ADDICTED TO FALSE SECURITY

I had been mourning over some really painful things for days. Life doesn’t always go the way we expect it to. People let us down. We let ourselves down. Life…it lets us down. Learning to let go of what we expect things to be is just painful. We fight to make things right—rather what we perceive to be right. We wage war within our minds over our bad choices, replaying scenes as if to find the missing key that will unlock the door to security once again.

As a Christian, my hope is in Jesus Christ. I am, for the most part, resolute in my faith. I take no credit for the strength of my faith because I am naturally cynical, distrusting, and fearful. But God has set within me a foundation of faith in Him I cannot explain. How does one explain the unexplainable? All I know is it is supernatural.

However, every faith is tested. It must be. And sometimes God has to show us what our faith is really made of. Though He determines the measure of our faith, the impurities of our flesh offer no help to grow it, but the opposite. And I was about to learn something about mine.

Things I counted on were failing. It felt so burdensome, like a heavy jacket too big for me. I wanted to strip it off and give it to its rightful owner. Go to God, I thought. Just pray, read His Word. You’ll feel better then. I did those things. Multiple times. And I didn’t feel better.

This morning while texting with my friend, I tried my best to offer hope to her in her pain. I had to admit I struggled to see clearly through the heavy burden I currently bore. Failing marriages of women I love, failing health of cancer stricken people I love, failing news of Sri Lanka Christians referred to as “Easter Worshippers” blown to pieces while worshiping Jesus—not Easter; my husband’s unemployment for nearly the fifth month, uncertainty of the future, uncertainty of anything.

In the middle of our conversation the Holy Spirit spoke to my heart. “I intercede for you with groanings too deep for words” (Romans 8:26) I paused and realized that was what was happening. As I bore the pain for others, the Lord was bearing the pain for us all.

I grabbed my Bible and flipped to Romans 8 to read the scripture in context. From verse 1 through the end of the chapter God answered. He answered my grief and my confusion and He put a word to the heaviness I couldn’t shake. Insecurity. That was the heavy coat I desperately tried to throw off—the cumbersome weight of false security. God showed me that there are times I choose to wear that coat. All I could say was, “I get it now.”

Rick came in with his coffee to where I was sitting, with my Bible opened wide to Romans 8 across my lap.

“Can I please share with you what God showed me this morning?” I asked. He graciously let me.

I cried as I read Romans chapter 8 out loud to my husband. Not just a little tear that moistens your eyes, but sobs. I could hardly make out Paul’s words on the page at times. I had to take breaks because I couldn’t speak clearly. I grieved, I rejoiced, and I grieved again. Noticing the look on my husband’s face, I imagined he probably didn’t understand what was happening to me. I apologized for concerning him, but how could I explain what I could barely grasp myself? As I reached the end of the chapter, verses 38 and 39 broke me even more, as if that were even possible. I wept in my hands.

“For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

I heard God like never before, through Paul’s words, through my own voice. I was being set free from the power of a million pound lie while grace and peace flooded in. My only true security is in Christ and for the first time I believed it.

Are you feeling insecure about something?

Do you wish you could just do something? Change something? Be something?

Please read Romans 8.

It will tell you we live in a completely insecure world—corrupt by sin. All of creation, humanity—corrupt. And we all continue to grip so tightly to the things of this world expecting, demanding, hoping, forcing it all to offer us the security it has no capacity to fulfill. No marriage, no job, no government, no friendship, no remedy, no army, no bank account, no contract, no promise from creation is capable of providing the security we so desperately crave.

But Christ.

The pills we take, the therapy we need, the books we read, the education we attain, the false religious ceremonies we perform, the addictions we practice, the lies we believe (and tell), the money we hoard or spend to gain false security is killing us.

Insecurity. This is the world on sin.

FIRST THINGS FIRST

Grace. What a beautiful word, full of depth and meaning. There’s something about the way it flows from my heart and bubbles over with sweet joy from my lips. As I read Paul’s letter to the Philippians I have to believe he felt the same way. And just as some parents have chosen to name their newborn baby girls after this lovely expression of gratitude and undeserved favor, I’d have to say the apostle is most well deserving to own it too.

In his salutation to the church at Philippi, Paul greets his readers with the most amazing blessing:

“Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ” (Philippians 1:2).

Notice what’s first—grace. This word in the Greek is “charis”. It signifies favor, gift, benefit, even credit.

Paul knew it was the most important thing needed for the people he loved. Why? Because everything true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent and praiseworthy flows from grace.

There have been times in my life where troubling circumstances have provoked fear and anxiety deep within me. Like a noose around my heart, worry threatened my sanity. I know I’m not alone in this. And I am ever grateful Paul was keenly aware of this battle for our minds. Not only was he inspired by the Spirit of Christ, who is all grace, but also by his own personal experience. Paul knew grace. He reveled in the glorious reality of grace more than he retreated into the raw reality of his problems.

On a good day, I’ve done this too. But not all days are good. And if God’s grace is abundant and abounding, what makes some hard days easy to endure and others painfully difficult?

I believe Paul has the answer.

There’s a word in the fourth chapter of Philippians that jumped out at me as I meditated on this most priceless word, “grace”. Its “thanksgiving”.

Paul writes this:

“Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus” (Phil. 4:6-7).

The word “thanksgiving” in verse 6 is the word “eucharistia”. In the Greek it’s “eucharistos”. It means to actively express grateful language to God, as an act of worship. Eu meaning “good” and the rest being a derivative of the word “charts”, eucharistos simply put: be deliberately grateful for good grace.

Could it be that in those moments when I’ve struggled just to keep my head above the fierce waves of despair, I’ve forgotten to practice eucharistia?

Paul exhorts us to put into practice whatever we’ve learned or received or heard from him. And we must. The peace of God is waiting to guard our hearts and minds in Christ Jesus if we only receive His good grace with great gratitude.

IT'S NOT ABOUT ME

Some people love talking about their work. Others love to talk politics or pop culture. I’ve been a stay-at-home mom and homemaker for twenty-two years. I’ve learned to take great pride in this undervalued job thanks to my encouraging husband. (Thanks, Honey XO.) However, there’s only so much I can talk about that anyone cares to hear. Most people want to be intrigued and at this point in my career, doing laundry and paying bills does very little to hold a crowd. And politics . . . well, I know enough to engage in a conversation, but care to discuss it about as long as the length of my arm. 

Ask me about Jesus and I have plenty to say. If you spend any amount of time with me you’ll soon find out He comes up often. And if you like talking about Him too . . . man, we’ll be here for hours.

I remember being on a walk with a friend about a decade ago. It wasn’t the only time we walked together. Living around the corner from each other afforded us countless walks over the years. And countless conversations. We’d talk about mom stuff, and politics, and current events. And more often than not we’d talk about God. She loved Him too so naturally He was infused into nearly every topic. 

I learned so much about being a godly wife and mother from her during those years. That was also when I discovered my passion to talk about Jesus and how amazingly awesome He is.  

“God just might use you to share with a lot of people,” she once said.

On the surface, I rejected that idea immediately. Who am I? I’m nobody, I thought. Safely, I suggested I was confident in a one-on-one conversation; even pretty comfortable in a small group scenario. But a room filled with people? With a microphone? Absolutely not. Heck, I blew the fourth grade Spelling Bee on the very first word—“should”—all because of that dumb microphone. (Scarred for life.)

But in spite of my insecurity and fears, deep down I fantasized about telling a massive crowd about how Jesus saved me and is still saving me. The thought thrilled me. Would God really want to use me like that? . . . Nah, not when there are so many brilliant, articulate, passionate believers whose testimonies have been forged by greater transformations than I could claim. (Answering our own questions always works because we know best.)

Fast forward ten years later. My friend was right. She saw something in me that I never would've chosen on my own.  Public speaking. About Jesus. With a microphone. Oh, and video-recorded. (The younger me cringes to consider watching that. Oh my gosh, look at my hair . . . did you hear me mess up there?) 

But, I’ve come a long way through this mind-torturing, self-centered process to discover God's calling on my life. A long way.

The first time I was asked to share my testimony to a room full of women, I said 'yes'. And I bombed. How do I know? Let me just say . . . you know. 

A few years had gone by when a kind unknowing person thought it was a good idea to ask me to share at another women’s event. "I can do this," I prodded myself. I prepared my notes. I studied Scripture. I prayed. And I didn’t tell anyone. One, because I didn’t want to seem braggy that someone asked me to speak (red flag); and two, because if I choked (again) I wouldn’t have to tell anyone if they asked, “How’d it go?” 

Can you say, “deja vu”? It was not good. Like the first time, I was all over the place. I stumbled over my words. I lost my place in my notes. I flopped.

And then it hit me. I was so worried about how “awesome” I needed to be that I forgot the real reason why I was asked to share in the first place.  It wasn’t about me, but them. And Him.

Have you ever had sorrow sweep through your gut like a whirlwind? That’s what it felt like when God showed me my pride. Even the pride I had when I realized I had pride . . .  it was too much. Pride upon pride. I cried. For real.

I wanted to disappear even more than that day I awkwardly sat center stage among my peers in the elementary school cafeteria. “Should. S-H-O-U-D . . . “ Nooooooo! But, it was too late. I couldn’t take it back. And that’s how I felt about my, not one, but two chances I was given to talk about my Savior. Sorry, no good. You blew it. Even on your do-over. Nooooooo! Embarrassment and disappointment taunted me as I regurgitated every personal public failure. But why? Isn’t that so like the world. The grace we as Christians fail to give ourselves (or others) looks nothing like Jesus sometimes. 

About three months later I was approached again. Our pastor’s wife asked me if I’d share about the Lord’s Supper and present communion to the women’s ministry. “God put you on my heart,” she said.

Me? I quickly took inventory in my mind. One ill-experienced Jesus freak with wounded pride and stage fright plus one hundred God-fearing ladies, maybe more . . . I can’t. Is she insane? Did the others say no? I say 'no' too!

“I’ll pray about it.” I said, graciously. (After all, isn’t that what most spiritual people say?)

I hung up the phone. 

And then God spoke to my heart, “You will do this.”  

“I know,” I responded, with my head down. Literally. I dropped my head down during our internal conversation. 

Good news for this over critical, self conscious girl—it wasn’t so bad that time. Yeah, I was a bit stiff, I fumbled a couple words, but something was deeply different. Maybe not so much on the outside, but the inside. I cared far less about what I looked like and far more about the women listening. I knew I honored the Lord. I took a deep breath and exhaled with a smile. “Thank You, God,” I whispered. 

Over the last couple of years, I’d said ‘yes’ many times. And any time I start to get freaked out or wonder if I have anything worth saying, I remember something a dear friend instructed me to do as we prayed together, “Love them with your words.” 

And I say this to you: if you have the gospel of Jesus Christ living within you, it’s worth sharing, no matter your stage. So, keep saying ‘yes’! It's your calling too.

. . . . . . 

"You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a basket. Instead, they set it on a lampstand, and it gives light to everyone in the house." Matthew 5:14-15