Which way do I go? - Walking in God's will

I will try not to wade too deeply into the murky waters of predestination or freewill. That being said, bear with me and, you might want to roll up your pant legs.

I was told growing up that Scripture is my roadmap. I grew up singing, "Your word is a lamp unto my feet," and citing it aloud with my hand raised as I pledged allegiance to the Bible (a book which, within its covers explicitly implores Christians not to pledge allegiance to anything other than God, but I digress). At church camp, I "memorized memory verses" continuously wondering about the redundancy of the phrase. The idea came straight from Psalm 119. Those memory verses didn't become real to me until many years later, and I'm certainly glad to know them, but in most cases, those verses don't tell me what to do, they just help me to make pro and con lists. Let's be honest folks. I don't live in first-century Palestine. By no means am I saying that Scripture does not apply to me because of its historical context. However, I cannot pretend that each circumstance about which I seek guidance is found in detail, on the pages of my Bible. I believe that there are fundamental truths in Scripture that can always help me to root my decisions. But there's the magic word: decisions.

Scene One

I understood at the age of three that there are consequences for my actions. A friend was visiting and somehow we escaped the attentive care of my mother for just a moment. As Mom walked into the kitchen, she saw me, her three year old daughter, helping my friend up off of the chair I had dragged from the kitchen table onto the counter. We stood on the formica in front of an open cupboard as I pried cookies out of the cookie jar just in time to see my mother's face. I'm not sure what was going through her mind, but my response can tell you what was going through mine, "God Dammenent!"

(I must now clear my parents of any responsibility of my knowledge of that phrase. I'm not sure where I picked it up. Perhaps it was in the mean hallways of the Presbyterian daycare. To this day, I've never heard either one of them utter it, even when they stub their toes)

The point is, at three years old, my sweaty little feet stuck to a formica countertop and my sticky little hands deep in a cookie jar, I knew that there would be consequences for my actions. On that particular, infamous day, my Mom hadn't said anything to me about cookies. She hadn't ordered me to stay away from them or threatened punishment if I didn't. Yet, still, when she walked into that room, I knew that I was in trouble. My Mom hadn't forbidden the cookies that day, but, I knew from past experiences that sneaking into the cookie jar (with an accomplice, no less) might not be the best idea.

When faced with decisions now, twenty-five years later, I'm sad to say that I often have a similar response. No, I do not crawl onto countertops to retrieve contraband cookies. I'm five foot nine and I make my own cookies now. However, I do make many of my decisions without consulting the One in charge and then hold my head in shame when I remember I never asked.

I'm not just talking about out-and-out sins (though that happens from time to time as well). I'm talking about direction. I decide where I want to go and then I inform God and wait for His response. Or...

Scene Two

I was at my Grandma's kitchen table. She and Grandpa had finished eating. I still had tomato soup in front of me (I didn't particularly care for tomato soup). There was dessert of some kind waiting and I asked if I could have some and Grandma's response was, "what do you think?" While my grandmother does sarcasm better than Jon Stewart, she wasn't being sarcastic at that moment. She was offering me a choice. I remember feeling paralyzed. I remember feeling as though I needed to ask again. Truthfully, I don't remember how I responded but I think I probably sat there for a while.

I can beg and plead to God, asking Him to show me what to do. I can comb my footnoted flashlight of a Bible and I can journal with pretty pens until the cows come home. I can seek the advice of friends - wise and unwise. I can make pro and con lists better than professional risk analysts. But, in the end, I just have to make a decision.

Part of my problem is that I don't trust myself to make the right decision. I want to be told what to do because I don't trust myself. I know that I am fallible. I know that I am broken. I know that His ways are not my ways. And history has proven, that, if left to my own devices, I have a tendency to lean dangerously close to the edge of that cliff called self-destruction.

But here's the thing, trusting myself is only part of the problem.

The reality is that even though I beg and I plead, I make excuses, I hem and haw, I hold off making decisions or I justify past ones all in the name of God and His will. I say that I'm just not sure what God's will is... I can beat on the door of heaven and petition the throne, but the reality is that even if God gave me step-by-step detailed directions, two AAA Triptiks, a GPS, a perky tour-guide, night-vision goggles and my own personal sherpa... I probably still wouldn't take the right path because in the end, it's not always that I can't discern what He's saying...

I simply don't trust Him.

Sometimes I really can't discern, don't hear, can't see where God wants me to go. But there's a lack of trust there too... Despite my sordid history of detours, distractions and near-disasters, for some reason, this time, I think He can't bring me home, won't want me back.

If I am truly, agonizingly worried about whether I'm on God's good path, I'm probably, truthfully agonizingly worried about staying in God's good graces. As if I have that capability, as if there's even a need, as if Jesus hadn't already done this work on the cross.

When I move without asking God or stay paralyzed because I can't hear or am not sure how to interpret His response... I'm not trusting Him.

Let's go back to the cookies. I didn't ask my mom because I didn't want to hear her answer, I didn't want to know her response. I cursed (or tried to) when I was caught because I anticipated punishment.

And the soup. I sat at my grandparent's table, uncertain of my next move because I wasn't sure what would happen if I picked the wrong thing.

Again: when I move without asking God or stay paralyzed because I can't hear or am not sure how to interpret His response... I'm not trusting Him.

As far as the East is from the West. Covered by the blood. Dead to sin, alive in Christ. Forgiven. Redeemed. Accepted. Adopted. Family. What do these phrases mean to me? To you?

When I sit, frozen, with my soup in front of me or when I stand, guilty with cookies in hand, am I the younger son in Luke 15, with a harsh, inaccurate view of an abundant Father or am I the older son, desperate to follow the map, to please the Father who has loved me the whole time?

Which way do I go? Am I in God's will?

At the end of the parable in Luke, the father welcomes both sons to the lavish, open table.

My desperation to know God's will, my paralysis to make decisions, my fear of punishment if and when I get it wrong... All of these things indicate that my view of the Father is horribly misguided, completely inaccurate and ultimately distrusting.

Friends, regardless of our decisions, the Father invites us to the table.

We can walk, knowing that we will sometimes falter because we walk knowing that He is beside us.

We can choose, knowing that we will sometimes make bad choices because we choose knowing that the ultimate consequences of our choices were doled out long ago on a hill called Golgotha.

I've made some bad choices but I've never made a choice that I didn't live through and I've never made a choice God couldn't live with. He conquered death. My choices don't kill Him. He chose to die so that I can live...

and choose.