Speaking Truth to Ourselves

Speaking Truth to Ourselves
Photo by Laurenz Kleinheider on Unsplash

 

“Have you realized that most of your unhappiness in life is due to the fact that you are listening to yourself instead of talking to yourself?” (Martyn Lloyd Jones, Spiritual Depression).

When our kids were little, I taught them that their thoughts were something they could actually control. We talked about how our minds are like airports, and there are always airplanes requesting to land, thoughts settling down. Some of those thoughts are good, but many aren’t. Some are enemy airplanes. And we can tell them they do not have permission to land.

Easier said than done.

We too often passively listen to those voices. We let them land and then we let them take root. They are voices from the past, voices that have been around so long we no longer question their truth or origin. It’s the voice of the enemy, hurling accusations at us. It’s the voice of fear or discouragement or pride sneaking in.

In moving through some hard experiences in the last year, I have become aware of the negative thoughts I listen to. I learned a helpful practice from Adam Young, on his podcast, The Place We Find Ourselves. In a fantastic series on spiritual warfare, he notes that we need to pay attention to the voice of the enemy. We need to recognize the accusations he brings against us.

Our enemy knows us well-knows what lies about ourselves and others we will swallow without question, what most easily knocks us down at the knees. Adam said that we should write those thoughts down and note: the enemy isn’t very creative. His lies tend to center around themes. For me: that it’s all up to me to keep things together. If I fail, people will be disappointed and leave (hey, no pressure).

Speak the Truth

While I can name those accusations, and am becoming aware of when I hear them, it’s not enough to just hope they’ll stop. Or to hope that maybe some good thoughts, some positive truth will come flying by to take their place.

No, what I’m learning I need to do is to be the one who talks back to the accusations. But we need to speak truth to ourselves, rather than passively listening to voices that we were never meant to hear. When we do, we are agreeing with God about who we are instead of the enemy.

One of the phrases that has stood out to me recently in scripture is “thus says the Lord.” There’s something so definitive about that, isn’t there? God said it, so that’s that. And what He says about us is so good.

Take Isaiah 43 for example, “Thus says the Lord . . . do not fear, I have redeemed you, I have summoned you by name, you are mine, I am with you, you are precious, I love you.” Those are the kind of thoughts I want to plant myself in. That’s where I make my home.

So while I know in my head what is true, lately I’ve started saying things like this out loud, and often. I tell myself the truth of Isaiah 43, and anything else that defeats the enemy’s accusations. I speak the gentleness and kindness I would speak to a friend going through what I’m encountering. God says this about me, therefore I will say it too.

Particularly in this anxious time, we have to be conscious of the thoughts we are permitting to land in our minds. Are they true? Is it what God says to us? If not, we can refuse them a place to land and instead tell ourselves what we most need to hear.

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Leaning into Mystery

Leaning into Mystery
Photo by Josh Howard on Unsplash

 

Last summer at a spiritual retreat, the question was posed, “How do you feel about the idea of mystery?”

The woman next to me took the words out of my mouth, “I like the idea of mystery, just not as it applies to me.”

I’ll have what she’s having.

While there’s something about mystery that intrigues and invites us, leaning into mystery can be frightening. It’s unknown, unpredictable and uncontrollable.

And God is mysterious.

Pondering the idea that there is so much about Him that is beyond our comprehension, that He is a being unbound by our limitations, is exciting. It’s an invitation to experience awe, wonder, the miraculous.

That’s what I like about the idea of mystery. It’s humbling in a way that frees us. We don’t have to know everything-we can trust what is simply beyond us.

But leaning into that means letting go of whatever modicum of control we might think we have. It calls us to surrender to something we can’t grasp, something greater than we can imagine. We have to submit to a God whose ways are often unpredictable and incomprehensible. We cannot shape Him in our own image anymore.

My friend Catherine McNeil, in her new book, All Shall Be Well, says, “We’re dying to leave the mystery behind for an idol, to form God, life, and the future into something that makes sense . . . sometimes we just can’t handle the wildness of it all.”

Like I said, less appealing when it applies to my own life.

But everything about God screams mystery.

He says Himself that His ways and thoughts are so much higher than ours. Would any of us have written the redemption story the way He has? Would we lead people to wander in a desert for 40 years or make predictions of a Messiah 400 years before His birth, or send that promise in the form of an infant?

But think of what all that mysterious work has given us. Would I substitute my salvation for a knowable, predictable god who does exactly what I ask? When I balk at mystery, what I think I’m really doing is thinking somehow that my version of the story would be better.

It never is.

Leaning into mystery is contingent on a dogged faith in the love of God for us. To believe that, as C.S. Lewis said with regard to his Christ figure Aslan, “Of course he isn’t safe. But he is good.”

I can have a safe God or a good one. I will not allow myself to be caught up in mystery if I’m not convinced that the Mystery is relentlessly committed to loving goodness toward me.

2019 was a mysterious year in many ways. I didn’t understand what God was doing with my health. I wondered how this book would turn out in the end. We waited on answers to prayer, wondering what on earth He would do. How easy it is to want to grasp for that which is in our control rather than to surrender to His ways.

But as I look back on my life and the seasons where I most wondered, “What is He up to?” I see the fruit. I see that the ways He worked things really were better than I could have imagined. That gives me hope to keep leaning into the mystery of God.

This is the life of faith. We may not always understand Him, but we can trust Him.

 

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