Making My Way Downtown… Away From the Assignment

I am phenomenal at starting things.

Please understand, I can start something with an enthusiasm that would make you think God Himself handed me a laminated project plan.

New notebook? Absolutely.

New idea? Revolutionary.

New routine? This is who I am now.

New revelation? Somebody get me a pen.

Actually, don’t get me a pen. I have approximately 473 notebooks containing the first seven pages of what was apparently supposed to become my life’s greatest work.

I am the CEO of beginnings.

Finishing, however?

Finishing and I have historically had a complicated relationship.

I have blamed it on losing interest. Timing. Exhaustion. Life changing. God redirecting me. The vibes being off. Mercury probably doing something inappropriate. Menopause has been accused of several crimes for which she may actually be innocent.

Yet lately, God has been confronting me with something much less comfortable:

Sometimes I didn’t get redirected.

I just didn’t finish.

And Joshua made me realize how dangerous that can become.

Because God does not seem nearly as impressed with my ability to begin as I am.

Joshua’s story begins where Moses’ ends, and that transition has been bothering me because if I’m being painfully self-aware, I have spent a lot more seasons behaving like Moses than Joshua.

Now before anybody comes for me, Moses was THAT GUY.

This man confronted Pharaoh. Stretched his staff over the Red Sea. Went up the mountain and talked with God. Interceded for an entire nation. Led millions of complaining people through a wilderness without getting himself arrested, which frankly deserves its own line in Hebrews 11.

Moses was called.

Moses was chosen.

Moses was powerful.

Moses was also tired of these people.

And unfortunately, that is where I begin recognizing myself.

Moses had a disposition.

He wrestled with anger. Frustration. Pressure. People. Emotional exhaustion.

He had spent years leading people out of bondage while repeatedly dealing with their complaining, rebellion and selective amnesia.

Honestly, I understand.

Because after the fourth “Were there no graves in Egypt?” I probably would have needed a minute too.

Yet Moses’ frustration eventually affected his obedience.

In Numbers 20, God told Moses to speak to the rock.

Moses struck it.

Twice.

Water still came out.

And THAT part makes me uncomfortable.

Because something producing results does not automatically mean I handled it correctly.

God can be gracious while still correcting me.

People can still be helped while God is privately dealing with my heart.

Water can come out of something I struck when God told me to speak, and I can mistake His mercy for His approval.

Whew.

That is where Moses gets painfully personal.

Because I have had seasons where the disposition that helped me survive became the disposition interfering with where God was trying to take me.

Anger protected me once.

Hyper-independence protected me once.

People-pleasing protected me once.

Being able to detach quickly protected me once.

Controlling everything protected me once.

Starting over whenever something became uncomfortable protected me once.

Those things may have gotten me out of something.

That doesn’t mean they can take me into everything.

And THAT is where Joshua walks onto the scene.

Because God essentially closes the Moses chapter with one of the most direct transitions in Scripture:

“Moses My servant is dead; now therefore arise, cross this Jordan…” (Joshua 1:2, NASB)

Excuse me?

We couldn’t have had a transitional paragraph?

A commemorative slideshow?

Some soft music?

God said, “Moses is dead. Get up. We have somewhere to go.”

And suddenly I realized:

I have been trying to enter Joshua seasons with Moses dispositions.

Because sometimes I am asking God why I cannot move forward while dragging an emotional suitcase full of survival mechanisms He never told me to pack.

Joshua could honor Moses.

Joshua could grieve Moses.

Joshua could remember Moses.

Joshua could not become Moses.

Because what Moses carried Israel through required one disposition.

What Joshua was about to lead Israel into required another.

Moses was called to lead people out.

Joshua was called to lead people in.

Those are not the same assignment.

Getting out requires one kind of courage.

Taking possession requires another.

There are seasons where I need the disposition of a lamb.

There are seasons where it is lion time.

I cannot keep showing up to territory-taking seasons with a wilderness mentality.

At some point I have to stop asking, “How do I survive this?” and start asking, “How do I steward what God is giving me?”

That means some versions of me deserve gratitude without continued employment.

Thank you for your service.

Your badge has been deactivated.

Security will escort you out.

Because if I keep rehiring old versions of myself every time life becomes uncomfortable, I will keep reproducing old seasons in new territory.

Perhaps that is why God was so direct about Moses.

“Moses My servant is dead.”

Not dishonored.

Not irrelevant.

Not forgotten.

Dead.

There are things I am allowed to appreciate without resurrecting.

Which brings me to something I have struggled with deeply:

Attachment.

I can become loyal to things simply because they were once meaningful.

Old versions of myself.

Old relationships.

Old coping mechanisms.

Old expectations.

Old ways God used to speak to me.

Old environments where I felt safe.

Even old pain.

Sometimes I call something “sentimental” when God is saying, “You’re attached.”

There is a difference.

My ability to detach from something old affects my ability to experience something new.

Israel could honor Moses without building an altar to Moses.

They could grieve him without making grief their permanent address.

They could appreciate what God did through him without demanding God continue doing everything the same way.

Joshua had to detach because Canaan required something different from him.

And Jericho proves it.

The first major obstacle Israel encounters in Canaan is a wall.

Not a doorway.

Not a welcome committee.

A wall.

Which feels extremely disrespectful considering God said the land belonged to them.

I don’t know why I assume that if God promised me something, there should not be resistance around it.

Yet there stood Jericho.

Promised territory.

Massive wall.

And God gives Joshua instructions that, from a military standpoint, probably sounded slightly unhinged.

March.

Be quiet.

March again.

Keep marching.

Eventually, shout.

Joshua follows the instructions.

The people shout.

The wall falls.

And for years, I think I mentally ended the story there.

THE WALLS CAME DOWN!

Cue the praise break.

Except Joshua 6:20 says the wall fell and the people “went up into the city, every man straight ahead, and they took the city.”

Oh.

The wall falling wasn’t the victory.

The wall falling gave them access to the fight.

That offended me personally.

Because apparently sometimes the breakthrough is not God eliminating the battle.

Sometimes the breakthrough is God removing what prevented me from entering it.

I have prayed for walls to fall thinking falling walls meant the hard part was over.

God said, essentially, “Pick up your sword.”

The wall fell so they could fight.

Which means access and possession are not the same thing.

God can open a door I still have to walk through.

God can give me an opportunity I still have to steward.

God can reveal something I still have to obey.

God can remove an obstacle and still require something from me afterward.

And this is where finishing enters the conversation.

Because Jericho was not the finale.

It was the beginning.

Israel also had to learn quickly that one victory does not mean I have mastered obedience.

They shouted at Jericho.

Jericho fell.

It would have been very easy to conclude:

Ohhhh. We shout and walls fall.

No.

You obeyed and walls fell.

That distinction matters.

Because if I am not careful, I will turn yesterday’s instruction into today’s formula.

It’s giving Regina George.

“We wear pink on Wednesdays.”

Ma’am, God said Tuesday.

Now we’re in rebellion because we got attached to the aesthetic.

And then comes Ai.

Smaller city.

Smaller threat.

Surely easier battle.

Except there’s something hidden underneath Israel’s confidence.

Achan.

God had specifically instructed Israel regarding what could and could not be taken from Jericho.

Achan took what was forbidden and hid it.

Then Israel went into the next battle and lost.

Joshua falls before God devastated, and God’s response in Joshua 7:10 is almost comically direct:

“Rise up! Why is it that you have fallen on your face?”

In Jazmin translation:

Girl.

Get up.

Because prayer cannot replace obedience.

There are things I have prayed about that God already gave me instructions about.

“Lord, help me with my consistency.”

Finish what you started.

“Lord, give me discipline.”

Finish what you started.

“Lord, show me my purpose.”

Finish. What. You. Started.

Suddenly I feel attacked in my own prayer closet.

And Achan fascinates me because he represents something I recognize in myself:

The person who can shout publicly while stealing privately.

Achan was at Jericho.

He participated.

He watched the wall fall.

He experienced the miracle.

Then he took something God told him not to take.

Achan was a shouter who stole.

Which reminds me that spiritual enthusiasm is not the same thing as spiritual consistency.

I can shout and still drift.

I can worship and still drift.

I can write revelation in notebook number 474 and still drift.

Hebrews 2:1 warns:

“For this reason we must pay much closer attention to what we have heard, so that we do not drift away from it.” (NASB)

Drift.

That’s the scary part.

Drifting rarely feels dramatic.

Nobody wakes up and announces, “Today I shall completely abandon my values.”

I drift gradually.

One compromise.

One emotional decision.

One unfinished commitment.

One “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

One season where I stop paying attention.

Then suddenly I’m miles from where I intended to be wondering who moved the shoreline.

Nobody moved it.

I drifted.

And this is where White Chicks has unfortunately become a spiritual metaphor.

Because Kevin and Marcus had one assignment.

ONE.

Protect the Wilson sisters and figure out who was behind the kidnapping plot.

That’s it.

Yet somehow, in the course of completing that assignment, these men ended up disguised as two white women, shopping, fighting, dating, arguing over handbags, singing in cars, having dance battles and getting pulled into approximately seventeen situations that had absolutely nothing to do with the original mission.

And every time I watch it, I’m thinking:

How did we get HERE?

Which, respectfully, is also a question God could ask me about several seasons of my life.

Because I started with an assignment.

Then my feelings got involved.

Then somebody’s opinion mattered.

Then I got offended.

Then I became attached.

Then something shiny caught my attention.

Then I started another idea.

Then somebody irritated me.

Now I’m spiritually in the middle of a dance battle yelling, “Hold my poodle!” and God is like:

Do you remember why I sent you here?

That’s inconsistency.

It doesn’t always look like rebellion.

Sometimes it looks like distraction.

Sometimes I am still technically on the mission while doing everything except the mission.

And THAT is why I need an anchor.

Hebrews 6:19 describes hope as “an anchor of the soul, a hope both sure and reliable.”

Because life has waves.

And unfortunately, I struggle with ALL OF THEM.

Waves of affection.

I can become emotionally attached and allow what I feel about someone to interfere with what I know.

Waves of approval.

Whew, Jesus.

I can know exactly what God told me and still become weird because somebody reacted with a thumbs-up instead of a heart.

Now I’m conducting a full FBI behavioral analysis.

“Why the thumb?”

“Was that an aggressive thumb?”

“Did you notice there was no exclamation point?”

Meanwhile God is somewhere like, “Jazmin. Please finish the assignment.”

Waves of association.

I have had seasons where who I was connected to became too important to how I saw myself.

Waves of acquisition.

I can get so focused on getting something that I forget to ask whether obtaining it helps me become who God called me to be.

Affection.

Approval.

Association.

Acquisition.

Every single one of those waves has rocked my little boat.

And an unanchored version of me will follow whichever wave feels strongest that day.

That explains some of my inconsistency.

I start things when affection is high.

I abandon them when disappointment hits.

I start when people are excited.

I lose momentum when nobody claps.

I start when the vision feels shiny.

I stop when obedience becomes repetitive.

I start when I’m inspired.

I disappear when inspiration leaves.

That is not discipline.

That’s emotional management of destiny.

And I cannot keep allowing my feelings to determine whether I finish what obedience told me to start.

Because inconsistency is expensive.

Every time I stop, I eventually have to restart.

Instead of advancing, I’m repairing.

Instead of building momentum, I’m rebuilding momentum.

Instead of moving forward, I’m standing in the same spiritual parking lot yelling:

“Okay, THIS TIME FOR REAL.”

And suddenly White Chicks comes back around because Kevin and Marcus were chaotic, distracted and absolutely doing the most, but they eventually remembered:

We have an assignment.

They had to finish the case.

They couldn’t go back to the FBI and say, “Well, technically we didn’t solve anything, but you should have SEEN the dance battle.”

And I felt that.

Because God didn’t call me to be impressive in the middle and absent at the finish.

I don’t get to present Him with seventeen beautifully decorated beginnings and pretend they’re completed assignments.

I don’t get extra credit because the notebook was color-coded.

At some point, I have to finish the case.

At some point the assignment has to become more important than whatever distraction walked into the room.

Maybe that is what God is teaching me now.

I don’t need another beginning.

I need an anchor.

My anchor has to reach deeper than my feelings.

Deeper than whether people approve.

Deeper than who stays.

Deeper than what I acquire.

Deeper than whether today feels spiritually exciting.

I need virtues that answer, “Who am I becoming?”

Vision that answers, “What has God put in my heart to do?”

Values that answer, “How will I do it?”

My standards cannot keep being my ceiling.

They have to become my floor.

Because finishing will require me to become someone who can withstand the boring middle.

The part nobody posts.

The part without a new notebook.

The part without the adrenaline.

The part after Jericho when another city is waiting.

The part where the wall falls and God says:

“Now fight.”

Maybe that is why Joshua hits me differently.

Moses showed me that being called does not exempt me from confronting my disposition.

Joshua shows me what happens when I allow God to develop the disposition required for where I am going.

I have spent enough seasons starting.

Starting healing.

Starting boundaries.

Starting writing.

Starting routines.

Starting ideas.

Starting assignments.

Starting notebooks.

Dear God, the notebooks.

I have enough beginnings to furnish a small Staples.

Now I want to finish.

Not because everything I’ve ever started was ordained by God. Some things absolutely needed to die, and may they rest peacefully without me resurrecting them because I bought cute stationery.

I want the discernment to know the difference between something God released me from and something my inconsistency convinced me to abandon.

Because if God released it, I can bury it.

If God assigned it, I need to finish it.

Jericho taught me the wall coming down is not always the ending.

Sometimes it is permission to begin the fight.

Achan taught me that yesterday’s victory cannot cover today’s disobedience.

Moses taught me that I cannot drag every disposition into every season.

Joshua taught me that eventually grief has to become movement.

Hebrews taught me that if I do not anchor myself intentionally, I will drift unintentionally.

White Chicks taught me that I can get so distracted in the middle of an assignment that I almost forget why I showed up in the first place.

And my hundreds of unfinished notebooks have taught me that inspiration is a fantastic starter and a terrible sustainer.

So this season?

We’re finishing.

Even when I’m bored.

Even when I’m offended.

Even when nobody claps.

Even when the thumbs-up reaction makes my left eye twitch.

Even when affection changes, approval disappears, associations shift and acquisitions lose their shine.

I don’t want to keep being a woman with extraordinary beginnings and abandoned middles.

I want to become a woman who finishes.

Because perhaps the evidence that I have matured isn’t that I can shout loud enough for the wall to fall.

Maybe it’s that after the wall falls, I am still standing there.

Anchored.

Obedient.

Ready to fight for what God already said was mine.

Because the wall falling wasn’t the finish line.

It was access.

And this time, I’m not confusing access with completion.

This time, I’m not starting another notebook to explain what I’m going to do.

I’m finishing the one that’s already open.

…which is incredibly unfortunate because I saw a really cute notebook yesterday.