Tag Archives: jesus

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.

Untidy

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We speak of heaven as a distant, perfect, glowing place. But if God feels all our feelings, then the pain of the world is present in heaven, just as a parent who is safe and free feels the suffering and bondage of their child a thousand miles away. There is anguish in heaven over every person who believes untruths about who they are. We all believe lies, for one reason or another: abandonment, abuse, rejection, holding secrets. If God’s Spirit is in us, and He is present to all the pain in the world, then there is sorrow in heaven.

But there is also hope in heaven—not for what will be, but what is done. Jesus experienced the identity-mangling human life (including being lied to by Satan, abused, and rejected) and followed it to its deadly end. In so doing, He gifted us a life without death. The hope in heaven is born of a freedom for God’s children that is already true. God feels our pain, but He also knows who we are. When we know whom we are and Whose we are, pain and sorrow find union with hope.

But what about everyone who doesn’t know? It’s easy to look at the world and believe God has let some fall by the wayside; He has done a lot, but He couldn’t save everyone; He has shone a light, but it is a pinprick in the darkness of starvation, war, neglect, and oppression.

In many ways I’d be more comfortable with a Savior who removes us from our circumstances instead of entering into them. How is He saving us by surrendering to the dark side and letting them kill Him? Where is the Savior who stops the rapes happening as I write this, the starvation toll steadily climbing? What good is a God who showed up long enough to be brutally murdered and then went back to heaven after He was resurrected? And if His angels are really here ministering to us, how do they choose whom to deliver and whom to walk by?

I don’t know what or where heaven is, or why earth is dark. I think it’s okay to wonder. Paradox and tension are permissible. Questions keep me curious. Doubts save me from Pharisee-like certainty. God is bigger, and I know this, even as I am asking if He is too small.

Jesus chose to climb into the filth with us, rather than stay safe on the mother ship and throw us a life ring. Jesus can embody love in an untidy world; perhaps I can too. My heart is untidy, my kitchen is untidy, my husband, my neighbor and my world are untidy. If Jesus is any indication, my job is not to tidy things up, but to bend down and love.

Rest Already

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“Rest first.” This is God’s favorite thing to say to me. It’s incredibly irritating. I am terrible at resting, compelled to be a productive and functional human being. But God is provokingly persistent.

“Rest first.”

But I’m too messy to rest.

“Rest first.”

But there’s work to be done.

“Rest first.”

But people need me.

“Rest first.”

But I don’t deserve to rest.

“Rest first.”

But rest makes me feel restless.

“Rest first.”

But what if I get tired and sleep too long?

“Rest first.”

But what if I’m missing something? What if right now is the moment I need to grab what You have for me and hold on tight?

“Rest first.”

At this point I’m out of excuses, so I sit slumped down with arms crossed, pouting.

I have fought God tooth and nail on His invitation to rest first, and His corresponding refusal to “fix” me before I can rest.

In my defense, it’s impossible to rest when I don’t feel safe in my own skin. My journal bears witness to this ongoing struggle.

August 1 - What am I afraid of? Myself. And I think I’m afraid of admitting I’m afraid of myself, because it took me a long time to write that down, and I’m feeling really vulnerable.
September 22 - I wanted to be alone today, but it occurs to me that perhaps I wanted to get away even from myself, and this is hard (read “impossible”) to do. If I’m scared of me, anxiety is inescapable. Even if I get away from people and distract myself with busyness, in the end I’m still with myself.

I have been plagued with fear that I am a liability in life. Every time I fail, or don’t show up how I want to, it seems my fear is confirmed, and I am, in fact, a liability. Fighting this battle, against what I perceive as my own nature, sucks away time and energy like a board meeting. I struggle against my own self, day in and day out. I am a liability. I must protect myself and the people around me from this truth by performing well. Every. Single. Time.

But fighting and performing inevitably fails. I suppose the redeeming feature of failure is that eventually I become willing to consider what God is saying; consider thinking differently; consider rest.

I am allowed to be a mess.

I am allowed to skip out on some work.

I am allowed to take a break from meeting people’s needs.

I am allowed to rest.

I am worthy of rest.

I am not going to miss out on anything.

In her book Braving the Wilderness, Brené Brown uses the phrase, “Strong back. Soft front.” For me, this is a depiction of what it means to have an identity in Christ. I was created by God; I am inhabited by God; I am destined for perfect union with God. This is my strong back. I am not waiting to find out who I am today—to define myself by success or failure. I know who I am.

And today my soft front is three things: 1) love for people—especially my family, 2) grace for myself, and 3) holding things loosely—especially tiredness, fear, sadness, confusion, and loneliness in my marriage. These things are transient, but God and love and grace aren’t going anywhere.

I am able to have a soft front only when I have a strong back. If I have no back, I rely on an exoskeleton of performance to hold me together. But when I have a backbone of awareness that I am loved and righteous, I become soft and able to rest; and after rest, to embrace the person in front of me.

This freedom pokes its way into my consciousness through friendship, quiet time, reading. I write down moments of grace-full thinking and return to them:

“I am beautiful without adding or taking away anything, just like the lilies of the field. I am clothed by God, and my clothing is not distinguishable from me, just like a violet. I am clothed in dignity.”

“I am not a liability.”

“I am learning how to hold myself, receive comfort from God, and receive comfort from people. This is a valuable skill. I have survived without it, but I will thrive with it.”

“I have permission to enjoy my own company. I get to decide how I treat myself.”

Some time ago I wrote reminders to myself on a notecard, including: “I believe God is trustworthy,” and “I believe my husband is trustworthy.” With some trepidation I recently added, “I believe I am trustworthy.” After a lifetime of being told that sinful humans can’t be trusted, believing I am trustworthy may be what returns me to myself. I can be trusted to make decisions, manage my emotions, spend my time. In other words, I can be trusted to be in charge of myself. I am not on trial with God or anyone else, so all of these decisions are simply opportunities to learn. I can be curious about myself—about life—and I can be compassionate with myself.

Earlier this year I really got my panties in a wad, worrying that I wasn’t receiving what God had for me. After months of struggling I admitted things weren’t looking too good and set up an appointment with my counselor, Beth. When I told her I was worried and distracted by wanting God to fix me, and fearful I wasn’t letting Him do what He wanted to do, Beth said, “But you do know how to listen to the Holy Spirit and trust Him.”

After my long struggle I felt it would be necessary to claw my way back to peace and trust. But Beth said it’s just a tweak, a chiropractic adjustment, and I am back in trust with God. And so I journal again, choosing to trust God, and in so doing, to trust myself.

“God with the Welcoming Lap, I leave behind my perfectionist, outcomes-based thinking, and I return to trust. I am fully capable of responding to Your Spirit.”

In Zach Williams’ song, “Fear Is a Liar,” this line arrests me: “…you could be the one that grace could never change.” Despite (or maybe because of) being a lifelong Bible-believing Christian, I fear I could be the one who can get it wrong, miss out, not respond how or when I’m supposed to. This lie has felt so close to truth.

There’s a whole conversation about whether it’s hard to be “saved” or hard to be “lost,” which I’m not going to get into. I will say that believing it’s hard to be saved is a death sentence for a perfectionist. What helps me unclench is knowing “It is finished.” God already did the thing that rescued me. I can go with what He did, instead of what I’m doing. I can agree with Him, instead of my wretched feelings. He says I am righteous. Full stop.

And so I pray: “I leave behind my stubborn fear that I am the one grace could never change. I am capable of trusting You. I am not a helpless victim. I am able to hear You, trust You, and choose You. I am not in need of the right formula, or the right circumstances, or the future version of me that is better than this one. You created me with the ability to choose and to trust. ‘Being good’ was completed by Jesus, and there is nothing left for me to perform.”

Oh, sweet rest, how I longed to fall into your soft pillows, pull up a thick blanket, and be still. And here I am finally, with both feet tucked in, glasses off, curled up around my pillow, almost laughing with joy before I sink into peaceful stillness. Rest.

Early Morning Poverty

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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.

Living Loved

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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.

Photo by Gustavo Fring from Pexels

To My Fellow Recovering Perfectionists

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I am a recovering perfectionist. Perfectionism sneaks up from behind, confronts me directly, whispers lies in my ear, preys on me when I don’t expect it, and offers to be my friend when I’m lonely. This voice coming from all directions is hard to silence. This suggestion that everything could be right and good, if only… (fill in the blank). It’s an addiction.

Into this mess comes God/Jesus/Spirit, with comfort and hope. And here I wonder if perhaps this longing for perfection is not entirely evil. God and His ways are perfect. Could the constant pulsing of my desire for perfection be a constant reminder that I desire God? And could I find contentment in letting Him be the perfect One?

I’m not alone and I don’t have to get everything right. I’m safe with You. Even when there’s pee on the bath mat an hour after I washed it, and I feel guilty for pushing my kids too hard, and hormones take my emotions on a ride, and I struggle to enjoy life. Even then.

I may be tired and emotional but I don’t have to blame. I don’t have to blame myself. I don’t have to blame others. You are my defender and deliverer in this battle of the mind.

Today is not about how good I am. But it might be about how good You are.

You don’t mind if I’m not productive this morning, or if I need to lean heavy on You.

There is peace in letting God be God, and letting me be human.

Today may I find contentment in being very small but having a very big and powerful Daddy.

There is perfection, but not in me or the world around me.

Our relationship will never be perfect on my side, but always perfect on Your side. I can’t trust myself in the way I can trust You. No matter how today goes, I can find joy in the fact that You are perfect. You are batting a thousand. You are getting everything right.

Here I am in my brokenness, and here You are in Your perfection, and here we commune in Your grace.

What If?

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I’m reading a book that is speaking beautifully to what God is doing in my life right now. It is resonating deeply with me. It seems every chapter is putting words to something I have experienced, and at the same time inviting me to know more. I found out the author is a pastor in Portland. We live in the Pacific Northwest and sometimes visit Portland, so… maybe sometime on a trip we could go to his church and meet him. I have just a bit of nervous excitement, considering this possibility. I imagine I would have a great conversation with him, because I feel like he already understands me, and I him.

Has this ever happened to you? Maybe you have a favorite musical artist you would love to meet, because their music has touched you or been the soundtrack to significant seasons or events in your life. Or maybe, like me, you’ve read a book and felt connected so much to the message or story that you wanted to meet the author. Maybe there’s an actor who has played a role that resonated with you, and it would be a dream come true to meet him/her. Perhaps there’s someone in history that you long to meet. Maybe you admire someone who has changed their corner of the world with loving service to the poor or by championing social justice, and you would be honored just to get the chance to shake their hand.

Admiration often leads to a desire to connect. We see something, feel something, hear something that resonates with our selves and we feel seen and known. Sometimes we breath a sigh of relief that we are not alone. And sometimes we think how lovely it would be to meet the person who wrote/created/did that thing we connected with. When we feel seen and known – or when someone opens a portal for us to see and know something we were previously blind to – we automatically respond with an open-hearted desire for connection.

What if I could see God’s creating and doing and acting with these same eyes of admiration? How awe-inspiring it is to watch a sunrise or see dolphins playing in the ocean. I think about the incredible transformation of metamorphosis – a squishy grub becoming a beautiful winged insect. I think about trees that look dead in winter and every spring burst forth in fat buds of leaves and flowers. I think about the peace of a lake in the forest, or the power of a roaring waterfall. I think about all the selfless acts around the world – among my friends, on the news, and in books about times past. I think about all the heroes who have put others’ lives before their own.

And I think, what if I could meet that Guy – the very one who paints thousands of breathtaking sunsets. The one who made the dolphins, the birds, and all the beautiful, curious, strong, smart, playful creatures. He must be an incredible Guy! What if there is one Person behind every act of kindness, sacrifice, and love the world over, and I could meet him?! Talk about a celebrity of celebrities!

What if this Person could bear the full weight of my admiration: I would never find out he changed his mind about loving, or had an affair, or embezzled money, or alienated his children, or went bankrupt, or stopped telling the truth. Rather, the more I learned about him the more I witnessed his integrity. What if this desire I have to shake hands with someone I admire, or to have an intimate dinner with someone famous whose talents inspire me, or to connect with someone who has connected with me – whose words or music or life has entered the sacred spaces in my heart and comforted me or changed me or simply been my inner companion – what if all that desire is realized in Jesus? What if all the admiration and inspiration – the moments of connection and feeling known – were actually moments with Jesus?

What if the most incredible Personality ever to walk the earth knows who I am? And what if he wants to not only shake hands with me and have an intimate dinner with me, but also to be my best friend? To be seen with me and know that I am being seen with him. What if I found out those sunsets and songs were messages he was hoping would find their way to me? What if he is as excited to meet me as I am to meet him; and he is as excited to be my friend as I am to be his? What if he is so humble that I never feel less-than in his presence, yet so powerful and dynamic that I am infused with zest for life just being around him?

What if all the people I have admired, all the sunsets that have quieted my soul, all the words and music that have held me or inspired me or challenged me or made me feel seen – what if the Man behind all that doesn’t live in Portland, but right here? What if I could meet him right now? And what if, when I meet him – full of nervous anticipation, admiration, and self-consciousness-trying-to-be-calm – he says he wants to stay with me for a while (well, actually forever): to have intimate dinners every day, to write music together, to have me sit beside him as he paints the sky? What if all I have admired and all that has inspired me are the work of one Person who is as deeply interested in me as I am in him? What if every day he wants to see me and know me?

What if I start to become like him? What if I make more beautiful things? What if I commit more selfless acts? What if I do things that invite others to be seen and known?

And what if this friendship is not just for life, but for the afterlife? Not only does he want to live with me at my house, but he’s making a room for me in his opulent mansion. There’s a room with my name carved on the door. And there is music and celebration and acts of love and intimate dinners every day. Finally my heart is full. My admiration has met its object and I am overcome by a sense of completeness and wholeness I know I was always looking for. Hope has been fulfilled. My heart is at rest.

Unforgettable in every way
And forever more, that’s how you’ll stay
That’s why, darling, it’s incredible
That someone so unforgettable
Thinks that I am unforgettable too

– “Unforgettable” by Gordon Irving

 

 

That Man

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You are my Savior. I don’t have to save myself today.

You are my Lord. I don’t have to master myself today.

You are my Father. I belong in a loving home today.

If a man can predict his own death and resurrection, and pull it off, I just go with whatever that man says.  – Andy Stanley

Today looks daunting; but today I serve a Man who predicted His own death and resurrection.

Today I feel broken beyond help; but today I serve a Redeemer who touched dead people and they came back to life.

Today feels impossible; but today I serve a Father who serves me, and who has proclaimed all things possible.

Today I feel lonely; but today I serve a Friend who has never and will never leave me alone.

Today I suffocate with worry; but today I serve a Lord who knows me and my needs and delights in providing for me.

Today I want to save myself; but today I serve a God who sacrificed self and emerged from the other side to tell the story.

Today Satan tempts me to settle; but today I serve a God who “did not spare even His own Son but gave him up for us all, won’t he also give us everything else?” (Romans 8:32 NLT)

Today looks big; but I serve a God who is bigger.

Lies, #4

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I have an addiction to confess. I am addicted to good behavior. If you have read any of my other blog posts, this is probably not a surprise. I have been a Pharisee, and even if I have not kept all the rules as well as Paul and many of the leaders in Jesus’ time, I have longed to. Do not be deceived: this addiction is not less awful than addictions to substances, screens, and all those “bad” things that usually come to mind when we hear the word “addiction.” Spiritually, I find myself as depraved as the worst criminal.

I have tried yearly, monthly, daily, hourly, to leave my perfection and performance mindset behind, and still it haunts me. Still I want to be perfect… or at least better. Still I fall from glimpses of grace back into the comfort of commandment-following. This lie from my childhood still shackles me: Less than perfect is not acceptable. Practice makes perfect. No effort must be spared to reach perfection.

As I first began grappling with this two winters ago, the Holy Spirit’s response to the lie was this: Perfection is a harsh taskmaster and an unreachable ideal. You are already perfect in Me; the rest will come as you follow Me. It is not your job, but Mine in you. Your job is to rest and trust. I will help you remember grace, for yourself and for others. Practice love, not tasks. Over these two years the Spirit has continued to soften my heart and set me free, despite me oscillating between protesting His work and demanding that He do it faster. 

Recently I was reminded of Rick Warren’s opening line in his book “The Purpose Driven Life.” He says simply, “It’s not about you.” When I hear that I bristle. I feel afraid, unimportant, and indignant. Jesus died for me because He places highest value on my life and freedom, didn’t He? If it’s not about me, what is it about? And won’t I get lost and trampled on if it’s not about me?

Slowly, so very slowly, I am learning to trust Jesus. As I trust, I find many of the things that seem unpalatable about His message are actually where soul-deep freedom awaits me. So what is He telling me with “It’s not about me”? It’s not about me in the sense that I don’t have to get my act together in order for God to do great things. God bears fruit through me as I connect to Him. I’ve heard this all my life, but I’ve missed two things: 1) what God has in mind is great – infinitely greater than what I could accomplish in a lifetime, even if He were to make me perfect today; and 2) it doesn’t depend on me becoming a better person – He is able to do incredible things in and through me precisely because it’s not about me. (If it was about me He would never be able to do the things He claims He can do). Rather than that statement being lonely or fearful, it’s freeing. It takes the pressure off. At last I can breath! It’s not about me.

As Joyce Meyer explains so well in her book “If Not for the Grace of God,” we don’t earn salvation – we receive it just as we are – and God’s work in our life after salvation is exactly the same. It doesn’t depend on my merit at all. It is His work. I think this line in Philip Yancey’s book “What’s So Amazing About Grace?” sums it up beautifully: “The opposite of sin is grace, not virtue.” Pharisaical as I have been, I thought virtue was the goal. As it turns out, God is not focused on the mess that I am. He is ready to do great things! And His grace is the power to do those things.

Here I am Lord, weak, willing, desiring Your work more than mine. This is nothing short of a miracle.

Small

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Today I failed. One daughter forgot her lunch, and in the disappointment of losing 40 minutes of my morning to fetch a lunch, I lost it. I called her lunch stupid. I said I was angry. I said I didn’t know if I would even go back and get it for her. Of course after the failure came the even worse mire of shame, and the threat of wallowing through it for the rest of my day. As I drove in the quiet, I cursed at God and begged Him for help all in the same breath. I cried. I wished hormones were not raging. I desperately asked for help over and over, because I knew I needed help and that was about all I could get out.

Navigating failure is not my strong suit. But there’s something you should know about God. He’s not limited by our smallness. A prayer for help is powerful. He met me this morning, and He soothed my heart. He held me as I felt the pain of hurting my child with lashing words. He gave me strength to take responsibility so I can apologize. He encouraged me to tell my daughter I am still learning that it’s ok to make mistakes. He helped me let go of those 40 minutes I felt so angry about.

Sometimes I think I am getting better at life. Or faith. Or parenting. Or something. Maybe I’m figuring things out. I think I have done something good. Or gotten something right. I start thinking I have developed some merit and strength, and I lean on that instead of God. The beauty of failing is that it immediately returns my focus to God. It reminds me that every good thing comes from God (i.e. not me).

Let me never think that I have things figured out, that I know what I’m doing, or that I am able to do God’s work. What He is offering me is divine, not human. It will always be His work, because it is a work no human could ever do. May I not make it smaller so I can have the power. May I always let it be as magnificent as it is, and may I always see my smallness. If ever I feel I have figured it out, let that be a sign that I left God behind. I am the created, and He the creator. I will rejoice in failure, because when I remember I am small, I allow God to be big.