Michelle DeRusha

Every Day Faith. Faith Every Day.

Gospels

Drop Your Nets

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Last weekend I read the story in Matthew 4 of Jesus’ call to Peter, Andrew, James and John to follow him and become his disciples. “Come,” Jesus said to the fishermen. “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.”

Matthew tells us that all four men immediately dropped their nets, left their boats and followed Jesus, and I wondered, in that moment, what Jesus might be asking me to leave behind in order to follow him. My initial response was, “Nothing.” After all, I reasoned, last year was the year of leaving things behind. I quit book publishing, I quit writing my monthly column for the local newspaper, I quit speaking. I let so much go; surely there couldn’t be more to release, right?

In addition to the Year of Quitting Everything, 2019 was also a season of deep soul-searching. I read several spiritual and secular “self-help” books, re-entered counseling and filled journal after journal with questions and reflections. I was on a quest, a pilgrimage of sorts, to uncover my true, God-created self, and I was determined to leave no stone unturned. It was an exhilarating, gratifying, transformational season.

Research is my sweet spot, my comfortable place. Nothing makes me happier than gathering facts, evidence, knowledge and answers – especially, it turns out, when my research topic is my own self. I dove into my year of self-discovery with gusto. But here’s what I am realizing about my desire for knowledge, information, clarity and answers: it is, ironically, yet one more way I keep myself at arm’s length from my own self, from others and from God.

There is nothing inherently damaging about [most] self-help books (spiritual or secular). There’s nothing wrong with looking to the guru of the day for guidance and insights. Many offer a tremendous depth of wisdom and compassion, and I learned a lot from what I read this past year. The problem arises, however, when this quest for knowledge and insight becomes both another distraction – a way to avoid – and a means to control.

As long as I assume I can find the answer – the way – “out there,” I don’t have to sit with what’s right here in the deepest part of myself.

When I heard Jesus tell me to drop my nets, I realized he was asking me to drop what had become a safety net. “Come, follow me,” he said. He was asking me to leave my desire for clarity and direction behind in order to walk alongside him in trust, regardless of whether or not I know where we are going.

Jesus didn’t give the disciples any direction when he called them. He didn’t point out which way they were headed; he didn’t offer any clear insights or answers or even hint about where they were going. He said nothing other than, “Come, follow me,” along with the cryptic, “and I will make you fish for people.” Jesus’ presence was answer enough, and he asked his disciples to trust him with that single piece of evidence.

Nets can offer us safety, but safety is not always the better way. What looks like safety can end up entangling us. What looks like security can keep us from the true freedom into which God invites us.

It is good and right to be attentive to God’s movement in our lives, but it is also good and right to trust that he will make the way known without our grasping or pushing, without our seeking or striving – without, in fact, a lot of effort on our part at all. This is not complacency or apathy, but rather, a receiving, a yielding – a surrendering in confident trust that God is putting everything right with us and for us.

As I am learning, there’s always more to leave behind; there’s always something else to drop. Each time we release, we come closer alongside God.

From Doing to Being

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I’m still in a season of transition and directional change over here. I recently decided, after a 10-year stint as a monthly columnist with my local paper, to say farewell. I thought I’d share my final newspaper column with you (I’ll still be blogging and publishing my monthly newsletter though!). 

Ten years ago I was told by an expert that if I hoped to publish a book, I would first need to build a platform. I should have my own radio show or a newspaper column, plus a website and a social media presence, he advised. I needed to demonstrate to prospective publishers that I had an audience who would buy my book.

With that goal in mind, I suggested the idea of a column about “faith in the everyday” to a features editor at the Journal Star. A few days after I emailed her, I was flabbergasted and thrilled to receive a “yes” to my pitch.

Ten years and 117 columns later, I find myself on the cusp of a new season. Three months ago I announced on my blog that I am stepping away from book writing. After a long period of discernment, I finally acknowledged that the culture of publishing — with its relentless drive toward increasingly larger audiences, more self-promotion and bigger sales — is not a place I want to be anymore. After many seasons of planting and harvesting, I am stepping into a period of pruning and uprooting.

The message we hear again and again from our society is that more is always better. When we cut back at all, it’s often only so we can increase our capacity to produce more. We scrimp on sleep. We leave vacation days unused at the end of the year. We skip regular exercise and cut corners on nutrition. We even neglect our closest relationships. All so we can work more, earn more, succeed more and do more.

I’ve always equated “fruitfulness” with work. I believed that a person was “fruitful” only if he or she produced something — especially something tangible. Jesus, on the other hand, offers a different definition of fruitfulness. “As you live in union with me as your source, fruitfulness will stream from within you,” he told his disciples. (John 15:5)

Like a tender cultivar grafted onto a mature tree, we flourish when we graft ourselves to God. In abiding in his love, a new kind of fruitfulness flows out from us and into the world – a counter-cultural kind of fruit that is less the product of doing, producing, pushing and striving, and more the result of simply abiding in God.

Five years ago if you had asked me what I thought I would be doing today, I would have answered without hesitation: writing books, magazine articles, blog posts and this monthly newspaper column. Pushing to grow my platform, striving to grow my audience. I couldn’t imagine a time when I wouldn’t be producing more books, more articles and more words. I couldn’t imagine a time in which I wouldn’t be striving to be more productive and more successful.

Today if you ask me the same question, my answer is markedly different. The truth is, I have no idea what I will be “doing” in five years. This isn’t to say I won’t have a job – I certainly hope I will – but simply that my lifelong focus on doing and producing is shifting toward being and abiding.

Today I rest in quiet confidence, knowing that while it may not reflect our culture’s standards of “fruitfulness,” whatever is born of this new season of pruning and uprooting will indeed be fruitful in God.

Beginning Again After Disappointment

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I admit, in the days following the terrible-no-good-very-bad-half-marathon, I seriously considered giving up running for good. Doubt and fear dampened both my confidence and my longtime love of the sport. I wondered if maybe that terrible race was a sign that after 32 years, my running days were over.

The truth is, it’s hard to begin again after experiencing disappointment or failure. As our mind works overtime, a cacophony of voices chanting a negative refrain, we start to second-guess ourselves. Failure wreaks havoc on our self-confidence and can even leave us questioning our identity or calling.

Last week, as I was considering whether to hang up my running shoes for good, I thought a lot about the disciple Peter.

Peter was all too familiar with failure. He who had so confidently and emphatically proclaimed his love for and loyalty to Jesus had, in the end, profoundly failed his Lord and Savior when he denied knowing him three times before the rooster crowed. Peter’s was, by all accounts, an epic fail.

I can only begin to imagine the depth of Peter’s remorse, disappointment and self-doubt in the aftermath of his failure. I can only begin to imagine how he must have replayed his denial of Jesus over and over in his mind and the impact of that failure not only on his confidence, but also on his understanding of himself and his identity as a disciple of Jesus.

Which is why I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the resurrected Jesus repeated his pointed question to Peter not once but three consecutive times: “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”

Jesus knew Peter’s confidence had been shattered by his failure. Jesus knew that in order for Peter to begin again, he needed to relearn and re-remember that failure did not define him, nor did it undermine the role God had for him and the person God had called him to be. In repeating, “Yes, you know I love you,” three times out loud to Jesus, Peter was reminded once again of his identity and his role.

In this exchange with Jesus, Peter remembered that his failure, terrible and disappointing though it was, ultimately did not diminish who he was at his core.

I realize it’s a little silly to compare my story of a disappointing race with Peter’s calling as a founding leader of the early Christian church. But the truth is, each of us will fail multiple times in our professions, in our relationships, and in our character over the course of our lives, and there are important lessons to be learned in even the smallest, most ordinary stories, even in the smallest, most ordinary failures.

Last week, seven days after my disappointing finish in the half marathon death march, I slid my feet into my running shoes, double knotted the laces, and stepped out the front door. As I began my slow jog down the street, stretching my stiff legs and breathing in the chilled morning air, I remembered that one failed race does not define me. I remembered that one failed race does not diminish the joy and satisfaction I get from running. I remembered that one failed race does not undermine my future as a runner.

Last week when I stepped out the front door, I remembered that I am a runner. And I began again.

Why the Most Important Word in the Bible is With {on Christmas Eve and every day}

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“What do you think is the most important word in the Bible?” That’s the question author Sara Miles posed to the audience who gathered at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln Lutheran Center last month.

My pastor Beth Ann was there that night, and when we met for lunch a couple of days later, she asked me the same question.

I couldn’t decide on my answer; there were too many good options. Was it love? Grace? Forgiveness? Salvation? Or maybe it Jesus or God – those both seemed like good possibilities, too.

I looked at Beth Ann and shrugged, unable to choose just one word.

“She said it was with,” Beth Ann answered. “She said the most important word in the Bible is with.”

I hadn’t expected that answer, but when I heard it, I nodded. Out of context, with isn’t a very important or impactful word. A mere preposition, with doesn’t carry much weight. But in the context of the Bible, and in the context of this day, Christmas Eve, with is everything.

Immanuel.

It means God with us. Not simply God alone – unreachable, distant, removed – but God with us – right here, right now, in the midst of our everyday, ordinary, messy lives.

In the Gospel of Luke we read a story that for many is as familiar as our own personal history. Some of us have read the story of Jesus’ birth every Christmas for as long as we can remember. Some of us can recite it nearly by heart. And yet, when was the last time we really thought about the impact of Jesus’ birth on our own personal lives and on who we are as human beings living in this present moment?

Jesus came humbly, with humility, not as a powerful, ruling Lord, but as a helpless, dependent, human baby, wrapped in swaddling and laid in a manger. He came like the rest of us, as a human being. He was divine, but he was also human, and he experienced life, with its laughter and lament, its triumph and travail, like we do.

Jesus knows our pain, and our passion; he knows the depth of our sorrow and the height of our joy. He knows it because he lived it. He knows it because he lives it with us still.

With. It’s a small word, a preposition, pretty ordinary and unremarkable. But when it comes to our Savior, with makes all the difference. Immanuel is God with us, born into flesh 2,000 years ago, present with us today.

…

From my family to yours, we wish you a joyful Christmas and a peaceful, healthy New Year. Thank you for being the very best people!

Love,

Michelle

How to Cultivate a Continuous Spirit of Gratitude {hint: take a cue from Mary}

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Back in 1983, when I was thirteen years old, the one thing I wanted for Christmas more than anything else in the world was a Cabbage Patch Kid. In particular, I wanted a Cabbage Patch Baby, a girl with a smooth bald head and a round, dimpled face.

Cabbage Patch Kids were all the rage that year, even among thirteen-year-olds. By the end of 1983, more than 3 million had been sold (the correct terminology at the time was “adopted”). I remember the lines snaking outside the doors of Toys R Us, the shelves stripped empty minutes after the store opened.

Needless to say, I didn’t get my Cabbage Patch Baby for Christmas that year. No matter where my mom looked, they were always sold out. And this was long before the Internet and the opportunity to bid ten times the original price for one on eBay (not that my parents would have done that…though I certainly would have expected them to).

I was crushed. That Christmas I received plenty of gifts – toys and clothes and stuffed animals and games – but none of it mattered to me. I didn’t really appreciate any of the gifts I received because none was the be-all-and-end-all gift I so desperately desired. I was ungrateful, simply because I had not received the gift.

I realize comparing Jesus to a Cabbage Patch Kid is a bit of a stretch, if not outright sacrilegious, but bear with me for a moment here.

Mary received the ultimate be-all-and-end-all gift when she was blessed with the Son of God. Clearly she was grateful for the blessing of Jesus Christ – her Magnificat, a song of praise and thanksgiving, is a testament to the depth of her gratitude for the ultimate of gifts.

But look closely at the words Mary speaks to Elizabeth, because there is something telling here:

“For the Mighty One is holy, and he has done great things for me.” (Luke 1:49)

“He has done great things for me.”

Things. Plural. Mary acknowledges that God had already done great things for her, even before blessing her with the greatest gift.

The Magnificat is a song of thanksgiving for all the gifts God has bestowed upon Mary, not just this one particular blessing, magnificent and spectacular though it was. It’s clear from this statement that she cultivated a continuous spirit of gratitude, even before she was blessed with the ultimate gift as the mother of our Savior Jesus Christ. Mary recognized that God had been good to her all along.

Truth be told, I’m not all that different today from the girl who was crushed by the Cabbage Patch Kid Christmas of 1983. Too often, I’m so caught up in the gift I desire right now, the blessing I think I deserve today, that I neglect the big picture; I fail to appreciate or even remember the myriad blessings God has bestowed on me all along. So focused am I on the one thing, I forget all the great things God has done for me.

I would do well to take a cue from Mary, who praised God all along for all the gifts, big and small, that had been bestowed upon her.