from the mouths of babes …or deep thoughts from The Lion King

              I’m sure that every one of us has, at some point, seen Disney’s ridiculously depressing and somehow heart-warming story, The Lion King. Well, it just re-released by a stroke of sheer marketing genius. And, like the sucker I am, I actually paid money to see a movie I’ve got sitting on a shelf in my house.

The funny thing is that when I saw the movie in theaters, it really was as though I had never seen it before. At least, back when I used to watch it, I was a little kid and really didn’t think too much about the “greater significance” of the script. If you did, then you’re a stranger breed than I. But this time when I watched the movie, there was one scene in particular that hit me like a two-by-four across the face. Do you remember the scene where Rafiki comes and finds Simba to convince him to go take his place back at Pride Rock? (yeah, I’m getting that specific with a kids movie…) Well, Simba has been living in exile for the majority of his life at the point where said primate finds him. Rafiki takes him to a small pond thing, and—poof!—an apparition of Simba’s deceased father appears in the sky. Here’s the bulk of the interchange between Simba and his father, Mufasa:

Mufasa: Simba, you have forgotten me.

Simba: No. How could I?

Mufasa: You have forgotten who you are and so have forgotten me. Look inside yourself, Simba. You are more than what you have become. You must take your place in the Circle of Life.

Simba: How can I go back? I'm not who I used to be.

Mufasa: Remember who you are. You are my son…

I know, I know. You’re still wondering how the strange exchange between an animated lion and his dead father relates to you. Well, all business about “the Circle of Life” aside, here’s what God laid on my heart in this part of the movie…

At its base level, the plot line deals with identity. Simba is the rightful heir to the throne, but because of an evil lie about his worth and his past mistakes, he runs off to find the “easy life,” where he can escape all his problems. The only real problem is that, even in the midst of the seemingly perfect new place where he lives, his identity as heir has not changed. Right or wrong, Simba is the King’s son. But because he believes that his mistakes—his sin, if we choose to use that term—have made him unworthy, he tries to run away from who he is. The Enemy (uncle Scar) has told him that because what he did cost his father’s life, the family will never accept him. No one can ever love him again.

Here’s the crazy part: in a sense, Scar is right. Had Simba put two and two together, he would have never allowed himself to be in a situation where his father would have to die to rescue him. That’s why the condemnation of the lie is so powerful. It is rooted in a partial and badly-twisted truth. Simba was often disobedient and rebellious. He had good reason to believe the lie his uncle was stuffing down his throat, one sugar-coated drop of evil after another. How could anyone want him back?

Now, follow me for a minute here. Realistically, the movie could have just ended. Simba ends up finding two new friends on his escape route. The trio could have simply passed the rest of their life away in relative mediocrity, more or less content until they died. But the True King was unwilling to allow it. Mufasa comes and meets Simba right where he is to communicate his acceptance, his true identity, and to call him to return to everything he was ever meant to be—without ever once addressing the validity of Scar’s vile lies.

I hope you see where I’m going with this. This is the gospel! In lion form!

How many of us screwed up pretty badly in our past? We all, in our own ways, murdered the King. Did we not? I don’t know about you, but I freely admit that my sin alone was more than enough to bear the penalty of death… a penalty of blood. You see? I, too, am responsible for the death of my father. How many of us feel a deep, unspeakable need to cover up our past because we think that if anyone ever truly found out what we’ve done, that person would turn and walk away? How many of us try to substitute the “easy life”—be it prodigious sin or simply the “success” ladder—in order to stifle that deeper calling we know lives within?  How many of us wake up in the morning with a sense of dread, knowing that there is something so much bigger within us but too afraid to open the carefully-laid maze of locked doors deep within ourselves? How many Lies have been whispered to us, forming the locks on those doors? Lies that condemn. Lies that makes us feel we are unworthy.

Well, the King would say to you today that it was never a question of worth. To borrow words from a sermon I heard recently, you are not a son by worth; you are a son by birth. Simba is not Mufasa’s son because he is great; he is Mufasa’s son because Mufasa is his father. The burden of sonship, then, lay upon the parents. It has absolutely nothing to do with the son. Simba could have actually murdered his father with a dull knife, for all we care. He would still be Mufasa’s son! That is his true identity. And, like it or not, you are a child of the King as well. Mufasa tells Simba, “You have forgotten who you are and so have forgotten me.” See, to forget who you are—to pretend that you’re not really a child of God—is to forget about God altogether. You cannot be you apart from God. Your sonship is not legitimate without your father.  All of us had forgotten not only ourselves, but the One True King in our attempt to escape. Our identity has nothing to do with worth—it is rooted and finds its only meaning in God. That is why Christ proclaimed forgiveness. Christ proclaimed that He is the Way, the Truth, and Life. And by his work on the Cross, we are accepted.

Here’s what I love about this analogy: Mufasa comes back to tell Simba, essentially, “become who you already are.” It’s that simple. Not to say we have some kind of latent ability within ourselves to conquer sin or to be accepted. The fact of the matter is that we are accepted. The price of sin has been paid. You are reconciled with your Father. The Gospel is the good news that love and grace has come forth to save you; salvation is to accept the free gift of that love and grace. God meets us right where we are and says, “Apart from me you can do nothing. I love you. Let me do everything.” God meets us on the gut-level of our true identity. He doesn’t waste time combing through the Lies of our life, or waiting for us to become “good enough.” Mufasa didn’t make Simba go to some kind of private school to prepare him for his coming rule.

He simply said, “Remember who you are.”

The choice is ours to make. Simba could have stayed with his friends, and honestly had an okay kind of existence, more or less. Many of us know this kind of life well: happy on the outside, but an insatiable, gnawing gloom devouring us from within. We are more than what we have become. You are more than some random student. You are more than a banker. You are more than a janitor. You are more than a sales associate. You are a child of the Most High God, and a co-heir with Christ who will sit beside him and reign with him. Romans 8:16-17 says, “The Spirit Himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs—heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ…” The hardest part is not what we have been taught to think. The hardest part is not becoming a child of God—it’s accepting that you are a child of God and allowing the truth of your identity to radically transform your life. You can stay lost in the Lies, hiding away in your comfort zone, or you can take the greatest risk you’ll ever take. You can listen to the voice of the King calling you back to your place as an heir.

You may have to battle it out with things that are trying to take the place of your identity. Simba had to fight the Liar, and for the first time saw the Lie as it truly is. The odds are that you have established certain patterns of life, perhaps even appetites and practices, which simply do not agree with a child of God. Your flesh will always war with God. But I promise that you will never have to fight to get your identity. It’s yours and yours alone. No one can take it away from you. You are an heir with Christ. The Most High God would have you come to him, to stop running away. To allow yourself to believe that He loves you. To risk it all.

I believe that the Spirit is calling out to all of His sons and daughters today saying (with the voice of James Earl Jones), “Remember who you are. You are my son. You are my daughter. You are more than what you have become. Come to me and take your place.”

Just call me Rafiki!

"another fine bit of writing brought to you by yours truly"

Of trees, winter, and this crazy thing I call "life"

Hello, everyone!

As you can tell… I took a little time off from blogging. I’ll get back into a deep thought next time, but I wanted to update you all as to my where- and what-abouts. As usual, everything about me is subject to change!

First off, I’m back in Oregon again. I know people always want to offer you some sort of convoluted congratulations on a new chapter of life, but let’s face it—life never fits neatly into chapters, or verses, or iambic pentameter for that matter. I’m unemployed, which is kind of nice but mostly just sort of humiliating. Thankfully, though, I’m staying with my parents while I look for work. I don’t think I’ll ever really seal off the “chapter” in Mexico—my love for that place and those people runs far too deep. It would bleed through the very pages of my life were I to be so foolish as to even attempt to deem it “over.” I will say that in the foreseeable future, though, I may not be south of the border for a while. It’s hard, as usual, to think that both of my lives have to be so separated by geography. Why my friends in Mexico can’t just stop by for dinner never ceases to baffle me. There are afternoons where I think, “I’ll just drop by and say hello to…  oh wait… I can’t.” That’s normal. I still wake up sometimes and wonder where I am.

All I can really say at present is that God has a plan for me in the midst of this chaotic thing I call life. And I wouldn’t trade my messy, fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants existence for anything. Obviously, I’m not in the middle of one of the fun parts of the story. I literally had to take soda cans in the other day just to pay for a cup of coffee! I may need to donate plasma here pretty soon. It’s almost funny, but then there’s this sudden feeling deep within and I realize that nothing will ever be the same. I don’t know how all of the pieces of what makes me Alyssa will fit together. I love Latin America, but it’s not time for me to go gallivanting off on another adventure just yet. I miss playing music with my band in Mexico, but I just… can’t. I can’t pick up my guitar and run down the street to band practice. Band practice is taking place many, many miles away from my parents’ house in Eugene, Oregon. And that’s a simple fact of life. I continue to pray for God to make a way for me to keep ministering through the gift of music and worship, but I really find myself in a season of waiting.

Waiting.

The very letters are bitter inside of my mouth.

Waiting to hear back from how many hundreds of job applications?

Waiting as I plug in with my new church body here in Eugene—friendships

always take time.

           

Waiting to start earning money so I can pay off what I owe to the Bank of Mom….

Waiting… waiting….

                        WAITING!

            It is unfathomably frustrating, to say the least. To go from “missionary” to “couch potato/job hunter” is a bit, well, overwhelming. I know, I know—I’m not actually any kind of failure here (I’ll always be a missionary), but the emotions are there. If you’ve never been here, then just wait. You will be eventually.

This is the kind of season where there are no words of wisdom, there are no magical little mantras, and no amount of “friendly advice” will ever cut it. All you can do is hold on to Jesus for dear life. Because there are times when all I want to do is yell something along the lines of “What the heck are you up to?!” and maybe a few other things that a girl raised in church wouldn’t put on her blog. Let’s face it: only God can get me through this. Only God knows where the other side of this equation is.

You know what this reminds me of? Trees. Work with me here. As I was walking the dog this morning (see? I’m not a total couch potato…) I saw a tree with the first tiny glimmers of fall peaking through its leaves. And the thought struck me: is the tree waiting for fall to start? What about winter? Does a tree spend the winter waiting for spring? What do trees do with the cataclysmic changes that affect them four times a year?

Biologically speaking, very little. The roots of the trees remain more or less the same. Water is still sucked up through the complex network of tubes that weave, snakelike, throughout the tree. Nutrients are still collected and distributed, used and expelled by the tree’s various cells. Only when the tree is long dead and we look at the rings on the inside of a tree’s trunk do we have any idea that something truly changed within. Yet, silly idiots that we are, we point at a tree in winter and declare that it’s “dead.”

I think life follows very much the same pattern. We so want to see big changes on the outside—bright emerald leave erupting into flames of red and then falling rather dramatically to their doom. But the idea of remaining constant, of having roots that run deeper than what we see at first… why, it sounds almost boring! Our highlight-oriented society feeds on the big moments. But what about the winters we spend with so little visible change that anyone might suggest we’d died, or lost our minds?  We are almost blind to the day-by-day existence that ultimately transforms our lives. Did you know that if a tree never passed through winter, the cork inside of its trunk would have no structural support? That the hard, thin rings from wintertime end up being the point of strength in a tree? The spongy, everything’s-great-thanks cork that grows in the rest of the year cannot long support the weight of an adult tree. Like trees, we need these seasons of winter. The hard, scraggly rings that it forms are simply irreplaceable.

Obviously, I am not advocating that anyone get out a chainsaw and cut me open to count the rings (there would be 22, you idiots). Nor am I attempting the lunacy of saying that these seasons are great fun or that I’m having the time of my life. All I’m saying is that, sometimes, you just hold on to God and wait for him to bring you to the other side. Can I explain and pontificate to you the intricate theology of why the heck God put it in my heart to leave the beach in Mexico to come job hunting in a terrible economy? Um, yeah… no. I cannot begin to fathom what God is up to. But let me make you a promise: When all is said and done, when all of the winters have passed and I finally stand before God, and He and I get to sit down and look a the “rings” that make up my life… I won’t stand aghast at His cruelty. Nor will I weep because somehow I lost God’s Will for my life and became some sort of runner-up to following Jesus.

Oh no.

Rather, I think that God will guide my hand along the many rings that make up who I grow to be. And in the midst of the dizzying complexity of all that I see, the intricate pattern that follows the highs and lows of my life, the beauty of what God worked together for my good… I shall simply fall before Him in worship and give thanks for everything.

At least, that’s the God I call "King."

*    *    *

So, I have no great highlights to report to you all, my dear readers. I am rather sorry and feel kind of awkward even typing at all. But I can report to you from the midst of where I am that God is good, and He is faithful. And that my best times are yet to come.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

Jeremiah 29:11

"another fine bit of writing brought to you by yours truly"