Nothing comes easily. I’m in the midst of a misunderstanding with an agency that leases short-term flats in Paris. They seem not to comprehend the reasons for my stay. I can only tell them part of the story, the earthly or profane part, for that’s all they need to know. That should be sufficient, too.
As a Christian, I live on two levels — spiritual and profane. On a profane level, I’m going to Paris to set up a branch for a US logistics company. On a spiritual level, I’m going to submit to whatever God has for me to do in Paris. All Christians live a dual existence similar to this. In biblical terms, we are in but not of the world (John 17). This means that as I live on earth, like every mortal, I am to prioritize the spiritual over the profane.
This is THE Christian struggle. It’s the lifelong struggle of faith. The struggle is to truly believe that my primary responsibility is spiritual — I’m to witness to others, to bring God’s message to those who haven’t heard or understood it; my secondary responsibility is to ameliorate the effects of evil in this profane world. That’s the meaning of being salt and light. The secondary calling is why Christians become socially active, run for political office or even write speeches in the backdrop of power. But my first responsibility is to proclaim the good news.
I must never forget these priorities.
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His calling is His enablement.
He has called me to Paris. Am I sure? How do I know? You probably expect me to write, here, that I have had some sort of road-to-Damascus experience … but that would be a lie. I have never heard God’s audible voice calling me to Paris. I have never seen a real miracle or His handwriting on the wall. Every step I’ve made as a Christian woman has been riddled with small holes of doubt. This is my doubt, my faithlessness.
At bottom, I fear that I’m pressing toward my desires, not His.
I’m a rather determined and capable person in the profane world. I have made things happen on my own. I’ve also failed, but managed to thrive in spite of myself. So, when I want something, my instinct or tendency is to grab some graph paper and begin to chart a course from here to there, from my current state or position to where I want to be. My instinct is to get it done. Just do it.
My problem with a calling like this to Paris is it’s ambiguity because this calling touches on my own desires as well as on His. It demands both acquiescence to His power as well as using my own abilities. His calling is not a clear-cut demand to do something I detest (like the past few years spent caretaking my father), but rather to do something that I would normally consider a fun challenge. If I hated and dreaded going to Paris, yet felt called to do so, it would be easy to claim that my calling was God’s will because my own desires would factor out. The fact that I’m looking forward to getting out of here (negative motivation) as well as going to Paris (positive motivation) means my own desires blend into that which I perceive to be His calling.
Thus, the ambiguity.
Because of this ambiguity, I’ve looked for objective, circumstantial evidence to prove that this is truly His will. Mostly, such evidence was provided. Money, identity problem on the passport, finding a caretaker for my father, the ability to keep my dog where he’s comfortable at home, insurance, improved health, even stupid things like finding decent luggage; all of this has fallen into place.
But one big thing is missing. Housing.
What hasn’t happened — yet! — is securing a place to live. The people who provide long-term housing in Europe and elsewhere (Lodgis, if you are curious) are either consumed with amassing ridiculously detailed personal information or are incompetent and/or malicious. So far, they’ve asked for pay stubs, photocopies of ID, taxes from 2021, ID, a letter from employer … the list of their demands seem endless. And, each time I fulfill their latest demand, they come up with a new one. This has gone on for more than a month.
So, in less than 24 hours, I’ll be on a plane headed for Paris, sans housing. Should I continue to believe, then, that this is God’s calling, that I’m supposed to be going not because I want to but because HE has chosen this for me to do this? Do I really believe in my own hearing of His of calling?
It’s crunch time, folks. This could be a test not so much of obedience but of faith. I must believe, in this very practical way, that HIS PURPOSES ARE HIS ENABLINGS. This means, practically, that if I’m doing what He wants, or at least trying to, and am walking down the very narrow path in front of me which is barely illuminated beyond the next step, HE WILL PROVIDE.
God will enable.
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I’m not alone in this test of faith. I’m not special at all. Most Christians are tested in similar ways. The test is one of stepping out into the almost-darkness toward a goal that can only be vaguely intuited, not seen. God knows I’m willing to stay here in the United States. He knows I hate it here, but am willing to stay. He knows I am willing to leave, too. He knows I’m eager to leave, perhaps too eager.
Remember how the Lord your God led you all the way in the desert these forty years to humble you and test you in order to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commands…
This verse is in Deuteronomy. I feel as if I’ve had my “forty years” in a suburban desert playing nurse. I’ve obeyed the command to honour my parents. I’ve sublimated my own desires to this command. Was I tested here? You betcha. The tears I’ve shed over these past few years could only be collected in gallon containers, not perfume-size bottles. It’s been hellish.
Yet, God knows what’s in my heart. He knows I kept His commandments. He knows I passed the test. My symbolic forty years of wandering in the desert are coming to an end in very real, non-symbolic hours.
But then … what? I have no idea. I’ll just do as He directs by responding to circumstances.
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“Are you afraid,” someone asked me on the phone a few minutes ago? No, but I’m not faith-filled and happy-clappy either. I’m edgy. I’m guardedly watching what is about to happen.
Confession: I really want God to prove Himself to me. I want to know He’s a God of love. I want to experience His provision and feel the pressure of His hand pushing me forward. I want to know what a real father is like. A loving one. One that cares for me … not one I care for; one that puts my needs first … not demands I meet his needs. I’ve never had a father who protected or loved me. I’d like one.
Even as a mature woman, I’d like to know love, not only the earthly love of a man or even a church, but heavenly love. God’s love. It’s not too late, right?
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So, this is a test of faith, certainly, but it’s also a test of His love for me. I’m testing God just as He’s testing me. In a way, my faith hangs on His response to these circumstances.
If I crash and burn, I won’t give up my Christian faith. If He doesn’t provide as I struggle to stay on His path, my trust in Him will suffer, but not end.
I’ll continue to doubt.
