Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire?

Before a polygraph can be performed, the test-giver asks a series of questions to which he knows the answers to ascertain a baseline. Therefore, when a lie is given, it's clear because the needle spikes amidst the truth. Everyone has a different baseline, and some people can BS the lie detector, but it's a rare one who can.

The reason I'm giving you a brief lesson in polygraphy is because what I see across the board in the blogosphere is a lot of people citing spikes as norms (on every side in every issue)—and it's not helpful.

I think if we were to more often consider a holistic picture of any movement (political, spiritual, etc.) we would not only find a more holistic argument for their views—founded or not—and, which is more, we would find people. We would find individuals who care deeply about their issues and often times have deeply personal reasons for caring about them. I'm not arguing that every position should be considered viable, but every person ought to be considered, particularly by Christians, whose ministry is one of reconciliation—namely the reconciliation of man to God.

Recently I've been cited as being part of the Young Restless Reformed corner of the Church. True or not is beside the point (if you have a problem with that, reread the former paragraph). One common pushback on the YRR is that they only listen to like-minded individuals and only call out in public those who disagree. However, if you, like the polygraph giver, would observe the baseline truths of what God is doing there, you'd find they're actively involved in calling out their own brothers and sisters where error occurs. I know my email inbox has been filled with an equal amount of caution and encouragement—and I'm fully prepared for more public responses as my readership grows.

A perfect example of good discourse on this currently is the current amiable conversation between Thabiti Anyabwile and Doug Wilson—on a very polarizing issue—on their blogs. It's been a pleasure to watch a disagreement play out between brothers with good-will and gospel focus.

If you find yourself citing spikes and rushing to share the latest drama from any particular corner of the internet, a word of caution: establish a baseline first; find every reason to think the very best of individuals you're planning on slandering or sharing information about, and then press near to the Holy Spirit for He ushers us into all truth (Jn. 14:26)

(This actually wasn't written in response to the accusations leveled at me from the former post, just thoughts that have been rolling around in my noggin for a while.)

I Know Jesus and I Might Have Heard of You Too

Did y'all know there are whole websites devoted to uncovering the supposed-salacious details of Christian bloggers and pastors? I didn't until today when my inbox received a google alert that my name, lo and behold, was attached to some very salacious details of its own. Who knew? I didn't read far—my constitution is affected enough by truths about my own soul to bother with what strangers make up about it. Suffice it to say the underbelly is alive and well, folks, alive and well.

All this has me thinking about the ever shrinking neutral ground and whether it exists at all, or ever has. It seems nothing is out from under the watchful eye of bloggers and critics these days. Mostly because everyone has a platform these days and if not, they build one from crates, soapboxes, and grudges til they get one. I'm a peace-making sort, but even I feel the pull to build a Babel—even to just protect my own name and sense of peace.

What most of these watchdog sites and bulldog bloggers are doing, though, is attempting to make their -ism (whatever -ism and -ian or -ist they are) seem more appealing than the others'. And if they can't do that, or have already failed to do so, they'll do their darnedest to pull all the -isms down with 'em.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

One of my favorite passages in the book of Acts is when those seven silly sons of Sceva tried to cast out demons in the names of Paul and Jesus without any faith of their own. The evil spirits replied, "I know Jesus and I've heard of Paul, but who are you?" and I-love-that.

I know Jesus and I've heard of Paul.

But who are you?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

So tonight, this small writer, writing from a dark bedroom in a small, dark house in Texas, my roommate asleep next to me, her mom asleep in her bed, a friend asleep on the couch, and the rest of my girls snug in bed, I think about how small our lives are. How very, very small they are.

Who are we?

Precious few of us are Pauls; most of us are probably Peters, running at the mouth and sinking after three steps. Or Thomas, that beautiful faithless skeptic. Maybe we're Mary, the whore with the hair at Jesus feet, giving much. Perhaps some of us are just shepherds on a cold night, to whom an angel appears with great news. Maybe we're Joseph, asked to do hard things. But at the end of all things, we are very small people living very small lives. I think that with every new twitter follower, every facebook like, every email that comes into my inbox, every new invitation to speak or write: who are you, Lore? Who the heck are you?

Because at the end of all things, the world won't care about my -ism or my name. They won't remember anything when faced with the all-encompassing God of the universe. They will Know Jesus. Every one of us will bow and confess Him alone as Lord.

And until that day, I want to simply do my best to preach the gospel in His name. That's all I am. And I hope, I hope that's all you are too.

An Apology to the Wounded Birds

I'm sorry.

You were sold the story, hook, line, and sinker. Do this, don't do that, build it, tear it down, cover it up, write it over—do it all and then this...

This will happen for you. Or this bad thing, that won't happen for you. Obey, honor, submit, then shut your mouth, don't ask questions, don't dare defy. Do all that and it will go well for you.

And then it didn't. It didn't go well and it went really bad. Really, really bad. On the other side you stood there with nothing. No morals, no laurels, no crowns of glory, all your delight in shambles and your hope in rags. They said it would go well for you and then it didn't.

This is a letter to you, you women who grew up asking how short was too short, how obedient was obedient enough, how submission looked on you, and if every single thing you did was right enough, good enough, pure enough.

This is letter to you, you girls who grew up with mothers barefoot in the kitchen, with fathers stern and unappreciative, with every boy a threat, and every girl a comparison.

This is a letter to you, liberated woman. You came out in college roaring. You threw off the shackles of fundamentalism, of second guessing, of moralism, of theology that bound instead of freed.

This is a letter to you, freed women, ones who are looking for the voices of your sisters, the ones who know it as acutely as you do. Who know the shackles, the questions, the fears, and the injustice of growing up always looking over your shoulder.

I'm sorry.

I am so, so sorry.

I am sorry that something beautiful was perverted by an enemy who steals, kills, and destroys. I am deeply sorry that you felt damaged, a cowering bird in a coyote's world. I am so sorry that you spent your life in front of a fun-house mirror, a distortion of who you truly are. I am not your parent or your pastor, but I am you, and I am sorry.

I know you are looking for strong female voices, women who will lead the charge toward full freedom, birds who have found their flight above the heads of squabbling coyotes. I know you are looking for women who will say that yes, that was wrong, what happened to you. That, yes, the reflection you've been shown is not a true woman, a woman who fears the Lord and loves His word. That, yes, the subservient cloistered crouching woman is nothing like what a daughter of the King ought to look like.

I know you are looking for her.

And so I'm sorry, I'm sorry that I haven't spoken up. I'm sorry that in the face of one perversion, I've let another extreme pass me by without saying anything.

The enemy's favorite tactic is to pervert what is good, and there is none good, no not one. Except Him. And the wholeness of Him cannot be perverted.

Here is my promise to you, my sister, my friend: I promise you I will fight on your behalf. I promise I will fight for truth, for the culmination of all things in the Only One Who Is Good. I promise I will wrestle with theology and that I will not let go of God. That I will not let go until He has changed the names of each of us. Until we do not find our identity in a name or label, but that we find it in the fullness of Christlikeness. I cannot promise we will not walk with a limp, each one of us, but I think our limp will be our mark, our Ebenezer, our fist in the face of the enemy.

I promise to wrestle with the One who promises to lead us through to the other side.

After much prayer, counsel, and time, I've accepted an offer to join the teams of writers over at the Council on Biblical Manhood and Womanhood. Many of you are encouraged to have my voice there and I know many of you are disappointed in me. My promise to both of you is that my fight is not for equality or distinction, biblical womanhood or feminism, my fight is against the powers of darkness and my delight is to walk in the light.

I believe that CBMW recognizes the lack of a strong young female voices in the Church today and they care about the practical implications of a complementarian view. I am a complementarian, that hasn't changed, but I believe the answers many egalitarians have been pressing for have not been handled well. Unanswered questions, coupled with the distortion of truth many of us grew up with in evangelicalism, only breeds room for more distortions. I do not aim to answer questions, so much as I am to fight for purity of the Gospel. With the Lord's help, I will aim for clarity and consistency, that's my promise to you.

Drinking Often

I am thinking of the first communion these days, more part of the Easter story than the Christmas, but how can we love the birth if we do not love the death? I am thinking of that cup of wine, the sign of the new covenant, the blasphemous words of a man at a table with 12 friends: drink this new way of doing things, this new kindness of God. Drink it in remembrance of me.

"As often as you do it..." That's what he said. It's odd that a man who was saying, "I'm doing away with your rituals and sacrifices, your habits and your rules," was also saying, "do this often." But this is what I think about last night falling asleep: He has set for us pleasant perimeters. He says do it often, but remember it's not your religion anymore.

He knows us so well to use a word like often.

We need this, with our hearts so prone to attempting and trying, to sacrificing the modern lambs of our time, our tithe and our truant hearts.

We need this, we who do not understand that the kindness of God draws us to repentance and anything less is a marauder of faith and a shortcut to legalism.

I drink the cup this past Sunday with no resolve in my heart to do better next time or try harder tomorrow, no attempts to force a change of heart or fall into an apathy of my soul. I drink it with the freedom to drink it often, as often as I need a reminder of the new covenant, as often as I need the kindness of God drawing out my repentance. I drink it in gratefulness.

Someone said to me a few months ago: I'm only grateful for the Old Testament because it shows me where I'd be without the New Testament. I think about this often. That's really what Jesus was saying, drink this small cup, this sip of wine, do it to remember where you were and where you are now.

Doesn't that taste good?

(Published originally this past year on Grace for Sinners)

Tough Mud, Miry Pits, and Why God Won't Be Mocked

A blog-reader (and near friend) wrote me an email the other day containing these words:

l love the peace-speaking, life-giving nature of your blogs. You seem seized by your faith that the Lord can work out the differences in His Body—or at least help us live in peace despite them.

And then I read yet another diatribe about yet another divisive issue in the Church. And a biting tweet from someone who ministers effectively from an office about someone who ministers effectively from a garden. And then I heard someone snort behind me when a certain demographic was discussed.

Seized by my faith. Yes. But seized by my faith in a sovereign God. Yes.

Perhaps I'm simplistic, but I know how my brain works and the miles it runs every day, the questions it asks and the solutions it tries to find. I know how quickly I can survey the ground in front of me and how fast I can estimate the work to be done and the best way to do the work. So I don't think it's simplistic thinking that drives me to breathe deep at the factions, lift my eyes up and say, "But God."

We're all so concerned with defending truth, or at least our best white-knuckled version of the truth, that sometimes we forget that God guards His truth and He will not be mocked.

He will not be mocked (Gal. 6:7).

Westboro Baptist Church may seem to make a mockery of Him, but then Fred Phelps grand-daughter comes out and extols His name.

Chic-Fila may have walked into a hornet's nest, but then president Dan Cathy meets with GLBT spokesperson and puts flesh on the Gospel.

Mark Driscoll may tick a lot of people off, but Mars Hill Seattle is filled with hundreds of pastors who are on the ground, doing the work of the gospel and people are being saved.

But that's not all:

I have pounded my fists in the air and cursed God's name, and He still wants me.

He wants me?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

God will not be mocked and He will use arms, legs, hands, and feet shod with truth to take the Gospel to doubters and dwellers, skeptics and seekers, askers and atheists, pharisees and philosophers. He uses you and me—and all of us fools.

So the next time we're tempted to write a blog post denouncing yet another brother or sister in Christ, or type 140 characters about how we know so much more about another person's life or ministry calling, let's take a second and a second look at the miry pit from which we came.

He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure. Psalm 40.2

He wants you. And He might have used a fool or two along the way to get to you.

Because, don't worry, He knows His sheep and they know Him. And His name is safe.

Real Men & Real Women: Tough & Tender

The Young, Restless, & Reformed Complementarian crowd is often caricatured by a flannel shirt wearing bearded young man who gulps craft beers and talks theology from scribbled notes off his moleskine notebook. He quotes Piper and Packer and Paul. He opens doors for his sisters and uses the word "damn" with frequency, except when his simple fundamentalist Baptist mother is around. He never feels completely capable of leading anyone because he feels like he's playing catch-up for all his years of not. He drinks his coffee black.

Because the movement has historically been so stalwartly male, made of all things growly and gruff, there just hasn't been a similar caricature for the female side of YRRC. Though if you were going to attempt a one, she's probably an avid Pinner, crafting the perfect home for her bearded [future] husband, reading Proverbs 31 and feeling like she falls short of everything except being a wife of noble character (and only because the YRR guy wouldn't choose anything less than nobility of character for his wife). She probably shops at Whole Foods, or for the more frugal, Trader Joes. She writes Bible verses on index cards and tacks them to kitchen cabinets.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

One of the enemy's favorite tactics is to take what God has not called ultimate and make it so. If he can confuse the Christians, get them to devour one another, well, he can call it a day. No need for the Crusades part deux, Jesus came to bring a sword, and by golly, the first people we're gonna use it on is one another.

One particular area of glee the enemy is basking in these days is the division he's bringing to the Church concerning gender roles. And he does it by making caricatures rampant.

Humanity is important, which means individuals are important, which means men and women are important, which means what men and women do is important, and if the enemy can make what we do (or have done) more important than what God has done, he will seem to have won this particular battle.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A concern of mine I see as I stand on the sidelines, and am being invited into the midst, is that we are taking caricatures of men and women and making them ultimate. For the YRR complementarian man, he thinks a principal way of Being A Man is fighting for his sisters: he wants them to be protected and flourishing—only he's a little clumsy at it sometimes and it can come off like he's being a chauvinist. For the complementarian woman, it's to find a husband as quickly as possible—not because she's half a person without him, but because how can she prove she's a distinct helper if she's not helping anyone? For the egalitarian man, he wants to serve his sisters by fighting to give them a voice where traditionally the most a woman can do in the Church is change diapers and hand out bulletins (Note: both tasks are valuable, I'm not knocking them, just how they limit the abundantly distinct gifts of women.). For the egalitarian woman, she has distinct powerful words burgeoning up inside of her and wants desperately to share them with the world; she wants to help, even if she ends up just sounding shrill.

Theologically we're not at all alike, but practically I think we are.

I don't think we all are. But I think we are sort of kind of maybe are.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Hear me out.

If the enemy's favorite tactic is to distract us by what is not best, so we would miss what is, wouldn't you say he thinks he's succeeding in some respects (Gen. 3.1-5)?

We have brothers who are fighting on behalf of their sisters, wanting to see their strengths utilized and maximized within the bounds of scripture, and we have sisters who want to do what they were created to do: help bring wisdom, counsel, a distinct voice, a feminine voice.

We're not so different after all.

But if we continue to get distracted by terminology, practicality, and sustainability, we're going to lose sight of the beautiful simplicity of the Gospel. I am not saying a theology of gender roles is unimportant here—I'm saying the world and its constructs are dead to us, we boast in the cross alone (Gal. 6.14).

Piper said, "We're not here to make men and women, we're here to make disciples." And my heart leaps inside of me when I hear that. Practice is important, but our practice should be to make disciples in the shadow of the cross, not to make mini-mes. "Come and die" is our mantra, "it's gonna hurt" should be our caveat.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Are you trying to fit yourself into a caricature of what your church or your theology deems you to be? Can I plead with you to not? You are doing a disservice to your theology, your brothers and sisters, and most of all the Gospel, if you make your position or personality ultimate.

Brothers, help your sisters. Fight for them when they are being marginalized. Fight for them not because you want them to lead you, or because you think it will make you more capable of leading them, but because the more you fight for your sisters, the more they will fight for you, and the more you will contend for the Gospel together as one.

Sisters, fight for your brothers. Help them see things in different distinct ways, help them with gentler tones and aspects of humanity that have been characterized as feminine. There is a deep need in the Church today for strong gentleness, ferocious lovingkindness, and articulate passion, and you are absolutely built to bring it to the table. But bring it for the sake of the Gospel, not your voice.

"Jesus is tough and tender, absolutely will get in the face of wicked, self-righteous leaders, and then hug a child. So when we come to Christ, men get appropriately tougher and appropriately more tender, and the same thing happens with women. It's like the last chapter, the end of a movie. There's a sense that my life makes sense, my experiences make sense. I am a female, but it's a bigger deal than that, I am a part of a greater story, I have a sense that I'm bringing to the table not just my femininity, but my spiritual gifts. I am not just a man, but I'm here to give my life away for the body of Christ. And that only happens when we come to Christ." —Darrin Patrick

For the sake of the gospel, friends, be like Christ. Tough and tender, both for both, all at once, all one in Jesus Christ.

But I'm Not a Brother!?

When the good folks at B&H Books asked me to read and review the updated and expanded version of Brothers, We Are Not Professional: A Plea to Pastors for Radical Ministry, first I said, "But I'm not a brother." Then I said, "Also, I'm not a pastor." Doesn't matter, came the reply, both read your blog. And so this is how it came to be that I added BWANP to one of the twelve coveted open spots for 100 in 2013. I'm glad too, because this is less a book to brothers only or pastors only, but to all followers of Christ. Never have I read a more succinct, helpful, scripturally soaked treatise than this. Every page abounds with references to the Word and reminders of the gospel. Every suggestion is bolstered by scripture and every challenge is backed up firmly. I closed each chapter knowing with more certainty the call of Christ is one of coming and dying. It helps that the author is such an accomplished writer as well. Many can say these words, but saying them with eloquence is another matter altogether.

Much has been written on the original book already, so I'm not going to spend much time there. Instead, I'd like to just highlight a few things from some of the added chapters.

Brothers, God Does Make Much of Us: I am deeply grateful for this chapter specifically because often "Making Much of God" can shove aside the fact that we are deeply, deeply loved by God. With five points given to how God loves us and seven points given to how He makes much of us, it would be difficult for a reader to walk away feeling that they are only a puppet in a Master's play.

Brothers, God is the Gospel: Gospel has become a bit of a buzzword in recent years, and though I don't think that means we ought to find a replacement, I do think it's a great opportunity for us to relearn, or recalibrate on what is the gospel. In God is the Gospel, there are laid out very clearly the components of a correct understanding of what the gospel is. In some measure we will only see in part until we see face to face, but in the meantime we ought to clearly grasp and communicate what it is the Gospel is until that day.

Brothers, Pursue the Tone of the Text: Recently someone described a certain conversation in my church circles as "tone-deaf" and it happened to be at the same time that I read this chapter. This chapter was somehow written tonefully, to coin a word; it sounded like music and I don't think that was an accident. The message of the Gospel is hope, yet so often our pulpits are filled with cheap substitutes or pounding diatribes. Here the author reminds us that hope is full of joy, but sometimes the joy is eventual—so we ought to be mindful of our tone. Sorrow can lead to joy, but only if we sorrow according to those who have hope.

Brothers, Act the Miracle: The author confesses his most besetting sins and does not offer a four step program to defeat them, but instead illuminates the power of the cross over them. He reminds Christians that our sins have been canceled, and so therefore they may be conquered, while too often we do the latter in an attempt for God to do the former. This was my favorite chapter as this is one of my besetting sins.

There is much to be gleaned from this book and I highly, highly recommend it to anyone, pastors or new believers, mothers or children. It's a book about being a disciple who makes disciples and this is the call on us all. It would be appropriate to go through with a small group. I even think it could be tailored to be appropriate to go through in family devotions. The chapters are short enough and structured in such a way that discussion points could be simplified and filtered for differing audiences.

You can purchase a copy here: Brothers, We Are Not Professional: A Plea to Pastors for Radical Ministry by John Piper

Yet

The nations shall see your righteousness,and all the kings your glory, and you shall be called by a new name that the mouth of the Lord will give.

A friend and I have an ongoing conversation in which we always decide we agree, but in which I usually come back later with some grievance. He says that a woman who doesn’t feel lovely before marriage won’t feel lovely afterward, and I say that God loved us while we were yet sinners so it’s not too much to expect a man to at least try to follow suit.

I think we are both lazy in our estimation of what loveliness is.

You shall be a crown of beauty in the hand of the Lord, and a royal diadem in the hand of your God.

It’s been a whole year since I’ve felt lovely. I know it exactly because it was the second week of Lent last year that the little lie crept in and began to strangle out the good and beautiful that grew inside of me. A year is a long time for a lie to fester, especially if you put off addressing the lie until 365 days later. Which I am now doing.

Last week one of my classmates read from Psalm 139. He read it through once, quickly, then teased it apart a bit for us, then asked us to close our eyes and imagine we were saying those hallowed words to God Himself.

Tears pooled in my eyes and I could barely breathe at the end of it all.

I could barely say those words to a friend, a roommate, myself, but to God?

Later that night I was telling a friend what happened and I was embarrassed, not to tell her, but to even confess it myself. Even before a word is on my tongue, He knows it. He knit me together in my mother’s womb. He hems me in, behind and before. I am fearfully made. I am wonderfully made? My days were formed for me?

My days?

Even the past 365 days?

You shall no more be termed Forsaken and your land shall no more be termed Desolate but you shall be called My Delight Is in Her and your land Married for the Lord delights in you, and your land shall be married.

It’s hard to not feel wasted inside, overgrown with weeds of lies and weeds of wishes. But that He formed these days for me? Every one of them? Crafted in secret, hewn in His hands, for His glory, these days?

Today I will disagree with my friend yet again: Christ loved me while I was yet a sinner, dead in my ways, covered over by thorns and thistles and lies as big as years. He saw that and called it worth loving, not because I was lovely but because I knew I would never be.

For as a young man marries a young woman, so shall your sons marry you, and as the bridegroom rejoices over the bride, so shall your God rejoice over you. Isaiah 62.2-5

That God Doesn't Exist

Before I knew I would move a thousand miles from four seasons and local coffee shops, before I knew that my faith was going to fall apart on the threshold of spring and questions about tithing, membership, and provision, before all that. This all happened before that. I knew that God wasn't real and if He was real, He wasn't good, and if He was good, He wasn't good to me. What I couldn't wrap my mind around was why I'd been dragged through the whole charade in the first place. Why a decade of spirituality and suffering and questions and confidence? Why all that if He was just going to walk me into the desert, spin me around in circles, and tell me to sort it out from there?

One of the first sermons I heard preached after I moved down here was from a series about authority. In it my pastor, who was still in the middle of 18 months of chemotherapy for a brain cancer that kills most of its victims, said these words, "I believe that He did not cause my cancer, but He could have stopped it, and He chose not to."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

There are all sorts of mental gymnastics in faith, right? In that sentence above you could spend hours and weeks and months trying to sort out what each word means and how it plays itself out. You might decide you cannot serve a God who doesn't cause suffering, but could stop it and chooses not to. But in that one sentence, my mind stopped the questions and just believed.

Because here is the truth about what God promises and what He doesn't:

He promises He is good and He promises His word endures forever.

He promises eternity to His children and He promises justice to us all.

He promises His character is inscrutable and generations will speak of His faithfulness.

And those promises trump. They win. They win because they pile these light momentary afflictions of cancer and unbelief, suffering and fear, and they place them in the hands of a Creator, an Artist, an All Good God, and He blows away the chaff, the things that feel like wasted time and wasted energy and wasted you, and He makes all things new.

All things.

New.

Storming Brothels & the Hearts of Men

“Give me an M16 and I’ll storm that brothel!” “Oh, I just want to hold those girls and tell them they’re loved…”

These are the two responses I hear most often when I explain what sex-trafficking is and how it plays out in the industry.

These are also the two reasons I am passionate about educating others about the depths of the trafficking problem, because holding someone or storming a brothel cannot be the answer. It cannot be. 

At the core of every person is a heart that longs for some sort of fulfillment, some validation, or security. So it is that at the core of the trafficking problem are the hearts of men and women caught up in the web of the industry—from traffickers to pimps to johns to madams to the sex slaves themselves.

Continue reading Storming Brothels & the Hearts of Men.

This image was taken by Hazel Thompson in partnership with us at Project Red Light Rescue for the book CAGE. If you'd like more information on how you can be a part of infiltrating the red light district with the Gospel, connect with me here, attention Lore. 

Context Can Save Your Life

A friend told me a long time ago that it was the unanswered questions that scared him most. He is an answerer, his wealth of knowledge is vast and he gets paid to answer people's questions about faith and theology. "I fear being unable to answer a question for the lack of time or knowledge, or simply because the answer I give doesn't satisfy," he said. I thought about what he said for a long time, a few years, and I'm thinking about it still.

This week I'm thinking about it because I saw a quote from a theologian. The quote was taken out of context and not linked back to the original context, thus painting him (and his ministry) in a negative light. If I hadn't seen his name below the quote, well, I would've lost my faith in Jesus, humanity, and the Church if that's all I knew of it right there. It was that bad.

But I am also an answerer—though mostly for myself and not for others. I cut and paste the quote, found its original source and wept through the entirety of the sermon because it was so beautifully about God being God and on His throne and loving us as only God can love.

Context can save your life.

But this isn't what I told my friend the night he told me his fears. Instead I told him about the night I realized I didn't believe in Jesus. I told him it was because I had spent a year asking hard, hard questions and not getting answers. It was because I read everything I could get my hands on, listened to sermons, read blogs, prayed, fasted, and still.

Silence.

There isn't much context for silence.

A friend told me recently she sits by her window, sits long and quiet, waiting for God to say something to her. Anything.

But what if He doesn't? I ask her. And what if that's okay?

This morning I'm thinking about the phrase "out of context." It doesn't mean the words said were incorrectly quoted or never said. It simply means out of the context in which they were intended. Without the whole picture. Apart from the whole.

And I'm thinking about God who is so much more sovereign and good and holy and set apart and whole than I will ever be or see. I am a soul out of context, a body apart from the whole, a mind void of completion. I am only a part and I see only in part. I exist in unanswered questions for the whole of my days and, Oh God, I pray He gives me more vision, more sight, more view into the whole, but what if He doesn't?

At the end of my year of questions without answers, one night on my bedroom floor, I told God what I really believed about Him which was that I didn't believe Him. Not at all. I told him what I thought I knew to be true was not true. And He began to show me what I thought to be true of Him was taken out of context, apart from the whole. Then He spent the next year drawing me back, helping me to see the whole, and how fully beautiful the whole was, even if it was still only part.

Context matters. It matters to theologians and babies, mothers and sons, it matters to good writing and better thoughts. It ought to matter to us because it matters to God. He is less concerned with us getting answers than He is with us seeing in wholeness that He is the way, the truth, and the life. He is God and we are not. He is full of mercy and justice, goodness and fury, grace and insight. He is Whole and we are only part.

Chasing David With All My Soul

We're talking about David and Jonathan in my Old Testament class. Sunday-School felt-boards, crackers and juice aside, I've never given either man much thought.

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A friend is thinking of leaving our church. She isn't the first and won't be the last, and I've left my share of churches in life, so I know whatever I say won't matter much. So instead I'm thinking of covenant these days, the Old Testament, grab the inner thigh, share the sandal, slaughter the lamb kind of covenant.

At my church we don't sign a membership document promising to agree with everything my church teaches, promising to never question authority, or to turn a blind eye to what seems unjust. We sign a Covenant saying we'll wrestle every demon to the ground before we turn our backs on these brothers and sisters. We'll turn over every stone before we'll call anyone a heretic. We'll come to our senses as quickly as possible and run from the pig's pen to a Father who meets us.

We sign up for Covenant, not a pansy pot-luck.

Not really.

But kind of.

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This morning in class we read the first part of I Samuel 18 three times. Three times is a holy number and so I listen close.

Three is also the number that made a covenant in those first few verses: David, Jonathan, and an unseen God who wouldn't leave them, not ever.

Three is also the number of times the author made mention of Jonathan's soul being knit to David's.

A soul is a funny thing. In my circle I never ask how someone's doing, or how is their heart. I ask how their soul is and people always turn their head sideways, maybe laugh a bit at me. Their soul? Their soul? Ask about my car, or my health, or my day, or my family, but not my soul. Not that precious, beautiful, broken bit of me. Not the bit of me that is secure and fashioned deep in the crevices of God, but oh, so tender still.

Souls are the one thing about us and within us that are truly lost or truly found, but all the peripherals crowd around and lie to that soul, telling us we are not okay and never will be. And sometimes our souls lie to us in other ways, telling us we are okay when we're clearly not.

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I think of my friend this morning, and myself, and all the others. Friends who have left the Church, been burned by the Church, can't figure their way around the Church. I think of David and Jonathan, and Jonathan's soul. And I think of God who cares about souls.

The Covenant I signed with my church is not a failsafe; it does not keep me from harm or knit me to the people there. It is not my badge of glory or my shame. It does not give me special privilege or grant me favor. The Covenant is a promise between them and me, us and God. It says we will chase, we will run, we will warn, we will fight, we will wrestle, and someday, some final day, we will win. Our souls are knit together, see?

And that is the God who Covenants with me too, and I can't get over this today: He runs, chases, meets me at the end of the lane, throws his cloak on me, and welcomes me at long last home.

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If you're interested, I'm also talking about covenant Church living over at Deeper Church today in a provokingly titled post: Mark Driscoll Isn't My Pastor 

Less Miserable and Fully Free

Thousands heard the gospel this week. It wasn't in a Candlelight service or a Christmas reading, not in a church building or on a street corner. No, the gospel was preached to thousands in movie theaters across the country. Say what you will about the recent film adaptation of Victor Hugo's prolific work (spanning five volumes unabridged; abridged, given music and lyrics, and made famous on Broadway), but Les Misérables is a humble hero's story if there ever was one and who can fault the director for attempting the project? When the camera (ever so sparingly) panned out far enough to see the bodies of the film's characters and sets, it was beautiful to behold. Although I was a bit preoccupied giving each actor a full oral exam to note much about costumes and sets, I found myself glad in a way that I was distracted by little else but the story.

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I am familiar with Les Misérables. By familiar I mean I have read all five original volumes, several abridged versions, watched every film version I'm aware exists, and my bucket list holds only one item: see LM on Broadway. I know the story. I know The Miserables. I understand Jean Valjean is a type of Christ figure and we're all to be dutifully impressed by his acts of mercy and grace. And that he is also a type of us figure, haunted by the brokenness of his past and the inevitability of judgement.

But I don't think I have ever taken in the fullness of the gospel drenched lyrics as much as I did while the actors were belting out familiar lyrics.

Near the end when Javert is walking along the bridge about to jump to his death, he sings one line and I can't get it out of my head: I am the law and the law will not be mocked.

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Earlier this year my pastor preached through the book of Galatians and every week he turned our eyes back at the purpose of the law. The purpose was only to show us that we could not complete it, we could not fulfill it, we could not even begin to obey it, and so we needed Christ. But even still the purpose of the law stands as a diagnostic for us, like an MRI, my pastor says, diagnosing the problem but powerless to fix it.

So as Javert leaped off the side of that concrete bridge, jumping to his death, I thought, "Oh God, thank you that your law cannot be mocked. No matter how much we fall short, no matter how deeply we disappoint, no matter how fully we fail—we cannot mock the law. Christ finished it for us, extending grace we do not deserve, sending the law to a death of sorts—no longer the measuring stick by which we make our way on glory's paths, but still a standard of righteousness and benchmark of truth. Thank you that we cannot mock the law because You created the law and You cannot be mocked."

There are many Gospel truths to be mined from the musical and I hope you'll go see it. Don't be too distracted by the close-ups of tonsils and teeth; let instead your distraction be grace and the fulfillment of our debt to the law of sin and death.

Swinger of Birches and No More

I'm joining the beautiful Micha Boyett today over at Mama Monk at Patheos. I wrote some reflections from a camping weekend recently and I'd love to have you join me over there!

There is a poem by Robert Frost I love. I suppose that's juvenile of me and I suppose I don't care if it is.

"One could do worse than be a swinger of birches," it ends and I always agree.

Whenever I am in the wild, or as we Americans call our twelve dollar campsites in our North Face gear and purified water in BPA free bottles "in the wild," I think about Enoch and I think about birches.

Continue reading...

A Garden of Grace

I know I'm not a parent, but I am a child. And not only a child of my earthly parents, but a child of God. I know what it is to be parented well and I know what it is to be parented poorly. And either way it is an ever increasing lesson to learn to be parented—even for parents and grandparents and uncles and presidents and brides and CEOs and beggers and choosers. This is an important read, I think, for all who are parents and all who are children (which is all of us). Here's an excerpt, though I encourage you to read the whole thing:

The fundamental right thing is to see the relationships rightly, to understand what is going on. What is your relationship to God, and how can you mimic that in your relationship with your children? Therefore be imitators of God, Paul says, as dearly loved children (Eph. 5:1). We are to be children to God, and this will help us understand how our children are to be children to us. We are to learn the nature of all our authoritative relationships by imitation.

 So if you look at the sweep of redemptive history, you see that our story begins in a garden, and it ends in a garden city. Our task as forgiven sinners (who have been given access back to the tree of life) is therefore -- through the gospel -- to rebuild Eden. You are called, fathers and mothers, to rebuild little Edens in your homes, only better. This cannot be done apart from worship, obviously, but you need to make sure you bring a coal from the altar back to your home every week.

So what was Eden like? Here are just a few initial thoughts. They are only initial thoughts -- I have discovered that going back to the first chapters of Genesis is a process that repays us with new glories every time we do it.

First, don't go into it thinking that God is looking for opportunities to crush you. If He were doing that, you would already be flat. The ways you are failing your children (in ways we will shortly discuss) are not ways in which God is failing you. And when you fail, He does not respond to your failures the same way you tend to respond to those who fail you.

(For those of you who are kicking and screaming and getting your panties in a general twist because I just sent you over to Doug Wilson's site, if you could for one minute breathe and in the second minute think of the title and content of this, I'd think it would go a bit better for you. We plant gardens of grace first in our own hearts and minds and those gardens begin from small seeds.)