Rachel Starr Thomson

In my last post, I wrote about God as the single person’s inheritance and the opportunity we have to make God our treasure. But really, that idea is not new. Anyone who has been single for any length of time after the age of 21 has heard this. We are pointed to 1 Corinthians 7, which outlines the single person’s ability to be “wholly devoted” to the Lord without the distractions inherent in married life. And we’re often told that our singleness is a gift.

And yet, most of us still feel like we’re getting a bad deal. At the very best, we tend to see singleness as a waiting period where we hope God will do some good work in us until we get the lifestyle we really want.

Now, again, I don’t want to denigrate the desire for marriage–most single people will eventually get married, and the desire to do so is good, natural, and sometimes holy. But surely the vision of 1 Corinthians 7 is something greater than enduring a trial! It’s a vision of active devotion, whole-hearted service, and treasuring of God.

May I suggest that living out that vision requires something more than lip service from us?

It’s all very well to say that God is our treasure and we are single to be wholly devoted to him, but do we act like he is our treasure? And are we taking advantage of what Paul says are the blessings of singleness–that is, are we actually living toward God differently than we would be if we were married?

I’ve been asking myself these questions recently because frankly, I don’t think I have been. And it’s striking me that if I don’t invest in my relationship with God in a unique way through my singleness, then it’s not surprising if I don’t find my relationship with him particularly fulfilling or fruitful.

So I am trying to make some changes. For example, as a single person, I have a lot of discretionary time in the mornings and evenings. I’m trying to use much of this time for prayer and Bible reading. I want to treat God like a husband in this respect: as someone I spend alone-time with, listen to, and learn how to honour at all times through my actions, words, appearance, etc.

I’m also trying to take a good hard look at my finances and see how I can use them to invest in God’s kingdom–after all, I don’t have a family to support, so I’m able to do this perhaps more than a married person could.

I am not doing any of this perfectly. But I am finding that as I get active and deliberate about being wholly devoted in my singleness, singleness begins to look more like the calling and gift it is–whether or not it’s temporary.

I am twenty-eight, and I am single. I don’t know whether I always will be, but I am sure single now. Several of my friends, both men and women, are in the same boat. And some of us will never marry.

For the sake of discussion, let’s pretend that’s where I am–single and going to stay there until I give up my last earthly breath and go to be with Jesus.

A verse in Ezekiel regarding the Levite priests jumped out at me last week:

“And it shall be with regard to an inheritance for them, that I am their inheritance; and you shall give them no possession in Israel—I am their possession.” (Ezekiel 44:28)

That stuck out to me because it’s so like the life of a single Christian. Inheritance on earth is rightly measured by children, by family legacy. A single Christian has none of that. Should I remain single, there will be no one carrying on my name, no one who looks like me and has inherited my DNA and my worldview. No one whose duty it is to take care of me in my old age and put up with me if I get all forgetful and cranky.

But I do have Jesus. In fact, Paul tells me that my lifestyle perfectly positions me to be fully devoted to him, holy in body and in spirit, free from the distractions and the ties that literally bind. This is good.

So why, when I read the words, “you shall give them no possession–I am their possession” does it feel so much like trading something for nothing?

Before you jump in with many protestations of the goodness and rightness of marriage, let me say that I heartily believe in the goodness and rightness of marriage. It is abundantly clear that God has designed marriage to show forth his reality in a unique and marvelous way, as well as to provide for many of the needs of his children. But it is also clear that God has designed a special calling and purpose for those who are single. As much as God worked his will through Abraham and Sarah, Joseph and Mary, Aquila and Priscilla, so he also worked his will through Daniel, and Paul, and Luke. And Jesus.

So when I say “Having only God for my possession feels unreal, like I am not actually being given anything,” I don’t think the best response is to jump in and say, “Oh, well, you can get married! Marriage is good!” Marriage is good, but marriage isn’t ultimate. It’s not even eternal. God is. And God apparently considers himself a worthy inheritance, a worthy possession, without the earthly blessings of marriage and family added to him.

My point is this: the Levite priests were not getting a bum deal when God made himself their possession and their inheritance. They were getting the absolute best.

So without at all diminishing the goodness of marriage, I desire to see this change in me: that I would come to recognize God as just as real, just as fulfilling, and just as beautiful as an earthly inheritance would be. Rather than pining for a husband I don’t have, I wish to learn to enjoy the God I do. Rather than wishing I had a household to run, I wish to tend His household faithfully. Rather than mourning the lack of an earthly legacy, I wish to build a heavenly one.

And I wish to do all of that even if God intends for me to marry one day (for whatever reason–because he has decided that he wants to make my life fruitful as a wife and mother, because he wants me to help show the picture of Christ and his bride that is only found in marriage, because he sees my needs and chooses to meet them that way).

Because if I can learn to embrace God as my inheritance and my possession, I will not have wasted these years. I will have enjoyed the gift God has given me rather than wishing for one I do not have. I will have exalted him as my greatest love and my greatest treasure. And I think that’s a marvelous calling to have.

For much of my life, a pallor has been cast over my spiritual aspersions by this insidious little whisper, spoken by some persnickety church person in the general ether of evangelical life:

“She’s too heavenly minded to be any earthly good!”

Why does that whisper manage to come in and cripple my prayer life, my attempts at fasting, my desire to serve?

Granted, there is a kind of spirituality that never brings salvation to bear on our life here. You know the kind–”fire insurance” Christianity, in which Jesus only matters because he saved us from hell. I think that’s what “too heavenly minded” is supposed to refer to. And it’s true–that kind of false spirituality isn’t any earthly good. But it’s not truly heavenly minded, either.

In my own life, the pallor has come because I’ve applied the saying to seeking after God in radical ways. There’s a deep-rooted suspicion in much of the evangelical world toward “emotionalism,” or spiritual extremism, or getting a mite too Pentecostal or a mite too radical. But I have to wonder: when it comes to seeking and serving God, can we really get “too” heavenly minded? Is that possible?

If God is real, eternity is real, and heavenly reward is real, then our problem is not being too heavenly minded. It’s that we’re not heavenly minded enough. We look with suspicion on “extreme” faith because it doesn’t make sense within the context of this world, not because it’s out of step with the next.

Real heavenly-minded faith will put God first in everything. But in doing so, it can’t check out of life on earth. It brings heavenly values, heavenly priorities, heavenly actions to bear on life here, for the sake of the next life. Richard Foster talks about this in the context of prayer:

“We must never believe the lie that says that the details of our lives are not the proper content of prayer. For example, we may have been taught that prayer is a sublime and otherworldly activity, that in prayer we are to talk to God about God. As a result, we are inclined to view our experiences as distractions and intrusions into proper prayer. This is an ethereal, discarnate spirituality. We, on the other hand, worship a God who was born in a smelly stable, who walked this earth in blood, sweat, and tears, but who nevertheless lived in perpetual responsiveness to the heavenly Monitor.”
- Richard Foster, Prayer: Finding the Heart’s True Home

As a Christian, I want to reject “discarnate spirituality” completely . . . but I welcome heavenly mindedness. When it comes to living for God, I am not sure it’s possible to get too radical.

God ascends to shouts of joy, alleluia, alleluia.
The Lord to the blast of trumpets, alleluia, alleluia.
Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit,
God ascends to shouts of joy, alleluia, alleluia.

A while back I bought a prayer book which, among other things, notes the days of the Liturgical Year. Though it has not been part of my evangelical Protestant upbringing, to me there’s something really cool about noting all of the important days, not just the “big ones”–Easter Sunday and Christmas.

For example, like Advent and Lent, Easter is a whole season, not just a day: seven weeks that stretch from Easter Sunday until Pentecost. For all these seven weeks after the resurrection, Jesus was walking around on this earth, showing himself to people and spending time with his disciples. The resurrection was not just some flash in the pan, a remarkable event that happened and then was over just as fast. It was the beginning of forty days of relationship building here on earth, and then of relationship building that continued beyond the boundaries of time and space.

In fact, it still isn’t over. Today is Ascension, marking the day when Jesus ascended into heaven to sit down at the right hand of the Father. That is the present-day, astounding reality with which we live: not just that Jesus died, not just that he was resurrected, but that he lives, today, and he is sitting in the most powerful position in the universe, interceding for us.

Happy Ascension Day. May all our thoughts and actions today be influenced by the reality that Jesus is alive, on the throne, and interceding for us–today and every day of our lives. Our faith is so much more than a nod to something that happened, once, a long time. It’s an ongoing relationship, an ongoing walk of trust and love for the One who is ascended on high.

If you live a daily walk of faith, as I do, you probably read the Bible often. You may even study it. (If you don’t, why not?) Since this blog centers on reading and writing and faith, I figure it’s fair game to give some Bible reading advice.

Remember Tuesday’s post on entering the moment in your writing?

Have you ever tried that with a Bible story?

I challenge you to try it. Pick a character in a story (any character except God — this won’t work as well from His POV, although I suppose you can try it if you must). Now, put yourself as thoroughly in that character’s shoes as you possibly can. Draw on everything you know (or can learn) about the biblical and cultural setting, the character’s past life experiences or personality, and other factors in the story’s context. Try to get inside that character’s brain. Get as comfortable there as you can. Do your best to forget things you know that this character doesn’t.

(For example, when Peter first goes to meet Jesus, he doesn’t know that he’ll become one of the chief disciples, witness miracles, see Jesus transfigured, betray his lord, be filled with the Holy Spirit, convert 2,000 people at once with his preaching, and lead the Jerusalem church. At the moment you’re entering, he’s just a fisherman who’s heard some rumours about a local carpenter’s son.)

Once you’ve done that, read on — because most often, in Bible stories, characters get their boats upset. God comes in and does something to turn that character’s world upside down. And the great thing is that the more you’ve identified with that character, the more your world can be turned upside down, too.

This method of Bible study is somewhat subjective, and of course it has its limits. But it works surprisingly well for me. It gives me new insights into what was happening in many biblical stories, and into the surprising ways God enters people’s lives and bends their expectations. So today I challenge you to try it.

(If you need a starting place, I recommend trying this with Matthew or Acts. I’ve read both books doing my best to be characters in the story, and I can tell you, it’s an enriching experience!)

Holidays. I think about the word as I mouth the lyrics to “O Come Emmanuel,” a 900-year-old Christmas carol I’m listening to today because I’m already scripting a Christmas program for the performing arts group I co-direct.

Holidays. High points. Holy days. Life swirls around them like a river around jutting pinnacles of rock. They direct the ebb and flow of our lives. They are collectives of memories and teachings; they are an intensity of significance that defines spirituality and semester alike.

Christmas gets most of the attention, at least if your background is secular or Protestant. Easter, it could be argued, has the greater significance. God could have been born into the world and then just left, and we’d not be any better off. It’s the drama of the Passion Week that has really changed things. So it’s good that we note these days. That we celebrate them. That we decorate our homes, change our diets, and attend special church services to remember the high points that promise to transform our lives.

But what about life between the holidays?

Can the everyday, the Monday afternoon or Wednesday morning or Friday dusk that does not mark the incarnation of God or the death of sin or the resurrection of the King of Kings — can that day be significant too?

I wonder about this as the familiar strains of the carol fill the warm spring air. Holidays are inspiring, like the high points in my own life — weddings and births and even, in a strange way, funerals. But what about life between the holidays, between the high points? What about everyday, run-of-the-mill, uninspiring work days in which we just raise children or clack keyboards or dig fence posts or fight off the flu? Where’s the sacrament, the holiness, in that life?

Read “Life Between the Holidays” on Boundless here.

It’s mid-April, and the Easter season has once again passed. I love Easter. I wish that as a church (the Protestant arm of it, anyway) we would make a bigger deal out of this season. I mean, Christmas takes over our lives for about a month, in our faces and our mouths and our hearts all season long. Easter always seems to come and then go almost before we’ve had time to think about it, just a blip in the calendar. And yet it marks something so incredibly significant.

Our Soli team performed “Glorious Day” for the last time on April 11, so the Easter season has JUST ended for me. But all that time backstage, praying that the Risen Lord would really manifest His presence and change lives during our performances, has challenged me anew to remember the resurrection and live as though it’s true each and every day. One of my “Glorious Day” lines says of the first Easter morning that “on the glorious morning of a glorious day, everything will change.”

Everything will change. Everything did change. What difference is that making in my life, or your life, today? What difference is it making in our relationships, in our writing, in our work, in our play, in our priorities?

I leave you with that thought today :).

P.S. You may notice a change in the blog schedule around here — I’m now posting Tuesdays and Thursdays (except during blog tours). Sometimes I will miss it, because, like last week, I travel or get sick or lose my Internet connection. But for the most part I should be pretty consistent!

This morning I read John 15:9-12

As the Father hath loved me, so have I loved you: continue ye in my love. If ye keep my commandments, ye shall abide in my love; even as I have kept the Father’s commandments, and abide in his love . . . This is my commandment, That ye love one another, as I have loved you.

This isn’t works-based favour with God. It’s about living within a relationship instead of running away from it. The Prodigal Son didn’t lose his father’s love when he left home, but he certainly didn’t abide (dwell) in it. In the same way, if we want to dwell in Jesus’ love, living in close communion with Him and experiencing daily relationship with all its benefits, we need to keep His commandments.

What commandments, specifically? He pinpoints one: “Love one another, as I have loved you.” Elsewhere Jesus calls this commandment a “new commandment.” And it is, because it is not quite the old commandment from the law that we remember — “Love thy neighbour as thyself.” No, this is different. This is a call to love each other as, in the same way, with the same passion Jesus does.  Self-love is no longer our reference point; Jesus is.

In the very next verse He defines this kind of love in a way that leaves no room for watering down:

Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.

Jesus’ call to relationship goes two ways. He calls us to abiding relationship with Him by way of relationship with each other — and to relationship with each other by way of His love.

I think it’s also significant that the verse doesn’t say “a man lay down his life for his wife,” or his children, or his parents, his nation, his cause, his master or king. In all of those relationships there’s a sense of duty and obligation, and in some cases of instinctive devotion (like that of a mother for a child). A secret service agent may lay down his life for the president, but love isn’t necessarily the driving force. But friendship is completely voluntary. There is no obligation in it — it’s love we freely choose. To lay down one’s life for a friend shows real love. And that’s the love Jesus is calling us to live by.

Remember my post about how God made Jesus perfect?

Yesterday in Hebrews 13:20-21 (yes, I just finished the book), I read this:

Now the God of peace, that brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus, that great shepherd of the sheep, through the blood of the everlasting covenant, make you perfect in every good work to do his will, working in you that which is wellpleasing in his sight, through Jesus Christ; to whom be glory for ever and ever. Amen.

Now, Hebrews is very clear that Jesus’ sacrifice has already perfected us in the sense of wiping away our sins and giving us the right to enter God’s presence, both now (through prayer and a life of faith) and in eternity.

So why, the perverse mind asks, do we need to be made perfect in good works? Why would we want to? Why undergo chastening, difficulty, doubt, challenges? Why bother becoming mature and pleasing to God if He’s accepted us already anyway?

There are so many ways to answer that question. But here’s what jumps out to me:

The result of Jesus’ being “made perfect” even though He was already God’s Son was salvation offered to the entire world, the conquering of death and hell, the robbing of the devil’s power. It was my life. It was your life. It was all that is good and glorious.

If God wants to also put us through a perfection process, teaching us to obey and please Him in practical everyday life, you can bet there’s glory on the other side. You can bet that God’s purposes are bigger than we see now. Why bother becoming perfect? Because perfection in good works is what God made us for. It’s what makes us fully human, fully alive. It’s glory, power, pleasing, joy, and incredible relationship.

The perverse human mind asks such silly questions.

I’ve been thinking about songwriting lately for two major reasons: annoyance and joy.

Annoyance with a trend in worship music these days to be formless and void (what do some of those words mean, anyway?) and joy in music that does worship and that does teach and exhort, as well as having musical excellence to it.

One of my favourite links these days is Nathan Partain’s music blog. He’s a worship leader at a Reformed church who writes folk-rock melodies for old hymns. The music is fairly rough and raw, which is how I like it, and you can download lots of it. My favourite songs are “Be Reconciled” and “Come, Jesus, Come.”

Nathan is involved with a group of worship leaders who post music, art, and liturgical thoughts under the name Cardiphonia. Check them out here.