God blesses those who are poor and realize their need for him, for the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs.
Matthew 5:3, NLT
Soft patting from my six-year-old woke me up at 3am. “I want you,” was the reason she gave. I tried to fix things and send her back to bed, but she wasn’t having it. I gave up and made a blanket bed on the floor in my room. She settled in and slept. I felt resentful, trapped, overwhelmed… and angry that I can’t seem to make a parenting decision without feeling all those things. Such a simple decision, but just look at me make it complicated. I lay in bed anxious, dialed up to ten, and I prayed for God to provide. For help. And I slept.
The same little hands woke me a few hours later—too early, but not early enough to send her back to bed. She wanted help opening a door. We have an old house and most of the doors slipped out of alignment long ago. They require a firm hand to actually latch, and make a popping sound when opened. The early-up daughter opened four doors, and my irritation dialed right up again—first at her, and then at myself. Again I prayed for help, and I slept.
I have conflicting feelings about these moments of struggle. Sometimes God helps me and I feel so ashamed for needing help. I want the stories of God showing up in my life to be more glamorous and less highlighting my selfishness. I’ve been reading about a young woman who dedicated her life to the marginalized, and I feel so stupid for the smallness of my stressors. Her struggles seem saintly; mine feel embarrassing.
But my feelings have forgotten the truth, which I whisper to God: You show up in each of our moments without discrimination. The “saintly” young woman is loved. I am loved. I am here, feeling paralyzed by fear, tantalized by control, and tempted by selfishness and scarcity. And You, You show up with the embrace of a friend who feels the tiredness, gives me a knowing squeeze, and sits beside me.
Another morning: I woke up a little earlier than usual. I got up, drank a glass of water, relieved myself of the previous evening’s glass of water, and sat down to pray. I felt heavy and snappy, and was grateful for a few extra moments of quiet time. I opened the window a crack to smell the fresh morning air, then closed it again to keep out the cold. I opened my hands and closed my eyes.
Then I heard the girls, up early this morning. They came in my room to ask, “Can we get up now?” They left the door open and Phred (our cat) jumped on the bed where my husband was still sleeping. Sigh. Two minutes later Kyli came back because they had a fight (already?!). She climbed on my lap. Kayt came in repentant: “I’m ready to apologize.” I mediated, and finally they left me to the quiet.
I was losing. The quiet time I felt I desperately needed was being riddled with holes. I prayed, Help. I asked God if I could spend today finding contentment in watching Him provide. And in a sudden turn of thoughts, I imagined how stressful it would have been to wake up to the girls having a fight, not having had those first moments of quiet. Ah, the sweet relief of gratitude for provision already made.
The kingdom of heaven is mine. “Blessed are the poor in spirit—those who recognize their spiritual poverty—for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 5:3). The kingdom of heaven is mine because I am poor. If I were rich I wouldn’t need it, and if I thought I was rich I wouldn’t know I needed it. It is precisely when I know I am poor that the kingdom of heaven is mine. I may rejoice in the poverty that lands me exactly where I want to be—a place of receiving. Finding contentment in watching Him provide, and knowing that every moment of apparent poverty is an invitation to great wealth. Thank you, Jesus, that there is no shame in receiving Your help.
I didn’t set out to write my own eulogy. It just happened one morning as I journaled: I want to go to Anthony Lakes today, but I think I’m running from something, hoping the lakes will sooth my spirit. I’m on edge, discontented, anxious. I could blame Michael’s excessive screen time or my premenstrual hormones, but no matter the cause I have to live with myself, and my family has to live with me.
At this point I paused, uncertain what to do with myself, uncomfortable with my pittance of emotional energy to face the day. Then my Counselor (Jesus) nudged me to write, Who am I? Another pause, and then these words: I am a loving mom, a devoted wife, a faithful friend, a humble (sometimes) follower of Jesus.
Hmm. What a strange re-route, from anxious and inadequate to “loving mom” and “devoted wife.” My un-counseled conclusion would have been: I am messed up and have some work to do. So this whole eulogy-writing business was definitely God’s idea. And, really, it’s just like Him to gently lift my thick blanket of not-enough and let in a little oxygen.
I exist in the mess that is my life, looking at it all from an uncomfortably close distance. My life probably looks good to people who don’t know me, and even to some who do. But from this distance (which is to say, no distance at all), the anger and complaining are hard to miss. I make a new mess while cleaning up the current one. I step in the yuck that is my hurry and worry, and I track it around. I feel piled high, like a sink lost under dirty dishes, and it’s hard to see anything else.
And yet, by some miracle, I believe those words I wrote: loving mom, devoted wife, faithful friend, sometimes-humble follower of Jesus. I am those things. Within these roles things get messy, but if I zoom out just a bit, I can see a baseline, something to come back to on those days when all I see is the proliferation of both literal and metaphorical dirt in my life.
The Counselor closed my journaling with these thoughts: Today doesn’t have to be a growth day. I don’t have to become a better wife, friend, mom, or follower of Jesus. I can be what I already am and it will be ok.
Not long ago, on a Sunday, I was feeling not-good-enough and lifeless. The joy of holiday family time had morphed into a funk. I started the day feeling trapped in my role as wife and mom. The happiness of the household rested heavily on my shoulders, while my own happiness was quite uncertain. The day was slated to be a typical Sunday, trying to keep the kids on task for chores, getting ready for the week ahead, hopefully relaxing some.
My father-in-law had given us an Instant Pot for Christmas and we set out to hard boil eggs in it. Success! While the eggs cooled off in their ice bath I worked on a new puzzle (also a Christmas gift). Then my daughter Kyli and I returned to the kitchen to make deviled eggs. As we removed hard shells from rubbery eggs, my husband, Michael, shared a tip he had seen on YouTube about an easy way to peel hard-boiled eggs: roll them to crack the shell around the middle of the egg, and then slide the two ends of shell off the egg, easy-peasy. Well, I tried it and my egg started to break in half. I made an off-hand comment about how things never turn out the way it’s shown on YouTube, which triggered Michael (who was also already in a funk). He disappeared upstairs. This added to my distorted sense that I must be available to my family, take care of them, and keep them happy.
As I nagged our two young daughters about piano practice and showers and taking care of their pets, my stress level dialed up. My emotional capacity was insufficient for the girls’ interminable distractions and dragging feet. As the day wore on I felt more frustrated and inadequate. After lunch I retreated to my bedroom to be still and alone. I checked my phone and found a text discussion among our Monday moms’ prayer group, about day-after-Christmas goals. Someone sent this placard: “My two goals for today were to get out of bed and drink coffee. So far, I am a success.” There was a general agreement about the placard, a comment on the cold weather, and I plunged in with this: “I’m in a mood today. I feel worthless and angry. My kids are taking the entire day to take a bath and play their piano songs, and Michael is not impressed with my mood.” Within five minutes I had two offers to take my girls for the afternoon, multiple people praying for me, an invitation to a moms’ movie night, an offer to babysit later in the week, and many encouraging words. All I could do was cry. I went from feeling invisible to knowing I was seen and loved. It was cleansing. I didn’t know how life-sucked I felt until these women’s words gave me life.
I re-read their words. Chantel said, “Ah, I’m sorry Tobi. Can I bring you a coffee (or anything else to cheer you up)?” Tiffaney said, “So sorry Tobi! And just like that it starts dumping snow… like God saying, ‘I got this. I’m still here when you’re in a bad mood.’” Rufus said, “So glad that in all we face, our Father is in it with us and we are not alone, never abandoned! How amazing we are not valued by how we feel, but Who He is. Praying you through, sister.” After a good cry, I made plans to get coffee with Chantel, and Michael agreed to hang out with the kids at home.
Chantel picked me up and treated me to coffee at Roasters, then took me home to “say hello” to the family—her husband and seven kids, and the in-laws who were visiting. I stayed for two hours. Coryell (age 10) showed me most of the features of the camera she got for Christmas, and gave me a friendship necklace for my daughter Kayt. Bailey (age 6) showed me the mini piano keyboard she got for Christmas, and played tic tac toe with me. The youngest girls—Jessie and Marcy—requested hand sanitizer from my purse. Charlie (age 6) tried to solve a metal puzzle I had in my purse. Linda (the mother-in-law) served me homemade fruit cake with whipped topping. Jessie had giggle fits on Chantel’s back. Chantel shared a discussion she recently had about the shepherds telling everyone about Jesus, and how she thought of me as someone who does that kind of sharing. The kids laughed when I told them the reason I was at their house alone: “I’m in time-out from my family for being too grumpy.”
When it was time to go home, I realized that emptiness and inadequacy had given way to feeling rejuvenated and peaceful. And unknown to me at the time, Chantel’s husband Nic invited Michael to go to a movie at the theater that evening.
This is community, and it is sacred. Jesus ministered to me through all these friends.
As I reflect on that miraculous afternoon, I realize I experienced community in a new way. I have been blessed throughout my life to be part of a loving church community, and I have always been celebrated and supported. I was showered with gifts at my 8th grade homeschool graduation in the community where I grew up. Where I now live, there are always baby showers and meal deliveries, wedding showers, and birthday parties. All of these are, to me, “legitimate” reasons for being cared for or celebrated; having a crappy day is NOT legitimate.
I have a wonderful life, so when I have a depressed day (which happens often), I pile on lots of shame for not being happy in my great life. I do not feel worthy of support, because the reason I desire support seems unacceptable. Yes, of course new moms, or kids graduating from school, ought to be supported and celebrated. But me with my lousy attitude? Not worthy.
My friends called all this stinkin’ thinkin’ into question by showering me with compassion in the midst of my anger and grumpiness. Now I know what it’s like to feel supported—to live in community—as a fragile human being: one who is allowed to be burdened by life and be held up by someone else.
Last evening my sister, my husband, and I attended a screening of the documentary Since I Been Down, which follows the lives of young men and boys from the Hilltop neighborhood in Tacoma, Washington, to prison. For more info, visit https://www.sinceibeendown.com. There’s also an excellent synopsis of the storyline here: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt14519366/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1. What follows is my musing after seeing the film.
When someone who has a 777-year prison sentence lives with purpose and hope, that’s God.
When a mother, whose innocent son was shot and killed, forgives—that’s God.
When tattooed men in a prison classroom understand justice as listening to the person next to them, that’s God.
When men who are quarantined from society, for life, choose to give of themselves to the people around them, that’s God.
When men of different races, from opposing gangs, covered with tattoos that censure each other, sit at the same table and joke together, that’s God.
When an older gang member slips $5 to a middle school gang member because he knows that kids’ parents aren’t putting food on the table, that’s God.
When a man who has been shown that he is worth nothing, finds that he is worth something, that’s God.
When fear and self-protection give way to curiosity, and then to the intimacy of shared humanity, that’s God.
When a grandmother forgives the mom who beat her three-year-old granddaughter to death, that’s God.
When a woman stands with the oppressed, and she voices that we are all perpetrators and we are all victims, that’s God.
When a lifer feels free for the brief moments he stands in front of his peers in a prison classroom, that’s God.
God was the Life in this film, though His name was never mentioned.
For where there is courage, compassion, and creativity, that’s God.
Where there is forgiveness, faithfulness, and friendship, that’s God.
Where there is hope, humility, and humor, that’s God.
In the movie It’s a Wonderful Life, George Bailey visits the richest man in town—Mr. Potter—and begs for help when he is at the end of his rope. After grilling George about his assets, and finding the only monetary asset he has is a $500 life insurance policy, Mr. Potter tells him, “You’re worth more dead than alive.” George Bailey stumbles from Mr. Potter’s office and finds his way to a bridge, where he would have ended his life, were it not for a tattered angel who showed him his worth without reference to money.
Many men and women have been told by those of us with money that they are worth more dead than alive.
When beauty and passion arise in a place where men are left for dead, that’s God.
God, who was tried, tortured, and killed, emerged from a guarded tomb, alive. And He stands with those who are tried, sentenced, locked away, and guarded, and—through them—shows us what it looks like to be alive.
God says, “Be still, and know that I am God!” (Psalm 46:10a NLT). I wonder how “they” decide where to place exclamation points in scripture. This one startles me, like maybe God just shouted a little bit. It’s like He knows it takes an act of nature to shake me out of performing and perfecting.
Learning to be still with Jesus is an ongoing pursuit for me. For years my habitual quiet time in the morning was infused with a hurry/produce mentality. I focused my time around memorizing a chapter of the Bible or reading one chapter of a book each day. I would journal all my angst, problems, and frustration over my lack of control. Ever so slowly I have learned to be still in God’s presence. Learning to be without an agenda has often resulted in tears. For most of my life I didn’t know what it was like to be seen and loved. As I came to experience Jesus, I cried many tears: tears of joy over being loved for no reason, and tears of grief over releasing who I was striving to be.
After a long season of either crying or feeling “blank” in my quiet times, I began to listen. I got really honest. I learned to take inventory of my heart. The thing about sitting with Jesus is that He doesn’t meet me where I wish I was; He meets me where I actually am.
I remember the day I was sitting in my “prayer chair” looking into the expansive greenness of a large tree near the window. I was thinking about trusting God, and realized that I could not pray, “I trust You today.” I didn’t trust God. I had no idea what He would ask me to do and I had no intention of handing Him my life to do with as He pleased. This was hard to admit. It’s kind of awkward when you’ve been a Christian for 30 years and realize you still think you’re a better god than God.
But I can’t manage trust the way I manage brushing my teeth. It doesn’t happen because I write it on my schedule. It happens when I get to know someone who’s trustworthy.
My honest reflection landed me here: I want to want to trust God. That’s two levels away from actually trusting, but it was a start: the beginning of “starting over” getting to know God. A year or two later a day came where I felt that God just might manage my day better than I could. Trust. Built on honesty, hard questions, arguments, and the discovery that God is emotional safety on steroids. Often I didn’t know my own heart, but Jesus brought it to the surface so we could engage with it together. At first this took a long time, but gradually it happened faster.
Other things flowed into my quiet time as well. I began to enjoy praying for all kinds of people: family, friends, acquaintances, classmates, neighbors, strangers. I began to catch myself when I started to rant and have a pity party, and instead make a choice to say what I was thankful for, or to praise God for who He is, or to revisit a promise or a truth He had previously given me. Quiet time became a daily opportunity to be seen and loved, no matter what state I was in.
Then, because God is absurdly good to me (I am His favorite child), this practice of stillness filtered into other parts of my day. I began to experience more emotional safety in relationships, and I watched the clock less when spending time with people. God invited me to do daily tasks one at a time, relieving my exhausting mental multitasking. I began to seek stillness and allow tears or rest instead of pushing myself harder when tired. Fruits of the Spirit like patience—for which I had cajoled God for years—began to show up.
One week last fall was ridiculously busy. I was harvesting and processing garden produce, preparing for my daughter’s birthday, and putting together a chapel talk for my kids’ school, in addition to writing several hours more than usual. The kids got sent home from school one day because of a power outage, and I felt behind all week. As I watched myself go through the week I noticed unusual behaviors: I didn’t demand that my family be as busy as me. I didn’t get up early, stay up late, or skip meals to keep being productive. I didn’t make long lists and then freak out when I only finished half. I took short naps. I took time to be still in the mornings and evenings. I often engaged in the task I was doing without rehearsing the next five tasks in my mind. I was flexible when timelines or events changed.
I didn’t even know that was possible.
I have a sneaking suspicion that God knew.
It was still a tough week, but there was a taste of grace. I was impatient sometimes. I complained about all I had to do. At times, I stilled my body but my mind and spirit didn’t follow suit. Yet there was a breeze of grace that has not often been present. There was a tendency to stop when I felt anxious or tired, instead of going faster. There was an acceptance of the times when stillness was a physical choice but mental rest didn’t follow.
One afternoon I started a fire in the outdoor fire pit, with great hopes of enjoying a deep breath in my spirit. I sat down with a blanket and a book. I started a poem about my tangled feelings. But I ended up more anxious than I began. Sometimes that’s how it goes.
I bumble along, and God persistently shows up. I am humbled, and grateful to the point of tears, for all the moments that were redeemed by His grace that long week. The times when I helped my children instead of demanding they go faster. The times I snuggled with my husband instead of doing one more thing. Participating with my daughter in baking and party preparations. Time spent with friends. These were all gifts from a persistent God who shows me the beauty of stillness despite my adamance that going fast and doing more is a noble agenda which He ought to adopt with me.
Stillness is an act of trust. Stillness is changing my life.
Here’s what irritates me the most about Jesus: He is never in a hurry. Of course I don’t like to be hurried. But life is fast and full and I want people to jump when I say jump. God is not on board with this plan. This would have been me living with Jesus: “Twenty minutes until Sabbath, Jesus!” “It’s meal time.” “Jesus, You’ve been preaching for three hours.” I would have been the disciple reminding Jesus that the people were hungry and needed to go home (see Matthew 14:15). And, when He stopped to talk with a random lady on his way to a dying girl, I might have burst a blood vessel. (see Luke 8:41-49)
As a child I was taught to keep moving and be productive. In my teens constant productivity made me somewhat of an oddity. I took summer courses in addition to working full time; I multitasked during movies; and I often carried a book with me to occupy myself should things start to drag. My first recollection of anyone pushing back on this trait was when I began dating. When I met my first (and last) boyfriend, Michael, I was taking a full university class load and working three part-time campus jobs totaling about 30 hours a week. Very soon after we began dating, Michael encouraged me to quit one of my jobs, which I did. He often challenged my hurried and productive lifestyle simply because he didn’t live that way. For example, I always walked fast; he couldn’t stand walking fast. Over time he taught me to “stroll,” as he liked to call it. This drove me nuts!
Often I have found slowing down produces anxiety in me. When I slow down I must face who I am. This can be debilitating. The truth is hard to swallow: I am not who I want to be and change is costly. Constant activity shields me from the awareness that I am scrambling for safety I don’t have—the kind of quiet safety that anchors my spirit. Hustling and productivity provide an escape. Being productive is a deeply ingrained habit, rewarded by my family of origin and my country’s culture. Slowing down requires engaging in the difficult process of renovating my beliefs about myself. While I may find all this terrifying, God is ready to roll up His sleeves and get to work.
If learning to be still began when I started dating Michael, it has now occupied half my life. I spent a decade learning to slow physically: to enjoy a relaxing stroll, to watch a movie and let it be the only activity, to sit and watch the birds. For the most part I have eased into this over time and am finding it comfortable.
Mental stillness has come at a much greater price. My first few years as a stay-at-home mom I managed to “perform” in my new role, as I had in all previous roles. I kept my babies fed and washed and responded to their cries. I cooked and cleaned and went to mommy groups. But shortly after my girls turned one and three years old, I began to struggle mentally and emotionally. The stillness of being home all day was a place of reflection in which all I could see were distortions and shadows. Compassion and hope were blotted out by fear of who I was and fear of getting things wrong. I would cry whenever someone said I was a good mom, because I desired it with every fiber of my being yet felt estranged from it. I pushed myself through each day because I felt if I stopped I would never get up again. I thought if I admitted I was lonely, discouraged and afraid, I would be swallowed up by those feelings.
I have often said the worst possible scenario for my mental health is to be alone in my own mind. Here I was, at home all day with these little people who no longer exhausted me to the point of survival mode, and I found that living with myself was the most painful thing I had ever endured. As a companion to myself, I was critical, short-tempered and punitive. I was so hard on myself that I lived in constant fear and decision-paralysis. God forbid I make a “wrong” choice about how to handle the hundred-and-one decisions I made about my children every day. I was, as they say, my own worst enemy. I was unable to cheer myself on, and instead found every reason to point out how I was not meeting expectations. I had never learned to be kind to myself. I could not let the waters still, to see my beautiful reflection clearly. I was quick to throw stones—to rend the image—because I identified with my brokenness more than my beauty.
One evening after a particularly difficult bedtime with my girls, I retreated to the recliner prepared to rehearse my awfulness and parade my ugliness before myself. Maybe enough shame would help me get my shit together (I’m not sure why I still believe that when it has yet to “work”). But God had other ideas. I felt Him embracing me, and I knew He was there not to talk about how to do better next time, but to hold me because He knew how much it hurt this time. I don’t understand why God is like this, but slowly I am learning to follow His lead. I am learning to embrace myself when I cause pain. And if I can embrace myself when I cause pain, then I can embrace others when they cause pain. I can invite them into this stillness, in which God’s holy presence holds all of us with tenderness. Stillness becomes a place of expanding kindness.
For six years now God has been loosening my corset little by little, teaching me to take up space, to breathe, until the corset is almost forgotten, and I am even invited to be plump and to enjoy it. I can be kind to myself. And when I am, it’s not so bad to be alone and still.
I have the Hawk Nelson song, “Live Like You’re Loved” stuck in my head this morning, so I’m asking God: what does it look like to “live like you’re loved”?
It is deeply settling to know I am loved. It voids all the questions of whether I’m doing enough and whether I have value. It means knowing that Someone’s thoughts and affections are always with me.
When you know you’re loved, you live generously, because you know you will never run out of the one thing that’s most important. There is no scarcity; you don’t have to hold on so tightly.
Knowing I am loved means I can stop measuring and judging everything in my life.
If I look at Jesus, living loved means irritating people with grace and generosity and abundance. And it means being able to go ahead with what seems like an impossible sacrifice.
It means strength that is not my own, and life that is so bursting full that death on this earth is only a temporary setback.
Have you noticed it is hard to be loved by God? It is the end of a long day, and I sit in the quiet of my daughters’ bedroom, tired in every way. Finally they are sleeping, and finally I take inventory of my cowering spirit. I let the discomfort and fear rise to my conscious mind and the falling tears are evidence of despair over my mediocrity. Sometimes I think it would feel better to fail epically than to struggle along day after day, doing what I need to do, but feeling purposeless; being possessed by a nagging ache that I could do so much better. I could be a better mom and wife and friend; a better housekeeper and cook and caretaker of pets.
As I sit in the quiet and feel the discomfort of my own existence, the whisper to my soul is one of love. “How do I go through the coming week?” I wonder. And God says, “Let me love you.” Even as my tears become tears of relief, I realize: being loved is hard too. I don’t know how to be loved. For 34 years I have believed that I must perform. This is so deeply a part of me that an identity based on being loved feels like insanity. I must be crazy. God must be crazy. What is going on? Is He sure He really loves me? Is He sure loving me and not fixing me this week is the best idea? At any rate, shouldn’t I earn His love by doing something good? Or shouldn’t the purpose of His love be to make me good?
And so I find before me a most difficult task this week. Not to become a better parent, or a better wife. Not to hold my tongue, or have a hot dinner ready at 5:30 every day. Not to make fancy after-school snacks and remember everything I need when I go to the store. Not to have the perfect ratio of social time and time at home. Not to always listen attentively to my children. Not to affirm my husband every day. Not to anticipate and care for the needs of my family, friends and community. My task is to be loved.
This is hard because I don’t really believe I am lovable – especially when I am performing so far below my own expectations. But if I am honest, I know in my spirit that love is exactly the right place to begin. Love is transforming. Love is a safe place to be when my own self is a minefield of lies and scoffing laughter at my attempts to be “good.” Love when I don’t deserve it is precisely what nudges me toward healing: what gives me permission to be broken, so that instead of fighting against myself I can embrace brokenness and know the first moments of healing.
God’s love is too good to be true. And haven’t I always been told, “If it’s too good to be true, it’s probably not true”? Well, this time it is too good to be true, but it is nevertheless true. God loves me. He really is crazy. And this really is good news. I can lay down this ungainly burden of must-get-everything-right, and breath some fresh grace-air deep into my bones, my spirit, my identity.
How does this all work? I’m not exactly sure. But maybe one tiny step is becoming aware of my allegiance. Dare I give more allegiance to the whispers of Love than to the well-worn paths of performing and earning? Could I choose to believe that I am loved, having done nothing to deserve it? Could I take one tiny step away from legalism and toward grace: away from starvation and toward abundance?
I learned from Dr. Caroline Leaf’s brain detox program how our thoughts occupy physical space in our minds. When we develop new thoughts they begin as little “bumps” in our brain, which then grow into “mushrooms” and then big healthy “trees,” simply because we think them over and over. Conversely, we can physically remove thoughts from our brain, reversing this process and deteriorating healthy “trees” down into “mushrooms,” then “bumps,” then nothing. Death.
Life or death. Choose this day whom you will serve (Joshua 24:15). This week, choosing to serve God looks like letting God love me, even though it makes no sense. Letting Him hold me after I belittle my children. Letting Him forgive me 100 times in one afternoon. Letting Him give me gifts I do not deserve. Letting Him withhold consequences I do deserve. Letting Him get a little crazy with me. Letting Him decide whether I am worthy, because He already decided on a cross a long time ago, when He was worthy for me so I don’t have to be worthy.
If obedience is a turning toward God (I explored this idea in Obedience, Part 1), then how do I decide when to turn toward Him? Do I need to understand and agree in order to obey? I will be arguing in this post that agreement and understanding do not precede obedience. But before exploring that further, let’s agree that it is important to understand who God is, and agree with His kingdom principles before we trust and follow Him. He is not asking us to choose Him blindly. But once we do choose Him, and we learn to trust Him (which, by the way, happens over time, not magically all at once), we will miss the glory of being His if we obey only when we agree and understand. I also want to note before I begin that the ideas presented under “Why Obedience” come primarily from a presentation by Bob Folkenberg, which may be viewed in full here: https://vimeo.com/32471840
Why Obedience?
Think about what happens in a parent-child relationship when a child wants to know “why?” Suppose I ask my daughter Kayt to wash the dinner table. At this point she can obey or disobey, based only on the fact that I am her mother and I have asked her to do something. But suppose she asks why, and I explain, “we’re going to do a craft and I don’t want crumbs and sticky food to get on our craft.” Now she can think about that and decide whether she also doesn’t want crumbs and sticky stuff on her craft. Or whether she will do it because she wants to keep me happy by doing what’s important to me. Or perhaps she’ll decide not to do it, because she doesn’t think what I said makes any sense. The point is, now that I have given her my reason, she will use her own judgement to decide whether to obey me. Folkenberg says, “Therefore they are not doing what you asked them to do. They are doing what they have decided is appropriate to do. They are worshipping their own opinions, which are higher than yours.” Since I have given my reason, my daughter is now making a decision based on her own authority and judgement, not mine.
Understanding is a good prerequisite for decision making, but not for obedience. In most of our relationships obedience makes no sense. Ought we to do whatever our boss says without thinking about it? I should think not. What about our friends, coworkers, small group leaders, pastors? Certainly not. But in our relationship with God, as well as in the parent-child relationship, it does make sense to obey without understanding, without making our own judgement about the situation. What child would cheerfully put herself to bed at 8pm every night because you explained the importance of sleep? What child would eagerly hand over his toys whenever friends came to play because you explained the importance of caring about others? Children must obey their parents without understanding or agreeing, because their life and wellbeing depends on it. They would die if left to their own understanding. And so will we.
Consider Lucifer’s sin. “For you have said in your heart: ‘I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of God…’” (Isaiah 14:13a NKJV). His sin was in his thoughts, his heart, and it was a conflict of authority. Folkenberg puts it this way: Lucifer says “You have the authority to make all the rules you want to, but I get to decide which ones I’m going to follow…. And that means I’m a god like You’re a God. I’ve got the same authority ‘cause I crowned myself an alternate God.”
Consider Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Lucifer shows up and crowns himself as another god – able to make judgements about God – in the sight of Adam and Eve by contradicting God: “you won’t die.” Then he offers Eve the opportunity to become a god too: “your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil” (Genesis 3:4b NKJV). She accepted his invitation and used her own reasoning to consider what God had said about the tree, consider what she herself could see and understand about the tree, and make a decision. “So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree desirable to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate” (Genesis 3:6a NKJV). She placed her own judgement above God’s judgement. She crowned herself another god. Folkenberg says there is only one sin: “Yes God, I know what you said, but it seems to me…”
Both Lucifer and Eve rejected God’s sovereignty and His love. Folkenberg argues that God’s love/acceptance and His sovereignty/authority are two sides of the same coin, and that you cannot have one without the other. “Sin [as defined above] is the rebellion that is made evident in the deed that rejects God’s sovereign authority and love beyond description. You cannot reject His authority without rejecting His love. You cannot separate His sovereign love that is the basis for His means of salvation without also rejecting His authority. And we most commonly reject His sovereignty, His lordship. But we can’t have one without the other… The Lord says, ‘You cannot be anything like me unless you let me change your likes and dislikes and your wants and your desires. I’m the one. Let me in; I’ll help you.'” This is Lordship in a nutshell:
Me: I’m trying so hard.
God: Stop trying, I’ve got it covered.
If you’re agreeing with God, the weight is on you. You have to make the right decision. If you’re trusting God, the weight is on Him. As my friend Nic always says, “Are you trusting God, or trusting yourself?”
Let’s be clear that prioritizing obedience does not somehow place salvation in our hands. We are not saved by obedience. We’re saved by grace, and by the process of responding to that grace in the only way that we can – falling in love with Jesus. In fact, Folkenberg goes on to say that if we obey God because we agree with Him, we’re not actually obeying Him, we’re obeying ourselves. Our actions that appear to be obedience may actually be sin if they are done out of agreement (we have now placed ourselves in judgement over God) and not trust.
So if we’re not saved by obedience, but by grace, why does God ask us to obey Him? 1 John 2:3 says, “Now by this we know that we know Him, if we keep His commandments.” By this WE know. Folkenberg says, “my obedience is not designed to impress God… orto impress somebody else (it’s none of their business)… it is there for me, as an honesty check on who I am. [When we put on a good act] we deceive everybody else and deceive ourselves. Folks, we’re not as good as we think we are and we’re certainly not as good as anybody else thinks we are. The Lord says… ‘I’ve designed the plan of salvation so that you have to confront who you are. You’re saved by grace… but I’m helping you realize that you’ve got a struggle, and your struggle is to set your opinions aside and simply say, “Lord make me what you want [me] to be.”‘ Don’t be impressed by yourself. Face the reality of yourself.”
My Experience
Obedience is like a trust thermometer. Nearly four years ago I realized I didn’t trust God one bit. The idea of waking up in the morning and saying, “Lord, you are God, do as you see fit today,” was absolutely terrifying and practically revolting to me. I didn’t want what God wanted. I wanted what I wanted, and if He wanted to help with it, that would be lovely. Of course He didn’t, so things got a little awkward there for a while. After years of honest conversation, humbly seeking to fall in love with Jesus, and facing the reality of my deep brokenness, most mornings I am now relieved to leave everything in God’s hands. Have I mastered trust? Heavens, no! By God’s grace I have taken one tiny step toward fully trusting Him. There is always another layer, a deeper experience. God is never done. As I learn to trust Him in one place, He stretches me in another.
Walking with God is comforting, but right on the edge of unnerving. It’s not a gradient where I move from unnerved to comforted. Rather, they are stacked right against each other. The second I forget how much God loves me, I move from peace to stress. Which of course makes sense, because God’s kingdom is ridiculous and impossible for me, and thinking about it causes fear and anxiety when I am trying to follow Him by making the right decisions myself. But knowing and trusting God – and letting Him make the decisions – changes everything. There is great peace and comfort in His presence.
It’s kind of like being naked or being clothed. Imagine trying to go through a typical day naked. When I’m naked I can’t take on anything because all I can think about is needing to be dressed. But when I am clothed, those thoughts disappear completely and I am ready to tackle the day. Walking with God, rooted in His love, is like being dressed. When I start to wonder if He’s really got it covered, it’s like my underwear are showing. If I keep going that way, pretty soon my buttons fall off and I might as well be naked because it’s all I can think about. But if I pull my clothes back into place – if I remember God’s love for me – I return to the safety of being covered. Am I always naked underneath the clothes? Yes. Will I always be naked underneath God’s love and provision? Yes. But will the knowledge of that nakedness be practically nonexistent in my mind as I enjoy His clothing? I believe yes.
If we only obey God when we agree with Him, we will be forever running around naked. When we trust Him, and our obedience comes from a place of love and safety, we will always be clothed. We can honestly bring our deepest hurts and our greatest confusions to Him and know that there is comfort in His saving grace and His powerful lordship.
If you don’t feel peace and comfort in God’s presence, and you don’t want to trust Him, don’t despair. Your shortcoming are never ever so great that He can’t reach right through them and save you. Get really honest. Tell Him how you really feel. Put forth the tiny seed of faith you have, even if you’re embarrassed how small it is. For me, I couldn’t say I trusted Him, or even that I wanted to trust Him, but I could say that I wanted to want to trust Him. And that’s where I started.
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