The Gift of Invisibility

I giggled today at a thought. I was thinking about the times when God is most glorified by us. See, we are supposed to be servant hearted. Feet washers, like Jesus. Free to accomplish great things, but not free to take all the credit.

If every good and perfect gift is from God, every single thing we accomplish is because He graced us with the ability to do it. So in a sense, we should be invisible. Should duck out of the spotlight so it can get a clear shot of our Creator. Then the praise can be piled rightly on Him.

It’s funny because God is invisible. Haven’t met a photographer who’s managed to catch him on film. But suddenly He becomes incredibly visible when we decide to be invisible. When we lay down our pride in our achievements at his feet and bow in humility.

In our invisibility, we make God visible.

Funny. I knew the Bible said we’d become more like Him.

Why Doesn’t He Just Show Up?

A few years back I found myself locked in a bathroom with two of my girlfriends—all three of us in cocktail dresses and one of us covered in tears.

We were at a restaurant enjoying a beautiful party (to celebrating the pending nuptials of our mutual friends) when my friend (we’ll call her Cari) and her husband had a loud, half-drunken blowout in front of astonished—and rubbernecking—party-goers.

The heated exchange only lasted a few minutes before Cari stormed away and barricaded herself in the women’s bathroom—the one place she knew her husband wouldn’t follow. As soon as she crossed the threshold of the ladies boudoir, she melted into a puddle.

All of our girlfriends huddled around her clucking away, doing what we thought was best to be supportive. But one-by-one the drama of it all either exhausted them or they realized the need to be present at the party to keep up appearances.

Finally it was down to just three of us. Cari recounted how she and her husband had been having marital problems for a while. This public scene was not a one-off, but a symptom of a massive feud that was tearing their marriage apart.

Now, to give a little background, I had only recently surrendered my life to Christ. Or maybe re-surrendered it. The lines are a little fuzzy, but I had at very least been living for myself for a number years. Still, I knew that Christ was powerful. I knew he could transform lives in a second (because He had so recently done it with mine), but I wasn’t equipped with any answers to help Cari’s situation. Still single at the time, I knew nothing about marriage and frankly very little about gospel truth. Jesus loves me this I know… but that’s really about all I know.

So I stood in that bathroom crying with her, praying with her, and begging for God’s help. Then, convinced I had sufficiently prayed the Holy Spirit into the place, I exclaimed,

WHY doesn’t He just SHOW UP??

and whipped around expecting, I guess, for Him to physically manifest Himself.

But there was no one.

Just a mirror reflecting stumbling, bumbling old me—completely useless other than to keep my arms around Cari and wipe her tears. But I knew the Bible says where two or more are gathered He is there. Well we had surpassed that quota with THREE, so what was the deal? Why didn’t I feel anything?

It’s been a few years now and I’d forgotten about that night for the most part. Except that I cringed at my crazy “Where is He??” outburst. My two girlfriends saw me twist around with such conviction I must have looked like a crazy person.

But something hit me profoundly today. Turns out, God absolutely answered my question that night and it was so obvious I can’t believe I missed it. When I looked over my shoulder to find Him, He was right there all along—reflecting right back at me—blue eyes bloodshot with tears.

God, in his providence, had provided a mirror.

It turns out that we really are the body of Christ. It’s not just a fun analogy to rally “Team Jesus” unity. When our arms wrap around a friend in tears, they are His. When our hearts break over their pain, His is breaking too. God knew we needed a person to relate to, so he sent Jesus. When Jesus ascended, he commissioned us to continue to love on each other. And that day at Pentecost, God took up his dwelling place in his kids.

What a privileged we have to be Jesus to one another!

That day in the bathroom I didn’t have the answers, but I did get an answer...when God decided to show up in me.

The Three Creepiest Words in the English Language?

The day my husband (then boyfriend) told me he loved for the first time is absolutely burned into my memory. He looked dashing in his perfectly fitting blue jeans, J crew dress shirt and sweater. He’d made me this unbelievable dinner at his townhouse and I remember white calla lilies on the table. We stared at each other for probably 20 minutes, dying to say what we were both thinking, but incredibly nervous at the possible outcome.

But then he said it.

Those three magical words.

I love you.

I thought I would die.

Months of long distance phone calls had ended with that awkward pause—neither of us wanting to say it for the first time over the phone. We had waited until we could be face to face, and it was completely worth it. We still end every conversation the same way. I love you. Just to make sure, no matter what, those are the last words we ever say to each other.

People say those three words are the most powerful in the English language. I agree, but I also know the importance of the source. When my husband tells me he love me, I treasure it. When an acquaintance tells me they love me because I had an extra ticket to a concert they were dying to go to, I giggle. When a complete stranger on the street tells me he loves me, I’m digging in my bag for pepper spray.

Actually I didn’t have my pepper spray this morning. I wished I’d had bear mace.

A random creepo outside my building this morning told me over and over how he loved me. I tried to act nonchalant—confident, even—but the truth was, I was freaked out. I dreaded leaving work that day, knowing he watched me park. What is he was there when I got back to my car—stationed (very unfortunately) down a lonely alley.

Truth is, the guy was probably harmless, but if I learned anything today, it’s that those three magical words are not magical all the time. Instead, the more we admire the source, the more meaningful the words become.

So what does it say about me when I read the words of Zephaniah 3:17  (The LORD your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with loud singing) and really only respond something equivalent to: “That’s cool.”

I make the God of the universe sing? I should be elated! I should be over the moon! I should be forever changed! But I still struggle with insecurity, anxiety and self-centeredness.

I hear the phrase all the time “Already, but not yet.” Meaning I’m already counted as one of God’s kids but, living in a fallen world, I am still far (far, far) from holiness. Far from understanding the profundity of my right-standing before God. Far from getting what it means to be loved by God.

But what I do know is this: the more I learn about Him and the more I write his Words on my heart, the more those three words change what I think about who I am. Because, frankly, the more I think about who HE IS, the less I think about who I am.

I have yet to find anything more freeing than that.

#98 I Memorized Me Some God Facts

I stress out an undue amount about imaginary future altercations with an aggressive atheist who will someday corner me on the street and force me to explain my every belief. In fact, I probably spend far more time rehearsing things in my head about God than I spend in actual prayer with God.

It makes about as much sense as memorizing my best friend’s Facebook page—so I can accurately rattle off all of her favorite books and bands and movies—and passing on an opportunity to actually sit down for a cup of coffee with her.

And frankly, I think the chances of someone seriously quizzing me on my best friend’s favorite movie quotes (“I'm your huckleberry”) is only slightly lower than someone cornering me to explain my every faith belief. Yet every day, I prefer to cram my head full of God facts rather than actually open my heart to Him. I feel restrained from connecting with Him unless I’m satisfied that I have Isaiah 53 memorized and have enough knowledge of the doctrine of limited-unlimited atonement to teach a seminary class? Why?

Ultimately--I’m afraid of looking foolish. I have more fear of man than love of worship.

But today in church something clicked.  A yoga instructor went forward to be baptized. His story? He’d been attending our church for roughly seven months, but didn’t think he could become a Christian because of the contradictions between his profession and the teachings of the Bible. So why did he toss care to the wind and run up to be spontaneously baptized today?

“I just couldn’t help it,” he said.

It blew my mind.

Studying God’s word and knowing why you believe it is crucial, to be sure. But there is something incredibly sincere about those moments when we just can’t help but worship. When we allow ourselves to ponder that God not just loves us, but genuinely likes us. When the reality of God’s perfect grace and perfect justice meeting on that cross is just too cool to handle.

If my best friend asked me today why I loved her, I could name the things I admire about her, or the many things we have in common, or all of the unbelievable memories we’ve shared, but no single explanation would be enough. Ultimately why I love her? I just can’t help it.

In the same way, I pray that my fear of man will be habitually torn down and that, instead, worship can grow out of a heart that just can’t help it.

#99: Ain’t No Sunshine When He’s Gone.

I think the quickest way to identify if you’re holding on too tightly to something is to take it away (even just temporarily). So often I think of sin only as hanging on to the things we shouldn’t –bitterness, pride, etc. But more often that not it’s actually the good things that become the god things. In other words, more often I catch myself worshipping my blessings and not the One who blessed me. Perfect example: my husband.

This is a particularly tricky form of idolatry. In fact, I’ve been downright confused and frustrated by the whole idea of marriage at times, because we’re are supposed to become one—literally hold nothing back from each other to the point where people thing of us as one unit.  And on top of that, marriage is supposed to be a shadow of the relationship between Christ and his church—a relationship where you are literally willing to die for the other. And yet we are supposed to hold each other with open hands, seeing each other as a gift from God that elicits worship for the Giver—not just have tunnel vision for each other.

This is a tricky balance and, until recently, I would have told you I don’t expect my husband to complete me (Jerry Maguire style) …until he left for a 3 week work trip. My, oh my, was that revealing.

During the first week, I did okay keeping busy, so life felt pretty much normal. It was around the second week that I had the real revelation. It went a little something like this:

I was at my Bible study with the group of women I pretty much do life with when one of the girls asked for prayer because her husband was going to be gone for a four day weekend—the first time they’d been apart in their 3 years of marriage.

I was not nice about this.

In fact, I pretty much snickered at her and told her I have “very little sympathy.” I was a jerk. And then it got worse. Being a “veteran” wife of a husband who is constantly on the road, I proceeded to tell her that, when I was first getting used to him being gone, I would spend my evenings watching a lot of TV—cocktail I hand. But now, you see, I’m so evolved. (I didn’t say the evolved part, but my tone did).

On the drive home, I said a little prayer thanking God that he is my comfort and that I don’t have to depend on other things (or people) to bring me peace.

…I wasn’t home 5 minutes before I plunked down in front of the TV for a 4 episode marathon of Parenthood—cocktail, once again, in hand.

Wow.

I knew that I had heard that still small voice in my heart that night, reminding me that He is enough and that if I would just open my heart He could give me the rest I so desire. But I ignored it. I didn’t trust Him.

Whether I think I do or not, I place a huge burden on my husband’s shoulders when I expect him to be my daily comfort. A burden he wasn’t meant to carry and one that will inevitably lead to bitterness if he ever fails to deliver it. TV and cocktails aside (a confession for another day) it was my husband’s absence made me realize the white knuckle grip I had on him.

He’s coming home just a few hours (finally!) and I pray that I receive him with hands that have loosened from the grip of burdensome expectations—my gaze fixed instead on his Maker.

Ninety Nine before Noon

I can’t do Yoga. Well I can DO yoga, but it’s all of that look inside yourself to find your inner peace that I don’t get. When I look inside, it looks more like a tank of piranhas than a gently flowing stream. “Namaste” roughly means, “The divinity in me bows to the divinity in you”.

My piranhas don’t bow.

The worst part is it’s just not just yoga. Being what they call a “born again Christian”, I’m think I’m supposed to have the peace that comes with submitting my life to my savior. Just sign on the dotted line and – BAM – inner peace. At least that’s what I’ve heard. 

So either I’m “failing” as a Christian, or is my theology wacked. I’m banking the latter.

But back to the piranhas.

See, for the past few years I’ve had this constant voice in my head telling me that I’m missing something—that my life would matter if I could just find it. I know, I know—oh  the angst of the middle class, happily married, vaguely pretty blond girl. Trust me, I’m the first to know I shouldn’t complain. But I don’t think I’m the only one whose life is pretty much made and still feels a bit lost.

Solomon did. At least Solomon presumably did—assuming we’re right about who wrote Ecclesiastes. He had everything: the palace, the sex, the wive(s), more sex, the parties and, oh, the power. And yet he said it was all vanity. He makes me feel like I have an ally in this. Like I can shake my fist at everything under the sun and not feel like a complete jerk.

It’s funny how it alludes me, the thing I’m looking for. I have this vague feeling like I’m secretly born to do something the way Pavarotti was born for opera or Lance Armstrong was born to bike. Like my hidden talent is waiting just around the next bend.

And the funny thing is, my desire for my still undiscovered secret hidden talent (or SUSHD) isn’t really connected to a desire for riches or fame. Riches would be nice and all, but fame would be a drag. I don’t particularly love the spotlight. It’s more that I just crave something worth getting up for in the morning. In a word, I’m bored.

And what do we all do when we’re bored—the obvious choice is to do what my high school guidance counselor told me to do and play the “what if I won the Lotto” game. It’s supposed to help you pick the career that best suites you (Ha! We would live in a world of NFL quarterbacks and supermodels, but I digress). So if I won the Lotto tomorrow and never had to work another day in my life I would (and then you fill in the blank).

And that’s where I really start to freak out. Because I don’t have answer to that.

I literally cannot think of a single thing.

Sure, I would want to travel—see the world and all that. But I know after a while hotels would become a drag and I would just want to be home. And speaking of home, I could do the whole house remodel where I would turn my house into my dream home like they do on HGTV and then throw a bunch of dinner parties my foodie friends. But how long could I do that before I just feel fat? Though with all of my millions, I guess I could hire don’t-quite-on-me-now-Jillian-Michaels to get me into the best shape of my life…. Bleh. Vanity, vanity. **fist shake**

The truth of the matter is, the only time I feel my spirit ease is and the boredom evaporate is when I have an encounter with God. And I don’t mean a burning bush or audible message (so Old Testament), but just that moment when I read something about Him or hear something about how He designed the universe to operate and it just hits me as pure truth. It’s like desperately searching for my sunglasses only to find that they were on my head the whole time. It’s so obvious. How did I miss that?

So why can’t I have encounters with God all of the time? Why do I spend so much of my time searching for this vague and likely nonexistent thing to make my heart relax.

John Calvin has been quoted as saying that human hearts are idol factories. Mine has a vastly efficient assembly line.

Instead of running to a God who loves and already accepts me, I prefer to try on every other savior I possibly can first.

Just in case I like this one better.

Let’s face it, the comforts under the sun are much more convenient. Why depend on God’s strength to get me through the day when there’s a Starbucks on every corner? 

And mine has a drive through.

I wonder how many times per day I take God’s gifts for granted. And worse, prefer them to Him?

I bet I could name ninety nine before noon.