More on Proximity

God does not self-destruct.

In the Garden of Eden, His presence filled the earth; the serpent was there, too. In the Book of Job, He sat on the throne, and Satan approached Him for conversation. In the wilderness, Satan tempted Him, and on the cross, I can only imagine the weight of sin and darkness that rested upon Him. But, God does not self-destruct. He stands everlasting and unchanging, resurrected.

I've always been under the impression that God cannot look at sin: that He cannot bear it. And yet, Jesus sought out the unlovable and untouchable, intentionally, and He made His meals with them. He gave them water, He healed them, and He stood between them and their accusers.

Proximity: "nearness in space, time, and relationship."

7 years ago, I asked God why He continued to "use" people I knew who seemed hard-hearted, prideful, and bent on hurting others. How could He bless their work when it was so clear that it would cause others to suffer, deeply? I couldn't understand, at the time, how these people could be reveling in the comfort of God's favor while in such close proximity to sin. Someone told me then, Amber, God used an ass—literally, an ass—to speak to His people. I’ve learned He’ll use any one and any thing to accomplish His plans. And I'll admit, the idea was comforting to me. For whatever reason, I had to believe that God's movement in and through these people was not a way of assigning value to, or validating, or enabling them. I'm embarrassed about these comments, now. Honestly. It's difficult for me to admit how I sometimes classify others in my mind as "them," when I have my own flaws. And I know that I have no right to stand and judge, or even "classify."

Sin is no deterrent for God. If anything, it catches His eye and draws Him near in desperation. He is a God who loves and pursues His children. As His children, we should do the same. We should seek out the unlovable and untouchable, intentionally, and make our meals with them. We should give them water, heal them, and stand between them and their accusers, offering the hope of Jesus.

These things make sense to me. They are a familiar reminder. But here's what is unfamiliar, and what I didn't know before:

Since I believed that God could not bear to look at sin, I believed that the act of sin was what created literal distance from God. That if I sinned there was some sort of "will wear off in 24 hours" type of side-effect. That God could not move within me, could not use me, until the effects of sin wore off. And that this applied to others as well, although I wasn't quite sure if it took 24 hours for sin to wear off, or maybe 24 months. I supposed it depended upon the depravity of the situation, and I am so disappointed with myself for believing these things for so long.

The incredible, unreal, unexplainable truth about the forgiveness and the presence of God is that it is there, within reach, at all times. God can move immediately, and He does. All the time. Sometimes, even, He is moving and speaking through the lips of the hypocrites, the slanderers, and all of us who have no right or merit to His name. Because He is just that near. Sin, or no sin. My sin, or your sin. No matter the depravity.

As I change my perspective, I see Him more.

Recent Rules for the Internet

I'm going to keep this one short, friends. I'm not trying to cut corners, but I have "stacks" of grading to do (can you still call them stacks when they are files on your computer?), and I have a dog to cuddle. 

My mind has been a flurry of thoughts, lately. I read this evening that I should sit back, close my eyes, let my body rest in the comfort of gravity, and allow Jesus to do a bit of sorting, unwinding, connecting, rewiring, and overall sense-making and priority-setting. So, I'm working on that :) Out of the mess that is my mind, however, comes this post: Amber's Recent Rules for the Internet. 

Number One.

Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. (Romans 12:21)

Replace the word "evil" with hatred, venom, ignorance, despair, negativity, fear-mongering, anxiety, gossip, bullying, or any other word that causes your stomach to turn, or your fist to clench, or your heart to race, or the dark cloud above you to settle in at eye level. The Internet is full of "evil," as far as I can see it, and it can become a rather hopeless place at times. But I've been reminding myself lately to have eyes for hope even in the darkest of places. I've decided to look in front of me and see darkness fall away. To look again, if I don't see goodness the first time through, or the second, or the third. He has overcome the world, and I have nothing to fear. Nothing to overwhelm me. 

Number Two.

Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love. Make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace. (Ephesians 4:1-3)

There are some things people just shouldn't say. They should know better. But they don't. (Myself included, by the way). If I can take a deep breath and remind myself not to "be overcome," I can go one step further in gentleness, in patience, and in love. I can reach out. I can unify. Or, I can hold my tongue with the realization that "this too shall pass," and the understanding that it is not always my battle. Remember, we are all unfolding: each in our own way, at our own pace. 

Number Three. 

She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. (Proverbs 31:25)

Eric and I have been practicing this one. Up ahead, the storm clouds gather and collide. The dark skies seem to be moving towards us quickly, swallowing up the sun. We're tempted to suck in air and hold our breath as we wait, in discomfort, for the storm to pass. 

Instead, we look to one another. In a glance, we remember all that He has done for us: the gift of the marriage between us and the promise of eternity in His Kingdom. The Garden. The City. The grave conquered and every tear wiped away. Darkness fails, and we laugh instead. 

I will fail.

When I made the decision to start writing more regularly, there was one major obstacle to overcome. I had to accept this: I will fail.  

Please don’t try to console me, or to “equip” me with hopes that you can prevent it from happening, or to sugar coat it, or deny it. Failure is ugly, for sure. It’s difficult to face, whether you are the one failing, or merely a spectator. And yet, it’s inevitable. If you tell me otherwise, I’ll have to ignore it. I’ve believed for such a long time that hard work, persistence, and an overall commitment to striving and being hard on myself would prevent failure. Or at least, in moments of failure, I would be able to claim success by taking ownership for my failure before anyone else had the chance to perceive me as weak.

Even Thomas Edison denied failure, by re-framing it, when he shared his experiences inventing the light bulb: “I have not failed; I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.”

I love that quote. I love the feeling of holding failure in my hand, crushing it, transforming it, and shaping it into something new that I am not afraid to hold, proudly, in an open palm.

But I have to ask: what’s so bad about failure, really?

In the “economy of Christ,” He is made strong in my weakness. That’s such a “Christianese” answer, I know. But let me put things into context by explaining what led me to write this entry in the first place:

I’ve been reading other people’s blogs lately, trying to learn more about what is out there and how this whole blog thing works, anyway. (I also think it’s important to support others in their writing if I expect the same in return). It can become quite the time suck, but for now, I’ll say that it has been time well spent. I’ve been inspired, challenged, and generally moved by what I have found, and it feels right to take a break from the sometimes self-absorbed activity of blog writing to admire the talents, gifts, and stories of other people.

But blogs can become battlegrounds. A person, half-realized, commits to the act of writing, to the act of thinking, and as they pour their words out onto the blank canvas—a glimpse into their minds, at the moment—all of their weaknesses, dressed up with the limits of our language, are laid bare. Since it’s public, it’s up for public review, and oh how the anonymous, distant public of the Internet swarm at the chance to criticize.

I haven’t yet faced this. For now, I am grateful for that, as I am learning how to be unafraid as I write. But in the future, I assume I will face it—especially considering the time constraints I have put upon myself—and I am certain it will have its benefits. That it will be part of the beauty that failure can become.

I say it again: I will fail. I will fail in such a way that invites criticism. 

I’m sure that I already have. That I have been wrong. That I have been proud. That I have misunderstood the scriptures. That I will read what I have written one year from now and wonder how I could have missed this or that. That I will open up a can of worms without the qualifications to do so: whatever those may be.

But here is why
I will write anyway:

Because I hope that my writing will encourage more honesty about faith, for believers and non-believers. I hope that I can be a part of a movement of people who are unafraid to ponder the existence and the nature of God, together, despite status or education. And I believe that we will all benefit from it, because I believe that God is near and that He is generous:

If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you. (James 1:5)

Because I believe that God is a teacher, and I know firsthand that teachers are patient with their students, see failure as a part of the process, and would rather work with a student who is willing to fail in order to gain, than with a student who remains within the boundaries of their own comforts. Haven’t you heard Picasso’s famous words? “Every child is an artist; the problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.” Fear of failure suffocates our ability to create and to dream and to speak and to learn. I believe that God reveals Himself, sometimes slowly, and that it is okay to have a developing understanding of who He is. To be an artist, unashamed, growing, expressing, all the way to the grave. 

And because I need only to fear God, and God knows that I will fail. He will not be shocked; He will not be angry. He has already died on the cross, knowing that I am imperfect and in need of His redemption. He will not reply with harsh words of criticism or judge me for the student that I am, but He will have hope for me and the woman that I am becoming. He will meet with me at every step.

Father, Be the leader. Be the lamp unto my feet. Renew my heart and my mind as I read the Bible and write this blog. Correct me, guide me, teach me, forgive me, and keep me humble and alert all the while.

And Father, give my readers eyes to see and ears to hear what You are unfolding in me; give them courage to be unfolding as well.

Job Over Pancakes

Every time I read the book of Job, it feels like the first time. I know the first few chapters well, but for some reason, I can never remember how it ends. I’m trapped in the moment—in the pain, the despair, the confusion, the dreadful whirlwind of unfairness, and pity, and one of the most honest conversations with God that I know of. And every time, the story makes me undone.

I cringe at the thought of Satan, there in the presence of God.

And that’s only the beginning.

Since Eric and I were sitting down together for pancakes this morning, I thought it would be a good idea to invite the Book of Job to join us. I’ve been struggling to write, and I’ve already missed two of my personal deadlines because of it. Now, I’m writing on a Friday—our day of rest—but I feel peaceful about what I have to share and grateful for a husband who helps me to understand my own mind and who gives wise advice.

For over an hour, we sat side by side, talking about some of the most pressing questions of our existence and our faith—about good and evil, the laws of physics, theological tensions, Christian sentiment, creation, rhetorical questions, the capabilities of Satan, the intentions of God, and the limits of our knowing. In the end, I told Eric that I was worried about speaking too soon by writing about Job, now, when all I have to offer is troubling, fragmented, confusing, and intensely personal. But I also told him that I want my writing to be transparent and honest, and that I would never want to withhold my struggles or questions out of fear or censorship.

Job’s friends mourned with him for 7 days before ever speaking a word.

That is one of the most incredible things about Eric. He is a strong and quiet presence, and a friend who will never leave my side. His advice was simple: write about other things until you finish reading Job, and wait for God to speak.

Though I am not ready to write about Job, God has been speaking to me. Yesterday, I could hear Him saying, I am the leader, I am the leader, I am the leader, I am the leader, I am.

I’m not going to write about Job yet, but I hope that God will lead me to do so in time.

This is how you love.

Genesis: check.

Finishing the book feels rewarding, but genuinely different from times in the past. Reading the Bible to be with God is mysterious, thrilling, comforting, and much more worth it. I've never felt so connected to the act of page turning, knowing that I am not alone—that I am in the presence of something much bigger and brighter than anything I've ever imagined, and knowing that I am being invited to come closer. I'll set Genesis aside, now, like a book with notes bursting out of its sides. Something to return to. A place where I can continue to seek answers, and a place for recalling memories, too. 

Rewarding, yes. But these 20 days have also been difficult.

And, I just can't bring myself to say much about that, but I'll say this: it feels as if there is a tiny rock wedged in there somewhere. Somewhere in a hidden cavity in my chest, where my heart finds its strength and my breath is made full. That's where the rock is. Undermining the natural order of things. Stealing away my words.

In worship yesterday, I saw Jesus as a teacher, again. I was sitting at a small desk in a one-room school house, and He was moving from the front of the room through the spaces in between us. He was smiling as He looked down at our work, pointing things out, one child at a time. His feedback was gentle, and sweet, and we were eager for His attention. When He made it over to me, I looked down with Him, at the paper in front of me—delicate lines and dark gray sweeps, converging to form each cavity, wall, and valve of a human heart. Of my heart. He moved the pencil over the sketch and said, This is how you love. And we shaped and shaded until the heart seemed so real. This is how you love, He said. Because Jesus teaches me things like that. 

He also taught me, as I read Genesis, that He is the mediator. He is the Spirit that moves beyond the boundaries of our bodies, that binds us together. He is the peace between Jacob and Esau; He is the favor between Egypt and Joseph; He is the forgiveness between Joseph and his brothers. And since most of what hurts in my world, and most of what I fear, is the pain that exists between the boundaries of our bodies—the harm that can be done between people—I am freed to know that when I found myself on my knees yesterday, asking Him to mediate, He is able. He is willing. 


Remember grace, I keep telling myself.

Eyes on me, He keeps saying.

This is how you love.

I wondered later what exactly it was that we had added to my heart. I zoomed in and out of the dream and I realized that the "this" He was referring to was not a part of the drawing itself. It was His attention, His hand, His time, His care. All month long, this word has been on my mind: Proximity—"nearness in space, time, or relationship." And now, Emmanuel—"God with us." This is how You love.  

Thank you, God, for Eric. Whose love always makes me think of You. 

Embodied

I've been stuck with these thoughts, unresolved, but I've decided to share anyways. Here it goes...

"As children grow up, we start to educate them progressively from the waist up. And then we focus on their heads, and slightly to one side," says Ken Robinson, the genius behind one of my favorite TED Talks: "How Schools Kill Creativity." He continues on to criticize, specifically, university professors. He explains, "They live in their heads. They live up there, and slightly to one side. They're disembodied. You know, in a kind of literal way. They look upon their body as a type of transport for their heads. It's a way of getting their head to meetings."

I was watching this video for the fourth or fifth time with some other instructors before I left Longview on Thursday evening and headed for home, and it had me twitching with the need for change, and for movement. The dancer in me was ready to stand up and put my body into shapes, pull beats out of the air, find rhythm, find movement, and color, and lines, and meaning, and words, and align myself with all of it.

The artist within me experiences the world in this way. It's like playing connect the dots with everything sensory. So on the drive home, I turned up "Carry Your Name" and I sang as loud as I could, and I danced as much as I could, and I enjoyed the feeling of being embodied—the flesh and bone limits that the soul crosses over when a heart bursts in worshipping the Lord.

I think that what Ken Robinson was saying is not isolated to academia; it's rampant in the church as well. I remember one night before the service started I was meeting with friends over coffee and we were talking about the various poses of worshipers and trying to figure out if any of these physical representations mattered. Why do we do what we do anyways? I had to admit, however, that I seem to pay more attention to what we don't do; I mean, it perplexes me—if the Lord, the maker of the stars, is literally in our midst, than why do we seem so subdued? So zombified? That night, as we worshiped, I asked God, "Is it okay to dance?" In the secret place between my mind and my eyelids, he appeared, two feet in front of me, smiling, dancing with me as we celebrated all that He has done to conquer death and bring peace and restoration to my soul. It was an intimate moment—lighthearted, compassionate, and shattering in terms of my previous perceptions of what the God of the universe might be like.

I realized how much fun it can be to spend time with Jesus.

The scriptures say, "Wisdom is far more valuable than rubies; nothing you desire can compare with it" (Proverbs 8:11). But I am thinking it is important to remember, as Robinson expresses, that intellect is diverse and dynamic. That God is the God of our minds and our bodies, and that He wants all of us. That wisdom, as far as God is concerned, cannot be limited to the intellectual pursuits that we humans have invented. That music can capture God's wisdom; that painting can capture God's wisdom; and poetry, and prose, and dance, and every other creative, embodied outlet that the Creator has given us. Maybe even sports :)

I warn myself today, not to spend the year in my head only. Not to agonize too much over the compatibility between the scriptures and my brain. I have an entire body, and in the presence of the Spirit, it seems to know things about Him that my mind has yet to learn.

Looking Beyond Jacob

Esau was born first—hairy. His brother Jacob was born second. Jacob took Esau’s birthright and his blessing, and when Esau threatened his life, Jacob fled.

Eric’s half asleep, but kind enough to mutter words back and forth as I start my day. I tell him that I’m “not that into Jacob," and he surprises me with his agreement, as he begins listing off Jacob’s many offenses. Number one, stealing. I know, right? :)

Jacob fell in love with Rachel, and after working for 7 years with plans to marry her, he ended up married to Leah. He offered 7 more years of service to marry Rachel, and once he finished his work, his family managed to flee from the home of Laban, father of Leah and Rachel. A reunion with Esau awaited Jacob, and he was frightened. He wrestled with God. Then, “Esau ran to meet him, embraced him, hugged his neck, and kissed him. They both wept” (Genesis 33:4). Sigh of relief. 

It’s day 15 of expecting God to speak to me every day this year—of knowing that He wants to, and trusting that He will. But this is an act of faith. The truth is: I worry every day that I will be met with silence, or that the noise of my day will drown out His voice, or that my daily commitment to writing might be too rushed. But as I write these things down, I realize how wrong I must be, and it makes me excited for the year ahead. I realize I’ve been putting a quota on His voice—forgetting that He was the one who asked me to pray without ceasing in the first place, so certainly, He can say more than one thing each month. More than one thing each week. More than one thing each day.

As I was driving home, I asked Him to speak to me differently. Not to prove Himself (I’ve done that before). This was new. Here I am, God. Wanting to be with You. Show me what you see. I thought I heard him say, “daughter.” He lifted my chin to add, “I’m proud of you.” But I couldn’t receive it. I couldn’t imagine that the God of All would put His hand on my chin. I asked Him for His eyes—that He would show me what He sees. And as I looked forward, everything was dark. Because it was night, of course, but this was darker. Gray mist rising from dimmed lights, and slick, dark, foggy skies weighing down the rooftops of empty buildings. Are you sad when you look at us, Father? Are we covered in darkness? I turned the corner, and the oncoming lane stretched out dramatically in front of me; strings of bright, white headlights broke through the darkness, pushing forward in my direction. It became clearer to me that this is how He sees us.

"So that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a warped and crooked generation. Then you will shine among them like stars in the sky" (Phillipians 2:15).

When I got home, I told Eric about my time with God. About how the darkness disappeared as the headlights caught my eye. About how it must delight the heart of God to see us in that way. Moving towards Him. But I also told Eric that I was worried about the Old Testament. Would God reveal anything new to me? It had been three days, and the only thing worth noting was that, “by the way, I kind of like Jacob now, and I don’t know why.”

I was trying to be playful, but saying it out loud exposed something ugly. Something that God had warned Laban about in a dream: “Be careful that you neither bless nor curse Jacob.”

The realization stunned me. I have been judging dead people. 

God's eyes are on us; our eyes are on each other. 

Earlier in the day I had read, "Fix your eyes on me; the One who never changes." But for so long, I have fixed my eyes on Jacob, on Rebekah, on Lot, and on Cane, and eventually this leads me to judge God as well because I call into question His judgements and decisions to bless or to curse the "deserving" and "undeserving," in my mind. It feels less like judgement when I can say that I'm reading the Bible, trying to understand. But it's so clear now: "I don't like Jacob; I like Jacob," as if my opinion matters. As if Jacob belongs to me. I am trying to imagine what might happen if I read the Bible and paid closer attention to God, and God alone. In the story of Jacob, He guides, He speaks, He delivers, He blesses, and He promises. I need to keep my eye on Him; I need to watch Him, and to follow Him through the story, off of the page, and into the world around me. What would happen if all of us, as we lifted our eyes up from the pages and back down again, paid less attention to one another, and more attention to Him? What might we see? 

Not Even Perfectionism

My world is filled with valuable people who make it easy to practice love. They are vibrant, fascinating, talented, precious, quirky, beautiful people, and I have been thanking God for them a lot lately. If you are reading this, you are probably one of them—pick the words you like above, any of them, and wear them for as long as you would like :)

One of these wonderful friends advised me wisely on Monday morning: don't forget about grace, Amber. We didn't get a chance to finish, or for her to explain, but I still took the advice.

I thought about grace all day yesterday. And I still can't stop. 

First, I remembered a time when I made a new friend. She joined me in church, and we were sitting side by side when it hit me that she might not understand what we were listening to; I had often helped her translate words. I leaned over and reminded her that I would be happy to help her out if she needed it. She spouted out a few unfamiliar words, and I quickly defined them. We were both having fun with it. But midway through: Amber, what does grace mean?

What does grace mean?

The question amazed me. The opportunity to share humbled me. I assured her that we would talk about it after church was over. Don't forget about it, I said. 

I forget how I defined grace that day after church, but I can remember the way that my words came leaping out of my chest, and how it felt that nothing could contain the joy that I felt in that moment. To define grace, then, was to give it. And to acknowledge it for myself. 

"Don't forget about grace." 

I have been drafting this entry for two days now; I started it on the side of the highway when Eric and I were broken down and waiting for the tow truck. I couldn't think of any words to fill in the spaces, the abstraction of what grace means, but images from the night before rushed into my mind and comforted me. Grace looks like a girl with her palms open. Feeling imperfect. Feeling numb. Listening to words about hunger, about yearnings of the soul, about the need to be in the Father's presence. Feeling numb. Wishing that her stomach would fall down inside of her, or at least move aside, to make room for the God she needs. The presence she craves, whether she can bring herself to show it or not. Feeling numb. And then waiting to hear Him say, Stop striving. Be full.

In the calm at the center of the storm, I have every reason to be filled with joy and to give thanks to God. Because nothing, "neither death nor life, nor angels or rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord." (Romans 8:38-39)

Not even perfectionism.

So yesterday, I finished this post. And, I left it unpublished. I defied my every desire to become a slave to my own plans and expectations for myself. I rested in the truth that God loves me no matter what I accomplish. 

Press On

I've tried reading the entire Bible before. I've made it pretty far, actually. But in the past, if something didn't sit well, or if it did, I'd say a short prayer, chat it over with Eric, shoot a text to a favorite pastor friend, mention it at a coffee date at some point during the week, write it down in my journal, or maybe do a Google search. And then, move on.

I've been skillful, I think, in dealing deeply with the most difficult passages of the Bible, but managing to keep my relationship with God at the surface level. Because whenever I would grow tired of digging, I'd merely take a break and coast along. Skip the Old Testament. Read a Christian novel instead. Ignore the tough stuff for a while. Avoid the time alone. Sometimes, I realize, I'd take vacations from being a Christian. Not the kind of vacations where you abandon your morals for a what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas type of experience. But the kind where you abandon your pursuit for God because you are tired of asking Him tough questions, waiting for answers, agonizing over answers, having to have all of the answers!

Don't you ever get tired?

I'm not afraid to say it. Once, I sat at the edge of my bed with my forehead in my palms, with my lap full of tears. I told Him, I can't do this anymore. I can't understand You, and I can't follow You. But before I could finish my words, He arrived. He lifted my heart in His palms and He felt familiar. I was convinced that I belonged to Him, and that if I was patient, He could give me everything I would need to struggle through the pain I was feeling. To fight through the doubt that was weighing me down. He made Himself undeniable.

Writing this blog is changing me. I'm only twelve days into the year, and there have been too many moments where I have wanted to just give up and take a vacation from believing what I believe. But at the end of every day, I look back, and I see that I have never been so close to Him. In my first post for Undignified, I said that I was writing this blog for me; that makes much more sense tonight.

And because I'm a teacher, I'll end with this:

As I was driving to church tonight, I imagined that God was my teacher. It suddenly made sense to me why I felt the way I did. Why I was staying up late, puzzling over notes, reading more than ever before, writing everything down, and struggling to understand. If God is the Creator of the universe, imagine how magnificent His disciplines, how vast His knowledge, how intricate His wisdom, how beautiful His art, how puzzling His lectures, how intimidating His intellect, how frightening His power, how gracious His guidance, how immense His patience.

I am at the feet of Jesus, learning. And it hurts. But I have no plans to leave. This year, I will run faster and longer, and I will feel what it means to press on toward the goal that is Christ Jesus, because He is the One who sustains me.

Human Sacrifice & "Feelings"

Some days, you can manage to do nothing of seeming significance, and still feel that there is something memorable taking place—that the day is asserting itself as a memory worthy of recall. That’s how my day began yesterday. I hadn’t spent much time with Eric all week because of classes, but Fridays are our day off. And usually we have a plan for the day, but this morning unraveled without much discussion.

We ended up with coffee in our hands, pumpkin bread on our plates, and Bibles and journals on our laps. It felt so good to agree.

As I picked through a few of the things I planned to read for the day, I grew a bit weary. Ever since the writing I did about the flood and regret, I’ve felt spiritually exhausted and the Bible has not let me off the hook. From the flood, to Sodom and Gomorrah, and through various stories about women and their children and jealousy and downright wickedness, I was feeling suffocated by the text. I could see that today would be no exception.

I committed my eyes to the bold words in front of me: “The Sacrifice of Isaac.”

It makes me sick to think of Isaac, walking up the hill alone with his father Abraham, not knowing what was to come. He inventories the things they have carried, and then asks his father where the lamb is for the burnt offering. Abraham responds, “God will provide for himself the lamb for the burnt offering, my son.” I hate being the knowing audience, and I cringe at his reply, for Isaac seems sweet and trusting, a child with little ambition beyond obtaining the approval of his father. Not too many sentences later, Isaac is tied up on a stack of wood with his father holding a knife over his body, prepared to move forward with the sacrifice—until the Lord intervenes: Do not do anything to him. A ram appears, caught in the bushes by its horns. So, father and son prepare the sacrifice of the ram, instead.

I push everything off of my lap. I close my eyes. I breathe slowly. I am well aware that God intervened. But why was He there in the first place? So involved?

Silence.

Pick up the pen, Amber. Write it down.

But by the time I had picked up my pen, something new was surfacing. I was starting to wonder about Abraham. He must have felt like Jesus did on the night before the crucifixion, when He cried out in desperation, “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done.” He asked God to spare His life. Except. God did not take the cup from Jesus. There was no divine intervention. There was no ram in the bushes that could be sacrificed instead. God, the Father, placed His son on the offering table, and Jesus was sacrificed.

I close my journal, and I look up at Eric, waiting for a moment when I might be able to interrupt because I need him to listen and to walk through this with me. “Eric, what if the story about Abraham and his son Isaac is supposed to be upsetting to us? I’ve heard so many Christians explain the story away with comments about how we should be more like Abraham, willing to sacrifice anything for the Lord, but this does nothing to appease the discomfort I have in knowing that God was so actively involved in the near murder of Isaac, by his own father! And I know that it is ‘unreasonable’, perhaps even defiant, for the creation to question the righteousness of the Creator, and all of that, but can we just admit that this story is screwed up?! And Eric, one more thing, and this is what I am really starting to wonder…

What if the weight in my heart is a glimpse into the heart of God, and how He must have felt when we asked Him—by our actions on this planet—to sacrifice His one and only son on our behalf. Because God asked Abraham to sacrifice his son, and we hate Him for it, but by our sins and by our hands, we sacrificed God’s one and only son, and our hypocrisy blinds us— we fail to see that how we feel about Isaac is only a fraction of how God must have felt about Jesus, and about Isaac for that matter. We miss the opportunity to assume His posture, and know His heart.”

We agreed that it was possible. It was quiet, again. I let these thoughts weigh on me.

By the afternoon, we were standing in the bookstore. I’d been waiting for the chance to get my hands on One Year of Biblical Womanhood by Rachel Held Evans. By the evening, I was five chapters in. But one chapter stood out. Evans was reading about human sacrifice in the Bible as well—a different story, and one that I know is coming up in my reading plan. She was recapping the various interpretations of the scholars, and expressing her disappointment with how these explanations failed to deal wholly with the tension one faces when reading the story. I was twitching with joy at the feeling of being understood, and at the irony of this perfect timing—that I would be reading this book, these words, on this day.

Evans writes, “These are useful insights, I suppose, but sometimes I wish these apologists wouldn’t be in such a hurry to explain these troubling texts away, that they would allow themselves to be bothered by them now and then.”

I wonder, if we took Evans’ advice, if God would start to show up in ways like He did for me yesterday morning. What if we took the sincerity of our raw emotions and allowed that to be the point for revelation, the place for meeting Him, the chance to get a glimpse of who He really is. I wonder if it breaks God’s heart, even, to see us reading these scriptures and stories, refusing to feel out of fear that He might become angry, or worse, that He might not reconcile our reactions to Him. That He might not explain Himself.

What if, instead, to feel as we read—angry and confused and frustrated and bothered—is exactly what it takes to know Him more?