Who Changed?

I've heard it said. I've seen it happen, both progressively and in mere moments. A change in someone's life, amendments to their thoughts, actions, motivations, goals, values, ideas, identities. I've had moments in my life where instantaneous change has occurred, and times where conversion was processed and implemented over time. All of these episodes rooted in the unwavering, the unchanging presence.

I've heard it from many men, women, from different pulpits and various books, it is impossible to enter into the presence and leave unchanged. Everything within me agrees, except my experience. Recognizing the error in creating standards simply out of experience, questions rise in why change does not always occur, at least perceivably. That is, why do the same actions, lifestyles persist when the intimate moment is lost? Is the presence absent? Did rejection prevent its power? Is the change to subtle to notice? Did I leave too early? Did I... and I've already begun to be defeated, unrealized to the fact that a loyal love to Him forgets to worship myself.

Nevertheless, ignoring the self-absorbed questions leads to the answered truth, it is impossible to enter into the presence and leave unchanged. Internal renovation has occurred, but in the moments as I walked away from that time with Him, I again took control of my heart, reshaping what He restructured to what is comfortable to me, from what is new to what is old. My temporary surrender and unwillingness to give Him permanent control, in intimacy and out, refuses to allow life to exist in the vulnerability of His transformation. And I closed my eyes to trust.


Revolution happened.

And I lose control.

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''.