Sunday, September 26, 2021

It's not you, it's me

As I was worshiping during church today with the family (we're still attending Church on the Couch until the kids can be vaccinated) I realized I still feel threatened by worship. Then I realized maybe it wasn't them, maybe it was me. 

Some Christians can shout praises to God, trusting him for victory, unwavering in their faith. Dancing and jumping and smiling. 

I can't do that. I have doubts, fears, and I know that some of God's victories will never be realized on this earth. I know pain and sorrow and grief. When I come to worship, it's with a wounded heart. And so I find myself hiding in the corners of my heart even as my mouth is singing the words.

I am waiting until I can praise him without reservation. I'm keeping my heart from fully engaging until I am full of confidence. Until I feel safe around my own pain and doubts, or really, until I no longer have pain or doubts.

In Celebrate Recovery we say that God wants our bad, not just our good. 

Of course my faith isn't enough. Of course I'm not whole. Of course I can't shout praise. But that's not what God wanted. He wanted me in my lacking. I got the sense today that he delighted in my not-enough-ness. 

Delighted.

Because if worship is about me coming to him with my wholeness, where is he? There's so much room for his goodness in my emptiness. So much room for him to show his mercy. His love and acceptance.

He didn't need me to bring him my faith- he is the beginner and finisher of my faith. He is my faith. I can be weak.

He didn't need me to shout praises- he cherishes my frightened attempts to whisper his promises, that's the faith he moves mountains with. It was always him moving the mountains. How foolish to think before I had something to do with it, that my faith was the engine behind it. In my quietness it's so clear that it's him commanding the mountains to fall. And I'm the one standing next to him with my mouth hanging open in awe. 

That's why God loves to use the humble and not the proud. The weak and not the strong. The foolish and not the wise. That's where we see him in who he really is- the God who loves us for who we are, and not as we should be. 

That's humbling to admit, because then I have to leave behind our identity as a "christian" so I can find Jesus like a child. But isn't that the only kind of God I want to love? The one who loves me like a father in all my childish, sticky, needy, faith? 

But I don't think this realization will change worship for me. I was reminded today about the time I hid flowers from homeless people. 

When Chad and I were first married, we were so broke that buying flowers at Trader Joes was a splurge. They had ranunculus, some of my favorites, so I bought a small bouquet. We were living in Culver City and I had to walk back across the park to get home. The park was packed with homeless people, many of whom we knew by name.

I was concerned that they might see my flowers hanging out of my bag and ask for one of them. And I didn't want to share, this was my splurge, so I tucked them into the bag.

In that moment the Holy Spirit made clear to me the situation. The depravity of my soul. I had a home, a husband, clothes, food, and a bouquet of flowers. And I didn't want to share one stem. I wished in that moment that I wasn't selfish. I wished that I was a generous person, a person like Jesus.

Suddenly, like I was seeing a vision, I saw a chasm. I was on one side and the potential to be the generous person that I wanted to be was on the other. And the chasm was so wide I would never be able to cross it.

The Holy Spirit showed me that the only way over was for him to take me there. I would never be able to achieve it on my own. I had to own my limitations and ask him for help to be the person he wanted me to become. The person I wanted to become.

I don't know how God did it. It wasn't in a single moment. It wasn't even noticeable when it did happen. But suddenly I wasn't afraid of losing, I was excited to share. Being generous became a thrill instead of fear, even when there was no hope of return. 

That was twelve years ago. Full disclosure, I'm back in a place where I'm struggling to be generous again and to not be afraid. But what I learned in that moment is that I am not capable of becoming even who I want to be. Unless God pours himself into me, I'm just not capable. And I learned that he had no expectation otherwise. He showed me the impossibility of it and if I tried it on my own I would only manage to throw myself off a cliff. He was the only way, he created it that way.

This reminds me today that I can't worship God unless he pours himself into me. And even when he does, it still probably won't look the same as the people around me. But it can be without fear of my lacking, without condemnation. It can be weak and vulnerable. It can be his delight. 

And how much more can I glorify him, if he does it instead of me? I can shout praises that I am so imperfect, so lacking. 

He is so generous. 

He is so merciful. 

He isn't tame, but he is good.

I want to be able to worship that God, if he makes me able.


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