The Loss of Living Here

We lose a lot of who we are when we learn to live in this world.

We can’t fully be who we were designed to be here. We teach little ones the ways of the world, and they learn quickly which parts of who they are will not be acceptable here. A lot of it is necessary, but there’s no doubt we all get squashed in order to live here. The truly free will have a hard time here.

We all start off quirky. Some adapt better than others. Some, like me, bow to the gods of status quo and become very likeable to nearly everyone by sacrificing distinctiveness. Lately I’ve been watching my three-year-old niece, who is a lot like me in nearly every way, and wondering what I’ve lost—what she’ll lose.

She is so full of life and energy and excitement. It’s a lot to handle sometimes. So we tell her the rules of living in the world. You can’t be like that, have to be more this, less that. Granted, the manipulative and depraved nature that I know in myself comes out in her and needs to be squelched—in all of us. But so much of our original design gets lost in the fray as we learn to fit, to be accepted, to remain sane, to not get hurt, to pay our bills, to be responsible, to not annoy our aunt.

I mean, I have to tell her the rules. You know, ones like “no excited, non-stop talking before 8 am.” It’s a necessary rule (to protect us both), but I feel a little bit of who she is slipping away when her big smile fades. I don’t know how long she stands by my bed waiting for me to wake up when she stays overnight with me, but when I open my eyes that big smile is there and she’s ready to explode all of who she is on me before I’m quite awake.

But to live here, in this world, we have to tell them who they can and cannot be. We all learned it. Your animated displays of emotion are not going to work out here. The face you make when you’re thinking is going to make your life difficult. Your fondness for incessant hugging is not going to be appreciated here...

The Human World has some universal rules, but there are also different rules for different worlds. Church World. American World. Suburbia World. Disney World. Sometimes it’s hard to know which rules to follow. Which status quo am I aiming for? Weird Portlander? Or proper southerner? Nice church girl? Or unconventional revolutionary? So, we end up just trying to create an identity based on the cues we’ve been given in the world we're in.

Won’t it be beautiful when we’re all finally free of the rules of this world? Free to be who we were created to be without concern for the rules of living far from home? I am moving closer to a taste of that freedom now, but I look forward to the day when I arrive and find out who I am really. And who you are.

That We May Live

My mother Ease
My father Fear
      they coddle me
      in their bed
      and shower me
      with promises

There, I hover just above life
      Watching, but not living
            and not growing
            and not hurting
            and not loving

Like surfing on the madding crowd
      moving but unmoved
      as they pass me around
But the one who loves me will drop me
      and let me break
      and walk away
      and wait (and ache)
      until I can only crawl to him
      and lay
      prostrate on my face
      alive

This is the one who loves
This is the one who loves
       Oh True Father
       I am your daughter

Come, let us return to the LORD. He has torn us to pieces but he will heal us; he has injured us but he will bind up our wounds. After two days he will revive us; on the third day he will restore us, that we may live in his presence. Hosea 6:1-2

The Call of the Wild One

Something fierce and untamed,
It calls out my name—
A lure that is stifled
By what I conceive.

By details and triflings,
The worries of life,
By lovers and leavers,
And all that seems right,

Religion and duty
And all our designs—
The towers of Babel
I raise day and night—

All drown out His ardor,
The sound of His voice,
So even His keening
Just seems like more noise.

Still the wild One pursues,
Disdaining restraint,
And all my feigned order
He’ll raze in the fight—

The one that He’s fighting
So that I can hear
His savage wail calling
For me to come near.

"He's wild, you know. Not like a tame lion." - C.S. Lewis

A Christmas Story

Christmas, for me, has changed since I entered the story. I’m starting to get it. I’m learning to worship Christ at Christmas instead of bowing to the gods of consumerism. I heard someone say recently that consumerism is individualism on steroids. And we tend to build our individual kingdoms of self most at the very time of year we ought to celebrate Christ’s kingdom. If Christmas is really a Christian holiday, why does it look so much like bowing at this culture’s high places of idolatry? Even efforts to “Christianize” Christmas seem to be no more than the same old thing with a Christian veneer — we pad the pockets of Christian retailers or really take a stand for Christ by having the audacity to only buy from retailers who will use the word Christmas to promote consumerism. (Using Christ’s name in vain? Hmm…)

I heard on a Christian radio station recently a plug for a book about how to keep Christ in Christmas. I expected something counter-cultural, but I was appalled that the strategy seemed to center around innocuous decorating ideas—using more nativity scenes and spelling out Christian words with lights. Is that what entering the Christ story looks like? If so, I’d rather bask in my own brand of debauchery! (Which, I think, is the attitude of many in my generation, and is why so many are opting out of a Christian religion that only seems to offer platitude and pretense—but that’s a whole other post…)

But there’s a way of celebrating Christmas that doesn’t just include Christ, it is Christ-centered and Kingdom-oriented. It involves acknowledging the advent, or arrival, of God incarnate coming to earth to rescue us from ourselves, to redeem our brokenness, to set us free from captivity, to transform our warped ways of living, to give us life, and to bring his righteousness, peace, and joy. That is a story worth entering...

www.adventconspiracy.com

Story

As I stood outside the Paramount Theater holding a sign and directing people toward dubious parking spots last Wednesday, I feared that I might not be hip enough for the Story Conference. Watching the flood of artists and pastors arrive in their Chuck Taylors, army jackets, and square-rimmed glasses, carrying cardboard coffee cups, it seemed as if they had let Portland, Oregon loose on the small city of Aurora, Illinois.

I felt like both an insider and an outsider—much the way I felt when I lived in Portland. As the crowd streamed by me, I thought, these are my people. These people are into what I’m into and love what I love. They love the gospel story. They value symbolism and Kingdom vision. They embrace brokenness and condemn consumerism. Beyond the trendy urban garb, they want to live authentic lives and tell a better story—one of restoration and reconciliation. That’s why we’re all here. That’s why we’ve come to this nebulously named conference in the middle of Illinois.

But I was there alone, like I was in Portland. And it started to get to me—this feeling like I’m on the outside, an insignificant part of something great. On the fringe, but wanting to be in the inner circle, to be known and valued, integral even. Maybe that’s why I volunteered at the conference—directing people to restaurants I’d never heard of at lunch time and helping latecomers find a seat. Besides getting in for free, I wanted to offer something worthwhile. But I felt small.

And that was my struggle as I listened to various world changers tell their stories. I wondered if I’m OK with being a small part of a big story? There is an amazing metanarrative unfolding, a grand drama. And I have a role. But what if my role is small? I have to admit, I want to be a big deal. I always have. I want to be on stage, I want to be published, I want to be respected and admired.

But then, it’s not about me. I’m not the point of the story. One of the artists who spoke at the conference wrote and illustrated a children’s book called Fool Moon Rising that describes the moon’s attempts to steal glory from the sun. It was a timely parable to remind me that I shine only by reflection. “For who makes you different from anyone else? What do you have that you did not receive? And if you did receive it, why do you boast as though you did not?” (1 Cor 4:7)

The heroes of great stories do not become such by seeking vain glory, but by self-sacrifice, by being willing to be fools. Over and over, I was reminded at the conference that God’s story is best told through my brokenness. As I die to my story and let my life be part of a bigger story of God’s kingdom coming to earth, God’s glory and light is revealed. Wow.

The truth is, I am a big deal to God. I am known and valued. So much so that he invites me into his story, to partner with him in relationship. I get to be a part of the greatest story ever told, to tell his story with my life. By loving, by giving. In pain, in brokenness. Through freedom, through restoration. His story is being told. It’s all about him. And it’s beautiful.

Your kingdom come. Your will be done. On earth as it is in heaven.

our life outside the garden

so strange
what we lost
that day
not like
what we found
so familiar
these fig-leaf burdens
carried on crooked backs
that seem straight
for so long
staring at the ground
that feels like home
makes it hard to turn around
toward what we lost
that day
so strange

Blessed Frustration

I am learning again the importance of frustration—the importance of failure and disappointment. It is the way God pursues us.

In one of my classes last week, my professor was discussing the curses in Genesis 3 after the fall. He spoke about how ultimately the curses are God’s way of bringing us back to Himself by frustrating our desires and pursuits. He explained that as corrupted people, without that frustration, we would continue in our corruption without ever turning to God. He pointed us to Romans 8:20-21, “For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but BY THE WILL OF THE ONE WHO SUBJECTED IT, IN HOPE that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God.” Our freedom comes through surrender to God, and our surrender comes through frustration.

I play games with God just like I play games in my human relationship—trying to manipulate people to get what I want. I recently realized that I tend to withdraw from relationships when I don’t get what I want—not because I don’t want to engage in the relationship or be known by the other person, since that is usually what I most want, but it is my game to incite them to draw me out or pursue me my way. It didn’t work recently. Very frustrating.

See, a mentor of mine, who has the ability to draw me out to do work before I even know what he’s up to (if you’ve watched The Mentalist you know what I mean), respected my decision to withdraw and said he would not force me to engage if I didn’t want to. Well, of course, that revealed to me that I did want to. My game didn’t work. My attempts to get what I wanted my way were frustrated. I had to invite him in.

I began to wonder if God is this way. He won’t force us into relationship, but He draws us to invite Him in by allowing our frustration. He has the ability to change and transform and work in me without me even knowing what He’s up to, but He waits for my invitation. I withdraw from Him to get what I want my way. But then I get frustrated trying to do things my way. It doesn’t work. Thanks to the curses.

Isaiah 28:20 describes the frustration of my desires and pursuits well. It always rings in my ears in those times, “The bed is too short to stretch out on, the blanket too narrow to wrap around you.” There is no rest in frustration. And so frustration draws me to Him. Then I invite Him to work.

And then it begins—what I could not do on my own, what I really wanted. When I invite Him in, through our fellowship, He enables surrender, repentance, holiness, and rest—a taste of the glorious freedom of the children of God. And it is all a result of blessed frustration—the way of God’s pursuit. His way.



“Spirit-filled surrender means that it is the Holy Spirit who enables and empowers us to yield or surrender to God, and as we surrender, the Spirit fills us and empowers us even more! It is a blessed cycle, ever deepening, of Spirit-filled surrender!” Siang-Yang Tan (Rest: Experiencing God’s Peace in a Restless World)