the art of losing myself

I was probably 6 or 7 when I first stepped onto a balance beam. They told us that it was supposed to be hard to walk across it. Of course, even at 6, I accepted that as a challenge. I remember walking across that balance beam with ease and pride—I showed them! Now, years later, I’m sure the balance beam would be easy to cross, but the problem is no longer just walking across; it’s the tricks in the middle and the glorious dismount.

Oddly enough, there is some metaphorical significance in most everything we do, even walking across a balance beam in public school gym class as a kindergartner. Faith (or even life in general) can be likened to such an analogy. We get up with confidence and determination, ready to walk to beam. There is a wobble or two at first, and then we get into the swing of things and begin to tread with less caution. Perhaps, after a couple of steps we might turn around or lift up a leg—maybe, if we are so inclined, do a twirl or a more complicated acrobatic move. Then comes the slip-up in the middle of what appears to be a successful routine. What happens next? Do you fall? Do you lose balance but recover? Do you quit your parade of tricks and walk the rest of the way off the beam? Will you shrug it off? Will you maintain your cool?

My relationship with God is much like hopping onto a balance beam as a 6 year old: Excited anticipation as I began my journey. Confident and bold steps as I pursued Him and then a wobble and crouch to stagnate any hint of a fall to damnation. Then, slowly but surely, a rise to stand up for what’s right, and to pursue the call on my life. A few tricks to wow the crowds—to show that I’m serious about this whole thing and then, another stumble. My performance: rocky at best, and the skills are a joke. Who am I fooling? I’m no gymnast and this was a stupid idea, I should just give up before I make a fool of myself.  And yet, something keeps me on the beam. Everything in me would rather stop the dumb charade and jump off with a silly grin to return to the back of the line to watch others brave the apparatus.  But I can’t, or rather, I won’t. The will to stay on the beam is not innate. The will to continue a relationship that promises to be the most difficult and painful of your life is completely against anything in human nature, but we do it. We continue to persist—but is it us? Why is it that I can't seem to really get off the beam? Perhaps, the art of losing myself began long before I was conscious of the necessity to surrender.

The core of Christianity is not religion, service, compassion, hope, mercy or any of those other wonderful things. The true core of Christianity is reckless, selfless surrender to the Almighty. It is losing oneself and all the things that are desirable and important to a greater being. The call to be a Christian is more than I think any of us really understand. I’ve always heard that “becoming a Christian means to die to yourself.” What? Die to myself? That doesn’t make any sense. And here, my friends, is the balancing act: as a Christian you are to become so engrossed and intimate in your relationship with the father that there is no distinguishable difference between your character and His and that you walk that beam not of your own volition, but rather as a transparent reflection of God. Obviously, while we’re still on earth, this is quite difficult because I don’t think like God, nor do I act like God. I try to balance myself and God, and the two seem to be mutually exclusive, but they’re not supposed to be. I compartmentalize my life into two categories—Amy’s Business and God’s Business. While the two parts share enthusiasm in some things, the Amy part has a mind fully intended on the fleshly desires. Trying to please both parts becomes a chore and one side will always suffer. Unfortunately, the Amy side tends to be favored more often than not. Yet, the other side is the one that can encompass all things, and it is the side that has an eternal goal.

This is where I am. Caught in the wobble. Entangled in the fight between who I am as a human and who I am made to be as a daughter of the king. The flesh desires human intimacy both emotionally and physically, but the spirit is dissatisfied (Amy vs. God). Caught in the wobble of recognizing the real sacrifices of this divine relationship and deciphering the worthiness of it all. It doesn't get easier. The art of losing myself requires more than the physical body can surrender on its own.  The death of self is not quick and painless, but long and excruciating. We have good God-given desires, but those are not the “self” I speak of. I speak of the hindering “self”, the “self” that chooses to put the relationship on hold because something else “came up” or it’s more than one bargained for. The “self” that would opt out of a relationship because it gets messy and uncomfortable. The “self” that seeks to receive from a relationship and not give. The “self” that is full of hubris independence.

And so, I bring such conceit and vanity onto the beam so that it will be stripped when I take a tumble. The self is shaken off as I fumble across this life.  For as soon as I pick up my eyes from their focus on my feet, I see the end. I see the glorious dismount and the victory of my loss. My gaze is set, and the art of losing myself continues.

The next steps are to YWAM, but not without some hesitation or sacrifice. It’s not always easy, but my gaze is set.

Caught in the wobble but still on the beam. Losing myself, one step at a time.