From the beginning these words have been prophetic. What is
written here becomes true, and what is true has become written, because this is
the Spirit within me. The Spirit is moving.
Our
name is Israel.
Our story is written in the stars, which is why abundance is
soon to be ours.
Our name is Israel, and so we are ashamed of the past,
fearful of the future, and presently beloved and chosen by God. We are indeed
the chosen ones, every one of us.
Dear Jacob, I set up camp with you, just outside the
confines of Grace, a short distance away from shame.
We are somewhere in between. We are suspended in time and
space, uncertain of the outcome.
We are uncertain not because of lies, because we are now too
smart to believe those. Instead, we are uncertain because of hard truths-
things about our past, realities about the present, possibilities for the
future. We are stuck on these assumptions based on past experience: We will
only belong if we make ourselves useful and follow all the rules. We will only
feel loved if we feel needed.
Dear
Jacob, I lie on my back in the grass next to you, gazing up at the stars in the
dark of night and asking why. Why has it come to this? God why?
The truth of Grace does not factor in very nicely to this
equation. It upsets our assumptions and turns them on their head. So we set up
camp just beyond them, where we can observe and listen. We watch the stars for
a sign.
And as we watch with wary and curious eyes, our familiarity
with fear and shame is overshadowed by a nearby Truth which we observe from a
safe distance. This upsetting Truth says that we belong and are valued simply
because of our inherent divinity.
Our name is Israel and we are not convinced.
What does forgiveness really mean, anyways?
Unsure which truth to believe, we keep moving, always
searching, never trusting. We camp
outside of community because we do not trust it. Because the truth is, we only
feel as good as our offer. Can we adhere to the necessary requirements? Do we
abide by the legal structures of our religion? Will we conform to all the
proprieties?
If success is not certain, we set up camp elsewhere, as that
place from which we run will not feel safe to belong.
Our
soul is like a wounded animal, hiding from healing and afraid to step out in
trust.
I roam with Jacob, I avoid forgiveness, I consider
alternatives. We camp between two truths, one that says our name means shame,
the other which says our name means freedom. We are suspended in time beneath
the stars.
In order to make sense of it all, here in the in-between, my
life has become an eternal church service. This is a coping mechanism for my
insecurity about my small contribution in a world driven by mass production.
I bring very little to the table, and what I bring does not
change my name.
I am suspended in an eternal church service because it feels
safe there. Since my journey to healing began, my entire life has converted to a
Sunday morning. Day after day I worship. Day after day I doubt.
Day after day my story is written in the stars for all to
see, full of abundant prophetic divinity.
Worship music, sermons, scripture, prayer. It’s constantly
running in the background. Often there is a teacher in the background while I
work- Garden Church, North Coast Church, Saddleback Church or Super Soul (yes, Oprah!
Yes.). If it’s not a teacher, it’s a worship album- Bethel, Hillsong United, Jesus
Culture, Elevation Worship- anything ethereal and full of divine longing.
Israel, are you listening? I am talking to you. This is your
story, too.
I stake my claim on the outskirts of Grace and I worship,
read, listen, write and pray alongside my brother Jacob. I compose a prophesy
that will be vindicated by the Spirit of the universe, and the stars will illuminate
the darkness and reveal the Spirit that moves powerfully within me.
We feel safe in this suspension of decision because we feel protected
from scrutiny, here in this basecamp of cautious certainty.
While I fold laundry, wash dishes, make meals, write blogs,
pick up toys, pack lunches and vacuum up eternal mounds of German Shepherd fur
(will dogs shed in the Kingdom? Dear God!). Sunday morning is every morning in
this place. It’s how I cope with hard truth. It’s how I observe Grace from a
safe distance.
It’s
how I process the resignations of certainty and security. My story is
vindicated, but my story is unchanged. It is I who remain here, in this
suspended place.
Our basecamp is located somewhere in the middle, between
Grace and shame, and it’s full of curiosity and questions.
You will only belong in this world if you make yourself
useful and follow all the rules. To be admitted into the inner sanctum you need
to be needed. This is true in some religions. This is true in some churches.
Jacob and I have run from our homeland because the truth
broke our spirits. And it will require a massive surrender of volition to trust
this ridiculous and impetuous offer of Grace.
We prefer a truth we can stake our claim on: If you show the
world what you contribute, your offering might make you worthy. You can bring
something to the table in hopes that it will earn you the invitation into the
next meeting. You might be allowed to belong if you measure up.
But you won’t, because this is not your destiny. The stars
tell a different story.
Here in this basecamp of cautious observation, this is the
place where we accumulate a wealth of excuses to stay away from either side. We
are too wise to return to shame, but we are too smart to surrender to
redemption.
And in the dark of night, as we lay on our backs looking up
at the stars, listening to the distance sounds of two truths battling for our
allegiance, we feel small, insignificant, and unwanted.
Our name is Israel. We are loved. We are chosen. We are
afraid. What happens now? What are we fighting for?
The hard truth is, our contribution looks pathetic and everybody knows it. And so we pile up as
many things between our camp and the threats on both sides- shame looms, Grace
beckons.
The more we are needed, the safer we feel. So we make ourselves
as useful as we can be in this strange place, suspended in uncertainty, because
where we feel needed, there we feel loved. So we try to make ourselves useful
in the suspension in-between.
We
lie on our backs, side by side on the cool sand, and we gaze upwards in
silence, watching the universe unfold. We realize that our resilience cannot
endure this suspension for eternity.
Grace beckons with the truth that my identity means I have
already inherited the whole entire universe. Shame beckons with the promise
that admittance can be earned.
But here on the outskirts, we have learned to feel safest in
places where we contribute the most and make ourselves most useful.
It is time for the Spirit to move. Our story is unfolding
now.
And so, like my brother Jacob, I face the unknown with
everything I’ve got:
33 Then Jacob looked up and saw Esau coming with his 400 men. So
he divided the children among Leah, Rachel, and his two servant wives.2 He put the servant wives and their children at the front,
Leah and her children next, and Rachel and Joseph last.
Our name is Israel and sometimes we are ashamed.
Beware the regret that threatens to poison your inheritance.
We stoop low before our debtors, as they have come to observe
our debts.
3 Then
Jacob went on ahead. As he approached his brother, he bowed to the ground seven
times before him.
Seven times we admit our holy apology. Seven times we are so
sorry.
As we inch slowly, crawling brokenly away from our basecamp under
the stars, we encounter the first truth- we are met with Grace.
4 Then
Esau ran to meet him and embraced him, threw his arms around his neck, and
kissed him. And they both wept.
The arms of grace receive our tears. We are forgiven. We are
forgiven. We are Israel and we are forgiven.
And for a moment time stands still and all is well. The
stars shine over our radiant hearts.
We
fall into the truth of Grace
and
shed tears of relief.
But we are human, and our name is Israel. And forgiveness is
a threat to certainty, so it is difficult to accept. We falter, here in this
embrace.
5 Then
Esau looked at the women and children and asked, “Who are these people with
you?”
We have brought all our qualifications to negotiate with the
impossible truth of Grace.
Because we recall the past experience which invades this
embrace- belonging must be earned. How can it be any other way? It is a ticket
that must be purchased, an admittance that must be approved. Forgiveness cannot
be free! We don’t dare to fathom the depth of love before us.
Our experience has taught us that we cannot step foot into
the inner sanctum without following the rules and conforming to the labels. We have
been trained to believe that we are not allowed a seat at the table until we
are clean.
We can’t imagine that this truth of Grace will endure the
test of time- we only feel safe to belong if we feel certain to be needed.
So we try to earn the gift. We try to buy the blood.
“These are the children God has graciously given to me, your
servant,” Jacob replied.
The truth of shame says that when we enter the space of
potential acceptance, we must be sure to impress.
8 “And
what were all the flocks and herds I met as I came?” Esau asked.
Grace asks us why we brought all this pomp and circumstance.
The truth of shame says that we must
work to earn our name.
So we offer gifts instead of words, because we don’t know
what to say.
The stars observe our striving.
Jacob replied, “They are a gift, my lord, to ensure your
friendship.
We offer the very best of our unworthiness, because the
truth is we are small and weak and the whole world knows it.
And Grace trys to tell us to keep our blessings and prepare
for more. Keep that which remains and make room for abundance. Because the
truth is that Grace is a secret purveyor
of magical things.
9 “My
brother, I have plenty,” Esau answered. “Keep what you have for yourself.”
But we hear the voice of shame, and freedom is not part of
that equation.
We want to purchase our own forgiveness. We keep trying to
produce more reasons why.
We strive to belong, we strain to feel loved.
10 But Jacob insisted, “No, if I have found favor with you,
please accept this gift from me. And what a relief to see your friendly smile.
It is like seeing the face of God!
Ah yes, we have seen this Face before- in a dream. When we
wrestled with God, when we were bent
on holding onto the physical because we
could not grasp the spiritual. 
And God had said to us then “Let go of me, because how much
more I will accomplish living inside you than I would walking beside you!” He
asked Jacob to let go of the Man. He asked the disciples to let go of the
Savior. He asks us to let go of our basecamp of pomp and circumstance.
Yes, we have seen this Face before. This Face gave us a new
name, holy and beloved.
We
are learning to look up, up, up at the stars,
Jacob
and I.
We search the entire shining galaxy for one reason to trust
this ridiculous and impetuous Grace.
11 Please
take this gift I have brought you, for God has been very gracious to me. I have
more than enough.” And because Jacob insisted, Esau finally accepted the gift.
Finally He consents to our fears and tells us yes, that’s
OK. My child, be still. The truth is that Grace will meet us where we are at
today, no matter how far away that is from the place we once called home.
And then it beckons for us to return, because our name is
Israel and our abundance will exceed that of the stars in the sky. Our
inheritance is the entire galaxy. Eternity is within our very being.
12 “Well,”
Esau said, “let’s be going. I will lead the way.”
But we couldn’t accept such a generous offer as that. Not
today. It just wouldn’t feel merited, it wouldn’t feel safe. There is no
guarantee in this holy charity.
We don’t trust forgiveness. We trust earning. We want to stay camped nearer the voice of shame because
it has guided us so far and for so long.
We
make our excuses. We have so many reasons why. Such a strong case in our
defense.
God, but the stars see, and our story goes on for all
eternity.
13 But
Jacob replied, “You can see, my lord, that some of the children are very young,
and the flocks and herds have their young, too. If they are driven too hard,
even for one day, all the animals could die.
I can’t walk that way, God, it’s too hard. Please try to
understand. I’m not coming with you, Lord. Not there.
We have come too far not to defend our basecamp, the one
which lies somewhere between the truth of Grace and shame, the one suspended
between two truths, far beneath the stars.
We make empty promises which are easy to keep because they
are vague and contain so many legitimate loopholes. We have learned this from
those who came before us, our broken ancestors, our imperfect leaders.
We have all the right words, but the starlight shines right
through them, and everybody knows it.
14 Please,
my lord, go ahead of your servant. We will follow slowly, at a pace that is
comfortable for the livestock and the children. I will meet you at Seir.”
And Grace respects our indecision.
It offers to walk with us back to our basecamp and talk
about it.
Grace will not abandon us in our time of brokenness.
15 “All
right,” Esau said, “but at least let me assign some of my men to guide and
protect you.”
Then shame steps in to warn us that we could never accept
such an offer- we cannot depend on charity. We have been let down before, why
start believing now?
We
trust Grace to save our soul for eternity, but not to change our earthly
address.
Living out under the stars between the conflicting truths
about our identity, this place is comfortable and safe, untouched by either
passion or risk.
We kindly thank Him but shake our head no, not today, Lord.
It’s too soon. Twenty years would not be enough, we need more time, more time,
more time. More time to heal. More time to grow. More time to interpret the glowing
hieroglyphics in the night sky.
Jacob responded, “That’s not necessary. It’s enough that
you’ve received me warmly, my lord!”
I know enough to stay away from the truth of shame, that
place where I come from. But I don’t know enough yet to follow the voice of
Grace back home.
We are suspended in the middle. It feels safer that way. We
will camp out under the stars and dream about redemption, but we will not yet
surrender to reality.
It’s all talk. For now, anyways.
16 So Esau turned around and started back to Seir that same day.
Our name is Israel and this story is written for the entire
universe to read. And our
resignation is the pivotal moment of a holy alteration in our divine trajectory.
Nobody is required to walk with Grace. If we say no, well,
Jesus is a gentleman and won’t impose Himself.
Like that lovely line in Polar Express, “Nobody is required to see Santa.”
We must learn to trust the truth of our name, Jacob and I.
The stars in the sky reveal that even though our name is Israel and we are
fearful and ashamed, our name is Israel and we are loved and accepted. We are
safe to belong everywhere, because the entire universe and the expanse of the
night sky all belong to Him who blessed us.
Unsure which truth to believe, we keep moving, always
searching, never trusting. Stargazing on our lonely hill, suspended in
uncertainty.
17 Jacob,
on the other hand, traveled on to Succoth. There he built himself a house and
made shelters for his livestock. That is why the place was named Succoth (which
means “shelters”).
We build our shelters under the stars, a collection of
doubts and fears housed in dreams of peace.
We can still hear the voices on one side which warn us to
remember that we are only as good as what we offer. Labels and conformity
equate belonging.
Religion
wounds, reality bites, resignation heals.
We can also hear the voices on the other side which beckon
us to come closer and receive. We are curious but not convinced. We watch the
signs in the sky for more reasons why.
18 Later,
having traveled all the way from Paddan-aram, Jacob arrived safely at the town
of Shechem, in the land of Canaan. There he set up camp outside the town.
And as we dwell here in the in-between, there are some days
when we think we have our name figured out.
We settle into our patterns of knowing. We tell Grace to
please just meet us on the other side, thank you very much.
But
this suspended place of solitude is the end of a chapter, not the end of a
story.
This is the end of a chapter, not the end of a story. Look
up if you don’t believe me. Lie on your back next to me in the dark of night
and gaze at the lights and wait for a sign.
We are shedding something precious because we are growing
up. This is good.
We will gradually move closer to Grace and further from
shame, step by step, inch by inch, at the pace of a blind beggar full of stubborn
doubt and weary fear, hungry for things made of stars.
Our name is Israel and we know it deep down in our bones, in
the royal place inside that retains dignity and holiness despite our effort to ignore
it.
19 Jacob
bought the plot of land where he camped from the family of Hamor, the father of
Shechem, for 100 pieces of silver.[a] 20 And
there he built an altar and named it El-Elohe-Israel.[b]
God, the God of Israel.
Our God, the one who names us holy and righteous and
redeemed.
We both have sacred altars to our God, my dear brother Jacob
and I.
We both have abundance written in the night sky.
This is because we are ashamed and foolish.
This is also because we are beloved and chosen by God.
Our name is a holy, our name is hard. Our
name is full of pain and prophetic stars. It is a contradictory
truth suspended in the place of solitude between shame and Grace.
We fall in line with the broken ancestors of our past and
the wounded prisoners of war of our present, and together we lie on our backs
on the cool night sand and read the starry sky for a sign of the vision for our
abundant future. We lift our eyes up, up, up to ask for all the reasons why.
Why? Why?
Today is not a victory. We have walked away from a holy offer.
But today was one step closer to Grace- it was a conversation that ended in a
long distance relationship. We may not join in physical communion with our
community, my brother and I, but we join the entire universe in gazing at the
same constellations that pierce our common darkness. This is prophetic hope.
Here begins the
transformation of a broken life into an eternal church service, the kind that
is full of singing and listening and stargazing and curiosity from afar.
The suspension between two truths is a place of character
development and heart repair. It is a place for silent star-gazing and reflection,
an interpretation of the golden hieroglyphics that rise above our fears.
We build an altar in this suspended place in order to have a
haven from the conflicting voices that vie for our allegiance.
And truthfully, there are some really hard truths we tell
ourselves in the dark of night: I am unnecessary, small, insignificant,
unwanted. I failed.
We lie on our backs and gaze at the vastness of the universe
and realize that the hard truth is this: our contribution is meaningless, and both
sides know it.
And so we pile up as many things between ourselves and
revelation as humanly possible. The more we are needed, the more we serve, the
safer we feel.
But on the other side of that line of Grace which is still a
ways off, the God of Israel has a higher truth for us, one which turns the
meaning of our name upside down on its head.
We are learning we cannot earn true Love. We are learning
that True Love respects us when we say “no”. When is good enough going to be
good enough? Not until good enough looks perfect, or so we think. The stars
will wait patiently for our revelation.
It
seems impossible to believe the voice that says my greatest contribution is my
entire holy being, which is eternal and timeless and exists outside of the
realm of religious legalism and human failure.
Our name is Israel and so we are foolish. But our name is
Israel and so our inheritance is a black canvas dotted with luminescent points
of an ever-shifting trajectory.
And truthfully, we don’t need to offer anything at all. Grace
says “yes, beloved, I will meet you where you are right now. Come walk with me,
and let’s journey together from this suspended place of uncertainty. Let me
show you the stars from another point of view.”
We are allowed to take as long as we need to accept the
truth that we are worthy from the inside out, not the other way around. We must
remember that if we are looking for
reasons that we do not belong with Him, we will always find them. Those
reasons cannot surmount the higher truth of Grace.
Our name is Israel, Jacob and I, and we are in delayed transit
to move forward from the suspension of solitude. This is a journey which takes
many years and many detours to work out- the truth is that we are loved not because of what we do, but because of who we are.
We could serve for a lifetime and never understand. This is
our moment, this is our story. With the stars as our witness. He knows. God
sees. He is proud of us even in the failing.
He
can do so much more within us than He can beside us- but He is willing to walk with us in the other direction and talk about it. He is willing to wait from a distance
away while we gaze longingly at the stars. Take as many detours as you need. He
has an entire eternity to convince us of the depth of His love.
And one day we will rise up into His love like burning
lights in the sky, illuminating a persuasive abundance of truth that says we
are beloved and we all belong.
May every human being be peaceful and happy, even those like
Jacob and I who are suspended in places of illuminated uncertainty.
Our name is written in the stars, which is why abundance is
soon to be ours.
Peace to you, Israel. God will bless us both.
Amen and amen.
~*~
With
deepest gratitude
for
my tiny tribe of readers-
Rebecca
