mine alone.

Thank you, Father, that my faith is mine alone.

I'm thinking tonight about how sometimes, I feel as though I've given things up for God when really, I've been giving them up for this culture, this place, these people.

And...screw it. I want God. Not something built up around God.

There are ways in which I have changed that I wouldn't change back. You're going to have to pry my glitter pumps out of my cold, dead hands. I've come into my own. In shoes, and in faith. Then, there are changes that haven't been my attempts at greater faith, but greater assimilation. Those changes, you can have back. The part of me that thinks I'm really something, and so has to fight to keep the something.. you can have that.

I believe in one God, and in one heaven and in one hell. I believe that my faith in that God incarnate, and my acceptance of the gift He gave in death, endows me with eternity, with all the powers of timelessness.

It feels good to say. Feels good to feel the strength of faith. To forget the hurt of being misunderstood, and of having my ideas dismissed as things they are not. To buck the expectations. To throw off the appearances.

This faith doesn't belong to others, but to me. And that is so, so good.

ice loves coco.

Let's get real up in here.

Do you think we can be given unwanted gifts by God?

That is...is it possible that God has given me the "gift of singleness" though there are in fact few things I want less?

My roommate has this theory that there should be confirmation inside us of the spiritual gifts we've received, such that if we are "blessed" with singleness (often heroically repackaged as an ability to singularly focus on God), we'd know it, and have a desire and heart for it.

I'm not so sure of this. God doesn't always seem to work that way. We get all sorts of things we don't want. Like tornadoes, and obnoxious coworkers, and scurvy. And we're told that God is big and mysterious, and even though I don't understand why Suzy won't stop freaking chewing that gum with her huge, wide mouth open for 8 hours a day, God has a plan for my relationship with her. That gum-chewing is an opportunity for grace, and some day, when she's with me in heaven, her jaw will be quiet. Hallelujah.

So we get things we don't want. Bad things happen.

Will I be single forever? Is it possible that though my desire is to have a partner to help me in all of this--to encourage my faith, and for whom I can be an encouragement, to help push me towards greater acts for God, and on whom I can push--that God has no such plans for me?

A lot of girls get tripped up by insecurity. "I'm single because I'm not pretty enough." Or smart, or funny, or normal, or kind, or Christian enough. And while I of course have insecurity, mine isn't quite like that. Mine is like this...

I'm single because I haven't met that guy who is both ready to step into the role my faith requires, and is interested in me. I'm single because in my entire life, in 26 years, I know of only three guys I'd consider for more. One of them is now married, one is not interested, and one I've never met.

Thus, my real insecurity right now is that I will never meet the one. And if I never do, it'll be because God willed it. Because He gave me the flipping "gift" of singleness, which frankly, I'd sooner throw into the ocean, or send to the desert, or leave at a Joyce Meyer conference.

So...can God give me a "gift" that I don't want? If I pray hard enough, will I want it? If I can honestly say, "Your will, not mine" will I miraculously begin to think that singleness is as fabulous as marriage? Because I watch "Ice loves Coco" and that shh looks great...

On a serious note, I've not yet dealt with this as I am now because I haven't felt ready. Until recently, I've felt a check inside of me, telling me to hold off, to wait on dating. Now the check is gone, and there's a mess of new challenges in Christ.

Ultimately, I choose God. If marriage is not in the cards for me soon or ever, I choose God. But, in full honesty, I need His help in keeping my heart from bitterness, from the hurt and anger of wanting something I don't have, something I think would be really great.

And that's real.

without oxygen.

I've been realizing lately that I miss God.

I know. How could that be? I pray. I read the Bible. I clock some hours at the church. I talk with Christian friends about Christian things.

I miss God?

Yeah. Yeah, I do.

My pastor has been on a tear recently about grace, and when I hear him preach about how God chose me, and planned for me, and adopted me, I want to fall to my knees. I want to shout out my praise and prayers alike. I want to cry. I want to live fully in the grace he's preaching, the grace He's giving. Literally, I sit in production, watching the sermon on the monitors, hoping that my friends around me don't notice that my eyes are glossy, that my heart is out in the open.

I'm being too honest. My heart is out in the open here as well.

Maybe it's not that I miss God, as much as it is that I'm learning Him newly. I'm finding something different, something deeper than I've known.

Makes sense. I've noticed a pattern in my faith. My periods of new growth and greater faith are almost always immediately preceded by some of the worst moments of doubt. This is no exception. A couple of posts back, I openly admit to my troubles with the atonement. Now, I'm telling you that my heart is breaking for God. It can't contain the desire, or the reality.

My difficulties with the intellectual aspects of the atonement are being met with a heart-breaking awareness of His love.

Before I accepted Christ, actually for as long as I can remember, I would periodically see this one image in my mind--waking and asleep. From darkness would come a set of scenes, racing across my mind's eye, over dozens of different terrains, and all of time. It was like watching a time-lapse movie, in milliseconds. Then, suddenly the images would stop short, a complete collision, in an eyeball. And the view of the eyeball would widen until I saw that the eye was in a face--Christ's face, while His body hung from the cross. The message was clear-- I've known you from the beginning of time, and I've known this moment from the beginning of time, and I have always planned on dying for you, and even if there were no others, for you alone.

I've seen this so many times, I can't count. I don't remember the first time, I've just known it for as long as I can remember. I've seen it day-dreaming. I've seen it in my sleep. And until recently, I assumed I had seen the image in a movie or something--that it's presence in my mind had been entirely impersonal, and meaningless.

Now, I cannot believe that it is meaningless or random.

I "miss" God because my heart is His. Because my commitment to Christ can't allow me to live as though I'd never made it. I can no more live without God as I can live without oxygen.

for the taking.

One of the great things about writing a thesis, and doing research on how better to get people connected to the life of His Church is that you get to talk to people who are really great at getting people connected to the life of His Church.

I've been blessed in the last week to talk to people who are engaged in relational ministry at its best. People who live knee-deep in grace. I see their passion for helping bring people to Christ, and it makes me want to know Him better.

And in that, I realize...I don't need to know Him "better." When I said yes to Christ, I said yes to all of Him, all of what He did, once and forever. I'll come to understand grace and love more and differently over time. But the freedom found in Christ is a freedom not gradually gained, but given once.

I've gotten tripped up this first year of faith by thinking that I'll somehow become more Christian as I go. That's not right. I'm as Christian now as I'll ever be. The freedom is for the taking. Kind of like His power. It's not that God's power grows in me over time. I've got it all right now. The question is...what am I gonna do with it? If I've got the full resources of Grace in me right now, what am I waiting for? If the power of Heaven is with me already, what can stop me?

I'm meeting with these amazing people, looking at their ministries thinking, "some day," and let me tell you--that is some BS.

How about tomorrow?

I ask myself, "What then, Ash? You've got passion, but what about direction?" As though a thesis in which you're being allowed to study discipleship in one of the country's largest churches isn't a direction, isn't an open door.

There's wisdom to come. But the Grace is there. The direction is clear.

the oceans deep.

My life is about to change.

When I moved here, it happened in a whirlwind. I applied late to MSU, and was accepted and offered funding seemingly on a whim. I came down twice, for about an hour each time, to meet my adviser, and sign a lease. Then, suddenly, I lived in southern Missouri. Even more suddenly, I attended a Pentecostal megachurch.

Now, I have a life here. I'm about to graduate from school. I have an apartment, and friends, and "family" and a faith. I'm about to start a job, and buy a car. I live here.

This wasn't ever the plan. Two years, and then onward into a Ph.D. That was the plan. Now, here I am, having just thought long and hard about going to seminary, and working in a church.

I want to say that I'm scared, because I am. And I want to say that I'm confused, and that would be true, too. But, really, mostly, I'm in awe.

I was talking with God the other night, and I heard this: "I am the God who made the oceans deep." Sometimes, when I pray, I start by remembering who God is. Maybe that's weird. I remind myself who He is. I think about how massive this world is, physically and spiritually. I picture the most overwhelming of landscapes, and I say to myself...He did that. As large and awe-some, and truly terrifying as that is, He is bigger. The exercise reminds me of to whom I'm praying. Reminds me not to be timid in prayer. Reminds me that behind my prayers, and my faith, is the full force of heaven.

So when I heard it the other night, the phrase was meaningful. "I am the God who made the oceans deep, and the mountains high." As I prayed, I felt a power I'd never felt. An assurance that if I pray to the God of the deepest lake, and the highest mountain, there's nothing impossible. Impossibility is impossible.

It's a good time for that kind of reminder. As I leave school again, and head into a job so far from the call I feel, I wonder if I'll ever be "there." Sometimes, I doubt it. And then, He reminds me... He is the God who made the oceans deep.

"There" isn't so very far.

yes.

I accepted a job offer today. And as I did, I felt a tiny tug--it's not in "ministry." It broke my heart until something else broke. A light. The realization that I am now more free to do "ministry" than I've maybe ever been.

I'm redeemed. I've got everything I ever needed to "do ministry."

Something about realizing that I don't need to work in a church, or a denomination, or a "ministry" to do ministry set me free. Reminded me why I said yes to Christ to begin with. Brought me back to that overwhelming love for God that has brought me so far.

And in that grace, I find the willingness to do things I thought I wouldn't do a week ago.

Like walking. Forward. "In ministry."

to love and to like.

Tonight, John said that part of grace, of the halting of deserved condemnation, is that if God spoke to us, He would do so as He did to Jesus...

"...my beloved child, with whom I am well-pleased..."

It took my breath away. I felt jolted. Incredulous.

Because I immediately thought, "He wouldn't say that to me." Though I know that He loves me, and I could end this sentence with any number of scriptural references to His promises, or His purposes...I couldn't believe that He'd say that to me. Still, right now, I can't believe that He'd say that to me.

I'm sure He'd call me beloved, the part that trips me up is the "well-pleased." I didn't realize until tonight that I don't ever imagine God would say that to me, because I instead have pictured that God would say to me what I would say to me. Maybe something like,

"...my beloved child, who is really messing this up right now, and needs to gain more discipline, and should not be sinning that way, and is making awful decisions, and is completely beyond even my power to save now, but has a great hair color..."

But. But what if He is pleased with me? Do you think that's possible? I always kind of think He loves some things, sure, but that He probably spends way more time tsk-ing me, than smiling at me.

The idea that God is pleased with me knocks the wind out of me. It brings instantaneous tears. It's almost too much. I mean, honestly, do you think He loves me and likes me?

Maybe that sounds pathetic, or as though I don't like me. I am thrilled with me, but I've just always imagined that those above me, my parents, my pastors, my advisers, my God...maybe love me, but aren't really very encouraged by my quirkiness, my odd sense of humor, my sarcasm, or my headstrong sense of independence.

Do you think that God delights in those things? That He would ever say that He was pleased with me?

Grace might be a little more incredible than I had considered.

losing loving.

I'm reading through some of the first posts on this blog, and you know what I love most about them? They're so, so pure. They were written back before I knew anybody, or anybody knew me. They're pre-volunteering, and before the Easter video. Before I applied to James River, or AGTS, and started feeling the pressure of my own perceptions of Christian perfection. They're so honest. When I didn't believe, I said so. And when I really, really believed, I said that, too.

Most of all, I miss that faith. The faith that put everything out there, and didn't seem to care about the costs and the benefits. That faith was ready to walk...be it towards God, or away from Him. Now, it's so complicated.

Sometimes, I want to shut out everyone. Just to know God. Just to remember what it was to be new with Him. Not to worry about the perceived, and the legitimate, pressures of ministry.

Because, there are pressures. And I know that sounds outrageous for me to say. I'm not actively on staff with a ministry, I'm not "on the stage," so to speak. But all the same, the pressure is there. The pressure to feel constantly "right" with God, because...how can you help lead services from production on a Sunday, knowing that thousands of people will shuffle through below, and also knowing that you're not on top of your game spiritually? How can you have discussions with pastor after pastor for a thesis that's all about bringing people closer to God, knowing that you yourself are feeling weak? How can you make decisions about ministry and seminary and relationships, knowing that you're blowing it big-time?

I miss the gentleness of first faith. The part where I didn't feel responsible for anything or anyone else. I got to amble through, figuring it out just for me. Now, it's so much more. Now, when I figure it out, I figure it out in relationship with and for other people. I feel a call to use what I have for Him, and in that, I fear failure. I feel pressure.

Somewhere in that, I think I lose the simplicity of loving God. Just loving Him. Allowing Him to love me. I miss the moments untainted. I miss the sense that there's no call. Feeling called to something is so serious to me, so heavy.

But what about God? What was great about those early posts was that they were all about God. Can I live in ministry, and love God? How do people do it? How do they balance the pressures, on time and health and heart, with the point of it all?

grace in the giving.

The topic was grace.

I was talking with a friend tonight and as she spoke, I realized that grace is everything. I mean, grace is everything.

And grace, see--it's not reciprocal.

I'm not showing grace to someone when I pay her to paint my nails. It's not grace when I return the book he lent me. I'm not showing you grace when I thank you for sitting with me at the hospital.

I am showing you grace when you hurt me, and I hold you. And grace is everything.

Deep in conversation, I realized that the only thing that could possibly save the situation she described is grace. Unconditional love, without reason, without hope for a better tomorrow, without the assurance that the gamble of grace will pay off.

Only, we have the assurance. We get the grace and the promise, both. Really, the grace is the promise, no?

In that moment, thinking about grace and its totalizing power, it occurred to me that if in fact grace is the only answer, and grace is not reciprocal by its nature, then nothing makes more sense than the atonement.

Grace is what cures us, but if grace, if wildly unrestrained and undeserved love, is the antidote, what is the ill? Something too dark for the ordinary. That's for certain.

I get tripped up over the atonement because it's complicated, it's intellectually confusing, and frankly kind of crazy. I don't always understand my relationship with both God and Christ, and how they are one and also distinct. I get lost. But then, nights like tonight happen. When I see the barest, most simple cross, and, in the opportunity to live it out simultaneously, I understand that grace is powerful in the giving. Christ is made alive, He makes sense, He's here, when I live out the grace He gave me. Which is kind of beautiful. If God's truth worked only on my mind, and not also on my heart, and in my hands, His creation might be wasteful, maybe silly. And without the opportunity for all of me to know His great love, to discover it in the passing, what would I know of faith?

So I pray for the grace to give to others. And to myself.

a gospel or a gospel.

It was the altar call that got me.

A missionary spoke at James River tonight. A missionary with a great story, and a great ability to tell it. As he spoke, I felt more alive than I've felt in some time, and more hopeful that my struggles in faith will somehow work out for God's glory, and my peace. I felt...great.

By the time we got to the altar call, I felt almost strong again. Almost ready to face the mistakes I've been making, to go back to God and allow Him to work. Ready to acknowledge how my denial of His love has been affecting my ability to love others.

Then, the altar. The missionary had asked people to come forward to pray if they were willing to sacrifice their own lives for the cause of Christ, and as I watched from up in production as they all streamed forward, I thought...I'd stay in my chair. Firstly, because I have a deathly fear of a crowded altar. Secondly because, as the missionary had spoken of martyrdom, I knew I didn't have that kind of faith. But as he called people forward, I realized why I don't.

It's because I don't believe. Not really. I mean, if you really believed that all people needed Christ, of course you'd lay down your life to bring others to Him. I don't. I find that to be a fuzzy no man's land of theological doubt. Whenever it comes up in my mind, I've ignored it. Because I don't want to think about it. Because I know the truth about my own mind and heart.

I think...but, Ash--you applied to seminary, and to work at a church, and you're doing your thesis on how better to engage people in the life of the church. You've done all of that sincerely. But each of those things is tied up in some other idol. I love learning. I love well-run organizations that help people right their lives. I love helping people right their lives. For me, it comes back to what it always was when I was liberal theologically--people. I like people. I like seeing their lives transformed. But can I say with certainty that I understand and believe that He died for me? That some metaphysical reality shifted as a result of that death? That ALL people need Christ to live?

I can't.

Here's the problem. I also cannot say that I think there's any hope without that story. Not just the story. The reality. I can't say that I think that we have the ability on our own to love people to rightness. Not with therapy, and not with kinds words, or kind deeds, and not ever with drugs or money, or our own sense of righteousness or grace.

So, on the one hand--I searched myself tonight and found no real belief in the Gospel. On the other, I found an absolute inability to accept any possibility aside from the Gospel.

What does that mean? What will happen to me? Is there hope?

frank.

"If a client of yours killed himself and someone else, could you still do what you do? Could you still care?"

Yeah, I think I could.

"But why? How could you?"

I don't know. I guess...I'd just...I'd keep going.

"No..no.. you need to be protected. You need to be kept away from all of this. You're too pure for this. Let me help you. Let me protect you."

He stared at me so deeply. With so much innocence, and so much pain. Our conversation came a couple of weeks into my first job out of college. I was working in a cesspool of a psychiatric facility--a swinging door for the state criminal psych ward. Frank had been assigned to my caseload, and, as I hadn't been hardened by the awful conditions of the facility, and draining rawness of the clients' stories, I cared enough to spend more time talking with my clients than they had ever gotten from a case manager, probably in any of their various hospitalizations and placements.

That special attention paid to Frank landed me in the precarious conversation above. The director of nursing called back to the case management office at around 9pm: "Frank is in the cafeteria threatening to hurt himself--he says he'll only talk with you." Thus, with little training, and minimal background in counseling psychology, I was sent to the cafeteria to talk with Frank.

He was pacing the room when I got there. The aids said he'd been holding them off with a chair, demanding to talk to me. I felt like a negotiator on one of those cop shows. An extremely under-qualified, and terrified negotiator.

I sensed that he wouldn't hurt me, though, and so I sat down with him, and we talked. He touched my arm as he told me, "I want to help you. You're too young, too pure, you care too much, to be ruined by this world. Let me be your psychiatrist. You can be my patient."

I suppose he could have been hiding a knife. In a second, he could have slit my throat, and it'd just be a crazy headline. I'd be the "someone else," in the scenario he'd been asking me about.

Weird, right? We live these lives so oblivious to the rawness of the worlds outside our own. Somewhere, right now, there's a girl just graduated, pulling a late night in a psychiatric facility, dealing with her very own Frank. Somewhere, there's a girl moving to a new town, meeting God for the very first time. Somewhere, she's wondering where this is all heading, how all of the crazy worlds in which she's lived will be tied together into one, huge and glorious, God-sized dream of redemption and grace.

Somewhere, she's reaching out for faith.