Today, I read words spoken around a dinner table to men proud of their sacrifice. Men who gave ten percent of all they earned to the church. Men who spent their lives learning the ways of God.   They knew sacrifice — giving, fasting, and a life of devotion.   Yet, they were found wanting.

Then it happened that as Jesus was reclining at the table in the house, behold, many tax collectors and sinners came and were dining with Jesus and His disciples. When the Pharisees saw this, they said to His disciples, “Why is your Teacher eating with the tax collectors and sinners?” But when Jesus heard this, He said, “It is not those who are healthy who need a physician, but those who are sick. But go and learn what this means: ‘I desire compassion and not sacrifice,’ for I did not come to call the righteous, but sinners.” (Matthew 9:10-13 NASB)

He desires compassion, not sacrifice.

In fact, self-focused sacrifice can become prideful self-service. If we allow sacrifice to become fuel for our self-righteous ego then it is no longer a service to God, but a service to self. Sacrifice can become an idolatrous game of oneupmanship.

He says compassion is better than sacrifice.   Why? What makes compassion different? Why does Jesus urge us to understand the higher value of compassion?  Where do We look to find examples of this kind of compassion?

Compassion goes beyond a deep sympathy for others; it is a compelling desire to alleviate suffering. Compassion sees a need and meets it. Compassion focuses on the need of the recipient, not the gift of the giver. Compassion is outwardly focused and not inwardly focused.

The more I consider compassion, the more I see Jesus in the answer — not just because of what he taught, but what he did.  Motivated by his great love for us, he left perfection and became a man.  He saw our brokenness, our selfishness, and our desire for recognition.  He knew that we were destined for eternal suffering without a remedy and chose to give himself to alleviate that suffering.  In the ultimate example of compassion, he gave himself up for us.

He saw my selfishness, had compassion on me, died to pay the penalty for my selfishness, and then rose from the dead to demonstrate his power over my selfishness.

As I consider all this means, I shift my focus. Instead of asking, “What does God want from me?” I realize, “In light of all that Christ has done for me, how can I not show compassion to others?”  Going step further, I see that when I do not show  compassion I am denying Christ.  Although I say I believe, my actions demonstrate a practical atheism.

It is this practical atheism that I fear more than unbelief.  

And so, the question will no longer be, “What must I give up for God?” It has become the better question, “Who needs to experience compassion from me today?”

The answer may still involve personal sacrifice, but it will be sacrifice motivated by Christ’s love and not self-righteous hypocrisy.

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1. What to do with despair?

What words are there for dear friends who are moving away?

I could tell you how my first impressions were so wrong. What I initially thought was shyness and fear I now see as humility, a servant’s heart, and quiet strength.

I could tell you how much your friendship has meant to us — Sunday morning breakfasts, one-on-one lunches and dinners, thoughtful notes and gifts. We cherish every moment.

I could tell you how we’ve treasured that you’ve always been here, quietly working alongside us — willing to participate regardless of the time, energy, or lack of sleep involved.

I could tell you that we’ve noticed your gentle humility and have often longed to be more like you.

I could tell you about how you’ve made us better, offering accountability and a listening ear when we’ve struggled.

I could tell you how you’ve made Christmas a more joyful time for me. Your effervescent love of the season has bubbled over to me — you’ve taught me to celebrate the joy that is the birth of our Savior.

I could tell you that I’ve always wanted God to lead you where He would have you go, but deep inside I hoped that it would be here.

I could tell you that you have no idea how wonderful you are — which only makes you more wonderful.

I could tell you how much you’ve lightened the load. You’ve never made demands of us, clamored for our time, or sought recognition. You’ve just quietly, faithfully, served.

I could tell you that we’ve never had to worry about a single task entrusted to you. This has been a huge blessing to us and is more remarkable than you realize.

If I told you all of this, you would quietly look away — a bit embarrassed by it all. You might tell yourself that I am too kind, just saying nice things before you go. But know this, every word is true.

So, as you go — our prayers are with you. We trust your ability to seek God and follow Him wherever he leads. We look forward to watching your ministry from afar and we know He has great plans for you. And we still pray that some day, as God marches us forward in different directions, our paths will cross again.

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I don’t doubt God’s existence. I am not tempted to walk away from the faith. But, I feel deflated. I see hurt and pain. I am disappointed by the poor choices of others, by the willful disobedience in my own life, by brokenness at every turn.

I ask the same question as the agnostic, “God, if you’re there, why don’t you do something!” I feel powerless. Do my questions dishonor God; do I dare ask them out loud? How do I reconcile a hurting world, personal failures, my broken-heartedness, and an all-good God?

If it weren’t for His story, recorded in the pages history, despair would have its way. But then, I remember. I remember the promise made to Abraham. “Go, and I will make you a great nation.” Abraham believed. God answered — but Abraham died before it happened. I remember that Joseph’s descendants suffered in Egypt for four hundred years before they were freed. Entire generations of families lived and died as slaves. God was faithful and delivered — but not every Israelite that lived in the captivity of Egypt experienced freedom.

I remember another four hundred year period where God seemed silent. Four centuries passed between the last inspired words from the prophets and the coming of Messiah. More generations of people came and went.

How exactly do these facts provide a remedy for despair? Does it really make me feel better that generations can march by while waiting on God?

Yes, indeed it does.

Even when the Israelites were slaving away for the Egyptians, God was preparing their deliverance. Their suffering provided the backdrop for the display of His’s glory.

And, after 400 years of silence, the voice of John the Baptist, the one sent to prepare the way for Christ, exploded the prophetic vacuum. “Repent for the kingdom of Heaven is near.” The One who would change it all was coming.

He came, but in a way we would not have imagined. The savior of the world — the God-man — was beaten, tortured and murdered. Darkness, death, and despair. Again the brutality of man is a springboard for the display of his absolute glory and power.

Can I be content to live in a world that exists only to be a display of His glory? Can I accept that I may only be a tiny black dot in a dark sea whose purpose is to contrast His radiance? Can I live committed to Him even if I never get to shine this side of heaven?

What if His glory will be seen most clearly if I live a life of obscurity? Am I willing to trade my glory for His?

I consider these questions deeply, a quick ‘Yes’ is an empty response. I open the word and read:

without faith it is impossible to please Him, for he who comes to God must believe that He is and that He is a rewarder of those who seek Him. (Hebrews 11:6 NASB)

In spite of all the darkness, in spite of all that does not make sense, the answer is found here: “Do I believe that He is and that He rewards those who seek Him?”

I cannot escape it. I may not see the rewards today. I may not see it while I walk this earth. It is not the reality I would choose, but it is real. In spite of my questions, in spite of the despair and brokenness at every turn, I believe that he exists and He rewards those who seek Him.  And this truth turns despair to joy.

“Do not abandon yourselves to despair. We are the Easter people and hallelujah is our song.” –Pope John Paul II

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I want to flee to a world where families aren’t broken, where suicide doesn’t happen, and where children do not suffer the consequences of their parent’s failures. The voice in my head convinces me of my own uselessness. Running away seems like a reasonable option. There are places I can go to pretend this doesn’t happen.

I am weak and vulnerable.

As this shaky heart searches for answers, I see it tucked right in the middle of Hebrews 13:9: … it is good for the heart to be strengthened by grace.

I linger and reread, it is good. The same words spoken in the beginning to signify the glory of the handiwork of the Father now point to another remarkable truth — the heart can be strengthened by grace.

Grace, the unmerited favor of God himself, is my strength. But how? How do I harness grace to bolster a wobbling heart and frayed emotions?

I ponder grace and remember all the Good Book says: grace is a gift of God, so that no one can boast (Eph 2:8-9). Grace does not depend on me, but on the Father alone who is merciful (Romans 3:24). God’s grace is sufficient and shows His power in my weakness (2 Cor 12:19). By grace I am His heir and have hope for a future inheritance (Titus 3:7). These words remind me of all that I received from Him. They salve my wounds.

I begin to see that my weak and trembling heart is fertile ground for the display of His power. Indeed, His power lives in me only as I am brought to a place of weakness. Paradoxically, only when I am confronted with my own powerlessness can His power be displayed — and in this display, I find strength.

By His grace, I discover that even my weakness is a gift. A gift prepared ahead of time for when despair knocks at the door, when hopelessness sets in, or when pain comes calling. Strength by grace is another of his many gifts for which I am grateful.

This week I continue to count with gratitude:

#25. The springtime smell of charcoal in the back yard.

#26. Chubby legs and summer onesies.

#27. A house full of people who fill their bodies with food and their souls the Bread.

#28. Kids everywhere.

#29. Singing about rain and floods and seeking higher ground.

#30. An extra day at home.

#31. Long talks about God, belief, and all that changed in the garden.

#32. Homemade mother’s day gifts.

#33. Grace that I don’t deserve

#34. A heart that is easily broken

#35. Watching him study and prepare

#36. Knowing He’s with friends no matter where they go

#37. Realizing that I really do believe He exists and rewards those who earnestly seek him.

#38. Opportunities in unlikely places

#39. Quiet Sunday evenings

#40. Giggles in the back seat

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With another friend, we talk about babies, tiny clothes, sweet breath, and midday naps. And again I ask, “Do you want God more? A little one won’t magically fill up the empty places. Tiny clothes need laundered, cute noses fill with goo, and peaceful naps don’t always come easy.”

To a third friend I ask, “Do you want God more? More than the deceitful drug that lies about filling you up when it really leave you empty and needing more?”

And I wonder what they think of easy council from a woman who sleeps next to a loving husband every night and wakes to a smiling baby every morning — a woman who has never experienced give-up-everything addiction that always wants more.

In the quiet I think about wanting. Maybe I’ve miscommunicated. Wanting is more than a feeling. It is more than an inner desire. It’s more than answering “Yes”. Wanting God more means leaving behind my dreams and gratefully accepting what He gives. It means trusting Him, even when it hurts.

But whatever gain I had, I counted as loss for the sake of Christ. Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ (Philippians 3:7-8)

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The air was thick with anticipation. My body groaned with the weight of new life. It was 3 days past time and every step, every breath, every thought was directed toward the new person inside.

Life was simpler then. There were no mortgages. No pastorate. No recession. No homework. No city.

On that day, Pain was a welcome friend.

Read the rest on Mary’s blog.

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I answer: “Pray that we’d finally learn the lessons of our disobedience from the past and really, truly die to self.”

—

We talk a great deal about this self-death in Christian circles. We echo words from the only Good Book and repeat them to ourselves on endless loop:

Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. (John 12:24 ESV)

If. It. Dies.

Bears. Much. Fruit.

We convince ourselves that this death to self is about doing a better job at following the rules — if I would study my Bible more, and lose my temper less, and stop wanting so much stuff. Maybe with enough self-discipline and self-starvation the dark and ugly imp of self will die quietly in his sleep.

Then I hear the words of the orphan-loving Prussian and imagine the firmness in his voice and softness in his eyes when he says, “There was a day when I died, utterly died.”

And I wonder, how? How do I slay the imp and silence his maniacal ravings that tell me even this life of Christian service is all about me? I’ve never seen a book entitled “3 Simple Steps to Die to Self”.

In the early morning while the house is quiet, I open the Word to Galatians. At the end of chapter 2, I see it again:

I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me. (Galatians 2:20 ESV)

The imp cackles and reminds me once more that he’s very much alive and has no intention of dying quietly.

I do not nullify the grace of God, for if righteousness were through the law, then Christ died for no purpose. (Galatians 2:21 ESV)

I pause after I read these words and ponder. For the first time I see that Galatians 2:20, which is so often quoted alone, is inextricably linked to verse 21. The phases float through my mind, like clouds that can be seen but not grasped:

Life by the law

Nullifies the grace of God

Christ’s death has no purpose

Death to self

Live by faith

Not through the law

Before these words disappear into the rising sun, I pull out my pen and snatch them from the air. They seem more manageable on paper. I wrestle and rearrange them until they congeal into a tangible truth.

Death to self comes by faith not a greater effort to observe the law. If we attempt to die to self by observing the law, we nullify God’s gift of grace and say that Christ’s death was meaningless.

For the first time I see why I have never found “3 Simple Steps to Die to Self”. Like all good things, even death is a gift from the Father.

Just as salvation is a gift freely given, bought and paid for by the sinless Lamb of God, so is this death to self. It does not come from trying harder or being better or following the rules. It does not come by education, or feeding the hungry, or clothing the naked. I cannot earn it.

Suddenly, freedom washes over me as I realize the only one with the power to take life is the Father. My charge is to live by faith. The law reveals my sin to me, but does not contain the power to overcome it. As I seek Him by faith, the more I long for Him. The more I long for Him, the more I see clearly the sin in my life that causes separation. And just as a couple in love is drawn away from other people and toward one another, so I am drawn away from my sin to the One who is Love.

With no effort to muzzle the imp on my own, I realize that he has fallen silent. His mouth has been closed by the same One who closed the mouth of the lions. And while I know that he still draws breath, the gift of his silence is enough.

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Words left my mouth like hot steam spewing from the release valve on a pressure cooker; my husband was the only one to witness the explosion. Ben, a young friend we’d been mentoring, had just made another bad decision. We had been pouring our lives into him and had hoped to see more progress. It was clear that even though we would talk about the things of God together, he wasn’t ready to leave his wild and crazy life. My heart was breaking.

When we met this young man from a troubled family, I was convinced that God sent me to invest in his life. He needed a godly influence. Ben talked about following God but had no real-world examples to point the way. We set out to fill this role. Surely God would do something great! We hoped to rescue him from his difficult circumstances, give him opportunities, and put his feet on the solid rock. It would certainly be a great story to tell.

It is a dangerous thing to write God’s story ahead of him.

We had a great personal relationship with Ben, but he still made terrible choices. And every time we heard about his antics, I felt like a failure. Did I say something wrong? Was I not being clear? How was it that I was failing so badly at my assignment? Eventually, Ben followed life’s whims and moved away showing very little growth in the process.

After he moved, I reflected on my own story with God. Memories of godly people played like slide show in my mind – each slide was a person or circumstance that God used to draw me to Him. Half a dozen people came to mind who had radically transformed my faith. And yet it was clear that the author of this slide show was God Himself.

I thought about Ben’s spiritual slide show. What would it look like? I imagined it would include pictures from the classroom at church where we bowed our heads in prayer. My kitchen full of food and laughter would certainly make the list. And surely, images of open Bibles and deep conversation from our living room would be the centerpiece of Ben’s pictorial spiritual journey. In the middle of my imaginary picture show, I sensed a small still whisper, “It looks like Ben’s slide show is all about you.”

In His gentle voice, the message was clear. I had tried to put myself in the place of God. I failed to realize that Ben’s spiritual slide show was the story of God in his life, not me. I wasn’t responsible for the whole story. I had an opportunity to appear in one small snapshot that was part of the bigger picture of God’s plan for Ben.

And so it is with every life we touch. We must always recognize that God is at work in the lives of the people we care about. Our job is to pour into them, to love them, and to share what God is doing in us. We must always point them back to God as the ultimate author of their story and the one who really knows its ending. And though it is painful to watch people we love make poor choices, we can rest in the fact that God is responsible for their redemption and by his grace we may have the opportunity to appear as a small snapshot in God’s great plan.

Today I am grateful for the people who make up my spiritual slideshow:

#11.  A mom who took me to church every Sunday and prayed for a husband who would love God and take me to church.

#12.  A children’s pastoral team that used puppets and led us to pray and taught us “Be careful little eyes what you see.”

#13.  A pastor who invited an eager and naïve young couple to stand in front of the church on a Sunday night  just to say he believe God was up to something in our lives

#14.  Adult Sunday School teachers who showed us what a small group community ought to look like

#15.  A babysitter and housekeeper who modeled a godly wife, loving mother, and praying servant during a time I desperately needed to hear from God

#16. A sister who struggled mightily with the enemy and through her struggle taught me to pray

#17. A Christian counselor who taught me the danger of should

#18. A group of addicts desperately seeking wholeness who revealed to me the darkness in my own heart

#19. Friends in Mississippi who drove us through hurricane ravaged neighborhoods and explained how you “can’t out give God.”

And also . . .

#20. A hug and “I love you mommy” when I drop them off at school

#21. Cool fall days and the beginning of snuggling weather

#22. A weekly fast and a rumbling stomach that reminds me that I need God more.

#23. Laugh-out-loud moments with the preacher-man that last late into the night.

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The first is an adopted spiritual son who is seeking hard after God.  He has questions about the right path, the right calling, the right decision.   We talk about life and choices and the road less traveled.  We discuss relationships and consequences and how God will let you choose wrong.  We wrangle and wrestle and pull principles from the Word and yet the path is unclear.  But God by his grace reveals something, a wrong thing wholly imperceptible by the wisdom of the world.  The conclusion: fix the wrong thing and maybe the right thing will be revealed.  Do the thing you must do and wait.

The second is a blond-headed boy who grew under my heart and has his daddy’s chin. He pokes his head into the room after bedtime and says, “Guys,  I think I know what’s been bothering me.”  With no less emotion than the first, he talks about the changes at school and the new expectations and how he doesn’t think he can accomplish what is being asked of him.  He doesn’t understand and the path is unclear and the goal seems so big.

We pull out his project and review the list.  I read the steps and he answers them effortlessly, one by one.  His eyes brighten as he realizes he knows the answer.  When we’re done with the list, I remind him that the key is to do the next thing.

At the end of the day, the lights are out and everyone’s in bed and I’m alone with my journal.  I marvel at God’s lesson woven throughout the day.  I think of Abram, the spiritual father to us all. What must it have been like to leave home with “Go from your country and your kindred” as his only next thing?

And the wisdom of an unknown author shared by a true God-follower resonates with words of truth for the boy and man, for the woman and girl — Do the Next Thing.

Genesis 12:1,4 (ESV)
Now the LORD said to Abram, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.
…
So Abram went, as the LORD had told him, and Lot went with him. Abram was seventy-five years old when he departed from Haran.

A special thanks to Ann and Lisa-Jo for the timely reminder of this truth.

This post is part of Works for Me Wednesday.

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Longing to grow up.

Longing to stay little.

Longing to be done with school.

Longing to be loved.

Longing for home.

Longing for babies.

Longing for a good night’s sleep.

Longing for freedom.

Longing to get them in school.

Longing to get them out of school.

Longing to see them well raised.

Longing for them to be little again.

Yesterday I longed for today

and today I long for tomorrow

and tomorrow I’ll long for yesterday.

It’s a different kind of circle of life.

I’ve been paying more attention to my prayers lately.  I realize that I keep asking God to show me his plan for tomorrow.  Where are we all going?  What would you have us do?  What is the ultimate trajectory my life will take?  Even in my prayers for others I say, “God, show them where you want them to go.  Show them you’re will for their next major life phase.  Guide them and prepare them for tomorrow.”

In all of this longing today is lost. And today is the only day that I can do anything about.

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