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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

God Is Not in Control, Epilogue

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I never intended to write four posts about how God is not in control. What began as one question has evolved into piles of questions, most of which remain unanswered. But today I really am going to wrap up with a final post on the topic (at least for a while).

As I’ve reflected on what it looks like to move away from “God has a plan” and “God is in control,” I’ve found those sentiments everywhere—in books, emails, prayers, small group conversation. We are so desperate for control that we have assigned it to God with certainty and force.

Dare I say evangelism springs from a desire to control? We want people to be on our side. We want them to be “saved”—from what? Eternal burning? I don’t believe in that. Pain? We’re all on the pain train. A meaningless life? Okay, but fitness or family or any number of things can provide meaning in life. Are we proving we’re right by convincing other people to think the way we think? Are we earning God’s favor? Trying to avoid eternal separation from people we love?

Doggedly we seek to control how our lives turn out, how other people’s lives turn out, how the world and eternity turn out. We want to do our part. We want God to do His part.

Jesus wasn’t big on asking people to agree with Him before they followed Him. What if we invited people to follow us, to see what life is like for a human well-loved by God, taught by Jesus, and emotionally intimate with the Spirit? What would it look like if evangelism focused on showing what a messy life looks like with God, rather than on cleaning up the mess?

Church people like to talk about being “in” or “out” of the church. “Our neighbors aren’t in church any more.” “Her oldest boy stopped going to church.” When a kid is “out” of church, the parent doesn’t rejoice and say, “I’m so happy I have no control, and so grateful that God gives the power of choice. I can see the spiritual freedom in my daughter’s choice to not believe in God. It illustrates God’s character beautifully.” Nope. We go to battle, employing rigorous prayer and subtle (or not-so-subtle) manipulation; we adjust our theology; we feel sad and helpless; we obsess about it or refuse to think about it at all.

While eager to praise God for free will and the power of choice, we simultaneously do everything possible to control the people She puts in our lives. Is that because we’d rather trust Her control than Her goodness? Would we rather eradicate addition than accept discomfort? “Better safe than sorry,” we say, not realizing that our version of safety insulates us from God. Am I willing to trust in God rather than trust in the safety She provides? Harry Shaumburg put it like this, and it gives me pause:

As I learn to trust God, I acknowledge how little I really know of what it means to rely on God and demand nothing. I’ve seen only a glimpse of what it means to put my confidence in God in a way that goes beyond a demand for safety and comfort. Yes, I have tasted what it means to have faith in God … but I’ve only begun to trust … [T]rust is a decision to enter the reality of a fallen world that is at best disturbing.

– False Intimacy, by Harry Schaumburg, page 87

I used to think trust ought to take me out of reality. Schaumburg suggests the opposite—that trusting God will immerse me in the reality of our disturbing, broken world. Do I really want that? On the other hand, do I want God to control this spastic world into submission? I don’t respond well to the people in my life who control. I move away from them, subvert their efforts, focus on our differences, and even flaunt my choice to not do what they want. That’s not the response I hope to evoke in friends, or strangers. Am I willing to trust God while feeling the discomfort of humanity? Willing to not know what He’s going to do about this mess?

God invites me to exhale the need for life—mine and everyone else’s—to turn out well, then inhale love. Love is spontaneous, annoying kindness; food and forgiveness; boundaries and truth—in all places at all times. When control dies, an unexpected stream of creativity emerges and confirms my identity: made in the image of God who creates.

When I See God Glowing

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“It would be a good sign of our spiritual well-being if, when asked to describe a moment we felt close to God, we said, ‘When I loved another.’”
– Philip Gulley, Unlearning God: How Unbelieving Helped Me Believe

“Assuredly, I say to you, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me.”
– the King, speaking to the sheep, as told by Jesus in Matthew 25:40

Intimacy with human beings is intimacy with God. When I interact with the “least,” I connect with God. This is humbling. This is not light beaming from heaven, or a pipe organ in a cathedral, or gallant green trees, or even my favorite books. Yes, God is in those things. But He makes a point to tell me He is in the least.

Who are my “least”?

My bickering, balking, button-pushing children.

Friends I avoid because they are “too Christian.”

The folks I pay money to—cashiers, wait staff, contractors, plumbers, produce stand vendors.

People asking for money at the entrance to the Walmart parking lot or sleeping in shop doorways downtown.

I’m good at hiding—behind a smile, a book, “safe” sharing. When I tap my credit card, I don’t have to see the person behind the counter. When I’m on a phone call—to the bank, dentist, tax office—I hide behind the professional relationship. I scurry down the soup aisle at the grocery store to avoid greeting an acquaintance. My kids get the short end of the stick as I shield myself with anger and control at home. I give money to charities because it’s easier than being charitable.

Then again, I keep bags, packed with snacks, water, and toiletries, in my car, and hand them to folks on street corners. I give a stranger a ride home. I pray with the cashier at the grocery story. I forgive my children before they ask.

I don’t know if I’m a nice person. I lean in; I pull away. Does this mean sometimes I have time for Jesus and sometimes I don’t?

Are there tally marks in the Book of Life?

Does it matter?

Human tally marks are about control, about externals. If there are tally marks on the cosmic whiteboard, they’re a kind I’ve never seen before. If God is measuring, let Him measure. I wouldn’t know what to measure anyway.

How well am I loving Jesus in the flesh and bones before me, wearing leggings and sweat and weariness? I do not think God is worrying about this. He is busy inhabiting arrogant leaders and polarizing politicians; beggars and cheaters and liars and beaters; starving children and sex slaves; and that guy who drives too fast down my street at 10pm most evenings. God is holding hands with humble pastors and hardworking husbands, earthquake victims and suicidal teenagers, relief workers and therapists, and mothers worn so thin you can see the light through them.

I rest assured that I will find Jesus today—at lunch with girlfriends, at school pickup, in text messages and emails, at the dinner table, and while the kids brush their teeth before bed. Intimacy with God is built into my existence. Intimacy with God is the breath of life in my own warm body.

The world is pulsing with light—a heat map of warm bodies—in the layers of houses I can see from my front window, the drivers of cars, the shoppers and walkers, glowing. Everywhere, God is glowing.

It’s Me! Run!

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It’s Me! Run!

Reflections – week 2

Welcome to the second week of reflections inspired by my current small groups. Together with some of my favorite women, I’m exploring these books: Father’s House: The Path That Leads Home, and The Whole Language.

This is week two of eight. I’m finding joy here, and I’m pleased you’re with me on this journey.

The Paddle

When I was a child, a wooden spatula was the “paddle” at our house—used for spankings. I chuckle now, remembering the occasional days when my mother would carry the paddle in her back pocket. How well I know those kinds of days now that I have kids of my own.

I have two specific memories of spankings, one of which must have happened when I was quite young, I’m guessing preschool age. I don’t know what brought it on, but I had a meltdown of epic proportions, involving kicking, screaming, and the works. My parents put me on my bed to spank me, but I was kicking so violently they couldn’t paddle me. To solve this conundrum, one of them sat on my legs and the other spanked me.

As this memory accompanied my growth and development, it grew into a belief: the proper way to handle big feelings is to punish myself for them. Or better yet, try not to have them at all. I’m certain that’s not the lesson my parents intended. They probably figured they were enabling me to grow up and behave like an adult. (No one appreciates a 30-year-old who still throws epic tantrums.)

Fear of Self

Week two in Father’s House is about being lavishly loved. The authors write, “To live as a fully loved and accepted daughter in your Father’s House, He’s inviting you to let go of your former identity. You are no longer bound to your past, what anyone else has spoken over you or even what you say about yourself. As you journey Home, saturate yourself in who your Father says you are.”1 (emphasis added)

As I read and wrote through each day of the study last week, fear of myself emerged as a common theme. Starting as a young child I learned to fear myself, to fear my emotions and desires, my imperfections, my capacity to make mistakes. The religious community further intensified this fear by teaching me that I was sinful and needed constant spiritual supervision to avoid indulging the unforgivable person that I was. I became afraid of turning away from God. I figured He’s pretty nice—you know, amazing grace and all that—but if I intentionally, or unintentionally, turn my back on Him, He will be pissed off.

So there I was, internalizing my parents’ responses to me, into a belief that my emotional experiences are unacceptable; internalizing the religious community’s sin-message into the belief that I am a walking liability; and what did all that do? For twenty years, nothing. I was so good at being good that these fears lay dormant. It was unnecessary to face them when I managed myself exceptionally and performed well for every person in my life who expected something from me.

If you’re familiar with my story, you know when the upheaval began: stay-at-home momming. Suddenly, with loss of sleep and the demands of parenting, I was reacquainted with my emotional self in the most savage way. My best efforts to control and punish myself weren’t working. Anger, frustration, fear, and emptiness consumed me, and—given my beliefs about emotions and mistakes—it’s not surprising that a dark shame enveloped me.

Temper Tantrum

A few months ago when I went through Father’s House for the first time, during the activation exercise (meditative visualizing and listening), I had a (visualized) temper tantrum. It was just as I remember from childhood, heels hitting the floor so hard it hurt, as I lay on the ground screaming and sobbing out of control. Papa God lay beside me. I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t engage with Him. I could not receive comfort or accept reason or respond to reprimand. Mercifully, He didn’t expect anything from me. When the waves of emotion began to subside, I rolled into Papa’s arms. I was ready to receive comfort, and He was waiting to comfort me.

Papa God suggests there is no distance between Him and me. He is not cooled by the things that chill the people in my life: turning away, having needs, being impolite, tired, sick, stressed, confused, emotional, forgetful. God is warmly present with me when I am out of control. All of me and my experiences are folded right in, received without question or critique or hesitation. No part of me is a liability.

Holy Imagination

“Visualizing your future as a lavishly loved daughter is critical to your life,” I read in Father’s House. “In fact, it helps engage your heart with your head when you involve your divine imagination. Describe what that life would look like in as much detail as possible. What would you be doing, thinking, or feeling?”2 Here’s what comes to mind:

  • My insides will be still (not agitated). I will be at peace with myself, not warring against myself.
  • I will have energy to create and to love (not compulsion).
  • I will take more risks.
  • Forgiveness will come as naturally as breathing.
  • Suffering will fall into my embrace rather than being held at arms length. It may hurt like hell, but it won’t be fragmenting.
  • Pain, anxiety, depression, fear and anger will be experienced with God, rather than as separating or isolating experiences.
  • I will be whole, not fragmented, not always looking for parts that have been forgotten.

Not As Scary As I Thought

I assumed God was in on the idea that I cannot be trusted with myself. I am shocked to discover God trusts me with me. The shame is lifting. The fear is shrinking.

Lie: I am loved and accepted if I reject myself so I can be what I “ought” to be.

Truth: I couldn’t be better. I am loved entirely independent of my level of responsibility and emotional control. Papa received me first, to clear the way for me to receive myself. He invites me to love myself as He loves me. Now that’s crazy!

Gregory Boyle writes, “Ensuring, then, that we are never strangers to ourselves will give us access to our deepest longing.” I have been a stranger to myself, but I am learning to roll out the welcome mat, receive myself with open arms, and explore my deepest longings.

Endnotes:
1Father’s House, page 29
2Father’s House, page 34
3The Whole Language, page 18

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

Uncomfortable Extravagance

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And when Jesus was in Bethany at the house of Simon the leper, a woman came to Him having an alabaster flask of very costly fragrant oil, and she poured it on His head as He sat at the table. But when His disciples saw it, they were indignant, saying, “Why this waste? For this fragrant oil might have been sold for much and given to the poor.” But when Jesus was aware of it, He said to them, “Why do you trouble the woman? For she has done a good work for Me. For you have the poor with you always, but Me you do not have always. For in pouring this fragrant oil on My body, she did it for My burial. Assuredly, I say to you, wherever this gospel is preached in the whole world, what this woman has done will also be told as a memorial to her.”

Matthew 26:6-13, NKJV

Why do we as humans pride ourselves on being calculated, miserly, scrupulous? Why do we look down on extravagance and take effort to make sure we are not associated with it? What is it about excess that makes us so uncomfortable?

We like to keep things small and controlled. Big makes us squirm. I wonder if this woman who poured oil on Jesus tended to live a higher-risk, less calculated life. Or was this her one moment of letting go, carried past sensibility by love?

Maybe an extravagant way of living—even as we observe it in billionaires and deride it—is not to be changed, but simply to be made beautiful by the grace of God and His leading. We are so eager to change things that seem to us a liability. We are quick to criticize.

Perhaps the extravagant person has a gift, a rare talent. What if, even when I disagree with them, I could begin by recognizing the gift?

Where the disciples saw waste and carelessness, Jesus saw love. His existence as a human being on planet earth was in itself a ridiculous extravagance.

Lord, teach me to see love in the extravagant.

Home and Healing

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I get confused about Healing and Home, in a chicken-or-egg sort of way.

By Healing, I mean what Christians often call sanctification—the sacred pathway of becoming.

By Home I mean, “It is finished.” (see John 19:30) Christ accomplished all, and all is mine and His, and we are one. (The Christian ideas of justification and glorification may both be included here).

Which comes first, Healing or Home? Home leads to Healing because it tells me the truth about who I am, but Healing brings me Home because it enables me to believe the truth about who I am.

Wondering which one follows the other may be a distraction from the miracle that both are forever true. Home stands complete, perfect, sure and strong as granite. Healing takes the journey, bearing witness to growth and death and life—transformation on repeat. Healing leads me Home … but Home permits me to Heal.

The Bible—which at this time is an enigma to me—says much about Home and Healing. It speaks about what we have now, and what we are moving toward; about how things are, were, and will be. It’s all mixed up together. Take the first chapter of Ephesians, for example.

I pray that your hearts will be flooded with light so that you can understand the confident hope He has given to those He called—His holy people who are His rich and glorious inheritance. I also pray that you will understand the incredible greatness of God’s power for us who believe Him. This is the same mighty power that raised Christ from the dead and seated him in the place of honor at God’s right hand in the heavenly realms. Now He is far above any ruler or authority or power or leader or anything else—not only in this world but also in the world to come. God has put all things under the authority of Christ and has made Him head over all things for the benefit of the church. And the church is His body; it is made full and complete by Christ, who fills all things everywhere with Himself.

Ephesians 1:18-23 NLT

I feel a bit woozy after I read this passage. Past, present, future—it’s all there. And what a lineup of shocking statements. I am part of God’s inheritance (why does He have an inheritance?). God’s power for me is the power that resurrected Jesus. Jesus has authority over all authorities, “not only in this world, but also in the world to come.” The church is Christ’s body (say what?). “All things everywhere” are filled with Christ (really? All and everywhere are VERY inclusive words).

But I’m gonna roll with it. God my Father placed Christ above all things, and He placed me in Christ. He is “far above” because He is bigger and more alive than power and dominion and rules and authority.

I am in Him. By His stripes I am healed from control, because He is above control, and I am in Him. (see Isaiah 53:5) His authority supersedes the illusion of human control (the illusion that I can control myself or another person, or that I can be controlled by another person).

Even the apostle Paul seems astonished by (yet very confident about) this craziness.

What shall we say about such wonderful things as these? If God is for us, who can ever be against us? Since He did not spare even His own Son but gave Him up for us all, won’t He also give us everything else? Who dares accuse us whom God has chosen for His own? No one—for God Himself has given us right standing with Himself. Who then will condemn us? No one—for Christ Jesus died for us and was raised to life for us, and He is sitting in the place of honor at God’s right hand, pleading for us. Can anything ever separate us from Christ’s love? Does it mean He no longer loves us if we have trouble or calamity, or are persecuted, or hungry, or destitute, or in danger, or threatened with death? No, despite all these things, overwhelming victory is ours through Christ, who loved us. And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love. No power in the sky above or in the earth below—indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Romans 8:31-35, 37-39 NLT

As I consider what little I can grasp from this shocking passage, I am surprised by this comfort: I belong. This is a relief.

I belong in (inside) Christ. I don’t need to worry, because I’m Home. I have arrived.

Sometimes I may feel lost—as if trying to read a map through tears. Or frozen still, breathing shallow, as shape-shifting shadows approach.

Yet nothing can separate me from the love of Jesus. I am always Home. I am always in His heart, His thoughts, His body. Whether I am thriving or dying, grieving or joyful, begging or praising, suffering or sitting pretty, married or divorced, addicted or sober, giving or taking …

I am Home, which is an invitation to Healing.

I am Healing, which is my invitation Home. The door is always open.

On Being Dead (Part 3)

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I remember a moment when I strongly identified with the phrase, “sinner saved by grace.” Yes, I thought, this is the most accurate description of me. I am a sinner. I am also saved by grace. Simultaneously.

Now I’m not so sure.

In the post-gospel New Testament (Acts-Revelation), the words “sinner” or “sinners” are found 13 times. The word “sin” appears 90 times. Perhaps sin is more of a condition than an identity. More of an act than an actuality.

Nearly half (43) of those 90 occurrences of the word “sin” are in Romans, and 39 are in chapters five through eight. The words “dead” or “death” occur 37 times in those same four chapters. Is there a correlation between sin and death? As I read and re-read, highlight, and scratch my head, I notice two distinct connections, one with which I am very familiar, and the other which I have noticed only recently.

The first connection I see between sin and death is that sin leads to, or results in, death. All four chapters (Romans 5-8) speak to this dynamic, including the well-known verse, “For the wages of sin is death …” (Romans 6:23a).

The second connection I notice between sin and death is that death disconnects a person from sin. Dying quite literally makes it impossible to sin. Chapter 6 most fully addresses this:

“How shall we who died to sin live any longer in it?” (v. 2)
“… our old man was crucified with Him, that the body of sin might be done away with …” (v. 6)
“For he who has died has been freed from sin.” (v. 7)
“For the death that He died, He died to sin once for all … Likewise you also, consider yourselves to be dead indeed to sin …” (v. 10, 11)
“For sin shall not have dominion over you …” (v. 14)
“And having been set free from sin, you became slaves of righteousness.” (v. 18)
“But now having been set free from sin …” (v. 22)

What I’m hearing is that Jesus died for me, but not in the traditional sense that he had to “pay.” Rather, death is the only way to conclude sin, and Jesus died to gift me that decisive, deadly conclusion.

I died. I can no longer sin. Therefore my identity is not “sinner.” I am not a sinner. I am dead to sin and free from sin. The only purpose of having an awareness of sin was that it showed me I was turning gray, showed me the morbid path I travelled. Jesus stepped in to my lifeless pallor and saw it through to its end, death. In receiving His death as a gift, I claim my identity of righteous daughter.

Paul suggests I am now a slave of righteousness. I’m not entirely comfortable with such strong language. But I am intrigued by the possibility that the power that sinful behavior previously had in my life has been replaced by the power righteousness now has in my life. I am free—to do what is loving and holy and true. I am free—to not do what is selfish and common, empty and false. I am empowered by the mind and spirit of Christ in me. Righteousness is my impulse, my instinct, the way I am compelled to act.

Christians have a great following with the “you are a sinner” gospel because it is true to human experience, to our flesh. But flesh is really just all the lies we have believed about who we are. Rather than giving life, this gospel affirms that I am what I feared—a broken person who can’t stop behaving hurtfully.

I never once wondered if I was going to heaven when I died, but I wondered every day what the hell was wrong with me. As a “sinner saved by grace,” heaven was the only good I could see coming out of the gospel. Not very many people—and especially not me—seemed truly alive.

Death was my promised certificate of achievement, the consummation of my life lived in lies. But God took my death certificate and tore it up. “Forget that,” He said, “in my house we deal in life. Here is your life certificate.” Beneath “Life Certificate,” written in a glowing script, the paper reads, This is to certify that Tobi Danielle Goff is 100% alive, and her state of being is characterized by abundance, growth, righteousness, and luminescence.

Paul says my lied-to mind was “enmity against God; for it [was] not subject to the law of God, nor indeed [could] be.” (Romans 8:7, emphasis added) I could not remain as I was and be fully alive. I was stuck, wondering how to die to self, not realizing it was already done. As Dan Mohler observed, “Preacher’ll say, ‘This’ll cost you everything.’ Everything you were never created to be! … Why not activate faith and let go of the lie and test out truth? You’ll be wondering why you didn’t die a long time ago, ‘cause living without that is like being dead already.”1

Paul wrote, “… if Christ is in you, the body is dead because of sin, but the Spirit is life because of righteousness.” (Romans 8:10) At this point I get a little confused. Am I dead or alive? Did I need to die, or was I already dead? Or was I already alive and I just didn’t know it? Take your pick. My process seems to have roughly happened this way: 1) I noticed my spirit and life were dead-ish, 2) I realized I was thinking and acting in ways that produce death, 3) I wanted to die but I didn’t know how, 4) God invited me into death and the quietness of the tomb with Him, 5) I realized I didn’t need to do or not do anything—life, death, and resurrection were already accomplished for me, 6) I agreed with God—and continue to agree, over and over— that I am His righteous daughter.

I’ve heard “dying to self” described as a continual, painful process. Maybe it is, but I find that wildly intimidating. Especially if I’m supposed to come up with the courage to die every day. But if, in Jesus, my death was already accomplished, then “dying daily” is simply agreeing with what is already done. It is acknowledgement of a new state of affairs. It is acceptance of a gift.

I often say, “God does the heavy lifting.” If I’m carrying a heavy load, chances are I misunderstand. If the burden isn’t light, chances are I’ve put on my work jeans and pulled the wheelbarrow out for some unnecessary hauling. As Matthew Pierce aptly noted, “Jesus and I can’t both pay the price for my mistakes.”2

“Living in the Spirit” is another way of saying I agree with God. When I agree with God my old view of me (broken, sinner) dies, and I get a new view: righteous daughter. I am meant to be alive in a greater sense than my physical aliveness, and there’s something about wholeness that’s invigorating. Something about finding my God-created spirit buried under lies, dusting it off, and rejoicing because I have found treasure. This treasure doesn’t sustain me from the outside, like money or sunshine or my favorite sweater; it sustains me from the inside, like being chosen first when I’m not the best, like holding hands, like finding out I belong.

Endnotes:
1 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ngfEH7_8FGY&ab_channel=CityCenterChurch
2 https://mpierce.substack.com/p/all-of-my-sins-are-because-of-elon

On Being Dead (Part 2)

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June 20, 2022

God, I am so tired of thinking I am bigger than You, and my ability to mess things up is bigger than You. That is a lie and I am choking in its grip. Please show me how big You are. Please, uproot the lie. Show me how small I am. I cling to Your feet. I don’t need You to be what I think You are. Lord, please make me willing to be inhabited by Your Spirit and to release control. The story of Jacob’s wrestle in the night comes to mind. (see Genesis 32:24-30)

I’m asking for a miracle. I’m asking because I know that thinking I’m bigger than You is a fabrication. A sleight of hand. Please take me out from under the spell. Show me how the trick works so that I am no longer captured by it. Take me back to the garden, to the lie, and reverse the damage. You have crushed the serpent’s head, and along with it crushed the lie that You are holding out on me; that You have limited me and excluded me from Your fullness. “The kingdom of heaven is at hand,” You say.

I’m so sorry that we wanted “to know good and evil.” I am drawn to that tree, that struggle. You remind me of another tree, another struggle, “On a hill far away.” Lord, I receive Your death in me. I receive the silence of the tomb. It’s a long silence, really. The silence of a world in awe at what they have seen. A silence void of struggle, void of taunting, certainly void of trying. It is the moment of silence after a stunning victory before the crowd comes to life and erupts with noise and elation.

The tomb is a quiet place, a place of mystery, a place we respectfully allow darkness and silence. A place where stillness is not a practice, but the truest reality. I lie dead. I have gone from confused delirium to perfect, unruffled peace. Every muscle that was trying so hard to hold me together has now relaxed. Resurrection is not on my mind, because nothing is on my mind. That’s the beauty of being dead. The rushing is suddenly and decisively irrelevant. Not even snoring disturbs this silence. A dead person doesn’t sin, doesn’t worry, doesn’t know anything.

Lord here I am, passed out in the tomb with You, knowing nothing. I can do nothing. My senses have stopped signaling my brain. There is no input, no output. Only silence and stillness. Even breathing has ceased. I am in a holy place of waiting, a sleep of death that will feel the same whether it is one minute or one hundred years. This is the only way to wait without fretting—in death. Death is also where decay occurs—the return of life to the soil, from which new life will arise. Dust I am. This is how I know silence. Death silences the endless chatter, and it is God’s gift to me, though my heart still beats.

“I am crucified with Christ; therefore I no longer live.” (Galatians 2:20) It seems I have tried to be born again without dying. I have wanted to skip over death to resurrection, not realizing how I long for death. Quiet. No expectations. I might have known that in God’s hands even death is a gift. As I permit myself to engage with death, I find treasure: grace, humor, peace.

Nobody expects anything of a dead person. I am gloriously, peacefully dead. Dead people aren’t really good at anything, except maybe lying still. I suppose if their eyelids were open they could win any staring contest.

Also, the band name “Grateful Dead” has taken on a whole new meaning.

The nice thing about being the dead person is that there is no sense of loss. I cannot grieve, because I cannot do anything. I need not try to be still, nor try to move. I need not expect perfection, nor hope for predictability. I cannot hold onto life. It is behind me and beyond me and it animates me only when I am not in this passageway of death.

Trust. Humility. These things I have longed for are here in the tomb.

Perhaps Jesus called death “sleep” because He knew it was the only way for humans to Rest In Peace. Death is not a fitful slumber. It is the child who has fallen asleep in his mother’s arms in a waiting room, every muscle relaxed, dead to the passage of time and to the noise of a coffee machine and crying children and ringing phones.

Like Barbara Brown Tayler, I love the question, “What is saving you right now?” Death is saving me right now. Today I am in the grave. Neither crucifixion nor resurrection are on my mind. Maybe “grave circumstances” aren’t so bad. “Grave” and “grace” are closer than I thought. My tired heart has stopped beating and it lies still in the mystery of death.

Only Jesus. Always Jesus. Beautifully Jesus. Safely Jesus. I will Rest In Peace with You, the only one who can lay down Your life and take it up again.

Holiness in Poop, Fire, and Child

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First, poop.

I have a developing curiosity about Jewish blessings, but as of yet, I am not at all educated about them. Intrigued by Barbara Brown Taylor’s words about blessings in An Altar in the World, I took to the internet with my curiosity. I found Jewish blessings for special occasions, and blessings for a host of daily experiences, such as waking up and eating. To my delight, one of my first discoveries was a blessing for going to the bathroom. This may be a common fascination among blessing newbies, as it was within the small sampling of blessings on more than one website. I wonder how many practicing Jews say it after each visit to the restroom. One site suggested it as the perfect blessing for changing a child’s diaper. Each version is a little different, and since I don’t read Hebrew I am looking only at English translations. Here’s how Rabbi Danya Ruttenberg quotes it:

Blessed are You, God our deity, sovereign of the universe, who formed humans with wisdom and created within them many openings and many hollows. It is obvious in the presence of Your glorious throne that if one of them were ruptured, or if one of them were blocked, it would be impossible to exist and stand in Your presence. Blessed are You, God, who heals all flesh and performs wonders.

Ruttenberg goes on to say,

Even if the God language in this text doesn’t resonate with you, there’s something really important here. This blessing encourages us to experience awe in the face of the human body’s complexity, and an awareness of the myriad of things that have to go right in order for us to continue drawing our next breath—and the breath after that. The fact that we’re able to eliminate waste as we’re meant to is a wonder in its own right, a miracle worthy of our respect and gratitude. The simple fact of being embodied is worthy of our spiritual engagement.1

What if I engaged spiritually with more bodily functions? In addition to pooping and peeing, passing gas, sneezing, burping, crying, even vomiting could be worthy of awe. What about sex? Sweating? Swallowing? As JJ Heller sings, “Everything is sacred when you take time to notice.”2

Second, fire.

One night late last December I woke up to my husband’s snoring. After “gently” shoving him with my arm, squashing my head down in my feather pillow so both ears were covered, and trying the finger-in-the-ear method, I gave up and padded to the guest bed in my office. Shortly thereafter, my daughter Kayt woke me up and, after semi-successfully getting her back to bed, anxiety kicked in. Kayt had awoken me the night before, so surely this was a sign of new sleep patterns, wakeful nights spreading quite possibly to eternity. Then I had visions of everything that could go wrong on our upcoming Florida vacation. I pictured the four of us shivering on a cold beach; my husband and I experiencing buyers remorse at Legoland; an alligator grabbing my tiny seven-year-old; and a long drive to the state park I had visited as a child, only to find out their canoe rental was closed.

I felt panicky and gloomy. I tried to think of people to pray for. And then I thought of Anne Lamott’s words from my evening’s reading in Dusk, Night, Dawn: “Even now we aren’t in charge of much, and it is exhausting to believe or pretend we are … Watching the ways we try to be in charge can help us get our sense of humor back, and laughter is a holy and subversive battery charge.” I could not think of anything comical about my mental state, so I sat down with Jesus in His room in my heart and asked Him where the humor was. To my surprise, He went Pixar on me and personified Anger, from Inside Out, the scene where he ignites, flames coming out of his head, and Disgust uses him as a blowtorch. So I grabbed Jesus/Anger like a blowtorch and we kind of incinerated His room, and I smiled in the darkness. My chest expanded and I breathed. Holy comic relief. And more evidence for my theory that God is crazy. He ricocheted around His room in my heart like a fireball on top of a balloon releasing air, and I giggled.

Eventually I slept, fitfully. Whenever I was awake enough to be aware, I remembered Jesus with flames coming out His head and it centered me. Holy and subversive, indeed.

Third, child.

A couple days after the Inside Out incident, I asked God if I was being too irreverent—you know, with the flaming head, and God’s butt (another gem from Anne Lamott). What is holiness, and are there rules for how to behave in the presence of a holy God? I don’t have an answer, but God gave me a picture:

Holiness is a sleeping child. Its beauty captures our attention without us quite realizing it. We gaze at soft eyelids, rumpled hair, smooth skin, a trace of jam—and our own faces soften into a smile, almost unexpectedly.

Apparently holiness looks more like a sleeping child than perfection or pomp. Grandeur, yes—the grandeur I see in the face of a sleeping child, recognize in the faithfulness of my own body, and know in a 3am giggle that releases me back to rest.

Endnotes:
1 https://www.huffpost.com/entry/poop-and-gratitude_b_3684747
2 https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/jjheller/biglovesmallmoments.html