Do you ever wish there was a delete button for your life? Like, you could highlight a certain thing you said or did and just magically erase it?
What if our entire life was written out on an 8.5 x 11 sheet of paper and editing was simply a matter of ‘undo, redo, cut, copy and paste’? What would you rewrite?
I used to think (and still act to a degree) on the notion that if I could just get rid of a certain mistake or prevent a temptation or stop a sin then my paper would be perfect and I wouldn’t need the delete button. I was convinced that then my 8.5 x 11 would make my Father proud.
This idea, however, met reality when I found that sins like to lurk behind each other. For example, when I felt that pornography didn’t have near the stranglehold as it once did, there furtively waiting in the shadows of my soul lay a bed of anger, perhaps an even more dangerous enemy.
I’ve spent so much time trying to erase what I have done or focused on abstaining from a sin, I’ve forgotten that freedom is found in a better way.
The freedom that I’ve longed for isn’t in my energy to abstain; it’s in my energy to pursue.
The object of that pursuit isn’t to be a “better person“. I’m not interested in the next self-help bestseller. My pursuit is for the presence of God, manifested in what I know, who I am and what I do.
However, that presence won’t be manifest just because I was able to abstain from a sin. That would mean it’s about me and about my attempt to manipulate the Father.
The mere absence of a sin doesn’t suddenly mean that God is now able or even willing to invade my life with blessing or clarity. I’ve spent a majority of my life focusing on the absence of one sin or the other when God has been saying, “Spend less time on that absence and more time in My presence.”
If my 8.5 x 11 sheet of paper were filled with the pursuit of His presence then I would find much less need for the delete button. Unlike the false space between love and obedience, there is a very real space between the absence of sin and the presence of God.
Seeking that absence would mean I’m more than human, more than frail and broken. Seeking His presence would mean that I accept my humanity, that my frailty and brokenness are His delight.
I’m not saying that I have this all together, that I have it made. But I am well on my way, reaching out for Christ, who has so wondrously reached out for me. Friends, don’t get me wrong: By no means do I count myself an expert in all of this, but I’ve got my eye on the goal, where God is beckoning us onward—to Jesus. I’m off and running, and I’m not turning back.