "will last forever." Haha! I think we have found our definition of LIFE! We need to put ourselves in situations where faith is necessary, hope is possible, and love is a choice. Life must be so uncertain that we have to live by faith. We must be working so much for change that we allow ourselves to hope again. And we must surround ourselves with people we choose to love, not people we are genetically predisposed to love or people who are exactly like us. This is how to come alive.

We'll just take a hypothetical person. She graduated in the top 10% and now studies at UT, where she feels mediocre because she is no longer "the smart girl" in class. She's only average here. So she joins a sorority trying to find belonging and meaning, but instead only feels more insecure as she tries to fit the mold of a beautiful, successful, intelligent, "all-around" kind of girl. She is enslaved to comparing herself to others. Then she graduates to work in a PR firm, where she still fails to find meaning because she spends her day helping a corrupt client gloss over its human rights violations. At the end of the day she goes out for drinks with her girlfriends, laughing unnaturally, telling herself she is living the good life but wishing she could meet just one decent guy at these bars she frequents who won't just abandon her. She's too scared to leave the country or to even talk to people who are different from her (not to mention her friends would think she is weird). And she wonders...is this the American Dream?

Let's take that same girl and instill her with faith, hope, and love. Going to UT is still really hard, and she fights the urge to feel that she's worth nothing compared to the many successful friends she's made. But rather than giving into the temptation of self-hatred, she decides to have faith that she has a purpose here and hope that she will fulfill it. She realizes that she can study her hardest and there will still always be people who seem more intelligent than her...but then, when she looks at Jesus and at what He values instead of what the world values, she begins to look at her hands rather than her body or even brain. She puts these hands to use loving people, using her communications skills to teach English to refugee families and hanging out with unloved people on the streets. She finds peace with who she is, and therefore continues to have peace when she graduates and looks toward her uncertain future in a struggling job market. Although she ends up waiting a while to find a job and endures many moments of feeling she has failed her parents, God, and herself, she eventually begins doing PR work for a local nonprofit that helps the homeless. She still hasn't found the love of her life or, for that matter, her dream job, but is resting in God's promises and learning that his love is more than enough. She is now studying a foreign language and dreams of ending poverty in that area of the world.

Is her life any easier? Not by a long shot. But is it more abundant? Does it have eternal significance? You bet. The first version of this girl was deadened and saddened, while the second version was awakened to her true calling and purpose.

What's sad is, some of you will read this and then go away thinking it doesn't apply to you. "Well, I AM one of the few who is called to be rich and comfortable" or "That sounds nice, but being idealistic gets you nowhere." When Jesus says he has come that we may have LIFE and have it to the full, what does he say before that? "The enemy comes to steal and kill and destroy" (John 10:10). The lives of Americans are being stolen and destroyed, and quite successfully. We're perpetuating the enemy's deceit and theft through the paths we encourage our children to take and the lies we continue to tell ourselves - namely, that comfort and security will bring us the abundant life. They never have and never will.

I have to add one more thing here, along the lines of comfort and security. If God has told you to do something and you haven't obeyed because you "love your family too much," you are flat-out sinning...not to mention missing the abundant life God has for you. Whether you are close to your mother and father and don't want to leave them, or whether you want to "protect" your children by raising them in the United States rather than, say, Uganda, it is still sin if God has tugged your heart elsewhere. We are commanded to love others above ourselves, and we are to honor our father and mother and care for our children - these things are true. But Jesus says very straightforwardly, "Anyone who loves their father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; anyone who loves their son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me" (Matthew 10:37). And he means it. Probably when you have said these excuses to fellow Christians in our culture, you have been met with understanding smiles and nods: of course you should feel that way and it is only natural and of course God can't expect you to put your kids in danger. But disobeying God is far worse than taking your kids to Africa.

That said, God certainly does not want you to abandon your family in their time of need. 1 Timothy 5:8 says, "But if anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for members of his household, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever." If you have a child, it is your top priority to provide for him or her, and if you have elderly parents whose health is failing, likewise. Although there are many who have been called to go and yet stay, there are also some who are itching to change the world but in the process neglect the responsibilities God has already given them. Remember what Jesus says in Luke 16:10: "Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much, and whoever is dishonest with very little will also be dishonest with much." Be a faithful steward of what you have now, and trust that if God has given you dreams he will fulfill them in his timing and as your faith grows.

If you do not yet have a family and are waiting to obey God until he provides you with a husband or wife to comfort you, this too is a sin that betrays a lack of faith in the sufficiency and providence of Christ. Luke 16:10 also applies to you. And there is a second part to those two verse at the top that I want you to notice: "Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you." "...You who dwell in the dust, awake and sing for joy!" When God wakes us up from our safe and comfortable lives and sends us on uneasy journeys that require faith, hope and love that can only come from him, He also shines on us and gives us joy. He provides everything. When I think of the phrase "shine on you," I think of the sun with its warmth, happiness, and comfort. If Christ shines on us, it is as if he turns his face to us in approval, and his blessings come down just like rays from the sun. And when we awake, we then sing for joy because Jesus fills us with such abundant life that we are about to burst with blessing.

So believe his promises, and ask him right now what waking from your sleep and rising from the dead mean for you. You may need to simply notice someone you ignore on the street each day, you may need to change jobs, or you may even need to move your entire family overseas. Are you living the abundant life?