Bizarre as it seems, I do not like to travel.
Some people don't care where they sleep. I do. I have a strong preference for my own bed.
Some people consider it a great adventure to sail off (or fly off, or drive off) to realms unknown. I don't. It makes me anxious.
I love being home with my own bed and my own pillows, with the familiar noises and smells and things that make home, home. I would rather drive late at night to get home to my own bed for a couple of hours than to sleep somewhere else. I would rather drive slowly through a fierce snowstorm to get home than end up stranded in a strange place. I'm not fanatical about it, and I wouldn't take stupid risks, but there is just always a pang when I know that "this is my last night in my own bed for a while", and always a special delight when I crawl back into my own bed. "Not home" doesn't feel quite safe. I feel like I don't quite belong. There is always a pang of homesickness.
While I am away, I bring my pillow from home so that I have something familiar. I take time to get comfortable, explore my surroundings, and test the shower. And when I crawl into that strange bed, I close my eyes and try to picture my own room around me in the dark. But I resign myself to at least one night of lousy sleep, no matter how comfortable the bed might be. At some point, there will be an unfamiliar sound that will wake me up with a pounding heart, or I will roll over expecting a wall to stop me, but falling into space instead.
Which makes the spiritual analogy of being a pilgrim and a wanderer on the earth a really interesting one . . .
. . . and it explains why sometimes I feel so terribly homesick, even when I am at home.
Because, as much as I hate traveling, I am on a journey. And as much as I like being home, I am not home.
I try so hard to make this world feel like home. I try to surround myself with familiar and comfortable things and people. I do my best to imagine myself at home in it by telling myself how good things are, and how blessed I am. And things can be good, and I am indeed blessed, but the truth is that those good things don't mean that I am home, but only point me to my true home. Invariably, as soon as I begin to feel settled here, I will hear something that will wake me up with a pounding heart:
"We can't afford to pay you anymore. We need to let you go."
"The cancer's back. It's not looking good."
"We hired someone else."
"It's an 'unhappy triad' and is going to require surgery if you want a stable knee."
"I'm sorry, but there's nothing else we can do."
"I hate you. I'm leaving."
I roll over and expect a wall to catch me but instead, I end up falling into space.
The job I thought would lead to security suddenly disappears.
The friend or loved one I depended on for support suddenly can't be there.
Or even worse, chooses not to be.
The paycheque never seems to be quite enough to cover my costs.
My loved ones suffer.
My loved ones die.
And my heart breaks.
But the wonderful news is that I am not home! I am only travelling. Someday, Jesus will return. Someday, there will be a new heavens and a new earth. Someday, I will be home. I will step onto that new earth, and the atmosphere of it will settle on me like a warm blanket, like sunshine on my shoulders. I will draw in a deep breath and know that in this place, I belong, completely and fully belong. I will be surrounded by all that is good, and safe, and familiar, and loving. I will crawl into bed, and sigh, and succumb fully to a sleep that will be deeper and more restful than any I have known on my travels. And in the morning, my eyes will open to all that is joyous and familiar, and I will know that I am home.
I don't like travelling. Sometimes I must. But I don't unpack my suitcase.
Because I'm not yet home.
Saturday, 29 October 2011
Thursday, 20 October 2011
The Desert and the Oasis
We all know the spiritual analogy of the oasis and the desert, right? The oasis is a place of rest and refueling. We stop and fill up our water jugs. We rest in the shade of the trees. We have a picnic lunch while the palm trees wave gently overhead. We feel God shining on us in favour and provision.
We dread the moment when we will have to leave and go back to the desert. We try to hold off the return there as long as we can, but we end up thrust back into the desert where the sand drags at our every step. Our throats scream for more water than the sip we must take to preserve our limited supplies. The sun blazes down on us and cracks our lips and dries the tears from our eyes almost before they can fall. We have no strength for anything except to take that next step. These are times of testing and trial, times when God seems distant and far away.
In the past few weeks, I have seen God working in some really cool ways. I have seen him orchestrate events in a way that show me that he is on the move. I feel encouraged. I feel like I have regained a sense of purpose. I feel like I can dream again. I feel like I am in an oasis.
That's all really cool. I am grateful. Because I have just come through a period of drought. For weeks and months, I couldn't sense God at all. I knew he was working; I could even see his provision, but I could not feel his presence. I felt a bit like Moses hearing God say that he would send his angel before the Israelites but that God himself would not go with them. Provision without presence. No thanks. I came really close to giving up. In fact, there was a point at which I felt like I had given up. But then 30 minutes later, the phone rang, and everything changed.
I know what the desert is like. I am intimately acquainted with wilderness living. And I know what the oasis is like. I know what it is like to come into those periods of strength and joy, instead of dragging myself through the sand. I love the oasis. I hate the desert. The living is hard in the desert.
But I've been thinking . . . something doesn't make sense . . .
If the oasis is the place where I am being refueled and resting, then why am I working so hard? Don't get me wrong. It's a good work, and it's good to be working hard. I am strong and filled and ready to work. I am in a position where I can give. But if this is the oasis, the place where I feel good and I sense God's presence, and I just got here after months and months of dragging myself through the desert, then how on earth can I be in any position to be giving? How can I be working? How can I be ministering to others out of what ought to be a completely depleted well because I have just staggered in from the desert? I ought to be dying of thirst and guzzling water, but instead of drinking, I am giving my water away. Somehow, I have walked into the oasis, and I am not thirsty, and my water jug is full.
But where did that water come from? "I know I'm filled to be emptied again; the grace I've received I will sow." I am filled. I have received grace. I am able to sow that grace. But then where on earth did that happen? I just got here!
Impossible as it seems, I think that it happened. . .
. . . in the desert.
I have always thought that in the times of oasis, I am being refreshed and renewed and strengthened so that I can get through the desert. It's like I store up reserves for those times when I will have nothing to give and no strength to give it. But look at that. . . it means that I store up and I dry up, but I never give. I am too busy gathering for myself what I need to survive the drought. When do I actually give? And I never noticed that before.
So I wonder . . . maybe I've got it backward. Maybe the times of oasis are those times when I am strong and filled, and I can give with joy. And then, maybe, God graciously allows me to go to the desert, not as punishment because I have displeased him, but to rest and be filled again, to learn new lessons of his grace, his provision, and his goodness. Then, when I leave the desert, I will be refueled and ready to give again.
Maybe that's what James means when he says that we should count it all joy when we face trials of many kinds, because we know that the testing of our faith develops perseverance. And then he says, "Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything" (James 1:3,4). Maybe, just maybe, the work of the desert is to fill me up.
We dread the moment when we will have to leave and go back to the desert. We try to hold off the return there as long as we can, but we end up thrust back into the desert where the sand drags at our every step. Our throats scream for more water than the sip we must take to preserve our limited supplies. The sun blazes down on us and cracks our lips and dries the tears from our eyes almost before they can fall. We have no strength for anything except to take that next step. These are times of testing and trial, times when God seems distant and far away.
In the past few weeks, I have seen God working in some really cool ways. I have seen him orchestrate events in a way that show me that he is on the move. I feel encouraged. I feel like I have regained a sense of purpose. I feel like I can dream again. I feel like I am in an oasis.
That's all really cool. I am grateful. Because I have just come through a period of drought. For weeks and months, I couldn't sense God at all. I knew he was working; I could even see his provision, but I could not feel his presence. I felt a bit like Moses hearing God say that he would send his angel before the Israelites but that God himself would not go with them. Provision without presence. No thanks. I came really close to giving up. In fact, there was a point at which I felt like I had given up. But then 30 minutes later, the phone rang, and everything changed.
I know what the desert is like. I am intimately acquainted with wilderness living. And I know what the oasis is like. I know what it is like to come into those periods of strength and joy, instead of dragging myself through the sand. I love the oasis. I hate the desert. The living is hard in the desert.
But I've been thinking . . . something doesn't make sense . . .
If the oasis is the place where I am being refueled and resting, then why am I working so hard? Don't get me wrong. It's a good work, and it's good to be working hard. I am strong and filled and ready to work. I am in a position where I can give. But if this is the oasis, the place where I feel good and I sense God's presence, and I just got here after months and months of dragging myself through the desert, then how on earth can I be in any position to be giving? How can I be working? How can I be ministering to others out of what ought to be a completely depleted well because I have just staggered in from the desert? I ought to be dying of thirst and guzzling water, but instead of drinking, I am giving my water away. Somehow, I have walked into the oasis, and I am not thirsty, and my water jug is full.
But where did that water come from? "I know I'm filled to be emptied again; the grace I've received I will sow." I am filled. I have received grace. I am able to sow that grace. But then where on earth did that happen? I just got here!
Impossible as it seems, I think that it happened. . .
. . . in the desert.
I have always thought that in the times of oasis, I am being refreshed and renewed and strengthened so that I can get through the desert. It's like I store up reserves for those times when I will have nothing to give and no strength to give it. But look at that. . . it means that I store up and I dry up, but I never give. I am too busy gathering for myself what I need to survive the drought. When do I actually give? And I never noticed that before.
So I wonder . . . maybe I've got it backward. Maybe the times of oasis are those times when I am strong and filled, and I can give with joy. And then, maybe, God graciously allows me to go to the desert, not as punishment because I have displeased him, but to rest and be filled again, to learn new lessons of his grace, his provision, and his goodness. Then, when I leave the desert, I will be refueled and ready to give again.
Maybe that's what James means when he says that we should count it all joy when we face trials of many kinds, because we know that the testing of our faith develops perseverance. And then he says, "Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything" (James 1:3,4). Maybe, just maybe, the work of the desert is to fill me up.
Wednesday, 12 October 2011
Walking With a Limp
Someone once told me that I have a do or die attitude.
It's true. I'm a fighter. If people, under threat, have a "fight or flight" response, mine is always fight. Rich Mullins once sang a song that had the line, "Surrender don't come naturally to me. I'd rather fight You for something I don't really want than to take what You give that I need." I've learned to lay down my arms somewhat since I first heard that song, but it's still very true that surrender doesn't come naturally.
It feels so much like giving up. Giving in. It feels so much like defeat.
And I have fought way too hard through really tough stuff to give up now. I have dared to dream too big to give up now. I have seen too much of what a relationship with Jesus can really look like to give up now.
You see, dreams matter. Faith matters. Following Jesus matters. So when it becomes hard to dream, hard to hold onto faith, hard to follow Jesus, I fight. I fight tooth and nail. I would rather rage against God than to simply give up and give in to despair. Stop dreaming? Let my faith slide? Allow my walk with Jesus to become a pablum affair, bland and inoffensive and utterly boring? That's what it feels like when I think about surrender. It really does feel like do or die to me.
But then I think, What if I am fighting God on something he is asking me to surrender? What if I am trying to hold onto something he is trying to pry from my clenched fingers? What if I'm fighting him for something I don't really want, and refusing to take what he is giving me that I need? How do I know when it's time to let go, or time to hang on tightly? Is this wilfullness or perseverence? Is this wild and crazy dream really from him after all? Is the trial a test I need to pass, or a sign to quit struggling? Do I give up? Or hang on?
I can't tell. So I fight, Jacob-like, in desperation, with a growing certainty that I will never win the fight, but terrified to give up too soon and miss the blessing.
And in the end, it's the blessing that matters, not the fight. It doesn't matter who wins or who loses. I'm not trying to beat God. I'm not trying to get my own way. It's not even the dream that matters anymore, in the end. It is the blessing of knowing that I would rather spend a dark night of the soul struggling with him over my dreams than to never have a struggle . . . or a dream. It is the blessing of seeing God face to face, and knowing that he has saved me. It is the blessing of knowing that the One with whom I struggle is big enough to keep me in my place and strong enough to turn a street scrapper into a dreamer and a disciple who will never give up following him.
And if this is what it costs, I will walk with a limp.
"Then the man said, 'Let me go, for it is daybreak.' But Jacob replied, 'I will not let you go unless you bless me.' . . . Then he blessed him there. So Jacob called the place Peniel, (Peniel means face of God) saying, 'It is because I saw God face to face, and yet my life was spared'" (Genesis 32:26, 29-30).
It's true. I'm a fighter. If people, under threat, have a "fight or flight" response, mine is always fight. Rich Mullins once sang a song that had the line, "Surrender don't come naturally to me. I'd rather fight You for something I don't really want than to take what You give that I need." I've learned to lay down my arms somewhat since I first heard that song, but it's still very true that surrender doesn't come naturally.
It feels so much like giving up. Giving in. It feels so much like defeat.
And I have fought way too hard through really tough stuff to give up now. I have dared to dream too big to give up now. I have seen too much of what a relationship with Jesus can really look like to give up now.
You see, dreams matter. Faith matters. Following Jesus matters. So when it becomes hard to dream, hard to hold onto faith, hard to follow Jesus, I fight. I fight tooth and nail. I would rather rage against God than to simply give up and give in to despair. Stop dreaming? Let my faith slide? Allow my walk with Jesus to become a pablum affair, bland and inoffensive and utterly boring? That's what it feels like when I think about surrender. It really does feel like do or die to me.
But then I think, What if I am fighting God on something he is asking me to surrender? What if I am trying to hold onto something he is trying to pry from my clenched fingers? What if I'm fighting him for something I don't really want, and refusing to take what he is giving me that I need? How do I know when it's time to let go, or time to hang on tightly? Is this wilfullness or perseverence? Is this wild and crazy dream really from him after all? Is the trial a test I need to pass, or a sign to quit struggling? Do I give up? Or hang on?
I can't tell. So I fight, Jacob-like, in desperation, with a growing certainty that I will never win the fight, but terrified to give up too soon and miss the blessing.
And in the end, it's the blessing that matters, not the fight. It doesn't matter who wins or who loses. I'm not trying to beat God. I'm not trying to get my own way. It's not even the dream that matters anymore, in the end. It is the blessing of knowing that I would rather spend a dark night of the soul struggling with him over my dreams than to never have a struggle . . . or a dream. It is the blessing of seeing God face to face, and knowing that he has saved me. It is the blessing of knowing that the One with whom I struggle is big enough to keep me in my place and strong enough to turn a street scrapper into a dreamer and a disciple who will never give up following him.
And if this is what it costs, I will walk with a limp.
"Then the man said, 'Let me go, for it is daybreak.' But Jacob replied, 'I will not let you go unless you bless me.' . . . Then he blessed him there. So Jacob called the place Peniel, (Peniel means face of God) saying, 'It is because I saw God face to face, and yet my life was spared'" (Genesis 32:26, 29-30).
Monday, 10 October 2011
Singing Lies and Truth
I consider myself a pretty honest person. I try very hard to speak truth and not lies. I know the damage lies can do. I try to make it my policy that if I'm not willing to hear the truth, I won't ask your opinion. So if I don't want to hear that you don't like my new haircut, I won't ask. I struggle with the concept of the "little white lie". Sometimes that gets me into trouble. But mostly, it keeps my life much simpler. I don't have to try to remember what I said where.
But then I start to sing songs about God, and I find all sorts of lies coming out of my mouth.
I'm not talking about songs that don't necessarily reflect how I'm feeling at that moment. I have sung "Blessed be the Lord" through gritted teeth and with tears streaming down my face, but I have sung it. Because I know that the Lord IS blessed, and deserves to be blessed no matter how much I may not wish to bless him at that moment. So I sing. I choke the words out past the lump in my throat, and I sing. I can sing a song of praise while I am lamenting, and I can sing a song of lament while I am praising. I think that's part of what it means to rejoice with those who are rejoicing and weep with those who are weeping.
Neither am I talking about singing distractedly. You know, you're singing words with your mouth, while your brain is busy thinking about the guy up ahead who's wearing socks and sandals, and the baby that is fussing behind you, and figuring out what you're going to order for lunch at Swiss Chalet after church. That's surely not true worship, but it doesn't mean I'm singing a lie.
No, I'm talking about songs that don't reflect my life. I might wish that they did, but they don't. Like this:
But then I start to sing songs about God, and I find all sorts of lies coming out of my mouth.
I'm not talking about songs that don't necessarily reflect how I'm feeling at that moment. I have sung "Blessed be the Lord" through gritted teeth and with tears streaming down my face, but I have sung it. Because I know that the Lord IS blessed, and deserves to be blessed no matter how much I may not wish to bless him at that moment. So I sing. I choke the words out past the lump in my throat, and I sing. I can sing a song of praise while I am lamenting, and I can sing a song of lament while I am praising. I think that's part of what it means to rejoice with those who are rejoicing and weep with those who are weeping.
Neither am I talking about singing distractedly. You know, you're singing words with your mouth, while your brain is busy thinking about the guy up ahead who's wearing socks and sandals, and the baby that is fussing behind you, and figuring out what you're going to order for lunch at Swiss Chalet after church. That's surely not true worship, but it doesn't mean I'm singing a lie.
No, I'm talking about songs that don't reflect my life. I might wish that they did, but they don't. Like this:
Where You go, I'll go
Where You stay, I'll stay
When You move, I'll move
I will follow You
Who You love, I'll love
How You serve I'll serve
If this life I lose, I will follow You
I will follow You
Where You stay, I'll stay
When You move, I'll move
I will follow You
Who You love, I'll love
How You serve I'll serve
If this life I lose, I will follow You
I will follow You
(Chris Tomlin -- I Will Follow)
Don't misunderstand me. There's nothing wrong with the song. I love Chris Tomlin. I love the song. The song is not in itself a lie. But this isn't a song about feeling. It's a statement of intent. God, this is what I am doing. Except that it's not what I'm doing. The song is noble and brave and gallant, and I could sing it loudly and feel noble and brave and gallant, and think that I am worshiping God. But I'm actually lying. I'll go, but not too far. I'll stay, as long as there's a relatively clean flush toilet. I'll move, but not too much out of my comfort zone. I'll love, but not that person who totally gets on my nerves. I'll serve, but don't ask me to actually wash anyone's feet. And if I'm brutally honest with myself (and I try to be), I must acknowledge that I don't even really want to do any of that. I have no intention of being that radical. The best I might be able to muster is a sense of guilt that I ought to want to serve that way, but I really don't. So how can I sing that song?
I've tried convince myself that I really do want to go where Jesus goes, stay where he stays, love who he loves, and serve how he serves. I truly love Jesus -- I honestly do. But I know that I fall abismally short of being able to sing these words truthfully. I've tried to just sing the words anyway, hoping that by somehow singing them, I'll make them true. But it doesn't work. The more I try to get it right, the further from what the song calls me to I slide. Instead, I just feel tired and defeated. I feel like the liar I am when I sing that song.
But then I sing a song like this:
I've tried convince myself that I really do want to go where Jesus goes, stay where he stays, love who he loves, and serve how he serves. I truly love Jesus -- I honestly do. But I know that I fall abismally short of being able to sing these words truthfully. I've tried to just sing the words anyway, hoping that by somehow singing them, I'll make them true. But it doesn't work. The more I try to get it right, the further from what the song calls me to I slide. Instead, I just feel tired and defeated. I feel like the liar I am when I sing that song.
But then I sing a song like this:
I believe Your love is faithful when all my hopes have crumbled.
It is standing strong and able when everything else fails.
I believe Your love will cover me through every storm.
I am persuaded
Nothing in life, nothing in death,
No mountain high, no ocean depth,
No power below, on earth, or above
No power below, on earth, or above
Can separate from Your love.
I believe beyond a shadow you will never forsake me,
And Your love endures forever when all my strength is gone.
I believe your love will carry me and hold me close.
I believe your love will carry me and hold me close.
(Travis Cottrell -- I am Persuaded)
That's a song that I can sing any time. I can sing it when I'm happy. I can sing it when I'm sad. I can sing it when I'm downright disobedient and slothful in my walk with God. Because it's true. It's always true. It's true no matter how I am feeling. Because it is based on the character of God. His love endures. His love is faithful. His love stands strong and able. His love carries me, covers me, holds me. And I am persuaded.
So I've given up on "I Surrender All". I know that if I sang it, I'd struggle with "I Surrender 10%". Instead, I sing the songs that I can. I sing "I am Persuaded". I sing, "Jesus Saves". I sing, "In Christ Alone". I sing, "Ten Thousand Reasons". I sing, "Great is Your Faithfulness" and "Holy, Holy, Holy". (If you look them up on Youtube, you can probably sing all of them, too.)
But here's the funny thing . . . while I am busy singing those songs that I can honestly sing, I find myself going to places I never thought I'd go. I discover myself loving people I never thought I could love. I end up serving in ways I never thought I'd have the courage to serve. I surrender things I never ever thought I'd be able to give up.
And I'm not even singing the song.
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