You are loved.

YOU are loved. You are loved beyond measure.

The worth of who you are is not based on things you wish you could change. It is not the sum of your mistakes, your failures, your should-haves or should-not-haves. Your worth is not found in your flaws, your weight, your financial or relational status. It's not your secrets, your decisions in your solitude, your thoughts, your unspeakable anguish. You are not all your critics say you are. Your value is not lessened by your deepest fears, regrets, and losses.

Similarly, the measure of your worth is not the sum of your achievements, awards, successes, your right decisions. It's not  earned by your career path, your grades, the pats on your back. Your importance is not heightened by good hair days, or your health. You are not the causes you support, your bumper-stickers, your facebook page, your religious affiliation, your political party.

Dear reader, the worth of YOU is not granted and improved upon by your merits or lessened by your failures.

Tonight, our nation is mourning the loss of lives in Boston, Texas, and cry out against the injustice of murdered babies by a man who forgot that doctors are to save, not snip away life. As a nation, many of us do not know the people who lost their lives this week (or in the anniversaries of columbine or Oklahoma City)—yet each of us is saddened by these losses. We call them tragic, horrific, stolen lives by atrocious acts and accidents. Why?

Why are we compelled to mourn for those we never met—why do I, thousands of miles from each of the towns, find myself mourning? Why—because life is valuable. Those people were loved and purposed because they existed. We mourn because every life has worth—intrinsic worth that starts at conception and is eternal. Babies are celebrated because they are—not because of their works, their achievements.

Tonight, remember that you are loved and valuable because you are. Your worth is not derived from your achievements or diminished by your closeted fears and failures. You are loved because you are—your life has purpose because you exist. You are not an accident—you were planned by the Creator who calls you—who beckons us in tragedy to remember that human life is valuable—from the unborn fetus to the bed-ridden elderly and disabled. Our worth is that we were created in the image of God. You are significant because you mirror the creator who has the acceptance and answers you seek. He frees you from the rat race of achievement to a life that knows it is valued because it exists.

You matter.

Understanding the Desert April 16, 2013

Today, I understand the desert. I understand the doubt, the fear, the annoyance of wandering, the blistering heat, sand in your eyes-and everywhere else, and the anger. I understand how and why Israel complained, shook their fists, were defeated, and actually longed for slavery. I get it. I get that the sand gets in places of your soul you didn’t know existed. I get the mentality of despair in the face of mirages of hope and the reality of a wasteland. No longer do I read the exodus passages and snicker “hah, how could they?! Idiots…did you really forget all that just happened for you?! A sea opened up, the plagues, helllllooo—a pillar of fire”. I understand, because I’m there.

I get the doubt that comes after divine intervention. I get the fear that comes after a monumental event—the “now what”. I get that its annoying to not be led the same way—uh really, no more smoke and flames? No more open seas? How can I walk like this—how can I go on when all I see is desert? Some promise this is. I now grasp the “let down” after missions—the ache of losing close friends and family—accompanied by grief that feels like fear—the psychological and emotional blender that spending time in extreme poverty brings—when it’s face is a child’s. I get the defeat, the doubt, the despair. I understand that burying your head in the sand seems like a good idea—at least you don’t have to look at the desert and the bleak, scorched, and dry surroundings that seemingly make up all your future.  Just like one of the kiddos I work with so often proclaims with a pout and a nod of defiance I find myself saying “never gunna get up again. Never gunna have joy-filled faith again—hmp!” And wallow in fear, doubt, and despair that I’m losing my faith and becoming cynical, hardened, jaded.

But I also am reminded of the God that pursued and provided in the desert. Even in their whiniest moments—they were not forsaken—a rock poured forth water, manna fell. Even when they made a golden calf—they were punished but not wholly condemned. If God is who he says he is, than he is faithful when I’m not. I have to submit my fallen, finite, and not yet fully discouraged mind and heart. I certainly do not know or understand everything—and I have a right anger at injustice, poverty, lives being loss. But I have to remember that the past—before I experienced the loss of life, my hearing, my ignorance about poverty—was not all it seems. Sometimes hindsight is rose-colored—not 20:20.

So today as I understand the desert—I also have to understand that there is purpose in it—there is a refining of my faith—even when its reached mustard-seed proportions—and that I won’t be forsaken, condemned, abandoned. Today, like Israel, I trudge on in the desert—today it is a duty to hope, but some tomorrow it may be a delight.

Stop, Don't Go There

 

               Yeah, I should have added some other “bomb” 90’s phrases to that title, maybe offered you a squeeze-it or a sunny d as we settle into today’s topic. While I would love to share a drink with you, dear reader, that’s slightly difficult in the “blog” format, so I’ll just write like we’re sitting across from each other, soaking in the rare glimpses of sun in a northwest spring, and “take a moment sittin’ right here to tell you how I became…” jaded and scared.

That’s right, as look back over the last few months, I realize that it has been predictably surprising. Predictable that re-entry sucked, that I still have random dreams, powerful sensory memories, and moments of wanting to hop on the next plane. But it’s always surprising the when those times occur—I’m never quite ready for their power and the way they still tug at my heart strings and force me to look at the “unanswerable questions” of poverty, hunger, orphans, widows, and marginalized that we so easily over look but who Jesus repeatedly reminds us to look after. I say “unanswerable” because it’s easy to be defeated in the numbers, the prevalence, the ignorance of the wealthy world—myself included. So, surprisingly, I’ve learned ways to cope—to remember that I am not responsible for each of those beautiful children that forever changed my view of the poor—to look at what IS before me, today, what I CAN do is remember, plan ways to return, pray, have hope.

But those last two options—prayer and hope, are hard to come by when you’re in a spiritual wasteland. Soon after I returned from Kenya I was reading a blog and the author remarked that immediately after Jesus was anointed and baptized he was sent to the desert to be tempted. Seems harsh right? Like, “I am here, I send you, I call you my own—now go face a 40 day test from the enemy, pronto”. Seems like Jesus was “thrown in the pool” without floaties. But I have to look at that passage and remind myself I am finite, I fail, daily, so maybe my interpretation of this passage and the following, needs some editing.

               From a human perspective, it doesn’t seem loving to be tested after being called and affirmed. We’d like the high and easy road, no cracks, sink holes, or detours to paradise, please. But Where would the need for faith be if we didn’t have struggles, suffering, pain? (I know I’m precariously treading the line of delving into another “unanswerable” question of suffering and God’s Sovereignty).  Another way to look at this time in Jesus is life is that it wasn’t a throw into the water to sink or swim into his calling and purpose—it was the next step. Its logical that the called Son of God would face adversity from a world that is so blinded and deafened by sin all it wants is for the conviction to go away. Light pierces darkness and salt hurts in a gaping wound.

               So why do I expect my life to be different? Why am I so shocked when after a clear season of provision—the fulfillment of a lifelong dream, I find myself immediately thrust into a desert that I didn’t ask for, is a little too sandy and hot, and those mirages of clarity are sure a pain in the behind. No, I should expect this, it’s Christ-like to go through mountains and valleys.

               As you look at his desert time, and the temptation, you see that there was preparation in the desert. The desert was purposeful. My, your, deserts of faith and clarity, are purposeful. As we feel like we wander in circles, we must not forget that. The temptation he was ready to face came after the test of the desert—after he had “fasted for 40 days”. Timing is everything, and God is always right on time. Maybe I was naïve to think that the rest of my life would look just like the preparation and fulfillment of Kenya. Maybe I expected that assurance in all things. I wanted faith without uncertainty.

               One of the biggest aspects of Jesus’ temptation is the many times he deliberately avoids the train of thought that Satan is trying to derail him on. In a way his response is always some variety of “stop, don’t go there”. He refuses to doubt his father in the face of instant gratification, glory, and even “good” things like a loaf of bread in the desert. This is where I need work. All too often in this season I have taken the “easy” way, let my mind wander to the “solution” of doubting God is good when I see children eating paper or inversely crying because they’re not being spoiled enough today here in America; I dream of the glory of being recognized—being chosen—especially, someday by a husband; and can all too easily resent the beautiful invitations to celebrate with others. I take the loaf of provision for this day—steady job that I love, a widening friendship circle, clarity of grad school—and let it harden and mold as I overlook it as “too little”.

               But today, I am reminding myself to “stop, don’t go there”. There are trains of thoughts that derail my soul into fear, doubt, despondence—and I simply can’t go there. I can’t swim when I’m weighed down by questions I cannot answer and when fear of a future I can’t control seeps into my heart. Like Jesus I have to remember who my father is, that he called and sends me—that he loves me—and that this season is purposeful.