“Wait for the calm assurance that God will be your help and protection. Even the tasks that God has asked you to do should be continually surrounded with prayer and inward surrender. Never leave your place of inward rest until God Himself calls you out. Just walk simply with God and do not look to yourself for strength. Your Father is good.

“If God doesn’t choose to use you in recognizable ways, do not force yourself into serving others. Peacefully do what stands before you. Desire or refuse nothing. Whether people seek you out or reject you, whether they applaud or oppose you, what does it matter? It is God, not the gifts of God and not yourself, that you seek.”

– Fenelon

“Learn of me, for I am meek and lowly of heart, and you will find rest.” 

Since 2013, I’ve prayerfully and patiently sought a word that would serve as a theme for the year. In early February, “Rest” is what hit my spirit, which I know came from the Holy Spirit, because I’m way too antsy to think of something like that myself.

But, just like the words that have used in years past (Still, Noble, Honor), “rest” has served as a healthy reminder for me more than a few times–particularly lately. And not just rest, like, not working or moving. But rest, like, stop thinking so much. Or, more specifically, stop doing things that entice me to think too much.

Not unlike 99% of its users, Facebook causes me to think too much. And not typically in a good way. There’s the “connection” component that is largely the reason anyone would say they use it. To stay in touch with people they love. There’s also the information element. There have been some truly life-impacting articles and wisdom posted by friends via Facebook that I likely wouldn’t have found any other way. Nothing wrong with connection and wisdom; but out of each, say, 60 minutes I spend on Facebook, my educated guess is, about 10 minutes of that hour goes to personal growth through fruitful interaction or knowledge.

The other 50 minutes? Comparisons between what that person is doing with his/her life and what I’m doing with mine (and how their highlight reel beats mine). Frustration over someone else’s narcissism/neediness for approval & attention. Looking at someone’s beach spring break pictures longer and more concertedly than I should. Following a heated exchange by two people over something I care about enough to follow along, but not enough to insert an opinion. Reading half of what people are dealing with before spacing out to the next picture of someone’s trip to Destin.

Those 50 minutes aren’t resting. They’re stirring cravings that I can and should be doing without. Pride. Lust. Lust. Pride. Both of those things only take. And they’ll take as much as they can get from me, and leave nothing of value in return but resentment, guilt, discontentment, wasted time, temptation, for starters.

So, yesterday, I shut down my Facebook page. Maybe for only a short while, but we’ll see. I’ve done it before for months…even years…at a time, and it really didn’t bother me too much. I don’t suspect it will bother me much this time, either.

The other variety of “rest” I’ve encountered and tried to abide by is what pertains to the quote at the top of this post. My life has me surrounded by high-achieving, mostly-creative, mega-ambitious types. I see where God has called people into certain things and I admire the obedience and resulting fruit that is bore from it.

I don’t know 100% what my calling is. At least, I don’t know 100% what I’m supposed to do with my calling. That kind of uncertainty over something I take that seriously gets my mind super busy. And by “busy,” I mean, I can’t stop thinking about what I should be doing with my life. Not that I know what that is, particularly, of course. Just that, I NEED TO BE DOING…SOMETHING. Someone, if God isn’t going to make this clear to me, then you, please tell me what I need to do. Help the poor? Help the prisoners? Help the youth?  Help struggling marriages? Help people before they get married so they don’t end up unmarried?

Striving. Striving…

Striving.

For God’s glory? Yeah, that’d be a convenient by-product if it ended up that way. But largely, it’s for my own satisfaction of finding some significance. Purpose. And that search for that self-satisfaction is exhausting. Has been for a very long time.

I’m not passed all of this, by any stretch. But I do understand that in all of these pursuits toward purpose, fruitfulness and ultimate peace and satisfaction in life’s journey, there is a proper balance of continuing to ask, seek and knock (Matthew 7:7) for direction in purpose, while resting in surrendered prayer until God calls me into assignment. In that calling, I have to believe I won’t experience striving, but there will be motivation and passion toward the task. Because he’s giving me the strength to move toward its completion.

 

 

 

Before I rolled got out of bed this lazy Saturday morning, I grabbed my Bible off the nightstand and randomly(?) opened to the story of Saul and his demotion as king over Israel.

In short, a group called the Amalekites had plundered from and killed tons of Israelite men, women and children who were leaving Egypt. God hadn’t forgotten that, and he wanted King Saul to punish the Amalekites by completely wiping them out. “Do not spare them,” God told Saul. “Put to death men and women, children and infants, cattle, sheep, camels and donkeys.” (I Sam. 15:3)

So Saul took 210,000 soldiers and did what God asked. Almost. Saul–who I have to think was pressured by his army to do so–spared the Amalekite king Agag and the best of the city’s livestock. They did destroy everything else, though…

…but I suppose if you have to say you “almost” did what you were told, you didn’t really do what you were told. When I ask my kids to clean their room, I expect their bed to be made, toys and clothes to be put away, the floor to be cleared, bookshelves to be orderly and any trash to be disposed. If they executed most of the tasks, but still have dirty socks laying around that need to be put in the clothes hamper, they obviously did not fulfill the task as I had asked of them.

Saul didn’t do what he was asked and Samuel called him out on it. Scripture says that when God told Samuel about what Saul did–or didn’t do–he “was angry, and he cried out to the Lord all that night.” Side note: It seems hard to relate to Samuel here. Saul didn’t do what God asked him to do and God was upset. I put myself in Samuel’s position and I assume I’d feel some sadness for both; but ultimately, I don’t know that I’d lose sleep over it. And I certainly don’t know how angry I’d be. It’d just be something God and Saul would have to work out. Guess it’s hard to say exactly what I’d feel without being there. Regardless, Samuel must have really loved Saul. And loved God even more to take on so much emotional burden from this situation. Maybe Samuel hated the idea of having to kill King Agag himself (which he did).

Back to Saul. Samuel makes his way over to Saul, who’s partying over his recent victory, which includes a monument he built in honor of himself. I wonder what’s going through Samuel’s mind to see this king dancing around when he knows what’s about to go down. He pulls Saul away from his self-celebrating and says:

“Although you were once small in your own eyes, did you not become the head of the tribes of Israel? The Lord anointed you king over Israel. And he sent you on a mission, saying, ‘Go, and completely destroy those wicked people…make war on them until you have wiped them out.’ Why did you pounce on the plunder and do evil in the eyes of the Lord?” (v. 18, 19)

Saul doesn’t seem to get it.

“But I did obey the Lord,” Saul said. “I went on the mission the Lord assigned me. I completely destroyed the Amalekites and brought back their king. The soldiers took sheep and cattle from the plunder, the best of what was devoted to God, in order to sacrifice them to the Lord…” (v. 20, 21)

We’ll never know what Saul’s true intention was for taking the sheep and cattle. At least initially. As a sinful human, I can only put myself in that situation and think about what I might say when I know I’ve been busted doing something I wasn’t supposed to do. Manipulating the story to make myself look better than I really am. Telling God (and/or his prophet) that I did the wrong thing for him sounds better in my twisted thinking than doing the wrong thing for myself.

The bigger point is, that Saul doesn’t grasp the weight of his disobedience. Here’s how we can really tell:

Samuel calls him out. Tells him that an obedient decision toward the Lord of the universe is better than a sacrificial one. And disobedience is rebellion, which God, in his infinite might and purity, just isn’t OK with. So Samuel lets Saul know (based on how Samuel acted earlier–I’m sure this wasn’t easy for him) that he’s being stripped of his kingly duties.

Now Saul seems to get it. Kind of. “I have sinned,” Saul says. “I violated the Lord’s command and your instructions.” Confess and be healed, right? Had Saul really been sorry, I have to think he’d have stopped there. But he doesn’t. Saul goes on to explain himself.

“I was afraid of the men and so I gave in to them.” I mean, what Saul says here is surely true. But remember how Samuel responded when God told him that Saul didn’t carry out the instructions? Samuel didn’t even know exactly how Saul failed to obey–he just knew that the king failed to obey. And that was enough to spend the entire night praying through tears. Saul is called on the carpet and impulsively looks to explain himself.

Sometimes, I just so happen to be in the right spot to witness one of my children lash out at the other–maybe shove or throw something at their sibling out of anger. What typically happens is, I’ll check the offender on it and the offending party will admit to what was done (knowing I saw it anyway) and proceed to tell me what was done to them that sparked the offense on record in the first place. I want to hear them out, but I also eventually have to stop them in their, “I’m sorry, but…” because: a) I already know what they’re going to say; and b) it’s not going to shirk their responsibility for actually hitting/shoving their sib, like they’re hoping/expecting it will.

The umbrella issue at hand here is that, just like Saul, my kids aren’t getting it, here. They’re not really sorry. They’re sorry they got caught, and way more concerned about self-preservation than acknowledging and taking ownership of the weight of their offense. My job, like Samuel’s, is to address that there are always going to be bigger, harsher and potentially devastating consequences for any of us when we don’t approach our wrongful actions with true repentance.

Saul didn’t follow the Lord’s very clear orders due to arrogance. And he layered more arrogance on top of his previous act of disobedience by making excuses for it. He wasn’t able to–or chose not to–see the weight of his sin (which, when we put any of our sins up next to God’s absolute purity and holiness, they’re all weighty), and for that, he was proven inadequate for such a massively honorable position as king over God’s chosen people. Not only that, but God took his Spirit away from him. Which is exponentially scarier than losing a job. Even a very important job.

I John 1:9 says, “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness. If we claim we have not sinned, we make him out to be a liar and his word has no place in our lives.”

I’m often not unlike Saul. And raising kids has taught me how regularly I also am tempted to be flippant about my disobedience and/or make justifications for my surfaced sin. How badly I want to have a heart like Samuel’s that not only aches over the sins of others, but aches for my own sins because I just love the Father that much. And how much do I cling to the finished work of Jesus. If not for that act of sacrifice, my fate would be eternal loss and death as well.

Father, continue to soften my heart to all that I do that is against your heart. Teach me to live surrendered, knowing I cannot go five seconds without the grace that comes through the blood of Christ. Humble me to my need for repentance and to anxiously offer it to you rather than waste even a moment in “yeah, but…” self-justification, which keeps me from righteousness and from receiving the gift of your forgiveness. Thank you for your mercy.

 

“So come on, let’s leave the preschool finger-painting exercises on Christ and get on with the grand work of art. Grow up in Christ. The basic foundational truths are in place: turning your back on ‘salvation by self-help’ and turning in trust toward God; baptismal instructions; laying on of hands; resurrection of the dead; eternal judgment. God helping us, we’ll stay true to all that. But there’s so much more. Let’s get on with it!

Once people have seen the light, gotten a taste of heaven and been part of the work of the Holy Spirit, once they’ve personally experienced the sheer goodness of God’s Word and the powers breaking in on us—if then they turn their backs on it, washing their hands of the whole thing, well, they can’t start over as if nothing happened. That’s impossible. Why, they’ve re-crucified Jesus! They’ve repudiated him in public! Parched ground that soaks up the rain and then produces an abundance of carrots and corn for its gardener gets God’s ‘Well done!’ But if it produces weeds and thistles, it’s more likely to get cussed out. Fields like that are burned, not harvested.

I’m sure that won’t happen to you, friends. I have better things in mind for you—salvation things!” – Hebrews 6 (The Message)

This isn’t easy to admit, but there is one side of my character that is remarkably thick-skinned and another side that is intensely thin-skinned. To a degree, both sides are the opposites of what I wish they were.

I’ve sat across the table as friends admitted to cheating on/had been cheated on by their wives or broke the news that they lost their job. I’ve sat on the other side of the plexi-glass in a prison and talked on the phone to a friend who’s serving a 30-some year sentence for a horrible crime. I’ve watched family members die slowly and walked with friends who did the same with their spouses and children. Sad? Of course. Painful to watch? Absolutely.

But even at the epicenter of a confidant’s uber-emotional confiding–and though I’m honored and usually humbled that they’d share such sacred news with me–I’m not a wreck. My heart doesn’t always crumble, and I can count on a single hand how many times I’ve ever cried over someone’s hurt.

At times I’ve joked about it with close friends, quoting Arrested Development‘s self-obsessed character (but who on the show wasn’t?) Gob Bluth: “The tears…the tears just aren’t coming.” But in truth, it really bothers me that I don’t…or can’t…get more emotionally stirred when trials strike someone else.

Conversely? If you want to get my heart pounding, tell me “Matt, we need to talk.” If you want to boil my blood, point out a failure of mine as a parent–especially if it’s in comparison to another parent’s achievement. Correct me in public. Short-change my children. Reject me in the myriad ways one person could reject another, which, anyone in the social media age can attest, there are many opportunities for rejection.

Certainly, as I grow in the truth of Christ and how I identify myself with the Lord’s supreme validation, I’m shades better by the year. But for most of my adult life, I’ve been pretty weak when it’s come to criticism.

At first analysis, as someone who doesn’t cry over others and spurts blood over the slightest scratch of critique targeted at me, it would seem that I’m just as self-obsessed and narcissistic as the aforementioned Bluth family in AR. Of course, that’s an ugly thing to own up to.

If it’s true.

I’ve voiced all of these concerns about my emotional “numbness” toward others to a close, wise friend. Her response? Maybe God didn’t make you a crier. Maybe he didn’t make you particularly sensitive in that way–so you’d be able to talk with people who have done hurtful things or experienced massive amounts of pain, and remain calm and objective for and/or toward them. Maybe staying emotionally neutral is actually a result of being spiritually rooted in truth.”

If THAT’s true, I’m grateful for that cover over my heart, like a latex glove, that allows me to feel, but also leaves space for perspective and some healthy guardedness.

The writer of Hebrews gets pretty tough in Chapter 6 and, as the receiver of this exhortation, I find myself admittedly thin-skinned as a result. At least initially. Not offended, necessarily, but certainly a bit wounded and afraid. I don’t want to get cussed out. I don’t want to my “field” to be burned because it only produced gnarly things.

But then, as I think about this, as much as I’m thin-skinned and sometimes held hostage by my own sensitivities in areas, I’m also willingly vulnerable and decidedly teachable. There’s a big difference between oversensitivity and vulnerability.

I appreciate the writer’s tenderness even in his tough love: he refers to his audience as “beloved,” which means simply “loved ones — you whom I love.” It’s the only time he uses this word in Hebrews–consequently, while sharing the hardest words in the book. He realizes that what he has to say isn’t going to be received easily. And in fact, it’s likely some–or a lot–of his audience is going to take it the wrong way and feel judged, that he’s just pointing out their imperfections from behind a proverbial pulpit.

It’s hard to see it this way, but when we hold back from sharing honest truth from people we love (or anyone, for that matter), we’ve made that relationship an idol. We’ve put that person’s feelings about/toward us up higher than God’s calling and our obedience in living it out. It’s risky, because feelings could get hurt and anyone particularly immature may abandon the relationship altogether. But it’s immature of us to not take that risk out of fear. There is no fear in love, right?

As receivers of hard truths and criticism, I certainly need to be reminded constantly that I have an advocate in heaven that is infinitely more powerful and refreshingly more compelling than any accuser on earth. Knowing and living by this truth creates such freedom — more freedom than anything the world could promise — to listen to criticism, take it into consideration, and not be wounded, full of self-pity, or resentful.

Thank you, Father, for using this passage to help us learn to love and be loved when heaven and hell are at stake and hard questions need to be asked. Thank you for not only your reassurance in the face of criticism, that we have a massive foundation of salvation because of your Son’s death and resurrection, but also for the people who come into our lives to love us well through truth that is sometimes hard to receive, but ultimately loving and redemptive.

Please soften my heart so that I can be sensitive to the hurts and needs of others, and fill me with boldness and confidence so that I can receive criticism and in any circumstance, rest in my assurance of your loving power and protection.

“During the days of Jesus’ life on earth, he offered up prayers and petitions with loud cries and tears to the one who could save him from death, and he was heard because of his reverent submission. Although he was a son, he learned obedience from what he suffered and, once made perfect, he became the source of eternal salvation for all who obey him…” – Hebrews 5:7-8

Like any human being, I’ve lived a life with many things not going my way. From heavy matters like a broken marriage and lost jobs, to much-less-burdensome situations like a sports event rainout or accidentally shrinking my favorite shirt in the dryer. Like anyone else breathing, I’ve had to deal with an assortment of disappointments and failed expectations. In the grand scheme, very few of these letdowns involve much consequence, but most of them — particularly the ones in my adulthood — have been opportunities for my heart to grow…and surrender.

One of the most remarkable revelations I’ve had about Jesus recently is his interaction with Abba in the Garden of Gethsemane, when he realized and accepted the time had come for him to make the world’s greatest sacrifice through bearing the weight of the greatest suffering. He knew he had to experience hell–like, the earthly version of it as well as the actual location–in order to save God’s people from experiencing it.

And he didn’t want to. Of course he didn’t! But, why is this just recently hitting me, after all of these years of hearing this story, that this was something Christ was actually scared and anxious about? Dreading? I think, because it finally hit me that Christ wasn’t a robot. That he wasn’t sent to earth as an invincible superhuman who felt nothing and feared nothing. Contrary to my assumptions most of my life, Jesus wasn’t detached from reality just because he was holy and righteous and the Son of Man. He felt like we do. And he wanted to take a ‘pass’ on the cup God has placed before him. And no doubt, like any father would, it hurt God so much to see him pleading like that. But they both knew the death had to happen in order for there to be resurrection and life to follow.

As God’s son, he was obedient. Because he knew God and trusted him. Christ knew the plan was the best–the only–if there’d be any victory over death. Christ wouldn’t have done any of this if there wasn’t a deep relationship built. There couldn’t have been a deep relationship if Christ didn’t know the Father.

In general, you can’t have a relationship with someone you don’t know.

Almost condescendingly obvious as I read that line again. Even still, it bumps my heart rate and gently convicts me.

I would certainly say I have a relationship with God. I know him through what I’ve read in scripture. Through what I’ve heard in sermons pertaining to scripture. This is God of the universe. The God who moves mountains and could drain the oceans. Who holds galaxies on His index finger. Who’s mighty enough to torch the whole planet, yet finds delight enough in me to rejoice over his child with singing and dancing. Who made sacrifices that I didn’t deserve in order to save me from the hell I certainly DO deserve.

Honestly? Quite often…QUITE…often, I take all of that very casually. Mostly, I’m convinced, because I still don’t have the relationship with Him that would move my heart to absorb these truths about his might and mercy. So, that is my most consistent prayer: That I would WANT to want to know You more, Father. That my greatest desire would be to be connected with you in a relationship that’s far more real and deep than anything else. Sports, music, a romantic relationship…companionship, validation through other community, physical attractiveness…all great things — would pale in comparison to the satisfaction and peace that comes with the intimacy and familiarity and acceptance we could share together.

Christ pursued that because he was hungry for it. Hungrier for it than anything else that could have distracted him along the way. Which is why he obeyed through unspeakable suffering and held fast to hope. Because he was SO deeply rooted. Like a hundred year-old oak tree. Not mentally swaying all directions like a cattail in the breeze.

Because of Christ’s rootedness, he was made perfect and “became to all those who obey Him, the source of eternal salvation.” (Heb. 5:9)

I hope I’m wrong, but there’s something in my gut that says someday, I’ll have my own decision to make on whether or not I’ll fully trust and obey God in the face of intense fear and suffering. And it pains me to think that I’d value my own life more than sacrificing it for the one who loves me most. Which is why this is the time for my relationship to grow deeper. To grow real-er. Like what Christ had with the Father–who’s also my Father.

And in comparison, even if the “suffering via obedience” took my life, what a much easier decision it is to make, knowing that eternity in Heaven is the next destination. Because of Christ’s relationship with his Father that enabled him to suffer much so that I’ll never have to.

 

 

“The promise of ‘arrival’ and ‘rest’ is still there for God’s people. God himself is at rest. And at the end of the journey, we’ll surely rest with God. So let’s keep at it and eventually arrive at the place of rest, not drop out through some sort of disobedience.” – Hebrews 4:9-11 (MSG)

“God wants you to depend on him from moment to moment. The darkness and uncertainty of your life’s path must bring you to rest peacefully in Him. To trust Him even when you do not see where He is taking you is a true death. It’s a silent death that happens without fanfare.” – Fenelon “The Seeking Heart”

In my teen years, my family lived about four miles outside of town on this road that was actually called a “trail.” Like most trails, this road winded and meandered throughout the countryside, circumventing ponds, very old trees, and cornfields. Some of the turns were pretty aggressive. One nearly 90-degree turn in particular was deemed “Dead Man’s Curve” by…someone. Maybe a pioneer who took his wagon over the edge into the creek below after he turned around to yell at his kids in the back seat and didn’t see it coming.

Of all the roads to learn to operate a vehicle, turns out that this thoroughfare would be mine. Like most 15 year-old boys, I completed four (4) weeks of driver’s education over the summer. Thus, with a driver’s permit I knew exactly what to do behind the wheel and was henceforth unteachable to my parents, who’d take it from there ’til I was old enough to drive solo.

With dad in the passenger seat of our 1988 Ford Aerostar one late-summer day, I crept out of our driveway and turned right onto the empty road to do a practice drive into town. Hands at 10 and 2 in the family minivan, I remember thinking “45’s a good speed. Why would anyone ever need to drive faster than 45?” Which seems like great discernment for a teenage boy driver–until he’s two miles down the road and about 50 yards from “Dead Man’s Curve”–and still driving 45 mph.

Granted, I think Dad gave me too much credit on the front-end and assumed I’d know what to do right before entering into a corner-angle turn (the answer would be: “gently apply the brakes”). “You’re going to need to slow down here,” Dad asserted, sitting up and reaching for anything attached to the car. “Brake. ….BRAKE…”

I braked, but by this point, we’d already entered into Curve-land and, even going 30 mph, it was way too fast for this turn. In a top-heavy six-seater. Surely, the two left-side wheels lifted off the ground as I maneuvered the vehicle around the blind corner–even getting into the other lane–to land this thing on the other side.

But that’s not all.

Dad, in his shock, managed to direct me to pull the car over. So I did. But not in the traditional right-side-of-the-road way. Immediately after clearing the right-hand turn, I swiftly swung the ENTIRE minivan across the lane, over onto a perpendicular road on the LEFT side. Missing an oncoming vehicle by all of maybe three seconds.

“Pull the car over,” my Dad gasped. “Pull. The car. Over.” He didn’t look at me. He just put his hand over his heart. Properly hyperventilated (which, in hindsight, his dramatics here–though warranted–were actually pretty funny). Took an inventory of all his faculties. In a five-second event, his driver’s permit-carrying son almost killed them both, like, three different ways.

He drove home.

Before my dad allowed me to chauffeur him into town, I never feared the country road on which we lived. “Dead Man’s Curve” was a clever nickname for a sharp turn, but I wasn’t scared of it. I’d ridden on this road and all it’s angles hundreds of times. But until that day as a 15 year-old driver, I’d never experienced the dangers of that road, either.

After nearly turning my family’s minivan on its side, I took that turn way slower the 500 times I drove it afterward. It turns out, the curve never injured or killed me.  The fear kept me driving responsibly. And when I drove responsibly, I didn’t feel fear that I was going to tip my car over at all. Which is why I still enjoy driving. Which is why I can emotionally be at rest when I’m driving…responsibly.

And I think there’s a pretty decent tie-in between that moment and what the author of Hebrews writes about in Chapter 4. “Now we who believed enter that rest (v. 3).” It’s daily trusting in God’s provision and promises over us–but it’s not an automatic trust. It’s the result of daily diligence (continuing to drive, because I need to get things done) and the result of proper fear (continuing to drive responsibly, because I need to stay alive and keep others alive).

Unbelief will keep me from resting in God promises. And not entering that rest is going to have consequences. And that consequence will be borne out of my own folly and disobedience. My resolve is, the one (and only) thing to fear, then, is faithlessness. To fear unbelief, which will keep us from our promised rest.

Christ died to deliver us from slavish fear. He wants a fearless people. And fear only rises as faith starts to weaken. And it only rises long enough to get us back into what John Piper calls “the peaceful fearlessness of faith.” Ultimate rest. As long as we’re trusting His promises, we can be utterly fearless in the face of anything. Even death. Even God:

“Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.” – Hebrews 4:16

 

“We have come to share in Christ if we hold firmly till the end the confidence we had at first.” Hebrews 3:14

I remember as a kid, listening to the story of the Israelites wandering around the wilderness for 40 years, searching for the The Promised Land–a place only something like eight days away. I remember thinking how goofy and whiny and ignorant they were spend so much time and emotion attempting to get to a place that was so much closer than they realized.

The people of Israel led by Moses complained because things weren’t going the way they had expected. So they had a much easier time believing that the slave life they came out of was more palatable than the life of freedom and abundance that God had committed to them. The work to get there was laborious and what was promised to them wasn’t real enough. Not as real as the food, comfort and provisions that were provided to them…as slaves…without freedom. Provided to them (and certainly on occasion taken away) on someone else’s terms.

So, many of them–in their bitter uprising and refusal to let God do things His way in the process, never got there. Because they never believed (3:19)

“What stubborn and simpleminded boneheads,” my adolescent (and surely older) self thought. My present self, though? I look at what these Israelites went through. Then I look at my own story. And then I get very…sometimes VERY…anxious. Because I’ve been that Israelite. I’ve passed up rest and beauty for shackles and extra work and pain and time.

There’s one particular “Promised Land” in my life that I LONG to long for. Notice, I didn’t say I…long for. Because if I really desired it so much, it wouldn’t be such a battle for me to stay on the course to get there. I want to want it. No, this particular “land” was never exactly promised to me, but I do believe it’s a territory I could one day arrive to. I do believe it’s a place God desires incredibly for me to be. And certainly, whether I ever get to the tangible part of that land or not, there’s the intangible heart place of rest and peace and…softness…that I also long to long for that comes with holding fast to my confidence and hope in the living God.

At various levels of urgency, I’ve pursued this rest for many years. I’ve never stopped trusting the heart of God, but there have been countless instances where my unbelief has kept me from rest. Has my heart experienced seasons of less pliability through this? Surely. Has it ever been hardened? In His great mercy, I can say it hasn’t. At the truest gut-level that I’m able to contain, I don’t know that I’ve ever felt contempt toward God like the Israelites did. Contempt for myself? Daily. But I’ve never believed that God was holding out on me or treating me unfairly.

Dr. Jim Richards says “the deceitfulness of sin is hardness of hearts. A hard heart is incapable of hearing the voice of God because it’s become calloused and insensitive to him. A hard heart ultimately leads us into unbelief which prevents us from entering into His rest. Rest is the place where we have ceased from our own labors/strength and experience God’s grace (His ability). We don’t stop laboring, we just stop laboring in our own strength.”

And that, to me, is the essence of the rest Hebrews 3 reminds me that whole generation of Israelites never experienced. The rest that is so soft and sensitive to the Spirit’s voice that it hears the slightest sound, like a sleeping mother who hears her baby’s whimper 20 feet down the hall. The rest that makes me so secure because the connection is so evident–I can feel it. I can hear it. The rest that doesn’t have to strive for earning righteousness because I know it’s already there, and the strength that keeps me there is working. Because I trust God so much. And I trust Him so much because I know Him. And as long as I’ve known Him, He has always proven Himself faithful. Even in my sadness, loneliness, fear and hurt.

Please do it your way, Father. Without your promises, I have no assurance. Without your assurance, I have no reason to persevere. Without perseverance, I have no hope. Without hope, I have no rest.

 

As I floundered through the searing pain of a broken marriage–one spurred on largely due to personal failures of my own–I initially needed to share my pain. At least, at the time, I thought I did. The trauma of losing so much (family, job, reputation)–and gaining so much self-awareness of what I had become–so quickly–was just too overwhelming for me to handle internally.

So I’d talk about what happened to others. Somewhat liberally, even. Trying to hunt people down who could maybe help me by relating to what I’d just gone through. I didn’t want to be alone in my suffering. I didn’t want to be alone, period.

Refreshingly, there were several people who came alongside me on that particular stretch of the journey who could relate to my situation at least somehow: their marriage fell apart, or nearly did; they made horrible decisions that hurt other people, namely their spouse; they wrecked their life for a season. There were also many people who listened, but simply couldn’t relate to what I was enduring. They’d sit in the mud puddle with me for awhile, but because their own experience was so different, they didn’t stick around long. And, really, that was OK. Because in the midst of turmoil, any comfort is acceptable; but if the comforter just doesn’t (or can’t) relate–or even worse, thinks they can because of the time he got in a fight with his wife once for checking out another woman at the mall–it’s rarely helpful. They certainly may have suffered like I suffered, but their level of suffering didn’t connect for me. Not then, anyway.

So, as I read through Hebrews 2 this past week, the (re)affirmation that Jesus Christ walked the earth as a human being with flesh and bones.

Hebrews 2:14 says, “Since the children have flesh and blood, he too shared in their humanity so that by his death he might destroy him who holds the power of death–that is, the devil–and free those who all their lives were held in slavery by their fear of death.

He was a human. God could have given Jesus all of the physical traits of myself or any other person, but made him entirely mechanical in his emotional state. Unaffected by others or by the elements. He could have not felt and been completely unmoved by the pressures and temptations of life. He could have been a numbed-out robot who was preprogrammed to be perfect, but completely inhuman.

But he was very human. The best example of this that I can think of is how he cried out to Abba in the Garden of Gethsemane the evening before His crucifixion. Jesus knew what heavy amounts of torture and abandonment was ahead. Had God preprogrammed him not to feel, he could have gone through the entire process up to Golgotha without a wince or ounce of sadness, fear, loneliness or even shame as he hung naked on a cross in front of his peers.

Even though Jesus knew exactly why He was brought to earth and was always zeroed in on what he needed to accomplish during his time upon it, as a human, he MUST have had a moment of temptation to get himself out of that situation in the Garden. He did have God’s power within him, after all. Surely he could have done what he did in the angry crowd earlier that year, and made himself “disappear.”

Then there’s the time satan temped Him at the end of his 40 day fast at the beginning of his ministry…

“For this reason he had to be like his brothers in every way, in order that he might become a merciful and faithful high priest in service to God, and that he might make atonement for the sins of the people. Because he himself suffered when he was tempted, he is able to help those who are being tempted.” – Hebrews 2:17-18

The thing about Jesus is, in order to love him and to truly love what He did for us out of his own love, there has to be a connection. I have to know that he gets me. Not from a distance. Not a “I see you down there messing up, Matt. That must be rough. I wouldn’t know, because I’ve never felt anything like you feel. Good thing I was perfect and never had to deal with hard things myself.”

I still feel disconnected from the idea of Jesus at times, but as I read through this scripture, I become more and more connected with the humanity of Jesus. Because he suffered like I do. And he could only do it by becoming like me. What a testimony of the greatest love. What a gift that Jesus is able to relate to me and convince me of his goodness–all while saving me from death.