Thin Air, High Hope

I’ve written quite a bit recently about being in a season of rest, a kind of in-between. It’s been a surprisingly difficult time spiritually. I expected that having more open space in my days would lead to deeper connection with God, to greater clarity in my relationship with Him. But it hasn’t, at least not in the way I imagined.

As fall approaches, bringing with it all the busyness it promises, I find myself feeling a little disappointed in myself. Why don’t I have more peace by now? More faith? More clarity?

Instead, I’ve been full of restlessness, and even guilt. I’ve been craving my to-do lists. I keep ending the day wondering whether I’ve done enough, or used my time wisely enough, (especially when the world around me seems to be crumbling a bit more everyday). Somewhere along the way, long before this season, I began believing that God’s affection was something I had to earn. This unsettledness makes reading, “Relentless”, by Michele Cushatt feel especially timely right now.

In the chapter I’m on, the author reflects on the story of the Israelites in the Old Testament, how God freed them from slavery and cared for them as they traveled toward a new land.

In the story, a pattern emerges. To oversimplify it: God saves, the people are happy, time passes, they grow anxious and begin to grumble, forgetting what God has done. Then God reminds them of His goodness, (sometimes with discipline), the people are happy again, and the whole cycle repeats.

What becomes clear, again and again, is that it’s God who takes the first step to repair the relationship. Despite the people’s careless and often insulting behavior, He stays faithful to a promise He made long ago to Abraham. From the beginning, God made a sacred commitment to remain true to His people. And more than that, He promised to take full responsibility for keeping that commitment. If He were unfaithful, He would pay the cost. And even when His people were unfaithful, He would still pay the cost.

In Jesus, we see the ultimate fulfillment of that promise. Through Him, God shows that He will do absolutely anything to open the way for a relationship with us. No amount of unfaithfulness, rebellion, apathy, or even wickedness can sever our chance at an unhindered connection with the Father. Centuries earlier, God had promised to pay whatever price was necessary to stay close to us, and He followed through, offering what was most precious to Him: His Son.

I remember when this became real to me, when I caught a glimpse of the overwhelming love God has for me, and the freedom and forgiveness that come with accepting it. I can’t say I fully understand it. But then again, can anyone fully understand why someone else loves them madly and completely? Unconditional love always holds a bit of mystery.

And yet, somewhere along the way, I started taking on responsibility for the relationship myself, as if it all depended on me. I forgot that I am the same person who first came to God weak, burdened and exhausted. If I’m not careful, I slip into a kind of checklist mindset, using my performance as a measure of where I stand with God.

It’s the same old pattern: trying to meet God halfway, as if the burden of relationship falls on me. But it doesn’t. That’s why a sermon I heard last night struck me so deeply. While the pastor’s original intent was to paint a picture of what it looks like to sincerely worship Jesus, it offered my own heart a living picture of what it means to come empty-handed, and still be received.

The sermon was about a woman who loved Jesus. She’s described simply as a “sinful” woman, most likely a sex worker. Desperate to see Him, she walks boldly into a dinner party hosted by the religious elite and kneels at His feet.

She weeps as she hovers there. For a long time, I assumed she was crying out of shame. But now I wonder: what if she was crying out of gratitude, the kind of weeping that comes when you are fully seen and fully loved?

Her tears mix with the dust on Jesus’ feet, dust from hours of walking. She unravels her hair to wipe them clean, then pours expensive oil over them. The pastor noted that later in Scripture, a woman’s hair is described as her “glory.” In that moment, she literally “muddies” her glory.

She gave everything in that moment: her dignity, her reputation, even the approval of the religious voices around her. She didn’t come to Jesus in a respectable or polished way. She didn’t come with a checklist. She came with her whole self, messy, broken, open, and she left everything at His feet.

She came with nothing, and yet Jesus met her there. She seemed to grasp what the Israelites kept missing, and what I so often miss myself: that this story never starts with us. It starts with a God who meets us first.

That’s what this season is revealing to me in an uncomfortable but necessary way.

In an odd way, the discomfort I feel as this season comes to a close has been encouraging. It’s revealing something in my heart that can’t stay there. It’s exposing my sources of “glory,” the things I rely on for security and identity. It’s showing me how much I depend on productivity to feel at peace with God. How often I hesitate to enter His presence if I don’t feel like I’m bringing something worthy.

Surely the sinful woman didn’t feel “good enough” when she entered Jesus’ presence. But I’m guessing she wasn’t focused on what she was bringing Him, only on how He was receiving her.

That’s the place I want to return to every day: a place of laid-down, muddied glory at the feet of Jesus. I want to bring everything, all my checklists, all the little vain things that make me stand a bit taller, and put them in their proper place: covered in dust and tears at His feet.

I want to be able to say what Paul says: “I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.” And I draw comfort from his words just a few lines later: “Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect…”

As one season ends and another begins, I’m not sure I accomplished everything I hoped for, or even managed to avoid the things I wanted to avoid. I still don’t know how to uproot the checklists my heart clings to. I don’t know how to free myself from the unrelenting standards I carry, standards so often reinforced by both church culture and secular culture alike.

But I’m drawn to this woman’s example. I’m reminded that hearing a different message begins at the feet of Jesus, returning to the safety and security of His love in a room full of competing voices. There, we receive the promise of forgiveness and peace. Again and again and again.

As C.S. Lewis wrote, “Relying on God has to begin all over again every day, as if nothing had yet been done.”

So I want to say it here, as public of a place that I have: If I take anything from this season, it is this: the commitment to keep returning to Jesus, to hear again the words He spoke to the sinful woman: “Your sins are forgiven… your faith has saved you. Go in peace.”