Self-destruct

You know those movies, the old sci-fi flicks with more cheese than lasagna where the courageous Captain decides to self-destruct rather than let his ship be dragged into a planet's gravity by some arch-enemy thereby destroying life on the planet. You know the one. It's an old plot, so I wonder if anyone thinks about how hard that would actually be. I mean, to put it in real-life perspective it would be something like diving in front of a bus to push someone else out of the way, or intentionally veering into a side rail to keep from hitting a kid on the road. To bring it down to an even smaller level, it would be like keeping your mouth closed when your pride is stinging rather than striking out in retaliation, or working quietly without worrying about whether or not you'll get the credit.

Sometimes, the grander gestures, the more visible sacrifices are so much easier to think about, because the answer is so obvious. The small things though, tend to trip me up like invisible snares. But small by no means equals unimportant.

Self-destruct. Tearing down the self. Stripping it away. Undoing it.

I could use a self-destruct button in my own life. If I had my way, it would be big and red and blinking. Because there are a lot of times I should use it and I don't. There are a lot of times that I self-construct instead. Culture tells us that this is a good thing. Be proud of who you are. Don't let anyone tell you who to be. You are good. You are beautiful. You deserve great things. And on and on. None of those statements are bad in their own self-contained, encouraging way. I certainly don't think people should go around thinking they're scum or ugly, or that they should be treated that way. Self-esteem and arrogant pride are different things. But being too self-effacing is also, definitely, not where my own flaws lie.

I don't know about you, but I don't need to be told to be proud of who I am. Sometimes, I need someone to remind me that it doesn't matter. None of it matters. Anything I do outside of Christ means absolutely nothing, zero-Kelvin-middle-of-space nothing, and anything I do in him, means life. Those are the only two options. 

In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven. - Matthew 5:16

Notice, he doesn't say, do good works so people will see you as a hero, send you candy and flowers and discuss you on talk shows. Do good so people see God, not you, and praise him, not you.

So, yes. I need a self-destruct button. I need to use it every day. Because self-construction builds up fast, like hard water residue. It grows uglier and thicker and the longer you wait to scrub at it, the harder it is to get rid of it--the harder it is to notice that blinking, red button.

Being in the Elevator

     This morning, as on many others, I stepped into the elevator and pressed a button for the floor I wanted. The elevator moved, which is nothing unusual--in fact, I prefer it that way. I was rather surprised when it went down instead of up, and I looked a little foolish to the man who got in on the subbasement level while I was trying to figure out where I was. In the end, however, I figured it out and started up again.
     It occurred to me while I was hanging in a metal box suspended by, I assume, cables and tracks, how much faith I have in ordinary things. Faith is, by definition, being certain of what we don't see. When I'm inside the elevator, I can't see the cables that are holding it up. I can't even see the floors passing. If it weren't for the delightful red display of numbers ticking steadily up (or down) I would have no idea where I was at any given point. And yet, I never doubt that I'm going to get where I need to be...in an elevator.
     An elevator, I feel the need to point out, is a machine. It doesn't think. It doesn't feel, and it certainly isn't infallible. The elevator doesn't care if I get out on the right floor, and if a cable were to snap, the elevator would not save me from a fall. So why then do I continue to take my life in my hands and climb into an elevator rather than taking the stairs. Faith. Well, that and the fact that eight flights of stairs are rather too daunting a task for me. But the elevator, despite all that could go wrong, has never let me down. I've never been in an elevator that fell. I've never been stuck, although I think I remember one opening a little off between floors. Obviously, it wasn't enough to make a truly lasting impression.
     So it comes to this. If I have that sort of faith in a machine without even thinking simply because I've never had one break on me, then why, oh, why is so difficult for me to trust God so completely? Why do I hem and haw and hesitate as if he's leading me somewhere I don't want to go? Why do I struggle and fight when I could be relaxing and being glad that I don't have to go through all those steps myself?
     Rather than just stepping in each morning and letting him take me were I need to go, I try to be helpful. I try to press buttons and flip switches, and I panic at every creak and jolt because I can't see what's happening and I'm in no way in control.
     This week, I'm going to remind myself every time I step into an elevator that God knows where I'm going, he knows how he's going to get me there, and he isn't going to let me fall.

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Hebrews 11:1