In my last post, "picking scabs and bleeding f-bombs," I ended on a rather unresolved note, discussing the danger and fear that come along with real transparency with people. Now, danger and fear probably aren't the most appealing terms to be applied to friendships, but I'm not one to sugarcoat things. Transparency means letting down our shields, it means blowing that horn and watching our walls fall, in hopes that when the debris finally clears, our friends will still be around to help us up.
But what if they don't like what they see? What if they don't want to be my friend anymore? What if, after seeing me in my vulnerability, they just walk away? What if? What if?
The truth is, I can't reassure you that these things won't happen. They very well could hate the real you (I know, I'm sure you're feeling real encouraged right now). But that's not our problem. Christ doesn't call us to play it safe, to sit back in our own little brick houses, reassured that no one can get in, because that also means that we can't go out. We can't go out to do the ministry Christ has called each and every one of his followers to fulfill. I'm sorry, but we've got to blow our houses down and trust that God will direct our paths to solid friends that accept us for who we are.
These aren't truths easily accepted. There are fears and insecurities that burrow down into everyone's deepest crevices, a poison that expands with its bountiful supply of lies. Lies that try to rip us away from true, Christ-like community. It's a broken record of seductive whispers and shattered promises. There's no fulfillment, no satisfaction in anything but personal safety and maybe some temporary happiness. Holding back our real selves from other people is not only a boring way to live, but a selfish one.
Now, I don't plan to end this on an unhappy note. As I sat in bed a few months ago, reading through my devotional with a monotonous insincerity that had become way too comfortable, I was struck by the following phrase in its momentous simplicity:
Nothing can separate me from your love, Jesus.
I will say it again: nothing can separate me from your love, Jesus. I realized then that it didn't matter how many friends walked away, it wasn't important how many times we're stabbed and cut off and separated from human bonds, because the bond Christians have with their Lord and Savior is inseparable and never failing. I know this isn't any huge or jaw breaking news, but it was just the sentence I needed to reinforce what I had known all along, but had never really believed. Suddenly, friendships didn't seem as heavy anymore, because I saw the inevitability of pain and hardship in them. I saw how futile it was to grasp at these straw ideals of constant peace and comfort in relationships, because nothing could ever match the peace we've received through our Lord Jesus Christ.
This is an uphill battle - believing the truth of that statement, that is. It isn't something we fight off once, and are then freed to go about the rest of life unscathed by the broken-record-whisper-lies. At least for me, they linger in the back of my mind, a faint residue that smells of mold and can grow back like a fungus in seconds. There are still plenty of times when I want to curl up in my own little inside cardboard world, just to temporarily stave off the danger and fear of stripping down to the bare bones, where it's just me and my soul and whoever else cares to look on and be my friend. But I believe the pain that comes with re-opening our wounds for others to see is far more beautiful and worth it than the pain of being alone in our empty shells.
It's time to put in a new broken record, one that repeats the truth, a truth so loud and dangerous, those pathetic whisper lies can't help but curl back in fear.
Nothing can separate me from your love, Jesus.
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