At the Center of It All

Halloween 1983. I stood in front of the mirror, checking out my costume. It looked pretty good, if I did say so myself. I’d spent several days building myself a stylized suit of armor from black poster board and red duct tape. I had a shield and sword, helm and breastplate, gauntlets, greaves, and sabatons. I wore red long-johns to simulate the chain mail beneath the plates. I had researched real armor in order to get the details just right, and I thought I’d nailed it pretty well. I was pretty impressed with myself.

When I got to the party, many of my high school friends were already there, and a few of them commented on how cool the costume was. I was feeling pretty good about myself and my accomplishment.

Until about ten minutes later. A friend of mine walked in with her new boyfriend, a guy from another high school whom we hadn’t yet met. He was also wearing a suit of armor. A real one. That he’d built himself.

Talk about total humiliation. For the rest of the evening I endured the awkward conversation as people studiously avoided any mention of the costumes, or they weakly attempted to find things to say that would build me back up. While I appreciated the thought, their words mostly just reinforced the fact that I was indeed the lamest loser at the party.

Throughout my life and career I have had similar experiences. Just when I thought I was becoming accomplished at something, when I was feeling good about where things were going, or how well I was doing, something would happen to remind me that I had many, many, many miles to go. What I thought was the end of the journey really turned out just to be the end of the on-ramp. What I thought was real substance turns out to be only the shadow of a cloud.

So it is in my relationship with God. I must not ever begin to believe that I have gotten anywhere near the holiness that God desires and requires of me. If I think I’m close to good enough, he’ll have a way of holding my miniscule accomplishments up to the searing light of his goodness, and I’m put in my place.

The difference, though–and it’s a glorious, awesome difference–is that God doesn’t humiliate, he humbles. And then he reminds me that while my goodness and holiness don’t begin to approach the standard that he has set, he still loves me, and he has given me grace to cover that gap.

On earth I may only be the shadow of a cloud, and I may never amount to much by the world’s standards. But in God’s eyes, I am his child, and anything I do for him is a true accomplishment. If I am seeking his will and following his plan, then I can do truly great things, because it isn’t about me, it is about Christ working through me.