Sacred Mundane: The Blog

“Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” ~Jesus

I understood that my dreams had to die.

Had I misread the story all these years? 

Isaac was God’s idea. God’s promise. Sure, Abraham dreamed of having children, but Isaac, the child of promise — this all originated with God.

It was His idea in the first place. 

Even though the dream was God’s it still had to die.

I often think of the story of Abraham and Isaac, in Genesis 22, as a story of a man laying his own love, his own hopes and dreams and desires onto the altar, willing to slay them out of sacrifice for God.

But that really isn’t the story. It was laying even the gift of God on the altar.

To die.

It was believing God to take care of His own dream. To resurrect Isaac from the dead (Heb. 11:19).

Is there anything not subject to His summons to surrender?

Do we believe that even God-dreams can be resurrected from the dead?

Must be?

Just over a year ago God gave us a dream. Nothing earth-shattering, but a simple dream to sell and downsize our home, give half of our income, pay off our mortgage, and invest more of our hearts in God’s work around the world. (where your treasure is there your heart will be…). This was not an obligation, this was a joy. What began as mere obedience has become an holy obsession. The verse is right — we aim our pocketbooks and our hearts aren’t far behind.

But this year has also been one of frustration.

Why, God? You gave us this dream. We put our house on the market, have stretched ourselves as far as we can until it sells. All the houses around us have sold for more than we’re asking. Why have you allowed it to show 80+ times without a single offer? This year feels like a big waste of time. Can you see God that there are children starving and I WANT to give to them but I have this millstone-sized mortgage tied around my neck.  And yes, there is a principle — we sow what we reap. I prayed for this house and this house I have. No complaints, simply lying in the bed I’ve made.

Then this week it finally clicked, as I gave up. Decided it was over. Came to terms with the fact that it just ain’t happening right now. God is certainly on the move and I am enthralled by His amazing work, but it is not His time to sell our house and that’s ok. 

Then while I’m hauling five yards of bark dust, preparing for our final Open House before we take it off the market, as I’m raking the hillside in 92-degrees, feeling the strange euphoria of having just let something go, the thought rests on my heart:

Even the dreams God gives must die. 

Of course. The dying thing.

I had understood that my dreams had to die.

But I had missed the whole story. Abraham lays God’s dreams on the altar, because God is able to take care of His own dreams.

Why hasn’t it sold? I don’t pretend to know. Perhaps we did entirely miss God’s will. Or, perhaps, He just wants that dream to die.

And as we prepare to take it off the market for now — to give ourselves a break and catch our breath before trying again next year — I know one thing for sure: God is more than able to resurrect all that He lets die. 

Even the dreams He gives. 

—

{Are there any God-dreams that may need to die today? The tough thing about dying is that it’s just so much like … dying. Praying for grace for you today and thanks for reading.}

If anyone says, “I love God,” yet hates his brother, he is a liar. For anyone who does not love his brother, whom he has seen, cannot love God, whom he has not seen.

1 John 4:20

Not gonna lie: The way to my heart is through my man and kids. You praise them or compliment them or treat them nicely, I’ll love you to the end.

The opposite is also true.

You knock my man or dis my kids and this mama bear is coming after you like a spider monkey.

Of course I’m kidding, but you wives and mamas know, our love for our families is fierce.  And as our High School Pastor pointed out this past weekend as he preached, if we say we love someone and yet kick their kids in the shins and tell them to get lost, we don’t really love them.

The same is true, of course, with God. We can’t say we love God and yet still hate His kids. Knowing our own protective instincts, can you imagine how fierce God’s love must be for His kids? 

 Sunday’s message, on forgiveness, spoke hard words well. And one nugget that Jeff gleaned out of it has particularly stuck with me this week.

Forgiveness through ordinary grace. 

Here’s what I mean: Jeff was saying that often it’s easier to do a “big forgive.”  To take a giant step of reconciliation, make the hard phone call, do that one big act that crosses the bridge and brings a real step of healing. Not that that’s easy, but it’s big and clear and often a one-time act. But as Chris shared with us, Forgiveness is often a process. 

Often then, perhaps real forgiveness looks like daily ordinary grace … in the small stuff.

For example, let’s say you have divorced parents and deep down you believe it was really the fault of one. You may have “forgiven” them, had a good cry about it, reconciled, hugged, and moved on. And yet, perhaps you don’t call that parent as often? Perhaps don’t send pics of the kids their way at all? Perhaps don’t make as much of an effort to connect? Perhaps “write them off” a bit, believing they’ll never change?

Perhaps exclude them, just a bit, from ordinary life?

From experience (on both sides of the forgiveness issue) it seems to me that people who have been hurt, or who have hurt and need forgiveness (that would include all of us) just want to be included in ordinary life. Friends who have been hurt just want to feel included. Parents who have been estranged just want to feel a part of your daily life.

Offenders don’t want you to sound a forgiveness trumpet and extend your hand through pomp and ceremony — they just want you to text them some Tuesday morning to see what they’re up to and would they like to grab coffee.

Sometimes that’s the hardest grace to give — the ordinary kind. 

Perhaps it’s called Mundane Forgiveness. The quiet kind. The kind that might go unnoticed but builds a silent, miraculous bridge.

Jesus did this by cooking Peter breakfast.

After all have betrayed Him. Peter denied Him three times.  Abandoned by all, Christ rose again and appears. How? With pomp and trumpets sounding, declaring grandiose words on forgiveness? No, not really.

He eats with them.

Jesus’ method of reconciliation was surprisingly subtle. There were words to be sure — “Peter, do you love me?” — but His acceptance was shown through His presence more than His words.

He showed extraordinary forgiveness through ordinary grace. 

 {How might you do this today? Thanks for reading.}