Advent Reflections: Love

There are times when I scorn English for not having a wide enough variety of words for the many concepts bundled into the word love. Maybe it used to. Older translations of the Bible give us charity where it means “care for one’s neighbor.” Christians, especially those of a scholarly persuasion, like to refer to Greek’s multitude of words for the different concepts of love: eros for romantic love, agape for unconditional/divine love, storge for familial love, etc. Modern English, however, has just the one word with countless meanings, covering everything from intense emotional bonding to simple preference (e.g., “I love pizza,” to which I say, same).

But I’m not here to discuss the linguistic shortcomings of one word of my native language, as much as I enjoy words and the study of them. I’m here for an abstract concept that is so difficult to puzzle through: Advent is about love.

And before you think I’m about to make a hard left turn directly into Hallmark movie territory, let’s think about this.

John 3:16 tells us “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.” It’s an easy verse to skip over. It’s so well-known among churchy folks that we tend to just zone out. “Yep, I know this one, moving on.” But do we know it? Do we get it?

Do we recognize that God’s love for the world is an active choice on his part? When Adam and Eve chose Satan’s fake promises over God’s real ones, God could have said “Screw it, this was a mistake. You’re on your own.” Even when he destroys everything but Noah and the contents of the ark, he chooses not to let humanity wander off with no hope of restoration. “For God so loved” is an active decision. It is not some passive squishy feeling, some vague sense of fondness. “For God so loved” does not represent anything we did, only the active, engaged choice of a good God.

This is the first way that Advent is about love: this divine rescue mission, where the only SEAL team that will suffice is God himself, given human form in Jesus Christ. The second way is in how God so graciously allowed the very humans he was en route to rescue to participate in the story.

“Greetings, O favored one, the Lord is with you!”

The fourth Sunday in Advent focuses on the Annunciation. We know it well from Luke 1: Gabriel appears in little Nazareth and walks into Mary’s living room, and human history changes forever. I could spend all day talking about Mary’s beautiful responses, how she is the prime example of godly womanhood, and on and on. But let’s stop for a second and think about this:

God oversaw and orchestrated all of history to get the right place, the right time, and the right woman.

Everything from Adam and Eve’s failure was caused or allowed to happen so that Mary would be the one. There’s no indication in Luke that God sorted through a Rolodex of candidates. Just, boom, directly to Mary’s house, right on cue. “You have found favor with God.” Not earned favor. Not deserved favor. Found it. A gift given freely, asking her “Will you be a part of this?”

He asks us the same thing, though maybe not as impressively as an archangel showing up on our doorstep. When we get opportunities as believers to extend hospitality to the lonely and forgotten, to feed the hungry, to clothe the naked, to warm the cold, to heal the sick, these are gifts from God, opportunities to participate with him in the birth of grace in this world–opportunities he is under no obligation to give us, except that because he chooses to love us, he wants us to choose to love others.

What a thing to ask of Mary, we think. And indeed, what a thing. “This is a big deal and a big job. Will you do it? Are you willing?”

God, in his goodness and wonderful wisdom, found the ideal candidate, because he formed her from the beginning. He knew she would be the mother of Christ, yet he still stopped to ask her, “Will you do this?” And out of what must be the purest love for her creator, Mary says “Absolutely.” She doesn’t know what it will entail. She knows it’ll be scary, will probably ruin her social standing. But God is worth it.

And speaking of love, we can’t leave out Joseph. I 100% believe he loved Mary–maybe not in a squishy romance-movie kind of way, but in the selfless way Ephesians 5:25 commands of men. He was preparing to take her into his home, to protect and care for her, when this bombshell drops, but instead of doing the “right” thing and throwing her under the bus, Matthew 1:18-25 tells us he planned to be discreet so as not to hurt her too much. Yet when the angel drops by to say “Hey, it’s all good, this is God on the move,” Joseph jumps right back into protecting and caring for the baby Christ, undoubtedly tossing his entire reputation out the window in the process.

Matthew tells us Joseph was a righteous man–upstanding in his community and a faithful adherent of Levitical law. We can assume Mary would likewise be called a righteous woman. God asks these two upstanding people who have the world before them, getting ready to grow their community by creating their own family, to throw it all away. And they do. Because they love God with heart, soul, and mind. And because they love God, they also love each other enough to stick together to do his will.

It didn’t have to be this way. It really didn’t. It’s confusing and almost seems sloppy. After all, God has the power to just beam Christ down from heaven in his full royal glory. But we know God never does anything (or lets anything occur) without a purpose. Would we have paid attention if Jesus had showed up like he does in Revelation, on a white horse with crowns, plural? Nah. I wouldn’t have. There’s nothing to relate to in a god you’ve never seen before showing up like, well, a god. But a God who says “Hey, I’m on my way to live like you, to redeem your brokenness, to show you the path home”? That’s show-stopping. It’s easy to write off powerful people. But Miryam and Yosef’s kid? He’s doing miracles? He’s… God? Why?

Why, indeed. For God so loved the world. He chose the hard route to demonstrate his goodness and mercy. He picked the messy route, involving fallible mortals, to show us the road to come home. He came to our level to get us because we’d never make it otherwise. (I don’t know about you, but I screw up and sin so much. Every day. All the time. But God is good to offer me salvation and to develop me in Christ’s model every single day.)

Advent–and by extension, Christmas–is about love: the love of God, unmerited by us mortals, entirely merited by Christ but shared with us. When we respond to this love and accept Christ as our road home, that’s when we start building hope, faith, peace… and love. Through his mercy and kindness, he makes us conduits for his love into the world, even through simple things like feeding the hungry and comforting the distressed. Christ tells us that when we do things like this, we are doing it for him.

Advent shows us that the overpowering love of God must be met with repentance and belief, and our further response to receiving love is to give it. The world needs love, but not in the ways it thinks it does. It needs open displays of the love of God, which is so foreign to how mortal love and reciprocation works that it can only provoke a question of “Why do you do this?”

Because God so loved the world.

Merry Christmas.

Per aspera ad astra,


PS: God is so good to even tell us his plan in the names of the main players. Mary (Miryam) means “their rebellion.” Joseph (Yosef) means “God will add another son.” Because of our rebellion, God adds another (even the ultimate, the only) Son. And the name of this Son? Jesus (Yehowshuwa), meaning “God is salvation.” DIVINE MIC DROP.


Advent Reflections: Joy

Am I a happy person? Yes. No. Sometimes. I don’t know, it sort of depends.

Am I a joyful person? Yes.

Wait, what? How can I be joyful if I’m not always happy? Aren’t those the same thing?

Surprise: they really are not! Happiness is an emotion that can rise and fall like the barometer (and, honestly, is often tied to the same). Joy runs deeper than that. Joy is a fruit of the Spirit. You know–love, joy, peace, patience, and all the rest? The virtues of Advent are virtues that only the Spirit of God can truly, fully give us. The world’s experiences with and definitions of these things are but dim reflections of the real deal.

I know, I know, it’s confusing. But in summary: happiness is a tenuous emotion, while joy does not fluctuate like emotions do.

The third week in Advent is a beautiful time to remember this. Often called Gaudete Sunday, or Rejoicing Sunday, the Sunday of this week breaks through the gloom of our Advent ponderings to say rejoice, rejoice! Rejoice? What do we have to rejoice about, in a world of chaos and darkness? Well, a lot, actually. Let’s take a peek at this week’s lectionary readings, shall we? (Side note, I am using the ACNA 2019 lectionary, Year A. This may be different from other lectionaries.)

From Isaiah 35:

Strengthen the weak hands,
    and make firm the feeble knees.
Say to those who have an anxious heart,
    “Be strong; fear not!
Behold, your God
    will come with vengeance,
with the recompense of God.
    He will come and save you.”

This passage goes on to talk about the blind seeing, the deaf hearing, the mute singing. Water in the wilderness, streams in the desert. The highway of God, the Way of Holiness.

And the ransomed of the Lord shall return
    and come to Zion with singing;
everlasting joy shall be upon their heads;
    they shall obtain gladness and joy,
    and sorrow and sighing shall flee away. (Isa. 35:10)

Yeah, okay, that’s a lot to rejoice about. But for us in the 21st century, doesn’t it all seem a little… far-fetched? Like, “pfft, yeah, that’d be nice.” The world seems to be more chaotic than ever before, more filled with anger and destruction. Our leaders are weak, our people are miserable, our planet may literally be dying… How can you say “Be strong; fear not!” and tell me God will arrive with vengeance to save?

I can say it because it’s true. Psalm 146 tells us it is true. (I’m posting the whole thing, get ready.)

Praise the Lord!
Praise the Lord, O my soul!
I will praise the Lord as long as I live;
    I will sing praises to my God while I have my being.

Put not your trust in princes,
    in a son of man, in whom there is no salvation.
When his breath departs, he returns to the earth;
    on that very day his plans perish.

Blessed is he whose help is the God of Jacob,
    whose hope is in the Lord his God,
who made heaven and earth,
    the sea, and all that is in them,
who keeps faith forever;
    who executes justice for the oppressed,
    who gives food to the hungry.

The Lord sets the prisoners free;
    the Lord opens the eyes of the blind.
The Lord lifts up those who are bowed down;
    the Lord loves the righteous.
The Lord watches over the sojourners;
    he upholds the widow and the fatherless,
    but the way of the wicked he brings to ruin.

The Lord will reign forever,
    your God, O Zion, to all generations.
Praise the Lord!

We can have joy in a dark and desolate era–whether a personal era or on a global scale–because the Lord sees. He sees and helps and reigns.

This is where we build on the previous themes of hope and faith. Hope holds out that one day all broken things and people will be healed. Faith says, “I believe you will do this, God, even if I don’t see it right now or it doesn’t happen the way or when I want it to.” Joy says, “God, you are good, you are mighty, and I praise you.”

Joy can very much exist in great sorrow. In fact, there are times that it seems like that’s the only place joy can grow. It is in suffering that we learn to see and rely on God’s goodness. James tells us, “Be patient, therefore, brothers, until the coming of the Lord. See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth, being patient about it, until it receives the early and the late rains. You also, be patient. Establish your hearts, for the coming of the Lord is at hand. […] Behold, we consider those blessed who remained steadfast. You have heard of the steadfastness of Job, and you have seen the purpose of the Lord, how the Lord is compassionate and merciful” (5:7-8, 11). Hope breeds faith breeds joy because God is good.

I could write for days on this topic, but all I could say would boil down to those three words: God is good. He is not good in terms of human comprehension. He sees the big picture, the eternal picture. He knows that something that sucks for us right now will grow us into stronger Christ followers later, if we but exercise the faith to let him work on us. He knows that things we might desperately want may not be good for us, or if they are, maybe the timing is wrong, or we aren’t ready to receive it. Only he knows. But we can trust that he sees us, he hears us, he knows our pain and complaints, and he is busy behind the scenes.

No one on Earth has the power to make things right–or even the desire. No political figure, activist, governing body, doctor, lawyer, whatever can give people the hope, faith, peace, and joy they really need. Nobody can do that except God, who is the ultimate and purest Good.

God is good. He literally embodies goodness. Even in his vengeance, even in his justice, even in his mercy, even in his difficult lessons, he is good. He is good in my bad times and good times, when I am happy and when I am stuck in a depressive spiral. He is good when people I love are in pain and when they have the best day ever. He is good when the world is too much to bear and when it is heaven on earth. He is good when your favorite politician fails and when there’s too much plastic in the ocean. He is good, because he exists outside the limited human comprehension of good. His goodness is not dependent on his mood or our attitude, like our goodness is. We cannot jinx his plans. He is not startled by our mistakes or overwhelmed by our sin; he has already seen it all and knows it all, and he chooses to love us anyway. He is goodness. His goodness is the source of joy.

That’s it, that’s all I can say. It’s such a simple lesson, but one that I have to repeat to myself and will repeat until I act like I believe it, until I can pray fervently the way James 5 says to do, until my peace is not shaken by the tumult of the world, until I do not put my hope and faith in mortals.

God is good. He sees me, he knows me, he loves me. And he sees YOU and knows YOU and loves YOU. Individual you. Individual me. If, as Christ tells us, a sparrow can’t fall out of its nest without God noticing, how much more does he watch over us?

God. Is. Good. Rejoice, rejoice!

And that’s all there is to it.

Per aspera ad astra,


Advent Reflections: Faith/Peace

Sometimes I get confused by churchy things. Namely, why have I always heard the candle for the Second Sunday in Advent named as the Peace candle, but sometimes it’s called the Faith candle? At my own church this past Sunday, the theme of the candle, the lessons, and the sermon were all faith. So I sat there in the pew getting bogged down in seasonal minutiae and thinking, “Well, which is it? Is it faith or peace?”

The answer that came to me in the middle of a gentle, shepherding sermon that made me cry was “Yes.” Yes faith. Yes peace. Maybe the candle can mean either one because both are true. Perhaps peace comes from faith. Faith builds peace.

One thing that has always struck me as odd about American evangelical Christianity (the only form of which I have any intimate familiarity) is how it takes faith, a gift of the Spirit, and turns it into a to-do item on the Christianity checklist. It becomes mere mental assent or worse, something in par with willpower. “If I/you/we just have enough faith!” people sigh. “Things would work out then.”

Well, as it was pointed out to me in Sunday’s sermon, faith does not mean wishing really, really hard for our magical sky fairy to grant all our wishes. Faith is not bearing down and funneling all our strength into force of will. Faith, as Hebrews 11:1 tells us, “is the reality of what is hoped for, the proof of what is not seen” (CSB). It is not the same as hope (1 Corinthians 13 tells us this by listing faith and hope as two separate virtues) and is definitely not wishful thinking. Yet for all these definitions, faith is such a hard concept to grasp.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I find it easier to cling to faith as a sense of “Well, if I just believe hard enough.” It’s easier because it’s something that I myself can do. If I can fix my own problems, then I will know they are fixed because I did the work with my own hands. You see this in a lot of Christian-ish self-help material. “You have problems and you worry because you don’t have faith!” these things chirp. “This is all your fault! You could fix all your problems if you just have faith!”

You see the problem further illustrated when faith becomes synonymous with religion. “He/she is a person of faith,” we say. The federal government sponsors faith-based initiatives for community development. This further conflates the biblical concept of faith with the societal expectations of religion, which, again, puts the onus back on you to fix your own life by doing and saying the right things and just believing enough. And if something terrible befalls you, you get people on Facebook tut-tutting “You just didn’t have enough faith.” You didn’t, you don’t, you haven’t, you, you, you.

Oof. When did faith become a baseball bat with which to hit suffering people over the head? Even when the Bible talks about not worrying and instead having faith, it’s not meant like a baseball bat, and it certainly isn’t meant the way I have always taken it to mean, involving exhausting levels of personal effort. This is where understanding it the way it is meant to be understood becomes more and more difficult.

It’s difficult because it would be so much easier to say “Well, if I just believe hard enough, then X will happen.” It would. And it would be easier for us as finite mortals if it worked that way. Faith becomes difficult because it forces us to rely on someone we cannot physically see to handle issues that, for us, are immediate and pressing. So because I can’t get instant results, I stop asking. Then I wonder why my reliance on God falters and why I become jaded.

If faith is the reality of what is hoped for, then I assume faith begins with hope. Hope is that tiny voice that says “Things will be better someday maybe.” Faith builds on this, grows it, by saying “[A]ll things work together for the good of those who love God, who are called according to his purpose” (Rom. 8:28, CSB). Even when it sucks. Even when there are no immediate results. Even when things go sideways and everything hurts and the world is upside down and oh God where are you? Hope says “Maybe things will get better.” Faith says “Even if they don’t, God is good and kind and he loves me, and this is working together for my eternal good.”

This is where I get tripped up most often. I have zero problems believing that God is good and kind–to other people. I see it in their lives and rejoice in it. Miraculous healing? Thanks be to God. Specific provision at the exact moment of need? Thanks be to God! Absolutely! Where it becomes tricky is thinking “God is good and kind to me.”

Sorry, what? Who am I that he should be mindful of me? He sent Christ to die for one speck of mortal existence whose time on this planet is but a blip on the timeline of all history. I’m not worth that. I’m an Enneagram Four; I am literally first in line to tell you that I am flawed and worthless, don’t bother with me, it’s not worth it–I’m not worth it.

But God’s kindness and goodness do not rely on my strength of will, my emotional fortitude, my good character, or my best behavior. God is kind and good because… he is kind and good. This is what faith, a gift given by his Spirit, helps us see. Even in our mortal suffering, God remains kind and good because that is his nature. Even when I feel inherently flawed, he continues to take my weak humanity and remake it to follow the pattern Christ made. I am flawed on my own, but Christ has given me immeasurable worth and given me his flawless nature. I know that I am invaluable to God, not because of anything I can offer but because of all that Christ has offered me. Even when it’s hard to believe it, to have an emotional connection or response to this truth, I still know it is true.

If hope forms faith, then this is how faith forms peace. It is in learning how to rely on God to be kind and good, to expect him to dispense his grace freely in all scenarios and seasons so that you will grow as a disciple of Christ, that peace arrives. I am constantly praying “Lord, help my unbelief,” and bit by bit, peace comes. Little by little, I learn that he will look after me. If he notices the wildflowers, which Christ tells us he does, then he notices me. Even if things don’t work out the way I want or I don’t get something I think I should have, I can be assured that he has seen and heard and is already on the move. He hears me sob the words of Psalm 70 and is on the way before the words leave my lips.

O God, make speed to save us. O Lord, make haste to help us.

I make it a point here to say that faith, unlike what prosperity preachers will tell you, does not mean you or I will have a pain-free life of wealth and comfort. Christ himself tells us not to expect this. In John 16, he tells his disciples what to expect of a life of following him. He promises several things: the Holy Spirit will be our comforter and guide; we will weep and lament while the world rejoices; our sorrow will turn to joy; we can ask the Father for anything; we will be scattered; we will have tribulation. But, he says, “take heart; I have overcome the world” (16:33). He also commands us to ask for what we need in his name, and we can expect that a Father who gives good gifts to his children will always give us exactly what we need, with some unmerited goodies besides.

If we pray for faith, he will grow our faith.

If we pray for peace, he will grow our peace.

If we pray for our daily bread, he will meet our needs.

This stuff is complicated and difficult, and I don’t profess to have any expertise in it, but he is faithful in all things, even when we don’t see the result immediately or it turns out differently from how we expected. We–I–can trust he sees the whole picture and always operates with the end in mind, which is the formation of us into mini Christs, sanctified and holy, glorifying him.

May we always respond with gratitude to our kind and good God, who gives us faith and peace, in Advent and always.

Per aspera ad astra,


Advent Reflections: Hope

Christmas decorations caught my eye earlier than usual this year–not literally, but the discussion of them blew through social media like a tornado through a haystack. Questions abounded: Is November 1 too early to decorate? Are people who think so nothing more than mean people that hate happiness? Do people who don’t think so deserve to get sick of the lights and glitter by the first week of December? And what about Thanksgiving? Are we just going to forget a day of turkey and football?!

I have always been solidly in the camp of withholding Christmas decor until at least Black Friday. I like to enjoy each holiday as it comes. But what I noticed this year was that, over and over, people arguing for early Christmas decorations came back to one theme: It makes me happy to decorate. I need to be happy.

Oh my God, I realized, that’s it, that’s exactly it. It’s not a question of when is “too soon” to decorate; the problem is that so many people are using Christmas and its baubles to numb pain they may not even realize they have. “The world sucks! Let’s put up tinsel!”

But this isn’t a solution to pain. It’s narcotization. It’s leaning on something external to soothe an internal misery, and I don’t think the vast majority of people realize they’re doing it, as they stand in the check-out line at Hobby Lobby, their carts overflowing with green branches and red ribbons yet their faces sour and grim. The world sucks. But is a red bow going to fix that? Maybe for a minute. Maybe for a month. But not forever.

Enter Advent, an oft-forgotten season of the church year that many Christians don’t even know exists. I know I didn’t for a long time. I knew the word, and I had heard of Advent calendars as a means to count down to the big day. But Advent the season? My low-church Protestant background didn’t account for that, not with Christmas trees going up the day after Thanksgiving and carols jumping in the song lineup for the following Sunday.

It’s hard for me to explain Advent in a nutshell. If I tried, it would go something like “It’s a season to prepare our hearts for Christ’s arrival, both as the baby in Bethlehem and as the King of Kings on the last day.” It’s not an incorrect summary, but it’s so weak compared to what Advent is and what Advent does. (My point in this post, however, is not to get into the liturgical technicalities of Advent. You can check out resources on that here and here, and some resources for marking the season here.)

Advent is a longing, waiting time. It is a time to beg God “How long will you delay?” It is a time to remember that he, in the person of Jesus Christ, has already touched our world and will return one day to fix everything. Advent holds the wailing and grief of our shattered world in one hand and the brilliant hope of “thy kingdom come” in the other. Already and not yet.

Advent forces us to slow down, to look our pain in the eyes, to see it and name it. No longer is our grief and suffering veiled behind smooth jazz renditions of carols at the craft store. There are no glittering lights in Advent to distract us from what hurts. There is no narcotization in Advent.

But there is hope.

The first candle of the Advent wreath is, fittingly, the Hope candle. We light this candle, knowing our brokenness, knowing the agony of human existence, and also knowing that we are seen by the One who entered this world once before to be just like us, to come screaming into the world he was meant to save, the Lord of Light dressed as the illegitimate son of a teenager and her carpenter fiancé. The hope of Advent forces us to look at Christ and see that he has saved the world through his death and resurrection and is currently saving the world through his Spirit, left behind to be our Comforter until Christ returns to reign on Earth.

“That’s great and all,” you say, “but what does that mean for me right now?”

It means it won’t always be like this. It won’t always hurt. The tears we cry now will be dried up in the kingdom to come, soothed forever. Through Christ, we have hope that our pains and struggles, while yeah, they suck, will not stay with us forever. Some of them will be relieved here on Earth. Others, we have to wait, and wait, and wait, yet with the promise of complete redemption. We have been saved. We are being saved. We will be saved. Already and not yet.

Advent forces us to embrace the tension of this. It asks us to acknowledge the bitterness in ourselves and in our world, but it asks us not to wallow in our misery but to put it in the hands of Christ, to say, “This hurts, this sucks, please fix this.” And the hope of Advent gathers us up warmly as we hear Christ reply, “I will.” Then we, bursting with this hope, go out among our neighbors to share hope and grace where we can, how we can–with a smile, a dollar, a meal.

Advent is not a season for rejoicing, and yet it is. It’s for lamenting the hurt of existing while also looking forward to a day when all is made right. It’s not for singing Christmas carols, but it is for singing songs of waiting, of longing, of hopeful anticipation of our current and final redemptions.

O come, O come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel, the words go.

O come, O come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Stephanie, too.

Advent takes this refrain and pleads it, over and over, until we are screaming it, replacing “captive Israel” with whatever we need to be ransomed. We do. I do. And Christ is faithful to do so. This is our hope, the hope of Advent.

I pray you sit with this during a season when the rest of the world tries to hide pain behind shopping, feasting, and decorating. I pray we are all able to look at a world that lives in the painful tension of Advent all year long and say, “Christ is hope. Let me show you him.”

In him was life, and that life was the light of men. That light shines in the darkness, and yet the darkness did not overcome it. (John 1:4-5)

Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life in which your Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious majesty to judge both the living and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal; through him who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen. (BCP 2019)

Per aspera ad astra,


How Not to Suck at Being a Human

I’ve dealt with a lot of toxic people in my life, as I’m sure most of us have. Please note that when I say “toxic,” I don’t mean people that have disagreed with me or who I just don’t like. “Toxic” here refers to people who, among other things, have consistently negative personalities, don’t correct their mistakes and behavior even when repeatedly called on it, and/or give no thought to whether their actions impact people they claim to care about. There are other things wrapped up in the word toxic, but those are the ones that come to mind right now. Here are some other things that define toxic people:

  • DARVO (Deny, Attack, Reverse Victim and Offender)
  • Gaslighting
  • FOG (Fear, Obligation, Guilt – emotions you feel when around this person)
  • Manipulation, including guilt trips
  • “You never/you always” statements
  • The sense that you have to walk on eggshells around them
  • Feeling any lack of safety for yourself or people you love

And many more. Let’s be real, you probably know a toxic person when you see one.

The biggest challenge about toxic people is they don’t realize they’re toxic. (Can I say toxic any more? It’s becoming a non-word.) They typically have zero self-awareness of how awful their behavior is. In my experience, these sorts of people think themselves the victim in every situation they meet. It’s not them; it’s you. It’s like a parent who thinks their darling child can do no wrong, except the parent and the child are the same unhealthy person.

By now, you’re definitely thinking of a toxic person you know. You might be wondering now how to avoid becoming one of these people. Well, I’m no shimmering angel of perfection, but I do have some thoughts on the subject, having seen and experienced several toxic people over the years.

Step 1: Develop Self-Awareness

Self-awareness is a difficult and often painful skill to learn, because it involves looking at yourself objectively and learning to recognize negative (and positive!) things you do. According to this article at, “[Self-awareness] typically means having a deep understanding of your values, strengths, weaknesses, habits […] While you accept your faults, you […] focus on different strategies for self-improvement.”

Pop quiz! Which occurs first, a thought or a feeling/emotion?

Answer: the thought.

Is that surprising? What you think (and think about) informs how you feel. Most of our thoughts are unconscious, flitting by so quickly that we don’t even see they’re there until we’re spiraling out of emotional control. Self-awareness is the process of slowing down, studying your thoughts, and developing the ability to challenge and correct the negative ones.

How do you develop self-awareness? This article is a great launchpad.

Step 2: Challenge and Correct

This is a phrase my own therapist taught me, which I have now blatantly stolen and will pass onto you as wisdom. As you develop self-awareness and learn to “slow down” your thoughts, you become able to stop negativity/toxicity in its tracks and redirect it. An example from my personal life:

My parents recently moved out of my home (yay!), but while they lived with me, my mom was buying groceries and keeping the fridge full. After they moved out, I opened the fridge and saw it was mostly empty.

Immediate thought: “Aw man, there’s no food.”
Second thought: “No, challenge and correct!”
Third thought: “This is a great opportunity to go to the store and buy things I like to eat.”

As you can see, you challenge the initial thought by stopping it. Say no aloud if it helps. Then you can correct the thought. This prevents your brain from going down a miserable rabbit hole.

Step 3: Ask for Honest Feedback

It is helpful to have a third party give you insight into your personality. It can also be terrifying to be that vulnerable with people, but vulnerability and open discussion is so important for personal growth.

Find someone you trust and ask them to objectively point out areas for your personal growth. When they tell you, listen without rebuttals. This is incredibly crucial. You may feel attacked or called out, but you have to shut up and listen. Push down those defensive feelings and note what the other person is saying. Ask the other person for clarifying examples of your behavior if you’re not sure what they mean. And lastly, make sure to spend adequate time in reflection, asking questions such as, “Did this person have a point? What can I learn/how can I grow from this?” Whatever you feel about their feedback, note those feelings and explore where they come from and why you feel that way. Be sure to sincerely thank them for taking the time to help you grow.

We all have ways to grow, me included. I’m not sharing these things as some guru on a mountaintop but as someone who has had to work on all this. I’m sharing what I have learned from in the hopes of it helping someone else.

Step 4: Make Necessary Changes

Just like it says on the tin: fix what needs fixing. For example, I have a tendency to immediately jump in with advice whenever a friend expresses a problem to me. Instead, what I need to do (and have started trying to do) is ask some variation of “Do you need me to get involved or do you need me to just listen?” Or I might respond in a way that would be helpful for me but not necessarily for them; instead, I should be responding in ways helpful to them.

This is a short section because I can’t tell you what changes you should consider making unless I’ve seen a problem. That will be up to you and the people you’re working with for your growth. However, you MUST become comfortable with recognizing you have flaws. You MUST acclimate to seeing and owning up to your own faults and mistakes. You will immediately stunt your growth if you deny or reject ever wronging someone else, which leads us to…

Step 5: Get Over Yourself

Ultimately, not being a toxic person comes down to not thinking so much of yourself that no one else matters. Your ego is not that important. Mine isn’t either. Like I said earlier, shut up and listen. You may not have any issues to work on (but I kinda doubt it; after all, you’re human). But if someone comes to you with a grievance regarding something you did or said, realize they may have a point. You’re not perfect. Apologize for hurting them with your behavior (yes, even if you didn’t intend to hurt them; apologies only cost a little of your ego, so just do it).

I cannot emphasize enough how much you’re hurting yourself and the people around you if you behave like nothing is ever your fault, as if you’re always the victim, as if everyone around you is out to get you. If you’re hearing the same thing from multiple sources, there is probably something to that, and it’s your responsibility to practice self-awareness and deep introspection to sort out true and helpful critique versus somebody just being spiteful. Once you become accustomed to doing that, it’s really easy to separate the hateful statements from the true ones. It’s just that sometimes the true statements are scary. Don’t take things so personally. Grow from it.

Step 6: Never Stop Growing

Obviously, there are so many resources on personal growth and development out there. Find good ones that work for you as you make sure you’re not toxic. Expose yourself to different theories of personal growth as well; read widely and research deeply. Find the core “you” and always be willing to grow.

That’s it. That’s all I’ve got for how not to suck as a person. It’s all things I’ve learned in my own journey; I didn’t make anything up and I don’t claim to have done so. I hope you find something helpful in it.

Never stop improving!

Per aspera ad astra,


Discontent with singleness

My alma mater’s student newspaper published an “honest round-table discussion” on singleness, particularly as it pertains to Christian folk, and all I can do is roll my eyes so far into my head that they hurt. There were no perspectives from single men, and noticeably missing from the discussion is the viewpoint of single Christian women who really freaking hate being single.

My viewpoint.

Evangelical Christianity presents single persons, especially women, with conflicting teachings:

  1. Marriage (the covenantal union of a man and woman before God)–and, by extension, sex–is the greatest physical/material gift humanity can enjoy. It is a gift given by God for the mutual edification and pleasure of men and women. (Yes, edification is the official term.) Men and women should desire to marry (and raise children).
  2. Single persons, particularly women, who desire marriage are vaguely and unhelpfully told to “wait on the Lord” and “be content.” They are told that singleness is “a gift” and should be cherished. Desiring marriage and sex is a dirty thing, indicating the young woman does not prioritize God.

Whether purposefully or neglectfully, Christian women like me are plagued by these teachings from a young age, especially growing up in evangelical/Southern Baptist circles. If you feel confused, sad, angry, dirty, or some combination of the above, and not at all encouraged or discipled, then congratulations! You understand how it feels to be a product of evangelicalism’s Purity Cult, as I call it.

It’s such a bizarre thing. I am expected to present myself as this asexual being of “godliness” who wants nothing to do with boys until one day, somehow, I manage to find and marry one, at which point I am expected to be wholly enthusiastic about sex. But in the meantime, if I express a desire to date and marry, it’s because I’m not focused enough on God. Huh?

Look, I believe fully that God holds all things. He makes everything beautiful in its time and gives good gifts to his children. But he also gives us desires and dreams for a reason. To some of us, he gives the unrelenting desire for marriage because that is what we are meant to have. For others, he takes away that desire, because a life of celibacy is what they are meant to have. And I swear, if I hear one more person intone “Be content!” as if they have a single damn clue what it feels like to be hungry for the companionship of a mate while having no dating prospects, I will scream.

Because they keep saying be content with singleness. I am not.

They need to say be content in singleness. I am.

I am content in singleness because I am confident in my identity as a person. I do not rely on any human, friend or romantic partner, to give me meaning. My value and identity come from Christ and from exploring the unique traits and personality he has given me to bring diversity and beauty to his kingdom just by existing.

I am content in singleness because going to a restaurant or movie alone doesn’t scare me; in fact, I quite enjoy the time with my thoughts. I am content in singleness because I enjoy a great deal of flexibility in my schedule and activities.

But singleness as a noun, an object, rather than a descriptor of my romantic life? No. I am not content with that. I am not content with singleness because I know there is more for my life than just me.

I am not content with singleness because I have begged God to rip the desire for a husband out of me, and he has not, because it is a desire he gave me. I do not want a celibate life. I want a life partner, a companion, a mate. I want someone to make a home with so we can open our home to others in the way that a single woman finds it more difficult to do, such as hosting those without a home.

I am not content with singleness because I desire the joy of the marriage relationship–not merely sex, but singing songs in the car, going to church together, sitting on the porch during a rainstorm. I am happy to do those things alone or with friends, but there is something special and desperately desirable about sharing one’s life with a mate.

Genesis tells us that when God made Adam, Adam was lonely. He desired a companion. Having a pet from among the animals didn’t cut it. Having a best friend wasn’t going to cut it. “It is not good for the man to be alone,” said God, and he made Eve. The soul-deep ache for opposite-sex companionship that Adam experienced is exactly the pain that I know so well, too. Adam is recorded as delighting over Eve, exclaiming, “Now at last this is flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone!” He might as well be saying, “Yes! This is what I was looking for! Another person to share my life’s adventures with!”

That’s all I want. As yet, God has not granted the desire he gave me, though not because I sat around on my hands doing nothing. I’ve tried dating apps and websites. I’ve tried getting out and meeting people at church and other social opportunities. So far, nothing. I have screamed at him and begged and sobbed more than I can count. And then I see articles like the one I mentioned earlier that essentially blame me for being single because I guess I don’t trust God enough? “It’ll happen when you stop looking for it!” they all say. “Be content!”

Oh, I can be content in singleness, because I belong to a God who is faithful and good and molds our desires to his when we ask. He sees my grief at having no mate, and he knows the bitter pain of my untethered heart. And even though I don’t know when or where, the good man I’ve prayed for almost daily for ten years has to be out there, or else God would have taken this longing by now if it didn’t come from him.

But do not ask me to be content with singleness, because I desire something else. Not more. Other. Do not shame my desire to marry by suggesting I haven’t trusted God enough. Do not insult my fellow discontent sisters by elevating marriage as something to be desired and then tut-tutting us for wanting it. Don’t break our hearts by insinuating our singleness is our own fault based on assumptions about our spiritual journeys. Do not ask us to sit on our hands and do nothing to meet men or learn how to date well and healthfully.

My current status quo is not my status always. Do not ask me to be content.

Per aspera ad astra,


Reflections on Hope | The First Sunday of Advent

[I posted this on Facebook this evening, so I figured I would post it here, too.]

I was diagnosed with moderate-severe depression and moderate anxiety in October 2012, after a roommate encouraged me to talk to one of the counselors at Union. There. I said it. Six years I have struggled with this plague, this disease, in which my own brain frequently tries to sabotage me because the chemicals that support healthy, normal neurological functioning just don’t have the quantity to be… normal.

I hate the word “neurotypical.” It reminds me that there is a level of mental functioning out there that I cannot obtain but only ever come close to. At least I can come close, thanks to self-care, the cognitive techniques I learned in therapy, and, yes, medication. But that nirvana labeled “neurotypical” feels so very far away at times, as if even on my best day I’m still scrabbling through the muck of existence while people with properly functioning brain chemicals float on clouds and drink champagne. I don’t know what that’s like.

Human existence in general is a lot like this sometimes. Each of us feels lost in the mire while we look around and see others making it. Even if we know, cognitively, that everyone else is as screwed up as we are, it’s hard to believe. It’s hard to see people’s photos on Instagram and think about them screaming at their kids or worrying over finances or crying in the parking lot before entering their office, or, or, or. But maybe we are all just one #blessed away from falling into complete disarray. Our normal is not normal at all. It’s dysfunctional and painful and exhausting. We are weary with no rest in sight. I do not know what “neurotypical” feels like. The rest of us have no idea what real “normal” feels like.

This is the world that Christ came into–a world of bitterness and tired humans, a world so broken that even our bodies and brains don’t work as they should. This is the point of the first week of Advent, when we light the Hope candle in our churches and homes. We light this candle, remembering that it was this same chaos and darkness–a different era, but the same fears and broken people–that welcomed Christ. We hope because as he came the first time to remind us of God’s presence, he will come a second time someday to heal the brokenness once and for all.

He could have done it already. That’s within his power. He could have waved his hand and installed utopia two millennia ago. He could have touched my brain this morning and permanently cleared out the cobwebs and the low serotonin levels. But he hasn’t yet, and I think it’s so we can learn how to hope.

Hope is not some fluffy, feel-good sentiment that makes us deliriously bounce through life, unaware of pain. Hope is a very gritty, persistent thing, something we must decide to grasp. Hope is what we feel when we look into the shadows of our angry world–or our own lives and our own pain–and call out, “The light is coming, just hold on.” Hope is the knowledge that it will not always be like this because the God who came to Earth in the tiny infant body of the Christ Child is going to fix it. It might not be today. It might not be tomorrow, or next week, or a thousand years from now–but it will be someday.

Hope is the shaking arm clinging to the cliff edge screaming hold on, hold on, help is coming. It won’t always be like this. There will come a day when I am healed, when I no longer struggle with getting out of bed, when I don’t seclude myself from people because I just can’t bear seeing anyone, when I no longer take a pill before bed that tries to help my brain chemicals do the things they’re meant to do. Hope is knowing that, one day, I will run to the arms of my Savior, and he will wipe away the last tears of earthly existence and welcome me to true normalcy.

This is hope, the heart and point of Advent. We hold on because the promise of healing is stronger than the pain that crushes us in its vise-grip. I hold on for the restored mind and body that awaits me in the New Heaven and New Earth that Revelation promises. I hold on because Christ, my hope, holds me.

Just Say “Thank You”

This weekend, I had a revelation. It is one that I’ve had before, but I almost always forget it. It is the realization that I tend to apologize for and rationalize even the simplest behaviors. Let me set the scene.

On Saturday, my friend Rachel and I went out yard saleing together. I didn’t have any cash, but she told me that she’d spot me whatever I needed if I found something I had to have. I ended up picking up $6 worth of things at various sales, and we agreed this was fine. At one sale, I bought a pair of popular video games with the intent to go trade them in for store credit at the local game/tabletop store. I didn’t bother to check the cases, so it wasn’t until we got to the store that I found out one of the games was just an empty case–no disc. I felt horribly guilty, but we decided not to go back and harangue the yard sale owners over a $2 purchase because driving all that distance felt pointless. But I still felt terribly guilty for wasting her $2–well, $4 because the store wouldn’t take the other disc due to damage. And it was like I couldn’t shut up; I kept promising her I’d pay her the $6, and that I was sorry I hadn’t checked the games first, and that I was sorry for the trouble, but I would pay her back–

After a few minutes of my nervous chatter, Rachel just said, “Hey, it’s okay. We’ll just call it even. You don’t owe me.” Well, then I felt more guilty and kept talking even more because I felt so bad that I wasn’t paying her back, and, and, and. Then we realized I’d forgotten to bring her roommate’s purse with me (she’d left it at my house), and I was apologizing for that

Eventually I sighed and said, “I realize all I do is apologize for and rationalize what I do.” To which Rachel, a counselor in training, replied, “Try saying thank you instead. So instead of ‘I’m sorry I forgot your purse,’ you’d say ‘Thank you for understanding. Let’s go get it together.'”

I know I should do this, truly. It’s a difficult switch to make. It’s a cognitive restructuring that butts heads with everything I’m used to. (Where else but this blog can you see “cognitive restructuring” and “butt heads” in the same sentence?) As I pondered on this, though, I became less and less interested in “Oh, I need to do this.” Instead, I became more interested in why I don’t–why it’s so difficult for me.

It all goes back to my parents. I, along with my sister, was raised in a very shame-based environment. (Ask my sister about it; she can talk about this for days.) I talked about it some in my last post. Missteps weren’t exactly turned into teaching moments, unless the lesson was “You are a bad child.” Not “The thing you did was bad,” but “You are bad.”

Fast forward to now. I am plagued by a constant sense of offending everyone with everything I do. Surely people are annoyed by me. Surely they’re upset by my every minor, minute move. Surely no one would want to be around me because I’m The Worst. Surely I am obnoxious and insufferable. Surely–

Anxiety is a bitch. In the way that I visualize depression as a hulking shadow monster, I visualize anxiety as a pretentious, snobby old woman named Annette. (Annette, anxiety, alliteration.) Annette likes to stand behind me and criticize everything I do. “You’re not going to wear that top, are you? Fat women don’t wear horizontal stripes, dear.” “Oh, dear, you’ve upset the car behind you by going only five over. They’ll be angry now.” “You’re far too clingy with your friends. That’s obnoxious behavior, darling.”

She’s especially mean when it comes to my friends. “I can’t possibly imagine why anyone would want you. You’re loud and silly and you complain far too much about, well, everything. And you certainly overshare about your mental health. No one wants to hear that. You should just stay home alone.”

Sometimes I do. Sometimes Annette looms over me and becomes 100 feet tall and steps on me until I’m squished beneath her penny loafer, like an ill-fated ant. Other times I have the strength to ignore her or, even better, laugh her out of my face. But she’s just so mean when it comes to having friendships. My friends compliment me or express their affection, and I deny it: “Aw, don’t lie.” They tell me I’m the best (for whatever reason), and I scoff and don’t believe them. They tell me they love me, and I snort, “I don’t know how.”

Because somewhere, deep down, there’s a voice in my head–my mother, my anxiety, whatever–telling me I am not worth loving. I am flawed. I am broken and not worth the effort to repair. I am bad.

None of this is true. Cognitively, I know this. The Gospel makes this untrue. My mere existence as a human, created in the image of the Triune God, makes these thoughts false. It’s just a fight to remember that. It’s such a fight.

I hate Annette so much.

But I love my friends for taking up arms to help me fight her. I can’t remember which friend it was, but she told me she loved me and that I was worthwhile and not a burden to her. I replied, “It’s just so hard for me to believe that.” She said, “I know. That’s why I keep telling you. I’ll say it until you believe it.”

In those moments, when my friends grab me by the hand and repeat “I love you” until I’m sick of hearing it, they are pictures of Christ. I don’t know if they know that, but they should, because that’s the same thing he does. “Come here. Lean on Me. I love you.” Over and over and over until we yell “Yes, Lord, we get it, you love us” and still more until we slump down quietly and murmur our gratitude for his endless patience and gentle wooing.

“I’ll say it until you believe it,” whisper my friends, and in their voices I hear my Savior, calling me into his arms.

And all I can say in response is “Thank you.”

Per aspera ad astra,


A Difficult Few Days

Turns out it’s really difficult to keep writing every day when every day feels muddled and exhausting. (Maybe that’s when I should really be writing, but that’s a topic for a less tired brain.)

I have been in a depressive slump the last few days. It happens every once in a while; the shadow monster slinks in and pees in my corn flakes and acts like it’s enhancing the flavor.

It’s a hard thing to explain, these slumps. It’s like I’m coasting along to some degree of “normal” and then I trip over nothing and roll down a hill. My clue that it’s “getting bad” is that I get very tired by simple tasks or the thought of simple tasks. My self-care goes all to crap. Hygiene becomes exhausting, and I sponge-bathe rather than shower (though I do wash my hair because I am vain about not having greasy hair ever). I also get emotional and cry easily over… well, a lot. One time, a slump and my period coincided, and I cried for 20 minutes–like straight up sobbed–because Chris Evans’ eyes were “too blue,” whatever that means.

When it gets bad, I also withdraw from people I love and people in general. I don’t go to the store because the thought of a cashier–even the self-check guardian–saying hello is too exhausting. I don’t go through the drive-through for lunch because I can’t bear the thought of speaking to the person behind the order screen. I hide in my office and take too long in the bathroom because I just can’t muster the energy for human interaction. And when I get home at the end of the day, whatever I have done has been so wearying that I often flop onto my bed and fall asleep for two, maybe three hours, then get up and immediately go to bed.

That’s where I’ve been lately. The worst part of it, though, was Sunday. A friend and I were planning to start a weight loss thing together, and we were going to start on Sunday. I opened the box of supplements and powders and potions and got so overwhelmed that I had a meltdown and pushed it off to yesterday (Monday). Once I got myself calmed down, I got ready for church and headed off. I was okay for most of the service, but I felt a low background wrongness, like the tremors ahead of an earthquake, but moving through the liturgy distracted me. Once we got to the sermon, though, and I was sitting quietly, I felt it: an anxiety attack, welling in my chest like lava, threatening to burst forth any second. I sat there fighting tears, but not because of the sermon. I couldn’t even focus on most of it. I kept telling myself if I could just survive to Communion, I could leave. If I could just make it that far, I could slip out and go home and pull myself together.

I was on the second or third row, so I got to go up to the altar rail pretty early. I almost bolted from the nave right after I partook and rushed out to my car, crying the whole way. I’m sure anyone who saw me thought that I had been grasped by the Spirit, but nah, I just felt like I had to run for my life because my brain chemicals told me to. I cried the whole way home, trying not to hyperventilate in the middle of traffic. I didn’t feel better until I had gotten home and locked the door behind me, kicked off my shoes and my cardigan, and went into the kitchen to make lunch. I’m sure the FLBs wondered why I burst into the house in tears, but it was okay after a while. We all curled up on my bed and napped for three hours.

I think I’m on the upward swing now, though. I feel pretty calm and collected, though I’ve caught myself clenching my jaw, which tells me there’s an unresolved background stressor. I’m actually planning to pick up some groceries this afternoon, and I’m not exhausted by the thought of speaking to my coworkers. Plus, I’m writing this post. That alone is a strong indicator that the shadow monster has retreated to its lair for a while.

I am so incredibly grateful for my friends and my sister when the shadow monster emerges, though. It means more than they will ever know when they say “You’re going to be okay,” or “I understand,” or “You and your feelings are valid.” It is such a blessing when they give me small steps that I can do to take care of myself in the grip of a slump, or when they show me patience and grace by letting me be alone while promising they will be there. Then, when I finally crawl out of my cave, there they are, waiting with open arms.

It really does feel like crawling out of a cave into the sunlight, like the worst kind of hibernation; instead of feeling refreshed, I feel spent but somewhat ready to start over. But when I swing upward, I begin to notice beauty again. I washed my hair over the side of the tub this week and couldn’t help but be awed by the flow from the faucet and over my hands. I walked outside and to the mail room at my job and couldn’t help but notice the brilliant scarlet of the seed pods on the magnolia trees. I admired my coworker’s lime green car and appreciated her vibrant personality. I listened to the melody of one of my favorite hymns and thought about writing my own words but found myself utterly without words in the face of trying to describe Divine majesty.

I’m going to try to keep writing, now that I have seen the sunrise. I think that’s the most encouraging thing to keep in mind as I swing through these highs and lows, doing battle with the monster followed by respite–the sun will rise eventually. I just have to make it through the nights.

Per aspera ad astra,


Behold Your King


Desiring God posted the above image on their Instagram a couple days ago. (This is my crappy screenshot version.) You could have heard me screeching from the rooftops with agreement. This is a topic that is very near and dear to my heart, because I am exhausted by the efforts of “women’s ministry” to pump me up and inflate me with my own self-worth.

Insisting to me in the name of Jesus that I am a jewel or a princess does not assuage the nagging sense that I am not. I am human. I know my weaknesses and my sins. Lifting me up to say “Look at yourself, you’re amazing and beautiful and so capable” does not address the emptiness of the human soul.

How can you say I am amazing when I refused to help the poor, or I was unkind to the cashier, or I said something hateful to a friend, or I had cruel thoughts about that homeless person?

Women are hard on themselves, often unfairly. We know this. But we, like all humans, also know in our deepest cores that we are not good and wonderful and amazing if left to our own devices. We are exactly like all humans, as selfish and wicked as everyone else, tempered only by social mores and childhood instruction of right vs. wrong.

So when I hear one of the dime-a-dozen Lifeway-brand women teachers tell me how incredible I am, I respond with disbelief, if not outright mockery and scorn. Do not lie to me. I know what I am.

This is the way the world encourages its women. Christian teaching should not sound like a Dove ad campaign. It should not denigrate the females of the church, but it should also not inflate self-worth past the level of healthy self-respect (love thy neighbor as thyself, after all) into self-worship.

Christian women should leave a conference not thinking “I am amazing” but rather “Jesus is amazing.”

The church has forgotten the meaning of the gospel, especially when it comes to the instruction of its women. The gospel is not solely personal salvation. It is not fire insurance to keep yourself from the pits of hell. It is not limited to a nebulous “me and Jesus” spirituality that disavows the community of the local church congregation.

The gospel of Jesus Christ, as presented in the New Testament, is the announcement of the King of Kings establishing his reign and forever changing the order of the world.

It is the story of how God promised to redeem humanity from our wickedness and create a new kingdom, a kingdom that operates not according to human whims but according to divine justice.

Is is the story of the King of Heaven, capable of repaying humanity for its rebellion with infinite wrath, setting aside that wrath to personally come down and say “I will give my life to make you part of my family.”

This is not a story that should be met with “Girl, you are a precious jewel in the crown of God!” No. This is a story that should be met with awe and worship, with falling to our knees in adoration of the goodness and mercy of God, rather than sitting back in our pews with smug self-righteousness.

Because here’s the deal. Without the gracious sacrifice of Jesus Christ, you and I are trash. We are sinful creatures, predisposed to pursue our own cravings no matter what. Wouldn’t you behave selfishly and wickedly if you could–if you had nothing else telling you not to? Don’t lie to yourself. Because I do not lie to myself–I know what I am outside the grace of Christ–I do not need a Beth Moore or a Lysa TerKeurst or anybody else telling me how pure and precious and valued I am. Because I am not.

Apart from Christ.

It is only through the finished work of Christ on the cross of Calvary that I have any worth at all. I have been redeemed into the family–the kingdom–of King Jesus by his work and his righteousness, not by mine. I am valued by God because he values Christ his Son, and I have accepted the salvation he has offered me.

But like I said, the gospel is not solely a personal salvation narrative. No, the kingdom of heaven upends everything humanity knows as “normal.” There is no “Blessed are the rich, the famous, and the powerful.” It is “Blessed are the meek, the peacemakers, the mourners.” The world says “Hoard everything you can and protect you and yours.” The kingdom of heaven demands “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth” and “Give all you have to the poor.” The world says “Save yourself.” The gospel says “Whoever loses his life for the sake of the gospel will find it.”

And at the end of the story? Oh, man. At the end, Jesus returns with his angelic armies and remakes the world into the kingdom of heaven on earth, where justice flows like rivers and there is true peace on earth. He brings his glory from above to rescue his creation.

My only response to that is worship, to fall on my face and cry “Holy, holy, holy.” You cannot tell me that the most important lesson for me as a Christian woman is to hear about how beautiful and precious I am. No! If not for Christ, I would burn in hell and miss the glory and beauty of the Savior. I would not know the tender love steering my heart toward him. I would not know the eternity-bridging mystery of partaking in the Eucharist. I would still be broken and helpless to save myself.

But my self-esteem would be great.

May I never worship myself, and may we as Christian women learn to sit in worshipful awe of our King, without whom we are nothing.

Per aspera ad astra,