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.

vespers in the wild :: uncensoring glory

{photo property of dramaticelegance}

my soul and i had vespers in the rain tonight beside the river with the Most High. the funny thing is that i didn't even know what to call the moment. and then came the word into my soul, gentle but strange.

vespers. an evening prayer service. 

and we hummed a gentle song to the splash of water-drops on the surface of the water, a song i've whispered familiar since the day i first dared to touch, even before i knew what it was. we had church together, me nestled at His feet, the rain tapping out the hymn-rhythm

what wondrous love is this

oh my soul, oh my soul

all i wanted to do was press my face into the sandy soil. even now, sitting here in my space, sky darkening and stars rising on the other side of the windowpane, i yearn to lean up and brush my cheek against His palm. 

why do we only think that God is in a building, tucked among supposed "sacredness," confined in a neat-pressed suit in the front row? He isn't a tame Lion. what is our obsession with caging God? 

the sky is big, but He's bigger, and He made it string by string. the Lord of Heaven was humble enough to spin threads into skeins, weaving chords into fabric, tossed out wide and streaked with His own brand of love-paint. 

:: why must we make Him fit our tiny space? 

{via pinterest}

we debate heatedly between unforseen and sloppy wet, back and forth as though all salvation depended upon words in a song that mean nothing when we should be in wondrous soul-gasping at oh, how He loves us, oh...

we shut the door on His story and tie a muzzle around the mouth of the Lion of Judah because the words He speaks aren't the ones that sit smooth. milk is cool and simple, nothing complex, nothing wild. and so we pour out the Blood behind the bushes and pass the milk-filled chalice around. it's easier to swallow. 

we censor glory to fit our mouths and shut the lid on Light when it's just too bright without sunglasses, and we left ours at home. He is Light without a spotlight or a pulpit or a podium to make His space appropriate. 

He is where His are.

and so i'm going to have vespers in the wild, tucked in the moments between His every breath. i'm diving into His space, the ocean of His glory, and letting Him shed away my snakeskin for a sacred-Lioness mane and a mermaid tail.

what do i know of You who spoke me into motion? 

where have i even stood but the shore along Your ocean? 

what do i know of holy // addison road

// releasing all over again

{via pinterest}

i used to blog every single day.

before the season of my life when i was pregnant with our daughter, i was hitting publish every single day. and it was less because i was prolific, and more because i had a simple selfish goal in mind: i wanted to be famous.

at the time, i was barely out of my teens {which, if you want to be technical, i'm still barely out of my teens} and was shuffling my way around the youth blogging world. and let's be honest, there are some amazing young bloggers out there who are really putting their voices out there.

and of course, i wanted to be just like them. i've wanted to be a famous writer my entire life, and i suppose i thought, if i can't get a book published, i'll put my blog in the limelight instead.

but i lost myself somewhere in that process. i can remember staring at the laptop nearly sobbing with fear :: i don't know what to say. i'm out of words. but i have to write. 

my pregnancy which started out my 2012 spun me for a much needed loop. and down i came from my self-constructed pedestal , striking a lot of rocks on the way down that rocked me to the very core. my husband calls it the demolition. i call it the dark night of the soul. my wrestling with the Most High.

:: it was here that i started to find my voice.


the poet-king wailed his psalms, his poetic voice. and like David, wrapped in a cave in the side of a mountain, i started to strum my soul's strings and things started to come out. scary things, things that intimated me, things that made me want to shut down and give up.

but something told me not to do it, that maybe there was a purpose in this little internet corner that was about more than being famous, that was about reaching out and smearing warpaint on the cheeks of those who needed to know there was more, that they were more....and that they were seen. 

there is a gush of sacred, an embracing of selah, and the screaming wailing war-cry akin to giving birth. because it's a hard process, and it takes incredible strength. and it's okay to reach out, to take the hand of a soul-doula and press your forehead to hers and let it pour.

maybe it's not about the amount of words i can pound out in the space of a week. because i've started to find my groove, less posting but more writing. my word for 2013 was release, a word that i did not fully understand until these past couple months. a word that has been gripping me by the heart and speaking in the voice of the Lion that i adore

:: let. the eff. go. 
release to Me, you lioness.  
because I promise, I have not failed you yet.

and i've started to exhale, feeling all of me unclench and the surrender coming like a broken dam that brings a lot of tears and a lot of clinging to the One who is counting every single drop. the One who is seeing my awakening and is stroking my hair while i let it all go.

the King of Kings is holding back my hair.

and i'm not done yet, not by a long shot. i'm still working on my book, a dream that i have never given up. i have a brand-new jar of warpaint and a beautiful tribe with their hands on my shoulders.

and i'm ready.

falling up :: five minute fridays

{via pinterest}

falling scares me.

i watch The Amazing Race and whisper with my husband, i want to do that with you. and we talk about each challenge...could we, would you? but the height ones seem to make me swallow the hardest

and then there was the man who smiled at the tallest building in the world and said, oh, i love the heights. and i started at the screen agape, heart filling with something i still don't understand just yet.

and i'm realizing that it's more than just the simple heights of feet and inches up against the clouds. i've found myself afraid of high living, because there's always that chance i might plummet down with just one little misstep. and nothing scares me like that  idea that maybe i'm not as steady as i like to think.

but falling just might be what needs to happen. because there's that rush as your eyes close and the Breath rushes past your cheeks and there's nothing but you and the Lion in the silence, and you realize all of a sudden that you're flying.

i'm in awe of the way His wings feel against my cheek. or maybe it's the shock of the feathers sprouting out of my own fingertips as He whispers about the wings of eagles that He promised low in my soul.

it's sacred, holy ground. 

:: holy air.

and when my feet touch the ground again, i lift my wings to cover my face and whisper

worthy worthy, holy holy

maybe one day, i'll lean back with eyes closed and let myself just tumble hand in the hand with the One who fought death and won. tandem diving from earth to Heaven.

{linking five minutes of unedited stream of consciousness with lisa-jo }
join us?

red-lettered lowercase

{via pinterest}

i went back this morning and searched out the first post i ever wrote here sans capital letters. it was a spur of the moment, unstructured piece called ink of wait that i wrote in august of last year.

and i read that little poem and i cried like i did the day i wrote it, i remember. because oh, i wrote free then.

at the top of the blog of my dear friend, emily, there is a quote. thirteen words.

here is the world. beautiful and terrible things will happen. don't be afraid.

:: frederick beuchner :: 

and that quote grips me in the deep places that only me and Jesus can see. because it's more than just letters, after all. 

it's a fist pounding, a battle cry, a step against. because i am tired of the must-dos that Jesus didn't speak. the way the Church takes every word from their mouths and writes it in red, putting words and confinements into His mouth that taste bitter with sorrow and weigh heavy with impossibility. 

and letters are the first step.

i have turned the words of Mumford and Sons into a worship chant, a far-from-whispered battle march. 

awake my soul

awake my soul

awake my soul

you were made to meet your Maker. 

and that is where i live now. 

living in the red of His blood, and the black and white of truth and mercy. awakening to lowercase letters and unfettered freedom. 

:: releasing.  

seeker // wrestler

{via pinterest}

i am tired of being the condemned seeker.

when did it become a broken thing to be the one who searches? when questions are met with rolling eyes and huffing sighs.

you should know this already.

i am weary of tears being scorned. 

i am weary of wrestlers being watched with indignation. 

church, where have you gone?

broken daughter, where do you stand now?

judging souls, are you so flawless that scorn is something you are free to cast about like rocks into a rippling lake?

if we knew, we would not need an Answer. 

if we lived in a perpetual place of strength, would we still need a Rock? 

Jacob's wrestling gave birth to Israel. the fingers of the Son on his hip gave him lifelong pain and weakness.

for greatness to come, weakness must be accepted. 

i'm overwhelmed at this place in which we stand. 

we are the King's chosen. we did not walk up to this throne and demand our birthright. 

we came on hands and knees, torn and broken. dirty and abandoned by this world that never let us call it home. 

to love is to be vulnerable

-c.s. lewis 

not one of us was born here. we were all swaddled in grey and black and brown of sin and death and darkness. 

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but He gave us His garments of Light. but we had to come first. we had to crawl to His feet and reach out shaking fingers to brush against His hem.

be free, love. 

it's okay to let shaking knees and legs give way. it's okay to seek, to ponder, and to muse over Him. it's okay to not know it all.

be a seeker. 

be a muser. 

be a wrestler. 

let go 

and be. 

breath like His

it's become a thing across the blogging universe.

why do i blog? 

what brought me to this place?

and why do i continue?

i have already done my various posts of this sort, one of which can be found here. 

however, this is different. this is where.

where do i blog? where do i let myself be heard?

to start my September, i was honoured to receive the sacred becomes you award by my dear literary and heaven-bound sister, rain. 

the conviction which flooded me upon reading that post was almost enough to knock me to the ground, as well it should.

i don't blog on my knees enough. 

i think i like to to cling to this wobbling pedestal that looms above me. i don't know why that is, really. it's not that i think i'm something special or want to gloat over my fragile bits and pieces. 

i think my pride doesn't want to admit my smallness. my weaknesses. oh, how i hate my struggles, my moments of emptiness. to be counted as weak is a greater curse than being counted as silent. 

and so i stand. hard and fast against the gentle wind of my Savior's breath. this breath that should and must become my own...i fight and wrestle as though letting go is to die.

but then, isn't it?

isn't it my call to die to self and live for Him? so many greater than me have done so, and with joy. 

paul rejoiced in his infirmities, knowing this truth that i cannot yet grasp.

via Pintrest

But He said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.”Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. 

and so i must let go. i must die. to self, to me, to pride and control and my own strength. 

i must let my breath leave my will, and let His name take its place. 

for is His name, the most sacred, is yet my breath. 

the letters of the name of God in Hebrew… are infrequently pronounced Yahweh. But in truth they are inutterable….

This word {YHWY} is the sound of breathing.

The holiest name in the world, the Name of Creator, is the sound of your own breathing.That these letters are unpronounceable is no accident. Just as it is no accident that they are also the root letters of the Hebrew verb ‘to be’… God’s name is name of Being itself. ~Rabbi Lawrence Kushner

prematurely linking up with The Wellspring.
perhaps not a playdate per se, but oh what joy . 

Courageux

Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement that something else is more important than fear.  ~Ambrose Redmoon

The question has been asked.

What would you do if you knew you could not fail?


It's a frightening question, really.

What would our lives be like if fear was pushed to the back burner, and if letting someone down by our actions was impossible?

How would we live?

What mountains would you attempt to climb? What rivers would you swim or what cliffs would you traverse?

It's hard for me to not look back over my past and cringe at my own short comings...at those times that fear kept me from leaping ahead and taking things as they came, instead of running toward my nearest corner to hide from my own potential.

I think I'm going to make mid-year resolutions. I know I'm late to the game, but I'm going to start over.

I'm going to attack my life head-on. I am going to let go of my fears, and I am going to start trusting my God to supply my needs and carry my hurts.

I am going to leap into achieving my bucket list...those dreams that might seem just too big to reach.

I am going to continue to count my blessings, day by day.

I will speak the truth even if my voice quivers.

I am going to be real.

I am going to live as though I cannot fail.

And in Him, this is my reality.

Carpe diem. Carpe vitam. 

Seize the day. Seize life. 

Courage doesn't always roar.  Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says I'll try again tomorrow.  ~Mary Anne Radmacher

Voice

Freedom has a thousand charms to show,
That slaves, howe'er contented, never know.
~William Cowper

I was recently given a very great compliment by a blogging friend of mine. She commented to me that she loved how I had "found my voice."

It broke my heart and yet gave me such freedom to have to tell her that she was mistaken.

I don't have my voice yet.

Every post is an example of over-analysis...self-deprecation...doubt that allows nothing but perfection to escape into this blogging world.

Or into any part of the world, for that matter.

There is a tiny voice in my head that points out my every flaw...makes me feel guilty for mistakes I have not even made yet...for posting things that might offend my readers.

No, I have not yet found my voice.

Posts like skyeyes and grace alone. are slow steps of bravery.

Slow steps to freedom.

I won't even begin to pretend perfection, as much as I wish I could. Even as I wrote those above posts, my fingers shook at the idea of releasing just broken imperfection to the world at large.

I'm a broken mirror...I don't want my fractured reflection to ruin me.

I don't have my voice yet.

I'm currently undergoing vocal surgery.

I'm under the knife...

...it hurts as each cleansing pass of the blade cuts away more and more of my self-shame and indescribable fear.

He's changing me. He's mending the mirror.

I won't be the same when He's done.

I'll finally have a voice that I will be unashamed to use.

I never want to go back to prison.

To bondage.

To silence.

If I could hear Christ praying for me in the next room, I would not fear a million enemies.  Yet distance makes no difference.  He is praying for me.  ~Robert M. McCheyne