Only the Lord is Worthy.

There are some words in my mind that are reserved for God alone; words such as—amongst other awe-filled descriptors—holy, sovereign and almighty. They are words that when paired with any other object or being cause the Spirit within me to cringe because any object or being that has been accredited with one of these set-apart attributes is unfit to bear it, and has been elevated to a place of worship meant for the Lord alone.

A favorite phrase I hear lately tossed around circles of Christian women and floating out of those teaching (or singing to) them is, “You are worthy.” I get where this incorrect statement comes from and why it is often spoken. I do. Christian women are seeking to help one another heal from years of being spiritually abused, repressed and disqualified from their place in the Body of Christ; we’re lifting each other out of the dirt, brushing off red paint we’ve had thrown on us and reminding each other who we are in the Lord. And one of the wonders we have to wrap out minds around is that Jesus loves us so much that He poured Himself out for our salvation; that no matter what identity we’ve had engraved in us by the voices around us over time, from the beginning, He laid out a plan to make us His own. It is a wonder that is healing balm to the wounded souls of the ones who has been told that as females they are of no value to the Church.

But here’s where things get twisted. When the Lord, who knows and sees all things, saw it fitting to stretch Himself out on the cross and take our rightful death upon Himself, He didn’t do it because we’re deserving. He did it because He had set His love upon us and to Him, it was worth pouring Himself out for our salvation. Let me give you a picture of what I mean:
My daughter has a stuffed panda; its fur is matted down, its eyes and nose are scratched from years of wear and tear, its white has long since turned to a a perpetual shade of light gray in spite of many washings, and there’s a little string sticking off its chin that reminds me there is just a worn thread that holds it all together. But that little girl would do anything for this panda: When it is lost, all gets set aside to hunt it down; when it is “hurt,” she creates a hospital to bring that panda healing; when panda has a birthday, she parties hard; to her, this panda is a light in her life. Now, is this stuffed animal worth anything in-and-of itself? No, I doubt a thrift store would even let it grace its shelves. But to her, it is of utmost value because she has set her love upon it.

And THAT is why, in spite of the fact that the Lord moved heaven and earth to die on a cross for us, HE is the ONLY one who will EVER be worthy. We are not worthy, we are beloved. When we delight that someone or something is “worthy,” we are saying that everything that comes to it is rightfully theirs; that in-and-of themselves lies whatever calls for or requires what they received. So we can say of the Lord that He is worthy of our praise, of our worship, or our devotion, of our very lives poured out…and we are speaking the truth. But if we look at ourselves and at what the Lord has done for us, and declare that WE are worthy of His saving work; we reveal that our understanding of both the Lord and of ourselves is woefully twisted and fearfully blurred because we have elevated ourselves to a pedestal we are utterly unfit to perch upon.

We ARE NOT worthy, only God is worthy. But we ARE beloved by a God who declares us of great value to Himself; and as He reveals to us this wonderful, merciful, mysterious truth, may we exalt Him as we fall prostrate in awe and gratitude before this marvelously weighty love.

Memorial Day Reflections

It gets me every time; the 3-Volley Salute followed by Taps. The sound of the first shot fired transports me back to the front row at my brother’s graveside service; encompassed by grief as I fix my eyes on a coffin containing his uniform-clad body. The shots that follow reverberate through my heart bringing back to life the places of pain that over time have grown dormant; shudders running through me from head to toe. And when finally there is silence, the gentle sound of Taps fills the air, as if wishing to soothe the abruptness of the pain that was just thrust upon me; a haunting accompaniment to my falling tears. 

Today as this tradition came to a close, I felt as these memories flashed before me—of a coffin lowering into a grave, of the feeling of dirt filling my shoes as it fell from the shovel while I put dirt onto his open grave, of the sobs that came in crushing waves breaking out of my chest with overwhelming intensity—gratitude. Time passes. Details and images in my mind grow fuzzy. But traditions like these take these memories, frozen in time I leave further and further behind me, and brings them for a moment into my today. They remind me that even if things get harder to remember, this fact remains: I am a marked woman. Marked by the life of my brother Noah, marked by the love I had for and received from him, and marked by the losses I know because he is no longer here.