Tag Archives: love

State of the Union

7 Replies

Marriage is inconvenient. I have to check with my husband, Michael, about lunching at a different-than-usual time. I can’t turn the bedroom light on in the mornings because he’s still asleep. If I want to be alone, I have to announce it and arrange for it (children are also culpable for this one). The bedclothes are always in disarray, the toilet a mess, and one word at the wrong time can tip us sideways for a day or three.

Michael has his own list of inconveniences, probably much longer than mine—if he took the time to write them down. But he doesn’t keep track much. I know marriage counseling was (mostly) fun for me, but inconvenient for him—more nerve-wracking and stressful than interesting or inspiring. He participated nonetheless, and we sorted some things out. We talked about allowing ourselves and each other to “just be.” In fact, we talked about this for years. I can’t say exactly when or how it moved from an idea to a reality, but I know that facing our most terrifying fears was a long stop on the way to freedom. Our marriage is buoyant now in a gracious and spacious way that allows for inconvenience. Relational blood pressure is down to a healthy range.

Our counselor had a Gottman Institute resource for everything, including a weekly marriage check-up titled “State of the Union Meeting.” The basic idea is to have a weekly, guided conversation about your marriage. The first bullet item on this handout is, “Start with what is going right in the relationship.” Next item, “Give one another five appreciations each.” Of course we disagreed on whether these were actually one item or two. Were we to start with what is going right by sharing appreciations? Or were we to make some general statements about what we felt was going right, followed by five specific appreciations? We haven’t settled that yet.

Last week I was sitting in my ugly, brown prayer-chair, when God asked me out of the blue, “What do you think is going well in our relationship?” I was surprised and delighted. The question itself, even unanswered, was joyful, even celebratory. I immediately thought of the Gottman worksheet, and began a list:

– There are deeper roots. I don’t have to hover over our relationship like it’s a new transplant.

– We like to be together, especially in stillness.

I paused—peaceful, grateful—and wrote, “I’m just so happy about the question, I can hardly think of answers.” But more answers came.

– We assume the best about each other.

– We at least interlock pinky fingers in the situations that seem to drive us apart.

– Our dialogue is not as one-sided as it used to be. We hear each other better and don’t miss the mark in our communication as much.

– I’m more willing to engage with what is, instead of what “should” be.

– I’m more aware of the fears I bring to the table.

– We don’t always try to make sense of each other or understand everything between us.

– We’re getting better at feeling, together.

Underneath the list I wrote, “I’m blown away. We actually have a better relationship than we used to. And it’s certainly not from trying hard.”

I used to do a lot of what I call “pre-work” in my relationship with God. When I sat down with Him, I’d fret and plan and beg and argue, read or study the Bible, and write long pages in my prayer journal. In most of this I avoided the real issues—albeit unintentionally. I wanted God to make me patient and happy, and show up in a predictable manner. Christian theology had taught me these were reasonable expectations in a relationship with God. But in all of this “work,” I avoided the real work. As I noted in my journal, growth in my relationship with God is “certainly not from trying hard.”

Dealing with the real issues—deep anger, fear, disappointment and depression—was hard, but all I had to do was show up. I didn’t try hard. I accepted hard. I allowed myself to feel a lot of hard things, and learn that I was not in control, and neither was God—at least not in the ways I wanted Him to be. I released my knotted “try hard” mentality and accepted that life is hard, and no amount of trying hard is going to fix that. To my surprise, I found God in the real work of accepting and walking through the stuff I didn’t want in my character or in my life. No holy avoidance or miraculous patience. Instead, a togetherness that gifted me a sense of belonging.

Here I am, healthier, mostly because God and I agree that it’s okay for me to be a mess, and for life and love to be, at times, a long list of inconveniences. I can “just be.” The state of our union is, “spacious enough for inconvenience.”

From Jesus Freak to Evangelism Phobia, Part Two

Leave a reply

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ain’t No Love Got Time for That

Leave a reply

I’m on the couch, 6:30 a.m., hungry for the re-membering presence of the Spirit. I feel anxious and sad and heavy. I also feel grateful and loved and okay. The kids were in my office so I came downstairs to journal. Phrank, our cat, is on the couch with me, his foot on mine. He meowed a very loud request to come inside, and I actually stood up and went to let him in.

I am not a high-energy person. In scientific terms, I have inertia. Once I sit down it’s hard to get back up. Once I get going on a project, it’s hard to stop. Everything is a project.

Sedentary pastimes are my go-to: crochet, reading, scrapbooking. I know how to do gardening and canning, but I don’t want to. Long days in the yard and kitchen sound overwhelming. These days my commitments are at a bare minimum. Other than taking my kids to school and participating in several small groups, my time is flexible. I am utterly spoiled, living in the extravagance of an unburdened schedule.

This state of unhurried flow is almost comical, given my upbringing and my high-energy plunge into teen and adult life. I always worked during high school—babysitting, custodial, cashier, fruit picking, door-to-door sales, school office, yearbook editor. I was never idle. My boyfriend in college, whom I married after my sophomore year, pushed me to work a little less and play a little more. Conversely, I pushed him to play a little less and work a little more. Marital conflict ensued. But, eventually I could watch a movie without crocheting at the same time to feel productive, and he could mow the lawn before it got out of control.

At age 27, after five years working full time, I quit work to stay home with our newborn daughter. That was the beginning of the end of having energy. I didn’t know sleep was my drug of choice until I could no longer reach for it at will. I became afraid, always afraid, of not having enough energy. I was too much of a purist to drink coffee, too independent to ask for help, and too naive to realize I was depressed.

Fast forward three years. I had a three-year-old and a one-year-old, who still often woke me at night. Exhaustion was so normal I couldn’t remember any other state. I was resentful and angry. I was too stubborn to consider working instead of staying home full time, too lonely in marriage to lean into my husband, and too resentful to take refuge in gratitude. At this point I became tired enough of myself that I started seeing a therapist. Her name was Beth. Together we turned directly into a swamp of pain that would take seven years to wade through.

It’s May 3, 2023. My babies are ages ten and eight years old. Tomorrow I will be 38. I like myself, more than half the time. I enjoy a hundred things—including hot showers (which I previously hated), my children (whom I previously resented), coffee (which I am no longer too much of a purist to drink), and friends (they’re not as scary as they used to be). I’m taking antidepressants, enjoying life-changing intimacy in my marriage, and practicing asking for help. I write poems of gratitude. I blog for fun. I rarely write a to-do list, and I’ve given up controlling my schedule and my loved ones (at least some of the time).

I am free in a dozen ways—fruit of the last five years spent dredging my murky depths. An ability to hold the stresses of life lightly is one of these freedoms. I could stress out when a friend stands me up on a lunch date, or I could enjoy the rare time alone and the gossipy conversation of sweet-smelling, wrinkled ladies at the next table. I could shame myself for not getting groceries until two days after the milk runs out, or I could enjoy making peanut butter and banana sandwiches for breakfast. I could be angry when a kid wakes up in the middle of the night, or I could be grateful I’m able to be there with them.

Please, please understand this is not about choice. I have very ugly, unresolved feelings toward whoever says we can choose to be happy. Maybe I’m an exceptionally difficult case, but I did not have access to the “power of choice” for many long years. The ability to choose love, grace, and the quirky flow of life—wow, it’s relief, like a warm bowl of soup after gardening in the rain.

I think God is having the last laugh when it comes to my anxiety about never having enough energy. After ten years (ten years!) it is apparent to me that stressing about everyone’s behavior (including inanimate things—watch out if the utensil drawer sticks when I try to close it) takes an incredible amount of energy. Possibly more energy than loving. I know, it’s a long shot. Finding my wholeness has given me courage to take long shots.

Here I thought God was asking me to do more, but actually He was inviting me to do less. My new mantra is: Don’t try so hard, don’t analyzing everything, just live. Love doesn’t have time to mull over every unmet expectation or frustrating inconvenience. It turns out open-handed receiving takes less energy than tight-fisted control.

I breathe, and my oxygen-starved heart says, “It took you long enough.” I smile, because I don’t have the energy to feel bad about ten years of struggle. Ain’t no love got time for that.

Love Everyone, and Everywhere Love

Leave a reply

Love Everyone, and Everywhere Love

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for Your rooted, yet whimsical, love.
It stands, unmoved by my inner turmoil;
it moves, to stand wherever I am.

Blessed are You
for taking up residence
everywhere, like air.
I breathe Your life
when I remember You
and when I forget You.
I dine at Your expanding table
where there is room for one more
and then one more.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe, for this:
because You are a safe place, so am I.
We are haven of emotional safety,
home for anger and doubt,
aware that despite their bulky size,
they are effortlessly held within love.
Love is a home big enough,
always big enough.

A Need to Need

Leave a reply

A Need to Need

Reflections – week 7b

Welcome to week seven (part two) 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: The Power of Extravagant Tenderness. Next Wednesday’s post for week 8 will conclude this series.

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

Father’s House. Lesson seven. Myth #41: God turns His back on me when I have needs—especially needs that are annoying or ongoing.

Having needs is a no-go for me, for many reasons. Needing is vulnerable. If I need, I’m giving another person the opportunity to help or ignore me, and that’s way too far out of my control. Needing is weak; it happens because I didn’t plan right, or I made a mistake. In short, needing is never safe. Never. If I’m not strong, I’m worthless. Needs are more likely to create distance than bring connection. I don’t feel safe within my own self to have a need; heaven forbid I need something from my husband or friends, or from God Himself.

Father’s House points out that, “Everywhere Jesus went we encounter His immeasurable goodness—healing ALL who came to Him, delivering people from demonic torment, raising the dead, forgiving sinners, loving the unlovely and dining with the disreputable.”2 Yes, but this is all about doing, and I get hung up there. It sounds like Jesus went around fixing things, but my spiritual experience tells me that’s a mis-read. God hasn’t been much into fixing me. I think the Bible, the way people talk about the Bible, and the way I understand Jesus have given me the wrong idea of Father.

There is a God I know and trust, a Father I have encountered in my anger and fear and self-loathing; in music and friends and words and quietness. I have found His abiding presence in my knotted heartstrings, and in the cadence of my day. But there is also a Father who isn’t going to help me live my life, who is okay with me running on empty and doing only what I can do in my humanness. I am terrified to approach Him with deeply felt needs. Does God actually respond to a person’s real, tangible needs? What about the intangible needs I don’t even have words for? How often will God “meet” my needs, whatever that means? If it’s one time out of ten, I’d rather not ask.

I want a loving Father’s help, but the stakes feel high. I always end up angry at Him, at me, or at both of us—probably because I have expectations. I want a contract. In fact, a prenuptial agreement would be nice. I’d like to know what I get out of this when God stops showing up.

But I also want to know what it’s like to be cared for. I want to trust, to settle into what is better than a contract.

Father’s House. Day Two. Page 125: “Now climb up in [Papa’s] lap in His big chair and tell Him what you need from Him. Lay it all out.”3 I’m terrified to admit that I need to be lavishly loved, that I want to be celebrated. But I know I will settle for less if I keep clutching my needs, unwilling to hold them out, to allow someone else to see them. So I follow directions. I make a list of what I need from Papa.

I need You to bless me.
I need You to see me.
I need Your seeing to precipitate action on my behalf.
I need You to remind me it’s okay not to be useful.
I need You to move toward me with interest and intention.
I need You to want to hear from me as much when I’m doing poorly as when I’m doing well.
I need You to like being with me.
I need You to behave extravagantly toward me.
I need to be wedded to You—a forever kind of togetherness.
I need “enough” to be out of the equation—no evaluating.
I need to order takeout and waste time with You, in my pajamas.
I need to hold hands with You.
I need You to ask how I’m doing and listen without an agenda.

My list surprises me. It seems I’m more interested in being seen and loved than being served or dealt a fair hand. I’m not sure how I feel about this. I know relationship is better than rules, but sometimes I want God to follow the rules. Sometimes predictable feels safe.

Maybe predicting is rather like weather forecasting. You end up with a mix of everything, undefined no matter how hard you try to define it. But, every day we know there will be weather. I don’t know how God is going to show up today, but I know He’s going to show up. It might not be the sunshine I prayed for, but I need never fear I’ll wake up to a day with no weather at all. God is alive and I am alive, and there are days when all that aliveness is unpredictable, stormy, maybe even disastrous. But no one will wonder if anything happened that day. We’ll know. So I don’t need God to run my life, or predict my life, or change the forecast to be in my favor. I just need Him to like me and see me and bless me, and keep showing up.

It is safe to have needs in Papa’s house.

Gregory Boyle writes that when we are “held by a no-matter-what-ness” we can “reidentify and accept [ourselves] with a mystical wholeness. You can then discard all those things that previously you held back. The places where you used to get stuck. … After that, it’s not so much smooth sailing as it is resilient and integrated enough to deepen the sense of your own truth.”4 My truth is that God’s Spirit joins with my mine to affirm that I am His child (Romans 8:16). I hear His affirmation, and I make another list.

God says,
I’m so glad you’re here.
I love holding you.
I love being with you.
I am and I have all that you need.
Together, let’s rest in what is finished. Let’s rest for a long time.
Let’s be together with no distractions. Let’s have fun together.
Let’s go for a walk, get ice cream, love every person we see.
Let’s enjoy and create.
Let’s take everything that burdens and stresses you and put it on my docket. You’re free.
Let’s do relationships together. Let’s parent together.
Let me spoil you. Let me do more than you “deserve.”
Let me warm you and feed you and provide a feast of beauty for your eyes.
Let’s be alive together. I release you from the identity of responsible servant-child and name you sparkling heiress. I’m your Daddy. I made this world and the people in it. You can’t break anything or anyone in a way that I can’t re-make.
I always have your back (and your front and sides).
I know you. You don’t ever need to hide, or explain yourself to me. You make perfect sense.
You’re exactly where you need to be. Every moment.
You are not bound or caged. You are wild and free and alive.
You cannot lose my favor. I would never think to say that, because it seems silly to me, so thank you for letting me know what you need to hear.
“I’ll love you forever. I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living [which will be a long time], my [daughter] you’ll be.”5

I have believed I am worthy of having what God perceives as my needs met, but not worthy of having what I perceive as my needs met. Now I’m less sure that’s an important distinction. God is listening and loving. He is not measuring and monitoring. That’s about as safe as it gets. So I will practice bringing my needs to the table, and I will take comfort in being “held by a no-matter-what-ness.” In Papa’s house, needs are a point of connection. They are a meeting place for intimate friends. They are safe.

Endnotes:
1See Father’s House, page 120
2Father’s House,page 127
3Father’s House,page 125
4The Whole Language, page 110
5Love You Forever, by Robert Munsch

Fierce Presence

2 Replies

I’m beyond excited to be across the country at a writing conference, so I won’t write this week on Father’s House and The Whole Language. Instead I’m sharing an invitation to spiritual intimacy.

Fierce Presence

I have separation anxiety with God. I’m sure He’s in this for the long haul, but faith in my ability to mess up often outpaces faith in Him to keep showing up. Somehow I got the idea that Jesus’s faithfulness is contingent on mine. Or at the very least, my salvation is contingent on my faithfulness.

It’s possible I reversed good news and heard bad news. I got gravel in my filter. When “Perfect love casts out fear” goes through my filter, it comes out, “If you fear, God is not in you.” When “You will keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you” goes through my filter, I hear, “If you could only master an awareness of God, you’d have perfect peace.” Verse after verse mocks me, standing sentry to the heart of God, announcing that if I have fear or discontent I don’t belong there.

Who spread the lie that God is available only in goodness? That He is best found in happy marriages and productive members of society? If that is true, then every time I have a bad day—or worse, a week or a month or a year—I am no longer a vessel. I’m on the naughty list. I sleep in the attic with the others who don’t get it.

Love that heals is weaponized against me, suggesting that when I am not healing it is because I am not in Love. Rather than an invitation to healing, I hear condemnation for not being good enough at getting healed.

But what if I don’t have to faithfully choose Love? Maybe it chooses me. Maybe it gives me the room with an ocean view, extra fuzzy blankets, and a hot tub. It includes breakfast in bed and free parking, pool access and complimentary snacks. Love always embraces first. And second. And third. It is welcoming, and it is gentle with my insecurities.

Yet Love is as fierce as it is gentle. It knows how to walk through death and divorce, addiction and abuse, scarcity and loneliness, depression and anxiety. This Love that has tenderly pried my white-knuckled hands free and taught me to rest is the same Love that hung naked on a cross. It is not afraid of anything, yet it is not offended or repelled by the presence of fear.

I’m beginning to be persuaded, along with Paul, that nothing can separate me from the love of God.

“For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

Romans 8:38-39 NKJV

Powerful words. But I get thrown off when I realize I don’t know what a principality is, and I’m not sure how height or depth are interfering with Love. I’ve also not had a lot of angels trying to come between me and God. Rather, I get jumpy when I make mistakes or feel depressed or snap too much at the people I love. So I wrote a personalized version of Romans 8:38-39:

I am persuaded that neither anxiety nor depression, nor anger nor arrogance nor mistakes, nor ignorance nor knowledge, nor tantrums nor passivity, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate me from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus my Lord.

The voice whispering that anxiety or fear will separate me from Love is the voice of a specter, of that which seemed real to me before I became real. Maybe Love sees fear and anxiety and depression and says, “I embrace you in this,” and it says, “This isn’t the final word.” Maybe that’s what the verses are for. Love is not afraid to hold the tension of hope—the space between what is and what will be—and it holds that tension both peacefully and fiercely.

This fierce presence provides the faithfulness I thought I had to come up with on my own. God’s ability to show up always outpaces my ability to mess up. I am faithfully and fiercely loved, separation anxiety and all.

Photo by Josh Willink: https://www.pexels.com/photo/man-carrying-a-baby-286625/

Righteous Rest

Leave a reply

Righteous Rest

Reflections – week 4

Welcome to the fourth week of reflections inspired by my current small groups. Together with some of my favorite women, I’m exploring these books: Father’s House, and The Whole Language. Gregory Boyle, author of The Whole Language, founded Homeboy Industries, the largest gang intervention and rehab program in the world. The Whole Language is his third book, and my favorite. Boyle frequently refers to “mysticism,” and if—like me—you’re not sure what that is, I invite you to just roll with it. Thank you for journeying with me.

Dead

I have a tenuous relationship with metaphors around the cross of Jesus—bridge, sacrifice, torn veil. I’m also unsure why we’re excited about a symbol of brutal, torturous death. We don’t wear miniature gold guillotines or electric chairs on delicate chains around our necks. But even if I can get past crucifixion pedantry, I still have questions. Did Jesus die as me or for me? Did He take punishment, or natural consequences, or did He simply enter into human suffering? Did He free all humanity, or only those who confess His name? Do I reap the reward of what He accomplished today, or only in the afterlife?

The authors of Father’s House believe that Jesus died as me, and while I don’t share their certainty, I love where they go from there: “The old you, the you that is still trying to measure up, died.”1 Now that is good news. Performing me is dead. Striving me is dead. Ashamed me is dead. The apostle Paul believed we were crucified with Christ, and exclaimed, “Could it be any clearer that our former identity is now and forever deprived of its power!”2 Having spent the last decade imprisoned by my own self, the possibility of leaving that behind is tremendously appealing.

The New Testament talks about the “old” and the “new” person. I like to think of them as a fake self and a real self. I was a facade. Now I am genuine. This moving into righteousness is not a move from bad to good, but a move from fragmented to whole, death to life. Behavior is always and only a side note. Good behavior centers me on shaky ground; bad behavior centers me on shaky ground. When I mess up, and when I have it all together, I need to be reminded that it’s not about behavior. “Righteous” is not a tally sheet, it’s a birth certificate.

Righteousness is Mysticism is Connectedness

Week #4 in Father’s House is all about righteousness, and the belief that “I am as righteous as Jesus Christ.”3 I want to short-circuit the voice in my heart and head that believes it’s all about behavior. I want to confuse, divert, or undermine my pesky inner parole officer. I have been imprisoned by my humanness, convinced I can only get out on good behavior, so each reminder in the Lesson Four video teaching is hope:

– Righteousness is not a verb, it’s a noun

– Righteousness is simply received, not achieved

– Righteousness is not dependent on my obedience

– Righteousness is about who I trust, not what I do

– Righteousness is received by faith, not by feeling

Righteousness ushers in a whole new way of seeing. Gregory Boyle writes, “The world will focus on outcomes or behavior or success. Mysticism glances just above what the world has in its sights. It puts judgment on check. It develops a warmth for everything that comes its way and rests in the center of it. When we are whole, that’s what we see in others.”4 Then we all warm up around the radiant heat of connectedness.

Boyle continues, “This culture of mystical tenderness holds every soul in high regard. …high performance is not the goal, but rather, a surrender to healing is. Then everyone finds this gentle road and practices, with each other, the pathway home.”5

Papa God is relentless in His passionate devotion to my wholeness and healing. When I soak in this—in the crazy truth that I am righteous—transformation is loosed, I live from a seat of rest, and I begin tapping into my heart’s desires instead of listening to my inner parole officer. I become confident in God’s presence to do the impossible with and through me, to invite everyone home.6

Righteous Conviction

In John 16:8, Jesus says the Spirit “will convict the world of sin, of righteousness, and of judgment” (NKJV). Day Two reading in Father’s House shocks me: “This [John 16:8] is the only time in the entire New Testament that there is mention of the Holy Spirit convicting of sin… and it is in response to those who do not believe in Him! As a believer, this says He wants to convict you of something completely different: your righteousness. Holy Spirit knows that reminding you of who you are, the righteousness of God in Christ, empowers you…”7

So the voice inside of me that points out how much I fall short is NOT the Holy Spirit, or any part of God? Why am I listening to it? Instead, I may hear a voice that convicts me of righteousness, a voice that notices all the beautiful things in me and says that is who I truly am. This voice looks for goodness and finds it. This voice spends its time bringing to light righteousness (not sin).

Embodied Healing

Another analogy I’m not fond of is the “robe of righteousness.” Robes are not attractive, they don’t keep my feet warm, and they are not all-day wear (except when it’s cold in the house and I wear my robe over my clothes). It’s quite possible royal robes were more common than bath robes in Jesus’ day, but having no experience with royal robes I’m not sure how to relate. Also, a robe can be taken on and off, and I’m not keen on transient righteousness. But, because I’m just a wee bit compelled to follow directions, I explored my thoughts about a robe of righteousness, as instructed in Father’s House. To my surprise, I found a thought that fits me.Skin is the largest organ of the human body. Clothing is intimate. It makes sense that God would draw near to me in a way that touches my skin. Touch keeps me present. It draws me out of my head and into my body, and God knows I need all the help I can get to stay present in my body.

Our bodies carry pain, and sometimes we divorce ourselves to get away from the pain. We do a thousand things to survive, many of which we don’t even realize we’re doing. It takes time to sort this out and let love into the picture. The folks Gregory Boyle connects with carry unimaginable amounts of pain and trauma. Extravagant tenderness creates space for that pain to be seen. “When you enter the program,” a homie said, “you need to bring your pain with you.”8 Connection and healing happen when we allow our wound to be seen, and then to be touched. Boyle suggests that “Healing takes a lifetime but surrender to this moment can carry you.”9 Love creates the space to surrender to this moment, to stay present to ourselves. “To be nurtured is to be reverent for what is happening to you.”10 Grace is reverence for pain.

Rest and Love

Striving to be “good” takes a boatload of energy. I remember when my oldest daughter began full-time schooling in first grade. She came home from school each day totally spent, and often spiraled into tantrums, tears, and yelling matches with me (I’m a superb yeller). She spent every ounce of her energy to behave well, learn well, and get along with others at school, and when she came home there was nothing left. I, too, have “melted down” over and over because I empty myself in my attempts to perform well, and to be “good.”

Papa God, Jesus, and Spirit are a whole new paradigm—a home where behavior is beside the point, a distraction from the real deal. Trying to become whole is a tiring pursuit. Knowing I’m already whole is energizing. Resting in righteousness creates a foundation for love. “The mystic’s quest is to be on the lookout for the hidden wholeness in everyone,”11 including me.

Endnotes:
1Father’s House, page 65
2Romans 6:6 TPT
3Father’s House, page 66
4The Whole Language, page 51
5The Whole Language, page 53
6Father’s House, Session Four video teaching and activation, pages 66-68
7Father’s House, page 71
8The Whole Language, page 54
9Father’s House, page 53
10Father’s House, page 50
11The Whole Language, page 55

Wonder Is Love

Leave a reply

Wonder Is Love

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for invitations to wonder.

I used to think
wonder was reserved
for sunsets and lady bugs,
snowflakes and perfect chocolate truffles.

I didn’t know wonder
as universal curiosity,
toward fear and anger,
panic and distrust,
burning bushes and lepers,
temper tantrums and love notes,
and my daughter who talks. so. much.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for wonder as a portal to love,
to see and hear,
to be amazed,
to join hands with the “other,”
whether it be the rejected parts of myself
or the unwrapped person in front of me.

Tell My Body I’m Innocent

1 Reply

Tell My Body I’m Innocent

Reflections – week 3

Welcome to the third 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 three of eight. I’m finding joy here, and I’m pleased you’re with me on this journey.

Forgiven Future

“I am fully forgiven forever.”1 This is key #3 in Father’s House.

The exercises in the workbook are designed to walk me through past grievances, but I find myself feeling more guilt and shame for my potential to mess up, than for past behaviors. I feel like a walking liability, a mistake waiting to happen, impatience and selfishness and bitterness piled up on an over-filled plate, waiting to get bumped and spill everywhere.

I believe that forgiveness from God is complete. It doesn’t happen when or because I ask for it. It’s done for all people for all time, and my invitation is simply to accept awareness of it. But I realize I have not allowed this to permeate my present and my future. I see everything in front of me through the filter of my imperfection. And I believe my capacity to act without love means I deserve a diminished life. Father’s House declares, “In Papa’s House your past doesn’t stand a chance.”2 Could I believe that in Papa’s house my future doesn’t stand a chance?

The ability to walk forward is not only dependent on being untied from the past, but also on a clear way ahead. Papa doesn’t expect me to walk embarrassed, afraid, tentative—advancing slowly to improve the chance of catching myself when I trip. I have believed I must hold back because getting things right is more important than anything else. But if my future is forgiven and I am “innocent and pure forever,”3 I can’t possibly make things any more “right” than they already are.

I can walk with confidence, run with abandon, knowing that tripping is expected. God isn’t surprised when I make mistakes or protect my ego or forget to love. All of this is understood and received into His expansiveness. He is not keeping track. He is not expecting perfection. He is not asking me to go back to the starting line and try again. He is not putting his hand up and requiring me to kneel and beg forgiveness before I go on.

I have tried to avoid forgiveness by getting things right. I have believed that if I need to think about forgiveness, something has gone wrong. But Jesus didn’t shy away from forgiveness. He gave it out left and right, and not because people were asking for it. He never suggested we should be trying to not need to be forgiven. Perfection—“rightness”—is a distraction, a black hole, handcuffs.

Tension

A few months ago I began to notice tension in my body. The tension wasn’t new, but my notice was. I first became aware of it when I was lying in bed. I noticed I could allow my scalp and forehead and cheeks and shoulders and arms and back and legs and feet to relax. Five minutes later, I would become aware of the tension again, and again I could relax. After a day or two, I realized the tension was always there, but when I took notice of it I could release it. I don’t know what prompted this awareness, but it became an ongoing invitation to rest. Perhaps it was a result of internalizing freedom in Father’s House, knowing “It is finished”—what Jesus completed is my starting point and my resting place. I belong in Papa’s house. I’m exactly where I need to be. I sit in Papa’s house calm and light, because I’m no longer juggling while climbing stairs and holding my breath.

Holding

Children who have been abused often speak of a moment in their healing when they realize that the abuse was not their fault, not their destiny, not normal, not what they deserved. It becomes something that happened to them, but it is no longer their secret identity, the truth of who they are, or the predictor of who they will be.

Gregory Boyle tells the story of a kid named Sharky, whose father continued to find and terrorize the family, despite restraining orders. One day Sharky came home to find his father hiding there, waiting to interrogate him. When he couldn’t take any more, he ran to a neighbor’s house and called his mom, who arranged a meeting place. When they both arrive, “She just holds him there, in the gym bleachers, as he sobs all the more and her only message is this: ‘I’m so sorry you had to go through that.’” Many years later, Sharky is alone in a prison cell, and “comes a message from God… a singular expression of tenderness. God holding a sobbing Sharky and saying only this: ‘I’m so sorry you had to go through that.’ Sharky tells me later that this has become the notion of God that holds him still. It fills him enough to say finally to his own father, ‘I’m so sorry you had to go through all that.’ The Tender One… is sorry that we go through what we do.”4 He is holding us in the bleachers. He is speaking the truth that neither “abuser” nor “abused” is our identity, releasing us to healing and wholeness.

Innocent

“Father God doesn’t just consider you forgiven,” write the authors of Father’s House, “but He sees you as completely innocent—as though you had never sinned.”5 I don’t know what this means. It can’t mean I’m perfect. It can’t mean I’m not human. It can’t mean I don’t need to heal. Surely God sees my wounds, because He touches them and restores health. Ultimately, I think innocence is about intimacy. Innocence is, “There is nothing between you and Father God, for He sees you as holy, flawless, and restored,”6—forever. Innocence is an invitation to uncouple from shame. “Shame and intimacy will never share a seat at the same table. You have to let go of one to have the other.”7

Gregory Boyle writes, “Unshakeable goodness is our royal nature.” When we see this, he says, “We then undertake the search for innocence in the other. We cease to find the guilty party. We no longer divide into camps: Heroes and Villains. We end up only seeing heroes. We look for the unchangeable goodness that’s always there in the other… In this, we find the unbearable beauty of our own life.”8

Intimacy seems fragile to me, a rare treasure—not something that can be promised forever. But God Of The Impossible is promising infinite intimacy, and He is suggesting that innocence and intimacy are inextricably connected. Nothing between us.

Rest

My innocence, and the innocence of every human being, is an invitation to rest. Boyle writes, “It will always be less exhausting to love than to find fault. When we see fault, we immediately believe that something has to be done about it. But love knows that nothing is ever needed.”9 I no longer need to find fault. Instead, I find goodness. There is nothing left to fix, and my muscles relax in gratitude. I am not a tripping hazard. I am forgiven, innocent, whole. I breathe this in and release “fixing” so I can see love. Everywhere, and in everyone, love.

Endnotes:
1Father’s House, page 46
2Father’s House, activation #3
3Ibid
4The Whole Language, pages 23, 24
5Father’s House, page 46
6Colossians 1:22 TPT, emphasis mine
7Father’s House, page 50
8The Whole Language, pages 40, 41
9The Whole Language, page 41

Notice of God

Leave a reply

Notice of God

Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe,
for noticing us.
You see the accomplished professional
behind the messy-bun and pajamas
shopping for milk and cereal, 6am.
You see the tense heart
inside a trendy business suit and shoes,
man who feels like an imposter
and wonders if anyone notices.

Blessed are You for seeing—
the weary emptiness of a single father,
alone in all the ways he never wanted to be;
the perfectly broken heart of a young girl
who carries a secret in her abused body,
but a smile on her face.

Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe,
for seeing little me under my big personality,
for seeing fear drenched in shame
because it wanted to be faith,
for seeing wholeness in me,
for covering everything in tenderness:
Your glance, grin, gaze,
tears on crumpled face,
a wink, smile, laugh—
all my depths
reflected on Your face,
consecrated by Your notice.