​You are not my project.... I heard these words one morning last week during my prayer time after I’d turned a simple prayer of examen into an exhaustive list of all I thought God needed to work on in me. I am good at this.

​You are not my project... I knew this had to be a Kairos moment, but what flooded my mind was the array of DIY tasks waiting to be done around our aging house. From a leaky roof and torn aluminum siding to peeling paint and broken electrical outlets, the list seems to grow daily, at times leaving us overwhelmed with the enormity of it all. 

​You are not my project... I pondered my spiritual journey as I waited before the Lord. Decades ago, Jesus pulled me from the mire of dutiful religion and set my feet firmly on the Rock of grace. Since then, he has gently stripped me of residual layers of legalistic performance. The roots of religiosity run deep. 

​God's message to me that morning was that he was not trying to fix me, that all the fixing I needed took place when Jesus died and rose again to make me new. What he wanted, indeed what God has always wanted, is the intimate companionship that comes in knowing him, the following that finds its fuel in the caldron of his love.  
Have you ever felt like a project? As if you are on some self-improvement podcast and God—the guest host—is determined to do whatever it takes to make you over? Does the list of what is frail or damaged or broken batter your fragile soul at times? Are there moments when you feel overwhelmed at the enormity of it all?

​Here’s the thing about assuming we are God’s project: We will always vacillate between pride (I got it right) and condemnation (I blew it again). In the process, we miss the marvel of a Father who delights in us, the miracle of the Son who wants to be our friend, and the power of Holy Spirit who waits on high to call our true selves into being.  God’s heart surely grieves when we substitute his precious gift of relationship for the good works we might do in his name.
You are not my project...  I heard those words that morning and asked: “If I’m not your project, then what am I Lord?” His answer was stunning in its simplicity. You are my beloved. I waited for him to say more, but God was silent. You are my beloved. 

​In 1962, a world-renowned Swiss theologian named Karl Barth was lecturing at the University of Chicago. During a Q&A session, a student asked him if he could summarize his life’s theological work in one sentence. He replied: “Yes, I can. In the words of a song I learned at my mother’s knee: ‘Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.”
And so it is. I am not God’s project, and neither are you. We are his beloved. May we ever learn to live in the wonder.  

DISCLAIMER: ​I can just hear some of you asking me things like what about growing or sanctification or putting off the old self? Valid questions! But you'll have to wait till next time for my thoughts on that.

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It was a dream of a lifetime, but things weren't going great. We were in Jerusalem—our last leg of a trip to care for our missionaries around the world. For weeks I’d envisioned what it would be like to walk where Jesus walked in his final hours. I took that journey for the first time from the corner of my living room decades ago, and have been doing so every Lenten season since. My life was so transformed that I wrote a book, Contemplating the Cross, which has guided many on their own journey with Jesus through his suffering.
Can you imagine my emotions as we set out that first morning in Jerusalem? Our sweet volunteer guides led us to the most popular sites and shrines, sharing a wealth of knowledge along the way. To be honest though, I wasn't as moved as I had expected. After a few hours, feeling frustration and tourist fatigue, I asked our guides if they could take me to the Via Dolorosa (way of suffering), which Christian pilgrims have trod for centuries to follow in Christ’s final steps. They quickly shared that the terrain had changed so much in 2000 years, that no one really knew the exact path to Golgotha, which explains why Protestants and Catholics have different sites commemorating his death and burial. 

​Later that day, some friends drove us to the one location that everyone agrees is exactly where it has always been-the Mount of Olives. We parked halfway up to avoid the crowds around the shrine at the top. Climbing over a short wall, I sat on the ground in the middle of an empty olive grove. This time, when I heard it again--He not here, he is risen--I waited in quiet stillness. God had my attention.

My Lord spoke then of his love, tenderly showing me that the way of suffering I’d pondered for so many years had always led to this profound outcome—that I would become his eternal dwelling place. This was the joy that was set before Jesus, the one for which he endured the cross—that he might live and breathe and move within my soul, making his glory known to me and through me, wherever I might be.
 
Jesus expressed his yearning for this in his final prayer for his followers: Father, I desire that these you have given me be with me where I am, to see my glory... (John 17:24) Do  you see this? Jesus chose to endure unfathomable suffering to become the answer to his own prayer, paying for our sins, providing a way, not only for us to come to him, but for him to come to us, to make his permanent home within our souls so that we could always be with him where he is.
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​I believe God took me to Jerusalem because he wanted to mark me with this precious reality. I continue to experience the profound wonder of it, daily brought to tears. So, on this most blessed Easter weekend, I pray that God will reveal to you in fresh ways this uncommon mystery, that Christ is within you, as real as the beating of your heart; living and leading and loving. May you experience the joyful simplicity of turning within to commune with the Lover of your soul who has promised to never leave. He is risen! He is risen indeed!
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Epilogue: On our final day, a friend and I did get to walk the Via Dolorosa, and it was more meaningful than I could ever have imagined.

​Hours after our first son was born, the pediatrician after glancing at the name Joshua Champ Rhodes on his chart, joked: “Is that a family name, or is this going to be some great kid?” Our son’s middle name was meant to honor Joe’s grandfather, while we planned to call him Joshua, based on hours of discussion and pouring over birth name books. But when we brought our five-pound bundle of energy back to the small village where we lived as missionaries, the Eskimos insisted on calling him Champ and added their own middle name—Boyukbuk, loosely translated as little big smoke. The name Champ has stuck ever since, and to answer that doctor’s question, yes, he was a great kid and has become an even more amazing adult. 

​This week Joe and I are packing suitcases for a trip around the world to visit the amazing people we’ve been blessed to work with for the past five years. Right now, it feels like the entire house is in disarray as we try to figure out how to cram everything we need for a month into two suitcases. I have visions of bouncing up and down on top of mine to get it closed, only to hear that it is over the weight limit when I check in. Surrounded by irritated travelers looking at their watches, I throw things out helter-skelter, no time for rhyme or reason. (This may or may not have happened to me a time or two in the past).

That suitcase seems an apt metaphor for the way many of us feel about life today. Hemmed in on every side, pressured by things that must be done and decisions that can’t wait, we end up tossing things out helter skelter, oblivious to what we’re losing in the process. Driven by the tyranny of the urgent, we fall into bed at night exhausted, only to wake up with dread that we have to do it all over again. 
For the full devotional, click on Week Four below. (Or if you're new here, begin with Week One!)

​He has been dubbed one of the greatest poets of the 20th century, having received four Pulitzer prizes. He was a prolific writer, with some of his poem titles imprinted on our cultural psyche. One of my favorites is The Road not Taken, in which Robert Frost opines the struggle of choosing between two paths, wondering if he’ll one day regret which one he took. In the end he chose the less traveled one, and that path, his final line notes, “has made all the difference.” 

Speaking of paths, did you know that your brain is like a massive transit system, with major freeways and highways, medium-sized roads and smaller pathways that are continually being formed and reformed by the signals your billions of neurons send to each other? ...This explains a little how those negative messages from painful experiences end up like earworms we can’t get rid of (Week Two). 
For the full devotional, click on Week Three Below. (Or if you are new here, start with week one!)