Crushing it. (Literally)

Sometimes I think God has a sense of humor.

Lately He’s been dealing with me about offense. About the way I respond when I’m hurt. About the subtle ways pride disguises itself as self-protection. We’ve been sitting in some uncomfortable places together, and if I’m honest, I assumed that’s where this morning’s conversation was headed too.

Then I found myself in Luke 4: 18-21.

Jesus stands in the synagogue, opens the scroll of Isaiah, and says, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me because He has anointed Me…”

I remember stopping and thinking,

“Lord… what does this have to do with anything we’ve been talking about?”

It felt like we had changed subjects.

Except we hadn’t.

One thing I’ve learned about walking with Jesus is that He rarely starts where He’s actually going. He’ll begin a conversation over here while quietly leading my heart somewhere completely different. By the time I realize where we’ve arrived, I can usually see He’d been taking me there all along.

I thought we were talking about offense.

He wanted to talk about oil.

I’ll admit, “anointing” has always been one of those church words that can lose its wonder if I’m not careful. I know the word. I’ve heard the sermons. I’ve nodded my head at all the right places.

But this morning I found myself asking a much simpler question.

What is the oil?

As I kept reading, I noticed something I had somehow overlooked.

Jesus wasn’t talking about influence.

He wasn’t talking about recognition.

He wasn’t talking about being impressive.

He was talking about being sent.

The Spirit had anointed Him for an assignment.

Not to elevate Himself.

To pour Himself out for others.

That alone challenged me.

Then another thought quietly settled into my heart.

Out of all the words Scripture uses to describe God’s people, almost none of them are ordinary.

Chosen.

Holy.

Beloved.

Saints.

A royal priesthood.

A holy nation.

Salt.

Light.

Ambassadors.

Children.

Heirs.

Friends.

Set apart.

I couldn’t find average.

I couldn’t find common.

I couldn’t find ordinary.

Somewhere along the way, I’ve confused humility with making myself small.

As though acknowledging the gifts God has given me somehow takes credit away from Him.

It doesn’t.

Everything good in me belongs to Him anyway.

An uncommon God has never been interested in producing common lives.

Not lives that seek attention.

Lives that reflect Him.

Then He gently shifted my attention again.

God gives promises.

I live principles.

That sentence followed me around all morning.

I’ve quoted Philippians 4:7 more times than I can count.

“And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

I love that promise.

Who doesn’t?

But Paul didn’t begin with peace.

He began with principles.

“Rejoice in the Lord always.”

“Let your gentleness be evident to all.”

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.”

Philippians 4:4-6

Then…

The peace comes.

It made me wonder how often I’ve admired the promise while neglecting the principles that position my heart to receive it.

Not because God is withholding anything from me.

Because He’s inviting me into partnership with Him.

Faith isn’t simply believing God can keep His promises.

Faith is continuing to live His principles when I haven’t seen the promise yet.

Maybe that’s why the enemy spends so much time trying to discourage me.

If he can’t convince me God isn’t faithful, maybe all he has to do is convince me to stop living the principle before I experience the promise.

About this point, my brain decided to take a slight detour.

I started thinking about discernment.

Or what I jokingly started calling my “sixth sense.”

Now before Bruce Willis starts whispering, “I see dead people,” that’s not what I mean.

Although, if you’re a fellow suspense movie lover, your brain probably went there too.

I’m talking about those moments when I simply know.

Nothing looks different.

Nothing sounds different.

There isn’t any evidence I could present in court.

If someone asked me to explain it logically, I couldn’t.

I just…

Know.

Not because I’m especially intuitive.

Because sometimes the Holy Spirit lets me see what my natural eyes cannot.

The funny thing is, that sixth sense rarely makes sense.

At least not at first.

That’s probably because God doesn’t always give me a verbal explanation.

Sometimes He gives me a visual demonstration.

He lets the season preach the sermon.

I’ve spent years asking Him to explain what He’s doing.

Instead, He often invites me to watch what He’s doing.

Only later do I realize the season itself was the explanation.

Looking back, I can usually see His fingerprints everywhere.

Looking forward, I usually just have to trust.

Then another thought settled in.

I can’t use what I’m not aware I have.

That one stung.

Because how many times have I prayed for confidence while quietly dismissing the very gifts God has already entrusted to me?

How many times have I mistaken self-doubt for humility?

The more I sat with that, the more I realized they aren’t the same thing.

Humility says every gift comes from God.

Self-doubt quietly questions whether He’s given me anything worth stewarding at all.

One worships.

The other hesitates.

If I’m constantly talking myself out of the things God has placed in me, I shouldn’t be surprised when I struggle to walk in them.

Awareness isn’t arrogance.

Awareness is stewardship.

Jesus knew exactly who He was because He knew exactly whose He was.

Then I found myself asking another question.

Lord… what have You actually anointed me for?

Not what am I capable of?

Not what am I talented at?

Not what do people applaud?

What have You entrusted to me?

Because those aren’t always the same thing.

The oil always leaves evidence.

Not evidence that points back to me.

Evidence that points back to Him.

The fruit of the Spirit begins appearing in places where it wasn’t before.

People encounter more of Jesus than they do my personality.

The longer I thought about it, another question surfaced.

Lord… have I been exhausting myself trying to carry assignments You never actually asked me to carry?

That question sat with me for a while.

I’ve spent so much of my life believing every need required my attention.

Every hurting person somehow became my responsibility.

Every conflict needed my involvement.

Every open door looked like an assignment.

But Jesus didn’t heal every sick person in Israel.

He didn’t go to every village.

He didn’t say yes to every request.

Not because He lacked compassion.

Because He walked in complete obedience to the Father.

Maybe maturity isn’t learning to do more.

Maybe it’s learning to recognize what God is actually asking of me… and having the courage to leave the rest in His hands.

Then, almost quietly, the conversation reached its destination.

Consecration.

Crushing.

Commitment.

Consecration suddenly felt different.

Not a list of rules.

Not restriction for restriction’s sake.

It became the natural response of someone who treasures the presence of God more than temporary comforts.

If I truly value the oil, then there are simply things I won’t casually entertain anymore.

Not because they’re necessarily evil.

Because I value His presence more.

Then came the crushing.

Nobody likes that word.

But olives don’t produce oil without pressure.

Neither does my heart.

And suddenly I realized what God had been crushing all along.

Not me.

My offense.

My pride.

My need to be understood.

My tendency to retreat when relationships become difficult.

My desire to protect myself instead of trusting Him to defend me.

He wasn’t crushing me.

He was crushing everything that couldn’t go where He’s taking me.

What incredible kindness.

Then came commitment.

Not striving.

Not performing.

Simply staying.

Continuing to surrender.

Continuing to trust.

Continuing to let Him finish what He started.

By the end of the morning, I couldn’t help but smile.

I thought Jesus and I were having a conversation about offense.

He was having a conversation about oil.

Except they were never separate conversations.

The oil wasn’t the detour.

It was the answer.

Because maybe the greatest evidence of God’s love isn’t that He leaves me comfortable.

Maybe it’s that He loves me enough to keep refining me.

Enough to keep exposing what doesn’t look like Him.

Enough to patiently crush everything that keeps me from becoming who He’s creating me to be.

I used to think the hard seasons meant God was distant.

Now I’m beginning to wonder if they’re often the moments He’s closest.

Because sometimes He speaks through His Word.

Sometimes He speaks through prayer.

And sometimes…

He lets the season become the sermon.

And maybe that’s where the freshest oil is found.