no more plastic Jesus

i'm sitting on big words.

i have been a lot lately. even since i let myself swing open long-locked doors and start to let the river of Story flow out. and it's refreshing, crashing waves on the bank of my soul. but every time i bend to take a drink, i start to become afraid that i'm going to drown.

i told you all the things i wanted to tell you about my story, big pieces of me that came from years of standing in a place of not understand what it was that i believed. i wrapped myself up in what i thought was the blanket of Christianity, only to find out that it was actually something completely different, and it was suffocating me.

i was disillusioned by a plastic faith. my Jesus was dime-store cheap with a wind-up key in His back. and i was the one with my fingers around the key, watching Him toddle wherever i pointed Him. and in the process, i tied the strings around my wrists and ankles and became a wooden puppet with a hand-sewn faith core. 

when i talked about how i can't call myself a Christian anymore, many people recoiled, as i knew they would. how could i say such a thing? many people applauded because i didn't quite fit that "good Christian girl" look that they were going for, and of course, it would be better if i sat this one out. it proved a thousand points in my heart. it validated everything that i'd been feeling.

because i've watched what the Church has done. in truth, i've done more than watch. i was never a stone-thower. i made a point to never do that. but i held the coats and stood on the sidelines. i never picked up a rock, and that made it okay. i wasn't like that. except that i was.

i can't escape this now

unless You show me how.

 demons // imagine dragons 

and i refused to let myself realize it until my story matched up with the ones that were receiving the beating. and it it echoed like a howl across the wilderness. i melted.


this is what makes me want to tell my story. this is what makes me need to tell my story. it's what makes me stand up and say :: He knows what kind of woman i am. and He is letting me touch Him. 

it's why i've thrown my plastic Jesus into the trash and shut the lid. it's why i've ripped off the blue and white label clinging to my chest, the one with the scribbled Sharpie name that says, please don't touch me, you might get blood on my righteousness, and red is impossible to get out.

i'm sitting on big words. huge words. words that used to be lodged deep in my throat, in a prison that i didn't even know existed. and they're trickling out, becoming a brook, and then a stream, and then a river, bursting over its banks and pooling at my feet and there's a Voice whispering, I am calling to you. jump in. 

and this voice is Raw. Alive. Flesh.
there is nothing plastic about Him.

i'm kneeling there, beside the water, and there's mud and blood and messy wildness covering me from head to toe. and the Lion is there, breathing and real and wilder than He's ever been, crouching at my side. and He's whispering still,

it's not really drowning, lioness
when the Water is alive. 

permission to not be a Christian anymore {page six}

{photo via dramaticelegance}

i've been sitting on what to write in this post for more than a week. i was so excited when i wrote my last post, so excited about my own bravery to share pieces of my story, that i wanted to share more and more and more. and then the brave went away, and i sat in all the silence. 

because i've come to a realization over the past several months. it's something beyond what i ever thought i would acknowledge :: something i never thought i'd be brave enough to say. 

i can't be a Christian anymore. i just can't.

and i know those words cause a certain level of discomfort to billow up in the stomach of those Christians who read them. there's something that sits wrong, the instinct to grip me by the shoulders and say, no, wait, no, don't say that. that's not right. don't do that. don't say that. 

but before you throw a rock at me, ask me what i mean. ask me what i'm giving up. because honestly, it's not Jesus that i'm giving up. not by a long shot. i refuse to give Him up. 

but i'm giving up my supposed white robes and taking the Israeli dirt covered one instead. i'm spending time with the unclean ones instead of the ones that whisper. and I'm picking up the lame ones that the Church has hobbled one too many times. because i feel like the Church is locked in this childish game, the one where fingers grasp an arm and connect hand to face over and over with the chant, stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself. 

and then they wonder why the bruised ones don't return.

it makes me cry, hard and long, a keening wail into the night. i feel so like Him in these moments, screaming, oh God my God, why have You forsaken me? because i feel so alone, like i have love smeared all over my hands but everyone else is afraid to get the stains on them.

it's that word, that strange word that has become so warped and twisted. they will know us by our love. it's written there, in black and white. but why do they know us by all the things we hate? the laundry list of the things Christians won't touch is too long. it's like whiplash, what i'm allowed to eat or drink, where i'm allowed to shop. because we should be making a stand, right? they should know that we don't give money toward this and that and the other thing.

but instead, i'm closing my eyes on the deck of the ship, and i can hear the roaring of a dragon. it's me, with scales on the ground and skin ripped and bleeding. and He has claws and eyes...piercing, calm, quiet eyes. and He's tearing, and rending, and gashing, and i'm getting smaller and smaller and smaller still.

{via pinterest

the point of being with Jesus is not to be made bigger. the point isn't to be seen on the streetcorners with signs of broken bloody babies and screeching murderer into broken lives. the point isn't to grasp the arms of the ones with rainbows on their cheeks and glare into their eyes to make sure they know that they're sinners and we hate them.

and people on the street are catching my arm. do you know Him? do you know Him? and i say no, i don't. but He knows me. and He knew me before i was the Christian definition of desirable. He knew me when they dragged me out and flung me in the dirt. and He wrote in the dirt and they walked away in silence. He knows me. 

i'm tired. i'm so tired of being forced to act like i know Him, all of Him, every in and out and twist and turn of this thing called Christianity. if this is what Christianity is, then that's not a title i claim. i claim one thing, and one thing only.

i'm still thrashing. but i claim Him.
and He claims me.

taken name

{via pinterest

sometimes i struggle with my name.

not the one my parents gave me, nor the one that changed when i became a Mrs.

but the one i took when i became His. the name that has been stamped upon, sullied, and desecrated until i no longer am sure i want to bear that banner.

Christian

i don't like be associated with that name. i am not ashamed of Him. oh, please, God, never would i be ashamed to be known as His. 

but the name itself. 

i am a Christ-follower. i belong to Jesus Christ. 

but what once was a badge of honour, literally speaking little Christ to the darkness of the Roman empire and then to the world at large

has now become a mark of hate.

people with picket signs and waving Bibles in the faces of frightened girls as they walk up toward a building to end the life of their child. 

it has become the shield for people -- dark-hearted villains -- who stand at the funeral of a young gay military officer and scream 

god hates you

god hates gays

god hates America

god hates everyone

i always capitalize God. i did not do so above. why? 

because this god they speak of is not the One True God. this is not the God i love, worship, and serve with my whole life. and this book they read cannot be the Holy Word of God. 

these goats and blind guides will stand at His feet one day. His eyes will flood with tears as He looks away and speaks 

I never knew you

my God hates sin. He hates the darkness. 

but He loves people. He loves the ones trapped, even if they have no idea. 

we love Him because He first loved us

church, where have you gone? what have you done? 

to be a Christian means to forgive the inexcusable

because God has forgiven the inexcusable in you

-c.s. lewis

i am His. make no mistake. 

there is a Hell. it takes a choice to step from Death to Life. 

but doors are closed to no one. no sin is so great that He cannot forgive.

Love is everlasting. 

so drop the picket signs covered in marker scrawl, reach out a hand, and drawn them in. speak to them Truth, but in the firmness of Love. 

hide no realities of death and Hell, but show the alternative....show them Life. 

show them Him. light a candle. 

little sparks can light great fires. 

{linking with Michelle today}

woman

{via pinterest}

{note: this post was inspired by this post from the beautiful Sarah at Emerging Mummy. it lit the candle under me. i can't be silent now.}


we are more

these Christian daughters of this world, these women and girls and widows and wives and mothers and sisters and singles and barren and overflowing with love regardless of this cobblestone we stand upon.

we are more. 

we are more than these invented definitions of femininity. we are more than kitchens and apron strings. we are more than decorators and mothers and wives.

we may be these things. but we are more. we are not silent. we are not insignificant.

we crave like you.

we crave voice. we crave depth. we crave more than modesty lectures and reminders to be the weaker ones. we need more than cooking classes and socials.

we do not have to have one extreme or the other.

either sex symbol or wallflower.

this must not be. 

we need more than our silent allotments of stand and sit and worship and listen and nothing more than this.

we crave Him. 

we ache to go deeper.

we want to search His will and see His heart and wrestle with Him in hand-to-hand until we find ourselves undone and exposed before Him.

He chose us too. 

and not only the housewives or the silent servants.


every woman has a calling.

and He chose us ALL. 

{via pinterest}

Martha, Martha. 

follow your sister, Mary. for she {this sitting enraptured seeker} has chosen what is right. 

he took those broken women. those defiled women.

those prostitutes at which the world painted whore. those vagabonds with broken homes and no husbands. those eager follows who sat and listened and yearned for Him. those water-bearers and thirsty souls.

every walk. every phase. every calling.

those hem-grabbers. those cross-clingers. those outcasts. those reachers. those tender open hearts who wanted Him and Him alone.

we are women. we are vessels, full of Him and aching to overflow.

we are brave and strong and beautiful and beloved.

we are more.

we are voice. love. power. 

His. 

Let us RISE to the questions of our time. Let us SPEAK to the injustices in our world. Let us MOVE the mountains of fear and intimidation. Let us SHOUT down the walls that separate and divide. Let us FILL the earth with the fragrance of Love.

Let us be women who Love. 

{quote from here -- more words to be read}


{linking with michelle, laura, and jen today}

Not

When you come to the end of all the light you know and it’s time to step into the darkness of the unknown, faith is knowing that one of two things shall happen: either you will be given something solid to stand on, or you will be taught how to fly. ~Edward Teller

I am utterly tired of being defined by what I am supposed to be...

...who am I am as a woman, as a Christian, as a sister or daughter or wife or friend.

Everyone else has an idea of what I should be, who I should be, and what I should eventually become.

My heart regarding this was pushed over the edge by this post written by my beautiful blogging sister, Rain.

I will no longer be defined by what I am not.

Because I am NOT so many things.

I am not a falcon. I am a sparrow in His hand, just learning to fly.

I am not a messy apartment or a pile of unsorted papers. I am an eclectic artist with a head full of life.

I am not a mountain climber. I am a kitten, putting out a paw to ascend a sapling.

I am not a lion. I am a lamb learning to roar.

I am not silent. I am a fighter learning to be a lover.

I am not a perfect friend. I am a shoulder on which to cry, and a heart with which to laugh. And I am here for you.

I am not June Cleaver, with coiffed hair and perfect pot roast. I'm my own definition of a domestic goddess and housewife...because I can only be me, as it is.

I am not the owner of a college degree. I am a self-educated woman who lets the King direct her pen.

I am not rational. I am a dreamer, un-caged and full of faith.

I am not a size 2 blonde-hair supermodel. I am a size 12 brunette with uneven green eyes, and I am beautiful.

I am not perfect.

I will never be perfect.

I am striving. I am learning. I am growing.

That is all I can ever be, all I can ever do.

Because I am His...

...and He loves me

arms spread this much

this way.

Certain thoughts are prayers.  There are moments when, whatever be the attitude of the body, the soul is on its knees.  ~Victor Hugo