out of the mouths of babes

Guarding the Sacred

October 22, 2008

My son was watching for his morning ride to school. I was waiting for my rest. The latter wouldn’t come until the former had walked its course. It did, and after hugs and kisses good-bye, I made my way to the bedroom and opened up the Word of God.

I didn’t know at the time that his watching and my waiting would eventually weave together as a sacred portrait of truth, but God knew. He began the portrait even before I began my daily reading. But as so often the case with a heart in a hurry for a quick fix of Jesus, the holy breath of a single moment is sometimes missed. Overlooked and pushed aside in favor of a seemingly more divine approach to doing life with Jesus.

I missed it this morning, temporarily. But God knew that I needed it. Thus, he tendered my heart with his Word, and opened up my eyes to receive a gift that might have, otherwise, gone unnoticed. It would punctuate on the other side of my reading from Proverbs 4:23-27.

“Above all else, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life. Put away perversity from your mouth; keep corrupt talk far from your lips. Let your eyes look straight ahead; fix your gaze directly before you. Make level paths for your feet and take only ways that are firm. Do not swerve to the right or the left; keep your foot from evil.” (Proverbs 4:23-27).

Guarding the heart. What does that look like? It looks intense. From the Hebrew transliterated word natsar:

“To guard, watch, watch over, keep; to preserve, to guard from dangers; to be kept close, to be blockaded; watchman.”[i]

Further is carries the heaviness of the Hebrew transliterated word mishmar meaning “a place of confinement, prison, guard, jail, guardpost, watch, observant.”[ii]

Guarding the heart is serious business. Why? Because the heart houses the wellspring of true living.

“Jesus answered, ‘Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.’” (John 4:13-14).

“On the last and greatest day of the Feast, Jesus stood and said in a loud voice, ‘If anyone is thirsty, let him come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, streams of living water will flow from within him.’ By this he meant the Spirit, whom those who believed in him were later to receive. …” (John 7:37-39a).

Our hearts are worthy of watchful care. Not only do they rhythm with the pulse of our next breath, but greater still, they rhythm with the pulse of the Holy Spirit’s indwelling. And that combination, friends, is a proverbial dam waiting to burst its wet onto the lives of those who walk within its reach. He is a worthy cause. His holy dwelling—our hearts—are a worthy upkeep.

Keeping purity at a premium requires more than a casual approach to heart tending. Keeping purity means keeping watch. It means a straight walk from today into tomorrow. A fixed gaze on the unseen, yet fully accessible God who seeds our lives with the truth of his identity everyday and in everyway. It means sticking to the beaten path even when the unmarked trails proffer their adventure and intrigue. It means putting one foot in front of the other, even though the dance on the peripheral voices a fanciful escape.

It means not worrying about the scenery on the right and in the left, but only on the scene that landscapes directly in front of us. The long awaited finished line that punctuates with an eternal glory that far outweighs the exploration of temporal paths. Guarding the good and sacred deposit given to each one of us as believers in Jesus Christ comes with a deliberate and focused watch over the heart … over what’s getting in and what’s flowing out.

We do it through spending time on our faces in prayer with that God. We do it by training our minds with the truth of God’s Word. We do it by refusing the world’s dressing and, instead, dressing ourselves in full battle gear that includes: a belt of truth, a breastplate of righteousness, two shoes (not one) of peace’s gospel, the shield of faith, the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the indwelling and uncompromising Spirit of the living God.

And if you’re a little child, one who houses a wild and tenacious imagination toward all things that go bump in the night or otherwise, you do it by keeping your rifle in hand, pulling up a chair, and fixing your watchful gaze on the world outside.

This is God’s portrait of truth, painted for me without my knowing. Saved for me and for a moment when I was unhurried and unconcerned about a quick fix of Jesus. The holy breath of heaven breathed its witness in my house this morning. He came in his Word and spoke a good teaching. He came through the witness of my son’s imagination and shouted his profound punctuation.

Doing life with Jesus has never tasted any sweeter. I’m guarding it more closely today. Thus I pray,

Thank you, Lord, for the eyes to see the tracing of your hand in my life—through your Word and through the simple posture of a child’s imagination. Never let my spiritual routine become my excuse for not living in the moment. For not pausing to contemplate the extraordinary wrappings of any extraordinary grace that comes in all types of packages, big and small. I thank you for my son’s watchful care of our home. May the watchful care of my heart speak with such similar and fervent intention. Amen.

[i] http://studylight.org/desk/?l=en&query=Proverbs+4%3A23-27&section=0&translation=nsn&oq=&sr=1
[ii] http://studylight.org/desk/?l=en&query=Proverbs+4%3A23-27&section=0&translation=nsn&oq=&sr=1

Copyright © October 2008 – Elaine Olsen. All rights reserved.

Raising Faith (part twelve): Embracing Your Rest

October 12, 2008

“Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from him. He alone is my rock and my salvation; he is my fortress, I will not be shaken. My salvation and my honor depend on him, for God is our refuge. Lowborn men are but a breath, the highborn are but a lie; if weighed on a balance, they are nothing; together they are only a breath.” (Psalm 62:5-9).

“Momma, I’m glad we’re going home.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I need to stop the fun for awhile because I am so tired.”

“I understand, honey; mommy’s tired too.”

Those were her words today while driving home from grandma and grandpa’s. Two days of non-stop entertainment with the full attention of grandparents has a way of wearing out the most willing of participants. Like us, I am sure they are resting well tonight, in the comfort of quiet and with their routine returning to usual. My daughter and son love visits with their grandparents. Why?

Because of the attention. Because of the intentional effort put into their visits. Because sometimes, grandmas and grandpas better understand the value of time and the giving of it therein.

They’re not too busy, too bothered, or too bogged down with the world’s agenda so as to neglect their gift of influence upon another generation. They are on the backside of some valuable lessons that have taught them to appreciate the simple joy of investing in our Father’s most precious commodity—human life.

But investing, both in the lives of children and in adults, comes with a price tag. It often invests tired and weary and with the aches and pains of knees that prefer the couch rather than the floor or the baseball field in the backyard. It requires that the will supersedes the flesh, especially when the flesh is crying out for some quiet amidst the invasion of words that so adequately flow from an endless supply of questions and needs that refuse their silence. It requires an open mind and welcoming arms, even when ideas don’t match and visions don’t level the same.

Investing in people is hard work. But it is God’s work for each one of us. Our holy requirement as participants in the Great Commission … as priests in the household of believers. He means for it to cost us something. Not because he relishes our slavery to the task, but rather because he delights in the lives of his creation and in giving each one of us the privilege of savoring accordingly. Simply put,

We don’t have to invest in people. We are given the delightful freedom to do so.

That being said, Jesus understands our weary. He spent his earthly pilgrimage investing in the lives of people. On many occasions, his need for solace would require his absence from people. He wasn’t afraid to tend to this need. Many places in Scripture record him pulling away from the crowds to find his soul’s peace with his Father in private (Matthew 14:13; Mark 1:35; Mark 6:31-32; Luke 4:42; Luke 5:15-16).

Just like my daughter’s need to rest from the joy of relational output, Jesus, too, needed his rest from the crowds. Time with his Father in quiet solitude was like going home for Jesus. Why?

Because of the attention his Father gave him. Because of the intentional efforts of renewal afforded him in the pause. Because God better understands the kingdom value of what time with him will seed:

Rest.
Renewal.
Rebirth.
Refocus.

Further investment in the stuff that really matters.

I understand my daughter’s need for the journey home. The excitement that surrounded her departure from our routine and our very scheduled life was matched by her enthusiasm to return to the same. She loves coming home to rest, and so do I. We are a people who need our Father’s rest. But in between the going and the coming?

Lots of fun. Relationships that count. Love that grows and hearts that better understand how kingdom investing really breathes.

I don’t know how this strikes you today. We all, every last one of us, are heading home. This life is but a breath, whether we are “highborn” or of lowly estate. The clock is ticking and our weary will soon be laid to rest at the gates of heaven. What we do here matters for all of eternity. The privilege of sacred investment is a gift to us from our Father. What we choose to do with such influence is left to our discretion. He will never force us to seed his grace and love into the lives of others.

But he wants us to. Not because our crowns will boast heavier and more bedazzled with the jewels of his favor, but rather because he has seeded his grace and love into our hearts through the unimaginable gift of Calvary’s cross. And that kind of investment, my friends, should shake our complacency and force our knees to the floor in gratitude and toward the intentional sowing of Godly influence into the hearts of others, especially our children.

Perhaps, like my daughter, you are in need of some rest this day. You’ve played hard and loved real. You’re routine has been blessed with the interruption of relationship, and you are weary from the doing. Your Father is calling you home for some solace and some attention. He understands your requirement, and he is ready to touch your tired with the sacred salve of his perfect intention. Come home to Jesus, and find your soul’s peace. He is waiting to invest his love into you. Thus, I pray…

Give us the wisdom, Father, to know when we are in need of your rest. You, alone, are our rock and our fortress and the seeding of our strengthened hope. Forgive me when I fail to come and when I falter in loving others because I have neglected my time with you. My life is but a breath, but for as long as I am breathing its measure, I want to spend it wisely and with your perfect intention guiding my steps and blessing my obedience. Thank you for the privilege of investing your love into the lives of others and for the privilege of sitting at your feet to receive the same. May Sabbath rest be my portion this day. Amen.

Raising Faith (part eleven): Embracing Your Nakedness

October 8, 2008

“Meanwhile we groan, longing to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling, because when we are clothed, we will not be found naked. For while we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened because we do not wish to be unclothed but to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life.” (2 Corinthians 5:24).

November 2001

He didn’t deserve my stern rebuke. He deserved something, but not the severity of my harsh response. What I should have offered him was some grace amidst a teachable moment. What he received, instead, was a portion of judgment leveled at a heart too tender for the verdict … too innocent for the label.

Why?

Because my nakedness refused God’s dressing. Because my flesh is still so very much in tact.

I don’t recall the specifics of that occasion. I only remember a few words that quickly seared their way into my heart and forced me to my knees in humble apology. It is a message I carry with me, even some three years down the road. Not because I delight in the boast of my sin but rather because I want the lesson from it for always. A lesson intended for my growth; not only as a parent, but as a keeper of God’s truth.

Jadon, young in years and full with a “me first” mentality, was wearing on my already thinned nerves. Me, older in years and still so often filled with a “me first” mentality, responded to his continual fussing by sending him to his room. It must have been a hard send because his response to me was a soft and sorrowful obedience.

With tears rolling down his cheeks as he surrendered to the upstairs climb, he simply turned around for a final glance and spoke these precious words of conviction over my soul:

“Mommy, God sent you here to be our lover.”

I don’t know if it was the tears or his gentle way of his administering God’s truth to me, but regardless of the emotional mixing, his words cut deep and immediately shrouded my heart in heavy conviction.

Guilty as charged, son. Naked and exposed, yet again.

I’ve never forgotten that moment. I think my Father would have it remain firmly entrenched in memory. He used my sin and my son’s broken spirit to teach me a valuable and consecrated lesson about human life and about the responsibility that I bear in loving each one toward his kingdom end. An end that is best served…

through love rather than shame.
through grace rather than judgment.
through mercy rather than punishment.
through selfless rather than selfish.

Oh, the groanings of my flesh! I am naked in my want for the righteous clothing of my God. He’s been dressing me for over forty years now, and still there are moments of raw and real exposure that are mirrored in my body. I am housed within a tent that isn’t well pegged to the ground and that blows wide and open at the whim of a temporal wind.

My life of faith is a literal peep show for the world to observe, and quite honestly, I’m not sure if anyone is coming back for a second look. I’m not sure I want them too. When I can’t love with grace and mercy and selfless intent, I can’t expect a good review. From the world. From my own family. And most importantly, from the perfect Lover of my soul—the God who created my frame with an eternal cloaking in mind.

A dressing that does not include my fleshy imperfections, but rather a perfection that will swallow up the old with the life-giving breath of heaven’s new. Until then, I groan all the more because I know that what awaits me on the other side of this pilgrimage unto death, is a life fully clothed with the righteousness of my salvation.

Flesh living is painful living. There are no short cuts to perfection. God uses the lives of other pilgrims toward that end. The groans of our sacred shaping may come to us through a stranger, a friend, a co-worker, a parent, a spouse, and some days…through the tears and honest words of a child.

God did indeed put me on this earth to be a lover of my children. Period. No matter their wrongs. No matter their mess. No matter their pursuits toward self-interest. I am the one who has been given the sacred privilege of loving them to adulthood. I don’t always do it right, but I always do it real. As it comes, even when God turns the table and allows my young son the sacred privilege of loving me into my adulthood.

If faith is to be raised in this generation, then our nakedness must be embraced—even when it’s humbling and especially when it exposes the truth of a neglected imperfection.

Perhaps this day, you know the groanings of a “yet to be finished” cloaking. I understand, for I am woman who shares your exposure. All of us, every last one of us, are as naked before God and before one another. We might mask it well in the temporary, but as you and I stand before our Father, there is nothing hidden from his view. No portion of our flesh that he cannot see. This truth, alone, is worthy of a few painful utterings.

The greater truth? God sent his Son to be the Lover of our souls. And with Jesus, there is always grace. There is always mercy. And there is always a love rooted in the selfless sacrifice of Calvary’s cross. It is more than enough to lead us all home to our heavenly dwelling where the mortal will, once and for all, be swallowed up by the eternal life that is ours through Jesus Christ our Lord. Thus I pray,

Thank you for loving us perfectly, Father. For sending your Son to his own cloaking of flesh that has enabled us to one day drop this tent in trade for another—an eternal dressing worthy of the streets of gold. Thank you, also, for the sacred shaping that comes to us through our exposure. Give us the grace and the wisdom to receive our teaching, even when it comes to us through a child and forces us to our knees in humble confession. Today, we groan in holy expectation for what is promised to us in our tomorrow. Come quickly, Lord. Even so come. Amen.

The Glorious Wonderful of a Heart’s Break

September 1, 2008

“When a woman who had lived a sinful life in that town learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee’s house, she brought an alabaster jar of perfume, and as she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them and poured perfume on them.” (Luke 7:37-38).

“Mommy, that movie breaks my heart.”

“Why?”

“Because it was so wonderful.”

“Why was it so wonderful?”

“Because in the end, the king lets her make music.”

“Say that again, Amelia, so mommy can remember it for always.”

Because in the end, the king lets her make music.

This was the conversation I had with my daughter last night after she had finished watching The Little Mermaid: Ariel’s Beginning. I meant to watch it with her, but a lengthy phone conversation took me away from the moment. Several moments to be exact. When my daughter came to me with tears in her eyes and a smile on her face, I was puzzled by her odd blend of emotions. But then I recognized her look. It is one I’ve worn over the years. Sadness and joy all mixed up within the welling of a wet that now poured down her cheeks.

Her emotions seem an odd coupling to those who have never known the glorious wonderful of a heart’s break. But I have tasted such a portion, for I have known a great loss only to be surprised in the end, by a great wonderful.

A great grace.

Atlantica, the magical waters of mermaids and talking sea creatures, had lost its capacity to sing. Not because it didn’t hold a melody within its waters, but rather because a tragic death had beat its drum upon her shores. Loudly and profoundly it marched, sending song’s breath to a watery grave buried deep within the unseen sands of an untouched grief.

Pain does that. It buries. It may burst forth in all manner of wild expressions at the time of sorrow, but it almost always finds a way to, at least temporarily, suspend the song. When death of any kind marches its cadence upon the soil of our souls, it buries. It digs deep and cries hard and grasps for fragments of control that don’t allow music its voice. At least not in the moment.

But here’s the truth of the eternal song. Once the music has made its way into a heart, no amount of casting aside and crying and denying its pulse can keep it buried forever. We can go to the grave refusing it a voice, but in the end, the music remains. It will find its chorus, even without our participation because the King’s music is meant to be sung.

Not long ago, there was a woman who longed to sing. Full of sin, yet full of a needful search, she took to the road to find her song. For a long season it had been submerged within her sands of an untouched grief. Almost forgotten. Almost buried beyond retrieval. Almost too hard and too painful of a reckoning. Almost.

But there was something about this Jesus that struck a chord deep within her. Remote and distant at first, but stirring nonetheless. A stirring worthy of an offering. A stirring worthy of her heart’s break. A stirring worthy of her tear-stained kisses and her hair’s gentle caress. A stirring worthy of her walk of shame before men and, at last, before her Savior.

A stirring worthy of the search because in the end, the King allowed her the glorious wonderful of a heart’s break.

He gave her his music.

“Then Jesus said to her, ‘Your sins are forgiven. … Your faith has saved you; go in peace.’” (Luke 8:48-50).

I know the woman. I’ve seen her before. Not just on the pages of scripture, but written upon the pages of my own heart.

God has allowed me the glorious wonderful of a heart’s break. The surrender was painful, and indeed, my heart was shattered in a thousand pieces and scattered throughout the sands of a sinful disobedience. The brokenness seemed irretrievable, most certainly too deep and too hidden for discovery. And when God’s music had all but diminished to a faint whisper within me, I almost gave way to despair—to neglecting the single chord that held as my anchor despite my disregard for his presence.

But then I heard that Jesus was in town, and the chord within chorused its precision amidst my chaos. I was compelled to get to his feet. The closer I moved toward him, the louder the melody within. And once I saw him, the chasm that existed between my great need and his great wonderful was palpable and strong, truthful and tender. I knelt in tearful surrender and was surprised by the gracious and great grace from the King who has been letting me make his music ever since.

A sinner. Her King. A surrender. His music.

The glorious wonderful of a heart’s break.

May it be so for each one of us this day, and so I pray…

Make your music, Father, sing through me. Those notes that you seeded in my heart so long ago, play them as you will and weave them into your eternal chorus with a blending that breathes sweet in the ear and with a grace the harbors gently within the soul. Thank you for the gift a difficult journey and for the season that turned me inside out, allowing me a hard reckoning with the truth of Calvary’s gift. You have turned, for me, my mourning into dancing, and for the rest of my earthly days, I commit my voice to the song of your renown. Amen.

The Dark Side of Genesis

August 21, 2008

“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the spirit of God was hovering over the waters. And God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light. God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness. God called the light ‘day,’ and the darkness he called ‘night.’ And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day.” (Genesis 1:1-5).

“Momma, how old is God?”

“God doesn’t have an age. God simply is. He is timeless.”

“Is he at least a hundred?”

“At least.”

“A thousand?”

“At least.”

“Was he here before it was dark?”

“Of course he was. Well…hmmmmm. Let me get back to you on that one.”

My children’s questions about God are the rich treasures in this season of our “doing life” together. Their hearts are tender and ripe for the seeding of sacred truth. They couldn’t have asked such questions a few years ago; their articulations prevented them from doing so. But they’ve grown, both in the physical and in the spiritual, and their hearts cry out for further clarity on some issues. For truth. For the firm roots that will form their theology about who God is and about his role in their world. Theology formed in the right now, will likely stay with them for a long season.

Thus, I want to answer them correctly and with the truth that is firmly entrenched in my own heart. I want to, but unfortunately, there are times when my “want to” doesn’t match up with my knowledge. Today was one of those days.

My daughter wants to know if God was around before there was darkness.

Darkness to her may not mean the same thing as it does to you and to me. As Christians, we level countless spiritual metaphors with the concept of darkness.

Evil.
Satan.
Sin.
Lawlessness.
Prodigal living.
Separation.
Hell.

But my daughter wasn’t asking for metaphors and for spiritual application. Darkness to Amelia means a few simple things.

Bedtime.
Bath and pj’s.
Absence of sunlight.
Moon and stars.
Monsters and an entire host of scary happenings that seem to only surface when the lights go down.
Insecurity.
Separation from mom and dad.

What Amelia wanted to know was where her God was when “dark nights” came into being. Was he alive? Was he aware? And I think, in part,

What in the world was he thinking?

If God was in the beginning, a God wrapped in unapproachable light and glory, why on earth did he create life with a dark side? Why, indeed?!

It’s a good question. And while darkness defines differently for my daughter and me, to ponder its beginning is a worthy dig for me tonight. Thus, I head back to the beginning—to the genesis of all beginnings. And here is what I know to be true as found in Genesis 1:1-5. In the beginning there was…

God (Elohim /plural).
Heavens.
An earth void of form.
Some dark.
Some deep.
Some waters.
Some holy hovering.

(Read it again, forming the picture in your mind…)

And then…

There was light. The first spoken word of creation. Light. Good light. A day’s light that allowed a day’s expression and appreciation for God’s creative genius. Darkness didn’t find its creation on that first day. It already was; it simply found its separation from that which received God’s audible and holy “good.”

Does this mean that darkness is bad? I’m not sure. But it was surely present in the beginning, and God thought it important enough for there to be a division between darkness and light. It makes sense that He who created the one is also the creator of the other. God speaks to this through the prophet Isaiah when he says,

“I form the light and create darkness, …” (Isaiah 45:7).

And to Job when he says,

“‘Who shut up the sea behind doors when it burst forth from the womb, when I made the clouds its garment and wrapped it in thick darkness, …?’” (Job 38:8-9).

So it seems as if I have an answer to the first notion of my daughter’s question. Yes, precious Amelia, I think that God is older than the darkness. But as to the second unspoken part of your question that deals with the darkness’s purpose, the answer is more veiled. And while I cannot fully reason the importance of a night’s darkness, God permitted its breath.

Perhaps to allow evil to find its metaphor.
Perhaps to allow free will to find its roam.
Perhaps to pulse the antithesis of God’s lighted witness.
Perhaps, because, God knew that without it, we would never fully appreciate the embrace of a new and every morning’s kind of faithful light.

And perhaps, just maybe, because he knew that the faith of a child lives pretty simply and that the mystery and seeming danger of a night’s hold would create the needful longing for the light’s approach.

Twenty-four hours of light, 365 days a year, breathes complacent and walks easy. But when half of our life breathes heavy and walks hard with the darkness that is allowed its measure of influence, well…it creates in us the same needful longing that it creates in my daughter.

A hunger for Light.
A desire for living, not sleeping.
A yearning for awareness and for participation in a day’s doing.
A longing to see that which cannot be visioned under the cover of darkness.

And that, my friends, seeds some purpose into any night’s pause. If it leads me to my hunger for Jesus in deeper measure, then heartily and willingly I pray,

Let the evening come, Lord, and let it blanket me with the expectancy of your morning’s Light. Let not the separation fuel my fear, but rather let the separation stir my longing for walking in the illumination of a new day’s faithfulness. Thank you for the mystery of my beginnings. Keep me to the study of your Word so that I am ready with an answer for the hope that breathes within me. But most importantly, keep me to my awe for the mysterious unanswerables in your Word. Root me in knowledge, but anchor me in faith. Amen.

~elaine

How grateful I am for the treasure of God’s Word and the study therein. I might not always do it perfectly, but I am confident of its effectual work in me. I hope that you feel the same. Thank you for the privilege of “digging” alongside you this day. May God’s Word breathe its strong witness over your heart and life even now! Shalom.

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