He gave me permission

I've walked through the Valley of the Shadow. Many times over.

So have you. This I know.

Your Valleys look different than mine. Or maybe it's just the Shadows that are different. Either way, we all experience the same-yet-different sorrows, pains, and troubles that come in this life. We are all human. Our bones break. Our hearts hurt. Our loved ones die. We face illnesses, rejections, addictions, losses.

Yet the faith culture I was raised in didn't leave room for acknowledgment of the Valleys. Emotions were indirectly declared evil—the kind of theology that emphasized that Jesus is all we need, so whatever we might be feeling is invalid.

Because to grieve a loved one's death is to disbelieve that they're in a better place. To be disappointed in your now is to doubt that, in Romans 8:28 fashion, it really is for your good and His glory. To express sadness means you distrust that He is in control. To feel hurt by the doors slamming in your face is to disbelieve that He has something else better for you. To be frustrated by your financial position is to forget Jehovah Jireh, God your provider. To question, to doubt, to say "I don't know" is equivalent to not believing at all.

The end result of this sort of theology wasn't a faith community that didn't feel negative emotions. The end result was a faith community that hid them. We wore masks that plastered artificial smiles on our faces. We spouted out platitudes and trite answers instead of being honest.

I finally realized, as I traversed the Valley of the Shadow yet again:

That's not faith. That's denial.

Faith is most genuine and true when it acknowledges the current reality and still says, "Lord, I believe. Help me overcome my unbelief."

I'm struck by the story of Jesus when He visits the grave of His friend Lazarus, four days after he'd passed away. He was about to raise Lazarus from the dead, but right then, right in that moment, Jesus still felt, acknowledged, and expressed deep grief over His loss.

Grief doesn't negate faith.

Even though He knew that in just a few minutes He would hug his friend again, Jesus wept.

Just as they did for those with Him that day, His tears give me permission to not only feel what I'm feeling, but also to express it. He validated my emotions. All of them.

He's the One who gave me them to begin with—even the ones that are all mixed up and "negative" and un-faith-filled. He put inside me a heart that feels, and He handcrafted me eyes that cry...

So right here, right this moment, right in your Valley, He gives you permission to feel what you're feeling.

It's okay...

Face it. Feel it.

He's right there, weeping with you.

(photo credit: jayRaz)

the fellowship of the unashamed

I can't bring myself to part with the Bible I've had since I was a teenager. Every time I try to start over with a new one, it just feels... wrong. Sterile. Clean, fresh, and new in all the worst ways. So I inevitably return to my old faithful, held together with duct tape, glue, and rubber bands. It smells uniquely like a combination of the 29 countries it's traveled to. Sprawled throughout it are notes, photos, stickers, quotes, memories... And all together, they make the words on the pages that much more alive and rich and full.

Written in the back of my Bible is this note, found written in the office of a young pastor in Zimbabwe after he was martyred. And it still stirs my heart just like it did twenty years ago...

:: :: ::

"I'm a part of the fellowship of the unashamed. I have Holy Spirit power. The die has been cast. I have stepped over the line. The decision has been made. I’m a disciple of His. I won't look back, let up, slow down, back away, or be still.

My past is redeemed, my present makes sense, my future is secure. I’m finished and done with low living, sight walking, small planning, smooth knees, colorless dreams, tamed visions, worldly talking, cheap giving, and dwarfed goals.

I no longer need preeminence, prosperity, position, promotions, plaudits, or popularity. I don’t have to be right, first, tops, recognized, praised, regarded, or rewarded. I now live by faith, lean on His presence, walk by patience, am uplifted by prayer, and labor with power.

My face is set, my gait is fast, my goal is heaven, my road is narrow, my way is rough, my companions are few, my Guide reliable, my mission clear. I cannot be bought, compromised, detoured, lured away, turned back, deluded, or delayed. I will not flinch in the face of sacrifice, hesitate in the presence of the adversary, negotiate at the table of the enemy, pander at the pool of popularity, or meander in the maze of mediocrity.

I won’t give up, shut up, let up, until I have stayed up, stored up, prayed up, paid up, preached up for the cause of Christ. I am a disciple of Jesus. I must go till He comes, give till I drop, preach till all know, and work till He stops me. And when He comes for His own, He will have no problem recognizing me—my banner will be clear!"

live the questions now

grace

While I wish it weren't so, I know that it wouldn't really be grace if it were as easily dispensed as PEZ candy. If it felt good and made me smile and came as naturally as a hearty laugh, it wouldn't be grace. It couldn't be grace— not the genuine, utterly needed and utterly undeserved kind of grace, which is really the only grace there is, because it's the need mixed with the undeserving that makes grace grace.

We call it 'amazing', but it feels anything but amazing in the moment it's given. It feels grueling and painful and impossible. It tastes like swallowed pride and bitter tears. It's as exhausting as going the extra mile and then another and then another. It feels like forgiving 70 times 7, and turning the other cheek, and kissing Judas right back.

It's nothing like a dinner table prayer and everything like a wilderness experience. It's the 40 long days and 40 long nights of saying and wishing and hoping that I can do this, but feeling like I can't. It's the heaviness of one foot in front of the other when there's no end of the road in sight.

It's enduring the heartache of betrayal, the sorrow of loss, the pain of deception, and the humiliation of being made a fool— and still locking eyes and saying 'I'm not going anywhere.'

Grace. It's what sets apart not only Christ, but also Christ followers. Without it, we are but hardened hearts and ungrateful, calloused souls. We are blind eyes and deaf ears and unfeeling hands. We are amnesiacs, quickly forgetful of our own need and undeservedness. Oh, but with it— with it, we are extensions of His likeness, reflections of His character, bearers of His light, glimpses of His face, beats of His heart.

When we extend grace, when we offer it—even through tears— like a beautifully wrapped present held out in our hands, our hearts stoop low, remembering the gift that's been extended to us, over and over and over and over again.

to everything there is a season