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Desperate?

I am desperate.

I don’t feel desperate. I feel healthy and happy.

That’s the problem.

I’m not sick, hungry, thirsty, or poor. But whether I feel it or not, I am desperate for God. I need his power. I need his wisdom. I need to be taught to pray.

I need power to love. I need power to want to love. I need power to want to forgive. I need the love of God put in my heart for others.

How about you?

A neighboring child desperate for affection Pictures, Images and PhotosJesus’ first statement when he sat on the mountain to teach was about being “poor in spirit.” Brennan Manning says that’s about knowing our utter poverty before God. We have nothing to offer him. Nothing. We are completely dependent. Indeed, desperate.

Though we are in critical need, we need not despair, because the Holy Spirit is at work in us.

But if we felt our spiritual desperation more keenly, we might seek more intensely. Distracted by pleasure and comfort, health and happiness, we may find it challenging to seek God’s wisdom, power, love.

Whether we feel it or not, the reality remains. We are all desperate for God.

Lord Jesus, work a poverty of spirit into our hearts. Help us grasp our inherent desperation for you.  Come, Holy Spirit.

 

 

 

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Through Danger and Toil

The day has come. Today is the last day of Jerry’s work with the city. For almost thirty years, as both an electrician and a parking meter technician, he has faithfully toiled to serve the people of Urbana.

Normal Street Backyard Pictures, Images and PhotosA Valentine’s day, 1990, ice storm injured his back, but it was the accident on July 7, 1992 that nearly electrocuted him.

It was a dangerous job, electrician. That day, he cut into a series streetlight wire that had been switched off. But, disrupted by lightening, the circuit was still carrying 6.6 amps. Five milliamps is enough to kill.

God, though, carried him through. After six months of recovery, he went back, soon shifting to working with non-lethal parking meters.

We’ve imagined this day. We’ve prepared for this day. We’ve hoped for today. We were not entirely sure it would ever come. Cancer might have ruptured our hope. Another accident could have stymied our dreams.

What are you waiting for? What day are you dreaming of? Like us, what you are waiting for may or may not arrive.

Unlike that great transition day of entering Jesus’ presence. If we are believers, that day is on its way. We can imagine that day. We can hope for that day. And, though we may endure much more danger and toil, that hope is sure.

Jesus, we thank you for hope.

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No Favorites

Have you ever wondered if God likes you as much as he likes Billy Graham or Francis Chan or Loren Cunningham? Those men or women to whom he’s given great responsibilities? In Galatians 2:6, Paul notes how the leaders at Jerusalem added nothing to his preaching, ending with:  (By the way, their reputation as great leaders made no difference to me, for God has no favorites.) NLT

Really? He doesn’t like Joyce Meyer better than me? He doesn’t appreciate Mary DeMuth’s contribution more than mine? He doesn’t like the pastor’s ministry more than the nursery worker’s?

Am I the only one, who in some primitive part of myself, thinks others with more public ministries get more of God’s attention? Sure, I know that’s not true…theoretically, intellectually, cognitively…however you want to specify the adult part of me. God is not partial. He loves everyone the same. The most ordinary are as valuable as the most extraordinary.

I long for Paul’s extraordinary confidence in his specific calling to preach the good news to the Gentiles. Sure of his appointment, Paul wasted no time comparing himself to anyone else, nor was he intimidated by anyone else’s work. He knew God valued him and had called him individually.

I want to be that sure of the call of God on my life. And that clear that I am as important as anyone else. I know that, in my head. I’d like to feel it, all the time, in my heart. That I still wrestle with value, at almost sixty years old, says so much about the impact of childhood emotional neglect…of not being valued.

Maybe one or two of you understand. Pray with me: Lord Jesus, make it emotionally real to us that we are immensely valuable to you. Refresh our hearts with your love and power. We want to be done with any sliver of self-rejection and full of confidence in your work in our hearts. For your glory, Amen.

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Waiting Questions

Jim Croegaert has a song, “Waiting,” on his CD, Heaven Knows.  I listened to it on my thousand mile drive to Colorado earlier this week and it’s running through my mind this morning, waiting for a grandbaby.

In a personal prophecy a few years ago, a gentle man spoke God’s thoughts: “You’ve felt like there’s just been a lot of waiting, but I’ve been preparing you.” I waited thirty years to write the book and I’m still waiting because, in some ways, I’m just getting started.

Waiting for Christmas Day Parade Pictures, Images and PhotosLife is waiting. What are you waiting for? For a child, a spouse, a house, a job? For a rebellious child to recognize the joys of obedience? For a wife to give you her heart again? For the disorderly neighbor to move?

And how do we discern what to wait for? What we want may or may not happen. Who knows on what basis life comes to us? This is a fallen world. Not all that happens now is God’s will. We pray for God’s kingdom to come, for his will to be done on earth as it is in heaven.

How do we know when to wrestle in prayer and when to sit with quiet confidence? We listen for God’s direction, but how do we strengthen our faith to believe we’re actually hearing God’s still, small voice?

Those are my questions this morning. What are yours?

Jesus, we need your wisdom, power, faith, and peace. Come, Holy Spirit.

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I Will Yet Praise Him

praise Pictures, Images and PhotosWhy are you downcast, O my soul?                                                                                                                                       Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God. Psalm 42: 5, 11 and 43:5

Three times in these two Psalms, the writer admonishes himself. In D. Martin Lloyd-Jones book, Spiritual Depression, which I read years ago when I fought serious depression, he references these verses as he talks about “taking ourselves in hand.” That’s the phrase I recalled as I slogged through July.

In previous years, it was a revelation that I didn’t have to let myself live in what I felt. I could, to some extent,”take myself in hand,” and step outside it, into more objectivity.

When we’re seriously depressed, though, there’s no objectivity. We see only what’s right in front of us. Our perspective narrows. But the blahs come in several shades of gray.  And my July experience, rather than the nighttime of severe depression, was about the color of our house–a pewter hue of slowed-downness.

One of the secrets of coping with feeling down is not to shame oneself for it. That down mood is our cue to ask for insight and wisdom from our Father-God who loves to give us what we need. We need to know what’s feeding the depression so we can pray more effectively.

I don’t know all that burdened me those weeks. (Even therapists don’t always make sense of their own issues.) Jerry’s cancer, my extra few pounds, feeling professionally stymied, all contributed. I assume Satan had a hand in it.

Whatever. Under stress, I’m prone to depression. We all have our weaknesses. Unlike some other periods of my life, I got out of bed every day. I cooked and did my usual duties. But I read a lot, wasn’t creative, and praise required choice.

I chose to remind myself, daily, that my hope is in Jesus. Not ministry, or a healthy husband, or weighing what I weighed in high school.

When we cannot muster deep-hearted praise, it’s time to remind ourselves that we will again. God will bring us back. He will bring us out. Jesus promises his peace.

Jesus, thank you for all the times you’ve carried us through. Meet us again, today, with your truth and your smile.

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Heavy Fellowship

Jesus Christ Crucifixion christian alphabet Pictures, Images and Photos“Take up your cross and follow me,” Jesus says. Three of the four gospel writers record this statement, Matthew twice. (Mark 8:34, Luke 9:23, Matthew 10:38 and 16:24) What does he mean? Growing up on the farm fifty years ago, a neighbor referred to her husband as her “cross to bear.” He didn’t go to church with her, but I don’t think he beat her. To my nine-year-old self, he seemed okay.

I haven’t heard that phrase lately. Not even in church. Certainly not in Atlantic Monthly or O Magazine.  Twenty-first century Americans don’t like to hear of bearing crosses. We’d be more likely to divorce the bum.

We follow our own north star. We find our bliss. At least, that’s the advice, applicable, of course, only to those of us still working and living in our own houses.

The first century Roman cross was the instrument of capital punishment, meant to kill slowly, with great humiliation. Wikipedia describes the horrors.

What, exactly, did we sign up for when we signed up with Jesus? What kind of gruesome call is the call to carry our own cross? I much prefer finding my bliss.

And yet, we all know what he’s talking about. The cross that Jesus carried was made heavy by sin. Not his own, but ours:  sins of violence and self-absorption, of neglect and narcissism.

And isn’t that what our cross is also made of? Unlike Jesus, our cross is also weighed down by those unavoidable consequences of our own sin. Like Jesus, though, our cross includes the consequences of others’ sin against us.

If you’re a married survivor of sexual abuse, you’ve know the price you’ve paid for your perpetrator’s sin. If you’re the sister of a murdered sibling, you ache with that deprivation. If you’ve watched a child self-destruct, you, too, are carrying a cross.

Jesus carried and died on that Roman cross, for the “joy set before him.” (Hebrews 12:2) And so it is for us. Carrying our crosses in fellowship with him, we thank him for the sure hope of sharing that joy.

Jesus, please give us grace today to take up our cross, with hope.

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What’s Love Got to Do With It?

Me: “Do you really want to let the bicycle trailer to stay out in the weather all summer? What about putting it in the shed?” He’d lifted the fabric-covered carrier off it’s hooks inside the back door and locked it to the outside of the screened porch.

Jerry: “There might be room, but the shed is behind the Kousa Dogwood tree. It’s hard to get it in and out back there.”

Me: “What about the garage? We could hang it above my bike.”

Him: “You’re not the one who has to lift it down.”

Me: “Oh. But in three years, I am the one who’ll have to replace the the sun-damaged fabric.”

Him: “Yup!”

Uh, do we love each other? Absolutely. Well, sort of absolutely, except where we love ourselves better. Like when I want to save the fabric but don’t mind him having to struggle with the carrier. And when he doesn’t want to hassle with hanging the carrier but doesn’t mind my challenge to sew and install new material.

You can hear the discussion of this morning’s conflict. What you don’t hear in this exchange is the laughter. What you don’t see is, as we uncovered the deeper issues, we were snuggling with each other. So, yeah, love does have something to do with it.

It’s love made of commitment and prayer that has brought us here to this place of conflict resolution backgrounded with laughter and hugs. God’s commitment, our prayers.

Here’s three I’ve often prayed. “Lord, help me understand why “X” hurts him so much.” “Help him understand how “Y” hurts me so much.”  And my favorite, all-purpose, marital prayer in the midst of conflict:  “Lord, soften our hearts toward each other.”

Lord Jesus, thank you for your love for us and the love you’ve given us for each other. Lord, soften all our hearts toward each other, especially men and women who have pledged their lives to each other and to you.

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Thin Places?

Flowers saved me. Not like Jesus saves me, of course. But that’s what ran through my mind yesterday as I bent to smell the fuchsia peony. The scent of the flower next to the sidewalk took me back to my mother’s garden. In the emotional barrenness of my childhood on the farm, her peonies, lilies, and roses spoke to me of another reality. Peonies still speak to me today.

In my childhood whiff of another place, I sensed a life I longed for. A life of hugs and belonging and affirming words. I didn’t have those words for that experience then. Just a vague sense. Only looking back can I put words to the bit of hope that carried me through that desert.

Mary DeMuth’s new memoir of her difficult childhood, Thin Places, describes those experiences where she sensed God’s hope, where the boundary between earth and heaven was “thin.”

Flowers continue to be a thin place for me. Snuggling with my sweet husband is a thin place. Group singing of worship songs is often, though not always, a thin place.

What saved you in childhood? What strengthens your hope now as you long for the Kingdom fully come? Where are your “thin places”?

Jesus, thank you for those scents of you. Those that carried us through and those that are still thin places.

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The Backpack-carrying God

On my morning walk, I noticed a mom holding the hands of her two early elementary age children, on the other side of the busy brick street. When traffic cleared, she let go and they ran across, jostling oversized backpacks. On their way to school, I assumed, the children trudged in front of me up the side street. From the front porch, Mom shouted encouragement.

Do many believers think that’s a picture of God with us? We’re on our way to study or work for him, hauling a huge backpack.

Do we experience God as watching over us, certainly, but from a distance? He’s above us, on the porch, able to see a long way. He’s calling to us, “Keep it up. No, don’t dilly-dally there. Good job. You can carry that load.”

Is that what he means when he says in Matt. 28:20, “I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.”? This is the God-man who wept with Mary and Martha at the tomb of Lazarus. It’s the Spirit of Jesus who settled like tongues of fire in that upper room where 120 followers waited and prayed for “power from on high.” The one who is with us always is the Father-God of whom Isaiah says, “In all their distress he too was distressed.” (63:9)

He’s not just standing on the porch, cheering us on. He’s carrying the pack, walking with us, holding our hand.

Jesus, sweet Jesus, we long to experience, daily, that sense of your manifest presence with us. More Lord, more.

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Promise Keeper God

Spring is compressed in central Illinois this year.  Usually the redbud, dogwood, and crab tree blooms are separated by a week or two.  This year, however, everything is blooming together. In the backyard, the weeping cherry waves its pink blossoms. On my morning walks, I stop to smell the viburnums at the library. Last night, biking back from dinner with friends, the crabs perfumed the air. Bluebells dress the pasture out at Homer Lake. Unlike some years when they turn brown from an untimely freeze, tulip magnolias have bloomed and are spreading pink petals at their feet.

This winter awakening reminds me of an April a few years ago in Washington, D.C.. The tulips painted the ground with reds and yellows around the monuments while the crabs, dogwoods, and redbuds stood in full-dress guard. Another spring we caught the cherry trees around the Tidal Basin. We walked to the Jefferson Memorial as the pink blooms fell at our feet. And once, a very long time ago, the wisteria across the front of the National Gallery was in bloom. Magnificent green and purple against the white marble.

Every spring is different. Sometimes I’m in a different place. Sometimes the sequence of reawakening life is spread out or interrupted. But so far, spring has arrived. Every year.

Just like God promised in the beginning:  “While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease.” Genesis 8:22.

Father, you are a God who keeps his promises. Thank you.

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Jesus Weeps

In treatment for prostate cancer, my husband says, “God loves me. Jesus is weeping with me.” That statement is the healing. Jerry has come to know the compassionate God. Exodus 34:6.

Wrestling with the indignities and struggles of life, we are tempted to say, “Where are you, God? What’s going on? Why is life so hard?”

We don’t really know what is going on. We have no idea of the heavenly wars. We don’t know what Satan is trying to stop. We don’t know what God is working to accomplish.

What Jerry and I do know:  God will carry us through. We know because God has already carried us through big sufferings: near-electrocution and mental illness; and small: car breakdowns and broken limbs.

God’s key healing is not the emotional and physical health. It’s the ability to rest in his compassion. We’ve been angry with God at times and we may be again. But we have learned that more is going on in the world and in history than we have any idea of.

While we may not know what is at stake, we know something is. And we know we are not alone in an unfeeling universe. Jesus weeps with us as he does with you.

Jesus, in the midst of today’s suffering, may we sense your tears.

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The Last Act?

"When these things begin to take place, stand up and lift up your heads, because your redemption is drawing near."Luke 21:28

DSCN1465

Lately, this scripture plays in the back of my mind, like a soundtrack. Is it my age or the stage of the world?  At 58, I'm at the beginning of my last act here. So maybe it's just looking forward to the epilogue, which I'm expecting to turn out to be the play itself.

And yet, the world's play begins to feel like it's in its final act, too. America is in deep debt. Many would have us believe there's only this story, so why not eat, drink, and be merry? Maybe I'm reacting to the pace of technological change. I'm getting tired of Twittering and Facebooking and who knows what the next big thing will be.

In Luke 21, Jesus talked about earthquakes, war, and famine. We're all aware of Haiti's grief. America fights two wars. People continue to starve to death. Those signs are already on stage. And yet, Jesus also mentions other signs of the end. "Jerusalem surrounded by armies"–not yet. "Signs in the sun, moon, and stars" –not that I can tell. Is "fainting from terror" like stress-related heart attacks? Is that sign is already in costume, waiting backstage?

Maybe it's just America's strutting on the stage that is coming to an end. Or just mine. Whether regional, global, or personal, there will be an end. What can we do?

We can lift up our heads to look for our redemption. We can be careful, as Jesus warns, so that our hearts are not "weighed down with…the anxieties of life" so we will be ready. He said he'll come unexpectedly, and yet he also gives us some warning signs to listen to. When the curtain comes down, whether on our life or the life of the world, may we have ears to hear his music.

Father, you, alone, know the time of the end. Please prepare our hearts.

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The Call of Wisdom

Wisdom, Proverbs says, is supreme. “Though it cost all you have, get understanding.”(4:7) 

The wise person manages his weaknesses. He flees the streets of temptation. Some doors are always locked and the keys have been melted in fire. He knows “Just this once” is a dark lie. He understands his Father’s call.

Door, Dunbarton Oaks

The wise person recognizes her strengths. She develops her talents, with Godly boldness. When fear knocks, she locks him out. Though fear camps on the front porch, when the call comes, she strides through its slime. 

The wise person obeys the God who calls us out of darkness into his marvelous light. (1Peter 2:9) That obedience, though it may cost all we have, is worth all it costs.

Father, we are stupid and dull in ways we don’t fully realize. We need your wisdom today.

 

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