Tag Archives: gospel

Love Does Not Cover Faults; It Exposes Them?

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With more stops than starts, I’ve been practicing Lectio divina, a meditative reading method I discovered in The Big Book of Christian Mysticism. Although my faith tradition doesn’t go much for Latin phrases or the term “mysticism,” this practice sits comfortably within Christian tradition. It consists of four parts: 1) slowly and carefully read a small portion of a sacred text, 2) deliberately consider the message of the text, 3) respond honestly to God in prayer, and 4) allow prayer to dissolve into restful contemplation in God’s presence.1

To begin this practice, I chose as my “sacred text” the book Reduce Me to Love, by Joyce Meyer. Each chapter is divided into sections one or two pages in length, ideal for slow reading. In the third chapter, Meyer writes, “Love does not expose faults; it covers them.”2 I immediately feel uncomfortable. Covering a fault sounds equivalent to lying. What about honesty and repentance, naming our errors and confessing them? If we cover faults with love, won’t they develop an odor, or grow out of proportion like the rumor-weed of VeggieTales fame? The title of this post feels more comfortable: Love doesn’t cover faults; it exposes them.

The gospel message I learned depends on faults being exposed. It goes something like this: God identifies “right,” and also “wrong.” Once we have right and wrong, it naturally follows to avoid wrong and adhere to right. As wrongs are identified, the way is made for transformation and healing. God is light, light exposes faults, and this is important because if our faults aren’t exposed we won’t pursue a relationship with God. The more we see our bleak character, the more we depend on a Holy God. Who needs God, except as a knight in shining light to rescue us from ourselves?

I’m struggling with this narrative, but I can’t disown it entirely. I do have characters flaws and God is Savior. Maybe it’s both/and more than a division that requires a move from one side to the other. Perhaps black and white—right and wrong—share the same spaces. Could it be that in God’s presence we know our faults, and at the same time know that love is bigger? When the prodigal son returned and looked into his father’s eyes, I think he saw tragedy and pain there—but in small measure compared to love. The father covered his son’s body with a robe and his soiled reputation with the family’s good reputation. A multitude of sins, covered. Love has meaning when it is layered with tragedy and pain.

A covering of love empowers us to offer love. It is out of insecurity—the nagging fear that perhaps we are not worth loving—that we point out the faults and foibles of others. There are two words for this: middle school. Insecure, pubescent young people, feeling suddenly naked in comparison to their younger selves, find solace in laughing at the vulnerability of others, forming cliques, and keeping secrets. It’s a tough time, and even the kids who are covered in love must ask again and again if they really are safe and whole. But, when those questions are answered with a resounding Yes, love becomes a superpower. In finding themselves well-loved they uncover the courage and desire to cover the faults of their peers rather than expose them.

Let’s go way back for a minute and think about about Adam and Eve. Did God expose them and point out their misdeeds? Certainly He could have come in with sarcasm—“Wow guys, way to listen to what I said.” Or anger—“What is wrong with you?! How hard is it to obey one little thing?” Or overblown emotional distress—“I can’t believe you did this to me. How could you seek out the only thing that hurts me and do it? This ruins the whole world!” Or disgust—“I should have known you couldn’t handle this. What a mess. It’s going to cost a fortune to clean this up.”

Certainly, if God was like me, he wouldn’t have come in the evening, allowing time to sew clothes. He would’ve been there at the first bite, to point out their nakedness, ridicule their vulnerability, and mock their lack of self-control—“Do I have to watch you every second?” But God was in no hurry. Nor did He appear angry, arrogant, or distraught. Doesn’t that seem odd? His masterpiece just got spray-painted. It will never be the same again. And what does He do? He covers the perpetrators. He sees their fear, confusion, and sorrow, and provides clothing.

I don’t get this. Maybe I got stuck in the middle-school mindset. I walk into a beautiful room or a put-together group of people and find the one thing out of place. I’m quick to point out faults. The way every smell draws a dog, every imperfection commands my attention. Clean the kitchen and I’ll show you the two spots you missed on the counter. Tell me a memory of last year’s Fourth-of-July potluck and I’ll correct you on the details. To leave a task undone is a liability, and to make an incorrect statement is a lie. Accuracy is more important than love.

The brave souls who love me call this philosophy into question. As friends accept my imperfections—arriving late, overstating things, laughing too loud—I come to know that love is more important than accuracy. My husband, Michael, has opportunity to expose my faults more than any other person. But he chooses to cover with love. When he tells the story of how I plugged our camper incorrectly into our vehicle, causing over $8,000 of electrical damage, he says, “We plugged it in wrong.” When I correct him for the hundredth time on how to straighten the bedcovers, he smiles and teases me. When I get cranky and overbearing, he quietly finds a way to ease my load—fill the dishwasher, spend time with a distraught child, run an errand. My faults have hurt him over and over, but he doesn’t expose them.

Christmas, I think, can be a time of covering. Holidays may bring up painful memories or remind us of broken relationships, and often there’s not much we can do about those things. But this time around let’s find courage to cover up a bit of fault—our own, or the fault of another—with love. In time, maybe we’ll even kill the fatted calf.

Endnotes:
1Adapted from The Big Book of Christian Mysticism, by Carl McColman, pp. 193-194
2Reduce Me to Love, by Joyce Meyer, pg. 30

“Contradictions”

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I eat ice cream, and spinach. I wear cotton, and polyester. I go to church, and theaters. I smile, and I grimace. I buy local organic vegetables, and clothes made in Vietnam. I tell my kids to hurry up, and to slow down. Am I crazy?

Perhaps I should take a stand for church, and against Hollywood. Maybe I should stop frowning. Smiling releases dopamine and endorphins. Frowning doesn’t. When my kids disobey, I’ll smile. When my husband is decompressing from work stress, I’ll smile. When my friend is telling me about her divorce, I’ll smile. When I’m angry, I’ll smile? A one-size-fits-all facial expression almost sounds simple and straightforward, but in the end it would complicate my life.

Most folks agree that a balanced diet (whatever that means) is also wise. Vegetables, ice cream, whole grains, and french fries coexist in our weekly intake of food. Fortunately, we have nice little pyramids and diagrams that tell us how much to eat from each food group. I haven’t found one of those for emotions. Or for what percentage of my clothes should be cotton and American-made.

I have watched people try to define God. I have participated in this endeavor. It feels good to know what side God is on. Have the right answer. Settle in. But the more I get to know God, the more I get bumped around, and the more it looks like there are many answers to the same question. Perhaps life with God is more like this: “The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear the sound of it, but cannot tell where it comes from and where it goes. So is everyone who is born of the Spirit.” (John 3:8, NKJV)

A dear friend said to me, “God is pro life and pro choice.” My mind wasn’t sure what to do with that, but my spirit shouted YES! Of course God is pro life and pro choice. God doesn’t choose between babies and their mothers. He chooses babies and their mothers. God stands in the middle when humans say there is no middle. Isn’t the cross the ultimate middle? How could God be connected with humans? Creator with created? Sin with perfection? And yet, somehow, sin and perfection came together on the cross. “For He made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him.” (2 Corinthians 5:21, NKJV)

God is a bit crazy, but I like His crazy. I could look into this for the rest of my life, and I think it’s worth looking into.

From Jesus Freak to Evangelism Phobia, Part Two

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In this post—as in last week’s post—I use words like “Evangelism,” “Witnessing,” “Christianity,” and “Religion.” Each reader will have a different understanding of these words, both in denotation and connotation. Personally, I’m in the murky depths, somewhere between a conservative upbringing and an emerging mystical faith, still feeling around for a vocabulary that doesn’t cause pain.

***

“Aren’t you the one with a blog talking about Jesus?” Khalid asked.

I was at the home of my friends, Khalid and Tiffaney. They’d been to a concert earlier that week, which I avoided because of the musician’s evangelistic bent. “I don’t like evangelism,” I said, which prompted Khalid’s question about my blog.

“I certainly hope people don’t think I’m evangelizing!” I deflected the question.

It had not occurred to me that my blog (and my social handle @jesusmyfavoritesubject) could be viewed as evangelism. I have written over 100 blog posts, with the premise that talking about Jesus is one of my favorite things to do. What is that, if it’s not evangelism? Suddenly, I needed to answer this question.

I asked my husband if what I’m doing is evangelism. In his typical style, he looked up the word on his phone and found half a dozen definitions, all of which involved the concept of convincing another person. A Google search tells me that to convince is: to bring (as by argument) to belief, consent, or a course of action; persuade; cause (someone) to believe firmly in the truth of something. Combine this with the gospel of Jesus Christ, and you have evangelism: teaching or preaching about Jesus with the aim to bring about belief or action. Is that what I’m doing? I don’t want to answer.

A gray Jeep with a “Jesus Loves You” bumper sticker kept showing up on B Street last week. I passed it on my way home from school pick-up, and it got me all up in arms. Rather than joy at the sweet reminder of how loved I am, my response was irritation. People have all different conceptions of Jesus; the person displaying the sticker has no idea how many painful ideas he or she is promoting along with the positive ones. “Jesus Loves You” doesn’t see people, it talks at them. It doesn’t have any idea what tragedies or triumphs are on the reader’s mind, and it cannot weep or rejoice with them. The sticker is evangelism. I don’t like that I don’t like it … but I don’t like it.

One Friday afternoon, while chatting with my friend Celina at her dining room table, I brought up the question of whether I’m evangelizing. She asked, “If you’re not trying to convince when you write, what are you trying to do? What do you hope will happen when people read your blog?”

“I want people to feel seen,” I said. “I want them to be able to take a deep breath. I want them to know they’re okay.”

If God is in the picture, I hope people will see God seeing them.

On the eve of my recent 38th birthday, I spent a couple hours making a mental list of 38 people who have influenced me. It included coworkers, authors, family, and friends. Every influence was gentle; not one produced an about-face change in my life. They were quiet but strong: my boss—Jerry Mason—who believed in me, gave me responsibilities I would never have pursued on my own, and whose confidence in me was a steady presence in my life for over eight years; the authors—Gregory Boyle, Barbara Brown Taylor, Anne Lamott—who gave me permission to breathe, to try life open-handed; our mom tribe—half a dozen ladies who see me and allow me to see them. This is the kind of influence I hope for in writing.

I suppose I’m inviting people to be at home in themselves, rather than reject themselves to be at home in Christ. Krispin Mayfield, in his book Attached to God, writes about the Christian experience of sinfulness, and compares it to the pain of disconnection described in attachment theory.

It struck me that the theology I’d been given and the attachment literature I was reading seemed to be describing the exact same thing but offering different explanations. The theology taught that this awful feeling of ‘inner deformity’ was because of things we’ve done—lying to our parents, disrespecting teachers, sneaking extra candy. The psychology suggested that the terrible feeling came from what has been done to us. … (pg. 169)

When we have an insecure attachment, we feel awful inside not because of our sin but because of our unmet needs. It is the feelings of distance and separation that create the intense pain of shame. … (pg. 170)

“We think that if we can get a little bit better, a little less sinful, we will feel better about ourselves. In reality, true connection heals shame. (pg. 173)

True connection. That I might be willing to shout from the rooftops. I want to offer the things I thought I had because I was a Christian, but slowly and devastatingly found out I didn’t have: hope, peace, love, joy. These are almost synonymous with Christianity, but they evaded me for decades. So as I’ve found them, I’ve also found different language. When I share hope, I talk about how it’s okay to not be okay. When I share peace, I talk about disentangling from perfectionism. When I share love, I talk about expansiveness. When I share joy, I talk about coffee and friends.

I guess I’ve always wanted people to know they’re loved, and for a long time I thought telling them about Jesus was the best way to do that. But I was “the blind, leading the blind.” Religion created a structure in which I could feel my way around while my eyes were closed. But at some point I started bumping into sharp corners, and I didn’t feel safe any more. God suggested I sit still and open my eyes. In that terrifying posture of stillness, I learned to hold hands with myself, let myself be loved, and let life be both brutal and beautiful—“brutiful,” as Glennon Doyle would say. The structure of religion was an external protection. The beauty of loving and being loved is an internal strength. I’m learning to be strong rather than safe, and that’s what I want share. Is that evangelism? I still wonder about that.

From Jesus Freak to Evangelism Phobia, Part One

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In this post I use words like “Evangelism,” “Witnessing,” “Christianity,” and “Religion.” Each reader will have a different understanding of these words, both in denotation and connotation. Personally, I’m in the murky depths, somewhere between a conservative upbringing and an emerging mystical faith, still feeling around for a vocabulary that doesn’t cause pain.

I was the teenage girl who painted “Jesus Freak” in giant letters on a bright yellow t-shirt, wrote songs about Jesus, spent two summers selling religious books door-to-door, and took a turn in every spiritual leadership position at my private school. I grew up in a small, rural church, and my eager interest was met with plenty of opportunities for involvement. I made floral arrangements and bulletins for church, served as Sabbath School superintendent and deaconess, led song services and provided special musics. Before I moved away for college, I preached a sermonette centered around a song titled “The Station,” in which Jesus’ followers are entreated not to take their heaven-ticket to the train station, but to go out into the streets where “there is work to be done.”1

I bought evangelism—hook, line and sinker—but I didn’t grow into it. It was baggy and ill-fitting. I don’t recall ever having a conversation in which I tried to convince someone of God’s existence, God’s love, or their need for a relationship with God. Rather, Christian community was like being on an athletic team. It was a great way to keep me active, connected, passionate, and out of trouble. I believed everyone needed to “know Jesus,” and I faithfully kept a prayer journal and participated in all faith-feeding activities, but mostly I was just happy to be a good person (ignorance is bliss).

Fast forward 20 years, from the late 90’s to the late 2010’s. I no longer felt like a good person, and I was nursing a decidedly bitter attitude toward witnessing. At one point I participated in a Bible study focused on “winning” souls for Christ, and “warning” friends and relatives of Jesus’ soon return to Earth. I found these ideas as unpleasant as a wedgie, and I wanted relief from the discomfort. When I thought about “winning and warning,” what came to mind were a number of messages from my church (and purportedly from the Bible), including: 1) you are bad (sinful) and I know what can fix you (Jesus); 2) there is a god who has great things for you IF you submit to him, but if you don’t he’ll punish you; 3) your heart matters and your behavior matters, so it is imperative to work toward a pure heart and loving actions at all times; 4) once you’re in, it’s your job to bring more people in.

None of these messages set me free, so why would I spread them around? All of this assumes that people whose spiritual journey is different than mine are wrong, and it’s my job to convince them I have the truth (and they don’t). The primary reason for treating people well is so they’ll want to become Christian. Every person I add to the church books is a “jewel for my crown in heaven.” Yuck.

I thought about people in my circle of influence. If I’m not being nice to them with an agenda—to “win them for Christ”—is there still a reason to be nice? Do I haphazardly shoot love-darts, hoping to penetrate a hard heart? Am I being nice to assuage my guilt for the rampant selfishness in my life? I think about neighbors, friends, strangers. What reason do I have to treat them as valuable, dignified human beings? If I’m not intent on witnessing and converting, why would I take interest or go out of my way to care for someone?

For a time, I found comfort in something Jesus said. “I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!” (Matthew 25:40b, NLT). I know Jesus. I would go out of my way for Jesus. So if He is in every person around me, I am invested—in neighbors, friends, and strangers alike—because in loving on them I am loving on my bro, Jesus.

Jesus tells us to love our enemies, so presumably He does the same. He loves the people disinterested in His kingdom, and the people opposed to His kingdom. If this is true, then ought not my message to be that Jesus loves you? I don’t need you to come over here to where I am. I want you to know that Jesus loves you over there where you are.

But this comfort was short-lived. Even the phrase, “Jesus loves you,” started to feel risky. I know people who are gagging on religion, vomiting over and over, waiting for it to leave their system so they can breathe. Once they heal, they will be hungry. But not for what religion is putting on the table.

I’m deconstructing, along with thousands of evangelicals and exvangelicals in my generation. Yet while I reject churchy messages, my lifestyle for the last several years has included co-leading a house church, speaking for chapel at my kids’ school, blogging about my relationship with Jesus, and lending my favorite spiritual books to friends. If that’s not evangelism, Christianity, or church, what is it? If I’m not telling people they’re sinful and Jesus loves them anyway, who or what am I?

Next week, in Part Two, I’ll talk about finding new words and ways. There’s nothing final about it, and that’s okay. I’m getting more comfortable with uncertainty. Still, there is comfort in finding a toehold.

Endnotes:
1 Lisa Marie Buster is a favorite musical artist, and I still enjoy her song, “The Station,” on the album by the same name.

The Evolution of Good News

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The Evolution of Good News

Reflections – week 1

I’m a small-group junkie. I recently started three new small groups, which brings my current participation to a total of six small groups. Some meet monthly, others weekly. Some are ongoing, while others cover specific content and will dissolve when that is completed. In one of these groups, we are studying Father’s House: The Path That Leads Home. This is my second time through this eight-session study, and I will be writing a post relating to the study for eight weeks, beginning today. I am also reading The Whole Language with a small group of ladies, and finding connections with the content of Father’s House. The following reflections are inspired by these two small groups, and in some cases I directly quote the resources.

I’m finding joy here, and I’m pleased you’re with me on this journey.

A Gospel That Speaks

“If it feels too good to be true, you’re on the right track.” This is my favorite descriptive phrase about the gospel of Jesus Christ. Each time I hear it I pause for a moment as my spirit affirms what I hear. Yes. What better way to describe the news of an extravagant God.

I’ve always had a tenuous relationship with the sinners-prayer gospel: I am a sinner deserving of death, God sent His Son to take my penalty for sin, and when I repent I receive Him into my life. I’ve given myself permission to move outward from this version of the gospel. I am curious, open to discovery.

Perhaps the gospel is personal. We call it “good news,” and news may well fit the descriptor “one man’s tea is another man’s poison.” What is pleasant, joyful, or affirming to me may be offensive to someone else. So, at the risk of veering off the beaten path and getting lost in the weeds, I’m on the outlook for a gospel that speaks to me. And I begin to find it—in books, podcasts, quiet time.

Good News

God has returned me to myself, unharmed. I was a house divided against myself, that could not stand. Now I am discovering wholeness and unity, within me and around me.

God did not send His Son into the world—into me—to condemn me, but to rescue me, heal me, and make me whole.

I am perfectly created to relate to God. My heart is wired to connect with Him. My ears are designed to hear His voice. I am made to experience His glory and His extravagant love for me.1

God is not fixing me. He is showing me that I am alive, that what I longed for was not far off, but right here.

I am right where I am supposed to be. I’m not behind. I am open to receive from the fullness of God’s grace.2 His Spirit touches mine and affirms who I really am: His daughter.

It is finished. Jesus completed all the heavy lifting. I begin where He left off, victorious, resurrected, glorious. There is nothing left to do but live together in this finished space They created.

Expanding

I expect my gospel collection to grow and change over the course of my life, as I listen for news that is too good to be true.

My understanding of gospel will be a lifetime hobby, and may well continue into the hereafter. Gregory Boyle repeatedly describes this pursuit in the first chapter of his book The Whole Language:

“At one time or another, we all had a version of God that was rigid. But the depth of our own experience tells us that our idea of God wants to be fluid and evolving. As we grow, we learn to steer clear of the wrong God.”

“We search always to find the deeper current that can finally change our innermost way of seeing.”

“It is our lifelong task, then, to refine our view of God.”

Unlearning

Equally as exciting as the learning, is the unlearning. I unlearn an exacting God, a vindictive, displeased, embarrassed God, tripping over Himself to save me so He can save face.

As Mirabai Starr said, “Once you know the God of Love, you fire all the other gods.”3

Endnotes:
1See Father’s House, page 23
2See Father’s House, pages 14, 22
3As quoted in The Whole Language, page 7

Good(?) News

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The gospel as I learned it was bad news, followed by ok news. Somehow the “good” got left out. I understood the gospel as the news that we are all sinners, separated from God, but that Jesus reunited us with God by taking our punishment. Despite being an “up-front” Jesus girl, selling religious books door-to-door and leading worship and Bible studies, I never could tell someone, “You’re a sinner. But don’t worry! God punished Jesus instead of you.” Wow. I mean, my life was hard already. Thanks for this “news.”

I went to the seminars (Revelation and prophecy) most loved by my particular faith tradition, and filled in all the blanks in the study guides. I marked my Bible with dozens of chain studies. But I never talked one-on-one with anyone about salvation. Most people I knew were Christian, or if they weren’t it was because of the experiences they had when they used to be Christian. On the rare occasion I interacted with someone who wasn’t Christian or ex-Christian, bringing up their sinner status seemed a bizarre thing to do. So I never did.

How could I distill spiritual experience into one conversation in which a person “admits” they are a sinner and thanks Jesus for helping them? I’ve had countless conversations that have given life or liberty or love to one or both parties. This is so often how I see God at work. I wonder if people don’t need a three-sentence salvation speech as much as they need someone to hear and affirm their own spiritual experiences. The salvation speech takes the gospel right out of our hearts and places it on the table in front of us for a transaction. If salvation is a transaction, Jesus wasted His time coming down here to be a human for over thirty years. He could have really simplified things by just getting sacrificed for our sins as a baby.

But what if salvation isn’t a transaction? What if Jesus came for another reason? As I continue to engage spiritually, to hunger and thirst and be filled, I wonder what it might look like for me to “share the gospel.” Is there actually something I could say that I believe? That I find compelling?

I am seen by Father/Son/Spirit, loved, held, wrestled with. I can share my experiences. But what about a three-sentence gospel? I’m not sure such a thing has any merit, but I’ve started forming one just in case.

Bad/ok news: You can be be better. Here’s how: you are a sinner, separated from God, but Jesus has reunited you with God by taking your punishment. Trust Jesus. (But not God, since He was coming after you with a flaming sword.)

Good news: You couldn’t be better. Here’s why: You are made in God’s image. You have believed some crappy things about yourself that aren’t true. Jesus came to reacquaint you with your true and holy self.

In his book, No Longer I, Jacob Hotchkiss writes, “We mistook a sinless spirit, a pure heart, to be the end of the Christian life, when actually it is the beginning…” This explains why I have spent my life reaching, heart and hands outstretched, hoping that this might be the time I would receive something good, something healing, something to make me whole. I didn’t know I had it all the time.

Gregory Boyle, Jesuit priest and gang recovery waymaker, lives from the certainty that every person has “unshakeable goodness.” This is hope. Unless I have invested my whole life in being good; then my unshakeable, preexisting goodness is terrifying. But in either case, settling in to my unshakeable goodness is freedom and life, joy and bravery, a lifelong celebration of the unshakeable goodness in everyone. Which is better: looking at every person as a sinner, or looking at each one as a masterpiece?

Jesus said, “God didn’t send me into the world to condemn it, but to save it.” Everyone in the world already has a new identity in Christ. We are all new creations. And as we acknowledge this, transformation happens. We need not strive for something that is already ours. Our belief, then, is not in something outside ourselves, but in an inheritance that is already ours. The good news is that we are whole.

This is overwhelmingly good—great—terrific news, and it is difficult to believe. Whether Christian or not, most of us have spent our whole lives thinking we could be better—with the next self-help book, diet, relationship, or job. Or maybe just with the next cup of coffee, pair of jeans, or good nights sleep. We have believed to our bones that we could maybe arrive someday, and it’s up to us to keep trying. With each disappointment, with each morning we awake and realize, I’m still me, hope wanes. Christians often cope by performing. As Kevin Sweeney insightfully says in his book, The Making of a Mystic, “It’s easier to try and spread the gospel to every part of the world than it is to allow the gospel to be spread to every part of your soul.”

The challenge is not to accept the reality that we are not—and never will be—enough, but to believe the shocking truth that we are already enough. We are whole, we are full, we are loved and lovable, we could not be better. This might change every phone conversation, work meeting, messy room, conflict with friends or kids.

When we look at ourselves, are we willing to say, “I am good”? It’s either that or “I am a sinner.” And since that hasn’t worked well for me the last 30 years, I’m gonna give this a try. Check in with me in 30 years, and I’ll let you know what happens when “I couldn’t be better” is my go-to.

My whole life I have never felt comfortable evangelizing—inviting people to church or doctrinal Bible studies. No reasonable person invites their friends to bondage. Church was a place I belonged, but it was not a place of freedom. It was a place of rules that I was damn good at following, so most of the time I felt pretty good. But the “good” of self-righteousness doesn’t hold a candle to the good of “you are God’s masterpiece. Right now. Already.” Self-righteousness requires a lot of maintenance—painting, roofing, updating furniture, replacing wooden steps before they rot through. A masterpiece is complete, valuable and valued, ready to be enjoyed. People stop and look; they lose track of time.

You are a masterpiece. And so is the person in front of you.

Soul Hurry

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The “Skill”

I have a skill I don’t like to talk about, but I’m going to talk about it anyway. My skill is this: I can hurry even when there’s nothing to do. I know, it sounds impossible. But I assure you I’m actually quite good at it. Partly because I can hurry with my mind and/or my body, so even if I’m sitting on the couch I can do a lot of mental hurrying. Hurrying is the evil twin of my long-cherished idol, productivity. I feel safest when I am getting things done, but if I can’t actually be accomplishing something there is always hurry to help me feel better.

The Story

If I go back really far, I think I can remember a time before hurry was my identity. As a young child, I didn’t have to worry much about time because the grownups did that. I could play without thinking about time or schedule. I remember spending hours washing one meal’s dishes – making as many soap bubbles as possible. And those are good memories. Kids are skilled at being fully present (and very slow).

As my awareness of time increased and my responsibilities grew, somewhere along the line I realized that if I hurried I was valuable. People who get things done are desirable – as family members, students, employees, and even friends. And it’s not that getting things done is bad. But for me it was a slippery slope from being a hard working teen to adopting hurry as a frame of mind and a way of having value. Without my knowing it, hurry became a deeply ingrained part of my identity.

Then – a couple decades later – God asked our family to make a lifestyle change – to pursue slowness, so to speak. Around the first of this year we eliminated most afternoon and evening commitments and reduced weekend activities. We began to more carefully consider all the invitations and opportunities that came our way. Then the pandemic hit and our pace has slowed even more.

Somehow the slowing of my schedule has opened my eyes to the hurry of my soul. Here I am with only the basic tasks of living before me, and I’m still carrying around this sense that I am not being productive enough or fast enough. I’m still rushing my kids, even though we have nowhere to go. I begin to wonder, do I have hurry in my soul? How is it possible that I can have nothing on my schedule and still feel compelled to rush through the dishes; to lament a to-do list not finished when I have all of tomorrow to finish it; to hurriedly try to fold the last load of laundry while yelling instructions to my children to get ready for bed?

The Evidence

I’ve noticed hurry has many faces. Most of them are smiled upon in our culture. Here are some of the ways hurry shows up in my life:

  • Efficiency: if I’m not washing or shaving something, I’m not in the shower – I never just stand under the water. When I carry groceries in from the car, I bring them all in one load even though it cuts the circulation off in my arm and I can’t open the door because my hands are full.
  • Another face of hurry is busyness: oh, there’s a slot on my calendar not filled? I’ll plan a play date, sign up for an evening class, start exercising with a friend, start a new craft project, clean the basement.
  • And let’s not forget always saying “yes”: sure, I can direct VBS; I can listen to all your problems; I can make 21 meals a week from scratch; I can do that project; I’ll be a board member and deaconess and volunteer at the elementary school.
  • Hurry also shows up in multitasking: I always feel better when I’m doing laundry and dishes at the same time, catching up on emails while helping my daughter with homework, crocheting while I watch a movie… you get the idea.
  • Another evidence of hurry in my life is that I cannot abide waiting. Say we’re leaving the house to exercise. I’m ready, but my husband is just putting his socks on. It would cause me physical discomfort to wait for one minute. So I start something – wipe down the kitchen counter, take out the trash, open some mail, pull weeds in the yard. Waiting is simply too uncomfortable. If I have to wait, I immediately find something to do. Consequently, I am often the last one in the car when our family leaves the house. Everyone else buckles up while I’m finishing the thing I started because I couldn’t wait.
  • I am never early to anything. Being early is excruciating. Everyone is just milling around; nothing is happening. I could have been doing something else with this time. I would much rather be five minutes late than shoot for being on time and somehow end up five minutes early.
  • While I’m airing all my dirty laundry, I will also note that I am really bad at “hanging out.” The concept of getting together with one or more friends for an indefinite period of time with an indefinite purpose is terrifying. I thrive in groups with a purpose – exercise, accountability, music, church, mom groups. Also, I can probably count on one hand the number of times in my life I have called someone “just to chat.” I simply don’t know how, and the vulnerability along with the potential of wasting time make this pastime completely out of the question for me.

I think you get the idea. Hurry is showing up all over the place in my life. It feels like I gave hurry permission to be my master. Did I sign something without realizing it? How did I sell my soul and not even notice?

Hurry is like a drug. It’s my go-to when I feel stressed or vulnerable. And if I’m not hurrying myself, I hurry the people around me. I ask my kids, “Why are you still eating?” “How could you possibly take that long to put away one toy?” “You’ve been in your room for 20 minutes and you’re still not dressed?!” I hurry my husband: get out of bed faster; get the yard work done sooner; how can you possibly spend that long in the bathroom?! As John Mark Comer says of his slowed-down life, “I feel… like a drug addict coming off meth.” (From his book The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry)

The Underlying Causes

So the evidence is in: I have a problem, and I’m calling it hurry. But what is underneath the hurry? I am afraid of something – no, two things. I am afraid of finding out I am not valuable, and I am afraid of finding out I am not in control. I believe the first statement is false and the second is true, but somehow they get all entangled inside me.

Not valuable. Somewhere deep in myself I’m still not sure about the gospel. This too-good-to-be-true story drenched in reckless mercy and grace… it can’t really apply to me, right? Some days this is my question. I don’t ask it that boldly. No, I scold myself for making another mommy mess-up. I replay the words I wish I hadn’t said. I keep score.

Other days, when I’m feeling a bit more successful at life, I get cocky. I think I have some control over my life, and I’m exercising my skills – including hurry in all its forms – to insure a good outcome. On these days, I don’t have questions. I feel self-sufficient, and I think maybe I’m finally figuring life out. I take comfort in the (false) security of control (let’s be honest, this is me playing god – being my own savior).

The Antidote

I wonder, what is the antidote to hurry? What will soothe and satisfy this scrambling and striving in my soul? Could there be a truth that addresses both the striving days and the cocky days? The I’m-not-good-enough and the I-(think)-I’m-in-control days? I’m reading John chapter five and am arrested by verse 30: “I can do nothing on my own. I judge as God tells me. Therefore, my judgment is just, because I carry out the will of the one who sent me, not my own will.” (NLT) Not my own will. Is this the way? What if I’m not living for myself? What if my choices are not calculated to control my own destiny? What if a real life is a life lived in continual surrender: not my will, but Thine. Perhaps the way to cease striving, to live a valuable life, is to be in a constant state of surrender. Perhaps the way to stop grasping for control is to trust the will of Someone who is in control.

I have circled around this concept before. I have marveled that surrender is, in fact, freeing. That if I’m not in charge of my life, there is nothing to worry about. I’m just doing what the Big Guy is telling me to do, and it’s His job to work it all out. But the lies I have internalized fight back. The moments – day in and day out – letting His agenda be more important than mine – these moments are hard. I do cry tears as I let go. And sometimes I hold on and won’t let go. It is a slow practice, and imperfect is a hard road for a recovering perfectionist.

The Trade

Am I willing to make the trade? Will I trade control for trust and hurry for surrender? Rather than the exhausting cycle of hurry and control, I could let surrender and trust feed on each other: trust allowing me to surrender, and surrender sending me skidding into the necessity of trust. I could let my Creator speak the truth of my value over me, and I could admit that He is in control.

Here I am, hurrying and worrying through slow and quiet days. Here God shows up, opening my eyes to this parasite on my soul, and offering to take it from me. Slowly He heals, for He knows that giving up control will cause bleeding. Yet He never gives up, because He is determined that I should have the best of His gifts, the abundance of His grace, the wonder of His mercy, the safety of His companionship.

As I haltingly respond to this invitation to trade hurry for surrender, I repeat to myself the “Creed of the Beloved” so simply and beautifully penned by Bobby Schuller:

I’m not what I do.
I’m not what I have.
I’m not what people say about me.
I am the beloved of God.
It’s who I am.
No one can take it from me.
I don’t have to worry.
I don’t have to hurry.
I can trust my friend Jesus and share his love with the world.

Finding the Gospel in Worship

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After thirty years of being a Christian I realized I don’t know how to worship. Last year I was doing a brain detox through Dr. Caroline Leaf’s online program, in which each day begins with one minute of thanksgiving, one minute of praise, and one minute of worship. Thanksgiving I could do, praise I could sort of do, but for that minute of worship I was confused. Should I kneel down? What should I say? Should I sing?

I asked around, but no answers were enlightening. My Christian upbringing seemed to equate worship with “worship services”: gathering with other Christians to sing with the praise band. How to worship in the quiet of my own home seemed a mystery. I googled it: lexico.com defines worship as “the feeling or expression of reverence and adoration for a deity.” I tried praying things like, “I adore You; You’re powerful and amazing.” It felt so awkward.

This experience raised my awareness of worship, but I was still confused. Dr. Leaf suggested that worship is thinking about God and who He is – not in reference to my circumstances, but centering the mind solely on God. I found this very difficult, but it was a beginning. Occasional phrases of adoration began appearing in my prayer journal. You are worthy and holy and beautiful and wise.

Then a few weeks ago God blew the doors off. It happened like this: I was struggling on a Sunday morning with something not going my way. I was hurt. I was confused. I thought God wanted me to absorb the hurt and forgive, so I prayed for His thoughts over mine, and I tried to move on. I was certain this was what He wanted, so when He didn’t answer my prayer I was blindsided. I was hit with the force of my pain and anger and realized that He had not answered my prayer. I prayed, I cried, I asked friends for prayer. I repented, I visited with a trusted friend. No matter what I did, I was still reeling.

Two days in I realized I was angry with God and really hurt that He had not answered my prayer. I had lost my safe place. Most of the time when I sit with God, my soul takes a deep breath, full of peace and belonging. This sense of safety was shattered. I was angry and afraid and hurt. (So much so that when I shared what I was experiencing with my husband, my whole body was shaking.) I was deeply torn and in the dark, feeling desperate and lonely.

The third morning I got up to pray, wanting to meet with God and repair. My kids interrupted my quiet and I got angry. Doors were slammed, children were screaming. I sat in my prayer chair sobbing. I had repented of not trusting God, asked for prayer, met with a friend, and come to God’s presence for reconciliation and still I felt overwhelmed by darkness. I had no ideas left.

I was groping for what to do and remembered that Scripture is supposed to have power over darkness. With my stomach burning and tears pouring down my face, I spoke aloud that God loves me and each member of my family. I began saying aloud whatever scriptures came to mind, mentally groping for any phrase or verse I could remember. As I spoke aloud the 23rd Psalm the agony began to subside. The darkness lifted, and I felt some peace and hope return to my bruised spirit. This was a turning point, but it was weeks before I felt safe with God again. As happens in all relationships, a painful misunderstanding had occurred and it took time to recover.

As I processed the experience with God, I wrote with these words: Lord I confess that what You are doing in our home and with our family is Your work. If I try to control it, it will utterly fail. My trust is shaken, but I hope as the roots re-grow they will grow deeper into You. I am reminded that my faith is to be in You and not in methods. I am reminded that I am weak. I am “admitting that I am powerless over my problems and that my life has become unmanageable” (Alcoholics Anonymous). I am catching the faintest scent of freedom – that if I am powerless I have permission to let go and stop trying. In Christ I receive the very power that raises people from the dead. Thank You for letting me see my powerlessness that I might be enabled to be a channel for Your power. Thank You for humbling me (again). 

So what does all this have to do with worship? I believe worship is a catalyst for humility, and humility a catalyst for worship. This was a profoundly humbling experience. My plans and ways and expectations were shattered. I was reminded that God is God and I am not God. What pleases Him may not be what pleases me. And yet far from being scary, this is comforting. If I am as big as He, or if I understand His plans, what is left? Why even have a God? I need Him to be big. I need Him to be mysterious. Worship places me in wonder of Him. Knowing He is bigger keeps me smaller (humble).

My friend Ruth put it bluntly: “I am like a pimple on God’s bottom.” This is not usually the message I hear in sermons and literature, and it caught me by surprise. But the more I think about it, the more I agree with her. Compared to an infinite God, my finite existence is not worth mentioning. Yes, God in Christ has given me the potential of a personal relationship with infinite God. But I am still small, I am created, I am finite. I am important to God only because He chose me to be important.

Worship keeps me on the road, so to speak. It pulls me back from the ditches on either side: on one side I think I am doing well and don’t need God’s love; on the other side I think I am doing poorly and don’t deserve God’s love. Worship reminds me that I can never do well spiritually on my own – being in the presence of a King reminds me I am a commoner. Worship also reminds me that I am loved deeply without reference to my performance – being in the presence of a Savior reminds me I am accepted, beloved, and adopted into spiritual royalty. As Timothy Keller says in his book The Reason for God, “The fact that Jesus had to die for me humbled me out of my pride. The fact that Jesus was glad to die for me assured me out of my fear.” This is what I stumbled upon (or, more accurately, what God was lovingly teaching me) in my torturous loss of pride. The way God relates to me saves me from both pride and self-sufficiency; from both fear and despair. There is safety and courage and peace in worship.

During my Sunday morning struggle I was falling into both ditches. I knew I was doing poorly, and I was afraid of the fear and anger inside. Yet I thought I was doing well by asking God to fix it for me. I forgot to let God be God. I didn’t come to Him in honesty about my pain and humbly ask for help. I had forgotten the gospel: I am both deeply flawed and deeply loved. Sinner saved by grace.

Dr. Leaf says, “When you thank God, He listens; when you praise God, you can feel His presence; when you worship God, He acts on your behalf.” I have found this to be profoundly true. When I manage to take my focus off myself and place it on God for even a moment, He is able to show up in ways I had never imagined.

So back to the original question, what exactly is worship? I still don’t have the answer, but I do have one taste of truth I can begin with. Worship is knowing I am small in relation to a great God. Worship is knowing my own story in the gospel story. I need to be in the presence of Someone so infinitely greater than I, that I know my smallness just being there. I remember I cannot be good and I cannot provide for myself, and this is both humbling and liberating.

I worship You because You are glorious mystery: Lion and Lamb, King and Servant, Creator and Created, Father and Son, infinite yet personal, knowable yet beyond understanding. You are God and I am not.