Entering Into Rest

I had a strange spiritual experience last night. It wasn't in the realm of the bizarre - because I've been present when others have had similar ones - but this was the first time it had happened to me.

Let me back up a bit. For the past few weeks, my almost-21 daughter has been in a relationship with a young man which she INSISTS isn't sexual but which is, by all observations, obsessional in nature. Six months ago she didn't even know him; now, she declares that he is her best friend. 

This young man has a past that includes a conviction in a court of law for dealing drugs. He maintains relationships with the people he knew while he was in that life, and in the past few weeks, our property has been vandalized, money has been stolen from our house, and narcotics - prescribed for our other child after a major surgery - were stolen as well. He left our house that day and hasn't been back, but she continued to spend time with him. We set down more and more limits - and slowly it became painfully clear that she was choosing her new friends over her family. 

This hasn't been the first time that she has obsessed about a member of the opposite gender. Ever since before she turned 14, this has been happening. As soon as her hormones turned on, there's been a growing fascination with the world that we tried so hard to protect her from - first nicotine and then alcohol, then the lifestyle of the drug addict and the pusher. Of course that lifestyle doesn't just include the acts themselves, but a whole host of destructive behaviors - violence, theft, verbal and physical abuse, pathological lying, riding the edge of the law, cop-baiting, and (needless to say) disrespect of anything or anyone that insists on the truth. 

It was when this young man used her phone and texted me all sorts of obscene insults, accusing me of the most unthinkable things - and then she defended HIM - that I realized that the child I knew, the beautiful, loyal, caring person I had helped to raise, was dead. She had died seven years ago and had been replaced by someone who now had no moral compass. Her toxic behavior and attitudes poisoned relationships with all who cared about her; her friends (the ones who really DID care - one even told me, "She's changed. I don't even know who she is anymore") didn't want to spend time with her anymore.

It was at that point that I allowed myself to grieve.

The pain was beyond anything I had ever felt. And it's not over; it comes in waves.

Anyway, this past Thursday night, after being used as a human ATM for what seemed like the millionth time, we had a conversation with her in which we calmly but firmly told her that she was not allowed back into our house any more. She had made her choice and she couldn't eat her cake and still have it. 

I talked with our pastor about the situation and how I was - we were - reacting to it emotionally. He affirmed our decision - which he said was really the only decision we could have made - and it helped to know that we had his support. Yet there was an ache in my heart and a big heavy ball in my belly that made it difficult to take a deep breath. I would reach down and it would be rock-hard. It never left... it was always there, even in the night.

"Sleeping Baby" photo courtesy of Dynamite Imagery at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Which brings me to last evening at church. In intense prayer for my daughter, and in prayer as well for relief / respite from the pain, Pastor came up behind me and a couple of ladies from the church were there, each holding a hand. I won't go into the details, but my heart felt like it was in labor, the emotional pain was so severe. For well over ten minutes, it was as if I was giving birth to her all over again. I was wet to my shoulders with tears, my breath coming in gasps. All the anguish I had been holding in so as to "be strong" came out ... and I ended up limp, weak and sobbing as prayer continued on behalf of our entire family.

It was exhausting. I had a sense, however, of laying my head on Jesus' shoulder, hearing His heartbeat, and feeling His arm around me as if I were an injured lamb and He the shepherd ... and He was carrying me until I was strong enough to walk on my own.

A fresh wave of tears came welling up, later, as Pastor came over again after my husband was able to come off the stage (he'd been on worship team) and sit beside me. Pastor began to intercede for my husband - our pastor is a true shepherd; he has the ability to sense the emotions people are hiding or even unable to feel - and he began to groan in empathy as he prayed. And suddenly a dear friend was sitting there beside me on the other side, with her arm around me, weeping with us. 

It was a blessed and precious (if strange) time of true openness and fellowship - unlike anything I'd ever experienced in that place before. 

When we got home, I came to my computer and spent some time on Facebook, even crocheted a bit, and tried playing a computer puzzle-game. I think I remember watching some of the national news program on TV.

My husband had to wake me up an hour later to get me to go to bed and sleep. I stumbled through my nightly routine and went to bed. 

When I awoke, something felt different. I was laying on my belly, something I have not been able to do for months but especially for the last few days, because of that heavy, hard ball in my belly. 

It was gone.

I reached down to my belly and pushed. It felt spongy - pliable - just like the lower abdomen feels after one has delivered a baby. 

And I could take a deep breath without any pain at all. 

The scriptures talk about "laboring to enter into rest" - and although I know that has a deeper spiritual meaning, I believe that is exactly what happened. 

I had labored, given birth, and now I could rest. 

Just rest - trust - and let Him hold me.

Boxes

A lot of the blog posts I come up with are derived from conversations I've had with my husband. Like this one. This morning at breakfast we were talking about a few things, and the topic of preconceived notions came up, the tendency that so many people have to pre-judge what belongs where and who would or would not do [fill in the blank]. 

Although it's not an exclusive activity by any means, Christians do this a lot. I've been around believers who fall prey to the fallacy that as believers, we are better than the rest of the world. Oh, they would never admit it, but they seem to act as though they believe that we're ... well, we're God's favorites. 

Let me explain. I've actually heard, from one Christian or another over the years, that one can't be a committed Christian and also :

• have a chronic or terminal illness
• go bankrupt
• have been separated or divorced
• have rebellious kids who are into sex, drugs, and alcohol
• be addicted to drugs or alcohol
• be tempted by pornography
• have struggles with honesty
• question one's faith - or even God Himself
• be depressed or "blah"
• be a liberal / conservative / social democrat (or other political - or a-political - stripe)
• admit vulnerability or weakness
• watch certain kinds of movies or TV shows
• not want to be around other Christians, or at the very least, not "toe the party line"

... and the list goes on. And on.

"Interior With White Boxes" courtesy of sumetho at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

The tendency to put people into categories and slot them into uniformly sized boxes that all look the same (usually the same size and shape as the one who's talking) has done more to keep many believers living in silent misery for months, years, decades. 

The truth is, some - if not most - believers DO struggle with those things. Maybe not all at once, but the fact remains that we Christians are just as broken as the rest of the world around us. The ONLY difference is that we have someone to talk to about it and to whom we can give control of it. That's it, that's all. 

And whether we do or don't pray about it and / or give control of it over to God - only impacts on our own private relationships, including the one with God. It is not my business to pronounce judgement on a fellow-believer for anything, nor is it his (or her) job to fix what ails me. We can encourage each other, true, (and if we do, let's be sure we're not secretly putting the other person down) but putting each other in a box is tantamount to putting God in a box. 

Not that we are divine by any stretch - but when we categorize and pigeon-hole each other, we're saying to God that He can't possibly use or work through this person with "Thing X" in his or her life. 

That kind of smacks of arrogance, don't you think? "Be more like me. Then God will be able to do something with you." It implies that God is unable to accomplish His will when and how He chooses.

God's a big boy. It's His job to fix people; He alone has the power to do that. He can look after things Himself; if He wants my help, He'll ask for it specifically. He can do that. He's God!

Maybe it's time I let God out of the box and stopped trying to do His job for Him. Maybe it's time I let the people I know out of the boxes I've put them into while all the while I was thinking I was "helping" them. 

And while I'm at it, maybe I'd better stop keeping myself in one too, and start believing that God can and will effect change - positive change - in my life.

Mercy. Not Sacrifice.

Twice in the book of Matthew, I was reminded this morning, Jesus spoke to the religious elite of His day - the scribes and the Pharisees - and told them to find out what the Scriptures meant when they said, "I desire mercy and not sacrifice." He was quoting the prophet Hosea - the prophet who married a prostitute to prove how deep God's love goes.

The religious ruling class were all about sacrifice. They were all about making people aware that they were sacrificing, what they were sacrificing (whether an animal or some sort of food or habit) and how often / how much they were doing it. They were all about upholding the letter of the law, and they were obsessive about the tiniest little thing in the application of that law - even to giving a tenth of the product of their herb and spice gardens to the temple.

They even thought of themselves as self-sacrificing. They put themselves out (and made sure everyone knew it) to obey the Law and the associated rules and regulations. They put written passages of scripture into little boxes and strapped the boxes to their head so that God's word would always "be on their minds."

They consistently considered themselves the guardians of their faith. If someone was out of line, they pounced and pronounced upon that person without mercy. They thought that by doing so, they were protecting the purity of their connection with God. They set themselves up as judge and jury, and marginalized the hurting and the needy, rather than taking pity on them and showing them mercy. Judgment was swift and always seen in black and white. They hid behind their robes, their prayer shawls, their tassels, and their phylacteries (those little boxes I mentioned) and they looked down their noses at those who were 'uneducated' and 'unenlightened.' They trusted in their rituals and their position rather than seeking any kind of relationship with the God they claimed to serve, rather than admitting their own need of Him.

Photo "Bible" provided courtesy of
Arvind Balaraman at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

They were wrong.

Jesus called them "blind guides" and said that they swallowed camels whole ... but only strained out gnats (umm, at the other end. Quite the graphic picture!) 

Their blindness, Jesus told them, would persist because they insisted that they could see perfectly. They would not listen to the idea that they might be in error. Instead, they held fast to the way things had been done for generations, and they continued to dispense unyielding justice against all those who would dare to let their brokenness and their need of love and acceptance show. In a typical show of religious arrogance, one day they thrust a local prostitute down in front of Jesus, a woman that they had "caught in the very act of adultery," saying that the law demanded that she be stoned; what did He think? (What I find interesting was that they only quoted PART of the law; it said that BOTH parties were to be stoned. So where was the guy?? Perhaps he was getting his phylactery back on....) 

Jesus' response was telling. "Whichever one of you is without sin (the Greek says 'without this sin') may cast the first stone." 

Picture it. At least half a dozen men (and probably many more) gathered around this itinerant, dusty rabbi and a nearly naked woman, her eyelids swollen and red, her face streaked with tears and her hair undone and plastered to her cheeks ... and all Jesus would do was crouch down and write in the dust. Perhaps He was writing the names of their mistresses. Perhaps He was writing the words of Hosea, "I desire mercy and not sacrifice..." All I know is that they left, one by one, starting with the older ones. The only sound was the occasional thump as the rock each man held ... hit the ground. That, and the woman lying in the dust sobbing, her face in her hands, wordlessly crying out for someone - anyone - to not throw that first stone.

After the religious elite had "dropped their rocks and split" ... Jesus - the only person who could have cast the first stone - showed her mercy.

He didn't condone her sin.  But ... He didn't condemn her either. He forgave her totally: without reservation. He gave her a second chance.

That's mercy in action. 

That's Jesus.

Getting Desperate

I'm broken.

I lived in denial of that fact for a lot of years - especially as a Christian. Yet, it's true; I am irreparably flawed and there is nothing at all that I can do to change it. 

No matter how hard I try, I can't live the way I know God would like me to live - at all times selfless, loving, patient, gentle and joyful.

It's not humanly possible. 

I've lived through my own stage of the "speak it in faith sister" stuff. It doesn't work. In fact, whenever I said I was victorious while inside I knew I wasn't, it killed me more inside ... because I knew I was lying, no matter how many spiritual words I used. 

I can't be better than Abraham - whose only claim to fame was that he believed what God said to him. People who do the "speaking in faith" thing .... might forget that "speaking those things that be not as though they are" is a prerogative only reserved for the Creator. I did, and in my arrogance I spoke in faith (that is, I lied) believing that what I said would come to pass - but - I am not God. 

That is what I have learned. 

I am not God. 

My desire to please Him has not diminished; it never has dimmed. If anything, it is more than it ever was. However, I've realized that I simply, unequivocally cannot do it. I just can't. Learning this was a severe blow to my pride, but it planted a seed of something uncomfortable (yet so necessary) in me. 

Desperation. I need Jesus. So. Very. Much.

"Down on my knees, that's where I learned to stand" go the lyrics of one of my favorite gospel songs (from a few decades back). Those words say it much better than I can, how will power and living in denial are so insufficient. I had to reach a point where I depended on Him for everything. Not with an attitude of entitlement (like "God you Have to give me this because I'm Your kid!") but asking Him and then trusting Him to decide what's best for me.

The more I realize how much I need Him - for every breath, for guidance, for the strength to do every single "next right thing" in front of me - the more desperate I get for His presence on a moment-by-moment basis. 

Besides, if I could do it on my own ... why did Jesus have to die, anyway?

I invite you to listen to Charles Johnston and the Revivers sing that song.

"That" Woman

Of all the women in the Bible, the one with whom I identify most is Mary - the one from Magdala, the one out of whom, the Bible says, Jesus cast out seven demons. The one who was considered a 'sinner' - some say an adulteress, even a prostitute.

She was "that" woman.

"Husband - are you ogling 'that' woman?"

"No sweetie, go and play over there. You don't want to get close to 'that' woman." 

"Ladies, let's cross to the other side of the road. 'That' woman is walking on this side. We all know what she does." 

Her reputation crucified by her past actions, Mary was used to being ostracized by women and shunned by the religious elite ... and she was used to the rest of the men (single or not) looking at her like she was a piece of prime filet mignon they wished they could afford. Some of them could. Perhaps they did.

She felt used up, dirty, evil, worthless, rejected. She would never be accepted by the religious community; she'd stopped trying. Nobody had ever befriended her for who she was - only what she could do for them. 

Until she met Him. 

He didn't look at her with lust, the way the men of the village did. And he didn't treat her with disdain like the rest of the rabbis did. 

He accepted her. Maybe ... though she wondered how it could possibly be ... maybe He even loved her. Not in an erotic kind of way - but more like what she had always wanted her own father to love her. Tenderly; as if she was a treasure to be protected and cherished.

He liberated her on the inside with that love. In a single moment, and in the months that followed, He released her from years upon years of torment from her inner demons. 

Hope, gratitude, and all the love she had dared not give, sparked within her. 

She abandoned her former lifestyle, and joined the growing band of His followers, which included people from all social levels, including Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea, sitting members of the Sanhedrin, the religious elite - who knew? But that was the thing about Jesus, she thought to herself. It didn't matter who you were or what you had done - He loved you. He was always thrilled to see you.

Before long, because she was there all the time, she was in the inner circle, and well-known to the disciples and to the women who followed Him. It was strange - and wonderful - to be treated like a valuable member of a group that was closer than family. She was acutely aware of who and what she had been. She marveled that she was so warmly welcomed by all who surrounded this amazing Rabbi - whom she called 'Rabboni' - 'My Great Master.' It was the highest esteem that her language could afford.

"He who has been forgiven much," Jesus told a curious Pharisee one day, "loves much." 

Mary loved much.

When Jesus was arrested and crucified - words could not express her grief. He was her life, her heart. She could not imagine how she could ever go back to her former life after He had touched hers so profoundly.

She found herself turning to them: to His mother, and to Mary of Bethany, Lazarus' sister. Together, they made plans to honor His body with the traditional embalming spices and linens; He'd been buried so close to sunset, the beginning of the Sabbath, that there wasn't time to do a proper job. 

It was those two women - those two very respectable women - with whom she went to carry out the solemn task. They wondered how they could ever manage to roll the stone back from the door of the tomb when it took several men to do it before. 

Perhaps the soldiers would help. 

But - the soldiers weren't there. And - shock of shocks - the stone WAS rolled away! 

Tremulous, they peeked inside - and saw a man sitting there in a pure white robe. They listened incredulously as he told them that Jesus wasn't there anymore - that He was alive! "Go and tell His disciples." 

The other two Marys - each touched by the miraculous power of God in their lives - were amazed and joyful, and ran as fast as feet could fly to tell the eleven who were left - and in hiding - what they'd seen and heard.

But 'that' Mary couldn't bring herself to believe. Jesus' crucifixion was too fresh. She was convinced that this was some kind of cruel joke, that someone had taken His body and made off with it. She stayed outside the tomb and crumpled to the ground, distraught, as billows of grief overcame her. 

And then He was there. As soon as He spoke her name ... she KNEW it was Him.
 
"Rabboni!" she cried, still on her knees, and clung to His feet, deep sobs of joy and relief pouring out of her as she did. 

His first appearance after His resurrection wasn't to the religious elite. It wasn't even to the disciples, and as a matter of fact, He'd not even seen His Father yet. He stopped in the garden outside the tomb that early morning for one reason and one reason only. 

Because it was her. Because she was 'that' woman. 'That' woman ... who had learned to love ... with all of her heart.

The Fisher

He fished for a living. Together with his brother and other burly, well-muscled men, Peter could hold his own on a boat - or in a fight. 

But one day his brother came running up to him, out of breath. "I found him!" he exclaimed. "The Anointed One! I'm sure it's the Deliverer!" 

He was skeptical. "Really? how can you be sure?"

"Come and see!" Andrew told him. 

Peter followed - from afar. He watched this fellow from Nazareth touch sick people and they would instantly be well. He listened to this man teach, watched him love, care for people. He couldn't help himself. Maybe Andrew had been right.

And then, one day, it happened. Jesus called him to be one of His inner circle. "You'll fish men," He told Peter.

He left his nets behind for good. Ever impulsive and whole-hearted in whatever he did, Peter embraced this Master with everything he was. He soaked in the strange, compassionate teaching like a spiritual sponge; Jesus touched something in him that had never been stirred before. For the first time in his life, he felt truly loved. He marveled like a child at the mystery and the power of God shown in the miracles Jesus did, the things He said, and His willingness to touch the untouchables. 

He was absolutely sure that Jesus was the Messiah, that it was just a matter of time before the Master would burst forth and deliver them all from their oppressors, the Romans. He expected it to happen any day. 

Until the day that the opposite happened. The time was ripe, the soldiers were right there; it was perfect. 

He even took a swing with his sword at one of the arrest party - missed his neck and cut off his ear instead.  Jesus stopped him, and healed the man's ear.

Now. Now was the time; something amazing was bound to happen. 

Only ..... Only He didn't call the hosts of Heaven to come charging to the rescue. 

He let them arrest Him and take Him away. What??

Peter was dumbfounded. The tide had turned! How could this happen?

He'd built his life on the Master. He'd forsaken everything. Now ... the only One who could do anything to turn it around ... wasn't doing it. 

And anyone who was associated with Him would be the next target. He knew it as sure as he knew his own name. As much as he was unafraid to face the whole arrest party, he feared the Sanhedrin and their guards; they had the ear of the Roman governor and that made him very nervous! His fear made him want to cut and run - but his love for Jesus, and his curiosity about what might happen next, made him stay close - even if at a distance. Even while his world was falling apart.

And then ... someone recognized him. 

Peter felt trapped. He backpedaled. All he wanted to do was get away, find a place, lick his wounds. Bewildered, unsure, insecure, he denied ever knowing Jesus. Not once, but to three separate people in the space of a few hours. 

And suddenly Jesus was looking at him. One glance was all it took. The Master had said he would do this - and he (ever impulsive, ever leading with his heart) had promised that even if the others ran away, he wouldn't. He knew that Jesus knew what he'd done. His eyes brimmed with tears. He ran out into the night, into the dark, alone. This was so unusual for Peter; he usually liked the crowd - it invigorated him. Not now. Now, he buried his face in his hands and burst into deep, wracking sobs - for how long he didn't know and he didn't care. 

He was a failure. 

Even after Jesus rose from the grave - the greatest miracle of all - Peter still doubted himself. He decided to go back to the sea, to what he knew, to the life he'd abandoned three years ago. That, at least, he knew how to do. Besides, Jesus would never have any use for him. He'd dropped the ball. He had royally messed up. There was no going back.

Even that didn't work. All night he fished. Not one fish.

"Throwing Fishing Net During Sunset" courtesy of noomhh at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

He and his friends the Zebedee brothers were rowing back into shore in the dawn light when a voice called out to them. "Throw the net on the other side of the boat," it said. 

It went completely against what they were used to doing. Yet ... something about the tone of the Man's voice made them obey. 

Immediately, the net filled with fish - all kinds of fish - so many that the net almost broke! The men were laughing and sweating, straining against the sudden influx of wiggling, flopping fish.

Their laughter died down as they caught each other's eyes. Only One Person could do that. "It's the Lord," John said. 

Peter let go of the net - for the second time in his life - and jumped into the water. He rushed toward the shore, to the growing, tantalizing smell of frying fish. Jesus had cooked breakfast. 

The Master never said a word about the pall that hung between them. Both men knew Peter had denied knowing Him, that he was awash in shame. No, now it was more important to feed the body. They'd worked hard all night, and hunger was a great distraction.

After breakfast, Jesus and Peter found themselves alone - apart from the others - talking. 

"Do you love me more than these?" Jesus asked. 

Peter had learned his lesson about promising the moon. "You know that I like you," he replied.

"Feed my sheep."

"Do you love Me?"  Peter again affirmed that he liked the Master - as a brother or a friend.

Again the mysterious command. "Feed my lambs."

The silence was deafening. "Peter ... do you like Me?" 

Ouch. "Lord, You know all things. You know that I like You." 

"Feed my sheep."

In the space of five minutes, Jesus let Peter know that he was completely forgiven, that He was willing to start where Peter was - in the midst of his insecurities and self-doubt, and He refocused his attention on what really mattered: not comparing himself to others, but concentrating on his own relationship with God and listening to whatever it was that God had called him to do with his life. 

Seven weeks later - after Jesus had returned to the Throne, Peter's life would change completely.

He was about to get a much bigger net.

Wanting to - don't make it so

"I'm gonna live every moment of my life for Him. I'm gonna hold onto His hand."

"I won't rest until I've made myself like Him...."

I can't count the number of times, the number of people I've heard utter statements like these. Their desire is - as is mine - to live for Jesus. 

The problem with these kinds of statements is that in spite of how heartfelt they are, how well-intentioned they may be, they are doomed to failure. The truth is, there is no possible way that any one person can persevere that much, hold on that tenaciously, or make him or herself like Jesus. No. Way.

"Without Me," Jesus informed His disciples, "you can do nothing." 

NOTHING. 

I heard someone recently stand in front of the group of people I was in, and tell us what church members "should" be doing - the attitudes they "should" have and how they "should" make their mark on the world. What this person was describing was absolutely ... impossible. No amount of human effort can produce the truly joyous and free experience known as the abundant Christian life. 

If it were possible to do this by ourselves, Jesus would never have had to die.
 
It's BECAUSE we can't live the way He wants by ourselves that we need His grace in the first place. And once we experience that grace to change our spiritual DNA, do we really think we can say, "I can take it from here, God..."??

Like the southern gospel song says, "I can't even walk without You holdin' my hand." 

No really, I mean it. If I had to depend on MY holding on to HIM ... I KNOW I wouldn't make it. If I could do anything - anything at all - then I would have something to boast about. And I don't. I couldn't. It would all be wood, hay, stubble. Those are the things done in the flesh: things done using human effort. 

And they won't stand up to the flame of His passion.  The works HE does in us are the only ones that will last. They are the gold, silver, precious stones that will endure...

"The Cross and the Hand" courtesy of njaj at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

I can WANT to live up to the shoulds and oughtas until the cows come home - whatever that means. The point is that even though I might be able to sustain "good behavior" or "a witness" for a little while, it would be exhausting.  

You want to know how I know? 

I tried - for decades!!! Out of experience, I can honestly say that I just don't have the strength to sustain it - to endure in every circumstance. So wanting to - doesn't make it happen. At least, not consistently. Paul knew this struggle. "The good that I want to do, I don't do. The evil that I don't want to do, I end up doing. Oh wretched man that I am! Who shall deliver me from this body of death?" (Romans 7)

It's in leaning on Him, depending on His moment-by-moment unmerited favour and presence, that I can grow in grace. 

That doesn't come from me. 

It just doesn't.  It comes from utter dependence on Him. That way, if anything good happens - I know it's His doing.