On Romance: Like Valentine's Day But Every Day

For the past year or so, I have been stuck on this description of Jesus:

“He had no form or majesty that we should look at him, and no beauty that we should desire him.  He was despised and rejected by men; a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief; and as one from whom men hide their faces, he was despised and we esteemed him not….” Isaiah 53:2-3

I have meditated on this passage, sought comfort in this passage, chewed on it, spat it out, found myself in it, and found Jesus in it.  Learning about what Jesus did and exactly the kind of rejection He suffered has been pivotal for me.  His life was so paradoxical, flipping my notion of religion on its head.  

Jesus, through Whom the earth was made, came to earth and made himself nothing. Paul says that he literally emptied himself (Philippians 1:7).  He died rejected, despised, and a mockery.

In Tim Keller’s sermon “The Crucifixion,” he describes how, more than anything else, heartbreak is the absolute worst suffering human beings endure.  Losing love and experiencing rejection is more painful than any other part of the human experience.  So, not only did Jesus’ friends and family desert Him on the Cross, but the One that Jesus loved so powerfully, passionately, and eternally rejected Him. 

Rejected Him.

As in: Wouldn’t look at Him, wouldn’t touch Him, wouldn’t speak to Him, did a 180 degree turn and left Him there to be mocked and ridiculed. 

Can you imagine that kind of pain and loss? I’m struck by Christ’s obedience and suffering – but mostly I’m astounded by the romance of it all:

The romance of being pursued so dramatically by a Lover who will stop at nothing to make me His bride.

Because the Father couldn’t bear to live without me, he put His Son through hell, through horrendous heartbreak, so I could be His.

Me. You. Us.

God promises, despite our stubborn hearts and apparent lack of interest, to keep chasing after us, to never give up on us, to always desire us, to know us intimately and fully, and to let us know Him:

            “I will allure [you], and bring [you] into the wilderness, and speak tenderly to [you]…. And there [you will] answer me as in the days of [your] youth … And I will betroth you to me forever. I will betroth you to me in righteousness and justice, in steadfast love and in mercy. I will betroth you to me in faithfulness. And you shall know the Lord.” Hosea 2:14-15, 19-20

Like a husband at the altar next to a bride he can't take his eyes off, God vows to spend the rest of our lives alluring us in the way that only a skilled and ardent Lover can. A Hallmark card and box of Russell Stover chocolates on Valentine's Day kind of pales in comparison. He offers us more than that every single day of our lives - in the kiss of a gentle breeze, the warm embrace of a friend, the masterpiece of the mountain air, or the symphony of a child's laughter.

The implications of this kind of romance are vast and varied.  They can change the way you dress, the way you pray, the way you spend your time, and the things you get worked up about.  

But mostly, for me at least, the knowledge of this mysterious and timeless romance relaxes my insecure and anxious heart.

On Loving God, But Not Very Much

At any given moment in the past couple of weeks, looking through my iTunes library, one would find the song “What Do I Know of Holy” by Addison Road on repeat.  The honesty and rawness of this song has captivated me.  I can listen to it quietly; I can belt it shamelessly; I can beat my hands against the steering wheel while I'm driving.

I really like this song. 

But not just for the melody or the driving rhythm. I like it for exposing the truth that is in me – that is in all of us.

Do I really love God or do I love His blessings?

I can spit a pretty good game – I even have myself fooled half the time.  But when push comes to shove, when life’s tiny tragedies and major disappointments set in, do I really fear and love Him? Or what He gives?

Because we talk so much of a near and present God, I sometimes forget where I actually stand before the One who spins the Universe in the palm of His hands.

I am a faithless whore; a selfish brat; a "sniveling coward" next to Him. (Tim Keller’s sermon “On the Mountain”)

So what do I know of God?

Of the God who makes the deep tremble, the earth shake, the lightning light up the sky, and yet leaves no footprints. (Psalm 77)

The God who roars like a jealous lion, fiercely beckoning His children back to Him. (Hosea 11)

The God who perfectly measured the foundations of the earth, who shut the doors of the sea, who commands the sun to rise every morning. (Job 38)

The God who knows every wish my heart has ever whispered. (Psalm 139)

Frankly, He knocked the breath out of me: a sweet reminder that I have nothing to offer Him. 

That He laughs at my bargaining devices.

That He is not to be tamed, controlled, or manipulated.

That all I need to gain an audience with Him is to drink grace down - to guzzle it like the thirsty beggar I am.

That I must come to Him empty-handed, or not at all.

“Deep calls to deep at the roar of your waterfalls; all your breakers and your waves have gone over me. By day the Lord commands his steadfast love, and at night his song is with me, a prayer to the God of my life.” Psalm 42:7-8

On Hope: The Waiting Game and Van Gogh

This time in my life is marked by a season of tremendous uncertainty. Working hard, applying, interviewing, singing, writing purpose statements, rehearsing, submitting resumes, applying some more. And then. The worst of all: the dreaded Wait.

This weekend, as I watched Knoxville Opera’s production of L’elisir d’amore, I wanted to cry as the beauty of the evening washed over me: the visceral voices, the stunning music, the passion and humor.

But mostly I wanted to cry because it made me ache.  Ache to be on stage too. Ache to sing so elegantly. Ache for beauty that words won’t describe.  Ache to be a part of something so transcendent.

Truth is: I may never get that in this life.

Isn’t this the risk that all of us artists take?

Surrounded by other creatives who are searching and working and aching, I keep returning to the same passage in a letter Van Gogh wrote to his friend.

A word about Van Gogh: he was emotionally unstable, he was difficult to be around, his work was never appreciated in his lifetime, he could not maintain a steady job, he could not support himself, he committed suicide, and he loved Jesus.  He trusted what Jesus offers to us.

And He painted with hope.

“Christ alone… has affirmed, as a principal certainty, eternal life, the infinity of time, the nothingness of death, the necessity and the raison d’etre of serenity and devotion.  He lived serenely, as a greater artist than all other artists, despising marble and clay as well as color, working in living flesh. That is to say, this matchless artist… loudly proclaimed that he made … living men, immortals….

“For look here: the earth has been thought to be flat.  It was true, so it still is today, for instance between Paris and Asnieres.  Which, however, does not prevent science from proving that the earth is principally round.  Which no one contradicts nowadays.

“But notwithstanding this they persist nowadays in believing that life is flat and runs from birth to death.  However, life too is probably round, and very superior in expanse and capacity to the hemisphere we know at present. …

“However this may be, the fact is that we are painters in real life, and that the important thing is to breathe as hard as ever we can breathe.”

For all of his neuroses and instabilities (or perhaps because of them), Van Gogh understood that life isn’t flat, but round.  And if life is round, then so is our creative vision.

“For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.” 1 Corinthians 13:12

On Grace: Chocolate Shops and Red Pumps

This evening, snow on the ground and cups of tea in hand, my roommate and I curled up to watch the movie Chocolat.

And I’m not exactly sure how, but I know that Jesus was in that movie.

Vianne, the mysterious and provocative heroine of the film, moves to a tranquil French village to open up a chocolate shop.  She is unlike any creature the town has ever encountered.  She is womanly, warm, and alive.  She has rosy cheeks and wears fantastic red pumps every day.  She rescues a woman from an abusive husband.  She befriends a dying widow. She falls in love with a pirate.

She makes her home among the misfits and outcasts.

Vianne is a disruption to this little town in so many ways.  She forces people to come to terms with their desires: for chocolate, for love, for sex, for freedom, for excitement, for honesty.

She is vivacious and interesting and unheard of.

The mayor of the town, a very righteous and religious man, is so very afraid of Vianne; and of freedom, in general.  He’s afraid of losing control, losing power, losing social clout. And so he invites the village to fear her, too. They mock and reject her.

That is, until they see how attractive her life is. Until they step into her shop and feel safe for the first time. Until they taste her chocolate.

Late one night, as his control over the village rapidly unravels, the mayor breaks in to her chocolate shop to put an end to this freedom once and for all.  While destroying her beautiful display, a small taste of the delicious treat lands seductively on his bottom lip.  He tastes it: it is even more delicious than he imagined.  Frenzied, he stuffs his face full of chocolates before collapsing in a heap of broken sobs.

The next morning, Vianne finds him asleep, stretched across her shop window with evidence of last night’s offenses all over his face and hands.  And then she does something so beautiful:

She offers him a glass of water.  She promises that it will refresh him.  She promises that she will not tell.

She offers him grace.

She undercuts his religion with love. 

On Being an Ambassador: Renee Fleming and the Super Bowl

Last Saturday, I went to the live broadcast of the Met’s Rusalka starring Renee Fleming in the title role. She was absolutely breathtaking – so expressive, so graceful, and so believable as the tragic sea nymph.

Though the production was stunning, the moment that has stuck with me occurred in an interview between Fleming and Susan Graham after Act I.  Graham congratulated Fleming on singing the National Anthem at the Super Bowl, praising Fleming as a great “ambassador” for the opera world.

Fleming, more than any other American opera singer, has a presence in popular culture.  Her identity is firmly established as one of the leading operatic singers of her generation, but her name is still recognizable to the layman. 

But is she truly an ambassador?

I got to thinking about what it means to be an ambassador. In a Fellows class last year, we defined an ambassador as one who has both cultural and linguistic fluency in a native and foreign country.

I love that.

An ambassador moves freely between two nations – translating both nouns and cultural norms with elegance and ease. Though she maintains loyalty to her nation of origin, she genuinely loves the new nation in which she resides.  It will never be home, but she cares about its policies, economy, culture - its general flourishing.

In 1 Corinthians 5:20, Paul describes Christians as ambassadors, making us fluent in two kingdoms: the Kingdom of God and the kingdom of this world. 

If we are fluent in our Homeland's language and culture, we have a firm understanding of our identity as God's beloved; we understand God's character and the way He is working to redeem the world; we understand His heart towards us; we understand what it means to receive His grace. (This is all aspirational, of course.)

If we are fluent in our foreign country, perhaps we understand what makes the culture of this world tick; we learn what our new nation values; we seek to understand social problems of poverty or illiteracy; we uncover why celebrities and football coaches are idolized; we learn the social systems and strategies of the Saturday night bar scene.

Then what?

Then maybe we ought to just show the kingdom of the world our Home.

“Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.” 

Bring Home here.

So if you are an opera singer, sing so seamlessly and passionately that audiences will wonder Where your voice is from.

If you are a writer, write with such eloquence and honesty that readers will want to know more about the Origin of your words.

If you work at the post office, show customers an efficiency and kindness that makes them wonder Where you learned how to treat people.

If you are a mother, make your home so alive that visitors will want to know Where you learned to live that way.

If you work at McDonald’s, serve customers the way Jesus Himself serves you.

If you are a doctor, show patients a glimpse of the Healer.

But how? 

I don't think it's by striving or manipulating or controlling or perfecting. I don't think it's something we can necessarily work hard at or achieve. I think it's more to do with being than with doing. When we trust Jesus, we already are citizens of Heaven and we already are foreigners in this world. And the Father is too good of a Dad to leave us without the Spirit; to leave us as orphans (John 14).

He is alive and at work within us; we simply receive.

Emily Freeman sums this up so nicely in her book, Grace for the Good Girl: Letting Go of the Try Hard Life:

“[Now] that you believe, now that you have been reborn in your invisible self, now that God's Spirit has given birth to your spirit, now you have a choice: live from your flesh, your false identity, your mask. Or live from your spirit, your true identity, your freedom.  You have the letting power. Let fear dominate or let peace rule. The mystery has now been made known.  All of life comes down to this choice. Once you discover the mystery, once you experience the living God, there is no going back... Paul describes it as 'the mystery which has been hidden from the past ages and generations, but has now been manifested to His saints, to whom God willed to make known what is the riches of the glory of this mystery among the Gentiles, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory’ (Col. 1:26-27). There is no other hope but the truth of Christ in you.”

Praise Him.

On Being a Performer: Jazz Hands & Pharisees

I am a performer. I love the energy and attention. I love the arch of a great production. I love the bonds that form in casts of quirky, "artsy" folk. I love having the chance to move an audience. And the applause certainly doesn’t hurt either.

I am a performer.

But I’m not just talking about the kind of performance that requires jazz hands and copious amounts of eye makeup. Or the kind that earns Meryl Streep an Oscar nomination every year. I’m talking about the kind that God hates. The kind that makes me believe I can make myself righteous by my own strength, striving and deadly doing. The kind that makes me simultaneously arrogant and insecure, that exhausts me, that entitles me.

The kind that gives me a hard heart towards God.

Performance has reared its ugly head in the most unexpected ways in my walk with Jesus. Most recently, my proclivity to perform has surfaced in this lie:

A sign of spiritual maturity is relentless positivity, unshakeable confidence, and a can-do attitude.

The enemy whispers: “Alright, Noelle, if you really trust the Lord, if you really love Him, then no amount of pain or confusion or disappointment should really shake you. If you are really rooted in Christ’s love for you, then you shouldn’t feel hurt when you’re mocked or rejected. If you are really pursuing God, then you should be impervious to loneliness, depression, or anxiety.”

These lies are problematic in three ways:

The Inaccessible God

When I believe those statements, I get to be my own God. Suddenly God’s strength and work become secondary to my own.  If I think these lies are true, what do I believe about God’s heart towards me? He isn’t a loving Father eagerly hoping that His daughter will plop down on his lap, empty-handed, needing refuge, attention, assurance. No, He is instead an abstract entity. A doctrine of beliefs. An unfeeling dictator who doles out orders without offering aid or direction to complete them. 

But that’s just not the character of God we see in Scripture. The Emmanuel, God-with-us God promises us over and over, “I will never leave you nor forsake you” (Deuteronomy 31:6) or in John 14: “I will not leave you as orphans, I will come to you… and make my home in you.” (See also Galatians 4:6-7, 1 Corinthians 1:21-22)

Because of Christ’s work on the cross, we can now come to God with our mess and instead of seeing sin, God sees Christ (Colossians 3:3). We can come before a Father who loves us so much that He will stop at nothing to call us into Himself – even sending His Son to die for us – so that “with confidence [we] draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need” (Hebrews 4:16). The Gospel changes everything.

A Man of Sorrows

The picture of God that we see in the life of Christ turns those lies completely on their head. In Jesus, we see a God who subjects Himself to tremendous vulnerability and pain to rescue the ones He loves. Far from a life of naive and impenetrable optimism, Christ was the laughing stock of His community, His friends deserted Him, and He died with nothing. Isaiah 53 describes Him this way:

“He was despised and rejected by men; a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief; and as one from whom men hide their faces, he was despised, and we esteemed him not. Surely he has borne our grief and carried our sorrows; yet we esteemed him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions; he was crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his wounds we are healed.”'

If Christ himself suffered rejection, loss, pain, betrayal, how can I expect to come out of this life unscathed?  By demanding that I walk through life with a resolute grin plastered across my face, I will not only terrify small children at Trader Joe’s (if you’re out there and reading this, I’m so sorry! I’ll pay for counseling…), but I am also behaving in my typical Pharisee fashion: "In this life, I will be good; I will make myself righteous; I will make a name for myself; I will prove my worth."

Nope. That just won’t do. God hates that, because He already knew we could never do those things - so He sent His Son to live the way we can't; to conquer death by becoming a sacrifice.  Because of Christ's work on the cross, we can come to the Father honestly. Now, He just wants my heart. He wants me – cheerful or not. Full of angst or full of laughter.  Spinning with praises or spinning with questions.

The Already & Not-Yet Kingdom

If God expects us to lead lives in which we are impervious and steeled to the undeniable pain of a fallen world, then how could we ever realize that we were designed for more? How could we ever experience the reality that we are foreigners and temporary residents (1 Peter 2:11)?

I was blessed to spend a year with a pastor who constantly repeated this idea: This life will never satisfy us because it wasn’t designed to. This life is merely an appetizer, tasty but never enough. We were made for the succulent, delicious, satisfying feast prepared for us in heaven. 

We were designed for full, intimate relationships, not broken and hurtful ones. We were designed for warm and welcoming homes, not tense and distant ones. We were designed for mountains that satisfy our cravings for adventure. We were designed for work that excites us, not work that frustrates and disillusions us. 

We were designed for the whole orchestra, not just the first violins.

In Tim Keller’s sermon “The Wounded Spirit,”he describes the tension of living in a fallen world so poignantly: this life is a “cosmic nostalgia," “a longing for something we remember but never had.”

So where do we go from here? 

In Larry Crabb’s book, Inside Out, Crabb describes our Call perfectly:

"God wants us to be courageous people who are deeply bothered by the horrors of living as part of a fallen race, people who look honestly at every struggle, who feel overwhelmed by what we see, yet emerge prepared to live: scarred, still troubled, but deeply loving. When the fact is faced that life is profoundly disappointing, the only way to make it is to learn to love. And only those who are no longer consumed with finding satisfaction now are able to love. Only when we commit our yearnings for perfect joy to a Father we have learned to deeply trust are we free to live for others despite the reality of a perpetual ache."

Much like the life of Christ, we can expect tremendous pain, suffering, and a perpetual ache for eternity. But upon resurrection, we can also expect glory, joy, and the fullness of the Father’s love beyond our wildest imaginings. In Revelation 21, John relates his vision of eternity to us:  

“And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away… I am making all things new.’”

So for now, we take Him at His Word. 

We hope.