Heard an interview with Drew Barrymore lately, where she said, “I don’t want to sit around and hope good things will happen.  I want to make them happen…I want to be in control of my own destiny.”  And on a different, but I-promise-to-tie-together-in-a-second-note, I was strolling by the ocean last week and distracted by the accelerating legs of a small bird.  He made me smile, with sand-cast feet running full-speed away from the approaching waters.  Each wave, clearly more wise and experienced than this little creature, showed uncanny amusement almost, as it let the bird race gravity.  Out of breath and in what seemed his fated end, the determined creature contributed one final stride.  And then, as if destiny were never in question, his wings took rise as his body glided off the sand into the warm, spring air.        

I was impressed by this exhausted run, but more exhausted by the bird’s forgotten ability to fly.  Because in a remarkably similar way, I forget this same thing.  If what God says is true, and I really have every spiritual blessing in the heavenly realms (Ephesians 1:3), I have the power to fly—but typically choose to walk chained.  

Any given day finds me running as fast and as far as my legs will take me, which on good days is pretty far.  But the sad truth is, I’ve still settled for the pace of running, when I have the option of graced flying.  I’ve substituted the cheap lie that lets me function, for the unfathomable Life that lets me fly.  

We all want to make good things happen.  Great things, even.  But we can only cover so much ground, before the waves take us over—control so much distance, before destiny takes us under.  I’m wondering what would it look like today to be delivered from our own feat, and positioned into God’s?

Weakness—I think that’s what I need.  I think that’s what I want to ask God for today.

Outlandish?  Completely. Counterintuitive to me, culture and a lot of “the church”?  Utterly.  

But the truth of it is, I need to be weak.  God’s Word, and God, himself, I am realizing this Easter week, is flooded with personifications of weakness.  Endured weakness, failed weakness, transformed weakness, transforming weakness, and ultimately, I guess, resurrected weakness.  And maybe this is a stretch, but as of today, I feel like something of the crux of Christianity lies a willing surrender to weakness.  

Heard a thought recently that I can’t let go of.  “People will admire you for being strong, but love you for being weak.”  I have tried for most of my life to be strong.  I covet admiration and crave affirmation.  I long for people to see me as unfailing—to know my faith as unshaking.  Bottom line, I do whatever I can to avoid weakness.

Strength saturates our culture.  It’s sexy, stable and stands on its own.  Unfortunately though, it’s also a never-ending facade.  Yes, strength is always willing to lead us somewhere, but it’s always a Somewhere Road to nowhere.  So what I’m learning is weakness is actually my source of going where God wants me to go, which may mean “going,” but may also mean staying, being, or waiting, i.e. taboos in our culture, and in our post-fall complexion.  

As a Christian, my greatest understanding of Christ rises in my greatest understood weakness without him.  Thus, my strength after God MUST be prefaced by weakness in me.  Willingness to surrender—willingness to admit imperfection—this then, is my to way to strength.  My way to love.  The way to God.  

When I am weak, then I have reason to be with God.  When I am weak, then I am strong (2 Corinthians 12:10).

http://www.africaourownhome.org

You may remember my friend Holly from Uganda.  Just as I was leaving in late August, she was beginning her orphange.  Holly is an incredible inspiration as a young, passionate lover of Jesus, so I figured you might enjoy tracking with her story.

Hoping you're well.

If I’m honest, I’d much rather ask you, than God.  I’d much rather hear your answer, than “hope” to hear one from Him.  Why is this?  Do I really think you know more than Him, or better than Him?  No.  But do I really think God knows more than me, let alone what’s better for me?  Apparently not, which leads me to my next question.

Are our prayers really being heard?  Because if I’m really human, which I am, and if God’s really inhuman, which He is, is our “connect” really possible?  Is His hearing really plausible?  No, It’s really not.  So my only fair, or quasi logical, conclusion then, is that prayer isn’t possible without some mediary source.  Or force, rather (see Luke 2:5). Prayer isn’t normal or natural.  It leans more toward ridiculously abnormal and unnatural, in fact.  But I guess if God were really my God, wouldn’t I want Him that way!?

Believing the Lord as sovereign assumes believing the Lord has a plan.  So that, whether you pray for him, or I invest in her, God’s will will prevail.  His story will unfold.  Essentially, your prayers don’t determine outcomes.  Does that mean they don’t matter?  No.  But does that mean peripheral theologies of why you should, or shouldn’t pray have gotten off line.  Yes.  Too often, I think, we lose sight of our ‘role’ in praying.  Our role in God’s eternal story.  What we’re offered in prayer and optioned through Jesus Christ, is the capacity to ask unnatural things for the sake of supernatural intervention.  Impossible dreams of man, by way of possible faith in God.  When you ask something outlandish and see it come about, who gets the credit?  Who, but God, finds you amazed?

So I guess the question I’m left asking is, if we really believed our lives script scenes of eternity, and really believed God as jealous for our voices, why the heck wouldn’t we get-in on it!?  Why the heck would I prioritize asking your opinion, over His?

(I'm contributing a weekly blog to www.collegeleader.org, a new site for college ministry resources, so many of my posts here will come straight from there, including this one.  Hope you're well!  Abbie)

“So what’s going on with you spiritually?” I asked through the steam of two cups of coffee. 
The student responded, “You know, I’m doing okay, but really struggling in a certain area.” 
At this point I was pretty convinced what the ensuing minutes would entail.  Namely, that topic that every student of Jesus will eventually face—and certainly every college student.
“Hmm,” I said, trying to remain at height with the conversation, “would you feel comfortable unpacking the struggle a little more?” 
“Yeah…I guess…I mean, I think a lot of people struggle with it, too…it’s just that, well, I don’t really know what to do about it.  Like…I don’t really know why it’s so bad lately.” 
“Well,” I said, seeing shame embodied before me, “let’s try to at least get this “it” on the table, and then maybe we’ll go from there.”
“Okay…well, it’s just this problem with…lust…I think about the opposite sex and sex and just lustful stuff all the time.” 
“Okay,” I said, “talk to me about those thoughts a little more.” 
“Ummm, I don’t know what else to say…it’s just like really bad and really gross.” 
At this point the student became more frustrated at the “it,” or the self, or something of the two.  “It’s like I can’t get lustful thoughts out of my head.  And they come-up at random times, like while I’m trying to study, or watch TV, or even trying to pray!?” 
“Gosh…it seems like God is unveiling a lot here.  Thank you for being willing to talk about it.  It’s clearly been burdening you a lot.”
“Yeah…yeah, it really has,” the student said, looking down at the table.  “I hate it.  And I hate me when I hate it.  And I can’t imagine how God would want anything to do with this—and definitely me in this.” 

The “it” of this conversation is not unlike many, and probably most, we’ll sit across from (or with) this semester.  As I’ve started to explore the topic (“lust”) with God, taking into account my presumptions and presuppositions, I’ve come upon some pretty interesting ends—well, not ends maybe, but at least entrances into beginnings I’d love to toss out. 
How does this four-letter word carry such power in our Christian lives, and persistence in our Christian journeys?  How does something so good and potentially opportunistic, become such an evil in an untraceable matter of seconds?     So I’m a nerd and went to dictionary.com.  The definition of lust is as follows:

1.    intense sexual desire or appetite.
2.    uncontrolled or illicit sexual desire or appetite; lecherousness.
3.    a passionate or overmastering desire or craving (usually fol. by for): a lust for power.
4.    ardent enthusiasm; zest; relish: an enviable lust for life.
5.    Obsolete.
a.    pleasure or delight.
b.    desire; inclination; wish
6.    to have intense sexual desire.
7.    to have a yearning or desire; have a strong or excessive craving
(synonyms: crave, hunger, covet, yearn)

Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1)  Based on the Random House Unabridged Dictionary, © Random House, Inc. 2006.

Nothing too surprising, maybe, but of further interest was the etymology of lust, exposing original usages of, "joyful and merry,” and in later years, "full of healthy vigor.”  Christological interpretation followed, carrying the trophy that disturbed every positive inclination this word ever held.  Easton’s 1897 Bible Dictionary explains lust in two ways: sinful longings (referencing Romans 1:21) and objects of desire (referencing Mark 4:19).  And yes, I am in seminary, but no, I’m not about to exegete all “lustful passages” in Scripture.  I guess what I want to throw-out though, is what it would look like for lust to not always be the “bad-guy”—to not always be the “struggle” we assume, or standard to which we prescribe “accountability partners”?  Must the (natural) tendency of lust be always boxed as “sin”—always branded all bad?  Moreover, what if lust could actually bridge a good—a gateway into prayer, or glorifying potential of grace?  What if lust could be explored as an aspect of our sexuality, and window toward honoring the others’?   What if culture, Church, or Satan’s obsession with lust deflated to its intended role—to something designed with joy and boastful of vigor for Jesus?  What if lust was redefined—as a means, and not an end?  Rediscovered—in terms of gain, and not guilt?

What if lust was a gift?