God Does Not Show Up

Another unpopular opinion…

I understand that, when most folks say that God “showed up,” they simply mean that His glory was super evident to them in a given situation and it rocked their world. But… the Bible never uses that concept, but rather says God “revealed Himself,” or that “the people’s eyes were opened.”

At the Red Sea God absolutely worked an incredible miracle and some may say he “showed up,” but he was already there- visible and tangible in a cloud of smoke. Others may talk about a worship service or gospel-centric event in which they were emotionally moved or encouraged towards specific choices, but having God “show up” makes it sound as if we needed to spruce up the place before he is willing to make an appearance.

What if the church started using God’s own words from scripture to describe God’s character and actions? Wouldn’t that carry more weight than simply saying that he “showed up?”

5am Thoughts on Commitment

My husband is teaching me about commitment today. You see, it’s raining. Torrentially. Not quite to monsoon level, but it’s pretty fierce. Also, we have no power. It’s been out since 10pm last night, due to planned repairs by PG&E. That means that showers were taken by flashlight, the fridge is kept closed, and hot water and coffee are nonexistent. Additionally, the cold everyone has been fighting through finally landed in the back of his throat, robbing him of his rest, his voice, and his comfort. Oh, did I mention it’s finals week in his seminary’s quarter system? That’s right. Jason has finals today. And his classes start at 6:30am. And he drives nearly and hour and a half to get there, braving not only the weather, but the expense of gas, the early morning commute, and exhaustion on the road. That’s commitment.

Verses interest.

Interest is having your attention grabbed, the potential seen, and the delight considered, but then letting it go when discomfort is introduced. I was interested in soccer growing up. It was fun, I felt cute, and I got snacks. I was in no way committed, however. Having to wrangle out of being on a boys’ team (they had misspelled my name as Chrstian, and neglected to look at the box I checked for gender) and dealing with catty girls who were always one-upping each other and constantly upset at the coach for putting me in the games so often (I just wasn’t very good but I was the only girl who respected his authority so I got extra game time) sucked the joy out of the experience and I quickly said goodbye to the field. My sister, on the other hand, dealt with even worse girls, but she worked hard at learning the game, and was quickly put on a traveling team. She traveled all over California with her girl’s team and she was a rockstar to watch play. Because she was committed.

Having moved so many times growing up I learned to build an unhealthy wall around my friendships. Assuming I would only lose them after a couple years I stopped investing in them. It wasn’t until I was in my late twenties, however, that I realized how personally destructive this was. I met a sweet mama in our new church and we hit if off. At the tail end of our first conversation, though, she mentioned that her family was going to be moving a few months later. And my heart wilted. For the remaining time they were attending our church I smiled and waved and asked about moving plans, but I did not take advantage of opportunities to delve into beautiful conversations with her or get to know her heart. I had been interested in having a friendship with her, but I was not committed to it, simply because I had made an assumption on how difficult that goal would be to pursue and keep up.

At the heart of things, interest is merely the shell of delight in a project, but commitment is the heartbeat that will bring that project to fruition.

So where does this land regarding Jesus? Am I interested in my faith and my relationship with my savior? Or am I committed to knowing Him more, regardless of the personal cost?

Interest is being excited about being a Christian, and looking forward to the rewards that come from that position before God. It’s being happy to go to church and hang out with friends and say church-y things and be known as a ‘really nice Christian girl.’

Commitment to your faith, however, is a decision every day to make every moment count for the glory of God. It’s not merely the willingness to die a martyr, but to live a martyr, sacrificing every comfort if it threatens the greater objective of looking like Jesus. It’s choosing an outfit that will allow the day’s work to be fruitful and not centered on self. It’s listening to music that reflects the Lord’s values, prudishly choosing movies, and curbing Instagram and TikTok and other social media exposure to hedge against prevalent vileness. It’s anchoring precious minutes and conversations on a resolution to use them wisely and well. Christian commitment means pursuing healthy rest for the mind and body, with the objective of using your thoughts and actions to the intentional pursuit of Jesus. Christian commitment means never being lazy, never schluffing off responsibilities for the sake of momentary comfort.

I want my children to know me as a committed Christian with every moment in my day. In the way I speak to them, how I do dishes, the way I respond to inconveniences, and every time they look at me, I want them to see that I am doing whatever it is both because of Jesus and for Jesus. I am, after all, God’s image bearer. And I must be committed, not merely interested, in pursuing that role well.

Hope: The Other Line

Some stories stick to your heart like a spiderweb tangled in your hair. For such a slight thing it remains strong and persistent and shapes the way you look at and respond to the world. The strands of the story below have shaped me and I hope it encourages you to look at hope with fresh eyes and a new perspective.

We recently observed International Holocaust Remembrance Day and it was, as always, achingly awful to recall the atrocities committed against the Jewish people and other minorities between 1933 and 1945. While researching that time in history I was introduced to The Redhead of Auschwitz on Instagram, and the content is both solemn and encouraging.

I am planning on reading redheaded Rosie's story as penned by her granddaughter, Nechama Birnbaum, and as I browsed the sample excerpt, was struck by the infusion of the Psalms throughout the chapters. There is so much comfort to be found in the psalmist's words, and the juxtaposition of pain and peace holds a depth and richness worth holding onto. One story Rosie shared is regarding how she received her tattooed ID number. The following poem is that story as stirred within and told from my heart.

Two lines.

Two rows of bowed heads and slumped shoulders.

The rows were too long,

full of too many who had given up hope.

Too many who had been stolen from their futures,

From their families,

From their faith,

From the foundations of all they knew.

The woman before me shuddered,

Her shoulders trembled with the callused hand of fear.

I looked down.

for looking up would only serve to break my heart more.

My feet were dusty, with garish scratches ripping lines from my toes to my ankle.

My shoes had been taken away.

As had my brothers.

And my parents.

Along with every sweetness I had ever known.

For just a few minutes more I had a name.

I had dignity.

I had a future.

Yet as the muted colors of the condemned and cowering progressed

I was drawn closer to the end of who I was.

From under the lashes of my downcast eyes

I watched those at the front of the line

peel off and retreat,

returning with dragging feet to the yard,

hobbling down the path between the two rows,

the weight of their plight grinding their hearts into the dirt.

Some cradled their arms,

transfixed by the jagged lines etched on their flesh;

this thing that was given to them,

which served to rip everything away.

So many numbers.

I felt my heart beat faster.

In fear? In anger?

Perhaps.

But it was beating.

And it was strong.

And I realized something which has since shaped every moment:

Even in the confines of capture,

even in the grip of the gestapo,

even in the bowels of this decrepit pit of hell,

even if my life were crushed,

even if every breath were stolen from my lungs,

I had a choice.

Even if I had nothing else,

I could still choose this one thing:

Hope.

In that moment I knew the decision I must make,

and the depth of it burned a fire of resolve in my chest,

spilling forth in determined tears.

Here, now, in this formation of broken people

I would live.

I would survive.

I would escape.

I would continue to hope.

And as that decision settled into my heart,

making its home between the pain and the sorrow,

I began to notice details.

I saw the woman with red nails.

I heard the child soothing himself with a lullaby.

I felt the sun warm my freshly shaved head–

That glorious, consistent sun which never burnt out–

And I noticed the numbers.

I watched the dejected people returning from the front of the line,

inspecting their new identity

inscribed in ink,

their skin pink and raw around the crisp lines on their forearms.

Those leaving my row were marked in a clumsy script,

With shaking lines, sloppy ink, and uneven spacing.

Those from the other row were inked neatly,

The numbers uniform and proud.

And so

I lifted my head.

I filled my lungs with life.

And I ran to the other line.

In that moment,

after choosing hope,

I chased it down

because I knew:

I was going to survive.

And the life I lived would carry with it all the mountains I overcame

including this first mountain of having my name taken away

in exchange for a number scrawled on my flesh.

And though it may sound petty,

though it may be a little thing,

this choice embodied hope.

I could not escape the numbers.

But I could place myself in the line with the more talented tattooer.

I planned to live,

and I didn’t want sloppy numbers for the rest of my life.

I would find love

and when it came

I wanted to be beautiful.

There is always a choice,

even in the most derelict of dungeons.

There is always hope.

But it must be chosen and chased after.

If you believe in hope

you can continue to believe in your dignity.

You can continue to believe in your future.

You may not be able to escape the scars,

but hope will shape which line you stand in.