The Nonsense I Believe

(a recent journal entry)

...

South Africa, 2006.  Kids from the shanty town show up every day for class.

I'm looking for a spark.

I don't feel the Holy Spirit pressing me to read any certain book of Scripture, so I let time pass without reading anything.

I don't know what ministry I might have in Seattle, so I wait to get involved with anything.

I'm not learning anything new about him, so I let myself believe it's a "season" of his silence.

But, nonsense.

It is true that I can't do much on my own.  I need God to teach me new things, to speak to my heart and draw me closer to Him. I need him to do the work in my Spirit. I cannot be near to him without him pulling me near.  But sometimes I think I let that truth become a lie because I fall back and wait for his "pursual of me" to be the spark I'm looking for. 

What nonsense!  He is waiting on me.  He has been pursuing humanity since the beginning of time.  He gave us the entire Bible as a gift and every word of it is inspired, useful, and worth reading all the time.  He tells us to put our faith into action with works of love as a natural part of our life.  Sometimes he calls us into specific ministries, but mostly good works are supposed to be a part of our most basic personality in Christ.  We don't have to wait for his "okay" on that one, and we certainly don't need to wait until we're convicted otherwise. 

I've got to stop believing the lie that just because I need him to do the work in teaching and leading me, I wait around doing nothing until he does.  That's like a child not showing up for school because he can't learn without a teacher.  Because it's the teacher's job to teach.  It's silly, but I've been believing it without even realizing I was doing so.  

My education and sanctification will be something that he does, not something I can do or earn on my own, but I've got to show up! I've got to come, to draw near, to respond to all that he has already done so that I can approach him in confidence.  He has made it possible that I might draw near to the Throne and talk to him like a father.

This morning the throne room looks like a card table stained with many indications of Tupperware parties and late nights of poker.  It sounds like a dumpster crashing bottles under our window.  Smells like coffee.  But it is here under the dim glow of adjustable track lighting that I have come, just to be near him.  To show up and let him be with me.  To finally respond, again, to his pursual of me.  

Of everyone.