glory in souls

I think the mark of spiritual maturity isn’t that you have a safe life where you follow all the rules and look respectable and have a clean house and don’t cuss.  I think the mark of spiritual maturity should be looked for in the soul, because it starts in the soul.  Of course, it comes out in how you live. It should. That’s one of its proofs.  But we are foolish if we believe that because someone is clean on the outside, that they are alive on the inside.  It is easy to pretend on the outside. It is impossible to fake a dead soul.  

I think the mark of spiritual maturity is how much your soul yearns for God, and what it does with that yearning. I think spiritual maturity is how you talk to the God who made the Big Dipper and the inchworm and your one of a kind face.  I think spiritual maturity is measured in your relationship with the one who couldn’t just let you die without hope, who chose to bear everything on your sake, who forsook glory so He could awaken your soul.

Spiritual maturity isn’t about what you don’t do or the rules you keep or the verses you have memorized or the tv shows you don’t watch or the car you drive or your bank book or the hymns you sing.  Spiritual maturity usually involves some throwing out of the book, because it isn’t sufficient.  A soul who has been captivated by a God big enough to create a universe and loving enough to redeem it will not simply be ‘clean and orderly.’   That soul will overflow with glory.  Even if life sucks.  Even if sorrow and despair and sin and darkness characterizes its situation more than spiritual ‘cleanliness’.  

The soul who has been given glory will keep rambling on.  That soul will not be simple.  Life isn’t simple.  Even the cleanest of circumstances is still messy, because our souls are dark and complex and afraid and longing.  But for the soul that is known by God, there will be a glory big enough to overcome the pits.  There will be a rope that it clings on to even when the glory seems to fade into cracked lips and cracking relationships and cracking hearts.

Because that soul, that spiritually mature soul, it knows that glory does not die.
God will not be overcome, and neither will His children. 

Souls that overflow with glory, that spill it out in big ways and little, that eek with the beauty and depth and love that comes from the source of glory, those souls are spiritually mature.  And they are beautiful, despite their pain. Maybe even because of it.  God makes vessels of glory out of earthen pots.  And he likes to shine through their cracks.  

I am not the hero.

I've talked with Micah quite a bit lately about living and dying and extraordinary faith, about how when you're in love with God, everything precious and insignificant about your life fades in comparison.  We sat in the van outside of her house after I drove her home from Bible study, and we talked about how we'd rather die like a French Revolutionist on the barricades then rust out in lukewarm mediocrity.   Christ is worth everything, we reminded each other, and I think we both felt that hole in our hearts bursting because it couldn't contain the majesty that is God and His plan.

(Micah wrote a beautiful blog post about some of those thoughts here. Seriously, go read it.)

But tonight, and the last few nights, I'm not sure exactly what it means to let my heart burst and my life burn like a torch- to die, namely.

I'm still doing things like homework and university applications and dishes and family quarrels and Bible studies and television and staying up past my bedtime.

Then there is this, which I've read several times over the last few weeks:

"We are afflicted in ever way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, 

so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies.  

For we who live are always being given over to death for Jesus' sake."

Life right now doesn't feel like dying, and I don't feel like someone who is carrying that particular kind of death or life around.

Of course, following Christ in His death, being overcome by the majesty of God, isn't something that demands actual death in our North American culture.  There are no barricades for me to die on today.  Instead there is law homework and serving my family and prayer and speaking with love.  And God is no less present, and He is no less central to my existence, and He is no less glorious, but my eyes were captured by a fire and I feel like there's more smoke then fire here.

If I'm being completely honest, that's what makes me angst the most.  Dying isn't a path of actual thorns, and I'm not on the mission field or raising money for the needy or fighting abortion or evangelizing on street corners.

I watch my favourite characters on the screen, and they fight monsters.  They stare at death, they flame and burn and choose death and sacrifice and passion, and I come out of that with this ache, because how do I die like that?

Maybe that's the thing I have to give up in order to die.  I want to be the hero.  I want to fight the glorious battles that cost the most and hurt the most and I want to be victorious.   I want to die and get it over with, to be presented with an adventure and set off on it.  I want to die on the barricade, not in the green field of normal life.

We sang at church this Sunday that "our God is greater, and stronger, and higher than any other".   I had come from a week of mediocrity.  I had come from a week where the death of the barricades, of the gunshot wound, of the monster-fighting was more appealing to me then the death of Jesus.  My death more precious than his.

Our pastor reminded us, gently, from the pulpit that all the blood of the martyrs was not worth one drop of Christ's blood.  My pride want to fight that idea.   I want to believe that I'm the penultimate hero in the narrative of my life, that I am the focal point, that something I have done will make my life worthwhile.

"I'm not the hero of my story, am I Lord?" I asked, and it hurt to realize how I had valued myself over Him.

I am not the hero.  I have never been.  I can never be.

Instead, the man on the tree, the ransom, the passionately sacrificial son of God is the hero of my story. He is my worth, and my glory, and my joy, and my reason for dying.

How do I carry that kind of death in my body?  I don't feel like I know what that looks like.  And the burden of heroism and sacrifice and the battlefield is still an ember in my soul.  But how to die right here?  That may not be glorious in the way that I imagine, but that's not really the point.

Jesus is a better hero then me.

And I want to be His.

And what that looks like in the writing of the story, I want Him to decide.

On "Stars", Les Mis and the Elder Brother

"Stars/ In their multitudes/ Scarce to be counted/ Filling the darkness"

I saw Les Miserables three times in the theatre last month. It blew me away for many reasons (which may become the subject of multiple blog posts), but there is one character in particular that gave me a lot to think about.

Javert.

Javert is one of my favourite characters in Les Mis.  He is an officer of the law with a flawed view of God, a man with the law in one hand and a inability to see grace as he dispenses what he really believes is just in the eyes of God.

Literally all that Javert can see is the Law.  This is why the contrast between Javert and Valjean is so strong.  The highest good, in Javert's mind, is that the Law is maintained.  That Justice is served.

Whether or not you agree with how he goes about fulfilling these things, you can't deny that Justice is good.  So Javert's intentions aren't evil.  They're based on a desire that God has- that justice would be throughout the land.

The problem with Javert is that he can't see the relationship between Law and Grace. 

As I was thinking about Javert, I really started seeing him as the elder brother in the story of the prodigal son.  It's not a perfect parallel, but I saw some striking similarities.  

So at the beginning of the story, Valjean becomes a thief.  His motives are good, but he ends up in jail for his actions.  When he is released, Valjean is wretched, lost and poor, ruined in the finest sense of the word.  He steals a set of silver.  He's caught. 

And then he's shown mercy.  Valjean is welcomed into both the arms of the priest and into the arms of God.  Forgiven for his crimes. Welcomed back into grace. This mercy begins to transforms the way Valjean sees his entire life.

Javert doesn't know these things about Valjean.  But Javert has lived a life of law-keeping and law-enforcing.  Javert has obeyed the law to the letter.  And all he can see in Valjean is a man who stole bread and broke parole.  All he can see in Valjean is a thief deserving punishment. 

But Valjean has experienced mercy, a mercy that has coloured his future and made him into a man of mercy.

To Javert, Valjean is the one who didn't deserve anything yet was given everything.  He sees the prisoner who has slipped through the grasp of the Law again and again.

In the song "Stars," Javert sings this verse:

"And so it has been and so it is written

On the doorway to paradise

That those who falter and those who fall

Must pay the price!"

What Javert doesn't understand is that grace (and paradise), unlike law, cannot be earned. 

That is also what makes Javert tragic, in my mind.  He is so captivated by fulfilling the Law that he has closed his eyes to seeing grace.  He can't imagine a world where mercy could overcome law.  So when Valjean doesn't kill him, granting him life, it cracks the whole way that Javert has seen the world. 

In his last scene, Javert sings these words:

"Damned if I'll live in the debt of a thief!

Damned if I'll yield at the end of the chase.

I am the Law and the Law is not mocked

I'll spit his pity right back in his face

There is nothing on earth that we share

It is either Valjean or Javert!

And must I now begin to doubt,

Who never doubted all these years?

My heart is stone and still it trembles

The world I have known is lost in shadow.

Is he from heaven or from hell?

And does he know

That granting me my life today

This man has killed me even so?"

We would do well to think of Javert more complexly, I think.  Because there is more of the Javert in us than we may realize.  He has the heart of the elder brother who was more concerned with keeping the law then celebrating with a redeemed brother.  Javert is a drastically painted picture of law without grace, justice without mercy, and perfection without a changed heart.

I've seen a lot of Javert in myself.  And I think we all can act like little Javerts, valuing perfection and law-keeping over the grace that is given in the Gospel.  We make our lists- believe me, I've done this- and we try to live a perfect life in the hopes that we will receive favour.  In the hopes that we will earn paradise and that God will think well of us.

In our Javert-like hearts, we value outward perfection over a heart that has been transformed by grace.

That's been one of the biggest struggles of my Christian journey.  Does God's favour come through living rightly or through being granted mercy in my sinful state?   Do I earn grace?  Once I have been given mercy, do I have to keep on doing good things in order to keep that mercy?

Valjean had a heart that had been broken by sin and mended by grace, a heart that was washed and given grace.  That grace spilled out of Valjean, making him into the man that rescued Cosette, pulled Marius through a sewer.  It made im into the man who even forgave Javert.

And Javert, ruined by the knowledge that his law keeping didn't buy him grace, jumped off a bridge.

In the end, it is "either Valjean or Javert."   Because these two men- Javert and Valjean- are two ways of seeing the world- two ways of seeing the Gospel, Christ, and what it means to be forgiven.

Hobbits with Swords {2013 Winter Workshop}

 So I started writing this post a few weeks ago, but it seems even more fitting to finish it now as I sit in the airport on my way home from the 2013 OYAN Winter Workshop.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hobbits with swords.

That sounds like a brilliant idea.  Put the destruction of the Ring of Power in the hands of three foot high, peace loving, mushroom eating farmers.  They're extremely capable of stealing produce, but the chances of them staying alive against a Nazgul?

Highly unlikely, as they'd barely be able to reach his knee.

I’ve felt like a Hobbit quite a lot recently.

‘There is no way’, I think.  Absolutely no way that I could go up against the evil and suffering and sorrow and tragedy in the world and come out triumphant.  My strengths are about three feet high and my talents- I'm good at stealing produce and keeping my Hobbit-hole clean, but I've barely ever even held a sword, and the prospect of battle scares me back to my hole, my tea and my books and the refuge of the internet.

Sorry God. You'd better find an Aragorn, because I'm a Hobbit.

I'm not particularly strong, and my failings are much greater than my strengths.  I love Jesus. But I still stumble, fumbling in the darkness as I fight loneliness and fear and my own unfaithfulness.  More often then not, I don't come out very triumphant.

This week, we've heard about Warriors.  We've heard about how the best stories may be yet to be written. We've heard about the God who wants us to imagine and create. We've heard about writing with honesty and writing for Truth.

I was struck over and over this week of how much I felt at home with all of you.  You give me a glimpse of what Heaven will look like.  Your love and care are a gift that comes from God through you and I can't imagine how much I would be different if it were not from you.

I would have loved to stay in Kansas forever with you.  Telling stories, laughing, being together.  Writing, learning, growing. Being safe.

  

But the sense I got at the worship and prayer service on Sunday morning was something quite different.  It's easy to love the Workshop. It's easy to want to stay there, to dread going home and leaving all the people who have made your heart more alive.  Now that we're home, it's easy to curl up and mourn the fact that we're apart again. 

But we can't. OYAN is just the beginning.  It's the launch pad to send us back into the world and to prepare us for loving Jesus in our individual lives.  OYAN is the battle cry.  It's the swords placed in our hands, the story written to enflame our hearts and call us anew.  The Workshop was our Rivendell.  We were healed.  We made friends. We chose to take up our weapons and to live for Christ.

Now we go home to begin the real battle.  I'll admit, my own battles scare me more than a little.  My sword had gotten dull.  I need Christ to be fuller in my life and my writing.  But I'm His and you are His, and He moves mountains and changes hearts and creates things like OYAN. 

So go home. You may be a hobbit, but the war's already won. 

We're ordinary heroes belonging to Christ.

I pray that that's true for each of you for the rest of your lives.

Much love, Abby.

Life Abundant (the wonders of people, enthusiasm, and long talks about heaven)

This photo has really no relevance to this post except that it's nearly Christmas. And I love snow.

“...the sun looks down on nothing half so good as a household laughing together over a meal, or two friends talking over a pint of beer, or a man alone reading a book that interests him..." -C. S. Lewis

Trying to sum up exactly what I'm wanting to convey in this post may be rather difficult.  I'm afraid it's one of those subjects that is hard to bring up and harder to do justice.

I'm talking about Thankfulness For Being Alive and the Many Wonders of People and Relationships and Long Talks about Heaven and Literature and Unashamed Excitement about Many Things.

I've got some pretty crazy awesome people in my life.  It's easy in the middle of the messy, uncomfortable, dirty parts of my life to forget how I've been blessed, in small ways and in large.

For some small ones, take snow. It tried to snow a couple times this past week and though it didn't stick around, I wondered (again) at the beauty of it, arriving in waves from the sky and giving the air that crisp, vibrant wintery smell.

Another small thing: Meals with friends. I got to eat a meal with my Bible study group this week, and then another meal with a friend's family the next day.   There is something very simple and beautiful about eating together.  Especially when you pay attention to all the little details, the way people laugh, the jokes they laugh at, the little looks they give each other as sarcastic (but loving) comments make their way around the table along with the casserole and the cookies.

On to some of the larger things.  I had Bible study small group with two girls on Thursday night.  We ended up talking about emotions and fears and Psalm 25 and then we got to pray together.  I got a fresh appreciation for the way they loved Jesus and, by consequence, loved me.

Then on Friday night I went to a "nerd Christmas party" with my literature group.  We talked about everything from science fiction to music, but the part of the conversation that engaged me the most was when we talked about Heaven.  

C.S. Lewis talked about Sehnsuct in a few of his writings; the uncanny longing in every human soul for joy, true joy, and for something just beyond our grasp and not found on earth.  

"That unnameable something, desire for which pierces us like a rapier at the smell of bonfire, the sound of wild ducks flying overhead, the title of The Well at the World's End, the opening lines of "Kubla Khan", the morning cobwebs in late summer, or the noise of falling waves."

The conversation on Friday night gave me a fresh dose of Sehnsuct.   We have this promise that God has gone to prepare a "place for us."

Don't all humans want a place for us?  We seek it out in so many ways, but I would venture to say that many of our endeavors come back to this longing for a place.   What amazed me was contemplating afresh this.   We have this hope beyond worlds, this hope and faith that there will be a Place for Us, and that Christ himself, the chief Person we were created to glorify and love has designed it.

He painted our name on the door with His blood.

Doesn't that just drive you speechless?  It doesn't often enough to me, but it should, and when I feel Sehnsuct most deeply and realize that it's fulfillment is in Jesus, then the silence and the peace fill the rivers of my soul again.

“There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal.” -Lewis, again (and I shall never stop quoting him, never)

Being with people that share this longing for a Place and a Person is one of the best things for my soul.  

These people are excited about Life and about Miracles.  They are unironically enthusiastic about stories and music and Truth in Literature.  They appreciate mysteries and mountains and the place above the tree line where the silence is deep.    They talk about Heaven and their eyes light up.

You can see in their smile that they are not talking about a place they are mildly interested in.  

No, in these people, I see the fire blazing because their souls are alive, and they are seeking after the Person and the Place they were made for.

I am ridiculously blessed by God in the gift of knowing them.

Tagged!

I will say that this has absolutely no relevance to the rest of this post.

So, I was tagged a few weeks (months?) ago by Micah at http://snippetsandslicesandscenes.blogspot.ca/.

Eleven Facts 
1. I am Canadian, which probably most of my followers already know.
2. I am an INTJ (Introverted Intuitive Thinker Judger) in the Meyer's Briggs personality type system.
3. My favourite TV show is Doctor Who for many, many reasons; one of the largest being that the Doctor gives me a fresh excitement for life, for adventure, and for living with meaning.
4. I love dystopian fiction and its ability to communicate Truth.
5. I began writing because I loved Narnia and wanted to write stories about it (2006-2008).  That grew into the writing of my own original fiction a couple of years later (2008-onwards)
6. My favourite book series is The Chronicles of Narnia, though Harry Potter is putting up a fight.
7. My favourite movie series is The Lord of the Rings.
8. I love the rain.  Where I live we get a lot of rain.
9. The first book that made me flat out cry was Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.
10. I own 8+ nerd shirts, including 4 Doctor Who themed shirts. 
11. I play unashamedly with my sonic screwdriver and my fez and I enjoy fish fingers and custard.


My answers to Micah's questions:

1. If you met a Boggart/found your room at the God Complex/were marched towards room 101 in the Ministry of Love, what would await you? If it's a too personal of a question, just tell us your favourite ice cream flavour. Unless, of course, your worst fear is ice cream. Then you can just leave this blank.
hardy har har.  I'll go with room in the God Complex-oh, but that is a hard question.
My Boggart would probably be a lot like Augustus Water's worst fear.  Oblivion.
I like chocolate chip mint ice cream.  

2. How did Sherlock survive?
Mind control.
I have no hypothesis this late at night.  I've heard the squishy ball theory, the TARDIS theory, and a bunch of others. 

3. Which do you prefer - nice eyes or a nice smile?
Nice eyes.  Eyes say so much.

4. What is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?
Sorry, was this supposed to be an educational question?  Cause it's past my bedtime.

5. What is the best smelling book you ever did sniff?
I'll say the box of old books that my Dad brought home one day.  They were all about 90-100 years old and smelled- oh, they smelled beautiful and ancient.

6. Are you the crying type? (The Fall, Doomsday, Toy Story 3?)
Nope.  Sometimes I wish I was, but I'm an INTJ and we don't tend to be emotional.  I can work myself up to being emotional, but crying is usually off-limits unless I'm dealing with something really personal.  Or I'm really tired.
(Or I'm reading Harry Potter or The Fault in Our Stars, to date the only two books that have made me properly cry.)

7. Which fictional villain makes you the most frightened or angry?
Loki makes me frightened, but mostly because I love him as a character and want him to be redeemed.  That's not really a fear of him so much as it is a fear for him.  Bellatrix Lestrange is pretty terrifying.  And Oblivion. Because Oblivion is really a 'villain' of The Fault in our Stars.

8. What would your dream room look like? ...Your dream house?
I'll just describe the insides because I'm not good at visualizing structures.  The inside would be crisp, cream or white walls with black or red lettered quotes scattered throughout.  There would be many bookshelves, some hidden in warm, rounded corners with large comfortable chairs.  There would be words everywhere, in the bedrooms, in the living room, tucked into the corners of the kitchen and the front entrance.   It would be like a large hobbit hole with hundreds of books, well lit rooms, and speakers to blare (or trickle) music everywhere.  Imagine "Don't Panic" blasting through an entire house and a cup of tea and jammy dodgers sitting on the kitchen counter.  Then imagine me with a Narnia book in my hand and a stack of books under my arm, guitars on the wall and the smell of cinnamon.

9. If you could only see everything in one font, from now on, what font would you pick?
Something like helvetica or times new roman.

10. Mac or PC?
Mac. 

11. You're a contestant in the Hunger Games. Detail this for us. What's your strategy? Training score? Do you win, or ... not? If you feel like it, give us even more. Outfits? Favourite thing about the Capital? District? What's the arena like this year?
Gosh, Micah, do you want me to write a book?
My strategy is to hide and trick other contestants and try to stay alive for as long as possible and defer a messy death.  I'm definitely more of the 'flight' rather than 'fight'.   I climb trees, gather food, stay away from the other contestants at all costs.   
I definitely don't win.  First of all, I don't know that I would kill.  Under those circumstances my resolve might be weakened, but I don't honestly think I can say that killing under those circumstances is any more justified than any other circumstances.  I'd prefer to die rather than have to be a part of death.  Even though there can only be one winner, even though my not-killing would not stop others from killing.   I hope that I would be able to hold that resolve. So I probably don't last long.  Also, there's the fact that I'm small and physically not very strong or agile or talented in anything that doesn't involve words and a computer. 

The Dichotomy of Stories and Reality

I live a thousand lives tonight
Locked up inside my head
I chose the song of eternity
It ravaged inside my head
I live a thousand lives tonight
All faces black and red
I chose the people who never lived
I cried, and stayed in bed.

You're probably tired about hearing about stories from me.  It seems that's most of what I talk about.  I'm not here to apologize though.  However, today I am going to delve into something that may explain why I talk about stories so much, why they affect me, why I love them.

So here goes.  Baring a little bit of my soul here.  This idea that I'm going to share today is something I've cried over and thought through.  It's very personal to me, but it may be also something for some of you, particularly those who have ever thought that escaping in a story was the only thing that kept them sane.

"in dreams we enter a world that is entirely our own"

I finished reading the Harry Potter series last weekend.  It affected me quite deeply with the adventure, love, and loyalty of the characters; how they sacrificed for each other and the  courageous choices they made in spite of death staring them down. The themes, especially those of death and life, courage and friendship, hit me hard. (I may write a full review and post it here. We'll see.)

It had been rather a rough day at home, the day after I finished reading.  There were things heavy on my heart, real life struggles that hurt and drove me to my room alone.  In that moment, I wanted escape more than anything.  Harry Potter had affected me.  Even though the story had been filled with darkness, with danger- even with death, something in me longed for it above my real life. Harry said "Hogwarts is my home."  And in my longing for my own world to be made right- I wanted Hogwarts to be my home.  It was, despite it's darkness, a beautiful place.  It was adventure, it was escape. It was certainty that their lives meant something.  

Maybe it was certainty that my life meant something too.

All my life I've looked to stories for escape, I've been realizing.  All my life I've seen glimpses of life and love and courage in stories that have provided hope to me as I'm living the pages of my own story. Those stories have given me courage.  They've given me joy.  Most of all, they've given me hope.

"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live."

So there's the dichotomy.  I've depended on stories, to be honest.  I've placed my heart in them, let them affect me and change me.  I don't regret what stories have done for me.

Sometimes, though, I think I dwell on stories and forget to live.  I love stories. I won't ever stop loving stories.  The story of the universe goes on- and we write and live our little stories inside of it.  I fully intend to keep reading and writing stories for the rest of my life, in expectancy that they will affect me, change me, give me hope and strength.

But even in that, I have often lacked the courage to step out of the story world and live fully in my own.  I saw a post on Tumblr that said "we need fantasy to survive because reality is too difficult."

Okay, so sometimes reality is difficult. Sometimes it is horrible. But we will never get beyond the darkness and into the light unless we step out with our swords drawn.  We will never experience life  in all it's beauty- and sorrow- unless we fling ourselves fully into it.

We will never live unless we come out of the dream world.  The dream world will live inside us forever, it will continue to make us more alive then we were.  But I realized that night that these stories matter because they echo my own heart.  My desires for my own story become entangled with the fictional story.  I want to live, to have the abundant life that I was made for.  I do not want to forget that truly living is courageous.

"The stories we love do live in us forever."

Our own stories, we hope will live forever.