Christmas? It’s Complicated

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My relationship with Christmas is complicated.

I’ve been in four car accidents in my life. Two were on Christmas Eve and one was on Christmas Day. The first one left a lasting impression as a man stepped into the icy street in front of a vehicle my father was following. Neither could stop in time and drove over him. Years later I learned the investigation showed the man chose this method to commit suicide. (I wrote about it here in The Sorrow of Christmas.) I was very young, but I never bought “the magic of Christmas” after that.

On the other hand I was a singer and some of the best music in the world, especially choral music, is performed at Christmas.

On the other hand I love food. Cooking for her family and friends was how my mother expressed affection and she dished out the love at Christmas. I enjoy making cookies and Santa Claus pie with my grandchildren. Even though I can’t eat  it anymore shortbread in the oven still smells like love.

On the other hand I love art and crafts and creativity and pretty baubles that serve no purpose whatsoever other than to say “Here I am in all my sparkly Modge Podge glory.” Where’s my glue gun?

Christmas Eve at our house always included a decorated tree. It always included hot chocolate and new slippers and pajamas. Christmas Day always included an over-heated house full of relatives and the smell of roasting turkey. Aunt Jessie always brought her pineapple marshmallow whipped cream salad. Uncle Joe always piled his plate so high there ought to have been avalanche hazard warnings posted. Christmas afternoon always included a crokinole tournament for the men and a card table with bits of a thousand piece puzzle scattered on it for the women. It always included a plate of Aunt Doris’ maple fudge and a bowl of nuts still in the shell with dangerous-looking implements sticking out that little kids weren’t supposed to touch, but did. It always included a political rant or two from opinionated patriarchs-in-training.

Frantic cleaning and cranky words usually bracketed the arrival and departure of guests. That was a tradition too.

When we married and had our own home we always honoured the Christmas season script with tree and lights and presents and turkey. The season included weeks of shopping on a tight budget whilst dressed up like a sweating Eskimo in a store with yuletide carols [badly sung] piped into every aisle. (Let’s just say it’s a good thing it’s not a Canadian tradition to carry guns into Walmart or there might be one less looped tape of Santa Baby and Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree in the office.)

Christmas included saying no to kids who saw far too many commercials on TV. It often included travelling long distances in horrid weather on icy roads. It involved little kids in emotional melt-down Christmas Day because the tradition on one side of the family said gifts must be opened at midnight. Sometimes it included cancelled flights and sleeping in airports and midnight rides on Greyhound buses because one simply did not risk breaking with tradition. Christmas frequently included Kleenex and cough drops and aspirin. Flu is also a Canadian seasonal tradition.

Christmas included shopping in a town with only two stores for white shirts so kids could sing in the school choir (and bringing baked “goodies’), obligatory parties for every club or group anyone in the family attended (and bringing baked goodies) and finding dates for student concerts and recitals that didn’t conflict with all the other events (and bringing baked goodies).

Christmas makes me feel emotional, but it doesn’t always bring thoughts devotional. Man-made traditions tend to accumulate and open branch offices. Don’t blame the old stodgy churches for being mired in ritual. Sometimes it takes only one repetition to create a tradition.

One thing I have learned is that you can discuss theology until the Arminian/Calvinist debate is actually settled amicably but you don’t mess with people’s traditions. Neglect to take part in the Lord’s Table for weeks and folks will hardly notice. Accidentally double book the hall for the third annual mother/daughter Christmas tea and someone may question whether your name is actually written in the Lamb’s book of life.

Christmas for me has always included stress -good stress, bad stress. Stress is the most consistent tradition. It wasn’t until the year that baby Jesus, or parts of him, went missing from the nativity scene for who knows how long (puppy?) that I noticed the disappearance of Jesus as the center of the creche looked a lot like the absence of Christ at the center of many of our traditions and rituals. I had to ask, “Is this actually “Christian?”

Tradition can be a memorial stone that helps us remember important experiences, but rituals can also become a burdens that miss the original point entirely. There is a difference between the traditions of God and the traditions of man.

Some ancient traditions started with spontaneous expressions of joy or sorrow around certain events. Jeremiah wrote songs of mourning when King Josiah died. They became traditional laments in the Jewish culture. The people in exile  inaugurated the feast of Purim to memorialize the victory told in the book of Esther. Man-made tradition and rituals can help us to remember and to teach our children. I love liturgy for the same reason. The church calendar can be like a lesson plan that reminds us to examine the whole of scripture and not merely our favourite bits. But forms without flexibility to follow the Holy Spirit’s lead can also become a burden.

Some ancient traditions are God-ordained. Moses said to the people:
“This annual festival will be a visible sign to you, like a mark branded on your hand or your forehead. Let it remind you always to recite this teaching of the Lord: ‘With a strong hand, the Lord rescued you from Egypt.” (Exodus 13:9 NLT)

The protectors of an established way of life that came from extrapolations on the law of Moses said to Jesus: “Why do your disciples disobey our age-old tradition? For they ignore our tradition of ceremonial hand washing before they eat.”

Jesus replied, “And why do you, by your traditions, violate the direct commandments of God? For instance, God says, ‘Honor your father and mother,’ and ‘Anyone who speaks disrespectfully of father or mother must be put to death.’ But you say it is all right for people to say to their parents, ‘Sorry, I can’t help you. For I have vowed to give to God what I would have given to you.’ In this way, you say they don’t need to honor their parents. And so you cancel the word of God for the sake of your own tradition. You hypocrites! Isaiah was right when he prophesied about you, for he wrote,
‘These people honor me with their lips,
but their hearts are far from me.
Their worship is a farce,
for they teach man-made ideas as commands from God.’ “(Matthew 15:2-9 NLT)

I’ve made progress in neutralizing my acid pen in the past few years, but I lost it in November. The nasty protests on social media against commercial outlets that don’t follow “Christian traditions” started up again. (Has no one noticed that holidays is just the traditional spelling of Holy Days?). There is no command in the Bible to celebrate Jesus’ birth on an arbitrary day with holly on a coffee cup or nativity scenes on city hall property. How can we demand that people who do not know the Lord honour our man-made traditions when we ignore what He actually demonstrated? How did it get to be alright to demand protection for “our way of life” when that act itself violates a command of God to love your neighbour and treat those in authority with respect?

How is it alright for our car full of Christmas traditions to run over the lonely, the depressed, the oppressed, the sick, the grieving, the desperate as we rush home to celebrate the birth of the One who showed us what love is? How is it alright to lay burdens on ourselves that resist the message that Christ came to set us free?

Jesus Himself said that if we love him we will obey His commandments which are simply to love others as we love ourselves.

I’ve had to apologize for attacking people for attacking people and for being intolerant of the intolerant. I’m not one who says you mustn’t celebrate Jesus’ birth on December 25th. I’m saying don’t make this season of worship a farce.

I’m saying it is for freedom that Christ came to set us free and we need to be careful not to take on another yoke of bondage.

I’m saying God loved the world so much that he gave his only Son so that anyone who believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. That is joy. That is love.

Anything else is unplugged tangled Christmas tree lights that bring no light at all.

Highly Favoured

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Like many other people in the world I have always known that I was the result of an unplanned pregnancy. Oh my parents loved me and cared for me, but they were hoping to enjoy life together for a while before itty bitty me showed up shortly after the honeymoon and left my uncharacteristically emotional mother spending much of her first year of marriage hanging over a toilet. I heard the story of my birth many times. She nearly died and was left with chronic pain which I frequently witnessed. To make things worse I was not the curly-haired, cheerful, compliant child she had dreamed of dressing up in the latest kiddy fashions. I felt like I was born with a huge debt for being the wrong child born at the wrong time in a most troublesome manner.

She never said that of course. It was just something a child picked up from overhearing stories about “the baby” in a transverse position and all the complications that followed. I knew I was “the baby.” The desperate fussy attempts to make me look like the children in movies and story books and exasperated words like, “Why can’t you be more like Mary Beth?” told me there was something wrong with me that I couldn’t fix.

I was also born in the middle of the baby boom when there was a shortage of classrooms and books and gym equipment and a lot of other desired items. We boomers always seemed to surprise the authorities who never totally grasped the numbers until our mob moved on. One year my parents went to a parent/teacher interview. Not only did the teacher not know my name after three months sitting under his tutelage, he insisted I wasn’t in his class. They proved I was. His only comment to them was that I needed to speak up more. I was used to being lost in a crowd.

I know I’m not the only one who grew up harbouring shame for being the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some people feel they were born the wrong gender, the wrong ethnicity, the wrong temperament. The artsy one in a sports-mad family. The tone-deaf one in a family of musicians. The extrovert in a family of introverts. The chubby one in a family of fashionistas. The seventh in a family that could barely afford six.

I didn’t realize how deeply those feelings affected me until the Lord stopped me one day in the middle of a pity-party.

“You’re not, you know.”
“Not what?”
“You’re not an accident. You were very much planned.”
“I heard them say otherwise.”
“You were planned. By Me. You are exactly the right person at the right time in the right place.”
“Seriously? I thought I was a ‘surprise.’”
“Nothing surprises Me. Do you think Jesus was a surprise? Not to Me.”

I thought about Mary and the shock she must have felt when an angel showed up and gave her surprising news that she would bear a son, much too early to fit convention or to give her and Joseph a comfortable settling-in period. I realized again the trust she must have had in God when she said, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord.” I realized how much trust the Lord must have had in her. She understood Who was asking and the importance of what He was asking of her. Even the angel knew who she was.

“Greetings, you who are highly favoured! The Lord is with you,” he said. She was the one who was highly favoured!

But Mary was not God’s only highly favoured child. God’s love is so immense that His favour towards those who respond to Him has no limits.

I found confirmation in Psalm 139:
“Oh yes, you shaped me first inside, then out;
you formed me in my mother’s womb.
I thank you, High God—you’re breathtaking!
Body and soul, I am marvelously made!
I worship in adoration—what a creation!
You know me inside and out,
you know every bone in my body;
You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,
how I was sculpted from nothing into something.
Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth;
all the stages of my life were spread out before you,
The days of my life all prepared
before I’d even lived one day.

Your thoughts—how rare, how beautiful!
God, I’ll never comprehend them!
I couldn’t even begin to count them—
any more than I could count the sand of the sea.
Oh, let me rise in the morning and live always with you!”

(Verses 13 to 22 in The Message)

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This may just be conjecture, but I wonder if the psalmist struggled with the same doubts about who he was. I wonder if he needed to hear the assuring words of the One who loved him for who he was.

Some of you need to hear this: You are not a mistake. You were planned and have always been planned in the heart of the Creator of the universe. You are the right temperament, the right colour, the right size, the right gender. You are in this time and this place because He has marvelous plans for you. You are not merely one among billions. You are not lost in a crowd. He knows everything about you. He thinks about you constantly.

He knows your name! He absolutely adores you, you know.

You are highly favoured.

Religious Conceit

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“Beware of being obsessed with consistency to your own convictions instead of being devoted to God. The important consistency in a saint is not to a principle but to the divine life. It is easier to be an excessive fanatic than it is to be consistently faithful, because God causes an amazing humbling of our religious conceit when we are faithful to Him.”

– Oswald Chambers

Somewhere We Know

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Somewhere we know that without silence words lose their meaning,
that without listening speaking no longer heals,
that without distance closeness cannot cure.

– Henri Nouwen

Beloved

Joel Hewko and Solomon

Spiritual identity means we are not what we do or what people say about us.
And we are not what we have.
We are the beloved daughters and sons of God.

– Henri Nouwen

 

 

Reach

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I was out for a walk in the first snow one fall day when I saw these apples. The branch hung over the fence in the back lane. The owner picks the fruit on lower branches on his garden side. These are more difficult to reach, so they remain unplucked year after year.

In my last post I described my dream about Esther in Ephesians. It was bracketed by two dream scenes. In the first, people were at a banquet, hosted by the evangelist. He paid for the meal. The tables were laden with food like the luxurious feasts on cruise ships. I noticed most of them were filling their plates with desserts and sugary confections. Garbage cans overflowed with healthy entrees that had been sampled and tossed.

In the last scene (after the Esther part) the banquet hall was nearly empty. I asked someone where I could get breakfast and they pointed to plates on a very high shelf. With effort I could just reach the edge of a plate and slowly slide it toward the edge until it tipped and I could catch it. It wasn’t possible to see what was up there so there was no picking and choosing. A couple of other folk managed to stretch up and coax plates down. They  also held nutritious organic fruits and vegetables and bread.

There are seasons of ebb and flow in this life. Graham Cooke calls them times of “Hiddeness and Manifestation. Sometimes there is such a strong sense of the Holy Spirit’s active engagement in our lives we can’t take it all in. Sometimes there are seasons of questions when answers seem to be sparse, when we have to stretch (move in faith) and fill up on solid basic principles about who God is and who we are in Him. These are seasons of preparation.

Razzle dazzle days are wonderful and God loves to party with his kids. That’s when the crowds show up. But sometimes he holds back to see who will be there when understanding doesn’t come as easily, when the entertainment factor is missing, when they need to ask for their daily bread, when they need solid nutritious food.

I found something to stand on then reached up and picked one of those apples. It was crisp and cold and sweet with just the right amount of tartness. Best apple I’ve ever tasted.

For Such a Time As This: Esther in Ephesians

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Yesterday I heard a friend talk about Esther. He reminded us of the preparation she went through to bring her to a unique position of influence. I’ve been fascinated by the life of the orphan queen ever since I had a dream involving Esther.

The story is told in the Bible of a young parent-less Jewish woman, adopted by her cousin, who rose from obscurity to the position of queen in the land where her people lived in exile. She dared to defy protocol and approached the king in the throne room without first having been summoned by him. As her cousin, Mordecai, reasoned, it looked like God arranged for her to be there to help her people in a time of crisis. It’s great story, the kind that is made into Hollywood movies. But, if you take time to read it, you will notice that the story is not as innocent as the Christian family versions.

Right from the beginning of the book it’s apparent that in this place men had all the power. It’s also apparent that this was a culture that accepted the practice of sexual slavery at the highest level. After the king banished his previous wife, Vashti, for refusing to parade her beauty (whatever that means) in front of a crowd of drunk men, officials scoured the land to find beautiful women (perhaps girls) to take to the ruler for his inspection. After a night spent with him, a woman moved from the house of virgins to the house of concubines. If the king did not delight in her, she was never summoned by him and never allowed to marry anyone else. This was no Miss America pageant.

Hadassah (renamed Esther) was Jewish. Ahasuerus (aka Xerxes) was the leader of the nation who had destroyed her country and her family and dragged them off as spoils of war. If this had been Nazi Germany our heroine could have been killed by one side for failing to cooperate or the other for being a collaborator.

Esther had no parents. For a cousin to take over raising her meant she, like most people with her background, probably suffered trauma as a child. She had deep hidden scars. She understood loss. Ethnic background is kept secret for a reason.

But Esther chose to learn all she could about the king. She had help from Hegai, the king’s eunuch. (In many eastern cultures it was standard procedure to castrate males working around the palace and make them eunuchs, like Daniel and his friends probably were, to prevent any possibility of cross-pollination, so to speak.) Hegai may have understood Esther’s background. Together they committed to this path as she received a year of beauty treatments – an ancient version of a radical make-over.

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The king chose her as his wife and instead of banishment to the back rooms of the walled prison for women she lived in luxury as his favourite. Then came the day when she risked it all for the sake of her people. The king had signed an irreversible edict clearing the way for genocide for not only all the people in her ethnic group, but possibly herself as well. Making the decision to boldly approach the throne without being summoned was not made lightly. She asked others to fast and pray with her for three days first. Esther took the action with the full knowledge that she could lose everything, including her life. She was terrified. Such radical acts did not come easily to a woman raised in an oppressive patriarchal culture.

“If I perish, I perish,” she said.

In my dream about Esther a well-known evangelist phoned and asked me to help him with a sermon illustration. He needed two young girls who could help him dramatize the story. I told him I knew of two eight- year olds who might like to be involved.

“No. More mature. I need two ten-year olds.” he said.

He seemed very excited about a new revelation he had from the book of Esther in the New Testament.

“The book of Esther is in the Old Testament,” I corrected.
“Esther is in the New Testament,” he insisted. “It’s in Ephesians.”
“What version are you using?” I asked, feeling pretty confidant that I was right and he was not.
“The Transition Version,” he said, equally as confident.

I immediately felt the dream was important. There was a lot more to it. It was about something taking place in the heart of the Church that includes women and honours femininity, about shocking methods God sometimes uses to get us where he wants us, about preparations for future assignments and about reaching higher for the most nutritious food. But telling you about all of it will take too long for a single blog post, so I’ll just talk about this part.

I read the book of Ephesians looking for references to Esther. I didn’t see any, but I did see this. Ephesians can be divided into three parts. The first part tells the believer in Christ how their identity and position has changed. I recommend writing down all the phrases in the first two or three chapters which talk about new identity. Amazing! You are blessed, faithful, holy, blameless, pure, for His praise… so many wonderful hard-to-believe good words! These phrases in particular caught my attention:
You are chosen.
You are lavished with the riches of His grace.
You are raised up and seated with Him.
You are privy to the mystery of His purpose.

Ephesians

Wait. Esther was chosen from among many. She was lavished with luxurious perfumes, ointments, jewels and fine garments. She was raised up from obscurity as an orphan to life as a bride of the king, seated beside him. She became privy to secret information about her purpose in being there.

Then my eyes fell on these words in the third chapter: We have boldness and access with confidence to heavenly places through our faith in Jesus Christ, our Lord.

Esther had access to the throne! It was the king’s love for her that saved her life. It was his generous hand extended to her that granted her whatever she asked of him.

I was beginning to see the parallels. The first part of Ephesians tells us who we are and where we are now. When we begin to understand our high calling and how God sees us through the eyes of love we begin to understand the transition that is taking place in us.

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I’ve seen rows of Bibles for sale subtitled, The End-times Version, The Mother’s Version, The Christian Worker’s Version etc. This always struck me as odd. Was it not all the same Bible? What these “versions” do is highlight passages relative to the person they hope will buy a copy. These passages highlighted to me in Ephesians made it a Transition Version of the story of life in Christ. In Him we are given a make-over, we are given a new position, we are changed – for a purpose.

Many of us are familiar with Ephesians 2:8. For by grace you have been saved through faith... It’s a gift. The evangelist reminded me he was looking for something more mature. Two ten year-olds! Keep going. Ephesians 2:10: For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them.

The next part of Ephesians teaches us about walking this new identity out in the context of relationships, singing and rejoicing together, submitting to and  cooperating with each other, raising up those for whom we have responsibility to become people who fulfill their callings. Love. Honour. Be patient, Understand. Seek their best. It’s an entirely new lifestyle and no longer a competition for survival.

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The third part of Ephesians tells us what all this preparation is for. We could all be happy enough with the story of a pretty beloved bride just kicking around the palace of Christianity, smelling the roses, picking out the goodies at the smorgasbord of the King’s bounty. But she is beginning to get the message, “Good grief, girl! Do you see the injustice going on in the world around you? Do you know about the plans of the opposition? The devil and his forces are determined to destroy you and your people. Do you know who you are and your position and why you are here now? Do you know you are in a unique position to actually do something about it?”

It’s a little overwhelming.

In the story Esther appeals to her master/husband. As a result the chief planner of the planned genocide of her people is himself hanged on gallows he built for Esther’s cousin. Then the king did something remarkable considering the history of ruthless power-seeking of his predecessors. He was not like them. He gave Esther and her people authority. He gave Mordecai his signet ring. He gave them swift horses from his own stable. Something unprecedented was happening here. Even the media of the day changed sides out of fear of the power now in the hands of the former victims.

On the very day their enemies planned to have mastery over them, the reverse occurred. From India to Ethiopia the victims-no-more took up arms and turned the tide. Then the king asked Esther again, “Now what is your wish? It will be granted to you.” His generosity was greater than she ever imagined.

The last chapter in Ephesians tells the Church, the Bride of Christ to stand strong in the strength of His might, to put on the armour He provides, to pray at all times in the Spirit, making supplication for all the saints.

The orphan becomes the Bride of the King of Kings. He gives her helpers in the form of apostles, prophets, evangelists, shepherds and teachers to prepare her for her calling. She is raised up and has access to the throne because she is loved. In the shelter of His love she learns who she is, where she is and how this new identity works its way into relationships. Because he adores her, the King equips her with authority to fight the enemy that comes to steal, kill, and destroy.

Esther is in Ephesians. Who knew?

For such a time as this.

Conspiracy of Goodness

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The light was perfect on the little lake as I set up my camera. Then it started to rain. I muttered under my breath that everything seemed to be working against me that day.

Recently I heard someone say, “It feels like everything is conspiring against me.”

This past week I read dozens of social media posts from people who fear conspiracy in government, health, education, media, food production, even sports. I began to think about the word conspire.

Originally conspire meant to come into agreement, to breathe as one. Now it nearly always has a negative connotation. Now it involves people getting together to plan harm. An entire field of study on conspiracy theories has statistically-oriented people holed up in their academic cells pounding out dissertations on the subject at this very moment. Why do we reject legitimate warnings? Why do we believe far-fetched conjectures? Why does the motive of conspirators always seem to be to bring people down or control them?

Our son and daughter-in-law conspired to give their children something good. That summer, after snowmelt and unprecedented rain combined to flood their town, the kids watched as most of their possessions and big chunks of their home were tossed in a dumpster or piled on the street for large machinery to scoop up and haul away. Their Dad not only spent many hours working on his own home, but dedicated many more to shoveling muddy sewage out of other people’s homes and helping with a thousand other urgent matters as he was pastor of a church that owned one of the few public buildings in town that remained mostly dry.

Their parents told them that someone they knew was going on a trip to Disneyland and that they were driving to the airport to bring them their luggage. On the way their young son became sullen. As they pulled into the parking lot he could no longer contain himself.

“It’s not fair! Everybody else gets to do neat things! You always look after people and do good things for them like driving their suitcases to the airport, but a pastor doesn’t get to take his family on vacation. I hate your job!”

His parents quietly gave him a suitcase to pull to the terminal. Inside the door was a glass-covered poster advertising the thrill of Disneyland.

“Oh, look! There’s the family that is going on the trip!” Dad said, pointing to the display. Our granddaughter said she saw no family in the poster. Then she saw their own reflection in the glass. Her jaw dropped and she started jumping up and down in excitement. Our grandson refused to look. He didn’t get it. He was mad. It wasn’t until he was strapped in his seat on the plane that he accepted that it was his own family going on vacation and he broke out in a wide smile. He knew his parents had no money for a trip. It was just too hard for him to believe someone would give their family such a generous gift. He had to adjust to the idea of goodness and grace.

Sometimes conspiracies for good are about the joy of surprise. Sometimes they are for protection. We don’t tell children about events too soon in case plans change, or because they can’t understand timing. It’s not always wise to go public with business plans until everything is in place, lest the competition be given a heads-up. Sometimes people will make assumptions that steer their own preparations in the wrong direction if they know too much too soon.

We are actively trying to find the best living arrangement we can for my husband’s elderly mother. There is so much red tape and dealing with agencies who don’t seem to communicate with each other. And waiting. Waiting for appointments. Waiting for reports. Waiting for vacancies. Because her increasing memory problems make this process so confusing to her we have elected not to tell her the details. She knows we are doing something “behind her back.” Like our grandson looking resentfully at the luggage in the car, it is hard for her to believe we are not all in cahoots conspiring against her. It’s frustrating, and frankly somewhat painful. Her sons are both men of outstanding character who may be two of the most responsible, reliable, honest (to a fault) people on the planet. Sadly the disease has stolen that fact. She can’t remember who is trustworthy and who is not.

The Lord reminded me that I also have a tendency to assume he is conspiring against us.

“When, Lord?” I asked.

“When you complain that situations are hopeless, when you whine that answers take too long, when you blame me for messes of your own making but don’t ask me for help. You accuse me of conspiring against you when you forget my character and that I am good.”

Oops. Sorry.

Here’s the thing: if we believe the lie that our heavenly Father is an angry, controlling, megalomaniac in the sky who demands that we love him or he will make our lives a living hell, we will see all his plans as conspiracies of harsh punishment against us. If we remember his past goodness to us and his faithful loving character shown through Jesus Christ, who gave his life for us, we will see his plans as conspiracies of goodness – conspiracies for us.

One night I heard in a dream, “If I tell you where I am going with this it will remove the element of faith.”

Sometimes God doesn’t tell us all the details of his plans, for his own very good reasons. Sometimes he is giving us an entire renovation and all we see is our precious old stuff landing in the dumpster. Sometimes all we see is that everybody else is getting a trip to Disneyland. Sometimes all we see is one darn heavy suitcase after another that we have to carry for somebody else when he is giving us weight-lifting exercises so we will be prepared and strong enough to walk in a higher level of faith and authority.

Father, Son, and Holy Spirit always breathe together in perfect unity. They are conspiring – for our good.

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. (Jeremiah 29:11)

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. (Romans 8:28)