healing

Times

Abbie Smith — Wed, 23 Mar 2011 09:01:16 -0700

There are some bands that I never tire of, no matter how many times they've sung albumns through my heart. Tenth of Avenue North is one of them. Thankful for these lyrics this week.

I know i need you
I need to love you
I love to see you, but its been so long
i long to feel you
i feel this need for you and i need to hear you
is that so wrong?
oh oh oh, oh oh oh, oh oh oh

now you pulled me near you
when we're close i fear you
still im afraid to tell you
all that i've done
are you done forgiving?
or can you look pass my pretending?
Lord i'm so tired of defending
what i've become
what have i become?
oh oh, oh oh, oh oh. (repeat 4)

i hear you say "my love is over,
its underneath, its inside, its in between
the times you doubt me, when you can't feel
the times that you've questioned 'is this for real?'
the times you've broken, the times that you mend
the times you hate me and the times that you bend
well my love is over, its underneath
its inside, its in between,

these times you're healing
and when your heart breaks
the times that you feel like you've fallen from grace
the times you're hurting
the times that you heal
the times you go hungry and are tempted to steal
in times of confusion and chaos and pain
im there in your sorrow under the weight of your shame
im there through your heartache
im there in the storm
my love i will keep you by my power alone
i dont care where you've fallen, where you have been
i'll never forsake you
my love never ends, it never ends
mmm, mmm
oh oh, oh oh, oh oh

Help: A War Cry, Not a Cry of Desperation

John Barry — Fri, 18 Mar 2011 12:35:00 -0700

“Help” is a word of desperation. It’s what we say when we think we can’t go on. That’s not the case for the biblical writers, though. For them, it’s a war cry.

The psalmist said: “I lift my eyes to the hills from where does my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.” (Psa 121:1–2 ESV).

In the ancient world, people thought the gods dwelled on the hills. So the author looks to the hills, not to flee, but for aid. He then acknowledges that his help comes from Yahweh (the Lord), who made heaven and earth. What is there to fear in the earth if everything in it is God’s?

But here’s where it gets really interesting: God is all about empowering us to do His work. That means that His gifts, His abilities, become our gifts and abilities. That’s what Paul talks about in his first letter to the Corinthians:

“Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it. And God has appointed in the church first apostles, second prophets, third teachers, then miracles, then gifts of healing, helping, administrating, and various kinds of tongues. Are all apostles? Are all prophets? Are all teachers? Do all work miracles? Do all possess gifts of healing? Do all speak with tongues? Do all interpret? But earnestly desire the higher gifts” (1 Corinthians 12:27–31 ESV).

Like the word Paul uses for healing, the Greek word for helping (antilaempsis) only occurs this time in the New Testament. The ancient Greek translation of the Hebrew Old Testament gives us some clues about its meaning, though. The Septuagint renders Hebrew words meaning “shield” (Psalm 89:18), “helmet” (Psalm 108:8), “strong arm” (Psalm 83:8), and “strength” (Psalm 84:5) as antilaempsis. (There’s also an obscure reference in Psalm 22:0, but since it’s in a superscription of the psalm, it’s difficult to know how to translate it.)

How the Septuagint translators understood antilaempsis suggests that it means much more than “helping.” In many ways, “helping” is a war cry: look to the hills where God comes from, and pick up your shields—for the spiritual battle is at hand.

The gift of antilaempsis is about protection. This makes sense: the gift of healing, mentioned just before is about restoration—restoring people to faith in Christ and helping them grow in Him. The person with the gift of healing is the person who restores people to faith, and the person with the gift of helping protects them on their faith journey. Of course, both gifts involve pointing people back to Christ—like everything in the Christian faith.

We all need restoration. And we all need protection and strength. Who do you know that seems to naturally protect people? Who do you know that looks at a situation and says, “I could be their strength by pointing them to the ultimate strength, God?”

We often think of the gift of helping as something we graduate from: You start by cleaning tables and making the coffee, then you graduate to higher spiritual gifts. We find the person willing to clean up our messes and say, “Oh, you must have the gift of helping.” Here’s some news: If you’re following Jesus, you need to be cleaning up messes. This isn’t reserved for the people who are kinder than you. That’s not a spiritual gift. We need to stop abusing the kindness of other people, and start helping out. We then need to use the term “helping” properly, which may require the vocabulary shift to “protecting.”

While we’ve been misappropriating the label of helping, we’ve also neglected to invest in the people who have the gift of strengthening others.

What needs to change in your church for people who strengthen and protect other people to have a place? How can you help them live their gift?

Want to read the entire series? Here is a round-up:

Healing: It's What We All Need

John Barry — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 22:06:00 -0800

Spiritual gifts or curses? Back in October, I opened a series of posts with that question. I was convinced then, and am now, that the primary reason why many of us feel empty is that we’re under utilizing our spiritual gifts. Unless we’re following God’s will, we’re not being who we were meant to be. That doesn’t just hurt God, or others, it hurts us.

One of the under-utilized gifts is healing. The world needs healing. Paul would agree. Here’s how I know.

When Paul describes how the church should function, he describes church offices, and then discusses gifts. It’s a tragedy that miracles are rarely seen in our churches—it’s a sign that we’re in spiritual gridlock. Healing (in Paul’s context) is about wholeness.

“Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it. And God has appointed in the church first apostles, second prophets, third teachers, then miracles, then gifts of healing, helping, administrating, and various kinds of tongues. Are all apostles? Are all prophets? Are all teachers? Do all work miracles? Do all possess gifts of healing? Do all speak with tongues? Do all interpret? But earnestly desire the higher gifts” (1 Corinthians 12:27–31 ESV).

The word Paul used for healing—iama—was also used by the ancient Greek translators of the Septuagint. They used iama to render Hebrew words originally used in the context of restoration and reconciliation (e.g., Isaiah 58:8; Jeremiah 30:17; compare 2 Chronicles 36:16; Ecclesiastes 10:4; Jeremiah 33:6). At times, iama also seems to be used in a medical context to describe the type of healing a doctor performs (e.g., Jeremiah 46:11). Iama translates four different Hebrew words in the Septuagint, which makes pinpointing it’s meaning difficult. Nonetheless, the different occurrences hint at the meaning in Paul’s context.

Paul uses iama earlier in Corinthians as well:

“Now there are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit; and there are varieties of service, but the same Lord; and there are varieties of activities, but it is the same God who empowers them all in everyone. To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good. For to one is given through the Spirit the utterance of wisdom, and to another the utterance of knowledge according to the same Spirit, to another faith by the same Spirit, to another gifts of healing (iama) by the one Spirit, to another the working of miracles, to another prophecy, to another the ability to distinguish between spirits, to another various kinds of tongues, to another the interpretation of tongues. All these are empowered by one and the same Spirit, who apportions to each one individually as he wills" (1 Cor 12:4–11 ESV.

For Paul, healing someone and performing a miracle was not synonymous. We place emphasis today upon a doctor’s abilities to heal, but the miraculous part (which is a separate function by the same God) is downplayed. We need both. We need people who perform miracles and those who heal.

The second part of healing is also not emphasized enough: restoration. As Christians, it is our job to restore relationships: between God and people, and from person to person. We need the reconciliatory power of Christ in our lives. God is in the business of restoration and reconciliation. It is our calling to also be in that business.

What if the world isn’t changing, isn’t improving, because we aren’t giving the world what it needs?

Our world needs healing. Will you be an advocate for it? What needs to change in your church for healing to become a priority?

Want to read the entire series? Here is a round-up:

Learning to Hope

Holly Ordway — Thu, 17 Feb 2011 08:00:43 -0800

I am cautious with my heart, not by nature but through experience. Yet Trust has been a recurring call in my journey with Christ – trust, and pain, and hope.

The first call I heard from the Lord was: Trust Me to make you whole. I had accepted Christ as my Savior, but I was anything but whole. I didn’t know how healing could happen; I could not imagine any world in which I did not carry this pain with me. Persistently and gently, though, the Lord called to me: Trust Me to heal you. Like the woman who reached out to touch merely the hem of Jesus’ robe, I hardly dared ask for His attention – and He turned and gave me the fullness of His healing grace. Even now, I am staggered by the power and grace with which Christ worked in the dark places of my heart.

The second time I heard that call was in the context of writing my book and – even more so – doing publicity interviews this past summer. I was forced to confront the agony of my own vulnerability. Would I be respected? Would I be liked? Or would I be a failure? And here, sharp and clear, came the Lord’s call: Trust me to lead you.

Moving forward in the dark, trusting that the Lord knows where all this leads, has become easier with practice – honestly, in large part because the Lord has had mercy on me, weak as I am, and has graciously showed me some of the ways that my work has borne fruit.

As I have trusted the Lord with my pain and my fears, I have discovered peace: no longer fearing the loss of the good things in my life, no longer to try to hedge against a dark and unknown future, but rather giving thanks from a grateful heart to the Lord who has so abundantly blessed my life.

I thought I had learned all I needed to learn about trust. But I hadn’t.

I had still not trusted Him with my hopes.

In this new season of my life, this springtime after a long dry spell, I have begun to hope and long for more – and the awakening of hope bites deeply, with its own peculiar agony.

To reach out means the possibility of rejection. To love means the possibility of being hurt. To speak means the possibility of getting tangled up in words and saying the wrong thing.

And so the pain of hope can mute the heart that wants so badly to sing out.

In my old life, I had learned to hope for nothing. Having been hurt, my hopes not just shattered but trampled on, I had learned to settle for as little as possible; after all, one cannot be disappointed if one expects nothing. But now, in this new life (and what a gift, what an unmerited and gracious gift is this life!) all that was changed: I was being called to not just life, but life in abundance.

Here was the third and most difficult call: Trust me with your deepest hopes.

I realized that I had only been willing to trust the Lord with those hopes for which I had a backup plan to address by my own efforts. For the things I hoped for that are out of my control – my desire for deep and meaningful connections, for love - I was afraid to even pray.

Part of me thought I was a fool: how was it possible that I should deserve such hopes? And deep down I feared that if I admitted to the Father that I longed for more, He would certainly deny me the very thing I hoped for.

I had it all wrong, so completely wrong. It is not a question of my own merit, for I have none. “I am not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under your table.” It is not a question of negotiating with the Lord over how many good things I am allowed to have – as if I were allowed to be blessed to a certain extent, and no more. No.

It is a question of who I am.

By the grace of God, I know who I am. I am the daughter of the Father, the adopted sister of the Son, the temple of the Holy Spirit. Unchangeably so. Not through anything I did or could ever do, but because of what Christ did for me.

I had been reflecting and praying about this for months, all through the fall and winter. It all came into focus at the beginning of this year, late one afternoon when I knelt at evening prayer.

I realized – fully and deeply – that God’s love for me is not an abstract idea, but a living and present reality. In holding back my hopes, I was failing to trust the One who loves me more deeply and fully than I can comprehend.

I wept. I repented of my own failure to trust. Turning to Christ, I asked my Savior to bring me, prodigal that I am, into the Father’s presence; to cover me with his righteousness, to set my hopes and dreams – all of them – before the Father on my behalf.

It was as though something shattered, something transparent that had yet stood between me and my Father’s love. For the first time, I was able to say Mary’s words with joy rather than resignation: “Let it be to me according to your word.”

And I find, to my surprise, I that knowing who I am – knowing my identity in Christ – has set me free in a way I never expected. Given me not just freedom from fear – but also freedom to hope. Freedom to love.

Hope is hard, I have found; I suspect love is, also. But as I pray each day in this new season, I discover that it is hard in a good way, the same way that disciplining oneself as an athlete is hard: it takes practice, and it doesn’t happen all at once. Everything I have discovered about trust is just the beginning: an invitation to take a chance, to be vulnerable, to step out into that future of God’s plans as yet unknown to me. No longer in fear, because I know who I am and I know that I am secure in Christ’s love. So here and now, in my own halting, awkward way, I lift my hopes – all of them – to the Lord who loves me.

Spiritual Gridlock: The End of Miracles?

John Barry — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 23:09:03 -0800

“My grandma is in the hospital, and she needs prayer. Can you pray for healing for her?”

“Of course, let’s pray.”

There’s nothing wrong with this dialogue, but the conversation ending there is tragic—yet, this is how most prayer meetings go. We pray to God like He is going to do all the work. We act like we don’t need to be involved. Ultimately, God does do all the hard work, but that doesn’t make us exempt.

Who is going to wipe grandma’s sweaty brow? Who is going to read her a book, or bring her something to read? Who is going to stay up all night with her when she is in pain? Who is going to bring her meals when she comes home? And who is going to lay hands on her hurting body and pray for her?

There’s a reason why there’s no one around to pray for all the grandmothers in our hospitals. We no longer believe that God uses us to heal people. Instead, we think of healing in abstract terms, or in medical terms. (The typical, "Let the doctors have healing hands" prayer.)

Paul lists miracle workers as the fourth spiritual office in 1 Corinthians 12:27–31. In light of this passage, we’ve already discussed that:

- We don’t compare ourselves to Elijah but should.

- We treat pastors like restaurant managers.

- We tell prophets to be like retailers.

- We banish Sunday school teachers.

In the New Testament, Jesus and the disciples lay hands on people, pray for them, and they are healed. Yet, we have made the people who want to pray over people feel awkward.

Healers are displaced in our churches.

I bet you can’t recall the last time someone told you that they have the gift of healing, or the spiritual office of miracles. People with the office of miracles are scared to say so; and they shouldn’t be.

We don’t see miracles when we look at the church today; instead, we see gridlock. We see church folks locked into pews, and locked into a belief that the work of the church starts at 10 AM and ends at 11 AM. If it doesn’t happen in that hour, it must not be church. We have locked ourselves into an idea of church that’s comfortable—it’s something we can isolate like the rest of life. By thinking of church in these terms, we’ve conveniently pushed out the Spirit: the individual who does the work that God really wants done. And the Spirit just happens to be the one who prophesies and performs miracles through people (John 6:63; 1 Cor 12:4-11).

By pushing aside those with the spiritual office of miracles, we’ve made the church normal. We’ve made the church everyday. It’s boring.

Miracles are the sign of God pushing back the darkness. Miracles are a sign of the kingdom reigning. And if we aren’t pushing back the darkness, and God’s reign is not growing stronger in the world, then we’re not being Christians. You heard me right: a lack of miracles is a sign that we’re not being Christ-like. That was a sign of his ministry, and it must be a sign of ours.

I don’t know who has the office of miracles in my church yet, but I hope I find out soon. Because there are likely people in our congregation who need healing, and I want the Spirit to be able to freely work when that day comes. I want being missional in my faith community to mean pushing back the darkness. I want it to mean the kingdom reigning through our lives. And that means miracles.

What’s the situation in your church? Is the office of miracles at work in your congregation? If so, share with us how. If not, tell us how you think you could revive that office.

Mysterious Ways

Jim Farmer — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 21:40:08 -0700

Johnny take a dive with your sister in the rain

Let her talk about the things you can’t explain

To touch is to heal

To hurt is to steal

If you want to kiss the sky

Better learn how to kneel

- U2’s “Mysterious Ways”

A couple Sundays ago, I was walking into the 9 am service at my church (I typically think of the 9 am service as the “grown up” service, because the people that go to that service no longer care about sleeping in. Since I’ve turned 30, I’ve become “those people”. I’m also contemplating taking a bus to work periodically. I think this is my mid-life crisis.), minding my own business, saying hi to some friends, and looking forward to being just another “seat filler” for the service. (I spent my time doing some ministry work earlier this summer, I was ready to just sit back and hear about God! Cut a 30-year old some slack, okay?)

Anyway, no sooner did I take two steps in the building when I felt a tap on my shoulder. The tap was from one of the pastors at my church.

Pastor: Hey Jim, morning! Me: Oh, hey pastor! How’s it going?

Pastor: Great! Hey, by the way today’s service is going to be a healing service and we need people to pray and heal people during the response time. Can you come up and help heal people?

(Please note, he is asking me this in the same tone one would use to ask a friend to grab an extra napkin from the condiments station at McDonald’s.)

Me: Oh, yeah, sure, no problem!

(Please note, I am responding in the same tone one would use to tell said friend that it certainly would not be a problem to grab an extra napkin for them.)

Healing services are not regular occurrences at my church, and I was caught quite off guard. I’m also a man of my word and knew that I’d be up at the end of the service praying for healing whether I was comfortable with it or not.

I’m going to go ahead and pause here for a second. This is the point in the story where my non-Christian & hipster-Christian readers are rolling their eyes and thinking ‘wow, I didn’t know that Jim was that hardcore/crazy!’ By the way, if you’re not sure if you are a hipster Christian, look down and see if you are wearing a V-neck T-shirt. If there is definite V, you’re a hipster Christian. Bonus points if you created a V-neck T-shirt out of a standard old boring round T-shirt (many thanks to Stuff Christians Like author Jon Acuff for the tip!). Anyway, for those readers that have just written me off as nuts, I understand. I went through the same roller coaster of emotions as I sat down and the service began.

Unfortunately, cheesy, greedy televangelists and charlatans have done a great job in skewing the way we see “healing” in the church. When I think of healing services, I instantly think of a southern, sweaty pastor wearing an atrocious shiny suit (definitely no V-neck T-shirts in his wardrobe!). He calls the crippled out of of the audience, places his hand on their forehead, shakes them violently and ‘voila!’ they are healed. Of course, don’t forget to send your money in to the address at the bottom of the screen, so you, too, can be healed! I’d wager a bet that you think of the exact same image.

The thing is, I DO believe in a God of miracles. I believe in a God that parted the Red Sea, that rescued His chosen people from Egypt. I believe in a God that allowed young David to slay the giant Goliath. I believe Jesus was born of a virgin, turned water into wine, fed a crowd with a loaf of bread, and walked on water. I believe Jesus died on a cross, with the weight of an entire world’s sin on his shoulders, and was resurrected from the grave. I believe this ultimate miracle happened because God loves us so deeply and justly He needed an epic sacrifice so we could be restored to him. I believe this God created the world, and even time itself. So why is it so difficult for me to believe the same God can heal someone’s bad back, or anxiety, or even cancer?

The sad truth is, I’ve allowed sinful, fallen people shape my perception of who God is and the miracles He works. The scary truth is, I’ve also been the person who has ruined other’s understanding of who God is. How many times have I destroyed someone’s perception of who God is because my actions, thoughts, and deeds aren’t true to the true character of God?

So, during the response time I went up and I prayed for people. I was nervous, I felt a bit uncomfortable, but I also could sense God’s presence. And his presence gives me boldness. So I prayed. I prayed over a hurt back, and a busted knee. And I honestly do not know if God chose to heal those people in that moment or not.

But, I do know this - during the course of that service, I was healed from the damage inflicted by those sweaty, charlatan televangelists. I gained a new understanding and appreciation of the power and mystery of my God, and will be forever changed because of it.

Sounds like a miracle to me.

Season of Healing

Abbie Smith — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 05:38:44 -0700

(2008 journal entry I found recently...still learning most of its lines.)

Where I have so punished, let me so Love.
Where I have lived in fears, teach me Freedom.
Where I have restricted, help me trust the Table before me.
Where I have hurt others, teach me to Confess.
Where I have hurt myself, teach me Healing, unloosing the hands from around my neck.
Where I have been hurt, teach me to Forgive.
Where I have controlled, show me Surrender.
Where I am alone, let me be Embraced.
Where I remain tired, lead me to the gift of Rest.
Where I remain afraid of tomorrow, or ashamed by yesterday, unveil to me the gift of Grace today.

With Love,
Your daughter

Obvious (or not) Wounds

Crissy Brooks — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 22:38:00 -0700

When I was in second grade handball was all the rage. We played it with big red rubber balls against backboards on the playground. One day I was playing against Amy Watson, a third grader, and she went for it- hit an ace, leaving the ball very low to the ground. I was not about to be shown up by a “big kid” so I launched myself toward the ball as if I were sliding into home plate. I slid right across the asphalt on my nose. I stood up in pain, half embarrassed, half proud of my all out attempt. Turning to Amy Watson, I asked, “Is there a mark?” Looking straight at me she replied, “No, I don’t see anything.” Unconvinced I ran to the bathroom to see for myself. There down the whole length of my nose was a huge scrape. All the skin was gone. “How could she not see that,” I thought.

My senior year of college I had a Communication professor who treated his classes more like group therapy than academic study. This particular class was bearable because almost all of us had gone through the program together and had become friends over the years. One night the professor sat us in a circle and told us to write a secret on a piece of paper, something about ourselves that we never tell anyone. We each wrote something down and put the papers in a pile. One by one the professor read them out loud. One by one we heard pain, loneliness, hurt. We had lived and studied together for four years. How could we be so unaware of each other’s pain? “How did we not see that,” I thought.

In the movie, “Crossing Arizona”, there is a scene where an anti-immigration rally takes place in a hotel ballroom. As the speaker rants about immigrants taking away jobs and ruining our society, the immigrant hotel workers are cleaning up and serving those in attendance. Watching the scene I was left asking, “How can they not see that the people serving them are the ones they are railing against?” How can they not see?

The Lord warned the prophets it would be like this. Jesus spoke to the people in parables for this very reason,

"Though seeing, they do not see; though hearing, they do not hear or understand. In them is fulfilled the prophecy of Isaiah:
”‘you will be ever hearing but never understanding;
you will be ever seeing but never perceiving.’” Matthew 13:13-14

A few years back I was in counseling working through some things and my heart felt so raw and exposed. I remember walking into meetings sure that everyone could see how insecure and vulnerable I was. It changed how I saw others. I wondered if just walking in the room took as much courage for them as it did for me. I was more gentle and kind because that was what I longed for. I felt fragile, like I needed to be handled with care. Anne Lamott says she treats everyone like they are in the emergency room. In that season I began to think she has the right idea. Just like my college classmates, if we could see the wounds of those around us, it would change how we treat one another.

There is something powerful in really seeing. In the moment we begin to perceive we say, “my eyes were opened,” as if we had been walking around blind before. When the Apostle Paul began to live in the light of Christ, something like scales fell off his eyes and he could see. In the same passage that Jesus was quoting, Isaiah goes on to say, “Otherwise, they might see with their eyes, hear with their ears, understand with their hearts and turn and be healed.”

A lot of days I walk around feeling like my second grade self with a huge wound on my face that the “big kids” can’t see. When Jesus encountered the blind man he asked him, “What do you want?” He responded, “I want to see.” Maybe that should be our prayer- “I want to see.” The Scripture says if we see with our eyes...we will be healed. Maybe the seeing comes before the healing. Perhaps when I can see the pain of others, my own healing takes place. And in seeing the pain of others, I can love like the Father, who Hagar named, The One Who Sees Me.

Peace Corps Ponderings

Abbie Smith — Sat, 19 Dec 2009 11:15:13 -0800

I had the honor of filling-out a recommendation for a Peace Corps applicant this week. And though its questions were impressive, they weren’t unlike what I’d expected—except for one. And as I’ve sat with this particular question since, I’ve realized it’s one we rarely pose, either to ourselves, or to each other, and yet one I’m increasingly convinced as destructive to live without.

“Are you aware of any circumstance this applicant may be resisting in light of his/her pursuits with the Peace Corps?” In other words, are they running from something? And if so, please extrapolate on the vacant lines that follow.

It’s (delightfully) tempting to think if I jump-ship from my current circumstances, I’ll jump-ship from my current consequences too. If I cut ties with that person, or cut communication with that situation, life with once again breathe free and easy. And in an extreme case, like joining the Peace Corps, what could be better than few thousand miles of virtuously directed breathing space, right? Wrong.

You’ve seen and I’ve seen it. And to some degree, or another, you’ve done it and I’ve done it. We assume jumping-ship will land us at a rescuing life preserver; we assume closing one chapter means we can start entirely new in the next. When the reality is, we are an evolving chapter, necessitating all of our parts, including the seemingly dark, unknown, or mistaken ones, in order to be whole. The ship we jumped from, whether an unfelt emotion of anger, hurt, or sadness, or an un-grieved loss of a dream, expectation, or love, will return. More than likely it will manifest a bit differently, but also a bit more destructively. And it may not feel that way, because we become increasingly adept at numbing-out reality, but it manifests its way into every reality around us. In fact, those around us typically sense the extents, and maybe even initiators, of our running more than we do—and if don’t believe me, ask someone who knows you.

If I’m honest with myself, and the gamut of professions I hold of humanity, it behooves me to say I think we are always running from something. I think we are always dodging an aspect of reality, or realistic state of our humanity. No one wants to be alone; no one wants to be rejected, or belittled; no one wants to face a shady past, or shattered dreams; no one wants to stand in what seems hopeless, or stake hope in what seems a blind future.

So we run.

We turn from reality and chase fantasy. We fix our eyes on escape. And when we’re close to being caught, we hide. We sew fig leaves believed to bring us safety and coverage. We devise clever plans believed to restore a time when things were “okay”—where we won’t have to run anymore. And though occasional threads haunt us, or nagging scars inhibit us, we press-in and run harder. For some this race becomes a lifelong skill, while others are graced by a severe enough abruption, that they’re forced to stop.

“Turn around,” Divinity will say. “You don’t have to run anymore. Please come home.”

“You don’t know me,” humanity responds. “You don’t know who I am. You can’t handle the whole of my truth. To run is my only escape.”

“I know you,” says Divinity. “I know where you’ve been; I’ve been there, too. I know who you are, and I’ve been with you all along. Turn around. You don’t have to run anymore. Please come home.”

In the case of the Peace Corps recommendation, I didn’t suppose my psychological download of viewpoints on human depravity would be terribly beneficial. Nor was I aware of anything significant enough to mention that the applicant was running from. So I clicked “no” and moved-on to the next question.

So I'm an addict...then what?

Abbie Smith — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 07:41:47 -0700

My friend told me she was an addict today.

I was so proud of her, not because she confessed some profane form of activity, but because she cooperated with some unpleasant part of being human.

None of us escapes addiction. And though some are more identifiable, like porn, food, or shopping, others are heinously scripted into our DNA, like self-promotion, ease and vanity.

My friend and I realized that to sever her addiction altogether would mean severing parts of her that were good, like desire. And yet, fully submitting to its patters didn't feel right either, so we decided there must be an alternative route. Seems like we can either turn away from our addictions, or we can face the truth of them, and hope to God love exists in that vicinity.

Maybe recovery is less about learning how not to fall, than it is recognizing tools that help us get back up. And maybe strands of addiction will always taunt us, but healing is less about being fixed, than it is being loved, especially in our addictions.