Day in the Heart

Have you ever thought about all you put your heart through on any given day? I thought about this on a recent day that was shaping up to be just one of those long days.

It started at five in the morning when I put my heart on the line. I did something I don't normally do and let my heart want something. Painfully so. And I took the hard step of swallowing my pride, swallowing my quiet side, and shooting a correspondence asking for help in getting it. Not knowing if the person I asked would say yes, would say no, would understand what this meant to be, would be able even to help. But I let myself want something, and want it out loud, and in doing so, I had to put my heart on the line and go after it.

A couple of hours later, I put my heart in my hands and tackled some car repair work. Now, you might not think this has anything at all to do with my heart, but you'd be wrong. For me, something like this is daring to be a strong woman. It's daring to try. It's taking a risk. My heart is fully engaged when my hands are, no matter what I'm doing (if I'm doing it right). Yes, I was working on something mechanical but in the couple hours that this work took, I was also thinking about what it means to be strong. What it means to be capable. What it means to be both willing and able. This was no light work.

And then, of course, I put my heart in my network. I hate to use such a word, but there's not really a better one. I spent some time reflecting on the people who have come beside me to make me possible. To make my life possible. To make my growth possible. Working on my car, I was up at my uncle's house. He's a mechanic in the National Guard and volunteered his time to help me make sure we were doing this right. Sometimes, it's really weird to me that I'm the kind of person that other people help. There's probably a story behind that. But after a morning like that morning, I was thinking about all of those people who have helped me in one way or another. And connecting my heart to my network. You might say, to my community.

Only moments later, I was stuck in the midst of weekly grocery shopping. Not a heart exercise? Think again. It's a constant battle for me between the money I don't have and the refrigerator I'd like to fill. I budget extensively, but the grocery for me always becomes the tension between the budget and the belly. Between getting what I can afford and knowing there are the smallest of ways to go above and beyond and love my family. Yes, this item is on my list. No, this one is not, but it might be worth the smile anyway. And oh, yeah, that thing broke yesterday and I hadn't worked it in but we can't really wait. The grocery is a place where I work on releasing my heart from my own legalism and allow for grace and graciousness. It tends to work out.

A little bit of downtime during which the last song on K-Love was playing on repeat in my head, and then it was off to a birthday party! My beloved nephew turned 3 this week, and we celebrated family-style. If you have family, any family at all, you know what a heart experience this can be. Loving people. Enveloping stories. Developing stories. Sharing space and time and making memories. Trying, as best you can, to get out of all that heart stuff and head stuff and life stuff so you can just love people, which is an exercise of the heart. Choosing to be present to the moment.

The party ran later than it usually does for me, so after a long day of socializing and investment of the heart, I was finally home to relax for a little. And you know? I found that I was thankful for the day but also empty. Exhausted. Needing....something, but what? And you know? The answer was food for the heart. I needed some worship. Some music. Some quiet space. (Yes, quiet space can include music.) It became about recharging and reconnecting. I woke up almost laughing about the gymnastics I would put my heart through on that given day, and this is a true story. This is a real day that I recently lived, with all the "little" stuff weeded out. Little stuff like baking a gift for my secret sister at church - another exercise of love, and therefore, the heart. Little stuff like my morning devotional time - an early engagement of the heart. Little stuff like taking the new puppy for a walk. And a run. And another walk. (She's part-Husky, ok? I guess I'm an exerciser now!) All the little stuff I have to be present to in any given day. 

And I ended that day not thinking about what I'd put my heart through, but feeling it. Feeling the ache of a heart trying to adjust. Feeling the stinging emptiness of a hunger to be filled back up. 

As it should be, of course. We are only filled up to be poured out to be filled once again. I firmly believe that. I just, for some reason, have never really thought about it until a day like this one. And then I was keenly aware.

This isn't just my life. This is yours, too. It's why God made our hearts so strong, even when on a day like today, they feel so fragile. It's a tender strength. It's beautiful.

Have you thought about what your heart goes through on any given day? Have you thought about what you put it through?

Blinding Light

You are the light of the world.

You probably heard that one before. Jesus talks a lot about bearing fruit (yesterday's post), but He also talks a good deal about darkness and light. And I was listening to a preacher this week - I think that's where I heard it - who asked what kind of light you are. I was unimpressed with his options.

I forget which exact two he used; I only remember for sure one. But he asked something about whether you were the guiding light of Jesus, showing the way for people to go, or the headlight of Jesus, illuminating the place directly in front, the next step of the path. Then he moved on, and I was left wondering if those were really the only options. 

Because there are really so many lights in the world. There is a light like the sun, which illuminates by day. A light like the moon, which shines by night. A light like a lightning bolt, which breaks through the storm. A light of a headlight, sure. And a guiding light. What about a lighthouse, which signals safety on a distant shore? It didn't take long before I reached absurdity in this line of thought, and then, I was laughing because I started thinking about this whole doctrine of light and I realized that for most of us, it feels like we're taught to be a blinding light.

Like we're taught that our lives are supposed to shine so bright that people can't see anything but what we're trying to show them. And I thought maybe this is one of the problems we have as evangelists, as member-ministers in our churches.

First, because a blinding light is too powerful and by instinct, turns a man away. Think about it. Every once in awhile, your eye catches something so bright that with a flinch, you turn away. You don't think about whether you should turn away or not. You don't think about what the light is trying to show you. You just turn and know better than to look back. So living as a blinding light for Jesus is dangerous; it is more likely to turn people away.

Second, most of us who live as a blinding light "for Jesus" are actually better at shining the light on our lives. Then people see the life we're living, but we've lost the Lord. They don't ask and we don't tell them and the light becomes more about us than about Him. This breeds envy and jealousy and resentment and scrutiny and all kinds of things that are not holy, which also defeats the purpose.

So I don't think that's it. I don't think, despite our doctrine, that we were ever meant to be a blinding light for Jesus. Nor do I believe that it's so simple as darkness and light. Like I said, there are many kinds of light. I think we were each meant to be a different one.

Some of us are the light of the sun, illuminating everything so that a man can see the big picture. Some of us are the light of the moon, bright spot in a dark moment for a man who has maybe lost all hope. Some of us are the light of the lightning bolt, striking through the storm with the truth of His Word. Some of us are the light of a lightning bug, a bit whimsical but profound all the same. Some of us are a lighthouse, a refuge from an expansive sea. Some of us are headlights, of course, and some, guiding lights. Some of us are stoplights, and I have had a few of those in my life for whom I am thankful. People who are willing to stand in front of you and stop you from defeating yourself. Some of us are porch lights, an intimate welcome home. 

There's a commercial on television right now, and I couldn't tell you what it's for. But it says that the human eye can perceive the light of a single candle from more than a mile away. More than a mile away! And here we are thinking we have to be a blinding light to be seen....

A man in darkness will see the smallest bit of Jesus that we can show him. The eye of the heart is that powerful. All we have to be willing to do is shine wherever we are, and anyone close enough to see that light will catch it. 

Jesus says something else about light. He asks whether a man lights a light and hides it under a basket. Many translations say a lamp. Does a man light a lamp and put it under a basket? No. He lights it and lets it shine. And I like to think of a lamp as home. It's the place where you are. When the sun sets and you're still winding down, while you're settling in and preparing for respite, when you're comfortable in your own little place, you light a lamp. Don't you?

That's what Jesus is saying. Live your life full of His light, illuminate Him right where you are, and let others see it. It's not up to you to set candles aflame in other people's lives. You are a light in your own little place, and I am a light in my own little place, and together, we light the world to see Jesus. 

Pray about the light in your life. Pray about your smallest flame. What kind of light are you meant to be? 

In Season

I am the vine, and you are the branches. Remain in me and you will bear fruit.

There are a lot of metaphors about vines and fruit in the New Testament. Jesus was a master at such a story. He's always talking about how good trees bear good fruit, bad trees bear bad fruit, vines that remain in Him bear fruit, those that don't, can't, and how useless it is to even have a vine that won't bear fruit. So most of us that spend any time at all around the word of Jesus start thinking we're supposed to bear fruit.

And we are.

Then Jesus goes on to say that trees bear fruit according to their kind. You get an apple from an apple tree. You get a pear from a pear tree. You never get a banana from an orange tree. So most of us that spend any time at all around the word of Jesus start trying to figure out what kind of fruit we're supposed to bear. (And if we're honest, most of us aren't fruit trees; we're nut trees.)

But we generally come to settle on what we think we're supposed to bear. And for those of us with a heavy sense of calling, it's perfectly clear.

Me? I'm a practical theology tree. The fruit I am supposed to manifest is God's presence. That much, I know. And yet, it is not every day of my life that I am manifesting this. It is not every day that I am bearing fruit. It is not every day that people are coming to me and finding this nourishment, so what gives?

I'm not alone in this; I'm merely using myself as an example. There are so many among us, as Christians, that wonder why they seem to be doing everything right, seem to be obedient and faithful and patient, and the fruit is not coming. We read our Bibles. We go to church. We serve our neighbors. We love our communities. We humble ourselves. We pray. We thirst. We hunger. We long to bear fruit. It looks like we're doing what needs to be done. The only thing missing is the actual fruit.

It's frustrating. This is the thing that causes people to question their calling, their ministry. It causes them to question themselves, their God. It causes them to question the value of faithfulness and righteousness, the benefit of integrity. It makes a man stop and think about whether he's doing the right things, even when the whisper in his heart says that he is. It makes a man wonder if he's hearing the word of the Lord correctly, and sometimes, he changes his entire routine trying to find new fruit. It makes a man question if all this God stuff can even be true. Since it doesn't seem like, right now, it has any worth at all. 

Just hold on. It's not your season.

Take me into any produce section, and I can tell you about seasons. Strawberry season has just begun, although the best crop won't come for a little while now. Apples are still quite a ways off. Pumpkins? Farmers will start planting them soon, but none of us are thinking pumpkin pie for another half-year! We know all about seasons. Then when Jesus tells us that we are to bear fruit, we forget all we know.

Let's go back to Psalm 1. (I scribbled this thought on my bulletin yesterday when this verse popped up on the screen at church.) David talks about this very thing. He talks about doing the right things. About being diligent. About being disciplined. About being faithful. About staying near what God has for you. Here we go:

Blessed is the person who does not follow the advice of wicked people, take the path of sinners, or join in the company of mockers. Rather, he delights in the teachings of the Lord and reflects on his teachings day and night. (1-2)

Good start. Blessed is the man who delights in God, who keeps himself close to what God is doing, who distances himself from the bad things. Or we might say, blessed is the branch that remains on the vine, to put it in Jesus' terms. David continues:

He is like a tree planted beside streams - a tree that produces fruit in season and whose leaves do not wither. (3)

There we go. Every time I have ever read this verse, I think I have missed those two words: in season. I read this verse and picture a sprawling tree, green as could be, unmoving near the stream. It's planted firmly and big and beautiful. (Perfect for climbing, for hanging out and reading a book on a warm summer's day.) And you know, I never imagined it was a fruit tree. Just big and green and beautiful. And....everlasting. But David tells us it was a fruit tree and that it bore fruit...in season.

Its roots are firmly planted; they never change. They never move. They are soaking up the good things God promises by being grounded in Him. Its leaves do not wither; it always has a supply of fresh living water to run through its veins. It's always green. It's a healthy tree in all senses of the word. 

But it only bears fruit in season. 

That's a comfort to me. I don't know about you. That reminds me that on the days when it doesn't feel like I'm bearing the fruit God wants in my life, maybe it's just not my season. Maybe my time is coming, but it's just not now. 

That doesn't mean this all is wasted. This doesn't mean it's not worth it to do what I'm doing, to stay rooted in God, to plant myself in the stream of His living water. This doesn't mean that righteousness and integrity and faithfulness don't have their pay-off out of season. I mean, it's still a tree, right?

It still provides shade on a hot summer's day. It provides a great place for a picnic. Leaves to look up through and see the sun. A strong trunk to lean against. Branches to climb. There are lots of benefits to having a strong tree, even when it's not harvest season.

It's too easy for me to forget that. All this emphasis we have on bearing fruit, this profound calling God has on my life to bear fruit, the constant metaphors about bearing fruit...and all I can think about is bearing fruit! The hard truth to swallow is that this is simply not my season. Not yet, anyway. I think it's close.

People aren't coming to me right now and finding the abundance of the presence of God that I know He's called me to bear. But they come and find something formidable, firmly rooted. Something with leaves spread out and inviting shade, a place to rest or to come and have a picnic. Branches to climb that might get them away from this troubled earth for a few minutes, a few feet closer to God. I'm good for a lot of things as merely a tree. A great many things.

And if this is what I'm good for today, just wait until it's my season.

Just wait until it's your season.

Pure Agony

How many days in a row can you trust God? Can you trust God for your life? Hard questions. Important questions. Here's another one:

What do you do when your trust gets in the way?

It sounds odd to say that, but a firm faith and a confident belief can actually be stumbling blocks to a real relationship with God. In fact, it is belief, not doubt, that may be our greatest trouble when it comes to God.

Sometimes, life is hard. Our hearts just get filled up with all this pain, all these doubts, all these fears. They come to dictate our every thought. We try to put words to it all, try to find prayers. We go seeking after God, just to ask Him what He might say to our bleeding heart, and when we find Him...we remember that we believe. Maybe we even remember why we believe. And then for some reason, we don't want to ask any more. We don't say the things we ran to the throne of God to say.

But merely remembering that we believe in Him doesn't answer the ache. So we are left in a hard spot between faith and trouble, between what our hearts know and what they are feeling, and it seems inappropriate to do anything with that because it feels like to address the issues would be to deny faith. And, well, we just looked upon the face of God in excited anticipation and realized we already believe. What else is there to do?

It's a subtle word, perhaps, but perhaps it is the "in" that catches us. We remember we believe in God, but that's not what our hearts need right now. We need simply to believe God. And for that to happen, we need to hear Him speak. And to hear Him speak, we need to dare speak first. 

Have you been here?

It's that moment when you get halfway through a prayer and realize it doesn't seem any more like you should be praying about this at all. You don't know why it bothered you anyway, since you know you believe in God. Your energies are turned away from your aching heart and back toward God but not in a meaningful way. There's nothing between to bridge the gap. There's nothing in the empty space to connect you to the heart of the God you believe in, and without being heart-to-heart, He cannot help you.

The longer He cannot help you, the harder it is to believe Him. That is why people turn from the faith. What practical use is God? None at all if you merely believe in Him; you will stumble over your faith day after day until you can't stand any more. Then when you do, you will walk away. I've seen it happen. You've seen it happen. Maybe you've done it. You walk away saying you still believe in God, but you no longer know Him. And the distance only grows.

For any real relationship to exist, you have to talk to one another. We have to talk to God, even in the face of our belief. We need to finish that prayer when it strikes us that it doesn't seem like a big thing any more. We need to keep pouring our hearts out so that He can answer them. So that we don't have to settle for believing in God; we can believe Him. Because we have heard Him speak straight into our hollow spaces. 

It feels awkward. It feels wrong. You feel like you're contradicting yourself, like you're negating your faith. But you're not; you're trusting your God. You trust God more when you pour out your heart to Him than you ever can in neglecting your heart for the sake of your "faith." He wants you to come to Him. He wants you to talk with Him. He wants to hear your voice, and He wants you to hear His.

I had this thought recently, in the presence of God. In a moment of my own torn between pure agony of my spirit and a realization of my steady faith. I could physically feel the tension building inside of me, wanting to pour out my heart to God but holding back because in His presence, it just seems like such a little thing. I never figured it out in that moment. I couldn't resolve the tension, so I did nothing. I sat and ached and walked away hungry and hurting in the same fragile breath.

A few days' time has given me this reflection - there is a way to pray in such a moment that honors what we think is our faith and does not deny our hearts and invites us to a deeper trust and an empty space in which we can hear God's word. And that prayer goes something like this:

Lord, my heart is aching. It's been aching for quite awhile now, and I don't even know that I can tell you why. I'm not sure I know why; I just know it hurts. And I've wanted to come to you but every time I come, I know that I believe in you and that's supposed to make things better. Or at least, it makes things seem not so bad because you are so good. But that's not helping my hurt right now. That's no answer to my ache. I don't know what to do with this. I don't. So here I am, before you, both of us knowing I believe in you but both of us understanding that right now, that belief is not enough. I want to believe you, Lord, and for that to happen, I need to hear you speak. I know your truth. I know your promise. But I need to know your presence, Lord, and your deep love for me. So here I am with open arms, heart wide open. Speak to me and tell me what to do with this. Tell me what we do with this.

An acknowledgment of doubt does not negate faith. As I said two days ago, it strengthens it. An honest conversation with God does not reveal your weaknesses, it demonstrates your openness. Admitting there is a space opening up between you and God doesn't put up a barrier; it invites both of you to step into that space and draw closer. God is willing. Are you?

Living Lazarus

Yesterday, I posed the question, "How many days in a row can you trust God?" (The answer for me is "Almost one." Check yesterday's post for more on that story.) But I have to admit that when I first started thinking about this, what I was really thinking about was Lazarus.

Lazarus was a friend of Jesus. A beloved friend. He was brother to Mary and Martha, whose narratives we seem to focus on quite a bit more. Even in the story of Lazarus, we're more often talking about the sister who trusted and the sister who pulled away and the way these two women responded to their friend, to their Lord, and then we add a little footnote about the man Jesus brought back to life.

But times like these have me thinking about Lazarus, about how much faith it took him every day to live the rest of his life.

I don't know what kind of consciousness a man has about death once it happens. I don't know if Lazarus knew he was dead. I don't know if that's a thought his flesh could have processed or if, by the moment of death, it's purely a spirit's understanding. I don't know if, returned to the flesh, he had any understanding of the grave clothes. It may have been one of those stories that other people had to tell him. "Dude! You were DEAD!" I'm not sure whether it would have been better if Lazarus had known or if he had only heard. My feeble brain cannot process such questions.

I've been in kind of this situation. No, I haven't been dead. I've been in places where God comes in and seems to change things so dramatically that it's hard to hold onto the answers for all the questions. Where I've had to step into every second profoundly aware of what God has done, and asking myself whether, right now, I can believe it. Not even necessarily whether I do believe it, but simply whether I can.

I think that's probably how Lazarus woke up for awhile. "Am I alive?" Am I alive today? But for how long? Does the power of Jesus wear off? I'm breathing. I think I'm breathing. Is that my heartbeat? Is this real? Has Jesus given me life or is this all a dream? And the questions go on and on. I think that for awhile, Lazarus woke up wondering if he could believe his life. Not if he did believe, but if he could.

If he could, that poses a whole new series of questions. Questions like how. How does a man who believes his life live? How does a man who believes the story of Jesus live? How does a man push aside the grave and remember that he's not dead any more? How does a man trust to take one step in a moment when life seems so fragile? 

These are our questions, too, in holy moments. I wish I had better answers to share, but I don't. It's a choice. It's a choice we have to make sometimes every second. And it's a heavy weight. I don't know about you, but there's only so much time I can ponder the thing God is doing in my life before it seems so big that I can't hardly fathom it, let alone (I think) believe. It's humbling and scary and beautiful and trying and crazy and unfathomable and incredible .... 

And as these things tend to go, one day you wake up and it just seems normal. There's a certain sadness in this because it means you've lost the freshness and the awe of what God is doing in your life. You sort of forget the thing that's drawing you forward, that's giving you some sense of meaning or purpose or even simply belovedness. And there's kind of this void.

But it doesn't take long before the void changes the question. No longer are you asking whether you can believe your life; that seems irrelevant right now. No longer are you thinking about life; you're thinking about death. I think there probably came a time when Lazarus grew so used to living again that he began to wonder if he'd ever really died. He began to think about what that was like, and those scary days of faith that followed, and how far he'd come now.

We don't like to think about such things. We think ourselves "above" all that. Like if Jesus came and brought us back to life, we'd never forget it! We'd live every day knowing what He'd done for us, and that would drive and define the rest of our lives. Let me ask you - how's it going in La-La Land? Because the truth is that we have all had these powerful moments of connectivity with God, when everything has changed in our entire lives and we swear we will always be different...and how different are you really today? It's a process. It's a back-and-forth. It's progress and pause. It's faith and frustration. It's holiness and hesitation. That's  what it is. Don't pretend you're above all that. We all know better.

The cool thing is that this moment of pause is precisely the moment that draws us back into praise. You can't think about how far you've come without considering how you got out of there. You can't remember your dark days without some glimpse of the thing that started to shine the light. I think every time Lazarus thought about his own death, he couldn't help but remember his life and those early days of such joy and trust and faith and belief. So even what seems like a dark moment has brought him back to the very freshness of God. 

I think the same is true for us. I don't think there is a man among us who doesn't realize how he got here when he thinks about how far he's come. Who doesn't remember that shining moment when all things were new and this hardly seemed real and he had to choose whether he could even believe. Who smiles, remembering that maybe he never chose to believe or chose not to believe but life just happened anyway amidst his doubts and questions, and that it has been blessed indeed. Who doesn't feel obligated to bind his faith to that holy moment or this seemingly hollow one but understands the process of the whole thing and embraces the freedom of now.

I've been thinking about Lazarus. Wondering what it must be like to wake up every day and have to decide if you can trust God for your life. Not if you do, but simply if you can. And then in a moment of irony, I realize, I am Lazarus.

We all are.

Forget for a minute whether you do or you don't. The question this morning is simply this: Can you trust God for your life? The rest stems from that singular answer.