cooking, cleaning, and clearing up humility

Have you ever made 21-lbs of fettuccine noodles?

I have.

My goal of bi-weekly updates has quickly flown out the window, only to be replaced, at world record speeds by: art class projects, so many power-points (that I was convinced graduating college excluded me from ever needing again), Walmart runs, praise nights with my Ugandan, Malawian, Zambian, Kenyan, and American housemates,

and of course, the all important, Camp Family Night Dinners.

Family dinners are a tradition at Urban Promise. Interns and fellows do them. Streetleaders do them.

Once a week, on Tuesdays, all 6 camps host them.

Being an intern, there are moments you get, what I like to lovingly call, voluntold into positions. This was one of those. I was told that the meals had to be prepared, and we (after our supervisor asked, in her bruskest New Jersey accent, “You can boil water, right?”), were deemed just the able bodies to accomplish the task.

So, picture me, and my not-so-merry band of coworkers, trudging across campus, lugging pots and pans and lids, and the all important 21 boxes of fettuccine noodles. The gas stove in the blue house has a spacious 6 burners. Perfect for intern cooking class. We filled the pots, and began the process.

I can now confirm that it is true:

watched pots NEVER boil.

As I spent two hours on that kitchen stool, straining noodles and salting water, I realized that Jesus has been teaching me a lot about humility.

I spend 4 afternoons a week with 50+ preteens who could care less that I’m spending time with them. I teach Bible and Cell-Phone Photography, one of which, up until recently, I never thought I’d have to teach. Guess which one. They don’t care that I struggled with crippling insecurity over my ability in photography. They don’t know how much my pride had to take a backseat when my director asked me to do it. They don’t know and it’s not important. In fact, they’d probably just as soon I left, letting them get back to playing basketball in the gym and not doing their homework. They don’t care that I love them. They don’t even care that Jesus loves them.

That’s humbling. Humility is a hard lesson to learn.

Let me confess that I have trouble with the term. Following Jesus is It’s not to be confused with the false, fake, contrived humility, that unfortunately, I’ve noticed a lot of Christians praising and falling prey to.

That humility looks like the compliment dodge – “Oh no, I’m not really good at XYZ…” or the compliment search- “Man, I am really blessed with XYZ. So lucky that God allows me  to do XYZ so well.” The list goes on. You know these people, and frankly, you probably are those people. I know I am.

Christ-like humility is much more nuanced, and by nature, much, MUCH more confusing and elusive. I spent years thinking that humility was hating myself. That being humble as Jesus was humble meant smacking down affirmations like flies. Meant ignoring parts of me that are good. Meant not aspiring to great deeds. Meant focusing so much energy on not thinking about me.

But you know what they say about elephants in the room. Eventually, they get their notice.

Jesus has been patiently leading me to the truth that humility is about becoming so much like Him, that thinking about myself is all but impossible.

It means I don’t consider whether or not one of my talents is worth using. He gets to make that call. It means I don’t get to decide whether or not something is fair. He gets to show me the meaning of justice. It means I’m not seeking to be praised or acclaimed (although God is a Father that loves bragging on His kids. And P.S. Church, we need to get better at allowing God to speak Truth into our lives through His people. Like. Accept a compliment. {I’m preaching to myself now}). He gains glory and renown through the ways He’s equipped me and the places He’s set my feet to dancing in.

I wrote a 9 page paper about selflessness in the Pauline epistles, that I won’t make you read (but I got an A and it was so awesome I cried about it), but in it I penned a new definition for the Christian ideal of Humility and Selflessness. It is not about hating yourself.

It’s a proper estimation of oneself, in light of being Imago Dei, in God’s image, and simultaneously being under the grace of Christ’s death and resurrection.

You are more marvelous and powerful than you can possibly imagine.  Our situation was more desperate and Christ’s intercession on our behalf was greater than you will ever manage to conceive.

We have to live in the wake of both of those earth shattering truths.

Let me bring all this theology and junk home: this means that there is no task too high and lofty for you to accomplish with Christ, and there is also no task too lowly or mundane.

This scene from John popped into my head while I was fishing for cooked noodles out of a huge pot filled with steaming water:

After breakfast Jesus asked Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?“
“Yes, Lord,” Peter replied, “you know I love you.”
“Then feed my lambs,” Jesus told him.
Jesus repeated the question: “Simon son of John, do you love me?”
“Yes, Lord,” Peter said, “you know I love you.”
“Then take care of my sheep,” Jesus said.
A third time he asked him, “Simon son of John, do you love me?”
Peter was hurt that Jesus asked the question a third time. He said, “Lord, you know everything.You know that I love you.”
Jesus said, “Then feed my sheep.” (John 21:15-17)

Read it again. Replace Peter’s name with your’s. See where I’m going with this?

Jen Hatmaker’s book Interrupted deals with the idea that Jesus actually meant what He said:

Feed.

My.

Sheep.

And here I was, making 21 pounds of fettuccine noodle for hundreds of hungry little mouths in one of the poorest cities in the United States.

I’m not saying this for a pat on the back. I’m telling you what being humbled can look like.

Jesus was literally allowing me the opportunity to feed his sheep.

Where is He giving you that opportunity? I pray for each of you, the joy and terrible trembling revelation of being made humble as Christ is humble. Cleaning dishes, mowing lawns, preaching sermons, directing short films, working that 9 to 5, finishing school work.

Every last bit of all of it. To the Glory of God.

Know the depth of your mistakes and the heights of your confidence in Christ. Let that knowledge free you from yourself.

Go and do good, friends. Go and feed some hungry sheep however God is telling you to do it.

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“Towels and dishes and sandals, all the ordinary sordid things of our lives, reveal more quickly than anything what we are made of.” – Oswald Chambers

“But if you participate in God in the sense that you let yourself be penetrated by him you will go to the cross like him, you will go to work like him, you will clean shoes, do the washing up and the cooking, all like Him. You cannot do otherwise because you will have become part of Him. You will do what He loves.” -Louis Evely

“So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.”
-1 Corinthians 10:31

“The proper way to become humble is not to run myself down trying to belittle myself. Rather, I need to stand straight and tall, recognizing my strengths and abilities, but standing next to the Lord Jesus so that I can see myself in true perspective. It was William Temple who wrote, “Humility does not mean thinking less of yourself than of other people, nor does it mean having a low opinion of your own gifts. It means freedom from thinking about yourself one way or the other at all.” That is true, but it stops short of telling us how not to think of ourselves. The answer is that we are to fill our minds with the Lord Jesus. It is worship that drives out arrogance and pours in love.” -Gary Inrig

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Read THIS article by the incomparable Jen Hatmaker and you’ll get a glimpse of what I’ve been working through over the past three months. 

Urban Promise is where I’m at. Check it out. Donate or come see what we’re about!

being brave, being terrified, and where the two meet

I am sitting (as close to the air-conditioner as humanly possible) in my newly minted room, firmly located on the Camden side of the Urban Promise campus. It’s been a whirlwind couple of days! I was in 5 states in two days, drove roughly 9-1/2 hours, and packed a years worth of living into a room with two other girls (who I’ll refer to as J & M).

Here’s a couple of updates:

It’s hot.

Like really hot.

My roommates are sweet.

I’ll be rocking life with Camp Spirit for the next year!

My wall is a gorgeous shade of orange.

And I’ve learned so much new information in the past day and a half my brain hurts.

But I’m getting settled! I can already feel the steady humming of the city’s heart: the tonality to my new friend’s voices; the way the roar of buses passing my window and the way they rattle my windows; the african dubstep coming from my housemate’s room; the slow to start but quick to move rhythm of the day here.

I’m just ready to jump in.

But my week did not start that way. On Monday, I was terrified. Before you say it, yes, I do realize that I just posted an article about not worrying or being anxious, but this writer is real enough to admit when their Writer hat is a little too big for their head and heart.

On the before side of the before/after picture, I rolled up to Urban and held back tears. I was thinking, not for the last time I’m sure, “What am I doing here? This is all a big mistake.”

OF COURSE I WAS SCARED. Everything I knew I was leaving behind for the hint of a whisper of something that God maybe wanted me to do.

I wrote a poem (long before the #thebraveyear was a thing) with a line that is currently hanging on my brand new orange wall:

“Be whatever Brave is…”

Here’s what I didn’t know when I first penned that infamous line, Brave is a lot of different things! Brave is saying something, out loud that you’ve been holding onto and you know will hurt to admit. Brave is up and moving to a place you’ve never been to because you googled “urban internships,” and Camden was a top result (a REAL THING that M did. For real, brave). Brave is admitting your weakness and, as Paul tells us to, literally reveling in it. Brave can be doing a thing, and knowing when to acknowledge that you can’t right now. Brave is a many-splendored thing!

Jesus hit me with this mind-blowing truth-bomb last night:

Fear is a powerful form of vulnerability.

Okay, read that, repeat it out loud to yourself. Humor me.

Fear is a raw emotion. When you’re afraid, you’re showing a raw, unadulterated, unmasked version of yourself. That’s important. Because in this day and age that we live in (as well as probably every other day and age in the history of man) we don’t like people to see us without our guard up. We want to come off polished and sure and under control.

In Jesus’s kingdom, however, that uncomfortable place is precisely where the real work is done. When we’re not too busy pretending. When we let people in.

Here’s the next part of that Jesus-nugget:

Fear is a powerful form of vulnerability when combined with absurd courage.

I know I’m a self-proclaimed poet, but those words had to have come from the Lord, because that is quite a combo. Absurd Courage.

I think in a way, all courage and bravery is absurd, because the odds are never in bravery’s favor. The Fear, or the Foe, are always bigger and badder. There’s no outrunning being scared!

Courage and bravery are not the lack of fear.

It’s not awesome that Aragorn is rallying the troops before the very gates of Mordor, and is absent of all fear in the face of his enemy. It’s the coolest, most hardcore speech in the history of speeches, because you know he knows every one of his men is afraid, and he is too. But they have a purpose and a truth that they are determined to through to the very end.

That’s how Jesus finished up our little truth-telling-shesh last night. By telling me that courage isn’t the absence of fear, but the consistent presence of it, combined with the living out the truth of who our God is and how much He loves and values us.

He loves and values us enough to put our value of comfort and safety where it belongs, behind our desire to follow Him. To calmly listen to our fears, acknowledge them, and then tell them exactly where they can go. To whisper in our ears, louder than all the voices screaming at us that we can never make it, that it’s not about us, and it never was. 

Because of all that, I can confidently admit to you , my friends, family, and the internet, that I, Mickensie Neely, am afraid.

But because of who my savior is,

I am also very, very brave.

I pray that you begin to realize that you are too.

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Follow my #thebraveyear here, as I chronicle my school year at Urban Promise!
I’ll be updating bi-weekly, and you can catch up on past posts under the category heading:

“A Hipster’s Adventures in NJ“

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^” But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”
                                                                                                                                    -2 Corinthians 12:9-10

“I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me. The day may come when the courage of Men fails; when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship; but it is not this day!”                                        -Aragorn, son of Arathorn, coolest bro to ever bro

“I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.” – Nelson Mandela

lessons in dirt, pruning, and leaving.

Two things occurred to me as I sat indian style on my bedroom floor, barefoot in dew-drenched capris: my hands reeked of soil and I am staying with possibly the sweetest human beings alive.

I’m serious! I am beyond blessed by the couple hosting me this summer, just outside of Nashville. Driving 30+ minutes is a small price to pay for 65+ acres and two 68 year-young individuals who already love me better than I deserve. I love being out here, with the river a stones throw away and my heart awakened to the constant presence of our savior.

Lately, I’ve been obsessed with dirt. And as my poetry teacher exclaimed, if that isn’t a poem right there, I don’t know what is.

It started during a Lectio Divina in the downstairs of Tadlock Hall on King’s campus. A Lectio Divina is latin for “divine reading.” Basically, it consists of someone reading a passage of scripture, aloud, repeatedly, slowly and with intent. The listeners then zone in on a particular symbol, word, or idea within the Word. This practice dates back to the early church tradition, and though it may not be stylish or flashy, it is an incredibly powerful and moving method of connecting with God.

Our Lectio Divina on this occasion came from Matthew 13: the parable of the sower. More on that in a minute.

Back to my hands and the earthy smell radiating off of them. I arrived home in the afternoon to discover my host parents in the labor intensive process of weeding. I quickly offered to help in this endeavor, mostly because I was itching to do something with my hands. So I jumped into my Chacos and out the door. Ms. Sherrie handed me the clippers and I was set upon the task of pruning the Japanese Maple. Due to my “artistic eye,” I was deemed suitable for the job.

Pruning is the process of removing limbs, twigs, buds, blooms, leaves, you name it, you can clip it, from a plant in order that it may become healthier and more productive. It’s a wildly interesting production. I quickly became entranced in the act: pull a limb, assess its health, clip, snip, pull, snap, throw, repeat. 

I started thinking about all the factors involved in that little sapling this tree had started out as becoming a full-fledged tree. There’s the root system, the water intake, the amount and quality of sunlight is important. This particular tree already had some things going against it: Ms. Sherrie informed me the poor tree had had several bouts with disease and insect infestations. 

I was frustrated at first: clipping, seemingly at random, my pile of leaves steadily growing, and not much measurable improvement able to be seen.

Then I stepped back and I felt a familiar fluttering in my chest. 

Beauty. 

The tree was losing leaves and branches left and right. But it was gaining in exchange.

Symmetry. Definition. Health. The promise of future growth.

Addition by subtraction.

This is the object of pruning: to make things better by taking things away.

Back to the Lectio Divina and my obsession with soil: The goal of the third read through of this parable that night was to picture Jesus as the gardener and the soil as our hearts. I pictured Jesus and his measured way of moving. His carpenter hands, calloused but gentle, sifting through the dirt. I imagined the cadence of His walk, the movement of his arms as He weeded, the look on His face as He planted.

I was moved in ways I cannot possibly express. My words are feeble and failing in comparison to what Jesus did in my heart at that moment. He was beginning to teach me how much goes into preparing my heart to be useful.

To be good.

To be like His heart.

Jesus was cultivating good soil for planting. But after planting comes,

you guessed it,

pruning.

As I was participating in the act of pruning, I began to let my thoughts wander (not too far or for too long because, sharp things, in my hand). I started thinking about what Jesus said about His father being the Good Gardner:

Every branch in me that does not bear fruit he takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit. -John 15:2

Matt Chandler says God wounds like a  surgeon, not a criminal. Meaning his injury is precise and intended for good, not evil. He’ll never take more than is needed, or cut out unnecessarily.

“You know what’ll just break your heart is when you have to cut out all this good, living stuff.” Ms. Sherrie pointed to what was honestly my favorite part of the tree. 

“This part?” I was taken aback. Surely she meant that part, back there, waaaay behind all this good stuff.

“You have to cut away some of the good stuff so it’ll remain healthy and grow even more.”

Ms.Sherrie did what she so often does without even knowing it, and named an unnamed worry in my anxious heart – What happens when I leave?  What happens when my time here is done, and my lessons are learned, and my three months in Nashvegas are all packed up in the Silver Bullet headed back home? I have friends here (really, really good ones). I have a “home” and an adopted fam. I have places that speak truth into my heart and banish lies. I have things that challenge me and comfort me in equal measure. The soil of my heart has been cultivated in this place.

It’s been good for me, here.

This feeling was feeling eerily familiar. Too close for comfort were the memories of less than 4 months prior, lying in my empty college apartment and weeping for what I was losing. Friends down the hall, professors like family, church communities varied and wild, conversations delving deep into soul searching questions or silent companionship dismissing fears. The soil of my heart had been prepared in that place. I was leaving all of it and oh no, things would never be the same.

And I’d been right about that.

But in moving on, in moving here, in preparing to move on once more (my life is beginning to feel like one big montage quick hellos and drawn out goodbyes), Jesus has begun proving to me something I’ve been learning for months and months, in small non-intrusive ways, now lit up like a neon sign of hope:

God sometimes takes away the good in our lives in order to give us the better.

Sometimes it’s like we’re fighting God tooth and nail, hanging on to what we think is best for us. “No, you don’t understand. I need that. It’s so good. Why would you take it away just as I was beginning to love it?” I think Jesus looks at us as a dad looks at their child, clinging onto something so fragile, frail, and fleetingly wonderful, as He seeks to give us a future, forever-lasting, and breathtakingly phenomenal.

I had the pleasure of sitting under Kim Clayton, of Columbia Theological Seminary, for two blissfully full weeks at Montreat, NC. In one of her sermons, she emphatically, sometimes reverently repeated the mantra of “With Jesus, there is always more and better.” This (as well as moments from all of her incredible sermons), has stuck with me. There is a deep truth that my spirit sought to recognize in that. I think there’s something in that for all of us.

There’s an opportunity to trust Christ with the seasons of our life. To hand over the pruning shears and say “have thine own way, Lord.” To trust that He is shaping us into something new, and more beautiful, and healthier. That He is seeking to make our roots go deep, to allow our souls to soak up His love, to allow our branches to climb high and bear much fruit for the Kingdom.

And yes, sometimes the “good” we’re exchanging seems perfect, while the “better” Christ is offering seems harder, scarier, and sometimes downright impossible. In those moments, we have to remind ourselves that we do not serve a God who promised us an easy, comfortable life, but a life that though it may very well be difficult, will be lived to the full. He did  promise He’d never leave us or forsake us.

I’ll probably always be a little emotional about soil quality and root systems. But it’s more than that now. Now every time Jesus begins to pull back a branch to cut, I think I’ll be a little more likely to praise despite my fears. I’ll thank God that I got the privilege of growing wherever He’s planted me.

And as I unclench my fists, and open them to the possibilities He lays in front of me, I’ll hope that I’m becoming more who He sees me to be, with every snip snip of our good gardener’s shears.

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“Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but – I hope – into a better shape.”
― Charles Dickens

                                                        Naked I came from my mother’s womb,
                                                             naked I’ll return to the womb of the earth.
                                                         God gives, God takes.
                                                             God’s name be ever blessed.        -Job 1:21

“If you look the right way, you can see that the whole world is a garden.”
― Frances Hodgson Burnett

                 “but sometimes we have to lose the shadow things
                                                            to gain the true things in their place. ”
– Me

But he who received seed on the good ground is he who hears the word and understands it, who indeed bears fruit and produces: some a hundredfold. -Matthew 13:23

lessons from Lists, Liturgy and the Velveteen Rabbit

I was born a Back-Row Baptist. Is that an offensive term? I mean it in completely endearing sort of way! I love that I grew up ABC (American Baptist Convention. To all my southern friends, it’s a thing). I think it is rich, and full, and surprisingly ahead of the game in many aspects, and I wouldn’t be who I am without it ESPECIALLY without the love and support I found within the West Virginia Baptist Convention. (I’m looking at each and every one of you with the utmost and sincerest gratitude and love. You can’t see it cause of our computer screens being in the way).

That being said, I now mostly tell people I love Jesus and that’s the only real distinction I’m into labeling myself with.

Christian.
Christ-follower.
His.

Which is kinda awesome. Being for Jesus and letting the chips fall where they may as far as subscriptions to belief sets or rules is freeing in the best sort of way. It lets me focus on Him and lets other people worry about what name tag to stick me with.

And I like it that way. But that’s not what this post is about.

This post is about what God has been teaching me about lists and perceptions.

I grew up Baptist, like I said. But this semester, I’m lucky enough to have snagged a sweet internship opportunity at a, brace yourself,

PRESBYTERIAN church.

I know. Did the Apostles Creed just flash before your eyes?

Mine neither, because I don’t know it by heart (despite my freshman theology professor’s best efforts to make my cousin and me memorize it). Because I grew up, say it with me now:

BAPTIST.

What’s the one thing we all probably know about Baptists? We’re not huge fans of people telling us how to do things.

So like, Tradition. (And I mean Tradition with a capital ‘T.’ We all know church ladies of all denominations and creeds LOVE traditions.)

I jokingly tell people that Baptists don’t like anyone telling US how to pray. We know how to do that ourselves, thank you kindly. Which is something I throughly appreciate about us. We celebrate individualism! We say, “Talk to Jesus however it suits you!” Our lack of creeds provides a kind of flexibility and fluidity that has made my faith able to stand the test of time and college courses with ideas bigger than what I knew before. A trampoline faith, as we say in youth ministry.

And here’s what I knew about Presbyterians before I started interning:

-not a lot
-formal?
-creeds
-say prayers together?
-baptize differently (lots of jokes in freshman theology)
-liturgy

That’s about it, honestly.

Liturgy (a form or formulary according to which public religious worship, especially Christian worship, is conducted. The actual definition, in case you’re wondering. Not that I needed it…) scared me. I thought it meant a bunch of rules and certain special things you had to do. I thought it made faith rigid, unmoving, and unfeeling.

Yet, ever since reading my formerly Jewish Soul-Sister, Lauren Winner’s book Girl Meets God, I had felt myself drawn to it. She spoke of it moving her to deeper worship and intimacy with Jesus. Because I trust that chick, I thought I’d at least give it a shot.

So as I walked into my first service this semester, at bright and ever-so-early 8:30am, I had no idea what I was in for. I knew my youth min. professor, Dan the Man, would be there. I knew it was the early service for a reason: it was gasp the contemporary service. And I knew I knew next to no one.

Which, by the way, was simultaneously scary and exhilarating as all get-out. Something different. Something new. A life of following Jesus is, as the Jesus Calling devotional so lovingly puts it, a life of continual newness. Doesn’t necessarily lessen the scary, but also refuses to let it overwhelm you. Which is a super grace-filled thing to remind ourselves of.

Back to the point, I was full of certain expectations and ideas about what a Presbyterian church experience was going to consist of. The first service was so nerves-fueled, I barely remember most of it. I do remember writing down in my notebook:

“I’m here, Jesus. Now it’s your turn. Show up. Do whatever you want.”

We did read a prayer together, I’m fairly certain. The Pastor spoke, I’m sure of that. I spilled my coffee on the carpeted floor of the fellowship hall and casually moved seats during “shake-hands-with-your-neighbor” time, so I could sit with Dan. That’s about all I can pin down about that first experience.

Not because it wasn’t impactful. It was! But what I have encountered since that first step into the unknown has been far more impactful.

I’ve learned that lists can limit. I had all these ideas about what liturgy and tradition meant. About what it meant to be a certain denomination or another. About what the point of worship was. About sanctification and how Jesus speaks to us. And I’ve since learned how we limit His ability to reach us and our ability to respond when we put up barriers.

My barriers started to come down the next Wednesday night. This church is pretty established, which was new for me. They had things they just do. One of those is Wednesday Night Dinners. They have dinner t o g e t h e r. The whole church.  Down to my Bible professors’ 2 year old.

I was overwhelmed, walking into the fellowship turned mess hall: circular tables squeezed into every available square inch, kids pranking each other, babies laughing, old men discussing whatever it is old men discuss over dinner. I was standing in line to get my mini-meat loaf, in awe.

So the “formal” thing was kinda off the bullet points list.

As I’ve continued my internship, my heart has grown soft to prayers said in unison with the congregation. It’s as if we’re all supporting one-another. Saying, “Oh, you can’t say this part and mean it today? That’s okay. We’ll say if for you, so you can remind yourself it’s still true.” We repeat after the pastor, affirming what he’s saying, like “Yeah. You’re right. That is a wonderful thing about our God. I agree!” Slowly, more and more things were scratched off my list.

Then today happened.

Today, following the mythical and elusive Snow WEEK, I finally ventured out into the late-blooming winter wonderland that has become B-Town, TN/VA. I arrived at church, quickly spilled coffee all over my boots and the already massively stained carpet, then settled in for service. Dan was leading, and I was loving that. He’s SO youth min. about everything.

What I mean by that is he’s genuine. Authentic. Open. And fervently tries to connect with people, and to connect people to Jesus. By whatever means available to him.

We’re singing, there’s a scripture reading, and then Dan tells us to sit down (not typical order of service, from what I’d gathered). We sit. Dan opens up a small, blue book, and tells us he’s going to read from

The Velveteen Rabbit.

Now, this was weird because I had brought up this classic children’s novel within the last two of my english classes. And then it got weirder because Dan read the exact passage I had mentioned:

“‘Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you.'”

‘Real is something that happens to you,’ Dan said. ‘We have to be real with each other, here. We have to be real with each other and before our God.’

I was caught off guard. So off guard that I didn’t even register that the head Pastor was calling up newly appointed Deacons and Elders to be affirmed in their new positions. Now this might seem like an awkward transition to you, but not to me. To me, sitting in the makeshift pews, it seemed seamless.

There was a call and response portion. To everyone around me, I probably looked disrespectfully oblivious, doodling in my notebook. But I was entranced. The congregation was called upon to accept the leadership of those standing before them. Then the Pastor called for prayer.

And he called for the other deacons and elders to come forward.

And to lay their hands upon their brothers and sisters in prayer.

And I was so overcome by the Holy Spirit driven nature of the moment that I didn’t know what to do.

It was in that exact moment that I realized what was going on with the liturgy and the tradition and formality in that church.

I discovered that Liturgy can be ‘Real‘ and genuine, not cold or contrived, distant and alienating, or ritualistic for the sake of ritual. Tradition itself is not bad or good. It’s our heart behind it, and the attitude of our mind that makes the difference. The people that make up that congregation care deeply for one another; they ask for prayer requests from the pulpit, they read the prayers together in unison, asking God to do His God-thing in each of their lives. But also in their collective life. I found out Liturgy could be a living, breathing thing, that is warm as it invites us to meet Jesus amongst its quiet moments.

So I discovered I like a little Liturgy. But I discovered something bigger.

I discovered that God can reach me as easily in a Presbyterian 8:30am service, as He can at my beloved Baptist campground, or my church plant’s folding chairs, or the dam overlooking the lake by my house.

This means that as long as we are being ‘Real’ and honest in our worship, then it can all be used for and by Jesus. For all good and holy things are For and By Jesus. And Praise Be, because that means my Baptist family tree won’t have to cast me out for being at a Presbyterian church, and vise versa, my Presby friends won’t ostracize me for having been dunked all the way under the waters.

Where the Spirit of the Lord is there is truly freedom.

So go forth, do good, press on, find Jesus in everything, and

 let us try and become ‘Real.’

************************************************

“‘Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.’
‘Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit.
‘Sometimes,’ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ‘When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.’
‘Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,’ he asked, ‘or bit by bit?’
‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.” -Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit

“And one called to another and said: “Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory!”” – Isaiah 6:3

“This is wonderful news. I do not have to choose between the Sermon on the Mount and the magnolia trees. God can come to me by a still pool on the big island of Hawaii as well as the altar of the Washington National Cathedral. The House of God stretches from one corner of the universe to the other…I am not in charge of this House, and I never will be.” – Barbara Brown Taylor, An Altar in the World

He’s wild, you know. Not like a tame lion…

When I do spoken word in front of an audience, (which frankly is the only place to do it. Otherwise it’s just talking to yourself) when I am not a ball of nerves staring at the back wall and avoiding eye contact, I’m scanning the audience for people who are awake.

Not that I put people to sleep, or at least I haven’t yet.

But whenever anybody’s talking for more than a solid minute, people get The Look.

You know The Look. You’ve probably had The Look plastered across your own facial features at one time or another.

It’s the glassy eyed, zoned out zombie face of someone who has zero interest or investment in what is being verbally chucked at them. They’ve checked out. They’re daydreaming about that girl they’re still pining after, thinking about their weekend, or relieving that embarrassing moment from last week when they ran into their archenemies while looking ultra-rough.

The Look, for someone in front of a crowd, is a death sentence.

It means we’ve bored you.

I’m not saying the look is not always justified. There’s a lot of subjects that are boring, or at least that I find to be boring:

Math.

Whether or not the grass needs cutting.

Most sports junk (sorry boys).

Even things I’m interested in get to be mighty boring in the space of a 90 minute lecture. Or due to the speaker, let’s put on our honest pants here. It’s just a fact. We have short attention spans and some people suck all the entertainment out of every subject they talk  about.

But here’s something I’ve been wrestling with for over a month.

The one subject people should never get the Look from is The Gospel of Jesus. 

There is absolutely NOTHING tedious about this story, because, guys, this is the Story.

Have you ever found something so beautiful, so full of truth and pain and sorrow and joy, so incredibly unbelievably sincere that you can’t help but cry? Okay, I’ll admit that I’m a poet so maybe it’s just in my poetic nature to seek out transcendental experiences but I have absolutely sat in my bed and wept about the Gospel.

Like face in hands, sobbing, ugly cried.

Because even when boiled down to it’s bare-boned basics, the Gospel of Jesus is astounding.

God, meaning all-powerful, all-knowing, all-capable Creator and Sustainer of life, was so filled to the bursting with His great love for us and His own Glory, that He sent His Son. This Son, who was God and with God at the beginning, wrapped Himself up in the very thing He willed into existence in the first place, and He lived.

He lived a life. A perfect life. To the letter. But He also loved. Deeply. Messy, raw, healing, eye-opening, uncomfortably real love. There were no nice, neat edges in this tale. No gleaming knight in shining armor on his high horse. None of that here. Only a man who drew in the outcasts. A man who told those who were told they didn’t cut it, that He was changing the rules for them. This God-Man who got His hands dirty (He was born in a glorified, urine soaked stable for crying out loud). Who entered humanity knee-deep in the mire we’d created for ourselves to offer His hand as the way out.

This man, God incarnate (don’t even get me started on all my incarnation feelings. I’ll save it for another Yuletide. Maybe by next year I’ll be able to articulate it better but until then go listen to THIS song.), then gave Himself over to the people He crafted from nothing, allowed nails akin to railroad spikes to be driven into His flesh, insults to be hurled at Him from voices He had painted onto vocal chords Himself, bled and then died. For us. For them. For all.

And then He arose. Told Death he wasn’t in charge anymore. And came back.

For us. For them. For all.

And He’s coming back. He’ll sit on the Throne and say “Behold, I am making all things new.” (Revelation 21:5) And then He’ll do just that.

And what, may I ask, is boring about any of that?

But somewhere along the way, brothers and sisters, we have dulled down and numbed the glorious excitement of the Gospel. It’s become boring even to us. It’s become something we tune out, give the Look to. It’s become something we’re embarrassed of.

Dorothy Sayers puts a dagger straight into the heart of the matter in her essay The Greatest Drama Ever Staged (which you should totally read):

“If this is dull, then what, in Heaven’s name, is worthy to be called exciting? The people who hanged Christ never, to do them justice, accused Him of being a bore—on the contrary; they thought Him too dynamic to be safe. It has been left for later generations to muffle up that shattering personality and surround Him with an atmosphere of tedium. We have very efficiently pared the claws of the Lion of Judah, certified Him “meek and mild,” and recommended Him as a fitting household pet for pale curates and pious old ladies.”

Dear daughters and sons of God, this ought not to be.

I cannot believe that once we encounter Christ, we come away unscathed. Unchanged. When Christ shows up, He shows up big, and with eternal impact and implications. So why don’t we live like it? Why do our lives not reflect the awe-inspiring lengths our Creator went to possess us? Why have we begun to act as if the Gospel is a same-old, same-old tale that can be spoken in a monotone and sung in the same key perpetually?

The Gospel of Jesus Christ is the most thrilling story every told!!

It’s, as the Angels told those shell-shocked shepherd’s, Good news of Great joy, that is for all people! (found in Luke 2:8-10)

We should be shouting it from rooftops (not an actual suggestion), telling everyone we meet, reminding ourselves constantly of the immense, powerful, universe shattering thing our God did to reach us. We should be singing new and BETTER songs that both  praise and inform (as my Brother so eloquently put it, every song should give the opportunity to hear the Truth and respond in kind). We should be speaking with passion and authority, digging deep into God’s alive and breathing Word and coming up stronger for it. We should be creating art that sings of Him, doing our jobs in our chosen fields with fervor and diligence to honor Him, loving our friends and neighbors better.

And we should face unafraid of the unknown, scary, life-altering things He calls us to. ‘Cause He never promised it would be safe following Him. But as Mr.Beaver tells the Pevensie children in Narnia, “‘Course he’s isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.”

In short, Christians, we should give Jesus His claws back. He’s the Lion of Judah, and who are we to try and soften Him, tell Him to color inside our lines, or dumb Him down? Jesus is exciting. And terrifying. And wild. And untamable. And the furthest thing from boring that will ever be or has ever been. So let’s let Him liven things up! Allow Him to roar a mighty roar once more. He’s a force to be reckoned with, that Jesus and His outlandish Gospel of Love that broke the grave and Grace that makes angels and demons tremble to behold. He’s both the Lion of Judah and the Lamb of God. What a beautiful contradiction.

I for one want that to be the Gospel I carry.

Woe to me if I make it out to be a bore.

 

**************************************************************************************

“Judah is a lion’s cub;
from the prey, my son, you have gone up.
He stooped down; he crouched as a lion
    and as a lioness; who dares rouse him?” – Genesis 49:9

“To have experienced the Christ, to have encountered Jesus of Nazareth, to have run head-long into the person of God in the flesh, must have been like stepping into the path of a hurricane. No one would do it intentionally. Human beings do not seek out hurricanes. Hurricanes HAPPEN. Suddenly. Often without much warning. If we can avoid “being there,” we do. If we can’t, we don’t. To experience the Christ is to run headlong into the path of a hurricane.  ” -The Way of the Wolf

“Wrong will be right, when Aslan comes in sight,
At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more,
When he bares his teeth, winter meets its death,
And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again.” – C.S.Lewis

 

Resurrection Matters (or Why Death is Not the Boss of Me)

My church has been in Mark for a year.

Over a year actually, Easter to Easter plus a couple months in change. But all that’s about to change as we are finally winding down our longest sermon series yet.

One final week in Mark.

But obviously, before we could close the preverbal and literal book, we had to reach one or two last milestones in the story:

Namely, the Cross.

And the Empty Tomb.

First let’s talk about the importance of the Cross. Because, people, it’s vital.

In the Cross, we’re bought and paid for. The debt our sin ran up is covered. Jesus paid, with His criminal’s death upon that archaic, despicable, heart-wrenching torture device, the tab for us. He said, “I’ve got this,” in the most beautiful, poetic way possible. With His death, we were forgiven.

Maybe a better way of putting it is that we are purified from our sinfulness. God can look on us because we are covered by the blood of our Savior. The Lord has made it pretty clear that blood is what’s required:

“Indeed, under the law almost everything is purified with blood, and without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sins.” (ESV Hebrews 9:22)

So Jesus had to die. (we can get into the truth of our sinfulness another time.  James is pretty blunt about it: “So whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin.” -James 4:17 Pretty much covers all of us. But just ask any new parent if we are born sinful.)

The Cross is central in our beliefs because of the simple fact that it has to be. We needed it.

But here’s where I start to get a little miffed with our Christian niche cultural:

We’ve been worshipping the Cross for a long time.

Look. Get in your car and drive to the nearest Bible Family Christian Jesus Book Story. Walk in. Count the number of crosses you see in the first five seconds.

Bet you money it’s more than 20.

Still not getting me?

Look in your own life:

Do you have a cross necklace, ring, any other type of jewelry? Is it on your Bible somewhere? How many t-shirts do you have that bear the image of this torture device dating back to the 6th century BC? How many of us have it tattooed on our very skin?!

Do you know how incredibly difficult it is to find songs to sing on Easter Sunday? Coming from someone who has had her fair share of experience planning services, I can tell you in all honesty that I spent at least an hour sitting with my boss one afternoon, scouring our musical resources looking for even decent songs about the Jesus rising from the grave.

There are certainly a lot referencing the Cross.

Why is it hard to find songs about the fact that our God is Alive?

My pastor says this a lot, and I find it constantly proven in our culture:

There’s a lot we can do with a Dead Jesus.

We can sing to him. Praise him. Hear about him. Talk about him.

And best of all, he doesn’t require a whole lot out of me. So I can sing about Him dying for me and still be safe and content.

Look, before I get blasted with angry comments, know I am in NO WAY lessening in ANY WAY the importance, significance, beloved-ness, glory-filled, holiness, God-Given Saving nature of the Cross of Christ.

I’m just saying.

Where’s our love for the events of that Third Day?

The Resurrection. 

That holiest of days when Death was told “You have no jurisdiction here.”

The moment when the not even the grave itself could hold back our Lord.

The pinnacle of History in which a dead Jesus comes back to Life.

I just need to say that again:

What once was dead, Jesus made alive!!

And I meant that exactly the way I typed it. “What once was dead…”

Because what the Empty Tomb shows us is that Jesus is a savior who not only saves us, but who can breathe new life into our vestigial lungs. He can say to our un-beating hearts of stone, “Time to move again! Be flesh and blood once more!” Who can put life back into our limbs!

He’s a Jesus who can reanimate, rekindle, rejuvenate, revivify our dead lives.

He can resurrect us.

 ^“But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy,  made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved.” (Ephesians 2:4-5, emphasis mine)

” I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” -Jesus.  (John 10:10) And have it NOW! And have it FOREVERMORE! 

The Resurrection saves me from living like I’m half-alive. The Resurrection brings my true life to me in the here and now, the Kingdom Come. It makes our belief go from being in a murdered man to a Risen Messiah!

My prayer is that we live like it.

My prayer is that the Resurrection becomes more than just an event that we celebrate with hiding eggs and eating candy once a year.

My prayer is that we become the people the Bible talks about, the people united in LIFE! The people of Christ.

My prayer is that Jesus would resurrect our hearts daily.

My prayer is that we would understand that when Jesus took the keys to Death and Hell, that we won. Death is defeated. The Grave is beaten. We will see those who sleep now, awake once more! We will look Death in the eye, and as one body sing, scream, holler, and shout out,

“OH DEATH, WHERE IS YOUR STING? OH HELL, WHERE IS YOUR VICTORY?”

Death is not the boss of us. I asked about your jewelry earlier, so it’s only fair I tell you about mine. I’ve been wearing a lot of skulls lately. My madre hates it, thinks it’s emo. But I’ve taken it up as a constant reminder, silly as it may be, that Death is dead. It’s has no power over me anymore. Death can’t touch me and my life is now and forever found in the life of Christ.

Oh Lord Jesus, let this true be in our lives.

Amen and Amen.

********************************************************************************

“See, if Jesus dies on the cross but isn’t resurrected, how do we know all our sin is paid for? If Jesus dies on the cross but isn’t raised from the dead, how do we know sin has been defeated and that death is dead? How do we know? We don’t without the resurrection. The resurrection stands for us as believers as the apex of God’s love made manifest for us in the person and work of Jesus Christ.”

“Where are you at now, death? What you got now, death? Nothing…All that is sad will become untrue. We put our hope there.”

-The Initiating Love of God, Matt Chandler

“Now daughters and the sons of men
Would pay not their dues again
The debt of blood they owed was rent
When the day rolled a new

On Friday a thief
On Sunday a King
Laid down in grief
But awoke holding keys
To Hell on that day
The first born of the slain
The Man Jesus Christ
Laid death in his grave”  -John Mark McMillan, Death in His Grave

“and the living One; and I was dead, and behold, I am alive forevermore, and I have the keys of death and of Hades.” (Revelation 1:18)

Blind Faith and Its Outcomes.

Faith is a word that’s thrown around a lot.

Like a LOT, a lot.

Faith in humanity being restored, or taken away. Faith in friendships. In good faith. Having Faith. Keeping the faith. Losing Faith. Faith Hill. Faith like a mustard seed. Faith is being sure of things hoped for, but not seen. Faith in religion. Faith in God. Faith, faith, faith, faith, faith.

Say it often enough and it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore.

I know for this writer, one that was basically born in a church pew, Bible in one hand, hymnal in the other, Faith is a word with a myriad of meanings and a labyrinth of subtext.

Oh, but Faith is so much more  than just a word.

It means my Papa and his enormous amount of confidence in Christ, with his faith that I’m pretty sure could move mountains and has most assuredly led my family through most everything a family can go through. Gives a whole new definition to the personage of a Patriarch.

It means the hymn “It is Well.” Even when it’s the farthest thing from “well.”

It means holding hands with my Church, seeking Christ’s face in the midst of joy and heartache.

It means picking up my Bible on days when it just feels like a millstone in my hands, not dishing out any fortune telling truths, and I’m not willing to listen to anything more poignant than that.

It means repeatedly doing something that I don’t even think is a smart idea, or at least not a fun one, because Jesus is simply prompting me to continue.

And so I continue. (Jim-facing at God, though I may be.)

I recently took an online class on the book of John. (Mistake. Future reference: take all important, deep, theological classes in person. Whew.) In that class, I came face to face with a Jesus that is obsessed with pure, unadulterated (or the completely tainted, ruined rags of) faith.

In John, there’s the story of Jesus’ first miracle, at the wedding at Cana.

So Jesus is just chilling at this wedding of a family friend with his mom right, and then, calamity of calamities, they run out of booze.

Well, of wine. But anyways.

That’s it. Party over. What a shame, and frankly kind of a downer.

At first it seems Jesus is content to let this small, domestic, day to day tragedy pass him by.

Then Little Mama Mary has this gem of a comment:

“They have no more wine.” (John 2:3)

I don’t know about you but that sounds like a PRO – mom comment to me.  Like “Wow. This room sure is messy.” Or “Honey, I sure am tired after making that huge meal. Now there’s all these dishes…” Jesus’ mom is so being a mom here.

“Oh, dear, they seem to have run out of wine…”

To my thinking, and at great risk to my bodily health from all the Moms in my life by saying this, but if there’s been only one person in the entirety of human history that DIDN’T need mom’d, it’d have to be Jesus Christ. Right? Jesus must be side-eyeing her so hard, like “Mom. Please. Don’t be this person right now.” (I mean obviously not, he’s Jesus. That’s just how I’d have responded…)

It’s not too far from the the actual response that we see from her son however:

 ^““Woman, why do you involve me?” Jesus replied. “My hour has not yet come.”” (John 2:4)

I imagine Jesus just sitting there, enjoying the festivities with his mom, and all the sudden she nudges him and sort of demands him to do something to remedy the situation.

Something miraculous.

He clearly isn’t really wanting to do something miraculous at that moment. But Mama Mary, being mom-like as moms do best, proceeds to make a plan, ordering the servants to listen and do whatever her son asks of them.

And here is the part my mind has been reeling over since I read it a week ago:

Jesus does it.

Jesus listens to Mary’s request and then preforms His very first miracle.

I sat there, stunned. God in human form, seemed to just have let his surrogate mom talk him into a miracle. Why?!

As I was reading this academic essay on signs in the Gospel of John, all very informative, I came across this beautiful phrase, gently tucked between two parenthesis, almost as if the writer had been mouthing it to me like a giant secret in a stage whisper:

 (For Jesus never can resist Faith.)

Wow.

I’m gonna need to retype that.

For Jesus never can resist Faith. 

More precisely, Jesus cannot resist us, His children, His beloveds, putting our faith in Him.

Now you’re probably sitting there thinking, “Big deal Mickensie. Everybody knows God wants us to have faith in Him.” But more than knowing it, do you live it?

Do I live like I have faith in Jesus? Am I willing to blindly follow Him, to face my deepest fears, most frustrating trials, darkest doubts, as well as to the heights of my achievements, hidden talents, creative capabilities, and all around life to the full?

Because here’s the thing: putting my faith in Jesus requires a lot. Jesus is not tame. He’s not safe. He is not domesticated, as a we’re often times guilty of making Him appear to be. He’s not going to go easy on us. He’s fierce, he’s tumultuous, and relentless, and constant, and, and, and,

f a i t h f u l.

And I think when we surrender our ridiculous illusion of control, when we abandon all hope of getting our lives together on our own, when the wine is all gone but the feast must go on, and we turn to Him, I believe he delights in those moments.  Like my dad feels when I ask him to fix my car, trusting completely  that even if he has to look up sketchy youtube videos and crawl on his hands and knees, he’s capable of fixing it. Or how my brother feels being my life-guru, when I ask him what he would do and he spouts off the phrase, “Now look, Mickensie…”

I truly believe that Jesus adores seeing His children putting their faith, little and broken as it may be, in Him. He finds it irresistible. He loves showing us just how much he can do with a mustard seed.  Weeding out the doubts that have crept in and cultivating a garden in our lives, that produces so much fruit we don’t know what to do with it all!

Turning the watered down, thimble of faith we offer up, into enough wine for a wedding.

That’s my new goal. If Jesus desires faith, that’s exactly what I plan on giving. He’s asking some heavy, complicated, difficult things from me right now. And I know it’d be easier to, like a song we sang at my church this Sunday, to run after ” the call of lovers so less wild.” (seriously. file under songs that ripped me apart.) But I know, or better said, I have every faith that He, my wild, untamable, unpredictable Jesus, is crafting something so extraordinarily beautiful and breathtaking that I wouldn’t be able to comprehend it if He told me.

A phrase from camp that has been on a constant loop in my head and heart for the past three weeks puts it in perspective:

Don’t ask God for steps 2-10 when you don’t have the faith to take the first step.

So this is me, metaphorically taking the first step. A blind, deaf, and dumb leap faith. Off the cliff I go.

*************************************************************************************************

“If we are faithless, He remains faithful, for He cannot deny Himself.” 2 Timothy 2:13

“And my feeble, whispered, faithless prayer invokes a thunderous, resounding, bone-shaking great ‘Amen!’ from countless angels, from hero’s of the faith, from Christ himself!” -The Vision, http://www.24-7prayer.com/about/thevision-en 

Is That Guy More Jesus-y Than Me? (And Should I Care?)

“I don’t think so. We’d never work out. He’s just so…Jesus-y. I’m not on his level.”

This profound quote is from a conversation I had last semester with a friend over another friend of ours and whether a relationship with him would blossom. (And yes, I take full credit for the coining of the term “Jesus-y.” Use it as you will.)

This friend is a wonderful, wonderful man of God and it just permeates from his very being!

And I admit to envying it.

And I admit to not being that way in my own life.

And I admit that my relationship with Christ looks sort of different from his.

And I admit to wondering why that is.

I mean, we were both saved from ourselves and the clutches of Death and the sting of his victory by the same Savior. We both worship and adore the same God of the universe. We both strive to live a life that is pleasing to Him, giving Him honor and glory in our very attitudes and actions. Basically, what I’m trying to say is we’re in the same boat.

Then why does His boat look so different than mine? (And it’s not just cause I’m on the Intern-Raft.)

Am I doing something wrong?

Short answer: Yes. Longer answer: WE ALL ARE. In the words of everyone’s grandmother, nobody’s perfect ‘cept for Jesus Christ. Truth. And for all our striving and pursuing and running after the example He set for us, we (that is we, human and flawed) cannot achieve it. No ways.

(Not alone.)

“But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.”

{2 Corinthians 2:19}

“Alright,” my inner monolouge with myself goes, “My weakness and overall lack of Jesus-y vibe is not a total loss. But why do I feel that it is?”

Because I’m judgey.

Recently my pastor preached on the Imaginary Scale of Righteousness (again, my phrase. Copyright pending.) It’s basically the idea that we can rate ourselves, and unfortunately others as well, on a scale from the worst, to better, to best, to, well, Jesus:

Person One: Well, I might struggle with that sin, but at least I’m not as bad as Person Two.

Person Two: Yeah, I made a couple mistakes in my time, but geez, have you seen Person Three?

Person Three: Whatever. I am streets ahead of Person 4. They shouldn’t even be on this imaginary scale.

Peson Four’s Mother: They’re just jealous of my precious, baby, angel.

You see what happens? We create this mock up in our head that conveniently always places someone else below us. We are forming a flawed system in which we are justifying our actions based on the fact that they are “better” than someone else’s! (or if you’re like me, constantly placing yourself behind everyone else. Jesus is not cool with this. Trust me. Stop it)

Need I remind us all of a certain piece of scripture that makes it very plain to me that we all, are well, in the same exact, boat:

“For everyone has sinned; we all fall short of God’s glorious standard.”

{Romans 3:23 NLT, emphasis mine}

We are ALL on the losing end of the Scale of Righteousness. If we stack all our good deeds, and compare them against God’s perfection, we do not even show up.

Everything “good” we’ve ever done is like a speck of sand at the bottom of Mt. Everest.

No.

Like a bacteria on the bottom of the Mariana Trench. Compared to Mr. Everest.

Plus a gazillion Mt. Everests.

Continuing.

For infinity.

Do I need to go on?

Want to know the good news? (Whether you do or not, I need to hear it.)

Jesus is the greatest Good there ever is, was, or will be. He is righteous of the righteous, so good He makes your Mama look like a mass murderer. He is the Holy of the Holiest, he makes the most Holier than Thou person you’ve ever wanted to punch in the face look as unclean as the dirt under your feet. He is the Purest of the Pure, cleaner than snow, un-bleachable white.

(Okay Mickensie, get to the Good part of this, cause so far I feel greeeeeat.)

And He makes us that way too.

“The righteousness of God through faith in Jesus Christ for all who believe. For there is no distinction…”

{Romans 3:22 NIV}

That’s right. The righteousness of God.

We get that through Jesus!!

By the insane, irrational, irrevocably beautiful grace of God (not. I repeat, NOT, by works) we are covered with Jesus’ righteousness, mercy, love, holiness, and all around rightness.

My works mean nothing. They are as dirty, used up, bloody rags in comparison to the Son of the Most High God.

But here’s the hopeful part:

My works don’t save me.

They don’t get me closer to the Jesus end of the scale. I want to emulate Jesus in my life because of His great love that He poured into mine.

Not in order to receive it.

We should want a closer relationship with Jesus, involving us looking a whole lot more like Him, talking to Him a whole lot more, loving people like Him a whole lot more, and trying to copy another person’s relationship with Him a whole lot less.

Jesus gives us permission to be ourselves, to mess up, to struggle. Because His Grace is sufficient for all we lack.

Give up the Scale.

Stop the measuring.

Start pursuing Christ and not other people’s relationship with Him.

Start your own.

Not trying to be Jesus-y anymore, just striving to know Him and make Him known,

Grace,

Mickensie

 

 

Predictable Plots {or Is Your Life Anything Like a Movie?}

Today it’s icy.

Like setting up a chair in front of my dorm window and watching people slip on the bricks while I snuggle up in my Batman Snuggie with a cup of coffee- kinda icy.

Snow days like today obviously lead to movie watching day’s off with my lovely, lovely roommate. We re-watched a film that I had watched this summer and had deemed cutesy and happy-go-lucky enough to share.

It’s a typical rom-com setup: ridiculous, campy beginning, romantic feelings are stirred in an adorable mid-section, then a heart wrenching, devastating turn, and finally, after much emotional trauma and doubt, love triumphs over all and the couple destiny forced together lives happily ever after.

Seriously. Apply it to every rom-com you’ve ever heard of. I can almost guarantee it’s accuracy.

But it got me thinking. In this particular movie, the theme was so obvious I was quite literally sitting on my bed telling the main character, “Just wait! I promise. I know how this turns out. Wait a couple more scenes! Good things are around the corner! Happy endings, a bright musical score, beautiful sunsets! It all ends well.”

Today I was struck by the same thought I had been struck directly in face with this summer:

Maybe that is how God feels about us.

Maybe not literally. Or maybe exactly that.

Maybe, just maybe, Christ is sitting at the right hand of His Dad and crying out to us, “Daughter!! If you only KNEW what comes next! Oh Son, the things I have in store for you! If you only realized that I already know the ending to this story. And it’s Glory.”

Christ, who is the Alpha and the Omega, the literal beginning and the end. He holds time itself in His hands. He has my entire existence incased in a single thought. He knows what’s next for me. And after that. And after that! It reminds me of one of my favorite verses of scripture:

“Many, O LORD my God, are the wonders you have done. The things you planned for us no one can recount to you; were I to speak and tell of them, they would be too many to declare.”

{Psalm 40:5}

God has so many plans for me that there’s no way to even begin to name them! That should be comforting (or terrifying for those of us that still have trouble deciding what we’re having for breakfast tomorrow much less what we’re to do with the rest of our earthly existence.)

But I’m excited! More than that I am freed!! Freed from fear. Freed from discouragement. Freed from terror at my own lack of foresight. Christ has infinite foreknowledge, enough to cover my infinitely terrible nearsightedness.

We will overcome, because guess who already overcame for us?

Three guesses and the first two don’t count.

Can you feel the scene changing around you? Do you detect a change of tempo to the score? Does it feel as if the “life to the fullest” Christ promised is arriving? Good. Because I promise it is.

Together, there’s nothing you can’t handle.

Jesus knows how this plays out.

And He wins.

Take heart. Joy is coming. Soon.

With all the hope in my heart mixed with all the courage I can muster,

-Mickensie

“None of this fazes us because Jesus loves us. I’m absolutely convinced that nothing—nothing living or dead, angelic or demonic, today or tomorrow, high or low, thinkable or unthinkable—absolutely nothing can get between us and God’s love because of the way that Jesus our Master has embraced us.”

{Romans 8:37-39}