I’m an incorrigible optimist. I assume the best from everyone. Everybody wants to be my friend. Everybody’s hearts are right, everyone means well, all are fabulous until proven, well, normal. My mom, however, has been gifted with discernment in spades. I used to mistake it for skepticism, but now I see it as wise and I REALLY wish I had inherited that trait. Oh well. (This is where God says, You get what you get and you don’t pitch a fit. Fine.)
I’ve been burned a number of times because of this naiveté. A couple of them have been doozies. Discernment doesn’t come naturally to me. It’s a muscle I need to work out. But we all know how I feel about exercise.
An annoying side effect of this blind optimism is pedestals. Oh my gosh, have I got pedestal issues. Not nearly as much as I used to, but when I meet someone new or read something brilliant or hear something life changing, in march the Doozers from Fraggle Rock with all their equipment to construct a shiny new (albeit fragile) pedestal that I can hoist that person up on as quickly as possible. The structure always eventually crumbles under the weight of their humanity, but that doesn’t stop me. I’m a repeat offender.
I remember a particularly difficult pedestal demolition when I was in college. A spiritual leader I deeply admired had let me down in a very personal way, and I was devastated. There was a confession and an apology, but I was hesitant to forgive and expressed my disillusionment.
He understood what was happening, shook his head and sighed. “Lindsey,” he offered gently, “we all suck.”
My head snapped up, “What? That’s your excuse? That’s what you have to say to me after what you did? ‘We all suck’? Oh thanks. That really helps. I feel much better now.”
My fallen hero went on to patiently explain my pedestal issues. He told me he should never have been up there in the first place. NOBODY should be up there. Jesus is perfect. All the rest will fail you. And while that can be disappointing and maybe even devastating, it shouldn’t be that shocking.
I continued to sulk. As true as all that was, my heart wasn’t ready to hear it. I couldn’t accept right then that any part of my broken heart was, in fact, MY fault.
I heard one time the definition of insanity is to keep doing the same thing over and over, while expecting a different result. That story is just one example of an injury sustained during a pedestal collapse. But I had been through the same scenario several times before and have done it several times since. (Shhh. Don’t tell the guys in the white coats.)
We all do it. We all worship something. And there’s no shame in that. Human beings were created with the literal need to worship. If you’re breathing, you’re worshiping. It’s just a matter of what. Or who.
I’m a relationship junkie so my default pedestal occupants are people. People I love, people I admire, people I trust. But people nonetheless. Flawed, broken, human, fraught with sin natures just like me. I’ve had all kinds of people up there. My parents were probably first, followed by pastors, teachers, friends, boyfriends, husbands. And I know it’s wrong, I know that it won’t work. But I WANT to put them up there.
The problem is, I’m trying to meet a God-given need with what I can see and hear and touch. It. Will. Never. Work.
And the consequences are hardly inconsequential. When one of my pedestals falls, that relationship is never the same, sometimes even damaged beyond repair. My soft, warm, beating heart takes another unnecessary hit that makes it a little bit harder. More therapy, more brokenness to heal from, more time that could be spent doing important things for the Kingdom. And most embarrassingly, the structures I build rob my King of His deserved worship. Then when they fall, I blame Him for my pain. Yeah, it’s not working.
I’ve watched others struggle with it. I know one guy in particular who has made peace with loving flawed people. I’m so jealous. His heart is free, his love is free and the objects of his love are free. It seems so healthy. I have another friend who hasn’t learned how to love flawed people, but she knows how to worship perfect people. This girl is always on edge, always working so hard to keep her structure intact. And when the person on that pedestal shows any imperfection, she wears herself out to spin it, defend it, talk herself into believing it’s right, to somehow make it okay for that person to stay up there. It’s so hard to watch.
But I see myself in her. Maybe that’s why it grieves me so much.
So it’s damaging for the pedestal builder, but it’s also hard on the pedestal occupant, as my flawed friend tried to tell me that day.
I don’t know that I’ve been on many pedestals. If you talk to me for more than five minutes, you know I don’t belong on one. (I think Caroline would like to put me up there, but my constant screw-ups keep my feet firmly on the ground. Sorry, kiddo. Trust me, it’s better this way. You’re welcome.)
I know I was up on at least one though. I was mentoring a high school girl and we loved each other very much. I didn’t realize I was up there until I saw her face when I fell off. I recognized it immediately. The shock, the devastation, the disillusionment, the heartbroken tears. I tried to comfort her, but my voice had no more credibility. Not right then. I resigned to the temporary rejection. I knew all too well how it worked.
I didn’t give her the “we all suck” speech. It sounded more like an excuse than an apology, and I knew it wouldn’t help.
But you know what? It’s true. We. All. Suck. And that needs to be okay.
I’m not talking about condoning dangerous or sinful behavior in each other. I’m talking about the most simple and the most complicated idea the world has ever known: grace.
We all suck. We all screw up all the time. Every day. Some are biggies, game changers. Some are minor, mere blips on the radar. Some are public and embarrassing. Some stay hidden in our hearts and slowly poison us with shame.
God knows it all. ALL of it. When I would think of that, my first instinct used to be that of Peter in Luke 5, “Go away from me, Lord; I am a sinner!” Tear my clothes, dump ashes on my head, keep my face down. Yes, Jesus died on the cross for my sins, but if I didn’t hang onto my shame and guilt, what would keep me from screwing up again?
Finally, one day in the car (Jesus and I have some of our best times in the car), He had had enough. It was time for me to fully embrace His sacrifice.
It’s not that I CAN do it, that I’m WILLING to do it. I HAVE done it. Take it. You are a child of the King. Stop acting like a slave! I died so you could live. Now LIVE.
The words rang in my head for several months before they finally took root. Later I brought up some old junk to God for the millionth time, wallowing in the shame of it, asking forgiveness for that which had already been forgiven, and got a similar answer.
You know what? I don’t want to hear about that ever again. Unless you’re telling the redeemed version to someone who needs hope, don’t ever speak of it again. It’s over. It’s gone. As far as the east is from the west. And we’re done talking about it. Not another word.
So I took a deep breath and made a command decision: I would believe Him. I would let go of that sin and the fear of it that I thought was keeping me safe, and I would believe Him. For all of it. And in an instant I felt like 20 pounds of dead weight had fallen off my shoulders. It wasn’t me and my sin anymore. It was just me. Free to love and be loved.
Oh, if we could just rest in His love. Some of the best words in the whole book: There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit of life set me free from the law of sin and death (Romans 8:1-2). Say it out loud to yourself. Say it slowly. Ingest every word of this bread of life. And be free.
And for heaven’s sake, no more pedestals. Love people, even though they suck. Jesus does. Let people love you, even though you suck. Jesus does. Perfection is no longer a requirement. The debt is paid. The veil is torn. It is freakin’ finished.
Believe it. And live it.
