False Beaches

A "false beach" at Siesta Key, Florida, with my fam. 
Notice the birds' nest on the buoy in the
distance that looks like a cross...!

We dropped our bags and surveyed the shoreline. My three-year-old niece and nephew were already scampering toward the calm water. 

The water was clear, and we smiled as the twins scooped up shells and splashed in the cool ripples. Then, suddenly, he sank and fell. She took a step toward him and realized the same fate. Just a couple of feet away, my sister rushed to snatch them both up. 

The twins weren't in the ocean at all. It was an enormous pond of sea water, stranded on the beach by an expanse of sand. I looked down the shoreline and saw lots of people setting up camp along this false beach. I understood the appeal: it was shallow, there were no waves, you could see everything in the water, and the bottom was soft and smooth. 

But it wasn't the ocean.

So we stepped into the sea together, cheering with each wave we bobbed, shrieking as some crashed over us, and gasping and choking as a few knocked us underwater to the ground. It was the ocean in abundance. The full experience.

It struck me that many people live the spiritual life on a false beach. We live life near to God, but "safe" from the unpredictability of His call. We want to wade in His blessings, without having to trust what we cannot see. Without the risk of being knocked around by the waves of life. We go to church, raise our hands, talk about His Word - maybe even lead others. But unsurrendered. And unfulfilled. Because we're missing both the highs and the lows that come with submitting to the wildness of walking intimately with the Almighty.

Life on a false beach feels easier, safer, more under control. But it's not an abundant life. It's not a true walk with God. Instead, it's a sandy box that is close to God but not submitted to His power and His beauty and His wisdom. It's an illusion of a spiritual walk, because it requires no risk, no trust, no faith. And in the end, a false faith - like the false beach that the twins played in - is ultimately sinking sand.

"The thief comes only in order to steal, kill, and destroy.

I have come in order that you might have life—life in all its fullness."
John 10:10 GNT

Pray that God would reveal to you whether and how you live life on a false spiritual beach. And why. Ask Him to take away your fears and replace them with trust, that you might walk with Him into the abundance of life. To show you joys you can't imagine, and to sustain you during moments and seasons of uncertainty and woundedness. To trust Him in ways you never thought possible - or necessary - and experience life in all its fullness.

The Rock

Many people have asked me to write something about our recent trip to Israel. To be honest, there's so much I could say that I'm not sure where to start. 

This visit went deeper than my last two, for all sorts of reasons. And, after every single experience, I tearfully pronounced it as my favorite. There were, however, some places that were particularly profound for me:  swimming in the Galilee and touching the walls of the Bethlehem cave, fellowship with the Young Life Middle East team and exploring the 2,100-year-old pathways under the Temple Mount. 

I'm sure I'll write about all those experiences eventually, after I've had more time to process it all. 

But there's one singular moment I'll go ahead and share, because I haven't been able to shake it. I can still feel it – literally. Not just in my brain and in my heart but on my fingertips. It was the rock of Golgotha. I touched the very ground where my Messiah paid my ransom. 

When we walked into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, I was overwhelmed. There were so many people. From all over the world. Not observing, but worshipping. Experiencing the place where Jesus actually died, and where scholars believe He was - briefly - buried. 

People's faces were marked with joy and wonder and grief and adoration. 

And we were surrounded by beauty. Most American churches are nothing like this. Many poo-poo such grand adornment. They criticize the extravagance. But when I gazed up at the expansive domes and the infinitesimally small mosaic tiles, all telling the story of my Savior, I was captivated by the love and devotion these craftsmen and artists had for God. How His sacrifice inspired them to create such breathtaking portraits of Jesus’ life and death. 

Granted, sometimes the incense was a bit overpowering, especially for us westerners. But I chose to let it remind me of the High Priests ministering in the Holy of Holies. This was, after all, the place where the Great High Priest made the final, eternal sacrifice for the sins and brokenness of humanity. 

In any event, the rugged expanse of rock - the area of the ancient quarry that the builders rejected because it has a fault in it - is there, covered in thick glass. Historians record that the Romans crucified their criminals on this very surface.  And, if you are patient, you have the overwhelming opportunity to get down on your knees, kneel under an altar, put your hand through an opening in the glass, and - 

I almost can't say it. It still takes my breath away. I touched the very ground where Yeshua bore my cross. Where His blood spilled for my atonement.  Golgotha. 

Every time I get to this point in writing or editing this post, I literally have to stop. My eyes well up. The emotion of that moment was too much for me. I was overtaken by an urge to rip through the glass and get to the ground. To lie facedown at the foot of where the Cross had been. Or at the very least, take up residence under the altar for awhile with my hand on the rock and pray. Or cry. Probably both. 

But the people behind me wanted their private moment with Golgotha, too, and I had to stand up and join my family on the other side of the altar. I looked up at my husband and just shook my tearful head.  He nodded. He knew. He'd been there before. 

I wish everyone could touch that rock. To walk the streets of Jerusalem and stumble upon site after site after site recorded in the Gospels. To know - not just from words on a page or felt on a board - that Jesus is real. 

 

Golgotha - and everything else, like the prison pit and Gethsemane’s garden - are real. They are real places, and you can go there today and breathe in the same air and walk on the same dirt that Jesus did. That the disciples did. King David and Father Abraham. 

My palm touched the very rock where Jesus was pierced for me.

And it has rocked my world. 

 

The Psalm of Lament - I Mean "Ascent"

I leave for Israel tomorrow. Tomorrow. TOMORROW! 



A photo I took of Jerusalem in 1982 when I was 13.

We've been planning this trip for almost a year. Well, actually, my husband has been doing all the planning. I've been anticipating. 

Anticipating the joy of walking Jerusalem with my family. 

Anticipating the power of returning to Masada, the site of my Bat Mitzvah. 

Anticipating the grip of the Holy Sepulchre and the pit and the garden tomb - places my Jewish family never visited because, well, we were Jewish. 

Anticipating, anticipating, anticipating!

What I did not anticipate, however, was that my daughter's spring musical tech/production week would be this week. Or that I would be organizing a pastors' conference taking place this week. Or that my daughter and I would both be battling a nasty virus for the past ten days (a visit to the doctor is on my agenda for today).  Or that someone would hit my parked car outside the mall. Or that my sixteen-year-old would get pulled over because his mother neglected to renew the registration. Oh, and final exams for both teenage kids. 

I did not anticipate being physically and emotionally exhausted. Completely tapped out. No. I'd pridefully anticipated sweeping into Jerusalem as the inspiring spiritual leader. The magnanimous dispenser of pearls of wisdom and insight and excitement. 

Instead, I feel like I'm limping to Jerusalem.  In the midst of this week' unanticipated chaos, I realized I needed to get my heart and mind right. 

So I turned to the Psalms of Ascent.  

These are the fifteen Psalms that Jewish families and communities would sing together as they journeyed to Jerusalem for the three pilgrimage feasts. I just knew these Psalms would inspire me. They would be the spiritual antidote to my stress and fatigue as I begin my own pilgrimage to Jerusalem, just like my ancestors. (Well, not exactly like my ancestors - I'm flying.)

So I settled in for the first Psalm of Ascent (120), and was met with...a list of complaints! 

What?!? This was not what I'd anticipated, and certainly not what I thought I needed. I double-checked my Scripture reference; surely God didn't ordain for the pilgrimage to start with a "woe is me" attitude. I was already there, I was looking to be inspired out of my woes. 

And suddenly, I was. As I contemplated King David's lament, the Holy Spirit opened my heart and mind to this reality:  The very reason I need to ascend, the very reason I need to lift my eyes and my heart to God's throne, is that I dwell in a broken world, and experience broken dreams, broken relationships, broken health. Broken anticipations. 

Psalm 120 reminds pilgrims why we're pilgrimaging in the first place. 

And it reminds me that in order to actually ascend, I have to start low. Humbled. With my eyes lifted to the One seated on the throne, as I put one foot in front of the other towards Him. That the antidote to the problems and complaints around me and within me is to get out of that place and move toward God.  And do it in the midst of community, with other broken pilgrims, encouraging one another along the way and leaving our complaints behind, at the bottom of the hill. 

David's lament of lying lips and warrior's arrows and peace-haters isn't meant to depress him. Or me. Or you. 

The first Psalm of Ascent is meant to remind us of the very reason we ascend the hill in the first place:  To worship and to be loved by the One who restores brokenness. Who radiates beauty. Who breathes new life into dry bones. 

I'm ready.