Spirit without truth

Over the past few months, I've had the opportunity to influence the lives of 12 young ladies. Coaching girls basketball has never been something that I have planned, dreamed or even intended on pursuing. There is a stark difference in the athletic performance of girls from boys. Boys feel good about themselves when they play well, Girls must feel good about themselves and they will play well. With these 12, much of what I do is instilling value and confidence in each one of them, and when inward poise and assurance is exposed, it spreads as wildfire, infecting each one. They come together unified and few have been able to stand in their way.

One could create a library on the number of books diagnosing the church and believers as to what plagues the community; what is the easy fix, who has the solution? There seems to be countless road maps, programs, and blueprints for success in the commune of worship. We are accomplished theorists of how the Spirit should move, what will provoke the Father to pour himself as he has done throughout history. Nevertheless, our formulas are constructed in reverse, planting the branches to grow trees, where we should be setting seeds for roots to mature.

" an hour is coming, and now is, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth"
Bitterness is born when we create platforms to talk of Him, but refuse to allow Him to speak of us. I have spoken through countless hours of the things He has done, should do, and would do if everyone else would come into better alignment with His agenda. I can recall numerous conversations centered around "the problem is..."; unrealized to the truth that the problem is forgetting to let Him search me. It's truth that brings freedom, it's truth that brings healing, it's truth that releases the hope of glory to be the reality of destiny. The movement of the Spirit in the community starts from within, in opening the door of truth that shapes me into His mold.
Creating a culture, changing an atmosphere, influencing the broken, hurting, lost, and complete does not start with others. It does not start with programs, music, books, or studies. It starts in me. It starts with my intimacy; when I exist in the Spirit and His truth forces an unlimited identity, and when this inward poise and assurance is exposed, it spreads as wildfire, infecting each one. When few come together unified, none will stand in their way.

Revival is my responsibility.

From within.

Me; you.

I often joke with a good friend when he attempts to characterize my actions as typical, answering him, that was the Andrew of yesterday, I'm not the same as I was then, today is new; I am new.

Frustration breathes when I see the accepted patterns, structures, goals, addictions, and attitudes as identities. Although I joke as to the complete instantaneous change to my thought structure and personality in a day, I refuse to acknowledge those feelings and behaviors that cause me to be anything less than the fullest potential I was born to, as who I am.

Accepting the things that prevent you from being everything He dreamed of you when He formed is to ignore the authenticity of who you truly are. The more I learn of who I am, the more I become aware that I do not know myself at all. There is a faced outward representation, clouded and deformed by hurts, insecurities, pain, anger, fear. This is not who I am, but with whom the battle exists to reveal truth.

"It is just who I am" echo with lies. And with their acknowledgment, defeat has already won. I wonder how I would change if I knew; if I knew all of who I fully am, all of what I am capable of, all of who others could be. Depression is not me; you. Anger is not me; you. Hopelessness is not me; you. Abandoned is not me; you. Alone is not me; you. It's not who I am, it's who I paraded as.

I am His.

Today is over;

I am new.

Even If

As a young boy, nearly every night I would turn the lights on in my backyard, grab my sun-ridden basketball and shoot hoops until I was forced to come inside. No one was around, but never was I alone. It was my time to dream. I dreamed of being a star, becoming a professional, playing under the lights, camera's. I was convinced I could achieve what was unattainable, I would be the impossible.

I grew older and basketball became less important. My dreams had unconsciously shifted, I began to see what made me come alive, what made feel like I fit in my own skin. I dreamed of stages, bands, thousands on thousands, students, adults, children. I saw miracles, worship, healings, I saw myself leading masses into His presence across the world. Coming into reality, I allowed my dreams to becoming fleeting thoughts as I had never seen anything modeled to what I knew was in me, crying to get out.

I was introduced to a man who would soon become a dear friend. A man who was living my dream. A man who knew the throne room, and escorted thousands to its door. And my dreams became more alive than ever, this man showed me how to dream even bigger.

It has been a number of years since imagination realized its trueness, and yet nothing has changed. Conversations rise to weighted arguments with Him as to why I see some of my closest friends living out my dreams. Overwhelmed with thankfulness of how He has changed their lives, but I still wonder,

Why not me?

And He responds, what about you? What if you never see another miracle? What if you never see another life transformed? What if you never feel my presence again? What if you never see your dreams realized? Are you following if... Are you following even if...

Even if I never see the masses come to Him, even if I never travel the world and speak to nations, even if He forever is a discipline, even if it's hard, even if I never see my dreams...

Even if...

I will follow.

Lensed Relationships.

I sat in my office chair, staring at the wall, pretending to respond to the emails I did not have, searching for something that would offer busyness, erasing the boredom. I began a project that would pull many small pieces together to create an image to goodness, I created puzzle pieces and put the pieces together.

Sorting through thousands of pictures, choosing faces and memories that would come together to create one picture, one face. It became a mural of three by five photographs with thousands of people, but one face. Standing feet away, one could see and remember, find themselves; stepping away, the photographs begin to run together, the people no longer as distinct, but one face remains, one face becomes clearer. This single print possessed a thousand smaller images of young people, all positioned and in harmony, reveals an image of Christ.

Each picture offered a different piece of the image of Him, a unique reflection that none other can hold. And I began to see the significance each picture, each person revealing His face, His character, His love, His eyes. How would my relationships shift if they were sustained by the exclusive element of Him that each person was created to carry; if I protected them because I see something of Christ that I cannot see in anyone else? What if I could order my relationships and find their value in seeing a matchless piece of who He is. What if I could see the irreplaceable unique measure of who He is in each person?

What if in everyone, I could only see Him?

Tabernacle

6:30 PM, for the past two weeks, I have assumed the similar spot behind the crowd of young teenagers, all tired, dirty, substituting showers with body spray. A small prayer, a series of familiar clichéd songs, and an entertaining sermon designed to invoke a response fills the next two hours. The lights dim and the final prayer is uttered, the front is flooded with young men and women determined to be better, to live for what is greater, ultimately, hoping not to fail. I smile when I see the authenticity of each person's action, I see each one grit their teeth and the determination in their eyes: "this time I can do it!" And the failing process has already begun...

I will be clean, I will not fall, I will be stronger this time, I refuse to let death separate me from life, I will go to the next level. These are the thoughts that possessed me as a young person in this same place, these are the thoughts that still plague me, them, today. A determination to be amongst the spiritually elite and feel as though I belong. This is the place where I allow Him to work in me through repentance and as I walk away from the altar of my shame, I leave Him there with it, focused on living in perfection so that I can remain in the delight of His presence. And thus repentance becomes the peak of my journey, never moving beyond into a mover of the kingdom, a shaper of history.

It is a flawed cycle of allowing Him to work then attempting to walk the road of independence; forgetting the truth that it is His kindness that drew me. What if I could disregard the reckless determination to be perfection so that perfection would accept me? What if I realized I do not need to do anything? What if I would just let Him change me? What if I knew He loved me for who I am, not who I should be?

What if I forgot to be sovereign?

What if I remembered Him?

look

I sit in a housing lobby, emptied to summer's freedom, barren walls, forgotten furniture, silent hallways. I imagine the people who have walked these halls, sat in these seats, the conversations had; I imagine the people who will come, who will sit, who will talk. I think of the age-old saying, 'if these walls could talk'.

If I look to my right, I see a wall, itself empty, but strong; simple, yet consistent; uninspiring, however it knows its purpose and serves it mundane function without hesitation. When I look to my left, I see an ocean, itself full and strong; complex but staggering with beauty; without security but full of excitement and the unknown; its possibilities speak to fear, but its movements offer a chance into greatness.

Two realities. If these walls could talk...

''look to the left, look to the ocean''.

More

The adversity found in creating is far greater than that in navigating a road previously paved by others. It has been days over 8 1/2 months since I left the place that groomed me out of adolescence, and returned me home to be an adult. I returned with nothing but a few belongings and my dreams to wow Arizona with who I had discovered I was, who He made me to be.

The year previous, I had been swept away through innumerable encounters with Him; daily exposure to secrets of His love, joy, satisfaction. The homecoming would not deter these times, they would increase and I would show others how to live single-minded to Him, experiencing His goodness. This was my plan, this was my excitement.

4 months into this book, the fervor had faded. The intimate times slowly diminishing. My desire for them much the same, giving equal time to ministry, work, family, friends, etc. as before. Something was missing, something was lost. I began to question my own life, my setting, my gifts, ministry, what had I done for Him to seemingly remove His love for me? I knew the undying affection for me was unscathed, but why could I know longer find Him when I looked...

8 1/2 months read, without certainty how many pages left to handle. The experiences I had were less than a year removed, the lessons learned, the secrets revealed, now being forced to live when the physical reality of His presence does not feel real. Can I truly live what He has spoken to me without feeling Him standing next to me? Can I be totally satisfied by Him? Can I choose joy? Can I choose peace? Will I find Him as my everything when I'm searching, but He isn't being found?

yet.

I continue to grow drained by the pursuit without immediate reward. For the past four plus months, my life has felt dull, unmotivated, and without dynamic growth. And this week, a thought confronted me, "is this how people live?" My frustration dominantly lies in the fact that I know there is more. I have experienced more, I have seen healing, within me and around me. I have seen people's lives change instantaneously and progressively, I have experienced His love mentally, physically, and spiritually. I have seen signs and wonders. I have not only heard His voice, but I have felt His voice. I have seen my prayers move impossibilities. I know about my God, and I know my God. I have met with Him, conversed, sacrificed, and watched Him shatter hopelessness. I've seen Him heal cancer, broken bones, disproportionate legs, chronic pain, torn ligaments, blind eyes, and deaf ears. I've seen Him heal the hearts of the broken, the lost, the forgotten, and the hurting. I've seen Him. I know Him. They must know...

there is more.

I will settle for nothing less.

complex simplicity

It's something I forever want to be included to. It's something I rarely understand the meaning of. Face-to-face glares, seeing the depth in its eyes, close enough to touch, in reaching to touch I see its distance. Rationalized through countless avenues, all of whom offered incompletion and dissatisfaction. Is it a place? Is it a people? Is it here? Is it coming? It is.

It is invisible, with its products seen in the visible world. It encompasses everything that is good, it was created by and is inhabited by goodness. I have heard men and women, the young and the old, educated and ignorant speak of it, though only one who spoke of it truly understood the subject of which he taught. It is the most complex of ideas, yet belongs to the most simple. It is for the poor, the weak, the forgotten, the unwanted. It is the kingdom.

Is it a place? Possibly. Is it a people? They are undeniably included. Is it here? Is it coming? Yes and yes. Claims to understand it would be thoughtless. Nonetheless, recently I have been possessed by a single thought about the substance of the kingdom; a thought that does not offer an answer to the former questions.

The kingdom is a happening.

The kingdom happens. When I speak truth, truth happens. When I speak hope, hope happens. When I speak healing, healing happens. When I speak peace, peace happens. When I release joy, joy happens. When I love, lives are changed. When I speak life into a dead world, I hear the revival of silent hearts.

The kingdom happens.

One by One

They asked for the the card I had been given as I walked through the door. Set it next to me and let it wait. This card, soon to be covered in ink markings, was waiting to be future's reminder. Something that I would write today, not my own words or ideas, but how I would be reminded of who He is, what He is saying, how He is moving, how I am responding.

I sat thinking, contemplating, letting my mind wander into stress filled situations I would try to control, failing time and time again. I began to focus in on ideas and desires I have, things I want to see move, change, develop. Who do I want to be? What legacy would I leave to those I would know and influence? What changes do I want to see and to what lengths will I work to possess those changes? What do I need, what's the right way, right/wrong, who/what/where?

Why?

I formed a mental list of what seemed to be countless unachievable products of how he would move. And when I had exhausted my efforts, my needs of what it would require to see changes and movement like I desire, I began to cross each element out, one by one. Things that had seemed forever important, began to fall one by one.

Signs, wonders, authority, recognition, relevance, position, promotion, fasting, theology, study, tongues, manifestation, knowledge, sermons, music, prophetic, miracles, holiness, anointing, prayer meetings, supernatural, fire, healing, outreach, power, art, evangelism, teaching, books,

But one remained. His person. I cannot afford to have anything apart of my life, regardless of its value, that does not possess His person. Every aspect of my dissolving list had begun with me. What I can do, what I need, where I... And I was reminded, its in His person. These disciplines, these products in isolation, offer little but fatigue. They are not good themselves, good is a person; good is embodied; He is good.

And my blank card now stained: it's in His person.

Imaginary

I sat in the pew next to my mom, brother and sister behind, neck aching and head pounding, everything physically wanting to stand and leave. A feeling welling inside of me urging to stay. Singing familiar songs, possessed by thoughts of how I've sang them with passion, screaming the words, calling Him to move. I stood with the usual slight rocking, fighting the physical to engage with the spiritual. Sifting to hear the still small voice with exhaustion, pain, and apathy screaming for my attention. It has been months since receiving what I had grown accustomed to daily.

As the service moved to a time of confession, I began to hold more focus, searching and allowing myself to be searched. I followed the prompts given and confidently answered; nothing present in my life, unconfessed, that needed to be addressed between us. I sat unaware of any wrongdoing I had done or resolved to do in the future that was left previously unacknowledged. But what had I done, how had I pursued, where am I becoming not a reflection of Him, but Him, Himself?

I began to see the metaphor of my life in a cup. A cup only to be filled with Him. I saw the pride of declining to be refilled, to instead sacrifice overflow because of my own lack of effort. Living off of and rationing what was released to me months ago. I was not running on fumes, I was not running at all. My confession became not what I had done, rather, what I had not done.

I had not let Him fuel me. I had not let me be my strength. I had not lived in the present of what He is doing, trying myself to multiply the effects of what He once did for me. I had not let Him be my everything. He was. I had not.

And my confession, my release of control, my fatal attempts to produce my own joy, my own peace, my own satisfaction, I offered to Him. Admittance to reality, death to denial, I submitted.

And in a moment, I experienced Him.

Realign

Minutes, hours, days, suddenly weeks, now months. Steadily increasing, unnoticed, what was once established lifestyles, now shelved in the name of good intentions. Passion overflows out of intimacy, the converse however, does not offer the same distinction.

Months of frustration, weeks of repeating lessons thought to be never learned, days fighting for potential's success, hours drained without provoking greatness, minutes watching utter foolishness. Then once, a glimpse, a hint to what was believed to be taken with seemingly total apathy. Then twice, the seeds planted months ago, labored over, nurtured, nearly given up on, began to possess their own breakthrough. Astonishment was my only reaction, a group of young men, with only thoughts to themselves, began to see the integrity to live beyond themselves. Seeing the beginning of what I worked so hard for, satisfaction remains as distant as when those seeds lay dormant.

Thankfulness coupled with hope for increase is my only confession. Nevertheless, dreamed fulfillment became an empty promise formulated by and given to myself. Stress was assumed to the idea that breakthrough would offer peace. Reality however is speaking of an internal struggle with that of who is peace and love coveting the attention I am offering this strain. Aiming to repair the broken, where I am only invited to escort the lost.

The internal tension, the stress, the anxiety, the life of displeasure is crowned when I have forgotten who I am. I know who I am most, I am accepted always, I am only satisfied when I am home. My home is His presence, without forgetting this, I am never lost, never a stranger, never without love, always accepting, always advancing, always influencing. Every step I want to walk into a puddle of Him, splashing overflow on everyone in reach, broadcasting His essence;

His love;

His peace.