BROKEN in PLACE

Years ago when my body was spent from months of a mystery sickness and my soul was spent from failure, I moved in with a friend and somehow healed. It was a quote from Hemingway that help that healing along, "The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places" and I had to believe that was true.

You don't get to be twelve and not experience brokenness and you don't get to be sixty and escape it entirely, but I don't think the brokenness feels real until you are midway there. I am midway there and those broken places, oh, they are so broken.

Every few weeks I hear of yet another peer who is divorcing, another friend who couldn't stand the fear of life alone and so married in desperation, another friend who has lost a spouse or a child or a dream. The world is breaking us and we feel nothing but weakened by it.

I never understood Paul: His strength is made perfect in my weakness. Isn't Christ strength already perfect and how could my weakness make it better?

But these days I think less about perfection in an "Everything is right" sort of way and more about it in an "Everything is resolved" sort of way. Like a cadence that falls and lands on the the perfect ending note. That note is no more perfect when played by itself, but if that particular song were to end on any other note, it would feel unresolved, imperfect.

I think about strength now like that.

Being strong in the broken places only means that there is no other place for us to land but there, on that strength, on that note, in that place.

I take comfort in that because the world is breaking us and it will continue to do so. But Christ's love (and His strength) is what holds us there, kept, sustaining, until that final cadence falls and the Whole Places begin.

A STUDY of GOD

Someone wrote me an email this week full of concern. It seems a thread of theology has changed my life and can’t keep itself from weaving into the words on this page. They named it as they saw it. They quoted my lines and captioned them with a man’s name and then they slapped an –ist on the end of his name and called me that too.

It doesn’t matter that I haven’t read a stitch of his doctrine, couldn’t name his tenets of faith if I tried—the damage was done and they might as well have put a scarlet letter on me in their own mind.

Don’t worry, I responded nicely and graciously and I think we’re still friends, though I told him if my blog offends him so much, he probably shouldn’t associate with it, otherwise other people may begin to call him one of these theological-disciples as well. You are what you eat and all that, you know? At least I am, it seems.

If transformation is the changing of one thing to another, then theology, for me, has been nothing but transformative. I told a friend once that if our theologies couldn’t be subject to change then what in life could be? And I stand by that.

I know more than anything that I want the Word and Spirit alone to be that which changes my theology, but I am no fool because it is Life that has the final word.

I cannot tease my concept or study of God apart from what He has done in and through and because and in spite of me. I am a living, breathing theology. I am like paintings by art students “A Study of Light” or “A Study in Contrasts.” I am a study of God. That is not to say that I am God, not at all, but that I perceive God and I present Him, though He doesn’t need me to any more than light itself needs permission to flood a room through a sliver of space. It exists and so it lights. God exists and so has chosen us as His vessels.

What I am saying is that what we think about when we think about God is and should be transformative, it should change us today and it should change us tomorrow. But it also should be transformative itself.

Paul called it going from glory to glory and I think sometimes we want to believe that all those changes happen in one swoop, like Paul himself, on the road to Damascus. But more and more I am convinced that there is something to be said for the progressive nature of that sentence: We all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another.

That, friends, is a comfort to me.

It is a warm, warm, warm blanket to me.

I am beholding.
I am being transformed.
I am going from one degree of glory.
I am going to another degree of glory.

I am a study of God, being transformed into the same image.

The Same Image.

It wasn’t lost on those Corinthians—that word Image. They knew Image. The knew Imago. They were an idol-worshiping, image-making people. But they knew Whose Image they were transforming into and it wasn’t Paul or another Apostle; and for us it’s not a dead theologian or a living one.

The truth is that the gospel reaches deep, deep, deep inside of us, pulls out the residue of us, the filthy rags of righteousness, and the dregs of our past, and redeems it for a degree of glory. And then tomorrow, the gospel reaches back into us, pulls out some more, and redeems it for another degree of glory. And this happens until breath is gone and Life begins for real.

This is a study of God.

This is how God works, not man, not my blog, not my study of the Bible, not the sermons I listen to each week or the sermons you’re listening to right now. This is how God alone works in our lives.

So, my email-friend, I hope you’re not reading this. I really hope you’re not.

I hope you’re not because I don’t want my theology to trip you up. If it illuminates God to you, then read on. But if it steals one iota of joy from you in the reading, step away, close your browser, and live! Live life forward in the fullness of what God is revealing to you today!

But prepare for your theology to change and to change you in the process.

From one degree of glory to another.

 Half-face

Since we have such a hope, we are very bold, not like Moses, who would put a veil over his face so that the Israelites might not gaze at the outcome of what was being brought to an end. But their minds were hardened. For to this day, when they read the old covenant, that same veil remains unlifted, because only through Christ is it taken away. Yes, to this day whenever Moses is read a veil lies over their hearts. But when one turns to the Lord, the veil is removed. Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit. 

II Corinthians 3 ESV

A LOVE STORY

All I asked for the new year was a little less of everyone's drama and a little more of my own.

And I meant it.

This week I realized that it's been a drama free year for me. Not even relatively. I mean, it's been completely drama free. My car has never once broken down. My heart has not once been broken. I have never been short on finances. I have always know what I was doing and where I was going and how I was getting there. I have had the answers at my fingertips and whenever I have not, it has been fairly easy to find answers. I land consistently on the same theologies and haven't once thought seriously about running away from anything.

I'm accustomed to a rocky ride, this life of mine has not been without its waves and storms. Once a friend said to me, "Lore, for someone who loathes drama as much as you do, you're always in the middle of some epic drama!"

A few years ago a man put his hand on my head and said, "The Lord has good things planned for you, not disaster. I see a book, and the title is not a Greek Tragedy. Your life is not a Greek Tragedy. Your life is a love story that ends happily ever after. I feel like your life is a love story. Your love for God and your love for people and people's love for you. And what that love accomplishes and how it triumphs..."

And I'll be honest, my heart scoffed when he said those words. I'll tell you why: because the story of my life has been a laughable Greek Tragedy and my love for God at that point was nil, my love for people was waning, and people's love for me felt like the only thing holding my feet to the ground.

But here I am, looking back over the past year and a half, and all I can see is good things. Love stories. Happily after after. Love for God. Love for people. And people's love for me. And what that love accomplishes.

And how it triumphs.

How it triumphs.

Yesterday's early morning drive sans traffic gave me time and space to think about the -ingness of the gospel—that ongoing work of the gospel. How it's already finished and not yet finished and so we stay the course, walking, running, living ongoingly. I thought about how drama in our lives is God's way of moving heaven and earth into our path, insurmountable obstacles without Him. And just because we spend a year standing arms outstretched on a mountaintop does not mean there is less of heaven to be known and less of earth to be lived.

This morning, though, I sat on our couch, wrapped in a blanket while my two wise roommates spoke truth to me, challenged and loved me, because here's the truth: a drama-free life doesn't mean a sin-free life and oh, how I dearly wrestle with the sinfulness and selfishness of my heart. A drama free life means that the dim glass is a little clearer, but we still don't see Him face to face. And I long for that. I long so deeply for that.

I am grateful for a year of joy, a year where the bigness of God has been evident, a year where the love has been abundant, but I mean it too when I say that if 2012 is wrought with drama of my own heart's making or my own circumstance's bringing, I am ready for it. Bring it on, I say.
 

Natural Born Fearer

I am a natural born fearer.

Hard conversations scare me. Heights scare me. Bills scare me. Risk scares me. Being too much scares me. Not being enough scares me. Traffic scares me. Being alone scares me. There is no happy medium in my soul—if it can be done (or done to me), I am probably afraid of it.

2010 was a year of risk for me. I did things I swore I'd never do, I got rid of things I wanted to keep forever, I moved to a state I hated upon first sight, I quit things that hurt to quit and I left somewhere that is branded on my heart as home. I stared fear in its face and gave it the bird. It was risk born of desperation and I recommend this risk. I think that sometimes the only thing to do is to do it big or not do it at all.

Staring fear in the face and moving ahead anyway, though, didn't alleviate the fear, it was just shoved aside for a bit.

So when I embarked on 2011, my word was fearless.

I wanted to take all the same risks, live just as flexibly, with open hands, but I wanted to bolster those actions with a full-bodied faith and confidence. And I didn't want my confidence to be in the fact that I could do all the things that I'd been afraid of doing before, I wanted my confidence to be in the character of God and His faithfulness to His word.

Our little home spent all day outside yesterday. God gave us a home with trees and a deck, and a December 31st for the books. It was 72 degrees, warm, clear, perfect. We perched on hammocks and chairs; I spread my notebooks and bible out, put my ear-buds in, and ushered in 2012.

Fearless, I read, in my notebook from January 2011. Right there. Penned into the page, I read a word that seemed so impossible last December 31st. I was eeking by on pennies, making art to my heart's content, joy-filled, peace-filled, but I'll be honest with you, I was shaking in my shoes every time I walked through the door of my church and I felt panicky at the slightest bit of interaction with people outside my roommates. I was doing it, but I was doing it shackled by a fear that stuck to me like bad cough at Christmas.

I checked my heart yesterday, and checked it again. I gave myself a few hypotheticals, a few scenarios. Wait for it, I told myself, wait for it. You'll find that fear somewhere.

And yet, I couldn't.

The vestiges of it, the residue of it, and the hints of it were gone.

He is faithful to His word. This year He showed that faithfulness by being faithful to my word. He imparted fearlessness in me. For now. For today.

And that is the miracle of 2011.

Trees don't pass you by

Did I mention our new house has nine trees? Actually there are ten. Yesterday I counted one more; it's stuffed up against the house a bit, so you can understand why I missed it before. So yeah, ten trees.

If you're from home in New York, you probably have acres of wood in your backyard or at least within walking distance, so ten trees sound like a prairie to you. But for a Texan, well, it's a forest out there. We can hang a clothesline, two hammocks, and from the branches too, if we want. It's that sort of wild out there. Appreciate with me for a moment please.

It's been over a year, really, since I've asked for anything. When I left New York I made a pact with God and I didn't take it lightly: God, I won't ask you for anything if you'll just show me your glory. That's it. That's all I want. I'll eat the bread of poverty, drink the water of deprivation if I need to, just don't pass me by.

And He didn't.

But He showed His glory to me in unexpected ways: namely by not answering the myriads of prayers I've prayed in the past. I mean, categorically, I can go down through the things I've asked for in the past years, things I've agonized over, lists I've made, and requests I've made known. I was the persistent widow and He was not the righteous judge. But it wasn't because He didn't want to give me what I wanted.

It was because I didn't know what I wanted.

The other night a few friends were over and near the end of the evening, when the numbers dwindled and the glasses were emptied, one asked me a question: what do you want? I should have been ready for the question, I should have had an answer, but I stumbled, I fumbled, I scrambled for words. And the next day I realized why: I didn't know what I wanted.

It's not that I haven't thought about it in the past or known what I wanted at some point. It's just that, right now, I have everything I never knew I wanted and am all the happier for it.

When I moved here, I moved into a flat ranch house in the suburbs, we had three shrubs and a holly bush. I didn't dare ask for more.

And now, on the flip side, when I think about all God has given to me and done in me, trees are what I'm telling you about. Trees? Trees!

Because here's something God loves to do: surprise us.

Because here's something about God: He's never surprised by what we deep down inside really want.

 (this is one bit of our backyard)

A friend and I talked yesterday, about homes and personalities, places of ministry and selfishness. I'm none too unassuming about my current living situation--I know I hit gold with these girls and I want to spin it for as long as it'll go.

That hasn't always been the case. Sometimes home has been a hard place to come home to, sometimes the person I am when I walk in the door is a person who is seeking shelter from the world's storm, and sometimes the world's storm is behind those doors. Sometimes the weight of what we do here, a covenant people living outside of covenant, is abrasive and sometimes it is the perfect place to hide.

There's something about Jesus that I don't understand and I think the more I live with other people, the more I identify with Him and understand Him less.

Paul said He was a man of no reputation and He said Himself that a prophet has no honor in his hometown and home.

And I think we laud balance and transparency so highly that we fight to adopt that sort of Jesus.

The sort of Jesus who didn't do a miracle in His hometown because they wouldn't believe Him.

The sort that hid when the crowd pressed in.

The sort that asked His disciples to keep quiet about His miracles.

The sort of Jesus who was a man of no reputation.

This rubs against me because I want to be the same person outside these doors that I am inside them. I want to be as extroverted and joy-filled and kind and encouraging within our home, as I try to be without. I want to be consistent. I want to have a good reputation. And I want honor more desperately in these walls than I care about getting it outside of them.

Living with these girls is radically changing me inside. I say to one yesterday that I'm sorry that when I come home I'm quiet, introverted, that she doesn't get the best part of me. She smiled and said, "I like that you're that way at home." I say to one a week ago, "Call me out on my blindspots" and she does. And it hurts.

But here, in this place, where I have no reputation and no honor, I am known.

They know what I look like in the morning and when I haven't had coffee and when I complain about my body or how tired I am or when I rage against the self-checkout at Walmart. They know me best because they know my selfishness, they know my deepest fears and hurts. They've sat in front of me while tears choked me up.

(this is home in my head)

I think Jesus was a man of no reputation because He was known by the only One who mattered.

And He had no honor in His hometown because He knew His real home wasn't here on earth.

I think Jesus was saying that here, on earth, we're going to feel the abrasiveness of living and the inconsistency of life, but that's okay.We 're not really home yet anyway.

We got a gust of the northwind this afternoon. She brushed through the trees and stirred up the dust and was gone faster than any of us liked. A respite though. Brief and necessary. I had forgotten what it felt like.

I drove home tonight with my windows rolled down, the heat of the day subsided, and the evening air moist and heavy. It will not rain, I know this. I am learning Texas. But it is enough to feel like it might rain. It is enough to be content with a hope, even if I know it won't come true.

I confessed to Him on the way home. Said words out loud. Asked questions. How long? Why? What's your divine purpose and why me? Why this for me?

The other night I cried in front of my roommates, confessed the deepest hurt of my soul and they listened. They don't understand, how can they? I'd never wish that they would! But they listened.

And I think sometimes that is what I think about God. That He listens but doesn't understand. And when He finishes listening, He is gentle with me, loves me, tells me it won't always be like this, but then He goes on. Because being listened to should be enough sometimes. I think this about God and I think I'm wrong.

The deepest ache of my soul is that the Father doesn't care, not really. That He will listen, but when I am finished and my tears are spent, my heart raw before Him. He was thank me for my transparency and He will move on to His next appointment. The truth, though, is this is not a Father's heart at all.

He does not give half-gifts or half of his time. He does not give snakes instead of fish, or rocks in place of bread. He is not tapping His toe waiting for me to just hurry up and be content with the mere heaviness of air, while He holds back heavens full of rain. He doesn't withhold any good thing from us.

I pull into my driveway and ask Him, right out loud, "God, what is good for me?"

"What is the best thing for this day for me?"

(This is not a selfish prayer, I am learning. This is where we begin so that we can always end at His glory, because He knows. He knows.)

I walk into my living room, where my roommates and a friend are watching a movie, eating popcorn. I make an egg for dinner, with a peach and I ask Him, more quietly this time, "What is it God? What?"

"Where am I settling for a mere shadow of things to come, when you want to show me the richness of today, today?"

This is it, He says. Here. With these people. In this home. With that peach. With the wind today. And the words spoken tonight at church. The hug in the hallway. The encouragement from a friend. The provision for my car problems. The opportunity to sit and write. The quietness of my room. This is my good for you today.

And it is enough.

A friend asked the other day "Isn't it strange how everything we did pre-gospel understanding was motivated from fear? Even the brave risks we took--all deeply seeded in fear?"

I've been thinking about it for days now.

How even my dreams, at the root, are there because I'm afraid I'll never amount to anything, never do anything worthwhile with my life. Even the very best parts of me are still rooted in a fear of sorts.

The thing that's changing me (although slowly) is a right understanding of God's character, but I'll be honest: it's still so hard.

I say to a friend last night: I'm so good at being [this one thing], and I have such a slew of messups behind me in this opposite area. Wouldn't it be better to just go with the former, the things I'm good at doing, the thing at which I excel and impress?

But even in that I hear the fear quivering in my voice. The fear that I'll be what Paul talks about in Romans 1: given over to the deceitfulness of my mind. Left to indulge in the flesh, the places where I'm good, where I excel, where people are impressed with me. What if that is God's discipline to me?

See the fear?

It's palpable.

(frolic blog)

Perfect love casts out fear and, I'll be honest, my understanding of love has grown immeasurably this year, and is still so absent it hurts. It seems that the more I'm aware of the perfect love, the more I believe that I don't have it and it's not toward me. I want to say that this is normal in faith, that the closer we are drawn to the Father, the more aware we are of our blights and bruises.

But I don't know.

(Another fear.)

I don't know if someday, when this is finished, when heaven hits earth and redeems it in one full, swift motion, I don't know if that's when we feel done, finished. I don't know if that's the perfect love that John was talking about.

Or if, here, right now, in the middle of this beautiful, aching, living mess, we feel it too.

(Matt spoke about doubt this past weekend at my church.
It reached deeply in me. Give it a listen if you struggle with doubt too.
Or you know someone who does.)

I have wanted to tell you a story for a week or two now, but just because one is a writer does not mean one is a storyteller and storytelling is not my strong suit. I lose the punch line or fumble it up somewhere, I can never adequately describe characters and I get too caught up in dialogue to do anyone any justice. People ask why I don't write a novel and the truth is that I couldn't create a compelling character or story if I tried.

But I have a story to tell you, and it's true and mine so hopefully that will make it easier to tell.

A few weeks ago I saw someone on Twitter doing a book giveaway and I nearly clicked through to follow protocol on winning said book. I actually do this fairly often and usually end up not entering my name in the drawing, mostly because I've never won anything in the past and also I am a chronic doubter in the goodness of God toward me. But this particular time I didn't enter the drawing for another reason: almost a year ago I got rid of most of my belongings, including about a thousand books, and I just don't want to live a lifestyle where I'm consuming and gathering more of anything. Especially if I don't need it.

I don't need much.

It was a good reminder to me that a little stopping and thinking before acting is usually in order.

I went on my way, happily book-less. And perhaps with a notch of pride on my anti-consumerism belt.

The next morning I got an email in my inbox saying that my name was selected to win a Bible study kit from one of my favorite bloggers (Jared Wilson, a guy I have the utmost respect for, not just theologically, but because he left the comfortable Bible-belt suburbs and landed himself and his family in Rutland, Vermont where he pastors a small church. He has a passion to see the Gospel spread in New England. If I ever move back up north, I think Rutland will be on the list of very probable places to land.).

I was a bit confused about the win, see, because I hadn't entered my name in any contest or drawing. But it seems that a month or so back Jared had posted a blog asking for support for a girl in his church who was headed overseas. I was compelled. I gave. And I thought that was the end of it.

Not so, Jared said. He'd selected two names from those who gave to receive the study kit and I was one of those names.

I didn't know anything about the kit, but honestly, I didn't care. I felt immediately so struck by this one thought from the Lord: Hey, listen, daughter. It is not up to you or Twitter or blogs whether I bless you. You just abide in me and be faithful with your heart, your finances, your actions, and I will bless you in the best way I see fit. Don't pride yourself on the lack in your life, find your sole satisfaction IN ME.

Jesus, in a very small way, showed me a very large lesson.

Because I worry about my actions a lot. I play chess with my days, my schedule, my time, my words. I'm always about my Father's business by doing the best job I can at my business. But the truth is, He doesn't need me. He wants me. He desires that I abide in Him, listen to Him, worship Him, but He doesn't need me. He's going about His business whether I'm on my A-game or not. He's going to bless me whether I think I need it or not.

I got the kit in the mail the other day and it was so much more than I even knew it would be. It's called Abide and the tag-line is "Practicing Kingdom Rhythms in a Consumer Culture." And once again I'm struck by the timing and goodness of God.

He knows how to find the perfect gift for the girl who thought she had everything.

Confession begins the process, but it doesn't finish it and God shows me this gently and thoroughly. He is long-suffering, waiting patiently, in no rush for my sanctification to happen, only wants it fully and deeply real. He waits. He is self-controlled. He is the ultimate of self-controlled.

I am not.

I say this to you a few months ago, confession beginning, but not finishing the work. I talk about it in vague spiritual terms, Christ compels us, we do not control or preserve ourselves, He is ultimate, we are only fruit-bearers when we abide in the Spirit.

But the truth is that I am so self-controlled that I will not unclasp my fingers from around the things that comfort me, convict me, console me. I am actually very controlled by self.

I pride myself on things, habits, concerns, activism, foods, musics, friends, etc. I have in my head that if I A, B, or C, then 1, 2, or 3 will happen. Disappointment in myself and God ensues when they do not happen.

They are not even wrong things, they are things like organic food, Starbucks coffee, buying used clothing, being politically informed, washing my hair once every three days. People, these are not dealbreakers! These are not things that will catapult my life into grandness or wreck it into smithereens. These are the everyday, normal, typical decisions every person must make.

The Book of Colossians is the comfort to my soul these past few weeks. They were people like me. I read it in the morning on my phone, while I wait for the shower. I read it as I am closing my eyes before sleep. I read it over lunch and sometimes during my day at work. I mull and let it sink in deeply.

See to it that no one takes you captive by philosophy or empty deceit, according to human tradition, according to the elemental spirits of the world, and not according to Christ. For in Him the whole fullness of deity dwells bodily, and you have been filled in him, who is the head of all rule and authority. Colossians 2:8-10

I am so captivated by philosophy and empty deceit, human traditions, elemental spirits of the world. I am so enthralled with information and how-tos, biography and testimony. I want to know things and I want to know how they will work themselves out in my life. I want to know about the intricacies of human and plant anatomy, the benefits of animal husbandry, the holocaust of child slavery, the roadmap to spirituality. I want a plan and a direction. I want to hold the fruit of my labor in my hands.

But Paul says that only in Christ dwells the whole fullness of deity.

The whole fullness.

All of it.

In Him.

Only He can know all, be all, say all, do all. To try is to already fail.

I am humbled tonight, sitting in the corner of my bedroom typing. I am humbled because I want to let go of control, not so that I can accomplish something by doing so, but so that there will be more space for His Spirit to fill.

I suppose you're always thinking, "Oh great, what new thing is she learning about today? What new thing is so radically changing her life? What same old thing about God that we already know is sending her off into undulating surprise today?"

Because that's what I'd be thinking. I'd be tired of all the new! amazing! life-changing! things that someone else was learning that I've already known for years.

I may be narcissistic, but I am absolutely obsessed with what I'm learning about God every day. I can't help but not shut up about it.

New thing today? I'm not bored by God! I'm absolutely not bored by Him, He interests me, He surprises me, He captures me, He sustains me, He joys me, He helps me, He holds me, He crafts me.

By nature I am a New Thing person and in the past this has been my nemesis. But now! Now I am so thankful and grateful for that facet of my personality. Because He is a God who makes all things new. He takes the same old, and presents it differently every time. Do you know why?

Because He knows that I love new things! I love new lessons and new challenges and new opportunities. And He is intimately involved in the details of my life. He knows them. He's shaping them and expounding on them and shedding light on them and extrapolating from them.

I wrote this a year ago. I went back and reread it last night while sharing with a friend about the everyday newness of the Gospel: I have made a caricature God.

The truth is that for years I have been bored by God. I felt that I had plumbed the depths of Him and had gotten a handle on the principles He liked and the practices He didn't. I was bored by his sameness, his faithfulness that felt deceptively tedious. I felt that the only challenge He ever gave me was to try my patient and endurance, and I felt every scrap of that failing.

I felt that He withheld His hand from me, holding back blessings until I'd proven something to Him, holding back joy until I'd suffered enough, holding back love until I stopped looking for it elsewhere.

In all the deep things that I am learning about God, I am learning that He is anything but boring. And here is how I am coming to that conclusion.

Because not only is He interesting to me, He is interested in me. He is capture by me. He finds joy in me. He! Maker of the universe! Savior of mankind! Coming Messiah! He is all those things toward me. He pursues me. He pursues me. I cannot help but respond. I cannot help but be captured, body, soul, and spirit by Him.

He is always new in His constancy and consistency. Every day. New.

There are two responses I get when people hear I go to The Village Church. 1. How's Matt Chandler doing, I heard he has brain cancer. 2. Oh, you're one of those Calvinists, huh? (Sometimes the second one is implied, but I just nod and hope to smile away their obvious disdain.)

1. Matt is doing great. We continue to thank God for his healing, pray that he would stay healthy and that it would glorify God. And, if he does not stay healthy, that he would suffer well and it would glorify God.

2. I've honestly never read a single thing by Calvin, couldn't name the five TULIP thingies if I tried, stumble over a simple explanation of predestination (though I stumble even more over a simple explanation of free-will), I do believe that my salvation is secure and I absolutely believe that I have unmerited grace, I don't deserve it, I can't earn it, I can't beat it, and I can't get it back because I can't lose it. So yes, I suppose that, if pressed, I would say that the effects of the reformers' teaching has profoundly affected the way I see God and salvation now. So maybe I'm reformed. Yes. I would say that I am.

But more and more (and more and more) I read the Bible and I am absolutely floored by the grace in it (every book, Old Testament and New). Grace the concept, grace the gift, grace the favor, grace the expression, grace the action, all of it. I'm surprised by its accessibility, its encompassing favor, its undeniable availability, and its absoluteness.

And what scares people off (I find) from the doctrine of grace is that it will somehow give license to sin without regard (or omit the need to do the 'work' the book of James talks about). But the truth is, all grace does is set us free to live without regard for anything else but God's glory. So people respond, "what about when people abuse it?" And I return, just because a child eats only the tops of broccoli and not the stems, do you stop telling them that the entirety of the vegetable is good for them? No! We must understand that grace is the whole truth and we keep teaching the truth until we all eat the entirety of it. (Also, God is wholly unconcerned with the possibility that we could abuse grace, it's unsoilable.)

This weekend we are at a conference (The Groaning Cosmos) and it is a steady diet of grace. Yet I am still so surprised at the staggering in my heart, the catch in my throat, the question in my soul: is it really that good? That good? So good that it will propel me into greater service for the Kingdom AND God's glory will so much more magnified by my joy?

For a legalist, like me, this is good, good news.

My heart is so bent on doing, so intent on proving, so desiring of acceptance and constantly sick in its depths. But grace, grace is the perfect antidote.

Because it is the only antidote.

It's true.

Because we are Americans or because we are humans (I don't know), because we live, we want.

We come into the world wanting and we leave the world wanting too. Because this gnawing want exists, there accompanies a gnawing need for instant gratification and we who wear the name Christ-follows are not unscathed from this blight.

An email lands in my inbox last week and I let it sit there for seven days. I am thinking about it, but I am not answering it. I am practicing the Discipline of Wait, for both myself and for the sender of the email.

How can you say that practicing gratefulness will not lead us into a greater love for God? the sender asks. And the flesh in me wants to respond instantly that I didn't say that exactly. But I understand the questioner is not asking to catch me in a false theology, but because they genuinely want to love God and they've been taught that disciplining themselves will lead to feeling it.

The truth is, folks, that I don't know. The truth is that I know, for me, for my story, my propensity, my personality, and ultimately my theology (my study of God), disciplining myself into loving Him did not work. And if you push me, I will say that this is not uncommon.

But I think there is a deeper current here than just a desire to love the Lord and a nature that doesn't.

We see our theology through fallen and failing eyes, a dim glass Paul calls it. And I'm afraid that this dim glass has led to not only a very incorrect picture of God (and us), but also a dangerous one. This is the if/then picture: if I do this, then He will do this; if I say this, then He will give this; if I pray this way, worship this way, discipline my life this way, then He will reward in this fashion.

And I don't want to completely disagree with that, after all, the Bible says that a man reaps what He sows. But preceding that, it says that the reason a man reaps what he sows is because God cannot be mocked.

This means that the end result is not about the sowing or the reaping, it is about God's character being true and His nature being sure--unmocked. So if a man sows faithfully, and yet reaps what the world (and the Church) sees as unfortunate or sorrowful, this does not mean that the man's sowing was fruitless.

Because God cannot be mocked.

And His plan cannot be mocked.

And the fruit borne of his work in our lives cannot be mocked.

Even if we never, ever, ever see the fruit on earth we want so desperately to see: He sees it. He knows it. He's aware of it. He's delighted in it.

Even if the only harvest is seeing Him, one day, face to face, that IS a harvest.

It is strange and comforting to me that the wild changes in my polarity and faith this year have really only magnified the unchangeableness of God. The more I change, the less I see Him changing.

That is not to say that what I see of him is not changing and being unveiled, I just mean that what I understand of Him and His character is solid, sustainable, true, good, faithful, long-suffering, and the list goes on. He is surprisingly trustworthy.

In my Christian faith there have always been some passages in the Bible that I got hung up on, those I scribbled question marks beside: how can God be who he says he is, and yet still be this? or say this? or do this? One of those passages was II Timothy 2:13: If we are faithless, He remains faithful, for He cannot deny himself.

Lately those question marks have been replaced with notes in my margins, commentary on these previously misunderstood passages.

I used to think that His faithfulness to me depended on my faithfulness to him and I didn't understand how the fact that He could not deny Himself had anything to do with denying me. Me is not Him.

But now I see that what Paul was saying to Timothy is this:

Listen, God is faithful to what He said, faithful to finish what He started, and faithful to communicate His character. What He is, He is. He cannot deny that any more than you can deny that you're a human and a sinner. You just are.

He knows that you're human and a sinner, obviously unfaithful and a lover of the flesh. He knows that and is not surprised by that.

So, He cannot deny His character and His 'ISness' and you cannot be faithful; therefore, He has to be faithful in the midst of your unfaithfulness. It isn't dependent on your faithfulness, but on the permanence and unchangeableness of his character.

If you had asked me a year ago what my biggest complaint about God was, my answer would have been quick and from the deepest part of me: He is not good.

And yet now His goodness is the most staggering adjective I can think of to describe His character. Good--a simple and concise word, but the word that encapsulates Him best. I think.

Because I no longer judge his goodness by my present circumstances or dependent on my personal goodness, I am consistently astounded at Him. I no longer fear my unfaithfulness because I know that I'm going to be unfaithful and He is not undone by that. In fact, He is that much more faithful toward me--toward teaching me and growing me into His likeness, no matter how long it takes.

I'm captivated by Him. Just Him. His character. His permanence and unchangeableness. His love for me. His faithfulness to me. His goodness toward me.

We wait, in collective mourning, for the rumbling of an earthquake or some great disaster or last hurrah.

We wait, huddled in a room, for the wrath of a Father for the loss of His only Son.

We are waiting for the slap on the wrist, the furrowed brow in our general direction, a stony silence.

We denied Him; now we are afraid that He will deny us.

I am not sure what we thought would happen. Miracles are believable when they are in first person. But we are second persons now, we are the observers; no longer participants in the greatest act of God since creation.

Peter is swallowing the guilt of denial, his words echoing off the corners of his heart.

Matthew is distraught, still, over Judas's mathematics: 30 gold pieces are chump change to him and he would have given thrice or more in exchange for one more day.

The women are weeping in the corner. Mary throws her wrap over her head and leaves the room by herself, holding scents and spices and a plan.

Thomas is saying he told us so, and so he did. So he did.

We have forgotten quickly. It is two days since then and we have grown accustomed to the gnawing disappointment. For moments during His agony we expected and waited, then when the sky turned dark, we thought Surely Then. The veil is torn in the temple, we're told, this is the sign perhaps?

We will finish our Sabbath, though nothing about mourning is restful. We will leave the room and enter life before Jesus. Next year, perhaps? The Messiah will come? Next year?

This is our wait. We hover over seventy-two hours and a promise we didn't understand and didn't think to ask.

Reposted from April 11, 2009