golden clay

I’ve sat in my fair share of church pews.

I’ve heard 1000 hours of sermons.

Sermons on how to fight the good fight. To put on the breastplate of righteousness. To take up the sword of the Spirit.

How I must be prepared to give an answer. To pick up my cross.

And midway through a full week of work. A week of feeling like I’m the only Christian in the office, in the country, in the universe.

Midway through the week, I cry out in frustration to God. Frustrated that I’m an anomaly. My whole worldview is insane in the eyes of everyone I see on a daily basis.

Wouldn’t it be easier to blend, to mix? Wouldn’t it be convenient to believe that everything is true, everyone is right? That morality changes based on whoever I’m hanging out with on a Friday night.

And drowning in anxiety about defending Christ, I forget the words in the Psalms.

“The LORD is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer, My God, my rock, in whom I take refuge; My shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.” Psalm 18:2

I forget that any defense I could give is nothing compared to My Defender.

Here in my pathetic humanity, in my fear, in the middle of a week of failure. My God fights for me.

I forget the words of the Lord.

“I will go before you and make the rough places smooth; I will shatter the doors of bronze and cut through their iron bars.” Isaiah 45:2

I’m caught in fear of defending Him while He wrestles demons in the darkness as I sleep. He wages war against my lustful thoughts.

And He stands between me and Justice, interceding on my behalf, before a Holy God.

“If God is for us, who can be against us?” Romans 8:31

I forget that He does not need my defense.

But I need His.

I forget how He conquered sin and death. He, the Victorious, called it my victory. He, the Righteous, crowned me with righteousness.

He is the Defender of my Faith.

And midway through a long week of work, He turns my frailty into strength.

He goes before me, turning my enemies into corpses and my fear into faith.

Sometimes I think about what I would say if Christians were on trial in North America.

I think about it as I watch her impact statement on Youtube, how she speaks confidently about the impact of abuse and – out of nowhere – the impact of grace.

I think about what I’d say if Christians were put on trial.

I hope, above all, that I would be honest.

I hope I wouldn’t say we never do unspeakable things.

We are David, the adulterer. Gideon, the doubter. Peter, the denier.

We’re weak. We struggle to see past skin. We struggle to love.

We get stuck nit-picking theology. We get stuck in political ideologies. We neglect to listen.

We wander back to the wilderness and whine about the manna.

We sin and sin and sin.

But in the midst of all, we hope.

Hope to be like Jesus, asking questions, speaking slow. Speaking sure. And still, still speaking truth.

We’re not Christians because we’re good.

But because we’re redeemed.

Because Christ.

The Higher Standard.

I hope I’d say this too.

Like the girl said C.S. Lewis said: “A man does not call a line crooked unless he has some idea of a straight line.”

And that’s the beauty of being a Christian. That even my uneven lines point upward.

And forward to glory.

2018 is just days old when I run my index finger across his soft chubby cheeks. He has that distinct smell of a newborn. Is it baby powder? Vaseline? Innocence?

The room is filled with fifty people or so. It’s a welcome night at my new church.

I sit across from one of the elders. I smile and say all the right things. I want him to know I’m spiritually mature, ready to dive into serving.

I’ve been a Christian for around sixteen years now. Sixteen years of church on Sundays, Bible study, ministry.

But I get her on the phone on a Monday night, “I am having trouble praying.”

She listens.

“See, I used to pray fervently.” I reference my spiritual maturity of the past.

It’s like I’m trying to build a relationship from memories, from my past spiritual “accomplishments”.

As if God approved me based on those.

So, I get before God while I’m brushing my teeth in front of the bathroom mirror. I get real honest.

I’m an infant. At one time, I was chewing on steak. Now I can only drink milk.

I’ve been counting seasons, expecting that this stage of life is temporary. In the next season, I’ll be back on track.  I’ll see the spiritual fruit in my life. I’ll conquer sin.

I eat birthday cake on a Wednesday. As I watch the sparkler burn out, all I can think is I’ve got just one life to live for Him.

At 24, I’ve “regressed”. It seems I have more sin and more failure in my life than sixteen years ago. My treasure chest full of spirituality is covered in dust.

So, I get before God while I’m driving to work on a Monday. I get real honest.

I’m an infant. My spirituality is dust.

But I’ll take all the milk I can get.

I’ll be grateful for the work I see You doing in my life.

And I’ll stop counting seasons. And start making seasons count.

“For to be sure, he was crucified in weakness, yet he lives by God’s power. Likewise, we are weak in him, yet by God’s power we will live with him in our dealing with you. Examine yourselves to see whether you are in the faith; test yourselves.” 2 Corinthians 13:4-5

Wednesday moves in like the eye of a hurricane.

My evening plans get cancelled so I stay home, eat pasta alone. I play the harp in my living room.

The pressure builds.

Don’t get anxious.

But it builds in my chest, so thick it’s hard to breathe.

It’s one of the simplest weeks I’ve had in months, but my head is a storm of vague misgivings.

The things I am.

The things I am not.

The things I’ve done.

The things I haven’t.

My unmade bed, a sign of a rushed morning, an ignored alarm, dismissed prayer.

An unsent text to a friend, the sign of neglect.

The exaggerated comment I made, the twisted truth.

The pressure builds.

And Thursday moves in like a storm, a force that drives me to the Rock that is Higher than I.

The things He’s done.

Who He is.

And I think back to nine of us sitting in a circle in her living room. “Do you believe God is good? Do you believe He is for you?”

And I say yes. I say it until my heart knows it’s true. Until the storm in my chest meets the One who says, “Peace, be still.”

Re-posting: I have been trying to live life to the fullest over here, trying to figure out where God is bringing me next. Dropping last year’s post here.

On Monday, I walk through the doors of a high school, heels tapping against the tiled hallway. I introduce myself to a group of students, and tell them how important it is to get involved and to be leaders.

It’s all mechanical. The spiel on leadership. An over-used song lyric.

I’ve heard it myself a million times, so I repeat it to them. Like repeating an echo.

I wonder why no one ever told me why it is good to be a follower. A strong follower. A steadfast follower. A determined follower.

Because leadership requires a symbiotic relationship.

I sit in a session called Stand Up Confidently and Be Heard.

But there are no sessions called Sit Back Confidently and Submit.

Submit with a will. Submit with a passion. Submit with determination.

Where would Churchill be without submissive followers? Where would Queen Victoria or Abraham Lincoln be?

To be someone who makes it in a history book is grand.

And…to be someone who makes someone else be in a history book. That is magnificent.

On Monday, I tell a group of high school students about the importance of leadership. They all stare at me silently and my voice wavers. But, I’ve been given this position of leadership, so I push through it.

But there are times when it is not my place to lead.

Like the girl in the group of high school students, who smiles and nods as I talk. She smiles and nods while others whisper and distract.

She is a strong follower. A follower with convictions. A follower who makes my job easier. A follower who is secure and confident in her role.

A leader among her peers.

Symbiosis.

Like Jesus.

I call her a few days after her birthday, making apologies and belated birthday wishes.

And we end up talking about Time, that inevitable brute force, knocking us off our feet and pushing us forward in a surge of unmet expectations toward the wide open unknown.

But she has a way of clarifying things. And she starts to make me wonder if Time is the brute after all.

“I don’t know if you find this,” she says, “but I often set expectations for myself to meet before a certain age.”

How much of our discontentment comes from arbitrary expectations for our lives?

Plan to be married by 30? Single and despairing at 31.

Plan to own a house by 35? Renting in despair at 36.

Plan to know your purpose by 45? Directionless in despair at 46.

But what if we put Time where it belongs? Not in between the numbers on a clock or in the square boxes of a calendar, but into the hands of a timeless God.

Outside of numbers.

And wall clocks.

And boxes.

What if our hearts have not been prepared for our spouse by 31? What if our mobility is needed for full time missions by 36? What if God has promised that He will continue His work in us even when we are 46?

Perhaps Time is not pressing us.

But we are pressing ourselves.

Until we get out of the way and let Time do its job.

And let God do His.

“But I trust in you, O Lord; I say, ‘You are my God.’ My times are in your hand.” Psalm 31:14-15

The drums are deafening; I can feel them in my chest. I watch the worshipers in front of me sway, hands raised.

What’s the big deal about singing praise songs? I’m a skeptic in the crowd tonight, tracing the ugly pattern of the carpet in the church.

Because I forget how Corrie Ten Boom sang hymns smack-dab in the middle of Nazi brutality.

I forget how the martyr Jerome worshipped in song until the flames were too hot to continue.

I forget how Paul and Silas faced a night in prison with singing.

And how Jim Elliot and his friends entered their life-threatening gospel mission with song.

If worship is why we are here and song is its vocal expression, then the devil must shriek at the sound.

Our battle cry.

And while nation rises against nation and the world cries in despair…

the church sings.

the Devil runs.

and hope remains.

“After consulting the people, Jehoshaphat appointed men to sing to the Lord and to praise him for the splendor of his holiness as they went out at the head of the army, saying: ‘Give thanks to the Lord, for his love endures forever.’ As they began to sing and praise, the Lord set ambushes against the men…who were invading Judah, and they were defeated.” 2 Chronicles 20:21-22

A thin layer of dust begins to form on my running shoes as we weave through the crowd at the giant country fair. Dad and I furiously lick our melting ice cream cones and watch the passersby.

The little girl riding on her father’s shoulders, butterfly face paint. The teenage girls, giggling together and sneaking looks at the boy in the cowboy hat. The young couple holding hands.

I wish I was all of them. I waste two minutes of the day, imagining a different circumstance in which to enjoy it.

As I kick up Canadian dust four miles from my parent’s green-and-white farmhouse and two feet from a devoted father, discontentment quietly robs my opportunity for joy.

Until I wish to be right where I am with the ice cream dripping down my hand and Dad making a joke he’s made countless times before.

Because what if the secret to happiness is not being someone else somewhere else with somebody else? It’s just being glad. Being glad with the life you’ve got in the time it’s given with the people who share it. 

And what if gladness comes from knowing that God is the One who planned those three pieces and puts them together? 

I really don’t want this moment served with nostalgia ten years from now.

I want this moment while I’m in it.

“A heart at peace gives life to the body, but envy rots the bones.” Proverbs 14:30