Confession

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So.

I haven’t posted on here lately.  I’ve been busy.  I have had sick kids, a work retreat, the list goes on.  But that isn’t the real reason.

The real reason why I haven’t posted is because I have spent no time with God.

Zero.

It wasn’t intentional.  It wasn’t as if I looked at my Bible and then cast my eyes aside and said ‘No, not today.’ Instead, it was much worse.  Days skated by without even remembering to look at my Bible.  Prayers, when said, were mentally noted in shorthand as I turned on my turn signal or drifted off to sleep.  I just missed spending time with God.

So why didn’t I miss God?

I did, on an elemental level.  A vague ache in somewhere in my chest, akin to an oncoming headache or the tingling of a limb that is starting to fall asleep.  But why wasn’t I more aware, more broken, by my disconnection?

I don’t have an answer.  Or at least, I don’t have much of an answer.

This much I know is true…

I the Lord do not change. So you, the descendants of Jacob, are not destroyed. Ever since the time of your ancestors you have turned away from my decrees and have not kept them. Return to me, and I will return to you,” says the Lord Almighty.
Malachi 3:6-7

When I am faithless, He is faithful. Though I forget, he never forgets me.   When I am busy, when I am shallow, when I am impatient, and unforgiving, and angry, God remains true.

One time in college I was driving to the airport.  It was a foggy, overcast, drizzly day.  Everything in my view seemed flat, gloomy and tired.  But as I sat next to the window in the plane, we broke through the clouds.  In an instant, we went from a dark, gloomy midday to glorious, golden sunshine.  It had never occurred to me that the sun is always shining. Above the clouds, each day dawns drenched with light.  It is our perspective that makes the changes, the clouds that block our view.  God is much the same.  He is ever faithful, ever true.  It is our attitudes, our faithfulness (or lack thereof) that affect our point of view.

So I will try to be more committed.  I will attempt to read my Bible, spend time with the Lord, mark gratitude and blessings.  All these are good things.  But I also must remember the most powerful lesson… God is faithful.  Always.  His attention towards me never wavers.  His call on my life remains true.

This Day.

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One Day
24 Hours
1,440 Minutes.
We are all blessed with the same.

Each morning is a blank page, waiting to be filled with

words.

memories.

encounters.

tasks.

How do you choose to fill your day?
With scheduled minutes,
or unplanned moments?

We have a choice.  To rush and hurry
chasing the second hand in dizzying circles around the clock

Or to do the same things in a progression of moments.
Choosing to value the who over the what.

How will you choose to fill this day?

Isaac Moments, Part II

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Take your son, your only son—yes, Isaac, whom you love so much—and go to the land of Moriah. Go and sacrifice him
Genesis 22:2

I remember the first time I ever practiced Lectio Divina.  I was in a class and we were asked to meditate on Genesis 22, the story of God asking Abraham to sacrifice Isaac.  It was a time of my life when I was experiencing a lot of loss, and I remember myself being furious with God.  How dare he?  How dare he constantly ask us to give up our treasures, the people that we love, our tangible proof of God’s promises?  Why?  What kind of heartless, egotistical God would constantly require such sacrifice?  Why was he constantly stripping us of things that we cherish, relationships that we need?

For a long time after this experience, I just avoided the passage.  I just told myself that this was the Old Testament God (always a convenient excuse, yes?)  And that our God is different, he doesn’t take all that we love from us.  But still, in the back of my mind, a small ember of resentment glowed orange.

It wasn’t until I had children myself, that I found a new understanding of this passage.  For, as I wrote in an earlier post, parenting is terrifying.  Every day I am confronted with a myriad of terrors, I’m always reading about newly uncovered dangers to my child’s health, well being, psyche.    It’s enough to make me want to tape him up in a suit of bubble wrap, and force him to wear a helmet 24 hours a day.  But then again, that would make him that kid, and cause harm of another kind.  When God called Abraham to lay his precious boy on the altar, he is asking him to trust.  He is asking Abraham to put GOD first in his life, and to trust that God has a plan.  One that is ultimately good.  For us.  For our precious children.  For the world.

For you see, when I was reflecting on this passage initially, I missed one important point.  God provided a sacrifice.  Abraham didn’t have to murder his son in order to please his Father.  What was placed on that altar ultimately was not Isaac, it was Abraham’s expectations for his son.  Who he thought that Isaac would be, what he thought Isaac should be.  Abraham’s expectations of control, of pride, of success.  God asked Abraham to trust in God’s good plan, and the second Abraham was faithful to this call, a sacrifice was provided.  A new way, heretofore unseen, was given.

When we unclench our fists and ask for God’s plan, not our plan, to determine our steps, the sacrifice is complete.*  God isn’t taking away the things we treasure out of spite or ego.  Instead, he is inviting us into freedom.  Asking us to trust that life isn’t about us and our plans, but about a bigger, better plan, that we can’t even see or appreciate fully.  It takes the pressure off of ourselves to get it right, and places the expectation upon God to provide. Life becomes less about fear of what could happen, and more about a breathless expectation to see what will happen.

Selah.

*Just to be clear, the sacrifice I am referring to here isn’t the Ultimate Sacrifice, Jesus’ atonement for our sins.  Instead, I am referring to the sacrifice Abraham was asked to offer- to give up control and his sense of power over his own destiny, and to trust God to provide…

psalm 46

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Psalm 46

 God is our refuge and strength,
    a very present help in trouble.
2 Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way,
    though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea,
3 though its waters roar and foam,
    though the mountains tremble at its swelling. Selah

4 There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,
    the holy habitation of the Most High.
5 God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved;
    God will help her when morning dawns.
6 The nations rage, the kingdoms totter;
    he utters his voice, the earth melts.
7 The Lord of hosts is with us;
    the God of Jacob is our fortress. Selah

8 Come, behold the works of the Lord,
    how he has brought desolations on the earth.
9 He makes wars cease to the end of the earth;
    he breaks the bow and shatters the spear;
    he burns the chariots with fire.
10 “Be still, and know that I am God.
    I will be exalted among the nations,
    I will be exalted in the earth!”
11 The Lord of hosts is with us;
    the God of Jacob is our fortress. Selah

Once again,  I find myself captivated by Selah.  I read this Psalm last week as part of our church’s sermon series, and it has really stuck with me.  This psalm paints such a picture of tumult, of mountains tottering, seas roaring, nations at war, chaos everywhere.  And yet, in the midst of it, God is our fortress.  When I hear the news lately, I find myself just wanting to turn it back off. There is so much hate, strife, death, upheaval, disaster and pain in our world today.  I want to find a safe place for me and my little family and just run away from it all.  But this is not the way of believers.  Instead, we are called to make our haven in the midst of the storms.  Why?  Because God is our fortress.  He is our present help in times of trouble.  He is with us wherever we go.

Each stanza in this Psalm paints a bleak picture, one of chaos, fear, insecurity.  One characterized by stress and unrest.  And yet in each stanza, God reminds us that he is present.  That he is our refuge, our source of strength.  How often in the midst of the chaos do you feel God’s presence?  For me, not much.  It is only in retrospect that I can see his sustenance, his provision for me.  In the middle of it, I am too afraid, moving too fast, too distracted to even look for God.  But even still… he is there.

I think that God put the Selahs in this Psalm in very strategic places.  Right in the midst of the teeming chaos, the frenetic pace, the sky is falling emotions, God inserts a simple selah.  Stop.  Think on this.  God is telling us he is here, that he is protecting us, but we have to stop and stand in trust in order to feel His presence. In verse 10, he even says it flat out.  BE STILL, and know that I am God.  I am in control.  Not you.  I am a fortress.  You are safe within my walls.  Be still and trust me.  Be still and remember.  Stop.  And think on my faithfulness.  Stop your striving and remember that I am the one who sustains you.  I hold your tomorrows in my hand.

When is the last time you stopped?

When were you last still?

Isaac moments

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Take your son, your only son—yes, Isaac, whom you love so much—and go to the land of Moriah. Go and sacrifice him
Genesis 22

If you are a parent, then you have experienced it.  The paralyzing fear that something will happen to this little person that you love so much.  That all your love, your energy spent raising them, the precautions you take to preserve their life and safety, will come to naught.  That one terrifying, cataclysmic accident will suddenly steal that precious one away.  This fear gnaws at my mind.  It haunts my sleep.  It makes adrenaline spike when I am driving my car.  It makes me feel so… helpless.

I have heard these fears echoed by my friends.  I see it over and over again in online parenting communities, blog posts, Facebook comments.  The fear can be terrorizing.  I put bumpers on my crib… could my baby suffocate?  I didn’t put bumpers on my crib, could my baby get stuck in the crib slats? You wake up in the middle of the night, needing to check and see if they are still breathing, if their tiny hearts are still beating.

How can we as parents survive the terror?  What can we tell ourselves so that we are finally able to let go of the fear, get a full night’s sleep again?  For me, the issue boils down to trust.  How can I trust that my little ones will be safe when daily, I see evidence to the opposite?  This world is teeming with stories of horrors, of terrible accidents, famine, and pain.  And yet, the God we serve purports to be good.  I find myself able to trust his goodness when placing my own life in His hands, yet when it comes to my children, I doubt.  I fear.  I find myself unwilling for them to go through pain and heartache, even if I know that it is, in the end, redemptive.

I find a kind of perverse comfort in the story of Abraham and Isaac.  Here is Isaac, a strong, beautiful boy.  A child of God’s promise.  A living covenant.  And yet, God is asking Abraham to go and sacrifice him.  How?  Why?  It seems so harsh, so horrible.  Yes, God provides in the end, but imagine the anguish of each step taken up Mount Moriah, the tension of living in the doubt, the fear, the horror of the task ahead of you.  God provided a ram, but Abraham still made a sacrifice.  On that mountain, Abraham’s ownership over Isaac’s life was offered up.  His dreams for his son, his sense of control over Isaac’s future, were laid upon the altar.  They remained there, to be sacrificed along with the goat.

When I find myself in a crisis of trust, when I am not sure I trust God to sustain the lives of my children, when I doubt the path God is leading them down, I find solace in this passage.  I do not own the lives of my children.  It is not my white knuckled decisions that will determine the course of their lives, ensure their safety.  Instead, that belongs to my Father.  I must sacrifice my dreams, my sense of control, and allow God to provide for them.  It is the scariest peace I have ever experienced.  But it is a necessary one.  A dubious grace, that refines me even as I surrender to it.

Have you allowed God to reign in the ‘Isaac moments’ of your life?

the gift of ordinary time

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Each day is replete with blessings.  Our lives hold impossible glories.
Right now, the sun is shining through my window, dust motes dance upon the air.
Tiny ballerinas.  An intended audience of one.
Unimaginable beauty, contained within the mundane.

What will you do with this day you have been gifted?
Hurry through, with eyes turned to deadlines, screens, traffic lights?
Or allow your imagination to capture your attention?
See the glistening water flowing through the tap, and behold the bubbles of soap in their iridescent splendor?

What does it feel like outside today?
Did you take the time to notice?
What blessings will today hold for you?
Will you take the time to receive them?

when it all gets stripped away…

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Have you ever done the icebreaker activity where you tell someone a quirky fact about yourself?  Hi, my name is Marissa, and I can touch my nose with my tongue…  I have.  Hundreds of times.  It turns out, when you are in ministry, icebreaker activities kind of become a way of life.  I always viewed these as throwaway activities, ways to make others connect a name with a face, but not much more.  I never really noticed the power such statements have to create your identity.  Hi, my name is Marissa and…
… I read 100 books a year…
… I read the Bible cover to cover every year…
…I like to cook…
…I run a 1/2 marathon every year…
…I’m a volunteer at the library…
…I am the friend who shows up…
…I’m good at my job…
…I get things done…
…I’ve got it all together…

All of these statements were things that defined me.  I may not have said them all at a group icebreaker activity, but they were the things in my head that I thought of as ‘me.’ This was who I was.  And I had no idea how much I let these statements begin to define me until they began to be stripped away.  This stripping away process began (and pretty much was completed) the day my son was born.  A little blonde boy, with wide, innocent blue eyes.  Hungry for milk, and hungry for my time and attention.  And all of a sudden, I didn’t read 100 books anymore.  My rock solid quiet time routine flew out the window.  Cooking got a lot harder with a little one in my arms.  A 5K all of a sudden became a miraculous feat- a half marathon seemed like an impossibility.  I cut back my hours with the library, I could only be there for my friends at night and at naptime, I started feeling helplessly behind at work.  None of it seemed like a big deal at the time, but then, slowly, I began to run out of easy answers for my introduction games.

Hi, my name is Marissa and…
I am a mom of two.
My shoulder always smells like milk.
I actually can’t remember the last time I blow dried my hair.
I borrow books from the library, and then return them, overdue and unread.
I ran a mile the other day and I am pretty darn proud of that. 

In terms of the wow factor, underwhelming.

And yet, this forms another identity.  One that I am terrified of losing.  One that I know is inherently temporary.  In just a handful of years, I will no longer be a mother of toddlers.  I will no longer have such demands on my time.  Will I feel lost again?

Here is my TRUE identity, and one I would be wise to invest myself in…

Hi, my name is Marissa and I am…
a child of the most high God.
redeemed by the blood of Christ.
Impossibly thankful for this sweet time in life.
Gifted and equipped to serve God’s kingdom, in whatever way He calls me.
Blessed beyond measure.
Set in my life for such a time as this.
Still able to touch my nose with my tongue…

yours to carry

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Something has bothered me deeply about the national discourse on Robin William’s death.  So much so that I didn’t want to write this post, because I didn’t want to use his name in vain.  I didn’t don’t want to use his death for my purposes.  I am not going to reference it any more in this post… but here is what I have to say.  His death isn’t about you.  It’s not yours.  It belongs to him.  And his family.

When something terrible happens to someone famous, we all have reactions.  We have opinions.  We have memories of the person, ways their life touched us or affected ours.  But the truth is, we didn’t know them.  They aren’t real to us.  We see glimpses, roles played, the public persona, not the person inside.  And so the loss of that person, while sad, isn’t world ending.  When something like this happens, and the world is captivated by the loss, the lingering public discourse always hurts me.  I can’t bring myself to click on the articles.  I don’t want to know the gory details, hear what the talking heads think, see the Top 10 Lists of best movie roles, their 14 best Golden Globe outfits, etc etc etc.  The truth is, this was a person.  They have friends.  A family.  Children.  And I can’t imagine losing someone I love desperately, and having to hear the rest of the world discuss them over the water cooler.

The same thing happens at our nation’s major tragedies.  I hate to see the reporters swarming a school shooting.  I refuse to read the profiles of the shooters.  I just don’t want to know.  Why?  Because in my mind, this person’s motivation was to become known.  They want the world to know their name.  To be captivated by their actions, their monstrosities.  When I refuse to click on the link, I refuse to reward the acts of terror.  We have to face it.  We have a celebrity culture.  We are watching the glitterati 24 hours a day.  In our country, to be important is to be famous.  To know about the comings and goings of the famous gives us something in common, something to talk about.  A seat at the table.

But here is the problem with that… we don’t actually have that in common.  We are just outsiders, looking in on someone else’s life, someone else’s tragedy.  The heartbreak of the people on the news is not ours to carry.  We can’t bring them a meal, show up at the wake, sit with them while they cry… we aren’t a part of their life.  We are just gawking at them from the other side of the screen.

In a way, I believe that the best ministry we can have to those people is privacy.  Give them the space and the room to mourn.  Show support and empathy, but hold the spectacle.  Stop the discourse.  This tragedy isn’t an issue, it’s a life.  A person.  A person in pain- not that uncommon.  We spend our lives surrounded by hurting people.  People whose lives we can impact.  Stories we can carry with us.  These are the people that need our presence, our ministry, our attention.  Have an opinion on depression?  Suicide?  How much time have you spent walking alongside someone who has been depressed?  Sat with people who have been robbed of loved ones by suicide?  These people are yours to carry.  Engage with them, engage with your world.  Instead of blogging, commenting, or tweeting about these issues, it’s time for us to get our hands dirty.  To invite our neighbors, friends, and coworkers into our lives and communities, and to do life with those in pain.  We can talk about suicide until we are blue in the face, but no amount of awareness, no pithy statement is going to stop this epidemic.  That hope lies within the context of relationship; it lies in face to face conversations; meals spent together; loving faces to witness the darkness of the pit.

That’s how Jesus did his ministry- not in public announcements, press releases, or blog posts (parchment posts?) but in living life with a group of people.  The disciples lives were transformed during nights around the campfire, fish roasting on a spit.  Jesus was deeply involved his people, and those people in turn, transformed the world.  It’s easier to stand at a distance and voice our opinions… but the reality is that nothing changes this way.  Dive in… engage… be present. Be with the people you are with, not the people you watch from afar.

Flipping the Switch

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So… relationships can be hard for me.  It takes me a long time to warm up to people, and really let them in.   I will let pretty much anyone know facts about my life, but to see the real emotion and vulnerability behind those facts, that takes time.  Time measured in months and years, not minutes.  This is not something I particularly like about my personality, but I don’t know how to change itswitch.

I’ve been hurt by friends over the years, and it has caused me to develop a coping mechanism I call ‘flipping the switch.’  If I perceive that a friend is checking out of the relationship, or that I am bothering them, I’m gone.  I emotionally flip the switch.  I’m still nice, present, pleasant… the friend may not even notice the difference.  But I do.  I’m out.  This is NOT how Christ calls me to live.  I think about Judas, at the Last Supper, in the days and months before that.  Jesus still allows him to be one of his circle.  He still invites him to the table.  Judas hears the same words, feels the same blessing as the others, even though Jesus knows what he will do.  Let’s be honest, no slight or hurt from my friends can compare to being sent to your death on the testimony of on of your best buddies.

Flipping the switch may keep me safe, but it also keeps me alone.  I am not practicing hospitality, not investing in community, when I intentionally hold myself back from a friendship.  I have noticed another thing too- if I know a relationship is time limited, I never even consider investing in it.  If I know a friend is moving away, leaving my bubble, or in my life for just a season, I don’t want to let them into my inner world.  I don’t want to risk the inevitable hurt and heartache of goodbye.  So instead, I cheat myself out of a chance to be known, to truly know someone else.  All because I am afraid of the goodbye.  This, I am certain, is not what God wants.  This is my hidden sin.  Because here is the truth: we cannot be held accountable unless we allow people to see us.  See the real us, our hearts, our hopes, and our faults.

A friend is always loyal, and a brother is born to help in time of need Proverbs 17:17

I think that when God calls us to live a life of hospitality, he is asking us to let people in, not only to our homes and our lives, but to our hearts.  For our good, and for theirs.  We must risk pain, risk rejection, risk loss, in order to gain the companionship and the accountability we need.  When I feel the knee jerk impulse to check out of a friendship, I need to notice.  To examine the situation.  To fight it, and to lean in deeper.

But how do you do that?  How do you keep the switch from flipping?

strangers

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I talked a few days ago about how the concept of hospitality brings up images of dinner parties in today’s culture.  But in the Bible, hospitality didn’t refer to hosting with style.  In fact, Christians were admonished for only inviting friends over to dinner.  Luke 14:12-14 He said also to the man who had invited him, “When you give a dinner or a banquet, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, lest they also invite you in return and you be repaid. But when you give a feast, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, and you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you. For you will be repaid at the resurrection of the just.”

And yet, we are afraid of having even our friends over.  We stay closed off in our little houses, a city full of fortresses, afraid to share life with each other.

I was asking the youth I work with at church how she would define hospitality, and her answer floored me.  “Treat strangers as if you knew them already.”

Wow.

Now maybe that is not as revolutionary for you as it is for me, but it shook me up.  For you see, I have a hard time getting to know people.  It takes a lot for someone to break through my shell.  I frequently get described as ‘intimidating’.  And I hate this about myself.  No matter how hard I try to let others in, I have this inner switch that I can’t seem to figure out how to flip until I feel comfortable around someone.

How does this keep me from showing hospitality to others?  How does it hinder me from sharing life with them?  Learning and benefitting from them, and vice versa?

How does one make friends?  How do you teach yourself to treat strangers as if you already knew them?

I think our society is paralyzed by fear… we view all people we don’t know (especially if they are of a different race or socioeconomic status) with suspicion.  We glance around nervously in poorly lit parking lots.  We stay in our familiar side of town.  We don’t initiate with strangers, and when strangers approach us, we focus on only how to disengage from conversation.

This is not without good reason.  Crime statistics are up.  We hear over and over about how people are praying on the weak, the vulnerable, the foolish.  But what is this doing to our ministry?

How can we treat strangers as if we already knew them as a part of our daily existence?  How can we resurrect the concept of Christian hospitality?

selah.