The Lonely Pastor

A few months ago, I found myself sitting at a table in the back of the sanctuary of the church where I'd been on staff going on five years.   I stared at the table as a letter was read aloud to me.  It had been decided that - for various reasons - I would no longer be on staff and would be leaving the church that I loved dearly.    I can't explain how deeply this hurt.  To lose a job as a pastor isn't about a paycheck.  It's about family.  It's about letting go of people you've invested your entire heart into.   And of all the deaths, tragedies, and grief I've experienced, to leave a church is the most painful thing I've been asked to do.  

One of the reasons that this grief is so deep - and the reason I want to focus on - is the fact that many of the constituents of this church are my friends.   Not just friendly acquaintances.  But real friends.  Those people you call at 2:00 in the morning when there's an emergency.  Men and women who are written into your will and have agreed to raise your kids if you die an untimely death.    Friends who have seen you on your absolute worst days and know your deepest sins and greatest accomplishments.  Friends who know all your personality flaws but choose to call out the good in you.  Friends who have watched you struggle with the same thing over and over again, but still encourage you to do better.  Friends you call for advice on marriage or parenting or finances or cooking a pot roast.  Real friends.  

"Going to church" is a central part of my life.   It's not just something my family and I do... it's part of who we are.   We serve, we pray, we worship with our friends, we laugh and cry and mourn and rejoice with dear brothers and sisters who we live life with... all in the context of church.  My husband and I have developed deep and lasting real friendships within our church family.   To not be with them each Sunday is painful and difficult.  

So I completely understand why a very well-meaning and loving friend approached me a few weeks after my departure from the church staff and confidently said, "Maybe this is why you shouldn't ever pastor a church where your friends attend."   I know what she meant.  She meant that it would be easier to not put myself in a position in which I'd have to sever ties with my friends.   She meant that choosing loneliness in ministry would be worth not getting hurt again.  

I didn't immediately disregard the comment.  I actually thought about it for several days.   I wondered if she was right.  I wondered if I should put up walls and not let people in if I'm ever appointed to another church.   I wondered if I should choose professionalism and stoicism over authenticity and vulnerability.   

But I can't do that.  I won't do that.   It's taken me a few decades to tear down all those walls.  It's taken years to let people in.  It's taken a lot of work to get to a place where I'm okay with my story and my scars.   And it's been an uphill battle to get to a place of surrender... a place of holding loosely the things God gives, because those things - and people - are just as easily taken away.   

I've heard a lot of pastors say that they're lonely.  Most of them also say that loneliness is "just part of being a pastor".   Even though I understand there are certainly elements of pastoring that no one aside from pastors can empathize with, I don't think loneliness is part of what I'm called to as a minister of the Gospel.    When I look at Jesus, I don't see a man who kept everyone at arm's length or refused to let people in.  No, I see a man who invited twelve men into the most intimate parts of His life; day in and day out for nearly three years.   When I look at Jesus, I see a servant leader who chose to invest His life into His dearest friends.  When I look at Jesus, I see a man who wept over death and betrayal because they involved people He loved with His whole heart.   

And to look at a less deified example, Paul models deep friendship with those he pastored.  I can almost feel Paul's heart when he writes Romans 16... "to my dear friend..." over and over and over again.  For an entire chapter, he individually greets the men and women he loved and worked alongside during his missionary journeys.  In Acts 20, when Paul was leaving Ephesus, he said his somber goodbyes and his friends wept because they knew they'd never see him again.  Paul had deep and sincere friendships with those he pastored.   It shows up in almost every single book he writes.   I'm certainly not an historian or theologian, but I think it's an accurate assessment that Paul was a pretty effective pastor, and he loved with his whole heart. He said the hard things and offered discipline when needed.  But he loved those people - not just the church as a whole as but individuals - deeply and authentically. 

As for me, I will choose to love freely and deeply and without walls.  (Yes, I'm aware of healthy boundaries; that's another post for a different day.)   I will rejoice with my friends.  With the Church. I will mourn with them.  I will serve them.   I will break bread with them.  I will walk alongside them when they marry off their children and bury their parents.   I will sit with them when they are broken and tired.  I will laugh with them when they are on the high side of the mountain.   And I will let them do the same with me.  I will not choose the life of a lonely pastor.  

Keep your eyes open, hold tight to your convictions, give it all you’ve got, be resolute, and love without stopping.   - 1 Corinthians 16:13-14

My Very Un-Political Post

"The Spirit teaches me to yield my will entirely to the will of the Father.  He discovers to me how union with God's will is union with God Himself; how entire surrender to God's will is the Father's claim, the Son's example, and the true blessedness of the soul." 
 -Andrew Murray

“Teacher,” the man replied, “I’ve obeyed all these commandments since I was young.” Looking at the man, Jesus felt genuine love for him. “There is still one thing you haven’t done,” he told him. “Go and sell all your possessions and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.” At this the man’s face fell, and he went away sad, for he had many possessions.     - Mark 10:20-22

It's April 11, 2020.  Tomorrow is Easter Sunday.   The nation and the world are in the middle of the COVID-19 (coronavirus) pandemic.   Just a few days ago the governor of Michigan extended the executive orders.   For three weeks Michigan residents were issued a "Shelter in Place" order.    We could go to stores, travel freely, and purchase take out food.  Schools have been closed for four weeks now in an attempt to slow the spread of this virus.

But on Monday there was a tightening of those executive orders. Restrictions have been placed on what I can purchase.  Someone else has decided what is "essential" for me to buy or what services I receive.   Groceries, essential.    Bug spray, not essential.   McDonalds, essential.   Vegetable seeds, not essential.  Fuel, essential.  My annual physical checkup, not essential.  

Like I promised, this is not a political post.  So stay with me...  I have my own personal thoughts, opinions, and response to these executive orders, but I'm not using this platform for that purpose. 

The thing that interests me so much is that people were, for the most part, okay with the executive orders last week.  They had "partial freedom."  For all intents and purposes their comfort level wasn't affected.   But a line was crossed for them this week.  I think everyone has their own line.  For some it was being denied the right to travel to their second home that they rightfully own.   For others it was being denied the right to complete their home improvement projects that they had started when they were laid off work a few weeks ago.   For some it's the continued restriction on gathering sizes, forbidding them to congregate and worship, especially on Easter weekend, the signature holiday of Christianity.  People are coming out of the woodwork (mostly on social media because that's the primary source of communication we have right now), loudly declaring "the governor has gone too far!"... "Our constitution is being violated!"... You get the idea.  People are ticked.  They're fighting mad.  They're willing to give up some rights, at least temporarily.  But they're not willing to give up this many rights.   In the minds of many, what is being asked of us - demanded of us - is inappropriate.  

And as I think about all the people who are voicing their frustration about this, I've decided that I do the same thing with God.   In the words of James 1:8, "My loyalty is divided between God and the world, and I am unstable in everything I do". As Easter approaches I think of the example Jesus gave us when He prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane as His arrest, beating, and death grew closer.  "Not my will but yours be done, Father."   His was a model of complete surrender to God, a complete relinquishment of all His rights, even His right to live.  He didn't submit to an executive order, but to the will of a Good Father who asks us to lay down all our rights so that we could know the Way of Surrender.  As counter-intuitive as that sounds, the Way of Surrender is the best way because it forces us toward God.   


But I respond to God just like some people are responding to executive orders.  I'm okay with a "reasonable" amount of surrender to God.   Yes I can stop swearing, be nicer to people, and attend church on a semi-regular basis.  Heck, I'll even pray and read my Bible.  That's appropriate and acceptable.    But to surrender my money?   To surrender that hurt that I experienced all those years ago?   To surrender my dreams and goals?  To surrender my anger and unforgiveness toward that person? To surrender my sexuality?  To surrender my right to control?!?!   Who does God think He is?!?!?   

Well, He's God.  

And much like the Rich Young Ruler (see the scripture above), I sometimes think that God goes too far in demanding things from me.  The Rich Young Ruler followed all the important rules.   I do that too.    He even ran to Jesus and fell at His feet.   I do that too.  He asked the hard question of "How can I inherit eternal life?".  I ask Jesus the hard questions too.  But like the Rich Young Ruler, sometimes the answer makes me sad.   Jesus' answer is that we have to give up everything.  The point of that story in Mark 10 isn't that you have to give up your money.   No, the point is much bigger than that.   The point is that God is asking you to give up all your rights.  

For me it's the right to be right.   The right to be treated fairly.  The right to have the things that I've worked for. The right to be respected.  The right to be compensated for my "spiritual work."    

I can only assume that I'm starting to step on toes.  But in God's economy I believe that relinquishing rights isn't a bad thing.  It's actually a marvelous, freedom-giving thing!   I know that sounds backwards, that relinquishing rights can bring freedom.    But if Romans 6 is true (I believe it is) then I'm actually a spiritual slave when I hold onto to all my rights.  Here's what Romans 6:16-18 says:

"Don’t you realize that you become the slave of whatever you choose to obey? You can be a slave to sin, which leads to death, or you can choose to obey God, which leads to righteous living.  Thank God! Once you were slaves of sin, but now you wholeheartedly obey this teaching we have given you. Now you are free from your slavery to sin, and you have become slaves to righteous living."

So throw politics out the window.  I'm speaking to you in spiritual terms right now.   What are you a slave to?   What are you choosing to obey?   Are you holding onto your own rights, your own stuff?   Or are you a slave to "righteous living?"   Are your loyalties divided between God and the world?   Or is your heart focused on serving Him well?  Are you unstable in everything you do?    Or are you standing firm on His Truth and believing that surrendering your will and your rights is truly the best thing to do?  

My prayer for you - and for me - this Easter is that we would wave a white flag of surrender and give up all our rights, all our will.  That we would wholeheartedly obey His teaching and become free to live as slaves of righteousness.     

Me and My Unquiet Heart: Laying Down an Anxious Spirit

I sought the Lord, and he answered me; he delivered me from all my fears.   - Psalm 34:4

I didn't grow up observing Lent.  Now as an adult, it's one of the most intentional times of the year for me.  It's interesting to me that even though it falls in the Hebrew month that symbolizes joy and fruitfulness, Lent itself is recognized by the church as a time of repentance and sorrow.  I guess the thing that intrigues me even more is that these two contrasting themes can and do beautifully coexist within my heart.   

God has been teaching me a lot of lessons lately.   If my spiritual life were to be compared to a college education, I feel like I'm currently earning a triple major with a double minor!   He's teaching me about Himself, how He loves me and extends mercy unconditionally, how to relate to others, how I interact with my own thoughts, how even my own experiences can deceive me when not viewed through the lens of Scripture... I thought this season of life was going to be "down time" for me, but God had other plans.  

Today God highlighted yet another lesson.   I spent the day minding my own business, working on sermon prep, creating powerpoint presentations, finalizing upcoming travel plans, searching for community resources, and doing some supplemental reading to help augment my Bible study. I didn't think much of my day until a friend texted me asking if I was okay.  She said I'd been "awfully quiet," and she just wanted to check on me.   I was vaguely confused by her text  for just a moment and responded that I didn't have anything to be "unquiet" about. But all of the sudden I realized how much I thoughtlessly reach out to people out of anxiety.  Sure, I send texts and make phone calls because I genuinely care for people.   But often times keeping in constant contact stems out of fear that someone will up and leave me without my consent.  So I need to know they're still there, still willing to talk to me, still being my friend, still loving me, still not leaving me.    

It feels pathetic and too vulnerable to admit that.  To admit that I actually want - or even need - people to love me.  And anxiety somehow fuels that.  It was the exclamation point of the lesson when another good friend of mine chuckled a little too readily last night when I mentioned I didn't think I struggled "too much" with anxiety.  She laughed.  I laughed with her but inside I was smarting, hurt by knowing my anxiety was so evidently on display for others to see.  Deep sorrow followed by genuine repentance accompanied me to bed last night and woke up with me this morning.  

So today, when I received that text checking in because I'd been quiet all day, my sorrow and repentance had to make room for joy and fruitfulness. Just last week, I asked God to dissolve my old ways of thinking.  I specifically used the word dissolve because I told God I didn't think I could handle an abrupt change.   Basically, I asked Him go easy on me!   I realized that for the first time in a long time - maybe weeks or months or years - I experienced no anxiety over any relationships today.  Even when I had to cancel plans with a friend for tonight... I was sad, but not anxious.   

And when I realized that, joy came.  There was still a remnant of sorrow and maybe even regret of all the things anxiety has stolen from me, namely the ability to genuinely enjoy my relationships for what they are.   But that sorrow had to make room for joy.  And then came the awareness of fruitfulness... The fruit of peace and self-control.   I sought the Lord and asked Him to dissolve my old ways of thinking... He is certainly answering me and delivering me from fear.    

Ash Wednesday: Beautiful Things out of the Dust

 "...He will give a crown of beauty for ashes, a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair. In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks that the Lord has planted for his own glory."   Isaiah 61:3

Today is Ash Wednesday, which marks the beginning of Lent.  Today is also the first day of the month of Adar, which is the Hebrew month of Joy.   

The past few weeks have been filled with long, difficult conversations with God. Conversations about expectations, perceptions, passion, motivation... and submission and surrender.  Lots and lots of conversation about submission and surrender.   God seems to have stopped being subtle with me.   In whatever season this is that I currently find myself, there are no whispers or secret codes or hard-to-decipher analogies.   Instead it seems like God has picked up one of those Little Caesar's signs that the high school kids wave on the side of the road to get you to stop in and grab a pizza.    God has that sign, a bright orange background with block letters emblazoned on the front if it, waving it at my windshield as I sit at a stoplight waiting for the red light to turn green...  "SURRENDER!  SUBMIT!  LAY IT ALL DOWN!"   No subtlety, this God of mine.    The scene doesn't feel very joyful in my mind. 

Tonight as I sat through an Ash Wednesday service at a church not my own, God again made sure to bring His sign to wave in front of my face and over my heart.    I heard Him say again, "Surrender!  Submit! Lay it all down!"  It's not a barking command as much as a firm invitation.   I heard His  invitational words again as I and a few hundred others sang out the lyrics to a song:  "You make beautiful things. You make beautiful things out of the dust. You make beautiful things. You make beautiful things out of us."

And as I sang, all the lessons I've been learning were laying before me.  He finally had my attention.   And finally, fearful hesitation gave way to joyful surrender as I realized that all of my expectations, perceptions, passions, and motivations... they really are dust.   But when I submit them to Him, He makes something beautiful out of them. It's taken me twenty years to learn that submitting to God doesn't mean I'm settling for second best.  Surrendering to Him is actually giving myself permission to receive God's very best for me.  My plans and expectations pale in comparison to His.  He's the God who formed all of creation ex nihilo, out of nothing.  Certainly He can take my plans and form something beautiful.     And that, my friends, is a joyous thing. 

So today on the first day of Lent, I choose to lay down all those neatly organized plans I've composed for myself.   All the alphabetical, color-coded, laminated outlines for my life (if you know me well you realize that's not much of an exaggeration)...  He gets to have them.   I am confident He will make beautiful things out the dust, and it will all be for His glory.  Oh, the joy that floods my soul now that I've realized the power and beauty of surrender.  

Sweet Redemption

Redemptive.   A friend, unbeknownst to her, recently reminded me that this is the perfect word to describe the past year of my life.   I keep staring at the word, letting it roll around in my head.   Every form of it is beautiful to me.   Redeem.  Redemption.  Redemptive.  Redeemer.  My heart has gone through this slow but life-giving process; a process that I never had hope would happen.

Twelve months ago, my view of the church establishment or organized religion was bleak at best.  I wholeheartedly proclaim to follow the way of Jesus, but I’d lost hope that the church as a whole could ever pull themselves together enough to represent Him well.   I looked around me and saw nothing but indifference, immaturity, selfishness, pride, and self-righteous thinking.  And for whatever reason, it felt like all this indifference and immaturity and selfishness was directly affecting me, making my life a living hell.   This wasn’t a new thing; I’d experienced glimpses of this cynicism over the course of my entire life.   But it had become too much to bear, and I seriously considered walking away from the church institution.  

I keep trying to put my finger on when change started happening.   But it’s like trying to remember falling asleep or waking up… sometimes it happens so slowly, so gradually, that you don’t even notice when the process has started, or when it’s complete.   Maybe the process started when one of the most genuine pastors I have ever met decided to take me under his wing; decided to take responsibility for this broken, cynical, beat up kid who was trying to make heads or tails of the church.   Maybe it started when a friend looked me in the eye and shed a tear over the hurt that I was feeling.   Maybe it started when a person who hurt me came to me with a genuine apology, a genuine sense of regret, and I finally let her words hit my heart. 

I don’t know when it started.   But in every sense of the word, redemption was taking place.   I was sure of it.  Broken things were being restored.  Wrongfully forgotten things were being rightfully remembered.  And hope, however slowly, was coming alive in me.  I have a personality that lends itself to constant internal struggle and tension.   I’m an “idealistic pessimist”.   I have all these pie-in-the-sky ideas.   I have dreams of grandeur.   I daydream of a utopian, mission-filled church.    But in the midst of all that, I have little hope that any of it would ever happen, because humanity is one giant failure.   So I’m essentially left feeling defeated and deflated and disgusted.  It’s a vicious cycle, but I’ve learned to embrace it.  

And maybe this redemption is just part of the cycle.  I hope not… it doesn’t feel like part of the cycle.   It feels different.  The type of hope I have feels pure, real, God-given.   Wherever it’s come from, I have it. It's here now.   I have this burning hope and expectancy of what the church can become.   I’ve seen the tiniest evidences of it.   I’ve seen what can happen when people let go of their pride for a second.  I’ve experienced first-hand what can happen when, just for a moment, we decide that it doesn’t matter who’s right, or who’s wrong, or who hurt who first.   I’ve seen what can happen when a few people look at humility like it’s not an option, but like it’s the only way to live.   And that breathes hope into me.  

That, to me, is the very purpose of the church.   Yeah, I know the Holy Spirit is the One who essentially fills us with hope.  But it’s the church who reminded me of it.  It’s the church who has been speaking life back into me.   It’s the church who picked up this pathetic excuse of a Christ-follower and gave me a second – or tenth – chance.   It’s the church who put up with my anger, cynicism, and bitterness, and listened and stayed with me as they watched it all melt away.  Little did I know, the church is the reason all the anger, cynicism, and bitterness was melting in the first place.  

I’m awake now.  I’m not in the fog; the gray space between wake and sleep, dream and consciousness.   I’m fully awake, and I see redemption all around me.  I see redemption in me.  

Unicorns and Rainbows

Let me just come right out and give this disclaimer:  I am embarrassed to publish this post.  It's taken me a few weeks to gather up the gumption to even start typing it.   But I suspect my brain won't leave me alone until I release it via written text, so here it goes.

I am not a "Rainbows and Unicorns" kind of girl.   I don't wear pink cardigans or glittery nail polish.   I'm not a happy-go-lucky optimist.   No, I'm more of a negative realist.   I wear gray and navy.   My happy face is my excited face is my sad face is my annoyed face is my every day face.   I believe bad things happen to good people for no apparent reason, and those good people can choose what to do with those horrible circumstances.  They can either grow through them or wallow in them.  I've personally chosen both on varying occasions.   Anyway... to choose to sit down and write what I'm about to write.... it's not comfortable.   

I pray.    I pray a lot.   I pray for myself, for my husband, for my kids, for my friends.   But mostly I pray for two main groups of people.  I pray for the Church (as in "the entire body of Christ-followers") and I pray for those who aren't yet convinced that Jesus is worth following.    My prayers for the Church have been hugely influenced by the letters of Paul.   Paul's epistles are filled with prayers for those to whom he was writing.    He didn't just bark orders of how to live a holy life.   He prayed for the churches over which he'd been given authority.  He then communicated those prayers to them in his letters.    As one who is pursuing ministry, I've found no greater template for praying for the church as the prayers of Paul.    One of my most frequent prayers for the church is found in Ephesians 3:14-19:

For this reason I bow my knees before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth derives its name, that He would grant you, according to the riches of His glory, to be strengthened with power through His Spirit in the inner man, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith; and that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may be able to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ which surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled up to all the fullness of God.

I can't tell you how many times I've prayed that for my brothers and sisters.   The ironic part is, I rarely pray that same prayer for myself.   Actually, I often roll my eyes when hearing someone ramble on about how we just "need to be held" or "let God love on you."  It feels so... passive.   But I'm a doer.   I like solutions.   I love the Great Commission because there is activity involved: Go.  Baptize.  Teach.  For me, activity is more comfortable than passivity.   The reason for that is probably an entire series of blog posts.

Objectively, I grasp the importance of understanding the love of Christ.  Subjectively, it becomes difficult.   But a few weeks ago, God Himself (and I don't say that lightly) reminded me of the vast, immeasurable love He has for me.   I had planned to go to a conference in my hometown, and was hoping to take a few friends along.   For reasons beyond their control, all those friends had to cancel.   So I set off on a 500-mile road trip accompanied by my four-year-old daughter.  My ears filled with nothing but road noise and rain splashing on the freeway, (Daughter was entranced with her iPad) I found myself, again, praying Ephesians 3 over the Church. The weather was a drizzle/sunshine mix.   One minute my wipers would be intermittently swishing across the windshield, and the next moment I would adjust my visor to keep the sun out of my eyes.    

I'd settled into a rhythm of praying through the rain showery drive, when I glanced to the east.  I was immediately in awe of the widest "pillar rainbow" I'd ever seen.   It seemed to literally stretch from heaven to earth.   It was a sight to behold, so I interrupted Daughter's screen time so she could see it.   Back to praying and driving through the drizzle.    

Fifteen minutes later, Daughter yells, "Momma, look!  Two rainbows!"   Sure enough, toward the east once more there was the brightest, most perfect double-rainbow I'd ever seen. One rainbow, cool.  Two (three if you consider the double) rainbows in fifteen minutes, rare.   But I still went back to praying and driving through the drizzle.  

Another 20 minutes goes by, and it's close to sunset.   Once more, I look to the east.    And this time, I saw the mother of all rainbows.   It spanned whatever town I was passing on I-57.   I'd never seen one so complete, so bright, so perfect.   And in that moment, He spoke to my heart.    

"My love is for you too.   Four rainbows.  The height.  The depth.  The length.  The width of my love.    Please see it.   Please know it.  As you intercede for others, I intercede for you.  My prayer for you is to comprehend my love, and rest in it."

What do you do with that, other than sob for the rest of your trip?  I thought about that experience all throughout that weekend, but was embarrassed to tell anyone about it.  On my way home, I called a friend and tried to convey in words what my heart was feeling.  I immediately regretted telling her. My pride reared it's ugly head, telling me that my imagination was getting carried away and that I should throw away such childish myths. But as soon as I hung up the phone, I looked to the east.   There was one more rainbow, as if God were putting an exclamation mark on what He'd spoken to me a few days earlier.   "Don't doubt.  Believe.  Be loved.  And rest in Me."   

I'm still a gray-wearing realist.   But I'm starting to believe that some days, it really is about rainbows and unicorns. Okay, maybe not the unicorns.   

My Christmas, Unfiltered

First and foremost, I hope you had a wonderful Christmas.  

To be honest, mine wasn't that great, as far as ideal Christmases go.  My husband had to be at work at 4:00 am.   Both my kids were up at 6:00... Louis' nose is a snot faucet and Melody has no voice whatsoever.   Andy finally got home at 10:30, and we opened gifts with the kids, had a quick lunch, and everyone went down for a nap.  I got a 3-pack of flashlights for Christmas from my husband, with a note saying "you're the light of my life."  (rolling eyes in 3, 2, 1.....)    The kids woke up early from their naps because they were coughing so hard.   I assembled Melody's new fish-tank, which was the project from aquatic hell, if that place even has a proper name.  Whining ensued all afternoon.    Bath time couldn't have arrived quickly enough.   Getting ready for his bath, I pulled down Louis' pants to discover he'd had diarrhea, which was now all over my hand.  Two hours post-bath, one kid is now in bed, and the other is well on her way.   Andy has developed a nasty cough in the past hour, and I've decided that I'm gonna sleep on the couch if I want any hope of a decent night's rest.    

My therapist often reminds me that life isn't fair.   I'm totally okay with unfair.    But there are some days when it feels like life is flipping me off over and over again, and has an agenda to break my spirit.  Days like today are normal for me.    And to be truthful, it took me a shot of whiskey during dinner prep to make it through the entirety of this evening without inflicting bodily harm on someone in my household.  And then (while the whiskey was still burning its way down my esophagus), I caught the line of a song on the radio.  I can't quote it verbatim (the burning of the whiskey was probably impeding my short-term memory retention), but the gist is that "a humble entry into this world was enough for Christ."    (cue squealing brakes noise now)    I've sang Christmas carols at least 1000 times.... and have heard the Christmas story no fewer than 100.    But today, the thought jarred my brain.   It wasn't the thought of Jesus being born into a manger... I wrapped my mind around that a long time ago.   Tonight, the question of "why was that enough for Him?" swirled through my brain.  Like everything else Jesus did, this was a lesson to His followers.   Not that it was the sole reason for being born in a manger, but I think part of the reason for being born into such stench, squalor, and humility was to show us that "stuff" doesn't matter.  The circumstances of his birth were more than okay to Christ because the only thing that mattered to Him - and the only thing that should matter to us - is the knowledge that we are the sons and daughters of The LORD Most High, and partnering with God's mission on this earth.  How ironic is it that two millennia later, we celebrate His birth by spending outlandish amounts of money to buy temporal gifts that we don't really need?   Ironic, but mostly sad.    God definitely gave me a good talkin'-to tonight... about how fish tanks and flashlights and crap on your hands don't matter. He matters.   That's it.  

God's been taking His sweet time in teaching me this lesson.   He's spent the last 18 months or so stripping away everything that was comfortable,  predictable, or status quo in my life.  I was dismissed from my "dream job" last year,  my marriage has been an uphill battle for the past several months, I feel like a week doesn't go by without someone in my family being sick, I can't get ahead with my finances.... nothing, I repeat, NOTHING, has gone according to my plan for as long as I can remember.  And apparently it's been so I would learn that none of it really mattered in the first place.   I echo Solomon's sentiments and say "Meaningless!  It's all meaningless!"    But I also agree with him when he sums up his thoughts on life: "The conclusion is this: Fear God, and keep His commandments."    God.    He's what matters.  That's it.   The end.