If you have no idea what rotten piecemeal is being bandied about, I have no interest in educating you. Others have done so much more thoroughly than I, with much more anger than I, with many more bones in the game than I. I weigh in today because May was supposed to be my sabbatical month and instead I have been peppered with more questions than ever on why I haven’t written on the SGM civil suit.

Here are the main reasons:

1. I am not affiliated in any way with SGM. Though I may be affiliated with those who are affiliated with them, we can play that game all day in every which way. Kevin Bacon anybody? These days everyone knows everyone somehow. It is a small world after all.

2. I am not a lawyer, but I think I am a fairly intelligent person, and even I had a bit of trouble getting my mind around the legal jargon of all the documents. And I’ve been in my share of courtrooms, with my share of lawyers spouting legal jargon—two can play that game. All I’m saying is, someone wants to win and so it’s hard to trust a system where winning is the goal. Last shall be first and all that.

3. I’m one of those fools who trusts the men who keep watch over my soul. Maybe that play isn’t for everybody, but I figure the Bible spent a lot of time talking about it, so nuff said.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Just because I didn’t say anything about it, though, doesn’t mean I didn’t feel complicit in the alleged ongoing silence by “us.” I was a bit confused as to why men and women I respected within the Church at large weren’t weighing in on the suit at all, save from a post by Tim Challies. It is good to be slow to speak, yes, but not speak at all? It didn’t seem right. I knew I didn’t have anything to add to the civil suit conversation, but surely something could be said to acknowledge the situation period?

(Adding my voice to the cacophony of the Christian blogosphere wouldn’t assuage those out for an admission of guilt, though, if you’re wondering why I didn’t say anything. I’m under no illusions—I might be affiliated with those affiliated with SGM, but I’m no Kevin Bacon, if you get my drift.)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

In the light of more recent occurrences, though, and now that some of “us” have issued a public statement, I thought a few things might be said. Take them for what they’re worth to you. Remember comments aren’t open on Sayable ever so I’m not shutting you down and there’s no need to respond. They’re just my simple thoughts for those who might need them.

If you are a pastor:

Please protect your sheep. I meant what I said above about trusting those who keep watch over my soul. I mean that because the Bible says it and I trust the words of God. However, you, by nature of your position and your God-given authority, help illuminate those words for your sheep. You can use or abuse your authority and position, and you can, unknowingly, be the voice of the accuser to people—even in your silence. Always protect your sheep. If one of your talented, seemingly godly, charismatic sheep turns out to be a wolf, go after him. If one of your sheep leaves the fold, go find her. Pastor your people, don’t just preach at them.

If you were abused:

This case feels like the nail in the coffin, trust me, I know. Even if it wasn’t the same as your experience, you can easily relive your experience every time someone dismisses the concerns of the victims, every time someone seems complicit with their silence. Your heart means well here. The grace of God for you takes a horrific experience and gives you the tools to minister to these issues in a way those higher-up might never be able to do. That is not your blight or your stain, that is the precious work of grace to take the broken and make beautiful. Now is your time to speak in and with grace.

If you were an abuser:

You did wrong and you know this. You ought to make recompense for what is considered a crime in the eyes of God and the judicial system. But this does not mean forgiveness is withheld from you, or should be withheld until you “pay for what you did.” Forgiveness doesn’t work that way. I pray you know the fullness of the gospel covers your crimes, but does not blot them from history. Repent, accept the judicial punishment, and if you are His Child, look forward to a lifetime of His grace and an eternity in His presence.

If you want to leave the church because of this:

Part of me wants to say, please do, and trust me, there’s no snark in that statement. I’m fully convinced that no matter how far you run, you cannot outrun the wild, ferocious, loving heart of our God. If leaving the Church for a while helps you clear yourself of the clutter of its underbelly, please do. You have the freedom to leave abusive situations, Christ sets us free to do that, and you should. But I will also say this, as a child who has seen her fair share of the underbelly, if you’re His? You’re grafted in. You’re knit so tightly into His body and flesh, his scars and blood-bought redemption that you can’t leave the Church because you are part of it. And it’s beautiful. Really beautiful when you see it like that.

If you are neo-reformed (or whatever it is called these days), but embarrassed by the silence or complicit responses:

Can I implore you to press in close to your leaders, your elders, your editors, and your pastors. Sometimes they know things about a situation that you don’t know, isn’t public knowledge, isn’t on some legal document, and isn’t widely known. Sometimes they’re withholding comment because it could actually make it worse for the most helpless of the situation. You don’t know. There’s a lot of speculation, regardless of who you are and who you know and who you know who knows someone else. You aren’t Kevin Bacon, you just saw one of his movies once or twice. Reserve judgement.

If you know someone who knows someone (who was abused, who went to an SGM church, or anyone at all):

One of the things I love about the Bible is there are all these portions where it’s just one man or one woman and God (or the enemy). There are no eye-witnesses, it’s just Moses and the burning bush, Daniel and the lions, David and the bears, Jesus and the enemy. We get this birds-eye view into the situation, but really, when it happened it was just them there.

So we have perceptions of how things looked or played out, but I’ll bet you could poll any thirty of us and we’d all have a different setting in mind for Moses and his burning bush. There would be similarities, of course, but it would be different. This is how it is to hear any story second hand. We can know that some things are true, but some things are simply perceptions. Because of this, it is almost always better to reserve your own words about another person’s experience. There may be truth to it (and in this case specifically, it seems like there is definitely much truth to it), but the retelling of it multiple times will never end well. Mourn with those who mourn, bring it to the authorities if need be, but keep silent about the specific matter unless you know you speak the canonized truth.

If you are a mere onlooker:

If you’re just a casual reader, a blog reader, a curious atheist, a questioning agnostic, I am sorry. This entire situation, from twenty years ago until today is unfortunate and shameful. This is not becoming to the Church and I deeply regret it happened. However, let me say this, I am firmly convinced the Church tries to keep its wedding dress too squeaky clean, and this case is a perfect example of it. The reality is we’re blemished and broken, spotted and wrinkled, and Christ is the only way we’re getting presented cleansed. He’s it. It’s not through a denomination, a pastor, a friend, a court system, or a blog post that the resolution of all things comes, it’s Him. Him alone. Be encouraged, there’s room at the table and we don’t mind if you’re messed up. Really. We’re messed up too.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

That’s all. I know this is long, and I’m breaking sabbath to share it, but I couldn’t sleep and I love to sleep.

Go in peace, brothers and sisters, pastors and sheep, abused and abusers, doubters and finders, He is faithful to complete His work. He seals it with His spirit.

We talk of many things. Serious things. Funny things. Sad things. Joyful things. Empty things. Hope-filled things.

Some times when we talk we talk about house things. Not appliances or DIY projects for the living room or yard, but whole houses.

Sometimes it is the old house in New England with the wrap around porch, a porch swing in the front and two hammocks in the back. There are chickens and a vegetable garden and dogs. We live in this house, the two of us, no longer as young as we were when we first met. Her hair is still as crazy as it was, but there are streaks of silver mixed in with the auburn and chestnut, and mine is still as stick straight as ever, but amidst the gold there is now white. In the absence of families birthed of our own bodies we have chosen to create family together here. We wile away evenings warming hands with mugs of tea, and begin mornings with coffee on the back porch with the dogs at our feet. We sit sipping tea on an evening in May, and our eyes and smiles meet, because somehow this day has become real.

Sometimes it is the old house in New England with the wrap around porch, a swing in the font and a tree house in the back. There are chickens and a vegetable garden and dogs. The screen door flies open as her brood of curly haired children come spilling out and run down the wide front steps and collide with the toe headed brood just escaped from the station wagon parked in front of the house. She pushes open that same screen door with one hand, while her other holds his. She smiles at something he’s said as they come to a stop on the top porch step as the kids merge into one big mob halfway between car and porch. I wait, my hand in his on the other side of this little sea of life we’ve created, smiling over the tops of curly mops and toe heads. Our eyes and smiles meet, hers and mine, because somehow this day has become real.

We talk of these house shaped things and in them I see hope. The houses are not the hope, but each image speaks of hope. And if I’m honest each house contains false hope.

Because houses crumble, no matter how solid the foundation, when the foundation is anything less than the Gospel.

So we talk of many things. We talk of the fullness of life and the emptiness of life.

We talk about our house shaped hopes and the ways they both remind us of a God who knows us intimately and of how easy it is for the created things to become our hope instead of hoping in the One who created all.

Some trust in chariots and some in horses,
but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.
Psalm 20:7

This hope to live full and love big burns deep. Sometimes it seems uncontainable, and other times I wish it were something I could ignore or even stop. Because hope in the ache of the emptiness hurts.

And to see emptiness here, now is to misunderstand both that for which I hope and that which is here and now.

It is true that I hope for those house shaped things and all the porches, chickens, dogs, swings, and maybe even children and husbands that go with them.

But they are not what I hope in. They are not who I hope in. They are not who we hope in, nor are they the sustainer or fulfiller of that hope.

Hope takes the shape of the One who knows my heart and my head more intimately than I could ever hope to. Hope takes the shape of the God-Man whom death could not defeat. Hope takes the shape of the Comforter who is with me and whispers, “Hope, beloved, hope.”

Our driver’s name was not Kabede, but for the sake of giving you the sense of things, it will be his given name in the following. The English translation of Kabede is “getting heavy,” so it seems appropriate, and I must admit, when I discuss my time in Ethiopia, it tends to come across this way.

As a caveat, I mostly prefer to confine my discussions of Ethiopia to the internet real estate of others. I do this for two distinct reasons. First, I enjoy stirring the pot, although this enjoyment is typically confined to the pots sitting on my neighbors’ stoves. Secondly, writing in another forum allows me some notion (perhaps a feigned one) of plausible deniability, whereafter I can pretend as if I never penned these words, as if I never opened this can of nightcrawlers. I can either hide or not, depending upon how the weather hits me at the particular moment, and currently, I feel it’s cloudy with a chance of rainy season.

Plausible deniability is, of course, the playing field of the cowardly. But lest you think I am finished with the caveats of cowards, allow me another. The following account is fictitious. Not really. It is, actually, less of a fiction and more of piling up of various nonfictions. It is a synthetic work comprising the stories of various taxi drivers, in various blue cars, pointing out the various Chinesings of the Ethiopian landscape. This is the way it has to be on Lore’s real estate, because the discrete works would take days and days, and her real estate is no more mine than the Ethiopian real estate is the Chinese. And this synthesis of peoples, stories, and taxis must, by its very nature, be Kabede.

Things are getting heavy, see.

The roads leaving Addis Ababa were slick black, fresh tarred like those of some new suburban enclave in Fort Worth, except without all King Ranch trucks. Kabebe rolled his window down because the air on the road to Adama, the wind coming up from the Great Rift Valley, was dry and clean. Arm hanging out the window, he pointed down to the blacktop and yelled, “Chinese.”

“What?” I asked over the rip of the road wind.

“Chinese,” he responded, and then added, “they paved these roads!”

“Come again?” I responded.

Kabebe rolled up his window and reached down to his iPod. He pressed play and Johnny Cash sang “it burned, burned, burned, the ring of fire.” Kabede turned the volume knob to a mere background level and said in singsong tenor “the Chinese, they’ve built all these roads. See that?” He pointed across my chest and out the window. “That is a warehouse. Chinese built that, too. They do not allow Ethiopians in, so we are not sure what’s behind the walls.”

Kabede shrugged his shoulders as I examined the warehouse. There were two empty guard shacks and a high iron fence topped with barbed wire which surrounded the complex. The yard was pristine with no signs of life, though the facility itself was larger than the ones in my hometown that produce the various and sundry Whirlpool and Rheem appliances. We sat, each internally stoking various conspiracy theories. I considered whether the yard was the staging ground for some coming Armageddon, or whether, instead, it was merely a low rent widget plant. Perhaps it made Whirlpool and Rheem knockoffs.

“I hate the Chinese,” Kabede offered. Of course, this was an offensive notion to me inasmuch as I am an American and have always been taught that racism of any sort unacceptable. “Racism,” my sixth grade math teacher once said, “is the province of unenlightened redneckery.” The application of my grade-school lessons to Kabede, however, seemed dismissive and equally unenlightened, so I turned to him and asked, “Why, Kabede, do you hate the Chinese?”

“They have come here to fix Ethiopia,” he said, which was no explanation at all. I have found this is one of the crowning qualities of the people of Ethiopia. They lead you to the water, yes, but they never make you drink.

Kabede reached for a handful of roasted barley.

“Is it so wrong to come to fix Ethiopia?” I asked. “What do the Chinese ask in return?”

“Ahh,” he sighed. “They have come here to fix Ethiopia, and in return, we give them natural resources. We give them our minerals, our energy. We give them the stuff of our ground. They come here to fix Ethiopia. They give us roads that may last twenty years. We give them resources that make them rich. And the people of Adama? The people of the Awash river? They are still poor.”

Kabede chuckled.

“They come to fix Ethiopia, and they go to our tourist traps; they dance to our music and throw us coins. They bring their karaoke.” Now he was laughing full-bore. “I hate karaoke,” he said. “And I hate them. That is okay, right?”

I had not the heart to tell him that karaoke might actually be a Japanese term, mostly because I was afraid that the Japanese had likewise offended him and I could not stomach this much talk of other people groups. Instead, I said nothing and we drove closer toward Adama as Johnny sang about a boy named Sue.

“This is my favorite,” Kabede said. “An American gave me this cd. It is my favorite of all American music.”

I inquired as to the American, but Kabede said he did not want to talk about it. I pushed further, and he said only that the American came for an adoption. “They came to take their baby home to America,” he said. “He was a cute baby.”

“How do you feel about that?” I asked Kabede.

He smiled and said, “they took their child home. That is all I have to say about that. Actually, I suppose I have more to say. They took their child home, and they left me this cd.”

Kabede paused.

“What is it that you call Johnny Cash?” he asked.

“The man in black,” I said.

“Ah yes,” he said. “That is right, sir.”

And with that, we drove into the outskirts of Adama.

If you print them, they are sized at 24/36″ and I would recommend getting them printed on 100# text weight or 80# cover weight paper (your printer will know what that means). These are free, please don’t alter or sell them in any way. Spread the love!

I’m obsessed with the trail of sugar ants that are streaming into my living room from under the baseboard. And by obsessed, I mean, neurotic. I mean: I close my eyes and I feel ants crawling on my eye lids, under my knees and down my back.

One little half-eaten lollipop forgotten and left under a chair has led us into this mayhem and epic battle of man vs. creature. Because I can even step on them and they don’t die. I mean, what kind of creature can withstand the power of a frightened, human foot?

CREATURES WITH THORAXES. (Gross.)

I fall asleep thinking about them. I wake up thinking about them. I started my plan of attack by researching organic methods to calmly rid my home of them. And a few aggravating days later, I find myself frantically grabbing RAID and the most chemically-damaging, possibly cancer-causing repellents and traps I can find. My living room is surrounded with small black traps and gooey Borax solution, luring the tiny creatures in.

Killing a colony of ants is no small feat. I can kill a few but the truth lies in the dark of what I can’t see. The source of their home. The queen who waits to be fed and nourished and the reinforcements are sent out hourly, and I pace the four corners of my living room to see if we’re seeing any progress.

If only I had just seen that half-eaten lollipop, I tell myself.

Last night, I laid awake in bed with my heart pounding in my chest. I felt it in my throat, in my temples, and down to my finger tips. Sometimes I forget how to breathe when anxiety sets in, so I closed my eyes and tried to settle my heart in silence.

We are in a season of change, my daughter and I. Moving, school changes, career changes, relationship changes, traveling, planning, events, church, community… and at night, when my heart is pounding, I try to find the root. I try to find the source. I want to name the one thing that has left me spinning and then problem solve to cure it.

Because somewhere in my mind, instead of taking everything to my Father in prayer, I tossed fear and worry under rugs and left half-eaten hopes and dreams to rot. And then the ants came. The army started in single file, then swarming, to feast on the unattended doors and cracked floorboards in my heart.

And swarm they do.

And crawl over my ever moment, they do.

Let me see your face,
let me hear your voice,
for your voice is sweet,
and your face is lovely.
Catch the foxes for us,
the little foxes
that spoil the vineyards,
for our vineyards are in blossom.
Song of Solomon 2:14-15

I lay awake and think of the foxes.

And the ants.

And all the things I let swarm and spoil the beauty of Gospel rest and trust within me.

The things that dig at the soil where I’ve laid my work and striving to rest.

The creatures that creep and crawl and steal and choke, and leave my heart pounding at midnight. It’s then, when I’m seeing shadows dance with streetlights, that I realize I’ve bought into the lie that diligence to preach the Gospel to myself doesn’t matter.

That I can make it a week, a day, an hour, a minute, without falling on my knees and begging for daily bread. Bread that doesn’t spoil with things that seek to destroy.

“If I covet any place on earth but the dust at the foot of the cross, than I know nothing of Calvary Love.” — Amy Carmichael

This photo is missing two books. One I returned to its owner and one I misplaced somewhere in our house…

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver
I read this book every few years and always in April. I’m grateful for parents who invested in us early the value of eating whole and healthy foods. (I remember the first time I had Kraft Mac and Cheese I was afraid my mom could just SMELL it on me…) One thing I love about Kingsolver’s book, besides her always stellar voice, is the premise of this book, which is to eat whole, healthy, and locally. It’s a discipline, and one which is much more difficult in the DFW metroplex, but supporting local farmers, businesses, and entrepreneurs is always worth it. I highly recommend this read (especially on the cusp of summer!)

Life After Art by Matt Appling
Matt blogs at Church of No People and has reached out to me several times to just appreciate Sayable. Whenever I’ve read his thoughts I’ve been blessed to see the balanced and careful voice he brings to otherwise volatile conversations. In Life After Art, Matt talks about taking risks, living in beauty, and every person’s design to create as we were created. I was encouraged to read this short book if only for my own creatively zapped soul. I’m in the middle of a very dry season creatively, partially because of the heavy demand to produce, this book just refreshed and reminded me of the Ultimate Creator.

Delighting in the Trinity by Michael Reeves
Perhaps one of the most important books I’ll read this year, this surprisingly easy to grasp book on the trinity will claim that spot. I came into the past few years with a fuzzy at best and faulty at worst view of the Trinity, and understanding it has absolutely transformed the way I pray, the way I trust, and the footsteps I follow. Reeves takes the complex mystery of the Trinity, holds it tightly in his capable hands, and turns it from every side to show the beauty of our communal God.

The Devil in Pew Number Seven by Rebecca Nichols Alonzo
This was a quick read partially because the story is so riveting. Rebecca is growing up in a pastor’s family in the south and things seemed idyllic until a nightmare reminiscient of something the KKK would do began. The most astounding part of this book, though, is not the horrific events of her childhood, but the forgiveness and joy she walks in currently. If you’ve ever experienced deep pain, I would just encourage you to read this simply for the testimony present.

The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis
Somewhere in the past month I began to realize freshly that the enemy has it out for me. I don’t know what it was, I knew I was busy and pressed from every side, but I was also just dealing with latent sin and spiritual laziness. I felt discouraged and disheartened with numerable things. I felt defeated around every corner and I was just sitting in it. One morning on my way to class I was thinking about this book and had a minor epiphany for my own life: the enemy is plotting against me and my home, planning and devising ways to knock me down. He hates me. He hates me. And he hates you. This short read is always a reminder of whose I am not, but also a reminder to be active in fighting the enemy.

The Silver Chair by C.S. Lewis
This is my second favorite of the Narnia books principally because of Puddleglum, I’m not gonna lie. I mean, who doesn’t love Puddleglum (much to his chagrin)?

Undercover Woman by Conway Edwards  (not available online)
In doing some research together for a summer project, a friend of mine asked me to read this and give him three pros and three cons. I stumbled over the pros, to be honest. It was not the principles that I struggled with, but the projection present in this short book. I can’t recommend this book because of some problematic things I noted; however, it was a good reminder of how important it is that we are under authority.

Glimpses of Grace by Gloria Furman
I’m just so encouraged by how many books are being published for women about the worth of the gospel in their homes. Last month’s Fit to Burst felt like an anomaly, but Gloria Furman has penned its equal! Glimpses of Grace takes the mundane, difficult, and joy-filled parts of life and points the reader full into the gospel at every turn. What a rich, rich treasure this book is. If you’re a mama especially, please buy this book. I think it will encourage you deeply.

Thanks to Gloria Furman, Josh Overton, Alison Luna, Philip Bleecker, & Matt Appling for this month’s books!

It’s been a year since my last writing sabbatical and I wish, oh I wish, I could say this May will be spent much like last May was. It won’t. But it will, however, be a sabbatical from this blog.

I always feel a bit guilty when I do this, but on the other side of a month away from the blog I am a healthier and happier writer. And this year I need it more than ever. I’m not sure what happened in the past year, but it still feels a bit like whiplash—a good kind of whiplash, but whiplash nonetheless. I’m writing regularly for multiple publications, trying to finish rigorous classes, coming off of an unbelievably busy March and April at work, still keeping up with 100 in 2013, prepping to co-lead a 12 week course this summer, and have a little more on my personal plate than I have stamina for.

I need a break.

And not only do I need it, God assures me there’s much joy in taking it.

This morning we read Isaiah 58 in class and I loved this short section:

If you turn back your foot from the Sabbath,
from doing your pleasure on my holy day,
and call the Sabbath a delight
and the holy day of the LORD honorable;
if you honor it, not going your own ways,
or seeking your own pleasure, or talking idly,
then you shall take delight in the LORD,
and I will make you ride on the heights of the earth. 

I don’t know about you friend, but I’ve been hobbling along in the valleys of the earth for quite a few months, riding on the heights sounds like a good plan. I’m grateful God designed our bodies to need rest and wish I was better about giving mine the rest it needs. But I’m going to just thank Him for the small ways we can step back and call the void of doing a delight.

While I’m gone I have a passel of friends who graciously fought all over each other to fill four weekly slots for the month. Why only four? Well, I suppose I figured a rest might be good for you too. These four ferocious friends are all steadies for me, men and women who love Jesus deeply and extol His name beautifully. I’m excited to share their words with you. I hope you’ll enjoy their posts and you’ll click through to their sites.

A post like this gives me an opportunity to just say thank you to all of you dear readers. It sounds a bit trite to say that, or I don’t know, gushing, but I truly mean it. As truly as I can mean it. I would still write without you, but it means so much to me that you all just keep coming back and telling your friends about Sayable. I read all your emails and am constantly encouraged by how transparent and hopeful you all are in them. Thank you for sharing your stories with me, telling me how much you love good theology, how it changes you and is changing you. Nothing brings me more joy than to know the God of the universe has dipped his hand to you and brought you to ride on the heights of the earth with Him.

He’s a good, good God.

See you on the flip side!

(I will have April’s 100 in 2013 up later this weekend, but that’s it. Promise.)

Getting Through Slumps: I’m no expert on either preaching or getting out of slumps. But doodling tonight, I thought of six things that might help.

Permitted or Pursued? I have to think that egalitarians would grow quieter in their critiques if we could point to more women within our ranks who convincingly demonstrate equal, complementary value in our churches.

Body Image: Changing the definition of what we want these bodies to look like doesn’t get anywhere near to solving our problems.

Biters: Then, with calculated persistence, they began to eat each other, each to the death.

Heart Idols: 20 piercing questions from Tim Keller. These are great questions to ask ourselves.

A Deeper Beauty: Women, “Hot Wives,” and Christ: While it’s a distinctly God-glorifying thing for a young man to really, really, really like his wife, it’s possible that some women might feel pressure to be some sort of gospel version of [supermodel whose name you shouldn’t really know here]. 

Something has gone wrong. So where?

It was at a tree. A food laden tree. Something good, beautiful, and delectable gone horribly wrong.

(Will Deutsch)

It began at the beginning of beginnings, Genesis, where food was made, food was eaten, and where all of our food issues began.

Strange, isn’t it, that one of our principles struggles is still there? With food?

We starve from it, binge on it, measure it out, disgust ourselves with it, pride ourselves on it, obsess over recipes, and TIVO our favorite cooking shows. Rarely do we see food as the perfect provision and perfect protection that it was designed to be. Provided for our health; protection from death.

God created food: a perfect provision for His creation. Then He clearly defined it as right or wrong: a perfect protection for his children. He set up His boundaries, endlessly good ones that felt good too, until they bumped up against the one ‘don’t’ rule: don’t eat of this tree.

Yet this is the tree from which they ate. First the woman and then the man.

Ignoring the plenty and subversively skirting the mandate by a subtle legalism, “God says don’t eat of it AND don’t touch it,” she fell the boundaries that God so lovingly placed on her and him and all of us.

Don’t we do this too? Don’t we see the plenty and choose instead the smaller portion, the lesser good? We add to the boundaries given. Sinking deeply into diets or delectable feasts, feeling helpless against the siren call that is food.

God calls out: Where are you? And we hide, behind exercise, behind enhancement, behind extra weight. We hide.

We hide because it is easier to hide than to be known. We’ve eaten off the tree of knowledge and now we think we know.

Yet still He seeks us. Pursues us. Finds us, shivering and scratching under the weight of man-made garments and expectations. I’m there. Are you too?

And all this because we added to what God said. He gave good boundaries and we made them smaller and tighter, thinking that more rules will keep us safer. God has said don’t eat of the fruit, but we think that it’s safer to just not touch it at all?

This is our great sin. This is our great fall. We add to what God has said and the boundaries become cages. We imagine He is a harsher God than He is.

We eat the fruit thinking it will make us like God and really all it does is make us into our own god. And we are powerless gods, always trying to find things to bulk us, beautify us, fix us.

All the while He is still giving perfect provision and perfect protection. The second time was in a much less beautiful environment. Dark, though midday, the place of the skull. A broken, bleeding, and bruised man. He is saying it is finished and we can hardly believe it is true.

So we are still adding to it. Principles. Practices. Helping God, we think, with clearer expectations on His people and on us. Don’t eat it, we say, or touch it. Or surely you will die.

The truth is that we are finished. Perfect in Christ’s eyes and through His provision. Nothing can be added or removed from you to make you more of who you’re intended to be in Christ.

He looks on you and sees clean, pure, perfect righteousness and beauty.

We’re all plagued with an evil eye toward ourselves—even if our greatest flaw is thinking the best of ourselves and the worst of others. Thinking the best of ourselves comes laden with baggage of the self-sufficient, and who needs sufficiency of self if we have not been failed by all others because of our inability to keep them satisfied? “I don’t need nobody else, just me,” is the blight of men everywhere since the enemy fell from legions of angels whose sole concern was Other Than, if only because nobody else could satisfy self like self.

There are a myriad of ways out of this navel gazing—and trust me, I’ve tried them all—but the only one that works is putting two eyes toward the cross and centering them there.

Jesus did it for the joy set before Him, though, and we do a disservice if we do anything motivated by anything other than the same joy. Too often we talk about “bearing the cross” and “picking up our cross,” and I don’t want to mislead you, making you think anything about the Christian life is anything less than a cross. It isn’t. But it is so much more than the cross—and therein lies the joy set before us.

The narcissism that keeps us desperate for the approval of man, the compliments of others, and the affirmation of the achieved, is desperately flawed in that it sets its joy on something less than eternal.

So press on, friends, for the joy set before you. Endure the cross of your ugliest aspects and the gross imperfections of others—this world is a vapor and what lasts is so much more. Treasure, too, the beauty found in others and in yourself, but do it with an eye toward the eternal where the only One we’ll be making much of is Christ.