Wait on Him

What about that awkward moment when God is… well… silent?
 
I’d give him a bad report.
 
Attendance    F
Actively participates in class activities    F
Completes tasks to the best of their ability    F
Meets course requirements    F
Works cooperatively with others    F
 
Fail God, Fail.
 
Like, when you’ve been pounding and pounding on the door, begging, pleading for him to answer … and silence.
 
Like when you ask him for your deepest heart’s desire... and nothing
 
Like when you put yourself out on a limb, and you hang there, exposed, naked... and he doesn’t come.
 
Like when your heart gets ripped out of your chest, and numbness swallows you… and you can’t feel him
 
Like when there is pain and desperation all around you… and he doesn’t rescue you
 
Like when you pray and pray and pray for healing with all the faith you can muster… and he doesn’t heal him
 
What gives?
 
What’s with the silent treatment?
 
Like when you followed him, believed he was the son of God, and then he died.
 
He died.
 
You buried him, so you knew he was dead, dead, dead.
 
And you woke up the next day, and he was still dead.

The dark silence of death. Crushing silence. Silence that makes you question God. Silence that makes you want to scream. Silence that makes you beat the chest of God in anguish, doubt and resentment. Silence that brings your entire faith into question.
 
Deafening silence. Easter Saturday.
 
Yes, Sunday is coming. But today is Saturday.
 
Because some days, some months, some years are desperately silent. 

Maybe God isn’t just failing in the silence. Maybe he isn’t caught up playing Candy Crush or having a nap on the couch. Maybe he is at work in ways we cannot fathom. Maybe he knows that Sunday is coming.
 
Still…

Let’s not pretend that life is all Cheerios and Cherubs.

Because Silent Saturdays Suck.

Separation from Jesus sucks.

Romans 8:22-25 (NIV)

We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.
 

Despise and Reject Him

Sometimes I feel foolish for being a Christian.

Like, maybe I’m not cool…?

Whaaat?! Of course I’m cool! … I can totes dab, I’m lit, totally on fleek.

One Easter break I heard a cool kid yell, “hey, thanks for dying for my sins Jesus so I can have a 4-day weekend!” across the school yard with just a tad of snide sarcasm. I flinched at the sting of his barb, I felt angry, hurt and yes, a tad foolish.

Because even though I understood that he had probably not come to this deep philosophic understanding through rigorous assessment, study, and earnest searching, he said it cleverly, with the confidence of one who has the popular vote. And so, I cowered under the embarrassment of being outed as a religious nutter, a weirdo, a Christian.

I can still feel the piercing of my heart that anyone should belittle Christ in such a way. Also, and perhaps if I’m honest, even more painfully, I suffered the horrible ache of rejection.

How could he? How could he trivialise and minimise the one who chose to humble himself, who chose to give himself completely?

How could he reject Jesus?

How could he reject me?

*Not to self – don’t reject Jesus like that guy!

Wait…

Do I reject Jesus?

Do I have to answer that? …

I reject him when I pretend to have it all together, instead of being honest in my pain.

I reject him when I seek the approval of others more than I seek him.

I reject him when I quicken my pace as I walk past my brother who is hurting.

I reject him when I spend more time on Netflix than I do in prayer.

I reject him when I stand in front of the fridge thinking a snack will make me feel better than he possible could.

I reject him when I feel safer with money in the bank than I do in his arms.

I reject him.

Today is the day we mark his death. Good Friday.

Yes, Sunday is coming. But today is Friday.

I’m going to take this day to sit with the truth, the truth of my rejection of Christ. I need to be honest, to look at it, to own it, to take it to Jesus, to lay it down.

Despised and rejected.

By me.

A fool.

"How Deep The Father's Love For Us"

How deep the Father's love for us,

How vast beyond all measure

That He should give His only Son

To make a wretch His treasure

How great the pain of searing loss,

The Father turns His face away

As wounds which mar the chosen One,

Bring many sons to glory

Behold the Man upon a cross,

My sin upon His shoulders

Ashamed I hear my mocking voice,

Call out among the scoffers

It was my sin that held Him there

Until it was accomplished

His dying breath has brought me life

I know that it is finished

I will not boast in anything

No gifts, no power, no wisdom

But I will boast in Jesus Christ

His death and resurrection

Why should I gain from His reward?

I cannot give an answer

But this I know with all my heart

His wounds have paid my ransom

by Stuart Townend

Bread

So annoying right?

When the bible app spits up a corker.

Don’t mess with me bible app. I think I should suggest a 28 day cycle of verses that cater for the… shall we say… treacherous days?

Pfft! “I am the bread of life”

I’m gluten intolerant.

John 6:35 (NIV)

Then Jesus declared, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”

I mean, be careful there Jdawg, that’s a pretty bold statement.

Cos I am ravenous.

Every waking moment I am in search of you, watching, waiting, hoping for more of you. Hungry. Thirsty.

Ok, well sometimes I may look for satisfaction elsewhere…

Perhaps my Bec Paraphrased Version needs some work.

“I am the bread of life, Whoever visits me once a week and enjoys Christian fellowship will never go hungry because they are bloated by their own striving for fulfillment, and whoever invited me into their heart in 1985 and has a worship playlist will never be thirsty as they shall inherit the wellsprings of Coke.”

Come to you.

Can’t I just friend you on Facebook? Or better still, follow you without friending?

How close do I have to get?

Where do I find you?

If only there was some sort of book, like a get to know you manual. I would definitely read it. Well, I’d read 150 characters a day if perhaps someone tweeted it. Perhaps you could constantly remind me of the same verses over and over using an on trend font via instagram? Just the good ones, tho. #instagoodnews

Sigh.

Being hungry is so exhausting.

Come to you.

Why is that hard?

Why do I satisfy myself with cardboard when there is bread to be had?

Stupid bible app. I’m going to move you to my second screen.

Maybe I’ll come to you tomorrow… cos that 100 percent post-consumer recovered fiber is lookin good.

Amber alert.

I sat in the front.

Yes, yes I did.

I sat in the front with the taxi driver today. I leapt into the front seat full of verve and bravado. I’ve got this, I’m a social whizz, he will be so blessed by my presence, watch and learn peeps.

I clicked my seat belt in and gave him the quick side eye once over. Covert. Slick.

Recon complete, I quickly searched through my mental list of witty opening lines ready to slay him with my friendliness.

I searched… and searched.

Amber alert.

Nada.

Nothing.

My brain. Stopped. Working.

Not surprisingly, my lack of brain function did not impede my mouth function... My lips parted and spewed forth such horror I shall forever recoil at the memory of it.

“It hasn’t rained much today.”

My words fell into the atmosphere, reverberating off the array of dashboard devices creating a tunnel of banality neither of us could escape from.

Yay.

What a winner.

The taxi driver replied with the tone normally reserved for the local checkout operator asking if I have a rewards card.

“No. it hasn’t.”

Epic fail.

It has to be said that so far it wasn’t looking like I was going to have the chance to segue into the 4 spiritual laws before I arrived at my destination.

C’mon Bec you can do it.

I muster the courage for a second attempt.

“It didn’t rain yesterday much either.”

*crickets*

Mercifully I arrived at my destination moments later and alighted forthwith.

Light of the World, that’s me.

So… sometimes I’m a disco ball reflecting your light all bejazzled and jiggy with it, and sometimes I’m a bit more like those key ring lights you used to buy to see your keys in the dark even though the batteries ran out before you used it in situ but we don’t buy them anymore cos we all use our phones now type lights.

Today I was a key ring light on its last legs, blinking a couple of times, illuminating nothing.

But praise be, I ain’t the only light. (Good plan God). So hopefully the next butt perched on that front seat was a freaking strobe light of missional success.

That’s my prayer anyways.

Shine on.

Still As.

What if my life is as boring as bat shit?

I hate bats. And apparently even their shit is boring, poor suckers.

My life is so boring that yesterday I tried to write a blog about rolling a gum nut down a hill. Because that was the most interesting part of my day.

Lord help me.

This morning I got so desperate for entertainment I Jiffed the sink.

The horror.

Do you know when it’s easy to trust God, to pray, to give it all to him? When you are hanging by a thread for your dear life from a cliff face. God and I are tight during the fearful, angsty, stress riddled days.

But what about those days when you start folding undies into origami or alphabetising your spices? Is God there? Do I care? Am I comfortable with the silence?

Is it enough to just be in his presence? Is he enough?

Am I so consumed with achieving things for him (wink, I got this God, you relax) that I forget to listen to him?

Can I stop asking myself challenging questions?

Sitting still. How dull. No filter on earth can make that Instagram worthy.

Psalm 46:10  (NIV)

 “Be still, and know that I am God;”

But don’t you have something glorious for me to do?

“Be still, and know that I am God;”

Surely you have some great plan? A bold vision?

“Be still, and know that I am God;”

Don’t I need to be in a position of influence?

“Be still, and know that I am God;”

Don’t you have something for me to say?

“Be still, and know that I am God;”

Ok, Ok!... But what do I put on Facebook?!?!

Status update: “Like dried up bat dung on a footpath, so these are the days of my life.”

OK, back up.

“Be still, and know that I am God;”

Let’s take this verse seriously for a moment (Not a bad approach generally I’ve found). Read it again.

“Be still, and know that I am God;”

CRIKEY. I get to KNOW that you are GOD. Like know, like in my bones. I can know that I know that I know.

What a gift. How Badassical.

Check this. I am going to march boldly into my laundry RIGHT NOW and COLOUR CODE my towels. Do I have an AMEN?

Because I KNOW that you are GOD, and I can be as still as.

Fist pump.

Turkey

Nothing says Christmas like an angel floating past you on your morning jog.

Ok, well angel maybe stretching it a little.

Ok, well jog maybe stretching it a little.

But it was morning.

And the angel may have been a, let’s say, “past his prime” man on a bike, with a trump inspired roast turkey tan, cycling towards me in his ALL WHITE bike shorts.

And I looked straight at his junk.

I mean HE LEFT ME NO OPTION.

3 seconds is a long time to have Lycra suspended junk hurtling towards you. 3 seconds of my life that will forever be embedded in my brain.

Thanks white pants man.

As I stumbled off the path rubbing my eyes in the hope that my retinas would stop screaming at me, I remembered the brief moment that I averted my gaze from his wobbling giblets and saw the look on his face. He was having a blast.

Now I guess you are wondering what bible verse I can segue into from here. Don’t tempt me.

I have none. No moral to the story, no reason at all really to give you that disturbing mental picture, apart from perhaps to give you a smile or perhaps a moment of tut-tutting with pursed lips.

Either way, I hope it has given you a moment away from the stresses of life to be Merry.

Consider it my Christmas present.

Merry Christmas.

Adversity

Have you ever eaten so much that your stomach felt uncomfortable? No, no, of course you haven’t. Well, try and imagine it. You feel bloated and uncomfortable. Imagine that feeling and then increase it by, I dunno, maybe 1000%. That is what it’s like to be pregnant, full term.

You start off rubbing your belly as a small bump emerges. Caressing it, enjoying the sensation, swanning around the shops in a fitted dress with your belly on show, buying cute booties that you’ll never use and obsessing about which pram to buy because having the right pram is important so maybe we should mortgage the house a little.

That’s 30 weeks.

Then there is 38, 39, 40 weeks.

Your swanning around becomes waddling. Your fitted tummy dress is quietly replaced with a tent. You buy bras with letters from the alphabet you did not know existed. Your feet have swollen, but it’s not so much of a problem because you can’t see them anymore. You wee… a little too easily. And you can’t wait. You can’t wait to get this HUGE THING OUT OF YOU. And do you know what you don’t think? In the history of pregnancy do you know what thought has never entered the mind of a full term pregnant woman?

I feel like riding a donkey.

I’m pretty sure Mary was stoked.

Cos when you are about to give birth to the son of God it’s not like you are thinking perhaps God would grant you some kind of comfort? Some special treatment? Perhaps a delivery fit for a king ?

Cos God’s plan for my life includes a smooth road right? No adversity? No discomfort?

Cos that was what he promised right? If I follow him?

Or does he ask me to trust him through adversity?

Trust that even though I pictured myself reclining with a glow on my face as my brow is wiped by my buff husband, my pillows fluffed and my hair cascading over my shoulders as  I birth my son with minimal discomfort and maximum elegance, I find myself straddling a donkey at 39 weeks pregnant, frequently wincing as my hemorrhoids kiss the saddle, that God knows what he is doing.

Because he is God.

And I am not.

*Mic drop God*

Fluffy

This Christmas as you hustle and bustle about, shopping, baking and carolling I’m pretty sure I know what question is rattling around in your head, on the tip of your tongue, just busting to be voiced… was Jesus born with shit on his face?

Am I right?

I’m tempted, when walking past perfectly poised nativity scenes, to wipe a bit of vegemite on those baby cheeks, to ruffle Josephs hair and to perch Mary in a more I can barely stand to sit on those special parts so I’ll lean back awkwardly to take a load off while still looking engaged in the moment and desperately hoping my breasts don’t leak everywhere type pose.

Cos really. Just really.

Jesus was born in the shed. A shed with perhaps a few skanky cows, and an annoying goat.

I’m guessing Joseph didn’t remember to pack the calming essential oils with handy aroma diffuser to minimise the awkward moment when you realise that cow urine soaked straw is not the same as sandalwood.

There was no sterile environment, nurses with gloves, birth plan, monitoring equipment, Mary hoping her hair would still be on point for the ensuing Instagram snap, Joseph excusing himself to top up his macchiato between contractions.

I can imagine a slightly more harried, uncomfortable, slightly terrifying, sweaty, smelly, raw and undignified event.

I reckon perhaps Jesus' first breath of life as a human was welcomed with a face plant into a cowpat.

Welcome to the world Jesus.

No special treatment.

Jesus rocked the undignified entrance.

Because Jesus is not fluffy. He’s not some stained-glass pathetic halo wearing weakling. A statue. A relic.

He was a man who was poor, homeless, rejected, despised, betrayed, and killed. A man of great strength and bravery who was bold, steadfast, loving, compassionate and obedient.

The son of God.

He’s the real deal.

So, if you look at nativity scenes and think, what has that baby got to do with me? Just imagine him with vegemite on his face and think, what kind of man would face plant poo for me? Is that the kind of man I want to get to know?

Don’t be put off by our feeble expressions of who Jesus is, or by mine for that matter. Find out for yourself. It’s the best birthday present you could give him.

Blinkin Lights

I showered after a day in the sun, marvelling at my browned oops that may just cause cancer later in life but oh well it’s the 70’s skin I dried myself, combed my wet hair and put my Christmas nightie on.

Christmas was so exciting. I twirled around the lounge room, my toes tangling in the shag pile carpet, it was good to be alive. My Dad agreed that this would be the night we would put our Christmas tree up. We waited in anticipation as Dad did the boring laborious Christmas tree assembly. I sat ready to offer assistance once things got a bit more interesting, like hanging ornaments or throwing shreds of tinsel on the tree that would clog the vacuum for the next 6 months. After what felt like an eternity of Christmas tree assembly, pine needle decoding and frustrated huffs we were ready. Ready for the lights.  I watched in awe as my Dad wound the string of lights around the tree. Predicting perfectly the length of lights he started at the bottom, painstakingly winding up and up and up until finally, he came to the end of the lights right at the top of the tree. Well done Dad!

My family gathered in the lounge room in excited anticipation.

“Bec, I think it’s your turn to turn the lights on this year.”

OMG OMG OMG

Springing to life I catapulted towards the power point, I grabbed the plug, thrust it in and turned on the switch with as much pomp and ceremony as I could muster. I swung around to gaze at the wonder of our Christmas lights and… nothing.

Nada.

Not a single light was working.

Oh dear, we forgot to check the lights before we dressed the tree.

Slightly deflated, Dad proceeded to undo his handiwork and I trudged off to bed.

Because back in the day, if just one globe on your string of Christmas lights wasn’t working, then the whole string wouldn’t shine. You would go through the painstaking process of checking each globe until you found the sick globe and fix it. Then you could enjoy the twinkling string of healthy lights.

Not like today. Today you just throw the bunch out and grab a new lot. Disposable lights. No one wants a dull globe ruining the party, get rid of it, move on.

Like dull people. People who are sick or hurting or broken are such a buzz kill. I guess it’s easier to discard them.

But I reckon the old string of lights are the kind of lights I want to belong to. The kind that notices if you have lost your shine, the kind that stops and waits if you are having a hard time, the kind that doesn’t treat you like you are disposable, the kind that makes you want to share your light.

Christmas lights, celebrating Christ.

Celebrating Christmas when you want to punch someone in the face

Celebrating Christmas when you want to punch someone in the face...

Like when you’ve spent 3 months researching and preparing the perfect Christmas lunch, something on trend, perhaps Jamie Oliveresque, with hip rustic table ornaments made from old jars, a salad with Kale, some socially responsible bon bons, colour coordinated crockery and perfectly placed jugs filled with Christmas cheer and Aunty Vera arrives with her 3 day old potato salad that gives everyone the squirts, presented in the crystal bowl she received as a wedding gift in 1969 and plonks it with pride in the middle of the table sending your kikki K mini wooden peg place holder cards flying into your bowl of raw vegan chocolate fruit balls.

And you want to punch her in the face.

Or perhaps you yell at the kids in the car on the way to lunch because you are tense about seeing your sister who never ceases to offend you and you arrive covered in a thick shell of bitter resentment ready to endure the festivities and she opens the door, ushers you in, gives you the once over, spins you around as she laughs, nudges you and slaps you on the back saying “Look at you! You even have back cleavage.”

And you want to punch her in the face

Or perhaps you are sitting on the couch watching the kids open their presents and you look over at your spouse with sorrow and regret, staggered by the enormous crater of sadness and hurt that has formed between you, and a tear slips down your face as you mourn the loss of what was, and steel yourself for the prospect of what will be.

And you want to punch him in the face.

Or perhaps you wake on Christmas morning with a pit of grief and loss threatening to destroy you, you swing your legs over the bed and gaze at the empty pillow of your loved one who is no more, whose memory brings joy and unbearable pain, and you wonder how you will survive the day, if you want to survive the day.

And you want to punch God in the face.

How do you celebrate Christmas when you are in pain? When you have suffered injustice? When you are hurting?

Well, here's a cheery idea...

Serve.

Wait… don’t punch me in the face.

I am going to try, just for one day (and then I can go back to normal thank the Lord), to put aside my anger, fear, resentment, grief and hurt and serve. BORING.. maybe, HARD definitely, but  I reckon that serving is a good way to celebrate the King who gave up his life for me.

Wash Aunty Vera’s crystal bowl and ask her to bring it again next year. Pay our sisters a genuine compliment, squeeze the hand of our spouses, surrender our pain to God. Just for one day.

Never know, it may be good, and we might keep on doing it.

No promises though, because the face punching option is still quite appealing.