That Loud, Unholy Night.

It's a tradition I love. Every year, at Christmas Eve service, our congregation sings "Silent Night" as we pass the tiny flame from the candles cupped in our hands down the rows of pews lining our sanctuary. Once the room is filled with those warm, flickering heartbeats in the dark, we stand, file outside, and huddle together. All the while, singing,

Silent night, holy night;all is calm, all is bright. 

I adore the song. I truly do. But recently, in the midst of my recitation of the so-familiar tune, my Father reminded me that its lyrics, like so many of our other traditional Christmas imaginings (really now, a blonde baby Jesus?), are far from accurate.

The night was not silent. It was filled with the sounds of donkey-brays and lamb-bleats--with the piercing cries of a woman in labor--with the newborn wails of an infant come into the broken and screaming Earth.

The night was not holy. It was filled with the the violence of a world not yet redeemed--a night with no room for this child who would never know spot nor stain until the day He bore sins that were not His own--a night that within a few years would spark the slaughter of babes as a jealous king sought to destroy the only one who was ever good.

Jesus did not sleep in heavenly peace. He forsook heavenly peace, trading it for earthly sorrow, so that we, through the redemption of our souls and the indwelling of the Spirit (God with us), may know a peace from Heaven that none before us had ever experienced.

Jesus was not Lord at His birth. He gave up lordship to come as a servant. He came in complete submission to the will of His Father. He surrendered His authority, refusing to flee from death, refusing to call the angels to His aid--surrendering to the grave, to the curse of the mankind, to the Enemy--that He might gain the ultimate victory and offer all power and authority to us.

Yes, we know the ending to this story, and it is beautiful. But let us not water down its beginnings for nostalgia's sake. Let us not forget, Beloved, what our Savior endured for us. Let us never take His gift for granted--this dawn of redeeming grace.

Be a Pansy.

The December sun is warm on the backs of our necks as Grandma stoops down to pluck off a few wilted, purple blooms from the plant.

"You have to pick off the dead parts, or the whole plant will die," she explains. "It's called deadheading."

I tuck the information away, in the special portion of my mind I save for things I know will one day be important.

***

I often hear pansy used (and use it myself) as a name to denote weakness. But I've learned that pansies aren't really weak at all. They can bloom in any season, in almost every color. They're strong enough to survive through winter.

Maybe we should all try to be a little more like pansies. Rather than allowing the parts of our old nature to corrupt the new, we should pick off those dead pieces, as Jesus said:

If your hand or foot causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away (Matthew 18:8).

After all,

You were taught, with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self, which is being corrupted by its deceitful desires; to be made new in the attitude of your minds; and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness (Ephesians 4:22-24).

Maybe we should learn to bloom in any season. Maybe we should learn to love our infinite varieties of color. Maybe we're strong enough to make it through the winter.

Maybe the next time someone calls you a pansy (...okay, well, it happens to me), instead of being offended, you should simply smile and say, "Thanks."

Maybe what the world calls weakness, is really a beautiful strength.

From the Belly of Hell Cried I.

I want to spew out curses honest as Peter's betrayal - overflow of this black-burnt heart spat through unclean lips - four-letter nails cutting holy flesh. Screaming

this body You gave,

why, oh Potter?

Screaming hatred at the malformed clay that cages my soul - screaming hatred at me - screaming hatred at You. Screaming

how long, how long, how long

I want to (oh God, I don't want to)

wallow in

my infantile selfishness,

my petulant greed,

my suffocating shame

my

I want to (oh God, I don't want to)

close my eyes against the tides

that always 

pull me back 

to the starting line

and (let me (please don't let me))

drown.

I had a dream

I spent everything I had, kicking out against thick waters. So close

to safety, my fingers clutching the dock's splintered edge. But

my arms were far too weak to carry my own weight. And

a creature, dark and hungry, was swimming up from the depths.

...

[Epilogue]
? ? later

When the morning came,

it came with sunlight

weeping mercy.

Can You Hear Me Now?

Listening is not a passive act.

It requires focus, attention to detail--to the dip and rise of her voice, the subtle nuances of the muscles in her face, the watery depths (or lack) of emotion in her eyes, the layers (or absence) of meaning in her words.

It requires self-control--not simply of your tongue (which, as an introvert, I'm fairly proficient at bridling), but of your mind (which, as an introvert, I'm not at all proficient at bridling).

That's probably why I talk so much to God. Because there's no fake-listening as far as He's concerned. He knows my scattered, rampant thoughts. I say, Speak, Lord, for Your servant is listening, but He knows I'm not really waiting to hear His voice. Sure, my mouth is shut, but my mind has already wandered to yesterday, or tomorrow, sliding down the steep and inevitable spiral into self-absorption.

So, in a misguided effort to avoid this trap, I talk. Talk, talk, talk. Words, words, words. On, on, and on.

Until He gently chastens me.

Guard your steps when you go to the house of God. Go near to listen rather than to offer the sacrifice of fools, who do not know that they do wrong. Do not be quick with your mouth, do not be hasty in your heart to utter anything before God. God is in heaven and you are on earth, so let your words be few. As a dream comes when there are many cares, so the speech of a fool when there are many words. Much dreaming and many words are meaningless. Therefore stand in awe of God, (Ecclesiastes 5:1-3, 7).

All too often, I am the fool, coming to God with my many words, thinking they will be a pleasing offering to Him. The words are beautiful, to be sure. But more times than I'd care to admit, they are empty.

God's words, however, are never empty. They are full of power. They release freedom and truth. They never return void. They are the words that shaped the universe and sparked the beating of our hearts.

How He longs for us to listen Him. To learn--the dip and rise of His voice, the subtle nuances of the muscles in His face, the unending depths of emotion in His eyes, the infinite layers of meaning in His words.

Day after day, the God of eternity invites us to sit at His feet, and to listen. Oh, Beloved. There is no greater privilege than this.

I Ask the Stars.

I'm learning to take comfort in my backwards life.

I still struggle sometimes, with the desire for "normality". People with normal lives aren't questioned, cautioned, asked to justify themselves. Instead, they are applauded, praised, considered a success. Rather than having a panic attack when asked about their future, they can calmly give a response detailing their educational, financial, career, and marital goals. They know the kind of car they want to drive, the kind of house they want to live in, and have already begun a college fund for their 1.5 children.

And when my own response is an awkward shrug of the shoulders, I'm already inwardly cringing at the expressions of disbelief I know I'll receive in return (their thoughts, loud enough to hear, what is wrong with you, what are you thinking?), and a (large, loud) part of me wishes that I had my life together, neatly packaged and ready for send-off into a big, bright future I've sculpted with my bare hands.

But I'm learning to take comfort, in this rather unsettling brand of insanity that is my life. I'm learning to set up my sails and trust the wind that carries me. I'm learning that I love you, but I don't need you, to tell me I'm alright.

I've placed my compass in better Hands.

It's been a long time since I've seen it. And there are moments, stretching painfully long, when my faith wavers. On those dark and desperate nights, I look up with pleading glance, and ask, Where, oh where, am I?

And the stars reply, with their twinkling eyes: Little child, of little faith. Do not fear; you are on course. These waters are drawing you, ever North.

If Only We Were Squirrels, & Could Sleep These Months Away.

Mid-October in Southern Georgia, a chill has finally taken to the air. I pull my jacket tighter, and welcome it. I welcome the season of thick socks and sweaters, of ear-warming beanies and noose-tight scarves. I welcome the change.

Which is a rarity, for me--I, who, most days, am such a resistor of change in any form. I , who, at the first sign of the season's turning, would often much rather stock up my goods, bury myself in a cave's warm belly, and drift into the sweet bliss of hibernation, than wait out the months among a world made bitter and barren with cold.

But there is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven*, and hibernation has never been an option. When our time to be born is exchanged for our time to die, when our time to plant is exchanged for our time to uproot, when our time to search is exchanged for our time to give up, when our time to keep is exchanged for our time to throw away--these are the seasons our eyes strain for color, but are filled instead with only winter's gray.

What we are always forgetting is--how quickly the seasons shift. How soon the pain will pass--how inevitably the frost will melt--how marvelously those colors will be born again--and how deeply we will breathe in, that new and infinite expanse.

*Ecclesiastes 3:1.

Unmerciful Servant, There Will Be Weeping.

Why are you surprised at this, as if something strange is happening to you?

Of course. Of course the Enemy attacks our relationships. Of course he rips apart the sinews of the Body. Of course he snaps the tendons, tears the ligaments, shatters the bones. Of course.

He heard, too, that day God said It is not good for man to be alone. It is the day loneliness became a weapon, isolation a tactic of torture.

And we accept it so willingly. Blame, embitter, hate. Withdraw, retreat, run away. Flinging away our antidotes--forgiveness, mercy, love--far from our sob-wracked hearts.

We'd rather lay down and bleed. We'd rather curl up and die.

If you could hear these words spoken in my heart's voice, they'd be screaming. Dear brothers, dear sisters, have we fallen so far? We claim to follow the Perfect One, the Flawless, the Beautiful, who said of those who crushed Him, Forgive them, for they know not what they do--and yet, we will not fight for our brothers, our sisters? Because of a mistake, because of a sin? Because of our pride, because of our laziness?

We blame our inability to love on the other. I cannot love him, I cannot love her, because they did, they didn't do.

But it is our flaw, Beloved. It is we who refuse to love.

May God have mercy on us.

All In.

I was singing the words, out loud, but I knew they weren't mine. The words were God's, and He was singing them to me.

I'm all in--are you?

It's a common phrase. The meaning seemed self-evident, but I wanted a deeper understanding. So I looked up a few definitions, and found:

at the card table, to be broke (that is, out of money), because you already put all your money in the pot, so you can't play anymore;

having all of one's chips at risk in a single hand;

to be tired out, exhausted, as in I can't walk another step;

To be all in is to risk everything in a single, desperate act--after which, there is nothing left to give. It's what God did when He clothed Himself in flesh and poured out His blood on a nail-pierced cross, an act that spoke more loudly than words--

No more games. I don't want to play anymore. Win or lose, My cards are on the table. 

And here we sit, across from Him in the low light. Utterly broken. Battered, threadbare, weary. Clinging to our last, few, worthless cards. We hold them tightly, afraid of what it will mean to let go. Knowing we'll lose.

So, we prolong the game. Or, we walk away.

But, what if the risk is worth it? What if, in giving up everything, we gain more than we ever could have imagined?

What if we don't understand the rules of this game, after all? What if our defeat turns into the most beautiful of rescues? And in losing, we find our greatest victory?

God is all in, for you. He always has been, since the very beginning. It's your move--your final move--and only two options are left to you: all or nothing.

When I Looked Through Better Eyes Than Mine.

What do I think? I think there are bigger, more beautiful horizons ahead, love. You will paint them yourself, in bold, brilliant strokes, with the colors that even now drip from your fingertips, honeycomb golds and deep-water blues--a hand-printed portrait of your heart's spillover.

I hope I'm close enough to see the mess you'll make. Blossoms of beauty erupting on everything you touch, spreading from your smile that reaches up like a flower to sunlight (stretching higher still). And everywhere you walk, green shoots springing up from once-dirt, cradled in the shadow of your footfalls. I'll smile as they, too, curl their newborn heads toward the sun.

But time is twin to change, and distance more than darkness takes its toll on the eyes. So if I cannot watch as you wade knee-deep in beauty (drifting deeper still), at least I know I'll hear you. Because the sound of glory reverberates for miles, sprouts wings and leaps oceans to enter the ears of the listening. And I'll be listening for you, love. I believe I'll recognize your song.

It will be much different than the faltering, hesitant melody you started with. The colors a blend of something new. But I'll recognize the beauty, love. And I'll know it belongs to you.

When Dying is Gain.

The bitter, holy night that I surrendered, it felt like loss. Dreams, slaughtered on the altar.

(There was no angel to stop me, and all around the thornbushes were bare.)

I did not stay to watch the blood collect in pools, did not wait for it to curdle in the heat of the coming day. Though, when I turned away, that knife-twist of pain--the final heart-spasm of mourning.

(Having not-quite forgotten, yet not-quite the ability to believe: I never give anything to my God that He does not return a thousand times over.)

After years of holding on, it took only a moment to let go. And from that dead seed I buried, in awe I watched a garden grow.

The Sadness That Didn't Belong to Me.

Alone in the kitchen at half-past ten, I was crying out my eyes, the tears long past control, when the thought came piercing through--

I wish I could take all their pain. Bear it myself so they wouldn't have to. So they wouldn't have to.

And then His voice, so quickly after--the clear, deep stroke of thunder following lightning's flash--

I already did.

My heart that night was the heart of the Father. The anguish I felt for the ones I loved, His anguish. And how much more He must feel--to have borne the pain of our sins on His body on the tree, so we wouldn't have to--and then to watch as we reject that gift daily, to walk in the curse instead of freedom, to walk in death instead of victory. I believe He watches, and weeps, with a heart infinitely more broken than mine as He calls--

I took all your pain. Bore it Myself so you wouldn't have to. So you wouldn't have to.

Abba,

This prayer is for them.

They're after Your heart, oh God. Seeking, chasing, longing (after). Hearts after Yours, oh God. Fashioned, modeled, mirrored (after).

Caught up in the tangle of dark before dawn, they do not see what we see. Unaware, quite completely, of their fragrance of beauty. I watch them slip down the mud-heap of lies, and I break as the spark dims to ash in their eyes.

If they could but glimpse: the way their voice sounds just like You, the way through their gaze You come bleeding through.

Call my brothers, call them by name. Consume them forever in Your jealous flame.

Blessed sons of the Most High--the world is waiting for you to rise.

Dwelling Place.

Consider now, for the LORD has chosen you to build a temple as a sanctuary. Be strong and do the work, (1 Chronicles 28:10).

And he did. Overlaid with pure gold. Covered with fine gold. Adorned with precious stones. Carved cherubim on the walls. Blue, purple and crimson yarn and fine linen, (2 Chronicles 3:4-7, 14). He made the golden altar; the tables on which was the bread of the Presence; the lampstands of pure gold with their lamps; the gold floral work and lamps and tongs; the pure gold wick trimmers, sprinkling bowls, dishes and censers; and the gold doors of the temple, (2 Chronicles 4:19-22).

With precise measurements and only the most valuable of materials, Solomon built a place on Earth for the God of Heaven to dwell.

Yet the wise king himself admitted, "The temple I am going to build will be great, because our God is greater than all other gods. But who is able to build a temple for Him, since the heavens, even the highest heavens, cannot contain Him?" (2 Chronicles 2:5-6). For the Most High does not live in houses made by men, (Acts 7:48).

But we have an even higher calling. God has chosen us, not to build a temple for Himself, but to be a temple for Himself. What could not be contained by a man-made building of pure gold and precious stones now dwells in our God-formed bodies of weak flesh and brittle bone. Jesus, our cornerstone--Emmanuel, God with us. In Him the whole building is joined together and rises to become a holy temple to the Lord. And in Him you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by His Spirit (Ephesians 2:21-22).

This is the most beautiful mystery. That our fickle and wayward hearts are more desirable to God than forty-six thousand pounds of pure gold. That the spark of color in our wandering eyes is worth more to the Father than the rarest of gemstones. That when we were powerless to enter the Most Holy Place, He brought the holiness to us. Almighty God, who alone is worthy of offerings, made the offering for us; the sovereign Creator, who alone is worthy of sacrifice, bound the sacrifice upon the altar for us.

This is our price. Our value. Our worth. This is who we are--for God has deemed it so. The very breath of His Spirit in our lungs--the very blood of His Son in our veins. There is no higher calling--there is no greater gift.

We are His Temple. We are the collision of Heaven and Earth. We are the place where He dwells.

Dear,

I crafted - the curve of your cheekbones from riverbed clay - smeared my thumb along the lines that formed your forehead. I blended - the paint I dipped your skin in - spun the colors threading the numbered strands of hair - I stitched to your scalp. I polished - your irises' deep-sparkling gemstones that burst - into bloom - at the center of your eyes. I loved - I loved - I loved.

You run - your fine-tuned fingers along the cracks - in the clay. You search - for imperfections - in the flawless form I made ( - and remade). You believe - the reflection rendered in your shadowed mirror - you are caught - in distortion, caught - in the absence of light. You despise - the fragility I cherish. You cry - weakness. You turn - that face, still marked - by the pattern of My fingerprints - and ask - why. And I answer - because, I love. I love - I love - I love.

I love the way you need Me - the way your weakness makes you desperate - the way your poverty drives you into My arms. I love that I alone can restore you - that I alone can make you whole. I love that your heart is tied forever to Mine - I love that in once-dirt, I unveil now-divine. I love that this is who I've designed you to be - a beautiful, inseparable, part of Me.

(The Rib Wasn't Enough to Save) Our Hearts.

My dear, dear sisters, I know the curse. I know your desire will be for him and he will rule over you, I know. I watch it, I live it, I get it. I too, am a woman. I too, have measured my value by the light of approval (more often, the lack) that sparks (or fails to) in a man's eyes. I have tailored my beauty to the rhythm of their compliments, I have weighed the words (or silence)--I have found, always found, myself wanting.

But, when. I stop looking at me, stop looking at them, and start looking at you, I see something else. The grace in your step, the strength in your eyes. It causes me to wonder. To catch my breath, to pause and stare. I see you, and I say: My God! Your daughters are lovely.

I once burned with jealousy, to see your beauty. You were filled to the brim with beautiful things--I found each and every one. And I hated every wonderful piece of your heart, every flawless line that shaped your face. I despised you, because I saw the way you drew their eyes away from me.

But, then. I met the Lover who broke the curse. He stripped away my shame and clothed me in (such perfect!) light. He whispered, My darling, there is no flaw, and I saw myself (reborn). I saw who I was, who I am and will be.

What I saw was all-beautiful, and I knew I would never need their eyes again.

And now I see you. I see your loveliness, and I do not fear it, anymore. We are more lovely together; we are symphonies and tapestries, we are bright-burning souls that shine like stars.

But it breaks my heart, beautiful ones, to see the way you tear your (beautiful, beautiful) selves apart, tugging your heartstrings from the seams of every doubt and insecurity that haunts the stitches of your scars--the remnant of the wounds their arms (or absence) burst open. It breaks my heart, beautiful ones, that you do not see your self, but only the distorted reflection in the darkened mirrors of their eyes.

Sisters, I beg you: See what I see. Look into the Lover's eyes, and believe the words He promised me: You are altogether lovely; you are altogether free.

These Thorn-Laced Crowns.

"If you are to sit with Christ upon His throne, you must go with Him through His Gethsemane." -A. B. Simpson

We are James and Johns, every one. We want the glory without the sacrifice. We want the revival without the repentance. We want the resurrection without the death. And Jesus' response to us is the same: "You don't know what you're asking. Can you drink the cup I am going to drink?" (Matthew 20:22). 

And eagerly, naively, we echo the cry of the brothers who so boldly sought the throne-room: We can!

No, we don't know what we are asking. We are far too pampered to truly grasp the implications of the One who said, Sell everything you have. Hate your mother and father, your sons and your daughters. Take up your cross, daily. And follow Me. If we understood the weight of these words--of what it means to be a living sacrifice, our bodies laid upon His altar--we'd start running in the opposite direction.

But Jesus looks at our naive, eager hearts with love. He does not turn us away. He only says, with compassion spilling over in His eyes, "You will indeed drink from My cup," (Matthew 20:23).

Because, while the cost is great, the reward is greater. So though we don't know what we are asking, I pray He gives it to us anyway. For the glory of our Father's name. That His Kingdom may come, His will (not ours) be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Dear Jesus. Give us the grace to follow You.

Completely in Love.

"Perfect love casts out fear," (1 John 4:18). 

Whenever I hear this verse discussed, the conversation generally centers solely around God's love for us. Which is not inaccurate--truly, if we could receive God's love perfectly, fear would cease to be even the vaguest of memories. But I think there's something we tend to overlook.

The one who is made complete in love is not simply the one who is loved perfectly, but the one who also loves perfectly. This is what John is screaming through the repetitions in these five chapters, the word as constant as the waves of the sea (love, love, love). The one who does not love cannot claim to know God's love. The only response to a perfect love is to love perfectly in return.

If we genuinely loved the lost, no power in Hell could prevent us from sharing the truth that would bring them into the arms of ultimate joy. If we genuinely loved our brothers and sisters, no petty arguments or hurts could ever stand in the way of us crawling to them on our hands and knees to reconcile their hearts to ours. If we genuinely loved our God, we would obey even the most impossible of commands without the slightest hesitation.

When we love perfectly, the fear will leave, Beloved. Love will scoop that darkness from the hidden hollows of our hearts and fling it far, over our heads and into the sky's vast expanse. Our eyes try to follow, but it has disappeared, swallowed by infinite blue. We have never felt so light.

(Re)Genesis.

These are the times. When the loneliness stretches--the most profound silence. Stripped down to the ugliest fragments of me. I don't--I don't want to find myself here. I don't want You--(please, anyone but You)--to find me, either. Not here. The guilt and shame like black tar smeared across my unmasked face, my head-hairs--(You once so lovingly counted)--matted with filth. I want to tear--tear them from the roots, fling their strangled bodies--far away from me. Farther still, from You.

Yet.

At the mere whisper of my name, the dam (those long years in the dark, I so carefully, painstakingly, built, so they--so You--could never find, could never see)--shatters, the river of my heart-cry rushing out in a torrent, rushing (spinning, speeding, soaring)--into the ocean of You. This Voice that birthed the universe--(let there be)--in a kaleidoscope of color and light and--vibrations, the heartbeat of the stars--humming in tune, and I cry--I cry with them Glory. 

And You answer: Love, Be.

We Shine Like Stars in the Universe.

The lines of her face were drawn in loveliness. Born into desperation, with no father and a scattered people, the world could not have known she was the chosen one. Yet she altered history's ever-flowing course with a single footstep into the throne room of her king. Her name was Esther, and she shone like a star in that dark universe.

Her legacy is our inheritance. We have been chosen, orphans plucked from the street and instructed to make ourselves ready. To bathe in the oil of repentance until we are dripping in the fragrance of holiness.

We live in a desperate time. The Enemy rages against God's people with a stolen and malicious authority. Now is the time to enter the throne room of Heaven and plead the case of our brothers and sisters before our King. To kneel trembling before the One who alone holds the power of life and death in His hands.

For our King is full of mercy, and His heart is moved by our loveliness. He will extend the scepter to us, that we may dwell in His presence and live. He will answer our request, up to half His kingdom. He will grant His power to our people, that we may fight back against the Enemy, and overcome. 

Do not be afraid, beloved. Enter the throne room, and speak. Who knows whether you have come to the kingdom for such a time as this?

The Day I Did Not Save the World.

The world weighs heavy, caked with dirt and sorrow. Uneven stitches stretched into a crooked smile, a seam-split in skin too paper-thin for beauty. Such fragility, these glass-wrought bones, these delicate souls tucked in heart-shaped cradles.

Yet it weighs; it weighs so heavy.

I pitched my body forward when it fell, cupped my hands to catch the sphere flung so far from its course. But it pulled me into the plummet, into the shadowed cracks of the universe. Its yoke striping my neck with creases dripping bloody, its burden curling my spine into distortion.

We fell together. The spin made me dizzy and sick. My wings crumbled, as we tumbled, into the black.

Forgive me, dear. I cannot save you. You are too heavy. You are too heavy for me.

The moments strung along like years, and for a thousand or more, I shut my eyes against the terror. But I had to learn the reason, some explanation of why, I was still breathing.

When I opened my eyes, I saw the stars singing. When I opened my ears, I heard our hearts beating. That face, that voice, those hands that held. Making existence suddenly easy, and light. And I looked past the world, over the curve of sky and sea. My gaze timid and wavering, until His steadied mine.

But not too heavy for Me, My love. Not too heavy for Me.

While We are Sleeping.

I've noticed one near-universal rule within American churches: Get the congregation out on time. I hear half-jokes by harried pastors as they carefully arrange their watch beside their sermon notes. I watch worship leaders coordinate songs in precise measurement--not too many, not too few, with just the right amount of repetitions--verse-chorus-verse-chorus-chorus-bridge. But no more than that--people have dinner to eat, movies to see, jobs to work, lives to get back to. It breaks my heart.

In the Old Testament, we see a group of people who responded quite differently to their opportunity to enter God's throne-room.

"The Israelites gathered together, fasting and wearing sackcloth and having dust on their heads. Those of Israelite descent had separated themselves from all foreigners. They stood in their places and confessed their sins and the wickedness of their fathers. They stood where they were and read from the Book of the Law of the LORD their God for a quarter of the day, and spent another quarter in confession and in worshiping the LORD their God," (Nehemiah 9:1-3).

A quarter of the day. That's six hours--not sitting in cushion pews, but standing. Six hours reading the Word, six hours in confession and worship. And we get antsy if the Sunday sermon goes over an hour? Rushing through the service, cutting of the Holy Spirit and checking our cell phones to ensure we're not late for lunch?

Meanwhile, we blame the unbelievers for America's spiral into depravity. We forget, it's not they who have the power to quench the Spirit--it's us. And we do it so well.

Yet even now, Jesus pleads with us: Can you not keep watch with me for one hour?

Dear ones. This is the turning of the tide. The moment of dark that will lead to the dawn. The hour grows late, and our oil burns low. Will we so easily succumb to the heaviness of our eyelids? Will we so quickly give in to our selfish impulses? Will we so nonchalantly stifle the Spirit that is our only hope of rescue?

And even now, Jesus speaks: When I come, will I find faith upon the earth?

A Shepherd's Heart.

As in introvert ministering in the midst of the many members of the Body of Christ, it hasn't taken me long to discover: my strength is easily exhausted.

Quiet time alone with God has been my solace. My source of refocus and replenishment. And I know it is good, I know it is right--after all, Jesus Himself, regardless of the length of His days, was constantly rising with the muffled glow of dawn or kneeling in shadowed starlight to catch a moment alone with His Father.

So at first, I felt justified in my annoyance whenever my quiet time was interrupted. Random family members entering my room, texts demanding to be answered. I was vaguely guilty about the anger that rose up, as it seemed out of place when mere seconds before I had been resting in God's peace. But I simply wanted the world, in these moments, to leave me be--was that too much to ask? I needed this.

The true nature of my selfishness, however, was brought sharply to mind when God reminded me of His Son. Jesus, too, was often thwarted in His attempts to get away from the crowd. The same scenario happens over and over, and He always reacts the same way. Here's one example:

Because so many people were coming and going that they did not even have a chance to eat, [Jesus] said to [the disciples], "Come with Me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest."

So they went away by themselves in a boat to a solitary place. But many who saw them leaving recognized them and ran on foot from all the towns and got there ahead of them. When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, He had compassion on them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd. So he began teaching them many things. (Mark 6:31-34)

Jesus didn't respond in frustration or irritation when His time of rest was interrupted. He responded in love. His empty stomach, His weary eyes, were not enough to overcome His compassion for the people. In the middle of what was most certainly utter exhaustion, Jesus continued to serve, with a heart that dismissed its own needs without a second thought.

(And yes, after another full day of ministering to the people, Jesus still took time to be alone with the Father (Mark 6:46)--even when His body ached for sleep, He knew that filling His Spirit in God's Presence was by far more important.)

I pray for such a heart. A heart that obeys the Spirit instead of the flesh. A heart that looks to others, always to others, before itself. Dear Jesus, give us such a heart.

Diary of an Addict.

When I don't get my fix, the withdrawal symptoms come quick: irritability, depression, anxiety. Lashing out at the slightest provocation. Gobbling heads clean off. My body collapsing in on itself with weariness. The cells of my being screaming in frenzied chorus, Give it to me. Give it to me now.

My addiction began in middle school, out of a sense of duty more than anything else. A few minutes of "quiet time" with God in the morning (or whenever I got around to it). Being a Christian who opened her Bible more than once a week helped assuage the guilt brought on from the statistics spouted by pastors near and far of their negligent flocks.

At the time, I didn't realize how utterly it would hook me. Ruin me forever with this obsession--this hunger that could only be satisfied with heavenly bread, this thirst that could only be quenched with living water, this fire that would burn, burn, burn and crumble my heart to ash, spin my soul in gold.

But it's too late now. This craving will not be denied, and with every taste, I long for more. My moments in God's Presence are no longer an obligation; they are necessity. When I miss a day with Him, my whole world falls into shadow. There is no substitute--no patch I can slap on my arm, no placebo to trick the body into believing in a wellness apart from Him. I live in a constant state of dependency and desperation. And in all my life, I have never known anything more beautiful.

My name is Beloved, and this drug will run through my veins forever.

Dear God,

Scoop out this cruel and toxic organ, hidden in my chest with its parasitic grip. A fountain of selfishness that fills my body to bursting, a desperate wickedness cradled in deception. This black creature that presses heavy against my lungs.

So sever the skin, layers of tissue, until You reach the heart of the matter, elbow-deep in blood. And crush that withered muscle into the dust it was once formed of.

And in its place, Daddy, this is my request--give me Your heart.

A heart that burns with jealousy for Your people. A heart that breaks for every wandering lamb. A heart that remembers the least of these. A heart that embraces the prodigal. A heart that does not become weary of doing good. A heart that will spend everything, and spend itself as well. A heart that intercedes for the weak. A heart that is pure. A heart of love.

I cup my hands beneath Your cross and catch the crimson drops that fall, a thick and sticky rain. I drink deeply, my lips stained dark red. This blood, poured out for me, now rivers coursing through my veins. This heart, it beats so loudly, new and perfect and strong.

Anything, You Can Do.

We talk a lot in our society about our tendency to put others down in order to build ourselves up. But there's an opposite extreme (as there so often is) that is rarely discussed: building others up to such a degree, it leaves us feeling miserable and inadequate.

Don't get me wrong. We should be encouraging each other. Seeing the beautiful in our brothers and sisters, and calling it out. Believing great things for them, praying great things over them.

But there's a line, and we cross it. We start putting the people we admire on pedestals. We start attributing their goodness to their own selves instead of to God in them. We turn them into an idol. We place them high out of our reach, and then make excuses for ourselves. I can never be like them. I'm not as spiritual. I'm not as loving. I'm not as good. And on and on and on. Each lie bringing a new poison: envy, resentment, frustration, despair.

So here's the truth: There is no one better than you. The Spirit in them is the same Spirit in you. The grace available to them is the same grace available to you. The freedom, the faith, the power. These things have been promised to us as children of God. When we see a brother or sister in whom these gifts are strongly manifested, we should not be intimidated--we should say, Yes, God! Give me that! I want more! 

Because the lives of the faithful are not impossibilities for us; they are testimonies, the evidence of a God--our God--through whom all things are possible.

Poop.

Among a group of friends recently, the topic of changing dirty diapers arose. The general sentiments were ones I had heard many times before.

Ugh. I'm not getting anywhere near poop. That can be someone else's job.

Maybe it's because I grew up around babies. Between my younger siblings and the infants from my mom's home daycare, there were always plenty of foul-smelling garments to go around. I don't remember the first diaper I changed, and even if I did, I would surely have lost count of how many I've changed since. So the idea of cleaning up baby poop doesn't bother me in the least.

But I've noticed when I've heard the repulsed reactions of others over the years, it stirs something up inside of me. As if I wanted to argue the benefits of changing a baby's diaper--especially if the baby was one's own child. Somehow, the idea of someone shying away from it bothered me. And finally, I took some time out of my mental musings to consider why.

Yes, poop is disgusting. It smells (especially, it seems, when it originates from an infant). It also has a tendency to come in all manner of sickly colors. Sometimes, it smears on your hands, or your clothes, or the carpet. Essentially, changing a diaper is one great big mess. But what an act of humility and intimacy and love it is to clean off that mess from one who is helpless to take care of it themselves.

Intimacy is messy. We live in a broken world, and getting close to someone inevitably involves heartache and bruises and tears. Just ask God, the Father who so longed for us to be restored to Him, He entered our mess Himself. He trudged through the suffering and pain and temptation and betrayal. Wooden beams drank His blood so we could be whole.

And the mess goes both ways. When we allow the Spirit to enter us, He gets all over the place. He completely wrecks our "perfect" little worlds--all the things we thought we knew, all the things we thought we wanted, all the things we thought we were. He covers us with blood and anoints us with oil until we're dripping everywhere. This is how Heaven meets Earth: in a flash and tangle and flood. But through that mess, dear children, He makes us pure and clean and white.

Thank God, we have a Father who is not afraid of dirty diapers.

Under Construction.

Is it a time for you yourselves to be living in your paneled houses, while this house remains a ruin?

How quickly we are caught up in our own little lives, our own personal problems, that somehow loom so much bigger in our eyes than the Kingdom of God. How enthusiastically we strive after our own desires and dreams, while the Father's heart breaks for the lost and hungry lambs we have stopped searching for. How contentedly we gorge our bodies with food and drink, as His Body wastes away, weary muscles wilting from the brittle bones. How easily we question God when things don't go our way, how suddenly we are reminded of Him, just long enough to shift the blame.

Give careful thought to your ways. You have planted much, but have harvested little. You eat, but never have enough. You drink, but never have your fill. You put on clothes, but are not warm. You earn wages, only to put them in a purse with holes in it.  

For six months after graduating college, I lived in complete misery. The degree I had spent four years pursuing seemed suddenly useless to me. Nothing I did eased my unhappiness. Filling out job applications came to nothing. Writing did little to soothe me. I couldn't find a way to escape the town I hated. I beat my head repeatedly against unyielding brick, begging God to give me a reason why.

You expected much, but see, it turned out to be little. What you brought home, I blew away. Why? Because of my house, which remains a ruin, while each of you is busy with his own house. Therefore, because of you the heavens have withheld their dew and the earth its crops. I called for a drought on the fields of the mountains, on the grain, the new wine, the oil and whatever the ground produces, on men and cattle, and on the labor of your hands.

Four years ago, God told me to pray for rain. Revival for His Church, a restoration of the Holy Spirit that we so desperately need. But I became caught up in myself, swept away in my own selfish troubles. I stopped seeking after His Kingdom. I paid little attention to His people, unless they directly impacted me. I forgot about the bigger picture. I forsook His House to build my own. And I wasted away in the drought.

But in December of 2012, God spoke to me, just as He did to His people through the prophet Haggai. He told me that I had been selfish. That He had a calling and a purpose for me among His people. It was time to stop wallowing in self-pity and start building His Temple (Don't you know that you yourselves are God's temple? 1 Cor. 3:16).

On that night, I obeyed the voice of the LORD, and He reminded me, I am with you. He stirred up the spirit, that I would be strong enough to accomplish the task He had called me to. He surrounded me with others whose hearts are bent on building His House. And I have never felt such joy.

Be strong, all you people of the land, and work. For I am with you. And my Spirit remains among you. Do not fear. In a little while I will once more shake the heavens and the earth, the sea and the dry land. I will shake all nations, and the desired of all nations will come, and I will fill this house with glory. The glory of this present house will be greater than the glory of the former house. And in this place I will grant peace.

*Italics from Haggai 1:3-6, 9-14, 2:4-7, 9

Why I'm Single.

I don't listen to love songs anymore. I avoid romantic movies, when I can. I scroll quickly through "I <3 him" Facebook statuses and "waiting for a godly man" memes. I cut off imaginings of my future husband. I often fight any feelings of affection for the men in my life. And I stubbornly refuse to "date" or "be in a relationship."

It's not easy. And it's not forever. It's not out of bitterness toward couples--some need to rebel against the culture and charge ahead with a banner declaring my singleness. It's not out of resentment toward men--my respect toward them has only increased, not decreased, in recent months. It's not out of a holier-than-thou mentality that seeks to create rules in order that I might feel better about myself.

No. The reason I'm staying away from romance is because I struggle with it so. It's because this root of my insecurity goes down deep. It's because I've spent years despising my singleness, even hating myself because of it, certain that it was my own irredeemable flaws that left me alone. It's because some part of me still believes that marriage will save me, though my Spirit knows it's a lie. It's because my desire to "fall in love" is an idol I must cast down every day.

It's because my heart is deceitful, and it is always telling me that now is the time love desires to be awakened.

That was why, when I received my second confirmation that now is not the right time, I felt the emotions simultaneously, in equal measure--the disappointment, and the relief.

Because no, this path isn't easy. But it is right.

Daughters of Jerusalem, I charge you: Do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires. -Song of Songs 8:4

Not-Dear Satan,

You cannot have them. They do not belong to you. I see God in their eyes, feel the tug of His Spirit threading our heart-strings together. We are His sons, His daughters. You have no claim on us; you lost it in a moment,  a sliver of time that echoed through eternity, that whisper of the Lamb: It is finished. 

Jesus Christ. (Even now, do you feel the urge to bow?) His blood covers us. His Spirit fills us. His authority goes before us. His protection goes behind. His word springs from our lips, alive and active. His love wells up in our hearts, driving out fear.

For many years, we have forgotten. We have been foolish enough to believe your lies. We have been arrogant enough to battle you in our own strength. But no longer. Our Father is restoring the hearts of His children, free from the caskets we covered them in. He is stirring up the ashes of a long-dead flame, the coals set aglow by the taste of His breath. It is a fire many waters cannot hope to quench. It is a fire that burns forever.

We will no longer stand quietly by while you rip our brothers and sisters to bleeding bits. We will no longer back down at the first sign of the fray. Our God is for us, and you will not stand. His seal upon our hearts, upon our arms. His Name, written on our foreheads. (Can you even bear to look?) The victory is ours. Through grace, we are learning how to wield it.

So back the Hell away. Or we'll send all of Heaven after you.

Tall Tails.

The other day, I was watching the cartoon classic An American Tail with a group of friends (yes, we're all highly mature, intelligent adults--don't judge). Near the end of the film (for those poor souls among you who have not seen it), there is a scene in which an evil cat who has been masquerading as a rat is stripped of his false identity, and a crowd of mice denounces him in anger and disgust. And the cat, who refuses to admit to the lie, says, "Who are you going to believe? Me, or your own eyes?"

Of course, in the context of the movie, the question is ridiculous. No mouse with any sense in its (admittedly tiny) brain would believe the words of the deceitful cat over the clear evidence set before its own two eyes.

But suddenly I thought of the quote in an altogether different scenario. I heard the words again, and this time they were spoken by the voice of God: Who are you going to believe? Me, or your own eyes?

Because sometimes, the things God asks us to believe are a great deal more far-fetched than a cat claiming to be a rat. But unlike the cat, when God speaks, it is not a charade--it is truth. When God speaks, it is not to hurt us, but to give us life. Paul was so confident in this, he said, "Let God be true, and every human being a liar," (Romans 3:4).

Honestly, now. Do we trust God that much? Over the opinions of every person we love and respect? Over the perceptions of our own senses? Over the reality that we have constructed around ourselves since the day of our birth?

We should. Because God's reality is far truer than our own. His ways soar higher, His thoughts dig deeper (Isaiah 55:8-9). The world we see around us is experienced as if through a glass, darkly, but when we are brought up to Himself, we will see everything as it truly is (1 Corinthians 13:12).

God is calling us to a higher faith. He is calling us to believe Him with everything, regardless of what anyone else says, regardless of our own thoughts or emotions or circumstances.. The rest of the world will call us crazy. They will use words like impossible. But we will not understand, because such words do not exist for us. We are children of the Infinite; there is no impossible for us. We will never say never again.

April Showers.

"Blessed are those whose strength is in You, who have set their hearts on pilgrimage. As they pass through the valley, they make it a place of springs; the autumn rains also cover it with pools. They go from strength to strength, till each appears before God in Zion." -Psalm 84:5-7

"The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective. Elijah was a man just like us. He prayed earnestly that it would not rain, and it did not rain on the land for three and a half years. Again he prayed, and the heavens gave rain, and the earth produced its crops." -James 5:16-18

"Do idols have the power to bring rain? Does the sky itself have the power to send down showers? No, it is You, LORD our God. You are our only hope, because You are the one who made all these things." -Jeremiah 14:22

"When the heavens are shut up and there is no rain because Your people have sinned against You, and when they pray toward this place and confess Your name and turn from their sin because You have afflicted them, then hear from heaven and forgive the sin of Your servants, Your people Israel. Teach them the right way to live, and send rain on the land You gave Your people as an inheritance." -1 Kings 8:35-36

"Listen, O heavens, and I will speak; hear, O earth, the words of My mouth. Let My teaching fall like rain and my words descend like dew, like showers on new grass, like abundant rain on tender plants." -Deuteronomy 32:1-2

"Now listen, O Jacob, My servant, Israel, whom I have chosen. This is what the LORD says--He who made you, who formed you in the womb, and who will help you: Do not be afraid, O Jacob, My servant, Jeshurun, whom I have chosen. For I will pour water on the thirsty land, and streams on the dry ground; I will pour out My Spirit on your offspring and My blessing on your descendants. They will spring up like grass in a meadow, like poplar trees by flowing streams. One will say, 'I belong to the LORD'; another will call himself by the name of Jacob; still another will write on his hand, 'The LORD's,' and will take the name Israel." -Isaiah 44:1-5

"See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland. I provide water in the desert and streams in the wasteland, to give drink to My people, My chosen, the people I formed for Myself that they may proclaim My praise." -Isaiah 43:19, 20b-21

"The land you are crossing the Jordan to take possession of is a land of mountains and valleys that drinks rain from heaven. It is a land the LORD your God cares for; the eyes of the LORD your God are continually on it from the beginning of the year to its end. So if you faithfully obey the commands I am giving you today--to love the LORD your God and to serve Him with all your heart and with all your soul--then I will send rain on your land in its season, both autumn and spring rains." -Deuteronomy 11:11-14

"I will send you rain in its season, and the ground will yield its crops and the trees of the field their fruit." -Leviticus 26:4

"I will rain down bread from heaven for you." -Exodus 16:4

"The Spirit is poured upon us from on high, and the desert becomes a fertile field, and the fertile field seems like a forest. Justice will dwell in the desert and righteousness live in the fertile field. The fruit of righteousness will be peace; the effect of righteousness will be quietness and confidence forever. My people will live in peaceful dwelling places, in secure homes, in undisturbed places of rest." -Isaiah 32:15-18

"The remnant of Jacob will be in the midst of many peoples like dew from the LORD, like showers on the grass, which do not wait for man or linger for mankind." -Micah 5:7

"The desert and the parched land will be glad; the wilderness will rejoice and blossom. Like the crocus, it will burst into bloom; it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy. The glory of Lebanon will be given to it, the splendor of Carmel and Sharon; they will see the glory of the LORD, the splendor of our God." -Isaiah 35:1-2

"The LORD will open the heavens, the storehouse of His bounty, to send rain on your land in season and to bless all the work of your hands." -Deuteronomy 28:12

"Be glad, O people of Zion, rejoice in the LORD your God, for He has given you the autumn rains in righteousness. He sends you abundant showers, both autumn and spring rains, as before." -Joel 2:23

"There is the sound of heavy rain." -1 Kings 18:41

(I Need Help).

I've never wanted to be a bother. I don't like asking for help. I'd rather figure things out by myself, struggle on my own, with no one around to watch if I fail. I don't want to be asked questions to which I have no answers. I don't want others to worry; I don't want others to know my weakness.

Following hard after the American dream, we have painted our individualism as a virtue, though from the very beginning God declared, It is not good for man to be alone (Genesis 2:18). While He fashioned us into many parts, we were formed to work together (Ephesians 4:16). Our personalized faith has cost us twofold: we not only harm our own spirits as we cut ourselves off from the source of encouragement and wisdom and love found in our brothers and sisters, but we also maim the Body of Christ when we amputate ourselves from the Church, which was designed to function with all its parts.

This is what God is teaching me, and (by His grace--always, by His grace) I am trying to be better.

Last week, I felt the rip-current of the overwhelming tugging my heart out into the deep--tangled blossoms of stress and anxiety curling around my overexerted heart. I didn't have the strength to fight it. Not on my own.

So I texted a friend and asked for prayer. She immediately responded in the affirmative, and as I was leaving my room to do some chores around the house, I caught sight of my iPod on the bookshelf. Jamming the headphones in my ears, I began to listen to my worship playlist as I swept the hallway. In less than a minute, God hit me with such a large dose of joy, I was singing and dancing around the house for hours afterward--even scrubbing grime from the toilet couldn't dampen my mood.

I knew that strength was not from me. It was from a prayer that I didn't even have the power to pray when I needed it. It came from the heart of Christ, coursing down the veins of His Body and into my muscles. It came because I asked for help, and because my sister was listening and answered me, and because this is the way our Father created His family to function. Not with pride and whitewashed faces. But in honesty. In realness. In love.

Dumpster Diving.

The phrase is found in John's account of the feeding of the five thousand, a few simple words spoken by Jesus that are easily overlooked: Let nothing be wasted (John 6:12).

We look with shame at the mistakes of our past, crumple the memories in our hands like a letter for which we could not find the right words, toss it into the trash heap and hope no one goes looking. But the words continue to haunt us, our flaws drawn before our eyes in hues of neon highlighter, and we try to ignore them, try to hide, try to run.

Until we hear God digging through our trash. Our heart sinks at the sound, and we come running. We tug desperately at His arm, pleading, Not that, God, I don't want anyone to see that. But He shakes His head and says, Let nothing be wasted.

He pulls out the scraps of rotting fish, the torn pieces of moldy bread. He turns toward us then, and lifts our tear-brimmed eyes to His own. And we are amazed, because His eyes are filled with love.

He says, Beloved. I have loved you and called you, and I am working all things together for your good. Even the mistakes. Even the pain. Even the sorrow. Why have you thrown it away? The Enemy intended it for evil, but I will make it good. Behold, all things have become new. Nothing will be wasted. Not a single moment. What you see as a meager portion, I am prepared to multiply. What you have in abundance, allow to overflow. I have not missed a single detail; I count every drop of oil that anoints the numbered strands of your hair. I know you, completely, and love you. 

I am not a God of waste, Beloved. So stop throwing yourself away.

Awake, Oh Sleeper.

God has so much more to offer than what we have been satisfied with.

God is the same yesterday, today, and forever. So tell me, where is He? Where is the God of the Bible, the God I've read about all these years? The God who parts seas and rains bread from heaven and raises the dead back to life? The God who causes His people to speak in tongues they have never heard, who gives them visions of the throne room of Heaven? Where is the God whose mere Presence causes people to fall flat on their face and cry out, Woe is me, for I am a person of unclean lips!?

Jesus said, "If you then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!" (Luke 11:13).

That has been my prayer of late. God, show us how much more! Show us how much more you will give Your Spirit to those who ask!

The key being: we have to ask. We have to get hungry. We have to get thirsty. We have to get desperate. We have to start seeking with all we have.

If you want more of God: ask. If you want to want more of God: ask. And if you don't receive an answer?  Plead. Beg. Don't give up; press in. His promise was for those who seek Him with everything.

If you truly desire to find Him, He's your only option. Not books, not sermons, not songs. Not good deeds or spiritual words. Just God. He is the only one who can stir up a holy hunger in our hearts. He alone can save us from this sleep.

Dear God,

Less of me, more of You.

Release me from the selfishness that paints me at the center of a broken and lonely universe. I must have more than these petty dreams of self-contentment, self-assurance, self-control, these insubstantial cardboard cut-outs blown over by the wind's softest sigh.

Pull my self out of the realm of my consciousness; fade me into insignificance. Remove my shifting eyes, my stuttering tongue, my trembling hands, my fickle heart, and fill those hollows up with You. Fill to the brim, fill to overflowing. Drench every part, sweet Holy Spirit, the deepest recesses of my being. Wash me, mold me, make me new.

This is not about me. Your plans are so much bigger than that. So much more grand, and beautiful. It is only Your grace, Your marvelous, marvelous grace, that has chosen me to be a thread in this tapestry. And what a masterpiece it is! I look outward, I look upward, into the swirl of color, into the way every strand works together, these atoms of the universe sewn seamlessly as one. When my eyes behold such glory, my self is forgotten, and I have never felt so well.

Keep my eyes fixed, Daddy. Keep my heart enraptured. Only You can save me. Only You can satisfy.

If You Do Not Give Up.

So Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him till daybreak. When the man saw that he could not overpower him, he touched the socket of Jacob's hip so that his hip was wrenched as he wrestled with the man. Then the man said, "Let me go, for it is daybreak." 

But Jacob replied, "I will not let you go until you bless me."

The man asked him, "What is your name?"

"Jacob ['he deceives']," he answered.

Then the man said, "Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel ["he struggles with God"], because you have struggled with God and with men and have overcome."*

It's time to grab God in a choke-hold and refuse to let go. To cling through the hours of darkness, though our hips be wrenched from our sockets, until the tentative wisps of dawn lighten the horizon. To declare, We will not let You go until You bless us. To be given a new name, a new identity--one not of shame, but of victory.

Then he blessed him there.

God will show up. It is a promise to those who seek Him with everything. It is a promise to those who never give up, regardless of the tests and taunts and trials, regardless of how distant God seems. It is a promise to those who choose to believe God even when the evidence of their eyes seems stacked against Him, who believe in the power of an invisible Spirit over a visible mountain.

So Jacob called the place Peniel, saying, "It is because I saw God face to face, and yet my life was spared." 

The sun rose above him as he passed Peniel, and he was limping because of his hip.

God will come. He will mess us up. After we encounter Him face to face, our walk will never be the same.

*All italics quoted from Genesis 32:24-31.

Following the Leader.

I've always been a good follower. When I was little, I followed my big brother in all our epic adventures, chasing lizards in the deserts of Southern California and digging for buried treasure on the beaches of its coast. After we moved to Georgia, I followed my best friend, sticking by her side through every church service and mission trip through high school. In college, I followed my roommates, on trips to museums in Atlanta, on spontaneous coffee breaks, picnics, and kite-flying expeditions.

I like when I don't have to make decisions. I like allowing others to initiate. I like having someone tell me what to do. I love being the helper, the sidekick. I'll throw in everything--my enthusiasm, my passion, my love. But please, do not put me in a leadership position.

...Because if anything goes wrong, I don't want to be the one to take the blame.

Which is why, when God brought me into a season in which I had no one to follow (apart from, obviously, Him), I was terrified. He began to declare things over me, like courage, and boldness. He brought dear brothers and sisters into my life and told me to pray impossible prayers for them, to speak the promises He had given me to them, to love them as He loved. He called me to walk through every door He opened, regardless of the churning waters that lurked on the other side.

And as He swings those doors wide, I've never before been so desperate to see His face. Because I've realized, with great suddenness and certainty, my own weakness, and I know with equal conviction that the anointing He has placed over my life can only be accomplished by His power. He's got me right where He wants me: in desperate need of Him, every step of the way.

We talk about being leaders in the Church--in our communities, in our nation, in our world. And God has called us to it; we are sons and daughters of the King, and He has given us all authority by His Spirit to be His hands and feet and voice to a dry and weary generation. But what we so often forget is that the most essential characteristic of leading others is to follow. Because really, there's only one Leader. And when we choose to follow Him, our hearts spilling over with obedience and love by His Spirit's power, He will take us by the hand and lead us to places of wonder. Our brothers and sisters will see, and yearn, and seek, and their hearts will meet us there.

Only One.

"For we were all baptized by one Spirit into one body--whether Jews or Greeks, slave or free--and we were all given the one Spirit to drink." (1 Corinthians 12:13) 

"There is one body and one Spirit--just as you were called to one hope when you were called--one Lord, one faith, one baptism; one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all, and in all." (Ephesians 4:4-5)

Newsflash: Denominations were a human invention. You'll find no mention of them in the Bible. Jesus prayed that "all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you. I in them and you in me. May they be brought to complete unity," (John 17:21, 23). But most days in contemporary times, we no longer identify ourselves with Christ; we label ourselves as Baptist, or Pentecostal, or Catholic, and go our separate ways. We've turned our beliefs into immovable ideologies that we can force-feed our children and our children's children. We are pridefully certain our denomination is the true way, and we immediately dismiss anyone who would dare to hold a different opinion.

Are we really so arrogant? Would we really presume to know everything there is to know about God? Would we really refuse to acknowledge that there may be a margin of error in some of our interpretations of Scripture? Or are we so obsessed with being right, we block out the words from our brothers and sisters that may very well lead us into a deeper revelation of God? Even Paul admitted in 1 Corinthians 13:12, "Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror." And yet, in the modern-day Church, each faction is certain they have all the correct answers.

We talk about how we are all members of one Body, but we forget that the Church is so much more than the local building where we meet with a few of our brothers and sisters on Sundays. The Church is made up of every believer, from every city, state, and nation on the planet. And with technology today, there has never been a better opportunity for the Church to be unified--to learn together, grow together, build each other up.

The various denominations have so much to offer each other (I know from experience, because I've been adopted into several). If we would only open our ears and our hearts to listen. If we would only stop making assumptions and looking down on our brothers and sisters because of the church they go to. If we would only honor each other above ourselves, as we were called to do. If only we would stop worrying about winning arguments, and start seeking Truth.

Our Body would be whole. The Spirit would fill our lungs with breath. We would be unstoppable.

Jealous for Me.

He is a jealous God. It's a phrase I've heard often enough within the Church, usually followed by hurried explanations regarding the difference between human jealousy and divine jealousy, a swiftly-constructed barricade against any thought that our Creator's jealous nature might in some way mirror our own version of jealousy--petty, selfish, and insecure.

Still, in spite of the explanations, God's jealousy was never my favorite attribute to dwell on. It didn't bring the comforting warmth that came with considerations of His beauty and love and grace, or even the solid pulse of justice that arose from thoughts of His righteous anger.

But then (I'm learning my stories are full of buts). God gave me a revelation.

Yes, I am a jealous God. I am too jealous for you to let anything come between us. Nothing can stand in My way. As I have already spoken: Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation.

And I suddenly felt so safe. He is jealous for me. He's not going to give up, though my fickle heart falls for false lovers and frail idols. He won't allow me to live with a divided, broken heart. He'll never relent, until He has it all. My complete attention, my whole heart, wrapped in His perfect embrace. It will be the most beautiful of days. It will be the day when all is set right.

Desperate Times.

Lately, I feel as if I have been tiptoeing, arms outstretched, along the brink of overwhelming. It is beautiful, and it is terrifying. And it is teaching me:

God wants us to be in a constant state of desperation. Not in a panicky, fear-driven sense of the word. Rather, it is the desperation of Moses when he pleaded, If your Presence does not go with us, do not send us up from here (Exodus 33:15). It is the desperation of David as he sang, My soul thirsts for you, my body longs for you, in a dry and weary land where there is no water, and begged, Do not cast me from your presence or take your Holy Spirit from me (Psalm 63:1, 51:11). It is the desperation of Peter, who cried out Lord, save me!, and the desperation of a broken-hearted father who exclaimed, I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief! (Mark 9:24).

It is the desperation of those who are aware of their own weakness, their utter lack of control, their absolute need. But it is also a desperation that knows there is an answer, a solution, a victory, in the arms of One who is greater--and pursues that answer with everything.

Regardless of the depths of our passion or the height of our intellect, we cannot create a movement of God. In fact, on our own, we cannot even sustain a movement of God. If God's Spirit is absent, no amount of worship music, no amount of quotes from Scripture, no amount of acts of service, can open up the doorways for souls to hear from Him. When God's Spirit is absent, the best we can manage is a wave of emotion, followed by a burnout.

But. Jesus looks at us and says: With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible (Matthew 19:26).

It's time for us to get desperate. God is moving. He is calling us out, calling us up. He is leading us into the realm of the impossible. Only--don't run ahead of Him. Don't disconnect yourself from the vine. Don't fall into the delusion that you can do this on your own. Because you can't. None of us can. Stay desperate. Stay dependent. Stay focused on the light of His eyes, and the feel of His hand in yours. And in your time of weakness, He'll be all the strength you need.

It Really Is You.

Last night, our weekly meeting of Jesus-lovin' young-adults centered around the story of Peter walking to Jesus on the water. It's one I've heard so many times, I have a tendency to think I know all there is to know about it.

But, as usual, God proved me wrong.

Other than the message relating directly to the Holy Spirit's movement in this present time, mirroring the words of many of my prayers lately, and using the word "bold" about five thousand times (for the significance of that last one, see my "Ninja in the Night" entry)--there was one other thing that struck me as we discussed the passage in Matthew 14. It was verse 29.

Jesus said, "Come."

When Peter asked to join Jesus on the water, Jesus didn't say, "Hang on. Not yet, Peter. Your faith isn't quite ready for that. Maybe in a few months or so, we'll test you on a puddle or something." He didn't say, "Wait a minute, Peter. Let me get over there so I can hold your hand." No. Despite the fact that Jesus knew Peter was going to take his eyes off Him and start to sink, He welcomed Peter's desire, his boldness. So Jesus said, "Come."

God is waiting for His kids to ask for greater things. He's waiting for the ones who want to be right next to Him, regardless of the oceans they must cross and the crosses they must carry. He's waiting to hear those words: Lord, if it really is You, then command me to come to You.

He won't hesitate. Not for a second. He'll simply smile, and say, Come.

You Had a Bad Day.

There are bad days. There are days when things go wrong, or everything does, pushing your heart into perpetual, erratic flight, and stirring a heavy ache that clings to your temples. There are days that you try to push through, but end up blocking out with piles of blankets as you nestle into the welcoming lap of your mattress, and sleep. Emotionally exhausted, physically spent.

But there's something else about bad days, and if we could remember it, I think we'd discover the loads we carry are impossibly light. Because here's the thing about bad days: they are ripe with opportunities for grace.

Yesterday was one of my bad days. I had been mistakenly informed that I wasn't working, when I was, resulting in a surprise call from my manager as I sat at home, still in my pajamas. I arrived at work disheveled and half an hour late. After work, as I drove home, not paying the slightest attention to my speedometer, I was pulled over and given my first ticket, which will most certainly come with a boost in insurance payment. By the time I went to bed, I felt as if someone had pulled the plug on my heart, draining every last ounce of energy from it.

But you know what else I remember about yesterday? I remember how God calmed my heart when my manager called, bringing peace in the midst of a mild panic attack as He whispered, This isn't your fault. I remember driving with my windows down, sunshine blazing down from blue sky, turning the music up loud in joyful noise as I sang the Earth is Yours. I remember sitting shakily in my car as red-and-blue lights flashed behind me, and God looked down, not with eyes of disappointment but of love, and promised, I will provide. I remember saying aloud afterward, as I drove toward downtown, "You're going to have to do better than that, demons. I'm still happy." I remember swinging at the waterfront, singing more quietly than before, You know me, and feeling God wrap His arms around me.

And as I write it all down, I realize once again what I already knew--even on the worst days, God's grace outweighs the bad. Every time. All it takes is for us to open our eyes to see it, and open our hands to receive it.

Because Really, God Says It Best.

So now, those who are in Christ Jesus are not judged guilty. Through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit that brings life made you free from the law that brings sin and death. The law was without power, because the law was made weak by our sinful selves. But God did what the law could not do. He sent his own Son to earth with the same human life that others use for sin. By sending his Son to be an offering for sin, God used a human life to destroy sin. He did this so that we could be the kind of people the law correctly wants us to be. Now we do not live following our sinful selves, but we live following the Spirit.

Those who live following their sinful selves think only about things that their sinful selves want. But those who live following the Spirit are thinking about the things the Spirit wants them to do. If people’s thinking is controlled by the sinful self, there is death. But if their thinking is controlled by the Spirit, there is life and peace. When people’s thinking is controlled by the sinful self, they are against God, because they refuse to obey God’s law and really are not even able to obey God’s law. Those people who are ruled by their sinful selves cannot please God.

But you are not ruled by your sinful selves. You are ruled by the Spirit, if that Spirit of God really lives in you. But the person who does not have the Spirit of Christ does not belong to Christ. Your body will always be dead because of sin. But if Christ is in you, then the Spirit gives you life, because Christ made you right with God. God raised Jesus from the dead, and if God’s Spirit is living in you, he will also give life to your bodies that die. God is the One who raised Christ from the dead, and he will give life through his Spirit that lives in you.

So, my brothers and sisters, we must not be ruled by our sinful selves or live the way our sinful selves want. If you use your lives to do the wrong things your sinful selves want, you will die spiritually. But if you use the Spirit’s help to stop doing the wrong things you do with your body, you will have true life.

The true children of God are those who let God’s Spirit lead them. The Spirit we received does not make us slaves again to fear; it makes us children of God. With that Spirit we cry out, “Father.” And the Spirit himself joins with our spirits to say we are God’s children. If we are God’s children, we will receive blessings from God together with Christ. But we must suffer as Christ suffered so that we will have glory as Christ has glory.

The sufferings we have now are nothing compared to the great glory that will be shown to us.  Everything God made is waiting with excitement for God to show his children’s glory completely. Everything God made was changed to become useless, not by its own wish but because God wanted it and because all along there was this hope: that everything God made would be set free from ruin to have the freedom and glory that belong to God’s children.

We know that everything God made has been waiting until now in pain, like a woman ready to give birth.  Not only the world, but we also have been waiting with pain inside us. We have the Spirit as the first part of God’s promise. So we are waiting for God to finish making us his own children, which means our bodies will be made free. We were saved, and we have this hope. If we see what we are waiting for, that is not really hope. People do not hope for something they already have. But we are hoping for something we do not have yet, and we are waiting for it patiently.

Also, the Spirit helps us with our weakness. We do not know how to pray as we should. But the Spirit himself speaks to God for us, even begs God for us with deep feelings that words cannot explain. God can see what is in people’s hearts. And he knows what is in the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit speaks to God for his people in the way God wants.

We know that in everything God works for the good of those who love him. They are the people he called, because that was his plan. God knew them before he made the world, and he chose them to be like his Son so that Jesus would be the firstborn of many brothers and sisters. God planned for them to be like his Son; and those he planned to be like his Son, he also called; and those he called, he also made right with him; and those he made right, he also glorified.

So what should we say about this? If God is for us, no one can defeat us. He did not spare his own Son but gave him for us all. So with Jesus, God will surely give us all things. Who can accuse the people God has chosen? No one, because God is the One who makes them right. Who can say God’s people are guilty? No one, because Christ Jesus died, but he was also raised from the dead, and now he is on God’s right side, appealing to God for us. Can anything separate us from the love Christ has for us? Can troubles or problems or sufferings or hunger or nakedness or danger or violent death? As it is written in the Scriptures:

“For you we are in danger of death all the time.
    People think we are worth no more than sheep to be killed.” Psalm 44:22

But in all these things we are completely victorious through God who showed his love for us. Yes, I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor ruling spirits, nothing now, nothing in the future, no powers, nothing above us, nothing below us, nor anything else in the whole world will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

-Romans 8

This is for You.

There's something I want to tell you. It's important, so listen up.

I see Jesus in your eyes. I see the way His Spirit lights you up from the inside when you talk about the things you love. I see the anointing, written on your forehead. The mighty warrior He has called you to be. The mark of Heaven sealed on your heart, on your arm. The promise of victory. The promise of  life.

I believe in you. Because I know the God who stands behind, and goes before. I recognized His voice when He said to me, That is my son, that is my daughter, in whom I am well-pleased. He called you out by name. He smiled as He said it. And I smiled, too.

I see you, and you are beautiful. Just like your Father.

Looking [Through the] Glass.

The rooms of our hearts are filled with mirrors. Every experience, past, present, and potential, held up to those walls of reflection--our faces, our emotions, our thoughts, staring back at us. We weigh, we analyze, we calculate, the impact of the world on us. Plotting out a thousand maps to determine the most convenient highway to happiness. Our choices driven by the question, How will this affect me?

But the rooms are dark, the mirrors distorted. Deceitful above all things. And there is a Man, who stands at the door and knocks. We are afraid to let Him in, because there is a sledgehammer in His hand. He wants to shatter the mirrors and replace them with windows. He wants to fill our rooms with light.

So that, instead of looking into and seeing ourselves, we will look through and see the world. We will no longer ask How will the world affect me?, but How can I affect the world? 

We will forget about ourselves, and in doing so, we will finally be able to see what He sees--all those broken and beautiful hearts strewn like wildflowers, torn from their roots and dying in the sun.

It will be inevitable, what happens next. We will fall in love. We will gather, and we will plant. Together with Him, we will restore the Garden that was lost. We won't wonder about happiness; we'll have already found it.

All Together Now.

I've been saying we a lot lately. I used to have the opposite tendency; whenever I read Scripture or sang songs to God that used the collective terms of we or us, I'd often personalize it to I or me. It was what I needed at the time--for God to pick me out of the crowd, call me by name, focus in on the individual strands of hair on my head. I needed to know that He saw me.

But God is drawing me into a new season. He is opening my eyes to the bigger picture, expanding my vision to line up with His. This is the season of the Church, rising up with one Body, unified in the Spirit. This is a season of the severance of the denominational and ideological binds that have for so long divided us. This is a season of the fulfillment of Jesus' prayer:

"I pray for those who will believe in me, that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you. May they also be in us so that the world may believe that you have sent me. I have given them the glory that you gave me, that they may be one as we are one. I in them and you in me. May they be brought to complete unity to let the world know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me." (John 17:20-23). 

Complete unity. Does it sound impossible? It should, because it is. But I've said it a thousand times, and I'll say it a thousand more: Our God is a God of the impossible.

This is bigger than you, and it's bigger than me. God is raising up His sons and daughters in this nation, anointing them with a deeper passion to dive into His mysteries. I've heard testimonies of God moving powerfully in the lives of friends in different states, different cities, simultaneously. And I've witnessed His power moving in this city--in different churches, different denominations. Because the truth is, there is no difference.

"You were all baptized into Christ, and so you were all clothed with Christ. This means that you are all children of God through faith in Christ Jesus. In Christ, there is no difference between Jew and Greek, slave and free person, male and female. You are all one in Christ Jesus. You belong to Christ, so you are Abraham's descendants. You will inherit all of God's blessings because of the promise God made to Abraham." (Galatians 3:26-27) 

Therefore:

"Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought. Just as each one of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we who are many form one body, and each member belongs to all the others. We have different gifts, according to the grace given to us. Be devoted to one another in brotherly love. Honor one another above yourselves." (Romans 12:3-6, 10)

And:

‎"Do not owe people anything, except always owe love to each other, because the person who loves others has obeyed all the law. Do this because we live in an important time. It is now time for you to wake up from your sleep, because our salvation is nearer now than when we first believed. The 'night' is almost finished, and the 'day' is almost here. So we should stop doing things that belong to darkness and take up the weapons used for fighting in the light." (Romans 13:8, 11-12)

A bit overwhelming? But that's not even the beginning. Read Colossians 3:11-15. Read the book of 1 John. We are a family. We are an army. We are a body. We are one.

A revival of love is stirring in the hearts of God's children. I have heard it; I have seen it; I have felt it. And I'm learning I'm crazy enough to believe it. Believe with me. The Spirit of God is calling. And if we answer, we will take this world by storm.