Matthew 23:27 “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you are like whitewashed tombs which indeed appear beautiful outwardly, but inside are full of dead men’s bones and all uncleanness.”
Dead men’s bones. I’m afraid this phrase captured me as soon as I read it. It touched me in a way that almost made me squirm. Because it’s true, and because these bones are inside of me.
These bones are the “old man” that Christ came to save me from. They are the last remnants of something evil or wrong or destructive that was once alive and once very much a part of me. And now, dead, they are still very much a part of me. They are the terrible, ugly, festering secrets that I keep locked inside. They are the dreadful truths about myself that I can ignore or hide when I’m with others.
But when I’m alone, they rise up like ghosts from the past, reminding me, haunting me, tormenting me - - telling me that I still have this dead person “living” inside of me, that it is still very much a part of who I am. All the old regrets; the wretched minutes of my short history that cost me so much; the “unChristian” feelings of depression, hatred, and bitterness that overwhelm me when I am weak. It all makes me feel so worthless, dirty, impure, and…dead.
When people see me, I don’t think they glimpse the dead men stirring inside. They see something else entirely. I know because there is one compliment which, directly or indirectly, I have often received over the past several years. And that is that I am always smiling. When they see me, they see joy. And that thrills me to my soul because that is what I want people to see in my life. Joy truly is a part of who I am, thanks so much to Jesus, and I want it to absolutely radiate from my life so that others can experience Him, too.
But I’m not always joyful inside. Sometimes it is when I am laughing the hardest that I am hurting the most.
I don’t think that dead men’s bones are supposed to be a part of our lives. Actually, I’m sure they’re not, being as they’re listed as a hypocritical flaw. But living without those destructive ghosts of the past would be so incredible…. I’m not sure if I can even imagine it. There would be such freedom. Relief. Healing. Wholeness. Genuine joy.
But how do I do away with those old bones? I have tried before and failed. Just when I think I have the bodies locked away in their caskets, the tops begin to creak open. And I can’t shut them all at once, no matter how hard I try. So the tops open wide, and the skeletons of my past arise more hideous than before.
There has to be a way to demolish these bones. And I know that there is. I know that I have to go to God; I know that I have to let go. So why do I cling to them? Why do I dwell on these miseries of my past? Is it because I like to feel ugly, worthless, and tarnished? Good heavens, no! Then why - - why when God is offering me new life - - do I cling to the old one?
Maybe it is because of shame. I know that those bones are part of who I once was and, try as I might to forget it, life won’t let me. A rift in a relationship, the hurt in someone’s eye, the innocent comment of a friend, the uprising of painfully well-known feelings, a cruel memory - - they all remind me that the effects of those once living bones reach far into my future. I look ahead and wonder if I can ever outlive or outgrow them. Painful reality tells me no.
I cannot do it on my own. God, maybe it’s time I really did let go. But how do I let go of the shame? I know that You have forgiven me, but can the others? Or will their looks and words torment me forever? God, how can I overcome the shame of life itself?
Dear God, please help. I’m ready to move on. I’m tired of being destroyed from the inside out. Please forgive me, God. Please forgive my wretchedness. “As far as the east is from the west….” Dear Lord, please take these dead men’s bones and bury them. Wipe away the shame that plagues me.
Dear Lord, I want to be free. I want to be clean. I want to be so full of You that there is no room for anything else. Please fill my mind and heart with good things; help me to dwell on You.
Dear God, please help me to let go.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
I Wish on Fireflies
There aren’t any stars here. That’s why I wish on fireflies.
Everybody has wishes. Everybody has dreams, even here in the dark hole where I live. Nothing special ever happens here. Nothing ever changes. It’s the same routine day in and day out. You wake up and get dressed. Sometimes you peek out the window to see if the sun has broken through. But it never has. The smog lies so heavy over the city that, even by midday, it’s barely a gray haze. And in the morning, it looks like midnight. So, if you did have the courage to peer outside, you drop the curtain with a sigh and face reality once again. You pull on your starched, clean uniform – the one you wear every single day, just like everybody else wears their uniform – and trudge outside. You go to work in the factories, laboring over the machinery that cough out those wretched fumes that block out the sun. And you work there all day, doing your job, talking small talk, losing yourself in the hypnosis of unending routine. You’re in a daze, and you can’t escape it because if you did, then you would never be able to endure your job. Your shift ends, you gather your things, and you walk back home. It’s no lighter now than it was when you left your house this morning. The sky is dusky and sullen and the air itself is so thick that the street lights can barely penetrate. You’re walking in a silent, cold, strangely vague world in which you’re completely detached from the person only two feet to your left, the person you work alongside of every day, the person you laugh and chat with on the way home, the person who you know is as blind and soul-dead as you are. You part ways on the street corner and you go into your own house. Two of your family members hold the same shift as you so you all share dinner together. Then you go to your separate rooms for the rest of the evening.
And that’s when the trouble starts. That’s when IT comes alive. As soon as your door clicks shut behind you, IT wakes up. The tiny little part inside of you that you’ve buried all day, that’s been squashed under demands and expectations and rituals and darkness and normal life. That tiny little thing called your soul. That tiny little flame called hope. That tiny little something that is completely different than what “ordinary” calls for.
IT flares up inside of you, igniting dreams, hopes, regrets, passions…emotions that you can’t afford if you want to exist in this misery. So you cringe, shut your eyes, clench your jaw, and try to shake these thoughts out of your head. And then, for just a moment, you give in. You listen to that hope, to that feebly beating life of your soul. You remember what it used to be like to dream. You remember what love, connection, and friendship once meant to you. You remember the passion that used to drive life before you became caught up in this vicious, endless circle of day-to-day existence. And then you look at the clock and you remember that another dull, heartless morning awaits you. So you crawl into bed, let a few teardrops slip from your eyes, and dive into the nothingness of sleep that manages to temporarily dull the ache of your soul.
At least, that’s how it works for most of you. I know that’s how it used to be for me. Each mundane day ended in with a bitter ache in my heart. I had dreams, too. Dreams, hopes, regrets, tears…my heart promised me that there was so much more to life, so much more than I could ever grasp! And it was all out of my reach. It was like looking through a filthy window and being told to pluck the flower you can barely see on the other side. You know the flower’s there - - as long as your mind’s not playing tricks on you - - and you also know that you can never reach it. And that’s what causes all the heartache.
It’s there. And it’s out of your reach.
Wishes don’t come true simply because you want them to. Think about all the fairy tales. So many of those characters had wishes and dreams of their own, but they couldn’t do anything about them until they had something to wish upon. Belle longed to return to the Beast, but until she wore the ring he gave her, she couldn’t wish herself home. Cinderella dreamed of going to the Grand Ball, but it wasn’t until she met her magical fairy godmother that her wish was granted. The poor boy Aladdin wanted to win the hand of the princess, but he didn’t have the means of doing so until Genie granted him three wishes.
We all have wishes, but we have to wish on something to make them come true. Legend tells us to wish upon a star. “Star bright, starlight; first star I see to tonight; I wish I may, I wish I might, Have the wish I wish tonight.”
But what happens when you can’t see a single star? Ever?
Most people would tell you to forget about it. Quit chasing fantasy and settle for reality. That’s at least the message I got when, night after night, I stared at an unrelenting canopy of darkness. I didn’t want to accept the fact that there aren’t always stars in this world I live in, that dreams don’t always come true, that wishes were hopeless without a star.
I almost had given up hope that night I got up the gumption to pull back the curtains one last time before I went to bed. Something inside of me said I was foolish, there wouldn’t be anything there, I would just be disappointing myself. And yet my hand trembled with the persistent “what if.” What if, for even a split second, I could see a single star? So I pulled back the curtain and I saw….THEM.
Fireflies.
And they nearly took my breath away. They weren’t dull electric lights. They weren’t dimmed by the murky air. And they weren’t methodically, rhythmically, tediously following a set course. They were flitting hither and thither, shining and shimmering. They were beautiful. They were out of the ordinary.
And they were my Stars.
Stars that promised hope. Hope that things could be different. Hope that there was always a bit of brightness somewhere in the dark. Hope that daily living didn’t have to drag the life out of a soul. Hope that there was something more. Hope that wishes do come true.
Maybe I’ll never have any stars in my life. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have fireflies. Sometimes life doesn’t hand you the big grand things you want. So you take what you can get. I get fireflies. I don’t see them every night; often I look out my window and wonder if they ever were really there. But then, on the nights that I truly, desperately need them, they show up. Blinking, dancing, hoping, promising….
I know that someday my wishes will come true. I know that someday my hopes will be fulfilled.
That’s why I wish on fireflies.
Everybody has wishes. Everybody has dreams, even here in the dark hole where I live. Nothing special ever happens here. Nothing ever changes. It’s the same routine day in and day out. You wake up and get dressed. Sometimes you peek out the window to see if the sun has broken through. But it never has. The smog lies so heavy over the city that, even by midday, it’s barely a gray haze. And in the morning, it looks like midnight. So, if you did have the courage to peer outside, you drop the curtain with a sigh and face reality once again. You pull on your starched, clean uniform – the one you wear every single day, just like everybody else wears their uniform – and trudge outside. You go to work in the factories, laboring over the machinery that cough out those wretched fumes that block out the sun. And you work there all day, doing your job, talking small talk, losing yourself in the hypnosis of unending routine. You’re in a daze, and you can’t escape it because if you did, then you would never be able to endure your job. Your shift ends, you gather your things, and you walk back home. It’s no lighter now than it was when you left your house this morning. The sky is dusky and sullen and the air itself is so thick that the street lights can barely penetrate. You’re walking in a silent, cold, strangely vague world in which you’re completely detached from the person only two feet to your left, the person you work alongside of every day, the person you laugh and chat with on the way home, the person who you know is as blind and soul-dead as you are. You part ways on the street corner and you go into your own house. Two of your family members hold the same shift as you so you all share dinner together. Then you go to your separate rooms for the rest of the evening.
And that’s when the trouble starts. That’s when IT comes alive. As soon as your door clicks shut behind you, IT wakes up. The tiny little part inside of you that you’ve buried all day, that’s been squashed under demands and expectations and rituals and darkness and normal life. That tiny little thing called your soul. That tiny little flame called hope. That tiny little something that is completely different than what “ordinary” calls for.
IT flares up inside of you, igniting dreams, hopes, regrets, passions…emotions that you can’t afford if you want to exist in this misery. So you cringe, shut your eyes, clench your jaw, and try to shake these thoughts out of your head. And then, for just a moment, you give in. You listen to that hope, to that feebly beating life of your soul. You remember what it used to be like to dream. You remember what love, connection, and friendship once meant to you. You remember the passion that used to drive life before you became caught up in this vicious, endless circle of day-to-day existence. And then you look at the clock and you remember that another dull, heartless morning awaits you. So you crawl into bed, let a few teardrops slip from your eyes, and dive into the nothingness of sleep that manages to temporarily dull the ache of your soul.
At least, that’s how it works for most of you. I know that’s how it used to be for me. Each mundane day ended in with a bitter ache in my heart. I had dreams, too. Dreams, hopes, regrets, tears…my heart promised me that there was so much more to life, so much more than I could ever grasp! And it was all out of my reach. It was like looking through a filthy window and being told to pluck the flower you can barely see on the other side. You know the flower’s there - - as long as your mind’s not playing tricks on you - - and you also know that you can never reach it. And that’s what causes all the heartache.
It’s there. And it’s out of your reach.
Wishes don’t come true simply because you want them to. Think about all the fairy tales. So many of those characters had wishes and dreams of their own, but they couldn’t do anything about them until they had something to wish upon. Belle longed to return to the Beast, but until she wore the ring he gave her, she couldn’t wish herself home. Cinderella dreamed of going to the Grand Ball, but it wasn’t until she met her magical fairy godmother that her wish was granted. The poor boy Aladdin wanted to win the hand of the princess, but he didn’t have the means of doing so until Genie granted him three wishes.
We all have wishes, but we have to wish on something to make them come true. Legend tells us to wish upon a star. “Star bright, starlight; first star I see to tonight; I wish I may, I wish I might, Have the wish I wish tonight.”
But what happens when you can’t see a single star? Ever?
Most people would tell you to forget about it. Quit chasing fantasy and settle for reality. That’s at least the message I got when, night after night, I stared at an unrelenting canopy of darkness. I didn’t want to accept the fact that there aren’t always stars in this world I live in, that dreams don’t always come true, that wishes were hopeless without a star.
I almost had given up hope that night I got up the gumption to pull back the curtains one last time before I went to bed. Something inside of me said I was foolish, there wouldn’t be anything there, I would just be disappointing myself. And yet my hand trembled with the persistent “what if.” What if, for even a split second, I could see a single star? So I pulled back the curtain and I saw….THEM.
Fireflies.
And they nearly took my breath away. They weren’t dull electric lights. They weren’t dimmed by the murky air. And they weren’t methodically, rhythmically, tediously following a set course. They were flitting hither and thither, shining and shimmering. They were beautiful. They were out of the ordinary.
And they were my Stars.
Stars that promised hope. Hope that things could be different. Hope that there was always a bit of brightness somewhere in the dark. Hope that daily living didn’t have to drag the life out of a soul. Hope that there was something more. Hope that wishes do come true.
Maybe I’ll never have any stars in my life. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have fireflies. Sometimes life doesn’t hand you the big grand things you want. So you take what you can get. I get fireflies. I don’t see them every night; often I look out my window and wonder if they ever were really there. But then, on the nights that I truly, desperately need them, they show up. Blinking, dancing, hoping, promising….
I know that someday my wishes will come true. I know that someday my hopes will be fulfilled.
That’s why I wish on fireflies.
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