Naked.

I want to slip my skin off.

A few weeks ago I stood a dozen feet away from the worship stage at Passion City in sweet, sunny Georgia, and I felt my fingers fly to the ceiling.
Those around me didn’t just sing, they cried out as though the battle was being realized, as though the fog that keeps us distracted had cleared enough for the enemy to be seen and we used our voices to throw him aside.  We used our voices to beckon the King to come and meet us.  I brought my arms to my sides and stretched them out, palms pushing an unseen darkness.
There were two beloveds to my left, six beloveds to my right… and thousands of brothers and sisters surrounding, and we cried out.

We stood in an old Home Depot turned church, and what could’ve been very sterile, tall white walls at every turn, was warmed with the Spirit.  The temperature was due to each of us, Spirit inhabited us, rallying together and there was more than just a battle cry, there was a communal love for our King.

Arms aching, tears streaming down, voice sore, my heart pounded for heaven.

It was then that I thought how very much I would like to slide my fingers across my skin up secret seams, letting my hands find hidden buttons to untwist and invisible zippers to pull, so that I could slip my skin off.

How desperately I would want to step out of my epidermis and let my bones and muscles dissolve.
How I would love more than anything to walk around as just my spirit for awhile.

My mouth many times opens to let words fly out to God, but more often than that words of gossip, envy, hate, & hurt swing into the sky.
My arms wrap around the middles of those who need touched, but they also wrap around my middle as I lay curled up, self-protecting and doubting a good Father.
My eyes flicker to find needs to fill, but they also skip over For Sale signs and business cards and baby announcements that let sheer jealousy seep into my heart… and oh,

My heart.

My heart breaks and bleeds for how I’ve disappointed Him, it charges to think of how I could shift this world for Him, but it also pumps wicked amounts of poison into my insides as I let the seeds of every hidden sin grow wildly.

Without my mouth and arms and eyes and heart, not to mention my ears and feet and few dozen other parts, if just my soul did the wandering around… how different would it be?

I want to peel off every part that gets in the way of me & Him, and right now it’s a few thousand coils of veins and nerves and anger and fear that stand between me walking boldly through the world as a warrior or limping weak and wounded.

I want the golden buzz of my spirit to bumble around and bump into the hurting, not the me that might let my selfish skin and blinded eyes ignore the need.

That morning at Passion City we were encouraged to forgo the prayers we often throw up that He already knows.
We were encouraged to quit wasting precious time.

“So God, there’s this girl I work with that just…”
He knows.
“Lord, last night when he wouldn’t kiss me, I thought…”
He knows.
“Dear Jesus, when we go to the hospital today they’re going to…”
He knows.

So peel back the reminders and the to-do lists from your prayer journal pages and stand ready for your marching orders.

Come before the throne with a blank page and full pen instead of a sheet full of requests and a dried up inkpot.
Ask what He wants of you, beg to know more of Him, request to see the needs He wants you to tend to.

Bumble around in just your spirit for awhile.

Take off the pinching pressure of your skin to fit into the self-written role you’ve dictated and let the One who lives in you expand, breathe, and move.

Tear your weary eyes from the computer to the weary shoulders at the next cubicle.
Fold up the ears that hear sour notes when you sing and let your jaw crack wide to allow the Spirit to sing back to the Father.
Untwist your fingers from around the calendar, the holy grail of our everyday, and leave space for God to move.

On Sunday, over guacomole and salsa verde, I burst into tears when my best friends asked me what kind of party I’d want for my 30th birthday.

I sat crying over the carnitas because nothing, nothing, is what it should be.
30 has loomed like a black hole literally my entire life.
I’ve never been able to think past it, only up to it.
And up to 30 my insides planted dreams of a loving partner, mismatched kids, matching china, published books, & a thriving pod-casted ministry.

I must’ve taken a wrong turn, an un-re-routable wrong turn.

And while I feed the eyes that see what I don’t have and let the heart that longs for what’s empty in my home grow fatter, I am starving the Spirit in me that wants to grow bigger than the boundaries of my skin, and more importantly, grow bigger than the boundaries of my dreams and expectations.

If my soul bounced around growing and loving and breezing past the dark disappointments I cast in bronze and establish as a memorial, if my spirit was what looked, listened, learned, and loved… without ME getting in the way… would I feel so wasted?

Earlier this evening I was on the phone with my kindred spirit.
She was beaming.
Through the phone I could hear that kind of smile.
She is in a relationship where she is finally being adored the way I knew she was always meant to.  She is finally being appreciated.  She is finally being seen. 
This is a season of no disappointments.

And it hit me that I want to love God that way.
I want to adore Him, appreciate Him, finally see Him.
I want to get so out of the way, to live so truly naked, that this stands as a season of no disappointments.
A season that doesn’t stand memorialized and un-re-routable.
A season where I wriggle out of my skin and burn up my ‘plan’.
A season where I live ready to march, to fight, to cry.

A season where when you bump into me, my spirit is known before my jealous eyes and bitter heart and lustful skin.

There have been moments without parameter and expectation since that afternoon in Georgia that’ve breathed life back into my insides.
Where I’ve felt skinless and scheduleless.
When I’ve gotten lost in a conversation with a pair of spearmint eyes that was more important than my to-do’s… when a friend dove into the deep end of his heart after spending years treading the shallow and I ignored the clock to watch him come up for air… when I wrapped up in a nest of a dozen blankets as freezing rain fell and felt so safe while letting the hand around mine mean more than bedtime.

Forget wrestling your spirit into the submission of a subpar schedule and relish what He’s got in the moment.
Of course we want a trajectory and a report card of gold stars to know that it all means something.

I don’t want to go wasted, but more importantly, I don’t even want to faintly believe that He’d let me go wasted.

I need to unknot the ribbons and swing the buttons out through their loopholes, I need to let my skin of sin not stand between the Spirit that lives in me and the world that needs the Spirit.

C’mon.
Let’s get naked.

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One Response

  1. Love this.

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