I am such a whiner.
A couple weekends ago, I had the opportunity to head up north for my church's young adult retreat. The topic of the weekend was prayer. And seeing that my prayer life usually happens in short, sporadic bursts, I was pretty excited to fix that. I waltzed on in expecting to learn how to really 'pray' so that God would swoop down and take away all of the burdens I had been piling on him. I wanted him to give me some jaw-dropping revelation that would just help make everything better and easier.
But then we had some quiet time, and I was given the opportunity to spend two hours in prayer, walking around to different prayer stations with different tools to help us pray. While all of them were rich and incredibly beneficial, the one that really hit me hard was the 'Names of God' station. It was very simple, with just several pieces of paper plastered to the wall. Each paper had a different name for God, what it meant, and where it was found in the Bible. I took down the verses and went back to my seat, looking up these holy, sacred names that attempted to capture just a shred of God's glorious majesty.
And that's when it hit me. Here I was, going all this time thinking that prayer was solely about me. That it was just this beautiful time of humble surrender, pouring out my heart and my complaints and my thoughts and my struggles, bare before the Lord in all of my vulnerability. And don't get me wrong, that is definitely an important aspect of prayer. But it's also about God. I would just go and go and go, whining to God about all that was wrong in my life and how much I needed him to fix it. I took prayer, this beautiful privilege that God has graciously allowed us, and turned it into a big-cardboard-whinefest that revolved completely around me.
Reading the names and just breathing in the vast hugeness of God was incredibly humbling in refocusing my attention on what was really important. I could almost hear God as I fell before him in worship, patting me on the back and whispering, "There, there. You just forgot what was really important. Come back to me. I'm right here, I haven't moved, I'm still just the same as I was before." It wasn't this gigantic, life changing revelation, and I certainly didn't resolve all of my problems right then and there.
But for a few moments, I stopped whining and started breathing, started breathing in the sound of stillness, of just sitting in the splendor of God and beholding his Love, his Might, his Glory, his Peace. From the way he saves us, to the way he consumes us and is continually sanctifying us - he was there and I was there. That's all there was to it. God is so incredibly magnificent if we just take a second to slow down, take our eyes off of ourselves and our own problems, and just look to him. He never gets old. He never gets less exciting or jaw-droppingly gorgeous or awe-inspiring. He is the same constant, perfect God that desperately wants to hear us.
Sometimes that includes our complaints and our whining and our frustrations and our requests. Other times, it's just as simple as saying his names. "Jehovah Sabaoth. King of Kings. Qanna. El Shaddai. The Everlasting God. Jehovah-Jireh. Living Water."
Amen.
***
I have included some of the names of God and their verses that I was able to look up during the retreat. Hopefully you will find them as awe-inspiring and humbling as I did.
Jehovah Sabaoth: "The Lord of Hosts" (Psalm 24:9-10, 1 Samuel 17:45, Jeremiah 11:20, Psalm 80:19, Isaiah 1:24, Haggai 2:6)
Qanna: "Jealous, Zealous" (Exodus 20:5, Exodust 43:14, Deuteronomy 4:24, 5:9, 6:15)
Jehovah Mekoddishkem: "The Lord Who Sanctifies You" (Exodus 31:13, Leviticus 20:8)
Jehovah-Jireh: "The Lord Will Provide" (Genesis 22:1-14)
Jehovah-Rapha: "The Lord That Heals" (Exodust 15:26, Isaiah 30:26, 61:1, Jeremiah 30:17, Psalm 103:3)
El Olam: "The Everlasting God" (Genesis 21:3, Isaiah 26:4)
El Elyon: "The Most High God" (Genesis 14:18-22, Psalm 18;13, 57:2, 78:35)
El Shaddai: "All Sufficient One, Lord Almighty" (Genesis 17:1-2)
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Saturday, February 2, 2013
natural night vision goggles.
I know I haven't blogged for a while, but I am currently trying to finish up the book I'm writing by May 1, and so I've been putting most of the time I have for writing into that. I'll still try to post on here as often as possible, but it won't be as frequently as it was before. Now, onto the real post...
There's something about power outages that bring people together.
Several nights ago, the power went out at my small group. The group meets in an apartment, and by the time I arrived, the power was out across the whole building (and the whole block). One of the guys who was already there graciously volunteered to continually run up and down four flights of stairs to lead the people arriving up to the apartment. Once there, the place was lit up with an array of different candles that several people helped light. When someone needed to use the pitch black bathroom, someone lent them the flashlight on their phone to light up the way. We gathered around peaceful candlelight, the entire atmosphere eerily quiet. Maybe it was the absence of the normal hum of the refrigerator.
When someone had trouble seeing the words to read in their Bibles, another would shine a cell phone or an iPad over them, illuminating the wispy-thin pages. People scooted closer together, opting to share Bibles, so they wouldn't need as many lights. Not to mention the fact that the heat was also run by electricity, so the temperature ever so slowly dropped. And yet, I had never felt warmer.
The power was revived about halfway through, and while it was a good thing for all of the businesses across the street that had also lost power, I couldn't help but feel a hint of sadness. Because we felt just a little bit more like family throughout the power outage. People were just a little bit more willing to help, a little bit more willing to be that awkward person that sits real close to another. Now, obviously, the need to lend someone your phone as a flashlight so they can navigate the murky terrain of the bathroom disappears when the power's up and running.
But the need for community? The need for having an ever watchful eye for people in need, whether it be for a light, food, or just a listening ear? That won't ever disappear. And even when we're surrounded by a sea of people, it's so easy to get wrapped up in ourselves and never venture out past our cardboard walls and comfort zones. When the lights went out, people became more mindful of the needs of other people, but it really shouldn't have to be that way. It should just be a natural lens, the night vision goggles with which we see the world and its crazy, beautiful inhabitants. I want to be a light for Christ, a light that warmly welcomes people in and helps them out even when it hurts me. I want to be that awkward person that scoots in way too close to someone else, saturating the cracks and crevices of their hearts with the Living Water. When someone's lost and stumbling and caught in the darkness, I want Christ's light to burst forth so powerfully from my heart, they can't even see me anymore, just the radiant beauty of our Savior.
Now, I know this is so much easier said than done. And, frankly, I'm not even sure what it will always look like. But I'm tired of waiting, tired of passing by all these people in their own power outages and never stopping to lend them a light. So, let us make it our daily prayer to put on the eyes of Christ, his eyes that see through the outer layer and pierce the darkness underneath with a living and active peace. I'm not sure where it will go after that, but it's a start, a tiny seed, and that's enough for God to take and plant and grow into a beautiful thing.
I never would've thought that a power outage would be so convicting, but God's used crazier ways to communicate with people before, right?
There's something about power outages that bring people together.
Several nights ago, the power went out at my small group. The group meets in an apartment, and by the time I arrived, the power was out across the whole building (and the whole block). One of the guys who was already there graciously volunteered to continually run up and down four flights of stairs to lead the people arriving up to the apartment. Once there, the place was lit up with an array of different candles that several people helped light. When someone needed to use the pitch black bathroom, someone lent them the flashlight on their phone to light up the way. We gathered around peaceful candlelight, the entire atmosphere eerily quiet. Maybe it was the absence of the normal hum of the refrigerator.
When someone had trouble seeing the words to read in their Bibles, another would shine a cell phone or an iPad over them, illuminating the wispy-thin pages. People scooted closer together, opting to share Bibles, so they wouldn't need as many lights. Not to mention the fact that the heat was also run by electricity, so the temperature ever so slowly dropped. And yet, I had never felt warmer.
The power was revived about halfway through, and while it was a good thing for all of the businesses across the street that had also lost power, I couldn't help but feel a hint of sadness. Because we felt just a little bit more like family throughout the power outage. People were just a little bit more willing to help, a little bit more willing to be that awkward person that sits real close to another. Now, obviously, the need to lend someone your phone as a flashlight so they can navigate the murky terrain of the bathroom disappears when the power's up and running.
But the need for community? The need for having an ever watchful eye for people in need, whether it be for a light, food, or just a listening ear? That won't ever disappear. And even when we're surrounded by a sea of people, it's so easy to get wrapped up in ourselves and never venture out past our cardboard walls and comfort zones. When the lights went out, people became more mindful of the needs of other people, but it really shouldn't have to be that way. It should just be a natural lens, the night vision goggles with which we see the world and its crazy, beautiful inhabitants. I want to be a light for Christ, a light that warmly welcomes people in and helps them out even when it hurts me. I want to be that awkward person that scoots in way too close to someone else, saturating the cracks and crevices of their hearts with the Living Water. When someone's lost and stumbling and caught in the darkness, I want Christ's light to burst forth so powerfully from my heart, they can't even see me anymore, just the radiant beauty of our Savior.
Now, I know this is so much easier said than done. And, frankly, I'm not even sure what it will always look like. But I'm tired of waiting, tired of passing by all these people in their own power outages and never stopping to lend them a light. So, let us make it our daily prayer to put on the eyes of Christ, his eyes that see through the outer layer and pierce the darkness underneath with a living and active peace. I'm not sure where it will go after that, but it's a start, a tiny seed, and that's enough for God to take and plant and grow into a beautiful thing.
I never would've thought that a power outage would be so convicting, but God's used crazier ways to communicate with people before, right?
Saturday, January 5, 2013
identity crisis: man up.
Don't tell me to man up.
You can tell me to step up, or buck up, or cheer up, but don't you dare tell me to man up. And here's why.
1. The term "man up" is often used in correlation with things a lot of society or the church has deemed masculine. "Just man up and ask her out" or "man up and get your hands dirty" or "man up and take charge!" It reinforces the typical stereotypes that all men must be sports-loving, aggressive, action-oriented, visual, Bob-the-Builder type handymen that just go at it and lead all the time. Not that men can't love sports or fix things or be action-oriented. But in pairing those qualities with the phrase "man up," it implies that they are actual requirements of being a man and attaining true manhood.
2. Furthermore, masculinity is not something that can be lost, it's not something that fluctuates. "Man up" implies the need to do something in order to keep or further your masculinity. Like, in order to be a man, you've got to take one more step up and ask the girl out. Or initiate the first kiss. Or fix that leaking drain pipe without complaining. As Sarah Sumner says, "The challenge 'Be a man!' doesn't rattle a woman, but it grips the very soul of a man. Even in the church, it is not a given for men to feel like men just because they are men. Yet I know it's not from God when men fall into the trap of wanting desperately to prove themselves as men on worldly terms."* If manhood truly does go up and down that much, if it's really a roller coaster that can be lost or gained or proved in a heartbeat, then I have no desire to step on board. Count me out of that wild thing.
3. You never hear anyone telling any girls to "woman up." Why? Because if we used the same logic that people use when carelessly throwing out "man up," it'd go something like this. "Come on! Woman up and make me that sandwich!" or "just woman up and follow!" or "woman up and let your emotions run wild!" The stereotypes for women include their roles as housewives, babymakers, followers, overly emotional crybabies, and gentle, relational beings. And by boxing off little cardboard molds for men and women based on these shifting standards, it creates absolute chaos if one of the genders tries to step out of his or her box. So, if the man decides to stay home and raise the kids while the woman works to provide for the family, according to these conditions, they would be losing a part of their masculinity or femininity and gaining a part of the other. Talk about an identity crisis.
4. In conclusion, if masculinity and femininity truly do fluctuate as much as we say they do, then I don't want it. Instead, I'll take the identity I've found in Christ. With this new identity, I don't strive after true, tough, aggressive manhood, or even biblical manhood. I strive to be like Christ, to imitate him in everything I do. I fully believe that if that happens, if we surrender our entire being to God and allow him to shine through us, true manhood or womanhood will emerge. It's not based off of our likes or interests or gifts or how well we lead or how often we cry. True identity is rooted in the character of Christ and the aggressive and gentle, logical and emotional, action-packed and radically relational life he's called us to live as Christians. "Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children" (Ephesians 5:1).
So don't tell me to man up.
You can tell me to step up, or buck up, or cheer up, but don't you dare tell me to man up. There's why.
*Sumner, Sarah. Men and Women in the Church: Building Consensus on Christian Leadership. 2003. InterVarsity Press.
---
Click here to check out the first chapter of my work-in-progress novel, Yellowtree!
You can tell me to step up, or buck up, or cheer up, but don't you dare tell me to man up. And here's why.
1. The term "man up" is often used in correlation with things a lot of society or the church has deemed masculine. "Just man up and ask her out" or "man up and get your hands dirty" or "man up and take charge!" It reinforces the typical stereotypes that all men must be sports-loving, aggressive, action-oriented, visual, Bob-the-Builder type handymen that just go at it and lead all the time. Not that men can't love sports or fix things or be action-oriented. But in pairing those qualities with the phrase "man up," it implies that they are actual requirements of being a man and attaining true manhood.
2. Furthermore, masculinity is not something that can be lost, it's not something that fluctuates. "Man up" implies the need to do something in order to keep or further your masculinity. Like, in order to be a man, you've got to take one more step up and ask the girl out. Or initiate the first kiss. Or fix that leaking drain pipe without complaining. As Sarah Sumner says, "The challenge 'Be a man!' doesn't rattle a woman, but it grips the very soul of a man. Even in the church, it is not a given for men to feel like men just because they are men. Yet I know it's not from God when men fall into the trap of wanting desperately to prove themselves as men on worldly terms."* If manhood truly does go up and down that much, if it's really a roller coaster that can be lost or gained or proved in a heartbeat, then I have no desire to step on board. Count me out of that wild thing.
3. You never hear anyone telling any girls to "woman up." Why? Because if we used the same logic that people use when carelessly throwing out "man up," it'd go something like this. "Come on! Woman up and make me that sandwich!" or "just woman up and follow!" or "woman up and let your emotions run wild!" The stereotypes for women include their roles as housewives, babymakers, followers, overly emotional crybabies, and gentle, relational beings. And by boxing off little cardboard molds for men and women based on these shifting standards, it creates absolute chaos if one of the genders tries to step out of his or her box. So, if the man decides to stay home and raise the kids while the woman works to provide for the family, according to these conditions, they would be losing a part of their masculinity or femininity and gaining a part of the other. Talk about an identity crisis.
4. In conclusion, if masculinity and femininity truly do fluctuate as much as we say they do, then I don't want it. Instead, I'll take the identity I've found in Christ. With this new identity, I don't strive after true, tough, aggressive manhood, or even biblical manhood. I strive to be like Christ, to imitate him in everything I do. I fully believe that if that happens, if we surrender our entire being to God and allow him to shine through us, true manhood or womanhood will emerge. It's not based off of our likes or interests or gifts or how well we lead or how often we cry. True identity is rooted in the character of Christ and the aggressive and gentle, logical and emotional, action-packed and radically relational life he's called us to live as Christians. "Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children" (Ephesians 5:1).
So don't tell me to man up.
You can tell me to step up, or buck up, or cheer up, but don't you dare tell me to man up. There's why.
*Sumner, Sarah. Men and Women in the Church: Building Consensus on Christian Leadership. 2003. InterVarsity Press.
---
Click here to check out the first chapter of my work-in-progress novel, Yellowtree!
Sunday, December 23, 2012
o little, run down, glass town of bethlehem.
Today, while singing the same old, same old Christmas carols in church, I was struck by how mechanical the songs had become to me. Here I was, singing these beautiful lyrics about the revolutionary birth of Christ and the new life he brought, and it didn't mean a thing to me. Everything was cardboard, all I had to do was move my lips and sing along. About the time I realized this, we started singing "O Little Town of Bethlehem." The classic lyrics I had sung all my life were suddenly set ablaze, lighting up with random sparks and fireworks that danced across the lines with an intensity that took me aback. It was usually only a few words in each verse, and yet it felt completely new to me, like I was singing it for the first time.
O little town of Bethlehem,
How still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep,
The silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light.
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight.
For me, it was those last two lines that were the bullet. It's easy to see God in shattered fragments, encompassing only certain aspects of our lives. For me, it's easy to lose sight of him when my fears are hitting home hard. During those moments of uncertainty and insecurity and panic, I like to zoom in on my problems and zoom out on God, drowning out his voice and what he wants me to do, because it usually involves... you know... facing those fears. For others, it's incredibly hard to stay focused on God during those times of hope and joy and excitement, when life is alive with bright colors and beauty, and things just seem to be going right. Sometimes, we get a bit too complacent, and like to think that since life is so great, we can get by just fine without God. Either way, this song makes it very clear that in Christ, all of these aspects of our hearts collide onto a backdrop of grace and unending love. All of the hopes we hold dear, all of those annoying fears that burrow under our skin, all of the shiny bright and oozing black parts of our hearts - Christ is big enough to meet all of it. No matter what season of life we're in, Jesus is there, filling up the cracks and sustaining us with his peace.
How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessing of his heaven.
No ear may hear his coming,
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him still,
The dear Christ enters in.
This is a much quieter verse than the others, sneaking under the radar, just like the birth of Christ. I'd never really noticed that it mentions how God gave us this gift silently. There were no curled ribbons, festive lights or candied apples. There was the reek of cattle shit and the piercing screams of a newborn baby. Even as he grew older and began his ministry, Christ never preached under neon signs with fireworks for effect. In fact, after most of his miracles, he specifically asked them not to tell anyone else. Later, he was brutally slaughtered on the cross, the most humiliating way to die. Christ never made a huge show of himself. He reflected all glory straight back to the Father and never stopped preaching and living humility, even though he's the only one who truly deserves the worship and glory and flashing neon signs. Reflecting on God's silent gift to the world encourages me to give back by taking up my cross and continually emptying myself. As the lyrics say, we are meek souls, scared and small and confused, but when the dear Christ can enter in, when he can move in past all of those scars and expand, we begin to see ourselves less and less, gazing instead on the beautiful face of God, his humble-manger-bed, bleeding-cross-scars and all. A wondrous gift indeed.
O holy child of Bethlehem,
Descend to us, we pray;
Cast out our sin and enter in,
Be born in us today.
We hear the Christmas angels
The great glad tidings tell:
Oh, come to us, abide with us,
Our Lord Emmanuel!
I think the problem I have with most Christmas sermons is that I take such an eagle's-eye-view on the Christmas story. Mary, Joseph, the stable and baby Jesus remain so impersonal and distant, petite figurines in a glass Nativity scene, always lodged in some sort of untouchable realm of Christmas. This verse reminded me that when Christ Jesus was born into the world, thousands of years ago, in a distant land, he was able to reach across all time throughout all the world to give everyone the hope of new life. Not only was he born once into this world, he's also being constantly born in the hearts of each and every Christian! That once far Nativity set was suddenly smashed to glass shards, slicing up my heart with the real and gritty Christmas story, the one that didn't end in a manger, but the one that will never end, the one that happens every day. Every day, we are given the opportunity to realign our thoughts with Christ, who has been born in our hearts and is continually growing, always active and moving.
That is why he came. It's why we're reminded every year of his lowly birth and spend one whole month in anticipation of celebration. For although his physical birth was a one-time event, his continual birth in the hearts of Christians isn't. His birth is alive, it's one that breathes and grows and can never be contained in a glass Nativity set. It's a truth that will live on for eternity and one that should always remain at the forefront of our minds and attention.
Let Christ come up close and abide with you this Christmas. Because he's so much more than glass.
O little town of Bethlehem,
How still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep,
The silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light.
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight.
For me, it was those last two lines that were the bullet. It's easy to see God in shattered fragments, encompassing only certain aspects of our lives. For me, it's easy to lose sight of him when my fears are hitting home hard. During those moments of uncertainty and insecurity and panic, I like to zoom in on my problems and zoom out on God, drowning out his voice and what he wants me to do, because it usually involves... you know... facing those fears. For others, it's incredibly hard to stay focused on God during those times of hope and joy and excitement, when life is alive with bright colors and beauty, and things just seem to be going right. Sometimes, we get a bit too complacent, and like to think that since life is so great, we can get by just fine without God. Either way, this song makes it very clear that in Christ, all of these aspects of our hearts collide onto a backdrop of grace and unending love. All of the hopes we hold dear, all of those annoying fears that burrow under our skin, all of the shiny bright and oozing black parts of our hearts - Christ is big enough to meet all of it. No matter what season of life we're in, Jesus is there, filling up the cracks and sustaining us with his peace.
How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessing of his heaven.
No ear may hear his coming,
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him still,
The dear Christ enters in.
This is a much quieter verse than the others, sneaking under the radar, just like the birth of Christ. I'd never really noticed that it mentions how God gave us this gift silently. There were no curled ribbons, festive lights or candied apples. There was the reek of cattle shit and the piercing screams of a newborn baby. Even as he grew older and began his ministry, Christ never preached under neon signs with fireworks for effect. In fact, after most of his miracles, he specifically asked them not to tell anyone else. Later, he was brutally slaughtered on the cross, the most humiliating way to die. Christ never made a huge show of himself. He reflected all glory straight back to the Father and never stopped preaching and living humility, even though he's the only one who truly deserves the worship and glory and flashing neon signs. Reflecting on God's silent gift to the world encourages me to give back by taking up my cross and continually emptying myself. As the lyrics say, we are meek souls, scared and small and confused, but when the dear Christ can enter in, when he can move in past all of those scars and expand, we begin to see ourselves less and less, gazing instead on the beautiful face of God, his humble-manger-bed, bleeding-cross-scars and all. A wondrous gift indeed.
O holy child of Bethlehem,
Descend to us, we pray;
Cast out our sin and enter in,
Be born in us today.
We hear the Christmas angels
The great glad tidings tell:
Oh, come to us, abide with us,
Our Lord Emmanuel!
I think the problem I have with most Christmas sermons is that I take such an eagle's-eye-view on the Christmas story. Mary, Joseph, the stable and baby Jesus remain so impersonal and distant, petite figurines in a glass Nativity scene, always lodged in some sort of untouchable realm of Christmas. This verse reminded me that when Christ Jesus was born into the world, thousands of years ago, in a distant land, he was able to reach across all time throughout all the world to give everyone the hope of new life. Not only was he born once into this world, he's also being constantly born in the hearts of each and every Christian! That once far Nativity set was suddenly smashed to glass shards, slicing up my heart with the real and gritty Christmas story, the one that didn't end in a manger, but the one that will never end, the one that happens every day. Every day, we are given the opportunity to realign our thoughts with Christ, who has been born in our hearts and is continually growing, always active and moving.
That is why he came. It's why we're reminded every year of his lowly birth and spend one whole month in anticipation of celebration. For although his physical birth was a one-time event, his continual birth in the hearts of Christians isn't. His birth is alive, it's one that breathes and grows and can never be contained in a glass Nativity set. It's a truth that will live on for eternity and one that should always remain at the forefront of our minds and attention.
Let Christ come up close and abide with you this Christmas. Because he's so much more than glass.
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