Spoken Word Series: 1 John 1

I have been trying to memorize the book of 1 John for far too long, like 2 years too long. I've switched from version to version, trying to find one that would stick.

It just wasn't happening, and I was getting discouraged.

But then I remembered that Scripture isn't static words on a page. It lives and breathes and cuts to bone and marrow. So, I have taken the living words and sought to make them live in me.

Below is the first of 1 John's five chapters, converted into spoken word, poetry of the soul that revives my soul. It is meant to be spoken, out loud. Read it aloud and breathe in life. Installments 2-5 will be coming along shortly.

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From John the Apostle to believers in Jesus Christ:

1-4: From the beginning I have seen and I have heard, I touched Him and I learned how the Word of Life was revealed. And so I proclaim this eternal Life to you, to invite you into fellowship with the true and living God through His Son Jesus Christ. And all that I say is so that our joy might grow and overflow as we all come to know Him more.

5-10: God is light.

He doesn’t have light, and doesn’t just give light or create light – He is light! In God there is no night, no none at all! Not one drop of darkness can invade His radiant space.

And if we say that we have fellowship with Him and walk in the dark, then lies have invaded our hearts. But if we walk in the Light, we’re really walking in Him and we find ourselves right with God through the blood of His Son.

And if we say that no dark has invaded our hearts, our words just unlocked the door to the darkness. But if we let our words drop to their knees and confess with pleas then Light will enter with beams of faithful righteousness to cleanse and free us.

Breme's Bells

Not writing here doesn't mean I'm not writing. In fact, it may mean I'm being a more honest writer, because I write where no one can see but my Lord. Living honest before the world without appearing melodramatic, overly spiritual, or [insert negative, yet unintended trait here] is difficult, if not impossible. I cannot control others' opinions and perceptions of me. Perhaps that's an even greater reason to be honest. Those who need to hear will hear, and those who will criticize will not be convinced to change.

Well, rabbit trail aside....

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It's quiet on the levy as the sun rises above the paper trees, planted straight and unwavering. Bright yellow sun mixes with the deep green of the rice fields. My eyes can't drink in for too long before returning to the gravel path rife with round, wet obstacles. All I hear are my feet dropping lightly one after the other as I run to the next stand of trees, the Breme bell tower rising above it like a single candle on a forested cake. I can't even hear the half past seven bells out this far.

I keep running.

I needed this morning to myself, for my soul to be still even if my feet were not, to pray thanks for grace bringing me to Italy; to pray for grace to keep me here.

Europe. The place I had always wanted to go, and the one place I thought I never would. Because more broken places needed the sold-out more. Because over four and a half years fibromyalgia had stolen my body from me and with it my ability to dance and so what gifts did I have that could be used in Europe anymore?

And yet, somehow, the persecutor who stole my gift to Europe was exactly what landed me here. Here, running on this levy between Italian rice fields outside of a broken Italian village, bells still ringing the ritual of a dead faith.

Driving through the countryside to get here seemed strangely familiar. Somehow these rice fields mirroring the sky also mirrored the fields of Cambodia and the red roads of Africa. Somehow the quaint villages brought rushing memories of Solwezi, and ramshackle suburbs of Siem Reap. In Cambodia villages build shrines to Buddha to keep away the spirits of evil, but here the church bells chime every half hour in vain trying to keep the world on God's time.

Handfuls of believers meet here and there in Europe singing praise and reading Scripture above the din of ringing bells and chanted prayers. Muslim immigrants flood the continent, but the church is small for such a task and weak for such a challenge. Every village has an annual celebration of its patron saint, but those same saints fail to comfort the mourning, heal the sick, and bring prosperity to the village. And the youngest generation doesn't even believe in "that stuff" anymore.

So what gift did I bring for Europe on this first visit here? Christ, and His presence in me.

I'll bring it again and again if He lets me. I'll bring it and plant it here, plant myself here and my family here, our love for one another new bells ringing the life rhythm of true faith.

If He lets me.

I pray for it as I run, the sun rising higher. As I approach the stand of paper trees and run through to the other side I lose sight of the bell tower, not quite eight o'clock yet. Let me be the bell tower they see, Lord, and Your Word the regular beauty they hear.

Let me.

Eyes to See Grace

When my heart beats faster, I don't think straight.

All my hopes and dreams and fears and disappointments get all tangled up inside of me. When my serotonin transmitters get stuck in the stress of one overwhelming minute, everything gets backed up into a jumbled mess.

It takes time and prayer to get things flowing smoothly again.

So I read another's words and breathe them deep.

"Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him
        for the help of His presence."

Yes, yes. He is close and the Spirit breathes a wind that blows all the dust right away.

"When you can't touch bottom, you touch the depths of God," a wise woman says. A woman who has seen years and known loss and sleepless nights and exhausted days, but a woman who has also known hope and beauty and grace.

Grace. The only thing - the only One, who will strengthen me today or any day.

So, when I can't even hope to sort out the sorrow and the excitement, the fear and the anticipation in my heart and mind, I set my eyes to look for one thing in the fray - Grace.

And He's always there. Like the fourth man, like the Son of God who walked with three mortals in a seven times hot furnace. He walks with me in mine, in all my panicked incinerating mess. And He cools it with the warmth of grace.

Turning everything back to order again.

Here Is My Passion

"You were so passionate for the Lord when you were a freshman. I just don't want you to lose that passion." 

They say it like they know me.

They say it like they hold the monopoly on the definition for passion, for being "on fire." But why does passion have to equal Pentecostal? 

I love my Pentecostal friends, but they need to know this: passion comes in many packages and personality types. 

Yes, I used to be more "outgoing." Yes, I used to be more "active." Yes, I used to be more "vocal." Yes, I used to be more "excitable." Yes, I used to be more of many things, but I would argue that I am no less passionate than I used to be.

My passion just looks different from theirs. Why?

I've grown, and I've grown up. I've changed. I'm not 16 anymore. I've seen more of the world, more of suffering's reality, and yet my vision of God in His sovereignty is also greater.

I have experienced suffering in my own life, suffering that has slowed me down, but not quenched my flame. The suffering has taught me rest, made me quiet, but quiet is not bad. I can meet more people in their suffering with greater empathy than I ever thought possible. I can tell them about my saving, comforting Jesus and it really mean something, because He's had to save and comfort me. I know that "Just have faith," and Romans 8:28 are the last things people in pain need to hear, and instead my tears are standing ready to mingle with theirs.

I haven't lost passion because I need more sleep than I used to. I haven't lost passion because I spend less time doing ministry and more time in a doctor's office. I haven't lost passion because I have to say no to good things far more often than a 20 year old should have to. I haven't lost passion because I see grace in even my affliction and the opportunity to know Christ better. I haven't lost passion because I leave it up to others to pray for my healing in faith, while I in faith ask for grace to accept the cup I have been given, believing it to be God's sovereign will. I haven't lost passion because I am willing to bend to God's working, rather than insisting on my wicked heart's dreams and aspirations. I haven't lost passion because I see God's hand in even this and am fighting for joy in it. 

I won't change to be what others want, because He is clearly changing me to be the woman after His own heart that He desires. He is turning me from Martha to Mary by whatever means necessary. I want to learn what He has to teach me, not question the lesson because others may. 

My passion for Christ and His name is intact, it just looks different from most others at my small, enthusiastic Bible college, and that's alright. We all have a place to serve in the Kingdom, my mission will be unique.

Until the Resurrection...

Finally, Passion week. The week that brings into focus all of our suffering. As Ann Voskamp likes to say, in remembering His passion we are re-membered in the midst of ours. Being joined with Him in His death, we are miraculously made whole again. 

His dismembering, bones taken out of joint, hands and feet impaled, side pierced, flesh torn, Sonship severed, is our re-membering.

But somehow, we don't like to dwell here, in this, our very life. For Lent I read through the gospels, stopping after Jesus was dismembered, after He has breathed His last and was laid in the tomb. But every time I so desperately wanted to read further, to read resurrection, He is risen, and to know that everything would be alright. 

What I'm realizing now, though, is that it isn't just resurrection that makes everything "alright." Resurrection requires death to precede it, and so in death, as much as in resurrection, is everything made right. And in a way we dwell in death, between the last breath and the empty tomb, until that day of final resurrection.

Christ is risen, He is risen, indeed!