Self-preservation, or…?

Christianity is a battle, not a dream.”  – Wendell Phillips

I’ve written before about my ongoing struggle with fear.  I hold tight to the promises of peace, trusting in the nearness of God to be my good.  I memorize verses that tell me that He is my refuge.  I pray loud that God is my only security, that only in Him can I be safe.  Which is why I came up short the other day to find I was wrong.

© Copyright Jerry Segraves and licensed for reuse at Wikimedia.

© Copyright Jerry Segraves and licensed for reuse at Wikimedia.

Nowhere am I promised to be safe.  Oh, He will be my refugeHis nearness is, in fact, my good.  He will become my security, but my insatiable need to feel safe will never be met this side of heaven.  I stumbled across one of those charts that you’ve probably seen before.  The ones that contrast “fleshly thinking” with “spirit-filled thinking.”

And this one sets the desire for peace against the acknowledgment that we are in a battle:

“Is self-complacent; craves the peace of mind that relieves him of unwelcome responsibilities.”

vs. 

“Knows that warfare between good and evil will not allow undisturbed peace.[1]

I’d heard before that peace doesn’t necessarily mean everything goes perfectly.  You only have to look at the cross to recognize that Jesus didn’t mean “trouble free” when he said “My peace I give to you.”

I’d heard how He doesn’t promise to take the storm away, but that He gives you peace in the midst of the storm.

But what if it’s not just a promise to help us endure the storm?  What if it’s a call to get out there and stir one up? 

I spend so many hours hoping that tragedy doesn’t strike that I’m not even truly living.  I remember watching my six-year-old waver on the edges of the dodgeball game during kindergarten recess.  The thought of getting hit with the ball was just too much for him.  I can relate.

But here’s the truth, the one I need to sink down into the depths of my soul: The ball might hit you, and it might hurt, but staying on the sidelines means you never get to play the game.

Lisa Bevere states it this way:

© Copyright Michael Gäbler and  licensed for reuse at Wikimedia.

© Copyright Michael Gäbler and licensed for reuse at Wikimedia.

“Becoming who God created you to be is both your best offense and your best defense against the enemy’s strategies.  He obviously didn’t stop you from drawing breath. It is now time to keep him from stifling the spiritual seed God planted inside you.  When the enemy oppresses, it is always because he fears what we might become.”

I think that’s true. The next best thing to making sure you were never born or killing you outright, is sentencing you to a living death where you do absolutely nothing.  Self-preservation is the opposite of the gospel, so how is that I’ve been telling myself God will help me with my pet project of self-security?

Preserving your life doesn’t save it.  It just keeps it.  And what good is a well-kept life? 

I want a well-spent one.  Whole-heartedly, frivolously, even recklessly poured out, because we’ve joined His game, and it’s a wild one.

 

 

“Ours should not be the love that asks, ‘How little?’ but ‘how much?’;

the love that pours out its all and revels in the joy of having anything to pour on the feet of its Beloved.

The question ‘what is the harm?’ falls from us and is forgotten when we Calvary, the Crucified, and the risen-again Rabboni of our Souls.”

–Amy Carmichael


[1] Beyond Ourselves, pg. 192

Democracy of the Dead – Evelyn Underhill

G.K. Chesterton once said that “Tradition means giving a vote to most obscure of all classes, our ancestors. It is the democracy of the dead…Tradition refuses to submit to the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be walking about. All democrats object to men being disqualified by the accident of birth; tradition objects to their being disqualified by the accident of death. Democracy tells us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our groom; tradition asks us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our father.”  

To honor that sentiment and to stave off an easy chronological snobbery, today’s post comes straight from the mouths (or pens) of men and women who have died in the faith.

From Evelyn Underhill‘s THE SPIRITUAL LIFE

Cross by George Wharton JamesSo those who imagine that they are called to contemplation because they are attracted by contemplation, when the common duties of existence steadily block this path, do well to realize that our own feelings and preferences are very poor guides when it comes to the robust realities and stern demands of the Spirit.

St. Paul did not want to be an apostle to the Gentiles.  He wanted to be a clever and appreciated young Jewish scholar, and kicked against the pricks.  St. Ambrose and St. Augustine did not want to be overworked and worried bishops.  Nothing was farther from their intention.  St. Cuthbert wanted the solitude and freedom of his heritage on the Farne; but he did not often get there.  St. Francis Xavier’s preference was for an ordered life close to his beloved master, St. Ignatius.  At a few hours’ notice he was sent out to be the Apostle of the Indies and never returned to Europe again.  Henry Martyn, the fragile and exquisite scholar, was compelled to sacrifice the intellectual life to which he was so perfectly fitted for the missionary life to which he felt he was decisively called.

In all these, a power beyond themselves decided the direction of life.  Yet in all we recognize not frustration, but the highest of all types of achievement.  Things like this – and they are constantly happening – gradually convince us that the overruling reality of life is the Will and Choice of a Spirit acting not in a mechanical but in a living and personal way; and that the spiritual life does not consist in mere individual betterment, or assiduous attention to one’s own soul, but in a free and unconditional response to that Spirit’s pressure and call, whatever the cost may be.

Sufficiency

 

Comic Luther

Image Credit: From History of Christianity: Reformation to the Present Study Guide

Such a good comic, right?  I’m always amazed at the industriousness of our fathers and mothers in the faith.  They were not messing around.

Lately, I’ve been reading through the book of Acts.  Many things spring to mind as I read of the exploits of the first Christians, not  least the crazy-boldness of the early church.  No wonder they took the world by storm.

Non-stop traveling.  Persecutions.  Imprisonments.  Beatings.  Healings.  Teaching.  Even miraculous teleporting.  Just reading about the Spirit’s energy and power echoing down through the ages is enough to get me up and out of my recliner.

But then what?  I am tempted to jump in to the nearest opportunity.  After all, the need of the world is great, and the time is short, and, after all, I only have one crazy life.  It’s all very American of me, I know.

I’ll never forget the sermon I heard several years ago.  The Rwandan bishop who came and preached.  For an hour over the usual time.  Which is very east-African of him.

© Copyright Piotr Frydecki and licensed for reuse at Wikimedia.

© Copyright Piotr Frydecki and licensed for reuse at Wikimedia.

But one thing he said I’ll never forget: “You Americans,” he said.  “You are so competent.  You could build a church without the Spirit of God.”  He went on to speak of our education.  Our money.  Our skills.  With every description, I felt the clang of truth deep down in my soul.

We are very competent.  We get things done.  We, the powerful.  The educated.  The ones who actually have the luxury of “free time.”  We can do many good things on our own.  As a church planter’s wife, I think of this often.  We have the capacity to move on ahead, laboring in vain, and putting up something only we ourselves are calling a church.

“We Africans,” the bishop went on.  “We have nothing.  Unless the Spirit of God shows up, nothing will happen.

I’ve thought of this often in the years since.  His insight was profound.  We can be blinded by our perceived sufficiency.  We can think we are doing God’s work when in reality it’s all about us.  But do you know what?

Our perspective doesn’t matter.  We, too, have nothing.  Unless the Spirit of God shows up in the American church, nothing of eternal significance will happen.   We may have deep pockets and pretty buildings, but we also have shattered souls and lives worn thin by addiction and despair.  We have broken families and tormented minds and failing bodies.

The African church has tangible daily evidence of their insufficiency.  Ours is hidden by the illusion of our competency.  Both of us – all of us – have no sufficiency in ourselves.

You know who else came to realize this?  St. Paul.  That very brave, very sold-out, very industrious leader in the early church.  His lack of sufficiency didn’t paralyze him.

“Not that we are sufficient in ourselves to claim anything as coming from us, but our sufficiency is from God, who has made us competent to be ministers of a new covenant…”

Our sufficiency is from God.

The early church walked in the power of this truth.  Faces fresh with the heat of the Holy Spirit falling on them, they had no illusion about sufficiency or scarcity.  And they moved in boldness.  In energy.  Led by the Spirit.

© Copyright J J Harrison and  licensed for reuse at Wikimedia.

© Copyright J J Harrison and licensed for reuse at Wikimedia.

And that sufficiency is ours.  That Spirit is ours.  In the midst of our insufficiency.  In the midst of our incapability, Christ is ours.  This phrase that’s sprinkled throughout Acts keeps coming to mind.  “This same Jesus,” the apostles were always saying.  “This Jesus whom you crucified.”  “This Jesus who was raised from the dead.”  “This same Jesus who we saw.”

So we do not lose heart.  This same Jesus is with us.  This same Jesus is the one we lift high in our churches.  This same Jesus will draw all people to himself.  This same Jesus is with me. This same Jesus is with you.  When the truth of our insufficiency creeps in, let’s not hide from it.  Let’s join with Paul in celebrating it: Our sufficiency comes from God.

An Ash Wednesday Reflection

I like participating in Ash Wednesday. I like walking around with a cross of ashes right smack dab in the middle of my forehead. I like the surreptitious glances of people who see the mark and then quickly look away, as if they caught me doing something inappropriate. I like wearing a symbolic declaration of my identity.

© Copyright Helgi Halldórsson and  licensed for reuse at Wikimedia.

© Copyright Helgi Halldórsson and licensed for reuse at Wikimedia.

Ash Wednesday marks me as a Christian, someone who would follow Jesus on his journey through the wilderness toward Easter. The mark of the cross identifies me with the historic Christian faith, but it leaves me without an agenda. It is not a bumper-sticker Christianity that proclaims what I do or do not support. It is not my effort to convert others to my way of thinking. It does not set me aside as an individual; rather, the two smeared lines of ashes join me together with the people of God who, throughout the ages, have declared that they sin, that they are mortal, and that they look to Jesus for any hope of change.

I have this same feeling when sit, sandwiched between other penitents on the bench in the back of the church, waiting for my turn to go in to confession. There is something serious about setting aside time for self-evaluation, repentance, and affirmation of a desire to change. There is something important about desiring to strengthen my will to choose good and turn from evil. But there is something humbling to realize that I am one in a long line of sinners who, regardless of what we have done or neglected to do, wait desperately for the mercy and absolution of a loving God. The reality of my humanity, of my ordinariness, strips me of self-importance, even in the midst of repentance.

And so I begin this season of Lent soberly, having a desire for spiritual growth and discipline. Yet I also go gently into a season of penitence, knowing that I will break my fast and, if nothing else, fail to love God whole-heartedly and to love others as I love myself. But there is nothing remarkable in that. Nothing unexpected. What is remarkable is that at the end of Lent comes the promise and the hope of Easter. Being one of many sinners who seek and receive God’s gift of grace frames all of Lent, in fact any act of contrition or repentance, with the mystery and hope of the Gospel–Christ in us, the hope of glory. I like having that stamped on my forehead, the reminder that I belong to Christ and that he is working his will in me as he does with countless others.

© Copyright Michael Saludo  and licensed for reuse at Wikimedia.

© Copyright Michael Saludo and licensed for reuse at Wikimedia.

By the end of the day today, the cross of ashes will most likely be rubbed into an unrecognizable smudge. By the end of the season of Lent, I will have repented and failed and repented and failed some more, and hopefully grown in awareness and strength of character. But the mark of the cross will remain on my life, seen on my forehead or not, as the constant reminder that I am marked as Christ’s own. Forever.

Democracy of the Dead – Gregory of Nyssa

G.K. Chesterton once said that “Tradition means giving a vote to most obscure of all classes, our ancestors. It is the democracy of the dead…Tradition refuses to submit to the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be walking about. All democrats object to men being disqualified by the accident of birth; tradition objects to their being disqualified by the accident of death. Democracy tells us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our groom; tradition asks us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our father.”  

To honor that sentiment and to stave off an easy chronological snobbery, today’s post comes straight from the mouths (or pens) of men and women who have died in the faith.

From Gregory of Nyssa

Cross by George Wharton JamesOur good Master, Jesus Christ, bestowed on us a partnership in his revered name, so that we get our name from no other person connected with us, and if one happens to be rich and well-born or of lowly origin and poor, or if one has some distinction from his business or position, all such conditions are of no avail because the one authoritative name for those believing in him is that of Christian.

…As this astute perceiver of particular goods says, “Do you seek a proof of the Christ who speaks in me? and “It is now no longer I that live but Christ lives in me.”

This man knew the significance of the name of Christ for us, saying that Christ is the power of God and the wisdom of God.  And he called him peace, and light inaccessible in whom God dwells, and sanctification and redemption and great high priest and Passover, and a propitiation” of souls, “the brightness of glory and image of substance,” and “maker of the world, and spiritual food, and spiritual drink and spiritual rock, waterfoundation of faith, and cornerstone and image of the invisible God, and great God, and head of the body of the Church, and the firstborn of every creature, firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep, firstborn from the dead, firstborn among many brothers and mediator between God and humanity, and only begotten Son and crowned with glory and honor, and lord of glory and beginning of being speaking thus of him who is the beginning, king of justice and king of peace and ineffable king of all, having the power of the kingdom, and many other such things that are not easily enumerated.

When all of these phrases are put next to each other, each one of the terms makes its own contribution to a revelation of what is signified by being named after Christ, and each provides for us a certain emphasis.  To the extent that we take these concepts into our souls, they are all indications of the unspeakable greatness of the gift for us. However, since the rank of kingship underlies all worth and power and rule, by this title the royal power of Christ is authoritatively and primarily indicated (for the anointing of kingship, as we learn in the historical books, comes first), and all the force of the other titles depends on that of royalty.  For this reason, the person who knows the separate elements included under it also knows the power encompassing these elements. 

But it is the kingship itself that declares what that title of Christ means.  Therefore, since, thanks to our good Master, we are sharers of the greatest and the most divine and the first of names, those honored by the name of Christ being called Christians, it is necessary that there be seen in us also all of the connotations of this name, so that the title be not a misnomer in our case but that our life be a testimony of it.  Being something does not result from being called something.  The underlying nature, whatever it happens to be, is discovered through the meaning attached to the name.

Two-Cents

I’ve been reading the parable of the widow with her offering.  It makes me think of the phrase “two cents.”  I like this phrase.  It’s a useful disclaimer when I’m about to say something.  “I’ll give you my two cents,” I’ll say.  “But that’s about all its worth.”

© Copyright Warburg and  licensed for reuse at Wikimedia.

© Copyright Warburg and licensed for reuse at Wikimedia.

I hide behind that sometimes, as though saying my words don’t carry weight will excuse me of any negative implications.  I like to name them as two cents, so that no one will think I’m passing them off as a twenty-dollar bill.

My husband caught me the other day.  “I don’t know what that’s rooted in,” he said.  “That desire to say you only have two cents.  What you have to say is worthwhile.”

I’ve thought a lot about that recently.  Our tendency to determine what contributions are more valuable than others.  Sure, money is the most obvious one, but what about Time? Conversation? Relationship?

What do you have to put in the box?  Holly Pierlot uses this example when she’s talking about being a present mother:

“Jesus is perfectly wiling to bless my efforts,” she writes.  “But first he had to have efforts to bless….I had to give a full five loaves and two fish – not three loaves, not two loaves.  I had to apply all of me to the task and mission I was called to be and do, not haphazardly, but fully, methodically, completely.  Jesus was asking for the dedication of my entire self to my vocation.

The story of the widow and the offering box seems straightforward.  It really doesn’t matter whether you’re putting in two cents or twenty.  It’s whether you are putting in all you have.

© Copyright warrenlead69 and  licensed for reuse at Wikimedia.

© Copyright warrenlead69 and licensed for reuse at Wikimedia.

I think the trick is that we often don’t know what we have.  Two mites or twenty dollars, we think it’s about what we can scrounge up to give. But the real question is: are you putting in all of yourself?

Perhaps it’s time to stop determining what our contributions are really worth and hustle on up to the offering box instead.  He can use two mites.  He can use four loaves.  He can use the mouth of an ass.  He can use you and me, whatever we have to offer.

Democracy of the Dead – Hannah Hurnard

G.K. Chesterton once said that “Tradition means giving a vote to most obscure of all classes, our ancestors. It is the democracy of the dead…Tradition refuses to submit to the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be walking about. All democrats object to men being disqualified by the accident of birth; tradition objects to their being disqualified by the accident of death. Democracy tells us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our groom; tradition asks us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our father.”  

To honor that sentiment and to stave off an easy chronological snobbery, today’s post comes straight from the mouths (or pens) of men and women who have died in the faith.

From Hannah Hurnard‘s HINDS FEET ON HIGH PLACES

Cross by George Wharton James“Much-Afraid trembled a little, partly at the tone of his voice and partly because she was still Much-Afraid by nature and was already trying to picture what the Forests of Danger and Tribulation would be like.  That always had a disastrous effect upon her, but she answered penitently, ‘No – I know that you are not a man who would lie to me; I know that you will make good what you have said.

“’Then,’ said the Shepherd, speaking very gently again, ‘I am going to lead you through danger and tribulation, Much-Afraid, but you need not be the last bit afraid, for I shall be with you.  Even if I lead you through the Valley of the Shadow itself you need not fear, for my rod and my staff will comfort you.’

Then he added, ‘Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday.  Though a thousand fall at thy side, and ten thousand at they right hand, it shall not come nigh thee…For I will cover thee with my feathers, and under my wings shalt thou trust’ (Psa. 91:4-7).  The gentleness of his voice as he said these things was indescribable.

Then Much-Afraid knelt at his feet and built yet another altar and said, ‘Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.”  Then, because she found that even as she spoke her teeth were chattering with fright and her hands had gone quite clammy, she looked up into his face and added, ‘For thou art not a man that thou shouldest lie, nor the Son of man that thou shouldest repent.  Hast thou said, and shalt thou not do it?  And hast thou spoken and shalt thou not make it good?’

Then the Shepherd smiled more comfortingly than ever before, laid both hands on her head and said, “Be strong, yea, be strong and fear not.”  Then he continued, “Much-Afraid, don’t ever allow yourself to begin trying to picture what it will be like.  Believe me, when you get to the places which you dread you will find that they are as different as possible from what you have imagined, just as was the case when you were actually ascending the precipice.

I must warn you that I see your enemies lurking among the trees ahead, and if you ever let Craven Fear begin painting a picture on the screen of your imagination, you will walk with fear and trembling and agony, where no fear is.”  When he had said this, he picked up another stone from the place where she was kneeling, and gave it to her to put with the other memorial stones.  Then he went his way, and Much-Afraid and her companions started on the path which led up through the forests.”