My last post before today was July of 2016.  A month later, I left my church and now over four years later, I’ve still not joined a church.  I’ve even stopped looking for a new church.  I’ve been silent; and I’m waiting. 

Lots of people have stories of how they were wounded by people from their church.  The church responds, “well, the church is full of sinners, that’s why we’re all there” and “well, none of us are perfect, that’s what makes us such good Christians, we realize that and that’s why we go to church.”

War is Peace

Freedom is Slavery

Ignorance is Strength

Those are the words of George Orwell, from his book 1984.  The response of the church to their problems sounds like the insanity, doublethink and doublespeak he was warning us about.  Not all churches; my church.  Correction, the church I left behind.  Transformation was the agenda, but no one was really wanting the kind of change that leads to repentance, just the kind that puffs people up with knowledge.  The inner circle with their churchspeak; shining vessels with dirt and hurt bottled up inside.

To my great surprise, God truly was working on me.  I changed.  I repented.  But my repentance had to involve turning and walking in the opposite direction from where I was.  The responses to my repentance from the leaders in the church were as sharp as shattered, jagged glass.  Betrayal of confidence, Anger, violent speech, accusation, slander, gossip, back-biting and stereotyping were all heaped upon me.  But, I have no doubt God is working on these people too.  I pray they will find peace.

I didn’t start out to write a complaint piece about my ex-church.  There is enough complaining in the world today – I don’t want to participate. 

I want to talk about the silence.  I want to talk about the danger of the church as an idol in our western culture.  I want to talk about the dangerous trend of pastors as celebrities in our current culture.  Mostly, I just want to talk.  That is something I haven’t wanted to do for the past few years.  But now that I’m talking, I see my words, my message, my voice must be full of light and life.  If I have learned nothing, if I have not grown and matured in my thinking, if my relationship with the living God has not grown stronger, than I have nothing to say.  If my love for others has not grown stronger, than I have nothing to say.

I have been given a great gift . . . freedom.  People looking in from the outside may question the cost but what I lost truly does seem like filthy rags compared to what I’ve gained.  There is nothing that compares to being free; walking in the light; truth really does set you free. So, if you too realize you are being entertained by shadows on the wall and you decide to turn and walk out of the cave, know that a few people may turn and watch you go and wonder as to the reason, others may scream at you to come back or  you'll die out there, and others will turn to those around them and curse you for betraying them and all cave dwellers.  But what waits outside the cave, is sunlight, fresh air, and yes, freedom. 

A New Beginning . . . again

Four years ago God told me to walk away from our church home . . . correction, my church home.  There were lots of reasons and He had been working on me for sometime to bring them to the forefront of my understanding to be dealt with.  They were heart issues that had taken root many years ago that I had never dealt with.  I was walking with God and we had come to a place where I couldn't go forward without shedding some old cloaks.  I can finally say I threw off my cloak and ran to Him for healing.  He opened my eyes and profoundly changed my life.  My worldview, sense of worth, identify, value . . . everything changed.  I was sitting in a classroom at my church and He spoke to me in a loud voice like something from a horror movie, "Get Out!" - I stood up, packed up my stuff and left - my heart pounding.  As soon as I stepped out the door, the shingles fell from my eyes and I was filled with a quiet peace.  That peace has been unshakeable.  My sudden departure brought out the worst in others which I endured with a peace and a quietness in my soul that was uncharacteristic of the "old" me.  I watched as good Christians behaved miserably.

The moral of this story is that Christians are human, terribly flawed and while we all crave transformation, it is uncomfortable, takes great courage to accept and is the most satisfying peace in the world.  

I recently explored an abandoned house.  I've always seen them along the side of the road on roadtrips and imagined capturing an amazing image inside. This time I stopped.  My two sons and I waded through the tall grasses as my husband stood guard at the car.  As I climbed up into the open doorway, behind me my oldest son cried out in pain.  He had stepped on a rusty nail protruding from boards that used to be the porch.  He turned back to the car for first aid treatment.  My younger son and I continued into the house and heard "something" rush out the ruined walls in the back of the house.  We froze.  After a minute or two of silence we continued our investigation.  We creeped around, treading lightly.  My heart was racing and adrenaline pumped through my veins.  Then I remembered what motivated me to stop - photos; I wanted to take pictures.  I snapped a few but suddenly realized I shouldn't be here - I was intruding on something that was being reclaimed - a work in progress.  It was eery and sacred all at once.  We left . . . in search of a medical facility for a vaccine.  I would learn later that I had unknowingly carried a small, blood-sucking parasite out of that place.  Later that night my husband discovered and removed the tick from my shoulder.

I learned a few things from that ruined place:

There is a mysterious beauty in ruin.

Those things I've abandoned (thoughts, relationships, behaviors, habits, ways of thinking) are being reclaimed and turned into something beautiful.

When the promise of excitement tempts me to revisit things I've abandoned I may cause pain to my loved ones and I could leave with things that feed on my very life

When I am open to abandoning my self-made identify, God can begin to reclaim it and in my ruined self, there is beauty as His light is able to fill more of the newly exposed places in my soul.

I'm grateful to a God that teaches me, heals me . . . is reclaiming my ruined soul.

A Case for Solitude and Silence - from my recent trip in search of time with God at a local monastery.

As soon as I arrived at the Monastery, God took a hold of me.  I felt Him urging me to go walk the paths around the grounds.  I quickly put my things in my little dorm-style room, grabbed my camera, and headed outdoors.  I began walking across a field, down a mowed “path” leading into a wooded area.  The woods were mostly large overgrown bushes that had been cut back in places to make a path.  Walking along them, the first thing I encountered was a concrete statue of a friar.  My pace slowed and I stopped to take in the breeze and the quiet.  I was asking God why He brought me here and I was asking Him to cast a vision for me, my life and to tell me who I was. I was asking to hear from Him.  I walked on down this path and came across a little alcove where a statue of Jesus carrying the cross was embedded in the ground.  I stooped down and took out my camera.  I took a photo and then stopped.  I set down my camera. Something came over me, a voice, telling me I was on sacred ground and that I needed to just “be” with God.  I was stooped down over my camera bag and I stayed there for some time. “Now get up” I heard in my mind.  I knew I wasn’t talking to myself but that God was now directing me; He had something he wanted to show me.  I continued on down the path, seeing other statues – one of Jesus with a woman, their hands stretched out to each other; the place they met, was where the statues blended together into one. I walked up very close to these statues.

The Lord led me across another field along a mowed path to an area where the path was made up of small rocks and mulch.  Great, thick bushes grew up tall on both sides of the path.  Some clouds had moved in and the sky grew a little darker – not like rain – just enough to cool the breeze and cast deeper shadows.  I realized how alone I was on this path.  A fear welled up in me, maybe I wasn’t that alone at all.  Maybe there was someone else on the path and they would “jump” out at me at any moment. After all, I did drive through a “bad” area to get here.  I took a few more steps and then stopped.  I realized I was praying Psalm 28 trying to get my courage up.  I heard God telling me to trust Him and to continue on down the path.  I didn’t move.  He asked me if I trusted Him.  I took a few more steps, my heart pounding. It was SO quiet.  I walked slowly and quietly, the path ahead disappeared into a sharp turn.  I couldn’t see where it went or what was beyond these tall bushes.  I stopped again  . . . and then turned back.  God told me to stop.  “Really, God?” I said out loud, “This whole trip is going to be about this stupid path?” – “I’m scared.”  I heard Him clearly answer me in my mind, “I know you are. Do you see who you are?” - “Yes, I cried, I’m a scared little girl!” His voice was gentler now, “Yes. Turn back around and walk on.” I obeyed.  I walked down the path and turned the sharp corner.  After a little way, the path opened out into an alcove, larger than the others had been, where an area had thoughtfully been set up with a small statue of Jesus on the cross, benches at the foot of the cross where people could kneel and also a little bench further off.  I walked over and sat on the bench.  “Now what, I asked?”  I pulled out the book I had brought with me. “Put it away” said God. “I get it, God.  You want to talk to me.” I sat quietly, “alright, I’m listening.”

I'm not writing this to impress others with my experience with God.  I’m writing so I can document my time with Him – so I won’t forget - and maybe God will use it to speak to someone else.  

God brought me deep down this path, scared and uncertain, to show me who I am.  I’m a frightened child, crying out to my Father to protect me. I had no answers out here, I didn’t know what to do next, I had no resources available to me.  I couldn’t call out to anyone but my God, my Father. We sat there together quietly. He told me all the things I am out in the world were not who I was.  All the roles I play and all the things I do are not who I am.  That I am simply His child, a child he loves, protects and wants to guide. He told me He wants me to trust Him to set my path and that even when I can’t see what is up ahead, He wants me to trust Him anyway.  He would have places of rest for me along the path; places that were holy and sacred and just for the two of us.  He would have other places, that were larger, places where others could be invited in to worship, but always He would be there with me.

I walked back along the same paths, at peace this time, my hand in His as he led me back. When I got to the Monastery, I entered through the old kitchen which smelled of home, happiness and comfort – the familiar smell of my grandmother’s kitchen. I smiled as I walked through it on the way to my room. It was so incredibly quiet in the building. I walked slowly, much slower than my usual pace. I climbed the stairs, feeling young, very young, child-like.  If this experience was all I would hear from Him at this place, it was worth it.  But, He had much more to say . . . 

more later . . . 

(I hope this letter will compel you to seek Jesus; it is true that He wants to speak to you and will, if only you are willing to listen.)

A Message of Adoption in Easter

Today I heard a sermon about adoption.  About being utterly alone, forsaken by those you trust, struggling through life to make sense of it; to find meaning, to find your place. Feeling alone, no matter how many people you are with. Fighting the suspicion that others are not really for you; others are not able to truly love the “real” you. And surrendering to that doubt; that idea that has been firmly planted in you, that you are not worthy of love . . . just because . . . just because you’re you. That your unworthiness is not due to anything you’ve said or done, it is just your intrinsic lack of value and there is nothing you can do to change that.

And then, unexpectedly, there is a moment in time; a light that comes on in your soul, a voice, a nagging sense that something outside of yourself is saying, “You are my child.  I am for you. Not only do I want you, but I created you so that I could love you; so that you could love others and be loved by them in my name.”

I have heard this voice, and it continually speaks to me.  It is the voice of my God; my Father; my adoptive Father. He tells me there is nothing I can do that will turn Him away; that will make Him say, “that’s too much, Anita; I can’t love you now that you’ve done that.” I know that I am loved by the Author of love, and that like Him this love is never ending. I know that He loves me . . . just because . . . just because I’m me. Not because I’m worthy or have done or said anything to deserve it, and there is nothing I can do to change that.

That is the aspect of Easter that struck me today.  That because of what Jesus did, I became the child of God. And while that it isn't nearly the entire theology of Easter, of Jesus' death and resurrection, it is what God chose to reassure me of today.  Happy Easter!

Taking Off My Shoes

Earth’s crammed with Heaven,

And every common bush afire with God;

But only he who sees, takes off his shoes.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I found the above quote in a book I’m reading by Richard Foster called Sanctuary of the Soul.  In the chapter this quote is taken from, Foster is talking about meditative prayer and discusses “beholding the Lord.”  He talks about being still in the reflected glory of God that we see in His creation. I love this chapter and was provoked to write about my experience with beholding the Lord.

 I’m captivated by the beauty in nature; often deeply moved by the brilliant colors, sweeping movements, utter stillness, magical sounds and intoxicating fragrances of the world outside my door. My heart is often broken over the small percentage of time I’ve actually spent out in the wilderness, or even just outside. There is a wild connection to something greater than myself out there, a beauty that is real and raw and authentic.  It overwhelms my soul; it is my Lord, my God, the wind of the Holy Spirit and He loves me in return. 

He displays His true colors for me across the sky at sunset, He kisses my check with a gentle breeze, He tousles my hair with a strong wind, He sings to me with sweet chirps at night and treetop songs by day.  And all I have to do is be still and receive Him; the knowledge of Him in all His splendor. He makes Himself known to me there in the midst of His glorious creation . . . when I am still.  When I am still I behold Him.

Thanks Oscar!

This past 4^th of July, I took a trip with my family to visit our relatives in Woonsocket, SD.  There I met a little boy named Oscar, our nephew's son.  He is not yet two and we fell in love with each other.  Through him I experienced something rare and profound – God used him to give me a glimpse of his unconditional love for me and blessed me with the rare joy of pure love that comes in the beautiful and precious package of a child.

Oscar seemed to be drawn to me from the moment we met.  His little face would light up when he saw me and an expectant look of adventure would creep into his smile.  I was delighted to oblige his prompting to go for a walk or to play ball, or sweep the garage. He is a bundle of curiosity and I think he saw in me a kindred spirit.  What I saw in Him was complete trust, love, joy and a pure spirit.  I quickly observed that Oscar is a rare jewel – able to look deeply into a person’s eyes and assess their willingness to not only engage with him, but to delight in the world with him.

Through the course of the few days I was there, Oscar and I walked a lot. At one point I was sitting outside on the porch steps with him and he got up to take a step down.  He faltered and was just about to tip over when I reached out and caught him.  He looked at me with large surprised eyes and I said, “Oh – I saved you!” He understood that.  He steadied himself and then reached up ever so gently, putting both his hands on my face and leaned in and kissed me as if to say “thank you.” It was a beautiful gesture that brought tears to my eyes.  “You’re welcome, Oscar – and thank you for the kiss!” I replied.  He laughed with delight and we walked some more as he shared the wonders of the world as he saw them; prickly grass, the rough bark on a tree, smooth dirt, the splash of a rock in the pond.

As his Mom and Dad were preparing to leave for home one morning, Oscar reached up for my hand to take me on one last walk.  We walked down the street of the small town and stopped by a large bale of hay. We had discovered hay in his Uncle’s barn the day before and I had shown him how it was rough and bright and shone golden in the sun and smelled sweet; he had been delighted at the discovery of it.  He stopped and pulled a small handful of hay out of the bale and offered it to me as if to say, “I remember this little treasure that you shared with me.” He looked into my eyes for understanding and I’m sure he saw a tear as I said, “yes, I remember too.” Remarkable!

We had a wonderful visit with everyone this year.  Time seemed to pass slowly but in a beautiful, grace-filled way.  There was a sense of welcome and unity that knits families together in a rare and eternal way. We all were refreshed and full of the “weight” that love and acceptance gives a soul.  But I feel I had received a little more than everyone else.  God allowed me to share in Oscar’s beautiful vision of the world – to see it fresh through his eyes.  He allowed me to experience the love of a child – the kind of love that is given without reserve, without expectations, without limit. And love begets love. What a gift I received from Oscar and ultimately from my Heavenly Father.

Lord, may I too, love you with the love of a wondrous, open, trusting and wide-eyed child; receiving the world and people around me as a beautiful and precious gift.