Disability Pride? Month

Colors represent: Green- sensory disabilities, 
Blue -psychiatric disabilities, White -
undiagnosed/unseen disabilities, Gold -
neurodivergent or cognitive/intellectual disabilities, 
Red - physical disabilities

Last month was Disability Pride Month, and though from the disabled community, I was perplexed as to what exactly I should be proud of.  Pride insinuates something good - something to be celebrated.  I didn’t know that living with paralysis was something I should glorify.  Or what about living with cognitive delay or mental health issues? Or being overwhelmed by sensory impulses?  This is supposed to be all celebrated?  Granted, I am assuming that if there is any pride involved, it matters more about how I have overcome obstacles.  Nevertheless, I think that the wording is missing the point of what the disability community really needs.     I don’t mind a month dedicated to educating the public about those with disabilities.  We have fought hard to be integrated as part of society and be seen as equal members of the populus.  However, if there is a nationally recognized month, I prefer the term “Awareness”.  I want people to understand the actual complexities of specific disabilities.  I want them to know how not to jump to conclusions of what I can or cannot do, based on what my disability may be.  I want them to see me beyond the disability.  Most of all, I want it understood that the disability is only a component of my life, not the sum of it.  Disability is not my identity.     I appreciate the notion that because of how complications can be introduced due to the various disabilities, people want to celebrate us for the moments we overcome obstacles.  But celebrate my personhood, not my disability.  I realize that in writing this, I am treading on a controversial topic.  Other people from the disabled community may (and probably do) disagree with my position.  Note: I am speaking for myself.  They want to celebrate the disability, because it has made their children or personhood the way it is.  It has been the cause for tears, confusion, but also resilience and hope.  I acknowledge that.     One reason that I’m up for any physical challenge is because early on, people wondered if I could do something.  So, the best way to answer their questions was to prove them wrong.  I have accomplished SO much, in spite of my physical limitations.  I cannot deny how living with a disability has affected my life, including the trials and the testimonies (to put it in Christian lingo).  But growing into adulthood, pride over my disability has grown.  And not in a positive way.     Because my reality, now, is that because I learned early on to prove people wrong about misconceptions, I still have the mindset, whether or not people are judging me.  I am still in fight mode.  I still try to make myself physically tough in front of new crowds, out of fear that I may be looked at as weak.  I know asking for help is a healthy thing to do, but years of making sure that I wasn’t the handicapped one in the group has made my heart learn not to trust.  I have determined it not to be a good thing to be in need.  This isn’t pride.  This is insecurity.     We need to bring education about disabilities into the public eye.  I am leery of how it may be done - in the name of pride.  Because as a component of pride, it raises the subject high above all else.  “Look at me!  I got CP!  Look at my right side!  Woohoo!”  Do you realize how NOT desirable that is for a kid growing up in elementary school?  I wanted to be seen for me, not just for my ability (or lack thereof).  And maybe that is the whole point of the Disability Pride Month - an acknowledgement of those with disabilities, an education to understand the said complications, and finally, a pride that they are part of the overall community.  I still don’t agree with the terminology, but I would understand it more, if that is the intention.     Nevertheless, pride still has an ugly connotation in my book.  Because, as a Christian, I believe that when I am in heaven, I no longer am going to be disabled.  I will have a new body; one that is perfect and will not have any issues.  There will be no more pain.  There will be no more sorrow.  There will be no more disability.  That doesn’t mean the personhood of the individual with the disability is no more, however.  I do wonder if those with autistic and creative traits will keep the creative traits but lose the inability to read social cues.  Those with cognitive delay will keep their sense of innocence and joy but lose their inability to grasp onto maturing concepts.  Those with bipolar will still have their personalities but lose their inability to control emotions.     In these examples, the disabilities will be lost, but who God created them at their core is not going to be lost.  After all, the disabilities we live with are not our identity; just one of the themes in the stories of our lives.  This is what should be celebrated in the month of July when Disability Awareness/Pride Month.  It isn’t the condition that should be celebrated, but the person.  It isn’t the trial, but rather the enablement and gift that is found in each person.  I realize trials are part of our stories, but it isn’t the cumulation of who we are.  And if someone wants to dare sit with us, we’ll show you how.

Sin of Pitying the Poor: Looking Down on the Impoverished

      It seems to be a rite of passage for every teen who grew up in the church.  No, not attending youth camps, although that brings its own experience in of itself.  I mean the spring/summer break mission trips. The object of our attention usually involved serving the poor - by that - I mean the impoverished.  Either because the homeless was our aim, or going to a rough area that was plagued by trauma, death, addiction, low-income families were the pursuit.  And many times, the lesson that was brought back from the experience was the amazing gracious hearts of those served.  How they were so generous with the little they had.     Wait.  Wasn’t the trip supposed to be about serving them?  Oh, don’t worry. There was that component, as well.  So often, there is a highlighted note that the poor are receiving so much of what we, as Americans can give.  And yes, we should be generous with the gifts that we have, as one of the wealthiest countries in the world.  However, in my observations, I have found a subtle lofty idea of giving what we have, but only receiving the tangible gifts of those we minister.     I am grateful that my youth pastor challenged my peers to bring back the lessons we learned from our mission trips.  Otherwise, I think we would have come out of these experiences thinking too highly of ourselves.  “Look how much we helped them!  See how they blessed us!”  Uh, wasn’t this supposed to be about Jesus?  Frankly, sometimes though we look to alleviate their circumstances of the poor, we still think of ourselves as superior.  We are guilty of pitying them.     Pity has a different connotation than empathy or sympathy.  The latter two communicate a willingness to sit in with a person’s sorrow and really understand them.  Pity, adversely, sees the sorrow, but can lack compassion.  And maybe there is a level of compassion in mission work - after all - why else travel to these unfortunate places if not to help better them?  The mistake I see, nevertheless, is that often (short-term) missionaries see that they are bringing something for the people but leave no room to actually learn from those whom they are serving.  This is where - even in the most evangelistic ways of showing Jesus, negative stereotypes can be perpetuated.     The truth is that every group of people is broken.  Every group of people is littered with sin.  But more so, every group of people has been made in the image of God.  And with their languages, cultures and perspectives, each group of people has an understanding of Jesus that we can learn from one another.  We create a grave mistake when visiting the poor and commenting on how they are so willing to bless out of their lack, then move on to the next subject.  Why not learn from them?  As an American, are you willing to bless others even out of your lack?  Oh wait, but God surely wouldn’t ask you to do that…But peoples’ lack may differ.  And are we willing to trust Jesus, nonetheless? That is the lesson.     When we choose to pity the impoverished, we only see where they are suffering.  We forget to see the gift in them that God innately created within them.  We fail to see our needs and deny our own brokenness - and the truth is - there is something in my brothers and sisters in third world countries that we, as Americans, so desperately require.  Are we willing to invite them into our lives and share with us what Jesus has given them?  Furthermore, are we willing to open our hearts to see things from a different perspective, so that we may grow in ways that we never would have, if they were never a part of our lives?      I learned so much from living with Natives what grace actually looks like.  I learned how to mourn with others in sorrow, rather than alone.  I learned how to laugh and joke even in the face of hardship.  These are lessons that I missed in the Western culture.  When I was visiting Jordan, it was there that I learned about the “new life” that baptism represents, not just dying to my sins…which, understanding the power of the gospel, it is crucial to have both components.  (Could you imagine if the Gospel was only including the death to our sins?  It would mean having to wait until heaven to have fruit from our sanctification!)     We miss so much when we are only aiming to serve the poor, as if they have no gift of eternal value.  Honestly, I think it’s a crime in the eyes of God.  I wonder if so much of the racism that has perpetuated over centuries is due to the nonsense that we have something to give, but the ones we serve have nothing to give (unless it benefits monetarily…hint, hint, imperialism).  The body is of many parts.  And we function best, when we have every component bringing what they have to build the kingdom of heaven.  So, when we go on mission, let us remember the words of a British friend of mine who has served in South Africa: “Wherever you are called, you will receive from the nations, and you will deposit to the nations.”  Nations, together, bring Jesus to the world.

The Black Sheep Becomes a Monster

A bleeding sheep wandered
In the woods, running away
From the friendly fire
That was meant to protect his heart.
Isolated from hope,
Calloused by unforgiveness,
Pursued by skepticism
And bitten by narcissism,
It was a only a matter of time
When Jekyll turned into Hyde. 

Being maimed can produce 

An empathy that comforts others;
But not so with this lamb.
Poisoned, he became a wolf
That ravishes as much as
He was left destitute.
The victim now a criminal.
The lost prey now the predator.

Perhaps to make this world
Pay as it made you pay.
But in what world
Have you seen that selfishness
Heals childhood wounds?
Where have you seen
Becoming as your enemy
Fixes the harm that was done,
Or stop what evil may come in the future?
You are as
What has been done to you.
How is that any better?

Our family loved our lamb.
Kindness leads to repentance,
And so we thought that chances
For understanding would be the revival
Of his soul.
But the prodigal son remains
Distant; hiding fangs until one comes
Too close. To love
Means a separation,
Lending to a destruction
That in its pain produces a mirror.

Maybe in your sorrow and loneliness
You will accept the past,
Acknowledge the world isn’t alone
In its guilt, and accountability
Was yours once you left home.
But in the quiet, I hope you recognize
The shame you carry
And lies believed
Can be buried in the ground.
Never forgotten, still beloved,
We stand by your side
Praying that Christ’s grace will heal
The burdens you bear.

Covered in Blood, sanctification makes
Condemnation for the past amiss.
O brother, I wish you to be whole!
You are not too far gone.
I have seen a-holes turn into men
After years upon decades transformed
Them into a facade.
As long as there is breath in your body,
I know there is a chance for you
To come home.
Please.

The door is still open.  You are still cherished
Even if your actions bring irritation.
But while you sit
And wallow;
Muse and ponder;
Blame and contrive
Until you realize the complete Truth,
I will sit on the porch
Bargaining a Throne room for your defense
Until I see your face
Again, little lamb.

A Good Father Can Still Wound

      I know that I grew up with a good father.  Sure, he wasn’t perfect, but there wasn’t much to complain about.  I know that in my adulthood, emotional maturity has been stunted.  A sort of codependency that fails to rid itself.  Being attracted to men who really aren’t good for me.  It wasn’t until recently that I realized that what minor wounds from my dad I carried actually connected with my inability to be a healthy adult.  I had always put the fault of my past pains onto my mother and aunt.  They did things that actively hurt me.  But a passivity to act can wound just as much as an intentional arrow.  I’m finding I’ve been a victim of such hurt.     My father loved me.  He cherished me.  But he also had moments where he was silent.  When there was a family crisis, he often became absent.  Scared that his own rage may make the situation worse, he would walk out or drive off.  From his perspective, he was probably just trying to cool down steam, so he wouldn’t make the situation worse.  But from a daughter’s perspective, I often felt that I had emotional issues that were too much for him to handle.     My father was always your go-to fix it kind of man.  If there was a problem, he stepped up to find a viable solution.  But then, if the problem was unsolvable, or if a plan had to change, or someone disagreed with how it should be dealt with, then my father would become firmly agitated.  There was a hint of control, and it wasn’t okay unless we stuck to the plan.  Unfortunately, the world often doesn’t abide by our script.  It was hard for him to be flexible.     My father has been an example to me of living a real walk with Jesus.  He is down to earth but trusts God with all his heart.  He has been reading his Bible daily and is bolder about stepping up to pray for people’s situations when things arise.  I have always admired that he can share godly wisdom in a way that can be swallowed in a bar.  In some respects, I aim to be like him.  However, he didn’t always have this spiritual strength (and what strength he does have, sometimes, I’ve sensed a hint of straining, like he is trying to conjure something in his own ability).     Growing up, I was the head of the house.  I was the spiritual rock.  If there were biblical questions, my parents turned to me.  If my parents had concerns about raising kids, my father turned to me.  If my parents were fighting, they used me as a messenger between them.  Communication has never been a strong suit.  During high school, it became aptly clear that while I had my own emotional burdens, I couldn’t fully express them aloud; furthermore, I had to shoulder the rest of my family’s weight.  When my father was emotionally pressed, he would turn to me for comfort, not my mother.     My father was good at speaking wisdom.  There were many things concerning the secular parts of life that I could - and still- go to him for.  However, when it came to confrontation, he was quiet.  I have written about the words that were spoken to me by family members that had driven daggers into my heart.  I have failed to mention that my father (and my mother) never put a stop to it.  Maybe I didn’t say anything.  But I think I mentioned it here and there.  They didn’t tell them to stop.  They didn’t speak to my identity and worth in Christ, so I was left wandering in church legalism, wondering what God really wanted of me.     As I have become an adult, there were several negative effects.  My own speech was silenced.  I became a mumbler when there was anger in a conversation.  I lacked confidence that I could share my opinion.  And if I did become confident, and was angry, my words had a bite.  I have become easily defensive; if I was not spoken to or listened to, rage filled me to the point of violence.     I have felt a pressure to have all the answers for people.  I didn’t allow myself to not have a comment or solution, while in public.  And although I have had my own wrestlings concerning faith, I have failed to allow people to sit in silence so they can ponder on questions and come to their own answers.  I don’t let others struggle, and my instinct to jump up and help is an effort to take care of people.  I hide my own vulnerability, because I have believed it was selfish to be in need.  After all, I have believed that others can’t take care of me.     When it comes to romantic desires, I admit that I have fallen.  Maybe not physically, but certainly in the mind.  There is an ache in my heart that I just want to know I can have a safe place to be comforted, listened to, walked with, and protected.  So, I have imagined myself as a protagonist who finds a man who does all those things.  However, the catch is the man is often someone who doesn’t initially believe in Jesus, so the protagonist (me) has to encourage the man to love Jesus.  Why the elaborate scheme?  Because, having to bear the brunt of the spiritual weight growing up, I also have believed that no godly, healthy man would actually want me.  The only man that could possibly be interested in me is one I’m going to have to carry in faith.     There is a part of me that is bleeding out.  I know I need to grieve the reality of my pain.  But I also know I can’t stay wallowing.  I know that because of having been hurt, I too, have sinned.  Repentance and redemption are needed.  My heart still begs the question, “Who can I go to?”  I’m so used to taking care of things myself.  I don’t trust well, even though I know I have another Father who is actually perfect in every way.     I know that I need to go to Him.  He is a Father who won’t run away when the storm inside me refuses to be quenched.  He can comfort me.  I can depend on Him (if I would just allow myself to).  He won’t allow me to stay in my atrophied state; He will stretch me, encourage me, and will give me the words to speak.  I don’t have to remain voiceless.  Now if I could just learn that I can go to Him, instead of trying to carry everything. 

Irony of the Testimony

The power of the testimony is that I can declare Jesus’ work in my life in a very tangible way.  Growing up, I was told no one can refute my testimony.  There was power in it.  Over the years, I have seen how God has moved in this way or another.  And as a believer in Jesus, I wanted to share these stories in the hope that people will come to know Jesus.  That’s why I write my blogs.  That’s why I’ll tell stories to “random” strangers and friends.  That’s why I got the tattoo on my wrist.     I wanted to share how Jesus got me through depression, self-harm, and past suicidal idealizations.  Oh, what amazing freedom!  That is…until moments come reminding me that I have a past that periodically haunts my present.  Looking at my wrist, I remember how God got me through.  But I also carry the shame that my reality sometimes rears an ugly monster in secret.     “Should I even have gotten this tattoo,” I ask myself.  Why say Jesus has freed me if I still find myself falling into depression?  Why say I have been delivered when I had those familiar thoughts of death in the moments I make a mistake?  Why even think I am capable of leading others to Christ if my journal carries scars from tempers as well as my head is marked by hidden bruises that I forced upon my cranium in a frustrated response to the world?  I look at my tattoo- a ministry tool - and see a hypocrite instead.  The irony of a testimony is the pressure to never fail again.  If freed from oppression, then I should never struggle with the old things ever again.  Or so I tell myself.     It’s not like it happens all the time.  It’s not like there hasn’t been any growth since I was a teenager.  It’s just that there are certain things that make me regress, and I didn’t know it was an issue until the violent outburst was uncovered.  And the paradox of all of this is, even after the moment, I’m still at a loss as to why I react in such a manner, and I don’t know how to change; how to react to stress appropriately.  It’s like an instinctive response to become rageful.     I always felt like I understood the likes of Peter and Elijah.  Perhaps, because even in their anger and depression, God still used them.  Maybe that’s the true irony of a testimony.  It’s never done just because a chapter has been written.  We aren’t fallen humans, who when saved, become perfect beings.  The old adage, “Only by the grace of God, I am what I am” is still relevant.  The more I walk with Jesus, the more I realize how much I need Him.  I fall and I fall hard.  But Jesus is still carrying me through.     This doesn’t relieve me of accountability for my heart or my actions.  I know I still need freedom beyond what has been gained.  What line is to be drawn concerning continuing to minister through my brokenness, and when is it time to step down to get deep heart wounds healed?  Honestly, I don’t know, because my mind is so wrapped up in perfectionism.  I inherently believe I should retract myself from God using me until I have no issues whatsoever.  Yet, even that mentality is rooted in works, not grace.  Even as I write, the pain of my secret being known scares the heck out of me.  Will I be condemned for what I confess?     I don’t want to play the victim, but I also know I can’t walk this alone.  I may need friends to walk with me through this.  Nevertheless, the hope I have is Jesus willing to keep walking with me even when I fall.  When my heart has become a wretched mess once again, He picks me up, cleans me, and carries me onward.  Even in this hypocritical state, I’m not done.  He won’t let me be done.  His grace day by day, moment by moment is at work in my life.  In my successes; in my failures.  When I gain the victory and when I lose it all.  In my strengths and while I’m weak, His grace is doing its work.  That’s the testimony. 

Objectified Even in the Church

      “There are four girlish dreams that most girls have when they are little,” wrote Beth Moore in the Breaking Free Bible study I’m working through with my mentor. “They are: to be a bride, to be beautiful, to have children, and to have a happily ever after.”  And just with that statement, all the healing I gained up until now suddenly was lost.  Not again.  What is it with church women saying that girls want to be married and have kids?  Is that still the expectation?  Frankly, I am OVER it.  Among the Christian community, we constantly put out information about how the world is sexualizing our children, objectifying our girls and women with provocative clothing - and I would agree.  Nevertheless, from my observation and experience, I have found that the church wants to point fingers at the world, but frankly, we have committed the same error.     Beauty.  Things are changing now.  The focus is now on being healthy, not skinny.  But it hasn’t always been that way.  Since Twiggy broke the cover of modeling, skinny became the standard.  I remember growing up - I always met that standard.  “You’re skinny,” as if it was a compliment.  “You got a great figure.  You could wear a two-piece swimsuit if you wanted.”  Christian family members were telling me these things.  Maybe I did grow up in a legalistic environment, but I was taught that my body was precious, and it was important to guard it and not just let anyone have a gander at my beauty in its full display.  So, why all of a sudden is the message okay for me to show more?  “You have great legs.  You can show them off.”     Yeah…my dad didn’t earn any points when he said that to me.  Most dads are telling their daughters to stay covered up.  They dread the day their little girls mature, knowing they will catch the eye of the male species and no longer will need them (just kidding on the species comment).  They employ the assistance of brothers to spy and protect the innocence of their girls.  So, being told that it was okay for me to show myself off - especially a component of my body that keeps a man’s gaze downward doesn’t seem uplifting.      And I get it!  All these people were trying to say was that I look great.  But, why didn’t they just say so?  Why was the size of my waist commented on more than just complimented on that I am beautiful.  My mother has told me that she has told me I look gorgeous and beautiful; I just don’t remember.  And frankly, maybe she’s right.  But this is something I can say with confidence (though that would be an awkward description to use in light of the topic being written): I was told I was skinny more than I was told I was beautiful.  And thereby, led into a continuing pressure to stay skinny, or else…Or else, I believed, I would cease to be beautiful.  Beauty was not explored so much about my character or personality.  It was substantiated by the form of my body and by what I wore.  It was also defined by what I did or refrained from doing.     I believe the church culture has idolized marriage.  It has claimed that there is a purpose to every season of life, but then single adults are continually asked if they have met someone.  Ironically, there is an expectation that singleness is just for a season.  As if it will be temporary.  And if someone is still single, then they are looked at as not moving along in life, or able to step into the callings of God sufficiently until they get a life-long partner.     From a woman's perspective, the requirements become more narrow.  Ministries cater to wives and mothers.  It’s not just enough to be a wife.  I have to be attractive.  Wearing dresses will show my femininity more so.  If I want to impress a man, helping on a construction site isn’t the way to go; I should cook a fancy meal.  Cause, that’s the way to win a man’s heart!     Please.  Don’t make me gag.     Oh wait.  I’ve been holding my indigestion from this mess.  That’s why I’m writing about it.     Sure, being objectified in the church doesn’t look exactly like the world’s manifestation.  No pastor would advocate that women should suddenly start stripping completely in the name of finding one’s confidence (at least, I sure hope not).  But there is an expectation of how a godly woman should look and behave, to be considered blessed, and be able to bless others.  A wife and mother.     Right…those are two of the four girlish dreams girls have.  So, what happens if a girl didn’t grow up wanting to be either of those things?  Was she lacking something?  Is she being selfish?  Instead of begging me to get hitched, why don’t I try having healthy friendships instead?  Instead of reminding me about my biological clock, why not equip me to step confidently in the spheres of influence that God does have for me, in my life at this moment?     Because…if I’m supposed to be a wife and mother- and if, by remaining single and failing to do “elegant” things is holding me back from my purpose, then I think I’m in trouble.  And yet, there is something in me that tells me that the objectification in church is just as damaging as the sexualization of Hollywood.     I have believed that I am not feminine enough.  In the world of gender confusion, I have found myself confused on my worth and dignity as a woman, even as a Christian.  I have believed that no godly man would ever really want me, if they got to know me.  “I would be too much like a man for him.”  The alternative is not helpful.  What attention I did receive from men was majority negative.     In high school, a boy wanted to date me, and he had a fetish with porn and death.  When I was 26 years old, an unknown man messaged me on social media, asking if he could have sex with me, video it, and he would pay me $100 for it.  The irony is that I seem to get along with guys just fine - I actually seem to make more male friends than female - but in the sphere of romance, even if I thought a man was cute, I would double check myself, because I wonder if the guy is just a pig, anyway.  And if he wasn’t…he would find out that I’m not his kind of girl, because…well, I don’t fit the image the church has declared to be fitting of a woman.     What does it mean to be a woman, beyond that of my XX chromosomes?  I don’t think it’s limited to my marital status or lineage, but it’s also not about exhibiting my body in its full glory.  In my searching, I have found some Christians say there really isn’t much of a difference between masculinity and femininity.  That actually doesn’t help, because although I know there is a spectrum, I also know there is a division between the male and female.     Yesterday, my internship had a class with Niko Kapoor**, a pastor from Edinburgh, Scotland.  We looked at the biblical definitions of masculinity and femininity from the perspective of Genesis 1-3.  Niko pointed out that gender is more than skin deep or wearing clothes: “You were told that you needed to wear more dresses, but if a man wears a dress, it doesn’t make him a woman. So, gender is more than what you wear.”  The following details this discussion:

Worldly Masculinity	Worldly Femininity	Biblical Masculinity	Biblical Femininity
Pay (material worth) Power (societal worth) Physicality (physical strength)	Liberty (sexual freedom) Independence (overcoming patriarchy) Recognition (shifting power)	Precedence (going before and looking after) Provision Protection	Complimentary Nurture Beauty ~The biblical perspective of masc. and feminine. is done through submitting to model of servanthood, love, and courage displayed wholly and perfectly in Christ.

I couldn’t believe the freedom I was gaining just from a 2.5 hour class!  I finally had a definition of femininity - that wasn’t built on what kind of object I could become, but rather on the design God has for me, since the moment of creation.  There was direction, but it wasn’t limited.  As a woman, I can join what work God is commissioning.  I can nurture relationships with friends, students, and other people I meet.  I can bring beauty through my writing and photography.  There was no explicit statement that to be a godly woman I had to wear tons of dresses, measure my waistline or prove to be the perfect housewife.  The only object I have to become more like is in the image of the Father who made me.  I do hold a femininity that can glorify God, but it is not like other women around me. 
      After all, not every woman has the same calling, nor will minister to the same kinds of people.  Just as with men, God has designed each woman for a specific purpose that they only can fill.  If we were all the same, then only certain groups would be reached with the gospel.  The differences in our character, personality, and the spectrum of our femininity allows for our work, as women, to flourish in different parts of the world, so that the beauty of Jesus can be nurtured in the hearts of everyone.  It wasn’t good for man to be alone; somehow, I have a feeling that it is okay that we have our differences, as women.  It is more than okay.  It is good. **Niko Kapoour, Purposed Zoom Class. June 8, 2023.

What Mercy to be Gained

Your mercy birthed
Compassion
The moment You saw me.
How great the chasm
Of Your love;
I fail to fathom its depth.

The intricacies of Your work
Subtle yet divinely glorious.
Why do You call me as Your own;
Why when I am clothed
In wretched rags, You still say
I am Your beloved?
Your mercy knows no boundaries
As it is woven within grace and love.

My guilt was enough
To put me on the cross.
Yet, You denied me
To receive the consequence
For the recompense
Of this just cause;
Casting down Your head
As a goat readied for the slaughter.

I thought I was better 
Than Barabbas.  Now only mortified
To find his reflection
In my mirror.
He walked away in his sin,
And You died in his stead.
It was in Your death
I no longer am covered
In the blood of my shame.

Your mercy implores
My heart to know the One
Maimed on my behalf;
The One who gave to
The thief who stole from Christ.
The Offended saw the criminal
As a victim of their own fleshly demise.

How can I refuse 
Such a love
That calls me by a new name?
In repentance, I am not cast out
Because of my past,
But seated at the table
For now who I am and remain,
With a Father whose love
Birthed a mercy
Strong enough to move
The hardest of hearts
Such as mine.