Lent: Repentance, Jesus, and the Ring

As I've mentioned in previous posts, I'm reading Larry Crabb's Inside Out.  I wanted to share with you some really rich passages about what it means to repent, and how repentance changes the way we relate to God and others.  Crabb looks at Hosea 14:1-3 for instruction:

"The key to all change is returning to God.  Christ defined eternal life as knowing God (John 17:3), and by His atoning death made it possible for sinful people to be restored to relationship with God. Growth in the Christian life means coming to know God better.  Every effort to change must involve at its core a shift in direction away from dependence on one's own resource for life to dependence on God..." p. 211

"So many of our efforts to change have a hidden but definite agenda.  The motivation to work on our life is usually sustained by the hope that difficult circumstances will improve and painful feelings will go away... True repentance, on the other hand, is energized by the hope of knowing and worshipping God more richly." p. 212

Repentance is hard.  Even when I understand it correctly, I don't particularly like it.  It feels like work, or performance, or striving.  But it seems to me that, if we are to take Crabb's reading of Scripture seriously, repentance isn't really about trying harder. It's about leaning into God more closely, asking Him to be more to us and in us.  If our lives are to be lived in dependence on God, can we rely on Him for a repentant spirit, too?

Mark Upton from Hope Community Church says, "Repentance is not running away from sin, but running into Jesus."  I love that image.  He also talks about repentance looking like this scene from Lord of the Rings.

Lent: Harry and Sally and the Gang

Tonight, my pastor spoke to us about the value of spiritual friendships.  The sermon was so good to hear -- his words both healed and challenged me regarding my understanding of friendships.  I feel uncomfortable going into detail about what he said, because sometimes things can get warped and distorted.  If you want to hear more, you can listen to the sermon here when it gets posted (probably tomorrow).

But I do want to share something that he brought up that has been on my mind recently.  He challenged us as a church community to learn how to have non-sexualized friendships between men and women.  If in Christ we have a new family of brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers, how can we relate to people of the opposite sex intimately while still maintaining healthy boundaries?

I've always been one of those people who thought like Harry in When Harry Met Sally: men and women can't ever be truly friends.  It's too messy. One person will always look to the other to satisfy an emotional need that goes beyond friendship.  One will always want more than the other, even if it isn't communicated explicitly.  Then, as soon as one person begins a romantic relationship, the friendship disintegrates.

But I've been giving this some more thought lately, especially since dating has been off the table during Lent.  Are my convictions about platonic male/female relationships really convictions? Or are they fears?  Am I reticent to get too close to men because I'm trying to love God and love others?  Or because I'm trying to protect myself (or others) from potential rejection or romantic implications? 

If it's true that, "There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is no male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus," (Galatians 3:28) then how is God asking me to lay down my selfish agenda or fears in favor of unity in the Body of Christ?  How can I approach Christian men as brothers rather than potential husbands?

I've been labelling the guys I know and meet as either Dateable or Not Dateable.  In a sense, I've been objectifying men for what they can offer me romantically the same way that some men objectify women for what they can offer them sexually.

Pretty messed up, huh?

More later. Happy Sunday, friends.

Lent: Soon

I've been thinking and praying about what to write about today.  I'm learning a lot during this Lenten season, but I'm having a hard time putting purposeful words down.

So I'd like to share with you a beautiful moment from this morning.  I heard from a pastor that I haven't spoken to in years.  I owe so much to this former mentor -- his wisdom, intuition, and honesty.  He shaped and encouraged me in more ways than I can count, and in more ways than he knows.  His email was brief and kind -- but signed with, "Heaven soon."

Heaven soon.

Even seeing it now -- hours later, out of context, and typed out by my own hands -- I feel a wave of emotion and gratitude.  Soon, the wholeness and the intimacy we were designed for.  Soon, new eyes to see and new ears to hear.  Soon, hearts made new and right.  Soon, every fleeting whisper of eternity we have been chasing in this world will burst forth into glorious song.  Soon, heaven.

These words were like a sweet balm for me this morning -- filling me with hope and courage to move forward into the world with love.

"If you read history you will find that the Christians who did most for the present world were precisely those who thought most of the next. It is since Christians have largely ceased to think of the other world that they have become so ineffective in this." - C.S. Lewis

Lent: Daydreaming (cont.)

I heard from Frank again today.  If you don't know who Frank is, check out this post about him.

In an email, he reminded me of something so perfect -- that our lives are meant for God's renown and not our own. Worshipping God with our lives creates tension and frustration, because as self-centered humans, we "love the shit out of [ourselves]."

His off-color delivery of profound wisdom cracks me up.  But, as always, he's so incisive and direct.  If we're brutally honest with ourselves, most of the choices we make (no matter how seemingly pure and selfless) are tangled up and tainted by us loving the shit out of ourselves.

So I got to thinking about yesterday's post and my tendency to pine.  My heart seems bent toward it -- a pattern I've maintained for years of romanticizing and dwelling on a relationship with someone who isn't part of my life anymore.  And so the question occurred to me: what's in it for me? 

What does my self-serving, self-preserving flesh glean from pining over these "former lovers"?

I think, strangely enough, living in those memories makes me feel loved and noticed.  I remember the way he looked at me, the way it felt to be pursued and cared for. The way it felt to belong to someone.

This is problematic in a couple of ways. First, why has my life become about me feeling loved? If being Christ-like means being others-centered, shouldn't my life (and thought-life) be focused on loving others well rather than garnering love and attention for myself?

But, beneath that, there seems to be a bigger problem: I'm looking to these memories to fill a void.

Deep within us, there's this desperate, nagging need to be fully known and fully loved.  Historically, we have gone to great lengths to satisfy this need on our own, believing we can assuage these longings with food, or money, or sex, or youth, or love.

But God has met those needs already.  He already knows and loves us completely -- deeper than anyone else ever has or ever could.

So, in my daydreams, I'm looking over Jesus' shoulder.  Rather than depending on Jesus' wild and relentless love to satisfy my desperate thirst, I'm trusting other lovers that will never, ever satisfy.

This reminds me of lyrics from Derek Webb's "Wedding Dress":
Cause I am so easily satisfied
By the call of lovers so less wild
That I would take a little cash
Over your very flesh and blood.

Lent: Daydreaming

When I was a little girl, I always looked forward to long car trips with my dad.  We would choose a CD from his eclectic collection, pop it in, and listen in silence.  My dad and I both have this affinity for daydreaming.  In a family of chatty-kathies, we are the quirky ones -- content to be alone with our thoughts for hours on end.  During these long car rides, he would let me drift off into my daydreams, and I would let him do the same.

Giving up dating has been pretty easy thus far - and a bit of a relief.  It's one less thing for me to worry about, and I have more time and energy to enjoy other relationships. But have I really given up dating? If integrity is who we are when no one is looking, then what does it mean to have integrity in my thought-life?

As I said in the beginning, I don't want this blog to be about unloading my dirty secrets; but confession and transparency bring people together.  One person owns up to something, and suddenly another says, "Wait, really? You too? I thought I was the only one." So I want to confess to you that, if you were privy to the romance going on inside my head, you would have no idea that I had given up dating for Lent.  I might not be dating out in the world, but in my heart and my mind, I'm still very much tied up and taken.

Tim Keller says, "The things you daydream about in your spare time are ultimately the things you serve."

Ouch.

So, as my friend Jessie says, I think God has His finger on something with me.  Maybe more than just a finger, though.  He's pulling on me with both hands, trying to loosen my grip on a relationship I've been clinging to.  But mostly, I think He's trying to free me -- and I'm stubbornly fighting Him tooth and nail.

Like the Ghost on the train in C.S. Lewis' Great Divorce, I'm trying to keep my "Red Lizard of Lust." I've been treasuring up memories and would-be's, tucking them away, separate from God.  I'm too afraid to offer them up because of how much I have to lose. After all, friends, following Jesus is costly; and this relationship is one that I've prized for awhile.  Mark Upton at Hope Community Church says, "The feel of faith is death, but the fruit of faith is joy." I think I'm in the death phase right now and it totally blows.

But, as I'm writing this, I hear God inviting me into a new place with Him.  If God is big enough to handle us at our worst, to see our brokenness but still chase after us, then He must see this part of me and say, "Open up the windows! Let me breathe fresh air into the dark places of your heart. Invite me into this space: show me the memories and daydreams.  Lay them at my feet, and let me grieve them with you."

I'm reminded of a verse from the hymn, "Come, Ye Sinners, Poor and Needy:"

Come, ye weary, heavy-laden,
Lost and ruined by the Fall;
If you tarry till you're better,
You will never come at all.

Lent: Perfect Through Suffering

A wonderful thing about writing this blog has been having friends reach out to describe their own experiences with singleness.  Thank you, thank you, thank you for lending me your eyes and insights. It takes courage, and it gives me courage, too.

In reconnecting with an old friend this past week, she offered a unique perspective: singleness after divorce and the tragedy of a broken marriage. In our conversation, I found myself doing all the things I said I wouldn't do during Lent: I was trying to fix her grief, trying to bolster her perception of herself, trying to shake the sadness out of her by offering helpful articles or pithy encouragement.

And I just hate that.

I wish I had had the courage to sit with her in her disappointment and fear - to face it bravely rather than offering answers and bandaids.  More than that, I wish I had gotten out of the way and listened to the voice of the Spirit rather than my own.

So much of my journey toward maturity has been learning to get off the throne of my life. To stop living for my own glory, worshipping and enjoying God instead.  Because of this, I have this fascination with John the Baptist.  First, I'm pretty convinced we would be, like, best friends.  We're both a little weird; we both have loud mouths that can sometimes get us in trouble; and we're both okay to be on the outskirts of society, just doing our thing, eating bugs and stuff.

But more than that, I truly admire him - he lived this life of self-forgetfulness, telling everyone about the Promised One who was coming.  With an easy confidence, John the Baptist describes how excited he is about Jesus,

"A person cannot receive one thing unless it is given him from heaven. You yourselves bear me witness, that I said, 'I am not the Christ, but I have been sent before him.'  The one who has the bride is the bridegroom.  The friend of the bridegroom who stands and hears him, rejoices greatly at the bridegroom's voice.  Therefore this joy of mine is now complete.  He must increase, but I must decrease."  John 3:27-30

What a cool image.  I want that kind of heart, that easily forgets my own ego and need to be right or perfect. I want the kind of heart that allows Jesus to increase because of how beautiful and wonderful and mysterious He is.

So in talking with my grieving friend, what was driving my pithy responses to her sadness? I think I honestly felt like she needed me.  Her grieving, questioning, and confusion were wrong - and she needed me to help her snap out of it.  But that's just not true.

If I want John the Baptist's words to be the song of my heart, then allowing Christ to increase means that I can't be afraid of suffering - mine or anyone else's.  If Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, was made perfect through suffering (Hebrews 2:10), then how can I expect to be His follower without also allowing suffering to shape my character?

I've been reading parts of Larry Crabb's Inside Out lately. I love this:

"Ever since God expelled Adam and Eve from the garden, we have lived in an unnatural environment, a world in which we were not designed to live.  We were built to enjoy a garden without weeds, relationships without friction, fellowship without distance.  But something is wrong, and we know it, both within our world and within ourselves.  Deep inside, we sense we're out of the nest, always ending the day in a motel room, never at home.  When we're honest, we see we handle our discomfort by keeping our distance from people, responding more to our fears than to another's desires for love."

Lent: The Last Five Years

Tonight I went to see The Last Five Years at the Theater Knoxville Downtown. If you aren't familiar with the show, check out the film version on Netflix.

The story takes us through the all the seasons of Cathy and Jamie's romantic relationship - from infatuation to infidelity to divorce.  The only catch to the plot is that their experiences are told separately and out of time.  At the beginning, Cathy is mourning the loss of their marriage while Jamie is experiencing the first flutters of new love. The two share only one scene together: their wedding.

I know sometimes I can be a bit sappy. But, y'all, this scene -- the music, the lyrics, the concept -- it's all just so moving.  I wish I could take you in the theater with me to see and hear it, because taken out of context it loses its power. But I want to share some of my favorite lyrics to the song and you can listen to it here:

I don't know why people run

I don't know why things fall through

I don't know how anybody survives in this life without someone like you.

I could protect and preserve

I could say no and goodbye

But why, Jamie, why?

I want to be your wife

I want to bear your child

I want to die knowing I had a long full life in your arms

That I can do...

So sweet, right?

But when looked at within the context of the show, is it as moving? Are Cathy's words quite as lovely in light of the way things end between them?  Do the great, deep, tragic love stories in our own lives lose their sheen once the curtain drops?

I'm 26-years-old and have been dating for awhile.  Over the years, I've collected some baggage - romance luggage, if you will. Fortunately, my luggage is filled with some exquisite treasures; people and experiences that I never want to forget.  But loving is a vulnerable enterprise.  When you open the windows to let in fresh air, you also run the risk of letting in bugs and other unwelcome visitors. 

This isn't a finished story yet; we're not finished stories yet either. And perhaps that's what is most painful about this one life we've been given - it's confusing and can't be wrapped neatly in a pretty box.  I read this recently in an interview with Mark Upton and it was earth-shattering for me:

"I'm learning that life and Jesus are mysteries to be explored not problems to be solved. Since we're in the middle of divine narrative that isn't over yet our lives don't really read like novels.  They read like chapters in a novel - closer to poetry than prose. Subsequently growing our divine intuition in the face of doubt is more important than pursuing intellectual certainty since certainty is unattainable while something is in motion."