One Decision

I sat alone in a room soon to be filled with a few hundred screaming, giggling, and overjoyed high school students. Coming with a friend up into the mountains during vacation, memories flood of the past years of directing similar events, hoping the quiet empty room I now sit in, I will drown out the noise shattering inside of me.

Perfection.

It’s required. Without it, you’re not first; and if you’re not first you’re last.  I’ve relived, remembered, redone, tried to remove, and with every repeating memory, replenished the judgment and shame on myself. A single mistake, regardless of its significance, can cause a train wreck of internal disorder.

Growing up, trouble seemed to always be at my door. Fun was the driving force behind every action, thought, hour, or day without concern for rules or discipline.  Nevertheless, if punishment were to come, it couldn’t come quick enough. Once discipline made its mark, I could move to once again look to become the best, to achieve perfection, hoping next time, I wouldn’t spoil His plan for my life again.  His plan is perfect, and to stay on His plan, I must remain perfect as if my life is a board-game, only the perfect role will land me on the intended space.

Easy to read, hear, think, ever difficult to truly know; that regardless of my mistakes, I am deeply loved. Regardless of my continual failed pursuit of perfection. I am deeply loved. Regardless of the consequences, the brokenness I create, I am deeply loved.  Regardless of how I view me, I am forever deeply loved.

Regardless, I still don’t believe it.

I always come back to a time, sitting on bench with a close friend. Explaining to him my impending life decision, he stopped my rambling and gave am unforgettable slap on the wrist:

“Who do you think you are? Why do you think you are so big? Do you really think that you are powerful enough to mess up God’s plan for your life in one decision? Mistake or correct, pursue Him, His plan is bigger than you.”

I want to believe it.

 I will.

Hopeful(less)

I hope.

What is it that I hope? I hope to make more money. I hope to get the job. I hope my finances come through. I hope to be noticed. I hope to do well in school. I hope to get what I ask for. I hope to stay healthy. I hope to be loved. I hope to be needed. I hope. I hope.

I want.

These words have become interchangeable in my expressions. Hope equates desire; but it doesn't. Hope must be put in something, someone. Can I hope in something I cannot see? It is in where my hope lies, this place that feeds me life, hoping for something greater, when satisfied, I become the person I was authored to be.

Hope fails.

Most often, I have my hope stationed in relationships; in the end wanting to be counted among the number of whom this piece of my hope is controlled.  When I am unrecognized, ignored, I become unvalued. This habit requires overindulging by asserting to maintain peaceful connections. Hope still serves the same purpose, nevertheless, putting my hope in anything that can ultimately fail, will. Broken relationships, author hopelessness, and lies are fashioned to the fiction of Hope's existence. My hope is in being wanted. When I am unwanted in an instance, I become unwanted unanimously. It is when my hope is placed in something definable, the definition will at last become identity. Being wanted is part of the design, but allowing it to become the substitute when I don't feel like a son, my internal infrastructure begins to crumble. Hope fails when grounded in something or someone that was never designed provide satisfaction, life.

Hope influences.

A friend of mine once told me, the one who possesses the greatest hope, possesses the greatest influence. Hope is the confidence in something great, for something better. Hope is knowing. Hope doesn't disappoint. I live by who I put my hope in, I die by its absence. But hope can always win, hope can always satisfy, hope can always influence. It is when my hope is placed in what cannot be defined, the one who calls me son, the one who always welcomes, always wins, always satisfies; then definitions and identities are insignificant, because they are unchanging. I am thus always wanted, because of who I am, never the converse.

Where is my hope? 

Today...

...my hope is in Jesus.

A son. 

Wanted.

93 Words

Crowds gathered, sometimes small, other sometimes too large. Pushing forward to get to the front to hear words that both cut and healed in the same moment. Few things were certain, nevertheless, amid confusion, frustration, you left more alive than you came. Unsure of what would change, they pushed forward. To be touched. If even for a second, it could mean a lifetime of profit. Bringing the marginalized, the undervalued, the forgotten, and meeting rejection; highlighting the prevailed identity of worthlessness. But walls broke, and the insignificant owned the spotlight. He said "Be like them", the world turned upside down again.

no, you're not good enough.

I lay in my bed night after night, reading the same 93 words. Who am I? Am I the follower who refuses access because someone does not qualify to be touched by the same man who forever changed me? When did I become the gatekeeper to His presence? When did His love for me become greater than His love for them? When did I stop loving like He loves? I don't need to protect Him.

I don't care what anyone does, I'll push until He touches you.

The alternative found in the same motion. Parents bringing their children to sit at the feet of wonder. Unsure of why they are possessed by this man's words, actions, just knowing that if touched, a life would forever be changed, a destiny forever shaped. Who am I? Am I one who pushes through adversity, rejection, false identities, reasoned only for others to encounter their maker. Is everything I do: influencing, hoping, positioning others to be seen, to be touched? Do I remember His firsts are my forgottens, my refuse is His reception? Look to Him, He's looking at you.

You were them, now be me.

I begin to remember His words, you were lost and I found you,. You were forgotten and I remembered you. you were insignificant; I gave you value. You were dead; I made you alive. Be like them, come to me until you are touched, then come again. I make you who you are, rejection is an obstacle, not an identity.

Be like them, keep pushing, keep coming.

Mark 10

Do you see me?

...are they watching...
...do they see me...
...am I noticed...
...are they impressed...
...am I doing enough...
...am I important....

...AM I GOOD ENOUGH...

30 Fifth grade students stand together prepared to sing for their video-camera wielding parents. A few select are chosen to sing prepared solo's; though there's one student, unconcerned with the music, words, the former practice, tunnel-visioned to the affirmation of their parent. And at the most inopportune time shouting: "Dad, am I doing good?"

The definition of the person has begun to be written. It is by what I do that I am valued. The perceived thoughts and reactions of who I label as important, give my life meaning, daily looking for someone to put a price to who I am. The greater the price, the greater the significance. When I have little to offer, at least in their mind, and now my own, I have little value. "Dad, am I doing good?" - Do you think I'm important - your thoughts define me.

I sat frustrated, thoughts of inadequacy overwhelming truth: yes you may be good, but you will never be great, average among elite, forgotten amid the renown. Performance paradigm now deeply rooted as it was modeled at an early age. I have little worth when I am only able to offer what is modest. When I have little to profit from others' lives, I create minimal time for a person I view as having minimal importance. Selfishness in cycles: my own insecurity compounds theirs and back again. "Dad, am I doing good?" - Am I valuable? -

Selfishness, fear, insecurity disconnect reality. Truth remains, I am valuable enough that someone who had nothing to gain, gave himself up. Truth remains, my author went bankrupt to unchain me from selfishness, fear, insecurity. Truth remains, He did it all to look me in the eye:

"Andrew, you are worth it"

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.