Do You Ever Act Like Adam?

Did you ever act like Adam? Find yourself hiding like great-grandma Eve? Probably not. Maybe I’m the only one.

Recently, I felt like something for five minutes. You know, I felt my potential. Glimpsed my worth.

Then, I read another woman’s blog and it was brilliant. God’s going to use her, not me. That was my thought – or the arrow, anyway, that struck it’s mark. Everything I am, she’s more. Plus, she has more followers. I can just tell. And then, I viewed her About Me page and, of course, she’s thin, so I believe God likes her more.

And I almost shared her post but instead, I crawled into some backroom of my soul and didn’t click. In refusing to make her bigger, I made myself smaller and not in the good way that John the Baptist said “I must become lesser so He becomes greater” but in the bad way that emerged when the disciples fought about who was greater.

Five minutes off a mountain top and I’m worried that the infinite God has a limited stash of grace and this stranger has been granted my portion. What’s wrong with me? Seriously, after a lifetime of following Jesus, What. Is. Wrong. With. Me?

The simple answer would appear to be insecurity but I’m not that insecure. I also have an enemy who whispers lies into my ears as I descend the mountain, makes my hands itch for golden calves and house idols as if they’ve ever been a part of my personal history. But that’s not the whole she-bang.

There’s also my greed. Yes, I want to serve God. Yes, I’m grateful for every life my words touch. Grateful, humbled, and in awe of God’s power. I’m also a glory thief. There, I said it. Sometimes I stand close to God, not for God, but so that some of His light will fall on me, make me visible, heal old wounds of not being seen by tap-dancing in His peripheral spotlight.

Recognizing this, I unload a dump truck of self-condemnation over my own head but God reminds me He baptized me once and I’ve no need to do it again – especially not in this self-stoning way. And I wonder why not long ago I was rocking along secure in Him and now I’m limping like a soldier returning from the front.

I try to hide from God in shame for my greed, ashamed of my weight because it’s a failing, ashamed of my failure to click that woman’s blog and expand her reach for fear it would erode my own. I huddle under the shrubbery of my shame fully expecting Him to find me and issue a scolding that will lead to repentance. How did I get here? A few extra pounds. A broken left foot. Sweltering heat. Weariness. Sin nature.

He catches me off guard. He’s waiting for me in the shrubs. He’s been expecting me to hide and He says, “This isn’t what you think. I’m not angry. I orchestrated this moment. I planned to ambush you on the way down this mountain. You’re more than this. You’re more than what you know to be true on the mountaintop. You’re more than how you feel when those pounds are gone. You’re more than the numbers on your blog. More than how well you stand when your bones are whole. Find your whole self in me. I’m calling you out. I’m calling you to me. Allow me alone to define you so mountaintop or valley, you will be sure-footed in the journey.

Come to me all you who are weary – of trying so hard, of never being enough, of always wanting more, of defending against the enemy’s drone, of limping, of dragging our broken selves around, of an envy ambush descending from the heights.

So, there under that broom tree, I cuddled up to God and agreed with His plan that I should strip off every false identity and find my whole self in Him and since I’d learned the obvious lesson, I figured there was no sense in retracing my steps and sharing that other writer’s blog – you know, because others would like her stuff better than mine. Then, I looked at Him and smiled because, of course, I had to share the blog but not as some sort of punishment or retribution or stale cracker lesson but as a raised fist to the enemy, as another step into my freedom, as a commitment to a greater story, as a step out of the boat.

He wants to show us things we can only see if our eyes are completely on Him. He wants us to color with hues we haven’t even imagined. To write stories we’ve lived well first. To silence the enemy not by plugging our ears but by taking His hand in front of the firing squad and whipping off the blindfold knowing the bullets cannot silence our voices even if they leave us bleeding in the square. He wants us to seek our definition in His dictionary, to look in His wallet and see our photos, find our first attempts to step into our true selves taped to His refrigerator.

I remember cruel words thrown like stones at the forming self of my youth – “What are you, trying to be something?” So I ask Him. Is that wrong? To want to be something?

The lie, He explains, is that I’m not something already. And when He wrestles false notions of myself from my hands, it’s only to free His original design. He doesn’t love us because of what we do. He doesn’t even love us because of what we are. He loves us because of what He is. That loves sees through, that love transforms, that love reveals, that love is the kindest, truest, most pure light. In that light, I shine, I am brilliant, I fluoresce.

Perhaps, I suggest, I should climb out of the shrubbery.

He smiles and stretches out His hand to me. “Let’s go read that writer’s blog and leave a comment to encourage her, “ He suggests.

Why not? I agree as I feel my soul expand.

In what shrubbery are you hiding, loved one?

Do you ever act like Adam? https://t.co/Hw0hEWNw2z #amwriting #Christian Are you hiding from who you really are? #found #freedom

— Lori Roeleveld (@lorisroeleveld) June 1, 2016