Tapai Ko Hunuhuncha?

Who are you?

I don't mean that in the "Oh, I wouldn't consider myself postmodern, but I loved Garden State because it raises questions with no discernable answers" sense of the question, but I mean truly: who, in your heart, are you? Really? Do you know?

I've been chewing on that question for years, to some extent because I want to know the purpose for which I was created, but mostly because each time I come to a painstaking conclusion, it seems like I endure a drastic shift in character and tumble further down the rabbit hole. I think I've got myself figured out, and then circumstances and the revelation of sin cast new light on all these areas of my heart and character that I've completely failed to notice in the past. The apostle Paul, in a rather blatantly obvious statement when taken at surface value, really understood the tender need of the human heart for the exposition of sin when he wrote in Ephesians 5:13-14, "But when anything is exposed by the light, it becomes visible, for anything that becomes visible is light." (ESV) If God truly is "the Father of lights, with whom there is no shifting shadow," as referenced by James, then there really is no way to see into the depths of your own soul without the catalyst of the refinement that comes via the Holy Spirit. We cannot see these things on our own, for we are the willingly blinded when it comes to conviction.

If we are made in the image of our Creator, then we cannot really understand who we were intended to be before the creation of the world without knowing Him personally and intimately. Sanctification is the process by which we are purified, but as we are called to and drawn toward the Father, we gain a deeper understanding of who we are in reference to the working of His glory, and how deeply the nature of our flesh separates us from that working and that power. So it seems that each time I'm engulfed in the flames of trials, I come out a little stronger, a little purer, and a little more sure of just who and what I'm becoming.

Case in point: Jason and I have embarked on a teaching series based on the parables of Jesus with the orphans for our evening devotions twice a week, and I was reluctantly drawn to the story of the Pharisee and the tax collector (Luke 18:9-14). I say reluctantly because the first time I perused the passage, I knew that my teaching it would be as much for myself as for the children. As Christ presents the sory, it contrasts the Pharisee, whose holy exterior conceals a heart yearning for personal glory at the expense of God's, with a tax collector, who is so deeply moved by his enslavement to sin in his heart that he cannot bear to present himself in the temple to cry out in prayer. One raises his head toward heaven and touts himself as a saint; the other acknowledges his depravity with a broken spirit and self-flagellation.

As I worked through the meanings of exaltation and humility (no simple task when you're speaking to a mixed crowd of 6 year-olds and 19 year-olds), all I was really aware of was the bright red tint of my face and the shame I felt in the midst of the conviction of the very words I was speaking. A particular verse that has haunted me over the last six months is John 5:44, which poses the pointed question of, "How can you believe, when you receive glory from one another and do not seek the glory that comes from the only God?" The interior of my heart has been the site of an intense conflict between the righteous cleansing nature of the Holy Spirit and the depravity of my pride and self-exaltation during this most recent and current season of my life, one that will continue to rage as long as I glorify the work of my hands over the work of my Savior. That sucks. A lot. And as weak of a realization as that is, the words just will not come to express how bitter I feel over the way I've treasured my deeds and my reputation over the relationship that defines the core of who I am, who I am being transformed into. Somewhere in the midst of the humility that's being ground into this pitiful frame my soul inhabits, my heart is being changed; but that doesn't mean I feel it every day.

I've touched on it in a previous post, but I'll lay it out here again: when I hopped my intercontinental flight to the country of Nepal, my heart was very much in "Carve out glory for Jordan" mode. Very little changed in that regard for the first few months I was here, but God, in His infinite sovereignty, decided to teach me a lesson in humility through the physical pain of a month-long struggle with stomach bacteria and skin boils. Lying in my sleeping bag, half-delirious from ibuprofen overdoses and unable to even sit up due to the literal pain in my butt, I received some stern tutelage in the purpose of pain and the consequences that will always, always accompany sin. And my sins are legion, or at least they feel that way at times...

I don't feel like the same person anymore, and its encouraging to receive emails and letters from old friends (thanks Marquel, you really lifted my spirits last night) who unconsciously confirm the evidence of my struggles and subsequent victories. Writing may be catharsis for the soul, but the careful words of an interceding brother or sister speak more truth to me about what God hath wrought in me (I don't have any idea what the present tense of "wrought" is, else I would've said that instead). So keep those words of encouragement coming; I need them dearly right now.

This has been a tremendously hard week for me emotionally, and for no specific reason. I've felt very alone, which is surprising considering how immersed I've been in the makeshift videshi community of believers that Jason and I have gotten involved with through our church. Melancholy attacks at the most inopportune moments, and while I'm not a ball of energy by nature, scripture requires that I be engaged with community by necessity. The body was created to be interdependent for a specific purpose, just as the Church's body is likewise interdependent -- we need each other! So pray for my heart right now, as it is exhausted by the weight of emotional isolation from other believers and self-imposed exile from the presence of the Spirit. I don't have to live like this, and I don't want to. I need you beloved....

Bear out.