Held

You came to be held.

This is what I keep coming back to this Christmas. You, very God, slipping from the womb of a terrified teenage girl, wriggling, wet, squalling in the cold night. Held.

Tiny fists flailing helplessly. Eyes unfocused, not yet able to even see the world you made. Mouth grasping for nourishment. Skin wrinkled, soft, and pale. The crown of your head misshapen by your birth.

While we, the weary lost, cast our hearts upward and waited for the brilliant breaking in of Your glory, You slipped in weak among us. Yes, You rose into our dark with the brightness of a new star, and those who were watchful saw. You sang to us Your message, and those who were quiet heard. You whispered to hearts a promise to appear, and those who were waiting received.

But mostly we waited in darkness, unaware while You came. Wrapped thick in our longings, we did not know that You came to be held. You needed us. To speak to You, clothe You, feed You, touch You. You came so we would raise You up among us, teach You our ways. You, the living Word, came unable to speak and received our own language. You came to sleep under our stars, walk our dusty paths, live our simple life of longing and love.

You came to be ours so we could be Yours.

We held You. Tiny. Fragile. Beating heart, grasping fingers, hungry cry. Clumsy hearts full of pride and desire, we took You in and rejected You by turns. We wounded You as we have wounded one another since the beginning. We made You our own.

We held close Your new tiny body, and a few years later we held it again, the body that we broke. The crown of Your head misshapen by our hatred. We held in our very hands the fact of Your life and death among us.

You let Yourself be held so You could hold us.

When You slipped from our grasp and rose from us, the waiting began again. And here we are now, still wrapped in our longings, bewildered, hurting, weary hearts seeking upward for the breaking in of Your glory. When will You return? When will Your light crush this tide of darkness?

The mystery of this Advent, this waiting, is that You are coming and yet You have come. You are here with us even as we wait for You. You hold us even in our longing to see Your face, touch Your robe. You speak to us even as we fill heaven with our cries. You slip in to be with us even as we wonder where you are.

You are the One who helps us to wait for You. You come to the watchful, the quiet, the waiting. To those who look.

To those who look.

Open our hearts to see You.

Master of the feast

John 2:1-12

When the wine ran out, the servants must have panicked. Surely some of the blame would fall on them. The humiliated master of the feast would be looking for a scapegoat. When Mary comes to Jesus—was she a friend of the master?—He almost seems to be smiling when He says, “What does this have to do with Me?” But He can’t refuse His mother, and she trusts Him completely.

The disciples must have wondered what He was up to, this man they still barely knew. And what did the servants think as they labored to fill the heavy jars with water, hauling bucket after bucket of something they didn’t need? Why is He wasting our time? We should be out looking for more wine. Who is this man, anyway? Their work must have seemed futile. And yet they obeyed.

Were they frustrated? Resentful? Stressed and anxious? Merely curious? As Jesus watched them work, was he grinning at them? Were they compelled by His presence? Were they afraid? What was it about Him that compelled them to do this?

We see only that they did as they were asked to do, whether or not they obeyed willingly. And then, when He told them to take that water to the master of the feast? Did they tremble as they did so? Did they laugh at his lunacy? Did they sneak a sip along the way? (I would have.)

I imagine their knowing glances when the master tasted the wine, assuming it came from the bridegroom. I wonder if they looked back at Jesus and saw Him still grinning at them. Our little secret. He showed Himself that day to be the true Mater of the feast, though unseen.

And what that must have done for them, His making them a part of His miracle. Suddenly they were no longer servants but confidants in a wonderful plan, a joke almost, of the biggest blessing.

His disciples saw all. I wonder what they remembered later, maybe feeling sometimes that their labors were futile, as they obeyed feeling like not enough, like water poured out, and then the Master, unseen, turned all their effort into the richest wine.

How to be part of a miracle

Disciple. You've declared yourself one of His--or rather He declared you one, and you followed. Ever since, you've been following Him all over the countryside as He starts this crazy revival. He touches the diseased, He walks among the people, He sleeps wherever His head lands. He says the craziest, most confusing, most wonderful things--and everywhere He goes, hope springs up like flowers in the sun. 

And now you're standing in the middle of a village, gulping down your fear, and you're telling the world. You're reaching out tentative hands and you're watching as His power heals those you touch. You're becoming part of something you never dreamed of, and His hope carries you like a tidal wave all the way back to His love. 

You all come back together and He pulls you away for a rest. He grins and listens as the stories pour forth, all of you with bright eyes telling of the wonder. Revival. Hope. The world is waking to the possibility of His kingdom here, now, right among them. And here you are, right in the midst.

The people find you and follow. They come and come and come, just coming, just waiting for that hope to rain on them again. And Jesus, He stands up to welcome them. 

Amazing how quickly the glow fades. We love serving You, Jesus, but enough already. Your own stomach betrays you. You're hungry. You're tired. The crowd is growing restless. It's time to be done. 

Send them away, Jesus, so they can eat. It's a reasonable request. It's been a long day. But Jesus just looks at you with that grin on His face. 

You feed them. 

There's a lot of people. Thousands of them. You suddenly remember that you're just a fisherman. 

He just stands there, waiting and looking at you. You all look at each other. Jesus, we have only this. You hold up your paltry loaves and fish.

You have only this small thing. You are not enough. 

Jesus shakes His head at you and He's still grinning. Give me what you have. Somehow you feel foolish as you hand it over. 

The crowds sit, and as Jesus just keeps breaking bread and grinning at you, you walk among these hope-starved people and you put this miracle into their upheld hands. And you wonder how you got to be a part of this at all, you, with your doubts and your insecurities and your ignorance. You give and you give, and you have enough. And after it's all over, you each pick up a basketful of much more than you started with. 

He doesn't say anything, but His look asks if you get it yet. 

He already gave you His authority. And His authority is always enough. How quickly we forget. 

You looked at the bread in your hands, and you looked at the crowd, and it wasn't sufficient. But Jesus took the bread and looked to His Father, and it was more than enough to meet all the need and overflow back into your own life. And even later, when you step out of a tiny boat in the midst of a raging storm and you look at the waves, you sink. But when you look at His face and you take His outstretched hand, you walk on water. 

He didn't call you for nothing. You haven't spent all this time following Him around only to sit on the sidelines. 

What has He called you to? He always gives you enough for whatever He asks of you. You already have His authority. Take a look at those little loaves in your hand and remember Jesus grinning at you in delight, waiting to watch you be part of His miracle. 

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.

Anything

My husband stepped down from his job yesterday.

And so the world changes just like that. The discussions and tears, the many, many words and wonderings, the prayers offered up from conflicted hearts—they have all led to this. We step out from all we have known for twelve years, and we step onto a path that is still dark to us, aside from the next small piece.  Beyond the next space of quietness and reflection, we have no idea where God is taking us. But we know He has led us to this.

Grief squeezes my heart and a part of me wants to cry out no, no, this is a mistake, we didn’t mean it. I look at all the labor, all the memories, all the faces and hearts we love, this space where we have struggled and failed and triumphed for so many years. And I don’t want to let go.

But I know it is time. I hear Ben talk about how grateful he is for what he has learned and how he has grown, but he knows there is a new call on his life. I look at what God has done in us this year, and I know He is moving us on.

It’s terrifying.

Those stories about faith are easier to believe when they are just stories. Abraham and Sarah walking away from a rich life to wander in the wild, just because God told them to. Moses walking from the wild back to face his nightmares, only to go into the wild again with a whole nation trailing behind him. David picking up those little rocks and looking into the face of a giant. Two young men walking away from their nets and their livelihood to follow a man into a life they cannot imagine.

So many stories, Lord. You give us those stories so we will know. You are faithful. You have great plans for us. You’re working all things for our good.

Imagine if Abraham had never left his home. If Moses had remained a shepherd in that sleepy corner of the world. If David had never stepped out to fight. If Your disciples had stayed where it was safe and comfortable.

I’m sure you would have accomplished your purposes anyway. But they never would have seen the power, love, wonder of their God. They never would have known you as they did in the end. And they never would have been a part of your great story.

I promised You anything. I have begged to know you. I have said I want to be part of your story. And here I stand on the threshold of an unknown future. We step out into . . . what? I have no idea, beyond the next few months. You could be leading us anywhere. Into anything.

It’s so easy to be afraid. Are we doing the right thing? What if we fail? What if we can’t find good jobs? What if we never figure out what we are supposed to do? What are people here going to say about us? What will they think? Will the things we worked so hard for—and still love—die?

But.

But I don’t want to get to the end of my life full of regret that I didn’t believe. That I didn’t follow you. And that I missed all the blessing you wanted to pour out, all the beauty you wanted to show me, all the miracles you wanted me to be a part of.

If I really believe you, then I don't need to be afraid. I don't need to wonder what's next, because I know the One who holds my every moment in His hands, who knew all the days that were written for me before I was born. I can trust you with my days and the days of those I love.

I’m ready.

I want your anything. And if this is the way, I will go.