Tent pitching

I can’t help wondering what it was like. To be in that stable. To be an exhausted teenage girl struggling through the terrors of giving birth, an equally terrified man at your side, and then suddenly to hold him, to look down at God in your arms.

What glory must have filled that place? What would it be like to be the first one to hold him, to be so proud and awed and humbled and frightened all at once?

“The Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14).

That phrase, “dwelt among us,” literally means he “pitched his tent.” He pitched his tent among us. Why would God use this picture?

I’ve been thinking about the Hebrew slaves, newly released from captivity. They were free, but they were not yet home. And God knew they had a long way to go to get there. He knew they faced years of wandering in the wilderness. They would face enemies and giants and hunger and weariness and despair. They would fall and fail and fall again.

But they would also see miracles and beauty and joy, and they would throw some really great parties. Because God was with them. He had pitched the tent of his presence right there in their midst. “Let them make me a sanctuary, that I may dwell in their midst” (Ex. 25:8). He set up his tent and came into it, and it was full of his glory (Ex. 40:34).

Why didn’t God come to a palace or a mansion? We asked our students. Who is welcome there? “Only the best people,” a girl whispered.

Only the worthiest could pluck up the nerve to walk to the door of God’s mansion and feel welcome. And none of us are worthy.

That’s why he comes to us. God, he wants to dwell in our midst. He pitches his tent right there next to yours and says, “I’m with you. I’m here.” He knows we could never walk up to the door of his house, so he comes to ours. He becomes a baby so we can hold him. He grows up among us so we can know him.

Times got tough for Moses and he got pretty frustrated. He asked God, “Are you with us, or not?” And God replied, “My presence will go with you, and I will give you rest” (Ex. 33:14).

Sounds a lot like a man who told us, “Come to me, all who are burdened and heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Mt. 11:28).

When God is with us, he brings light and life. He brings hope. We can come to him because he came to us. He knows we have a wilderness to wander through before we are home. He knows there are giants to face. But he also knows there is a Promised Land that is just beyond, and when we get there, all this suffering will find its shape and these earthly tents will fall away to reveal the glory he has purposed all along. That’s why we can expect miracles and look for joy and throw some really great parties.

You are free. But you are not yet home. But in the meantime, here he is. He’s pitched his tent in your yard, and he’s inviting you in to rest.

I almost missed Advent

Yesterday Advent began and I almost missed it.

Last night I stood under a bedazzle of millions of Christmas lights all dancing to music blaring through the streets, all the glitter and noise celebrating US! And our stuff! And fun! Welcome to the season of eating and spending and all our desires fulfilled! I stood agape with the rest of the crowd and felt the Christmas frenzy coming on. 

 

Around the corner from the party a quiet street held the obligatory nativity. No dancing lights here, no blaring music. As if the creators of the show somehow knew that here was a sacred thing. Though the scene was fake and even a bit cheesy, that place somehow for me became holy. This was not a place to be profaned by our noisy self-worship.

A crazy thought. What if these thousands of people celebrating suddenly stopped and knelt at the manger? What if we all went together to this holy place? What if we hushed our hearts to listen? What would we see? What would we hear?

Advent. Coming. A season for reflecting upon the coming of Christ into our world. This is a holy time. That chaos and noise and frenzied search for meaning? That’s exactly what He came to enter into. To stop us. Still us. Show us the way.

He came that long ago time to those whose hearts were ready. Shepherds standing under the endless, quiet sky. Wise men searching that same sky for promise, for hope. Anna and Simeon, waiting in the temple for God to speak. And a terrified mother and father, gazing with bewildered wonder at the God in their arms.

He came to be touched. Held. Heard. Known. He is still coming. It’s easy to miss Him when the world beckons and bedazzles. It is easy to lose Advent when the demands of life press in.

This is when we must press into Him.

Nations are in uproar and kingdoms fall, but God is coming to save us and make us glad. He calls us to “Be still, and know that I am God.” When we are still, then HE is exalted (Psalm 46).

Stillness is a choice. Pressing in is a discipline. Advent is the perfect time to step into the holy hush of His coming. Miracles might be waiting for us in the quiet. Rest might restore us to the God who calls for us.

When the loud lures, let’s step around the corner into the stillness of His presence. He is here, and He has been here all along. He always comes for us, if we will let Him.

This is what I've been thinking about for four months

I’m not sure any of this is going to make sense.

And if it does, you might not like it. But I need to say it anyway.

It has been awhile (OK, four months, sigh), since my last post. Even as my own life has been upended and put back together again in beautiful, scary ways I never imagined, I’ve walked with friends through some dark valleys. Mental illness. Unfaithful husbands. Abusive husbands. Miscarriages. Addictions. Rebellious children. Loneliness, depression, despair, anger, bewilderment, longing. I have seen the yawning chasms of need and loss, doubt and indifference, fear and apathy. And I have watched with the rest of the world as terror rears up like a dragon and howls its hatred.

At night I stare at darkness that billows up into my heart, fear pressing in. These giants are real and large and dangerous. What can I do? What can I say? How can I stand against such need? I am small. And the evils of the world are very, very big. I try to write and it feels like throwing pebbles at a brick wall.

A voice in the darkness. A whisper to my heart.

Press in.

It’s the word God gave to us sisters when we huddled around our broken hearts, crying out our confusion and grief. It’s the word He continued to speak into my bewildered and aching soul through all the long summer and the healing time that followed.

Press in.

When the fear presses in, press into Him.

When the doubt presses in, press into Him.

When everything you know seems like not enough and despair takes hold, press into Him.

He is enough. This is what I am coming to know, and this is what I am learning to tell myself over and over when the darkness looms.

But I spend so much time thinking about things that don’t matter. I waste endless hours comparing myself to others in ways that miss the point about why we are here and what we should be doing. I am so easily consumed by the petty, the trite, and the insignificant.

I’m not saying the day-to-day details are not important. They matter more than we know. They matter because it is the moments that make up a life. And we are letting the enemy take them.

I am convinced that great darkness is coming for us. The enemy is prowling and his hatred is growing, and we forget this all too easily. We are lulled away so quickly. We chase our dreams of comfort and security at any cost. Or we know it and we are terrified, staring at the giants like we are kids with stick swords.

Mostly I have been mired in the insignificant. But in those moments when I really press in, I see it clearly. There is a war and we are the warriors and we have the weapons to fight.

The enemy is coming, is already among us. We can forget and lose ourselves in apathy and pettiness, or we can let fear paralyze us.

Or we can press in.

We can start to know—to really know our God. And knowing Him, we can begin to truly know ourselves and one another. And we can be ready.

What would it look like to press into Him continually? How would it shape my days, my relationships, my thoughts? He longs for us to know Him, and He longs to transform us. We have become so blind to Who We Are and to Who Our God Is, and we don’t really believe He is enough for us. We don’t believe that we are enough in Him. I don’t believe. Not always. But I want to. I want to know Him. I want to be transformed.

This thought fills me like fire in the bones. We must press into Him. I feel so weak and small and broken and inadequate, but the more I press into Him, the more I know His truth in my very soul.

We are His. Made in His image, glorious and beautiful and strong. What if we started really knowing and believing and living the truth? What if we lived like warriors and took up our weapons together?

Our enemy is great. But he knows full well that our God is infinitely greater. He’s the father of lies and he will never stop lying to keep us from our God.

We must press in. Our lives depend on it.

What does this look like? I don’t know yet. But I want to find out.

Will you join me?

Worth the risk?

There are days when you walk alongside your friend, who is facing deep pain and unspeakably hard things, and you feel this powerless sorrow. You hear stories of profound spiritual warfare, stories straight from a movie script, and you are afraid. And the stories begin to reverberate through your little world, bouncing around and picking up speed and force, and the texts fly and the conversations become these fearful wonderings. Now what?

And you gather together with other friends and you start to put words to your

fears.

How could God let this happen? Where is He?

If this is what happens to people who draw near to God, then why do it? Why draw closer to God if it’s only going to hurt more?

You feel the enemy leering, grinning in the background.

Yes. What if you go all in for God and He makes you suffer too? And what if I am more powerful than you ever dreamed?

My friend who is suffering deeply, my friend knows Jesus like no one else I know. And I know what she would tell me.

It’s all worth it when you know Him.

Yes, when you draw in, when you really truly begin to seek God, you find Him. He fills you and you start to change the world around you. You become this light. And you do have an enemy who wants that light out. He’ll do anything to stop you.

The question is a valid one. Why draw near if the cost is so great?

Maybe it’s easier to just follow God a little bit. Maybe you don’t quite want to give Him everything, because after all, He’s not quite safe. Not quite predictable. And at the end of it all, maybe He’s not quite as good and loving as He says.

And maybe you do feel safe. Maybe you don’t feel pain. But you don’t feel joy, either. Not really. Now the enemy has you right where he wants you.

You haven’t risked everything, so you don’t know what it’s like when Jesus takes it all and gives you Himself in return. You believe these lies that you are OK because the truth, it just isn’t quite safe.

Or maybe you do risk it all. Maybe He takes it all and turns it to ash, right there at your feet, all your dreams decimated.

If this is what it means to follow You, I’ll stick with my dreams, thanks.

But what are you missing if you stick with your dreams? What if that perfect thing you hold to is only a shadow of the gift He longs to give? What if pain is the doorway to knowing Him for real, the only way to make us let go of our hold on the shadowlands?

When you start to get in His word and really take Him at His word, when you become desperate enough, you give it all up.

And then you see Jesus.

The one who thirsts for a cup of water is given a waterfall. The one who longs for a candle is given the sun.

The risk is worth it.

The truth is worth it.

It’s possible that you may have to suffer more than you can imagine. But it’s possible that life could become deeper, richer, more meaningful than you ever knew it could. It’s possible you have no idea what True Love is until you see it in your deepest pain.

And just maybe you and your sisters huddle together around your Bibles whispering your broken prayers. And then those whispers become louder and louder, they become a weeping and a lamenting, a praising and a claiming of all the things you know.

You offer up your hearts and you take up these flaming swords and you start to strap on this armor. You begin to feel strong. You meet again and you become bold. You become warriors. Promises begin to fly like arrows.

Something happens when you are struck by truth. You are pierced. And in your wounds you find either healing or destruction.

I think of my friend shining brighter than ever before. I think of the prayers she has ignited, the hearts that have been gripped by her story. I think of all the crazy messy beauty of her life and how the God she loves is blazing out of all those cracks, flooding over the rim of her soul and spilling out to touch us all.  I think of my sister-warriors and the drawing together of our hearts and prayers. I think of victory, and I think of the depths of his love that is the truth He longs for us to know, and I see how we are coming to know it, bit by bit.

He is worth it.

Purest gold: what I learned from 10 year olds

I stand in a darkened room with thirty faces pointed up at me. I’ve been

watching them all week, these faces. I’ve seen them try on the masks of indifference and I’m-too-cool-for-you. But they are not quite there yet. Not quite old enough to perfect the game. They are still kids with thirsty hearts they can’t quite hide.

Today we talk about how the world hurts. How it’s hard and unfair and downright mean. All day I’ve been asking the kids who troop through here, “What hurts in your life right now?” I’ve heard a lot of my mom makes me eat green beans and I fell off the trampoline.

But not these kids. They are old enough now to know the deeper hurts life brings.

The hands shoot up and the sorrows start piling up like wailing. My parents got divorced. My mom has cancer. My sisters died. I never got to meet my dad. And in the eyes of some of them I can see the unspoken: Someone close to me has hurt me deeply.

My helpers behind me can’t write fast enough. They fill the white board with words of hurt, betrayal, pain, confusion. The kids and I stare at all that muck. Yes, life hurts us, doesn’t it? And as we spray the words with water and they start to run down like tears, like smudges of filth that don’t make any sense, I want to weep for them. God’s beloved.

And this is how it feels, isn’t it? Like we just can’t stop crying sometimes. Like the pain is going to keep running inside us forever and it won’t end.

They are so riveted they have forgotten their masks. They stare at me. I wonder if anyone has ever given them permission to say yes, life sucks.

I find myself telling them their lives may look like this for a long time. Hard. Messy. Painful. It may not get easier. But. But. And I can feel the deep inhalation in the room, and I will my words to come out right, to go straight into their broken hearts.

But when we know Jesus, we have a best friend who never fails us. Never betrays us. Never leaves us. We have a best friend who has the power to love us forever.

And THE kid, the one who has fought against us all week, the one who mocked me yesterday when I presented Jesus, who told all of us to shut up, that kid is sitting front and center, and he’s looking at me with this confused hope. He’s about to jump out of his skin.

After Jesus died for you—YOU!—he went up to heaven and he is there, preparing a place for you. A beautiful place with no more tears—ever. No sadness, no sickness, no fear.

I ask them what they think heaven will be like and the church kids start throwing out the standard responses. One kid asks if people will be made of clouds. I feel the moment slipping away. And then this kid, the one whose eyes haven’t left my face, he jumps up and he shouts,

“And we will get to SEE Jesus there???”

My heart bursts. I can hardly hold back my tears. Yes, oh yes, we get to see Jesus.

Only the hopeless can fully grasp the hope of this message.

“But, I always thought when we died we just went to sleep in the ground forever.”

And I get to say, no, no, no! You get to see Jesus. You get to live forever with the one who loves you forever. And this? All of this? He will turn it all to purest gold.

The time ends and that kid walks out of my life, maybe forever. But he has forever marked my heart, and I pray he doesn’t forget this hope. I pray he grasps the only truth that can anchor him through the storms that are surely coming.

I am so focused on him that I never notice the quiet girl in the corner, the one who stays afterward and looks at me with eyes full of sadness. She tells me in halting words that she wants this hope. She wants Jesus to be her best friend.

We pray together. The wonder of this gift astounds me and I understand why I am the one who is blessed. To be there when someone meets Jesus for the first time, to feel the truth of his forever-love flooding into her heart—it is a great gift.

 

This morning I watch the sun rise and I think of those kids and all those tears running down. I stop and I am still—finally—and I give him my own tears. I decide to live like I really believe it. Jesus is my best friend, the friend who never fails me, and he has the power to love me forever. And someday all this will be turned to gold.