My husband is an amazingly perceptive and communicative man. Most of the time I love and admire those gifts, but a few weeks ago I didn’t like it so much. He pointed out some key issues in my life. Nothing irks a perfectionist more than a wrinkle she can’t iron out. These flaws? Can’t change ’em, can’t cover ’em. But I desperately want to make them go away, whether that means hiding them under a smooth coat of perceived change or actually digging to the root of the issue. It didn’t help much that my husband said I didn’t need to change that instant — point was I didn’t know how to live with my flawed, unchanged self.
I halted my trek to the kitchen when my thoughts hit this wall.
I couldn’t fathom how to live with myself, and I felt in my bones the lack of power to overcome myself.
These words floated through my mind: “‘Everyone who falls on that stone will be broken to pieces, but he on whom it falls will be crushed'” (Luke 20:18).
Finally, FINALLY, I understood those words. I understood how my sin is melded with the rest of my humanity; in fact, it’s inseparable from the good parts. Then there’s the stain of others’ sin patterns on my life. Some have seeped in, others I’ve been able to wash away. But there is no process I can use to separate the beautiful from the bad — they are swirled together in a permanent design.
What does one do when confronted with that? What do you do with cold, hard truth? I bumped up against that hardness. I felt the inevitability of breakage, but there is also a choice.
“‘Everyone who falls on that stone will be broken to pieces….'” Jesus speaks of himself as the capstone — powerful, inevitable truth. I can accept the fact of my deeply ingrained flaws, my inability to withstand his scrutiny, and fall on him. I will be broken. Undone. And it is scary, knowing everything I control, everything familiar and comfortable, my life as I know it may be lost. What will he do with my shattered pieces?
The alternative seems even more horrific: “‘he on whom it falls will be crushed.'” This truly frightens me. To become purposefully blind to my flaws, rigid in my thinking, ruthless with others’ hearts, inflexible and unresponsive to Jesus’ whispers. Every trial and temptation I encounter would serve to further harden me. At the end, I’d be crushed under the weight of the truth I hadn’t allowed in my life. Absolutely and utterly destroyed. This I’ve seen playing out in the life of someone close to me. It is perhaps the one thing that gives me pause, that keeps me from instantly choosing to harden myself against truth.
So there is the choice: we can either let ourselves break against truth or he will eventually break us. Not because we are wrong and must either change or be eradicated. No, it’s because he himself is truth. And he lets us choose whether we will acknowledge him or carry on to our own destruction against him.
What will he do with my shattered pieces? I choose to let myself break, but I’m so nervous about the outcome. I know in my head he can remake me into something more beautiful. Have to let that get into my heart.