Leveling with God

 Lets face it. Sometimes we have to be honest— brutally honest. Like, punch-you-in-the-face, kick-you-in-the-shin, steal-your-wallet-and-throw-it-in-a-river kind of honest. It’s just necessary every now and then. Being nice is fantastic, but it’s overrated, and “nice” never saved anyone’s relationship. Actually, “nice” is probably the number one relationship killer. It’s different from “kind.” You can be kind and still be brutally honest with someone you love, but “nice” is never honest. “Nice” is a bit fat lie. “Nice” turns us into throw rugs, and then we end up resenting the object of our niceness: mom and dad, spouse, best friend, co-worker— as if it’s their fault we never leveled with them.

“Nice” is shallow. It keeps a relationship at the surface, a perpetual first impression. It’s not raw and upsetting and messy, like it should be. We all have raw, upsetting, messy qualities about us, and they’re just as worth sharing as our pretty parts, probably more-so. “Nice” makes us angry. It has it’s place sometimes, like with bosses or people who could kill us, but if one is forced to bring “nice” home after work, it’s a sure way to make them pissed off. It doesn’t let you shed your skin, doesn’t let you love or be loved, doesn’t allow freedom or utility or grace or forgiveness. “Nice” is a clever way to lie to everyone around you about who you really are and how you really feel. “Nice” kills passion, and it puts us in a state of slavery to everyone around us.

So why are we so nice to God?

If I’m being perfectly honest (that’s what this whole thing is about, right?), I’ve found myself resenting God many times before. I lied about it, of course. You’re not supposed to resent God, it’s a HUGE no-no. So I just kept my mouth shut and tried to work it out on my own, but that was the problem to begin with. I’d run into all these things I hated, that hurt me and made me angry and sick to my stomach. But I had stopped doing what the psalmists did and crying out to God, questioning Him, even yelling at Him. Yelling, not in anger at Him, but in desperation for Him, in anger at the lack of Him I saw. Instead of raging and allowing Him to hear me, I kept my mouth shut. And instead of making God like me any better, it only made me angrier. It was “nice,” and it was a lie.

I believe God loves us very thoroughly. I don’t think He only loves us in spite of who we are, but because of who we are, even if who we are is a big fat mess at the moment. We are not divine, and God is well aware of that. But when we try to force divinity in ourselves, we end up lying to God and to our own hearts. Some of the nicest people are the farthest from God, because they refuse to let go of their facade. They lie to their loved ones, they lie to themselves, and they lie to God in prayer.

It’s true that some of the nicer prayers are necessary: “Thank you” and “Thou art holy” and “Thou art good.” But in conjunction with recognizing God’s goodness in our prayers, we must also acknowledge the state of our own hearts. Sometimes it sounds semi-nice: “Forgive me” and “I love you.” Other times it might be something like “I’m so #@$%*!& angry!” “I’m lost.” “I’m addicted.” “I don’t understand” or “I don’t care.” If we are angry, we must invite God into our anger, as uncomfortable as that may sound. If we are helpless, we must invite God into our helplessness and allow the Creator’s strength to be perfected in our weakness. If we are bitter, we must invite Him into our bitterness, even if our bitterness is toward God Himself. Because no relationship is saved by “nice.” Relationships are destroyed by the failure to level with one another. Just as we trust our loved ones do not love us because they think we are perfect, we must have faith that God loves us for an entirely different set of reasons as well. Not because we are perfect, but because God is love.

I think many of us would find ourselves at the beginning of healing if we would all learn to level with God. Let us be a church of ragamuffins and misfits once again. Let us allow honest passion back into our lives, even at the expense of harmony and white picket fences, even at the risk of scandal. Let us not treat God like He can be fooled and not treat each other like strangers, but instead like family. Honesty is neglected in favor of happiness and harmony too often, in our churches, our families, and our personal lives. I’m trying to make that change in myself, and I pray we all make the same change, for the sake of ourselves and our relationships with God and others.

Sarah out.

I Look Down to Find Myself in Ruins

I.

I used to know you like I know the feeling of Nevada’s cold, crisp air on my face.

I knew the feel of your hand brushing my cheek before it landed.

I knew the color of your eyes and the sound of your voice.

You were all wrapped up in the curve of the hills and the jagged edges of the mountains. The blue and white snow-capped peaks reflected your smiling gaze.

The quiet of the desert reverberated with your gentle whispers, and I always knew where to find you among the aspens and the sagebrush.

You were never far away from me,

And we were very much in love.

These days I feel war torn, reeling from some great shock that dropped in between us when I least expected it. I might have been retreating all this time, running backwards away from the smoke cloud, but I have not known it until now.

II.

I wake up, and I am in a strange place that I don’t know.

Far off, I can hear the sounds of some painful memory, but now I am alone, and not a soul is in sight.

All around me is dust and ash

And my hands are outstretched, as if to say “No.”

I remember the quiet moments that I spent with you, the tender words that you spoke to me in what seems like another life. But I don’t know where to find you now. I don’t know where I am.

III.

I’m trying to reconcile this mushroom cloud and these shrapnel wounds with a life that I once knew was real… but it doesn’t seem real to me anymore.

The color blue, is that a story I heard once? Or perhaps it existed, long ago.

Every now and then I think I hear your voice, calling to me through this smoke.

But I grow ashamed,

And I am scared to walk into the darkness to find you.

The wind brings the smell of fresh-cut grass, or sagebrush after a storm, but only for a moment and it makes me want to cry.

I know home is close, but I don’t know how to get there.

I’m scared to follow your voice, that it will take me too far from this awful place. I’m scared to remember how I got here.

IV.

Lately I’ve been walking to and fro, just where the shadows meet each other and shield me from a place that lies beyond them.

I can see them, living over there. I hear them laughing and imagine them with you.

I comfort myself by looking down my nose at them from over here.

Silly, enchanted fools. They know nothing of this terrible place.

Yet I begin to wonder.

I do not know if it is this life or the other that is really real.

I don’t know how to tell if I am flesh or shadow.

V.

Do you remember when you told me that anything is possible? I don’t believe it anymore. I want to.

Please come find me.

Healing as Reversal

In thinking of how God is continuing to teach me who I am this semester (and making me more ok with that every day!) I thought of something I posted on Facebook a few months ago that I thought was appropriate to re-post here. It was after I got a letter to myself from my missions retreat last Spring. Here's a quote from the letter:


"Every one of [your team members], with their individual laughs and smiles and hugs are gifts to you... I think by now you'll have seen the impact God chose them to have on your life. Already, they have shown me (or are beginning to show me) the okay-ness and rightness of my own laughter. They are showing me the okay-ness in my own voice, my own prayer, my own body, and hands, and my own way of having fun. I haven't felt like a child in a long time, but I feel like one now... You know, when you were told you can't play, it was a lie. When you were told you can't act, it was a lie. When you were told you can't dance, it was a lie. [God] loves to see you laugh. He loves your voice. He loves your quietness. He just loves." 

Not only did I read this right after a conversation with my mom about being able to be a child while I'm at home (woah!) but it immediately made me think of a prayer that I wrote in Darjeeling, a prayer I believe was not possible until this trip with those 9 wonderful friends: 

Precious Lord, 
You are a reminder of my non-invisibility. 
You show me how right and ok it is to be loved. 
You are the One whose mark of love I wish to be upon me 
And whose love I trust will never leave. 
You teach me the right kind of laughter, 
the kind that doesn't necessarily turn into tears. 
You are the hand that holds me above my enemies 
And you lock my gaze so that I do not see their faces any longer. 
You are my fortress! 
And the company that I keep there. 
You are full of good conversations and hilarious jokes. 
You are the light that beckons me thru the darkness. 
I don't see the darkness any longer, because 
You are my healer. 
No other healer would I rather have than You, 
For You are my God. 
You are the overarching and all-encompassing sky that I look into, and cannot see the end of. 
You have made me with skillful hands 
And You have made a universe to hold us. 
You are holding us. 
You are reaching to us. 
And you are among us, 
The love that knits us together. 
Amen. 
(6-10-10) 

Maybe when God heals us, it is a process of making us children again. Maybe when He saves us, it is the process of remembering our first love, the love that all of us had as little children, when our eyes weren't clouded with pain and disappointment and lies. God is making me remember who I knew Him to be as a child, because He is making me into a child again. Praise God for friends that we can be children with. I am so amazed at His healing hand.


I have a feeling that from here on out I'll be free to get excited about my life, and what I want to do with it. Like I could run up to God and get really excited about my new plans, like I did to my parents when I was little and decided I wanted to write a book, or go to India and feed hungry children, or be a famous singer. I really really hope that's true. I know I still have a long way to go, but I am so encouraged to see how FAR He has brought me in His freedom and love!! Praise the Lord. :)

From the Mountaintops

I wonder how Ezekiel felt when God led him through the valley of bones. Confused, I think. I bet he wondered why God was leading him through a valley of bones. Ezekiel had surely felt the Lord’s presence, heard His voice, and seen Him move. Yet when God asked him the big important question: “Can these bones live?” he still answered with “O Sovereign Lord, You alone know.” Earlier this semester I thought that if I were Ezekiel I would have answered more positively, with an answer like “Of course, Lord! Anything is possible with You!” But now I think I understand why Ezekiel answered how he did.

It’s confusing going from the mountain to the valley. There is the obvious: the scenery is different. Rather than a perspective from up high, closer to God’s perspective, one is thrown right into the thick of it, whatever “it” is, and it is not quite as beautiful at first. Furthermore, it isn’t quite as easy to answer “yes” to questions about the miraculous in the face of thousands of dry bones that have been sitting the way they are for who knows how long. It’s much easier to wonder things like, “Why am I here?” and “What could I possibly do about all these bones?”

This year I have been on the mountaintops, both literally and figuratively. God took me to a higher place than I had ever been this year, where I could see a little more of His perspective. In that place I could hear His voice more clearly. In that place I could see His hand move without distraction. It was in that place He healed me, He moved me, and He changed me into a new person. I spent part of my summer in the Himalayan Mountains with 9 incredible people, literally on the mountaintops, encountering the Lord in new ways and falling so much deeper in love with Him. And then I came back. And God brought me to LA.

It has been a confusing experience, to say the least. Overwhelming, to put it lightly. I’ve asked the questions: “Why am I here?” and God said, “To be made complete.” “What could I possibly do about all these bones?” and God said, “Nothing.” There is a pressure when one comes down from the mountain to immediately put into practice what God showed you. There is a temptation to do something, when perhaps that is not what God intended by bringing you to the mountain. Rather, sometimes God brings us to the mountain to make us into a new person. And so when we come down to the valley, the task is not necessarily to do a whole lot; rather, the challenge is to be the person God formed on the mountain. 

I was reminded of this after struggling intensely with the revelation that evil is big, and I am small. I shared with a few friends of mine that this semester I have come face to face with problems that I once naively thought I could stand against. I now see that on my own, I am much too small to even start. I have always been an optimist, so this news was hard for me to take. I felt restless and unsatisfied with God’s insistence that I am to do nothing this semester, save persevere. The night I shared this struggle I went to a small group with some friends where an entry from Oswald Chambers’ My Utmost for His Highest was read; it was about coming down from the mountaintop.

I was reminded that night that we are not meant to live on the mountaintops. The mountaintop is where God brings us for a little while to experience Him and be changed into new people. But every lover of God that is brought to the mountaintop has had to go back down. Because the valley, though not as desirable, is where we live. It is where we move. The task when we go back down is not necessarily to do anything, because we know that in reality, we can’t do much. Ezekiel couldn’t possibly bring those bones to life, and I can’t bring this city to life. But this year in the mountains, God made me love Him more, and that love makes me cling to Him in this valley. In the mountains God healed me and my new wholeness gives me strength and confidence in this valley. In the mountains God gave me family to support me and cry with me in this valley. In the mountains I saw God’s powerful love move, and that knowledge gives me just enough hope to say, in the face of death itself, “O sovereign Lord, You alone know.”

In the end it is He alone that knows, and He alone that brings life. Ezekiel had the incredible opportunity at this point to stand back and watch the Lord move the way He said He would.  “Then you will know that I the LORD have spoken, and I have done it, declares the LORD.” (Ezekiel 37:14b)

I know that this semester God is completing the work He started in me this year by teaching me how to live, move, and seek after Him in the valley. Sometimes I just want to run back to the mountaintops and stay there forever. But that is not where I belong, at least not now. Right now I am in the valley, confused, overwhelmed, and waiting for my God to answer “Yes” to the question I simply cannot answer with much assurance from the valley floor.

Perseverance

We went back to Azusa this weekend, a much needed sabbatical, for me at least. I feel like the last few weeks have been an emotional roller coaster ride, so up and down. When I got to APU, I had no clue what I was feeling or if it was ok to feel that way.
I confess that I am a victim of the popular myth that depression is always a negative thing. Pain has a stigma in our society that does enormous injustice to the real value and purpose of heartbreak, what I believe to be the purest form of pain. It sits above disappointment and bitterness in my mind because true heartbreak comes from the shock of an event or circumstance that is fundamentally opposite of how life was intended to be: broken relationships, addiction, injustice...
The problem was that I didn't know if that was what I was feeling, or if it was just some odd mixture of self-pity and bitterness. So the first night at APU, alone in my best friend's apartment, I used my first alone time with the Lord in weeks to weep and cry out before Him, looking to the Scriptures for some sort of guidance.
I found myself asking God, "If this is where You have called me, why is it so hard?" None of this fits with my perfect year. I know this year is my year, a phenomenal year, and thus far it has been filled with joy, community, growth, and above all, healing. I had a feeling at the beginning of the semester that the role LA term would play in my perfect year would be unlike the previous 8 months, but I didn't know to what purpose.
In my crying out, God spoke the question of joy to me-- "Do you still have joy?" And after some thought, I decided that I do. Thankfully, I am still able to rejoice when others rejoice and bring praise when I see the Lord's hand move, which is often. I thank God that He has given me His eyes these few weeks to see where He is.
But I am not happy. No, I thought, I am quite decidedly unhappy. "Why?" God asked. And I said, "Because I see no reason to be right now." And He said, "That's ok."
James chapter 1 is where He led me:

"Consider it pure joy, Sarah, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything."

And so He answered my question- "Why is it so hard? Because it's supposed to be, at least for you. I've done incredible things in your life this year, but I'm not finished yet. You are not complete until you pass through this valley with your faith still intact."

Instead of filling me with dread, this promise of trials gave me comfort. Comfort that the Lord understands my sorrow, and He doesn't blame me for it. And comfort that He is not asking me to save the world right now, or even to do anything remotely "big." For now, He is simply asking me to put one foot in front of the other in His direction, to persevere. I'm being exposed to pain and oppression in forms I wasn't prepared to encounter face to face. My heart is indeed breaking for this city, and I've been putting entirely too much pressure on myself to do something about it. To fix it. To save it.

But it is clear to me that, at this point in my life, I can't. And that is hard for me. But God has given me permission, in fact He has told me, to rest right now. To slow, to lean into Him as the evil in the world seems to lean into me. This is a time of preparation and learning, not so much one of action- yet. And He will take care of the rest in His own timing, not mine.

I am so relieved to have a Savior that doesn't expect me to be a savior as well, but simply to go where He leads me. Praise be to the God who sees, the God who hears, and the God who speaks. Amen.

-----------------------------------------

I'm also incredibly thankful for the friends on main campus that lent an ear to my experiences on LA Term so far and who provided enormous comfort just by their presence. If you're reading, know that I love you. Thanks.

Here's some pictures of LA Term so far. I LOVE the people in this cohort. They help sustain me through this crazy transition with their contagious joy and love and curiousity. Love you guys :)


Everybody, with Steph, in front of Blossom Vietnamese downtown





City Hall



Kim and I laughing at Melanie 'cause she didn't want us to see her toes. :)

Ministering Angels

After I wrote my last post, I continued to struggle with feelings of discouragement and isolation, despite the hope that God had already given me. I felt like I had already come face to face with so much heartbreak and desperation, and I was beginning to feel desperate myself. Every set of eyes with hopelessness in them and every person whose dignity had been taken away I took as a personal blow to my inner being; I took it to the core of who I am until I doubted even that. God has called me a mother to the motherless, and yet I felt helpless in this huge place, so full of people who need that kind of love. I want to save everyone, I want to fix everything, and when I can't, I get overwhelmed. I can still feel myself being pulled into a place where I am tempted to want so badly to help somehow that I lose hope and am not able to help a single soul, not even myself. My doubt in who I am as a lover makes me incapable of love.
But God is faithful, and the day after I posted my reflections on the "City of Angels," I opened up to read where I had left off in Walter Brueggemann's Prayers for a Privileged People, to a passage called "Sustained by Angels." Irony. This is what waited for me toward the end of the passage:

"So we pray in the Lenten season,

give us primitive freedom to

take full stock of Satan and the power of

evil still among us in our prosperity and

wealth and sophistication,

and give us primitive openness

to your ministering angels

who are present with care and gentleness."



I'm finding myself in a balancing act. Balancing reality with Truth, and trying not to let reality win out. My eyes were taking in the realities of the pain of individual people, the systemic injustices, the inequalities. But I had not yet practiced looking for the Truth, and my heart was totally unguarded. I realize now that along with my perceptiveness in seeing the wrong things-- the injustice, the pain-- there must also be an openness to God's ministering angels. I had to admit my weariness, already, and ask the Lord to minister to me by His angels.

I am starting now to find a balance. I'm searching for what it means to have the freedom to take full stock of Satan's work in this city. And it is evident, as on the metro the other day when a homeless man got on with a box in his hands and sat down on top of it. The train started moving, and the man looked around at the crowded train and asked "Where is this train going?" and not a single person in the crowd around him answered. "Where is this train going?" He looked like a puppy who had been beaten too many times, who had to muster all his confidence to say it loud enough, though no one would look him in the face. Finally a woman five rows back answered him, to my great relief. But the stunning silence as the man looked around at everyone around him shocked me and angered me.

I am also searching for what it means to have primitive openness to God's ministering angels, and God has given me plenty of opportunities to be open. There are glimpses of hope here that give me that balance between reality and Truth. The reality on Thurday night was that a friendly, talkative young man named Teddy spilled his guts to Kim and I on the metro, about his drug addiction and rehabilitation, his relationship with Jesus, and his recent breakup. The Truth is that what Teddy needed was a face full of compassion and someone to listen to him, and God thought we were special enough to fill that role. In reality, the homeless man we saw for the first time walking home the other day was an example of societal tragedy and injustice. But the Truth is, Kim had prayed earlier that day for God to send her someone hungry, because she couldn't finish her lunch that day. God did; his name is Raul and God put him there so he could have Kim's sandwich.

God has answered my prayers by giving me opportunities to look strangers full in the face and share in their humanity. These people minister to me by allowing me to love the way that God made me to love. I am still in a balancing act over here, and I've found it to be more of a battle with my emotions than I thought it would. I need prayer for focus, for my thought life, and for encouragement. But I'm finding the balance more every day, and it is beautiful.