The Greek word used for anxiety in Philippians 4 means, "to be in pieces" (Tim Keller Podcast, Peace—Overcoming Anxiety).
My mind has definitely been in pieces lately. One piece desires to be like Jesus because it looks like a good idea. One piece desires to possess certain qualities such as hope, joy, peace, kindness, and humility, because I think it will lead me to a better life. Another piece desires those same attributes and more for the sake of being liked and accepted by others.
The acceptance piece is the most exhausting of my pieces because there are so many differing expectations to meet.
The opposite of a mind in pieces is a mind focused on one thing, or as Keller describes it, "single-mindedness."
I feel like I'm writing a super predictable story that points to Jesus as the answer to all problems. That concept usually makes me super disgusted because it just hasn't proven to be a true answer in my life, but I think that's because I was looking to Jesus as a genie in my life.
Jesus is not an antidote to my hopeless and anxiety-filled life. He's not a pill.
The Christianity I've pursued has been a medicinal one. Not that I haven't sought to have a relationship with Jesus, because I think at times I have, but I've also pursued relationships with people for medicinal purposes—they give me affirmation, affection, and acceptance, and I willingly receive it. I feel loved, so I think I also love them, but I mostly love what they give me. I'm sure you can guess how these relationships turn out.
I don't think Jesus wants to be my medicine. Although, the presence of Jesus in the lives of many people I know seems to produce a pretty amazing transformation. Those are the people who cause me to keep pursuing all of this.
Keller talks about how the fruit of the Spirit isn't plural, so someone really following Christ will show evidence of the whole list (Galatians 5:22-23). For whatever reason, too many Christians, myself included, try real hard to manufacture this list, but if the fruit is in fact of the Spirit, then it can't really be of us, who are by ourselves only able to operate in the flesh.
I can desire to exhibit this fruit for lots of good reasons, and I can try and even succeed in certain arenas, but I will inevitably fail in other areas at the same time.
Keller gave the example that you can manufacture peace in the flesh, but since manufactured peace isn't rooted in salvation, you can't simultaneously also have hope or joy.
Peace comes from an assurance of salvation, which is hope in something that will not disappoint. My friend Nick just wrote a stellar blog on this topic: http://nickshiley.theworldrace.org/?filename=a-hope-that-ends-part-2
Peace manufactured by the flesh can't have that kind of hope; so instead, it comes from a lack of hope.
As someone who lost hope that God was good when she began to recognize the level of suffering in the world, I can say I certainly experienced hopelessness. That hopelessness lead to finding peace only through lowering my expectations of seeing good in the world—a true cynic.
Everyone is bad. No one will be better. The world sucks. It will always suck. God let it happen. But hey, I'm steady in these thoughts, so at least I have peace.
This was me—but then I got to Romania. My ministry contacts had real peace. real faith. real hope. I observed it. I believed it. I even felt it a few times, as evidenced by unwarranted tears.
So now what? Is it really safe to hope again? Hope disappointed really does make the heart sick. I'm sick of hoping. It's much easier to be a cynic—much easier. If God is good and loving, he can prove it. Until then, I'll be mad, and maybe let people love me. That'll work.
It's like I can't have peace with hopelessness anymore because people keep showing me hope. Or maybe God keeps showing me hope through people.
So now, I have this sort of hope that God is good, and maybe even sovereign. And then also, I have a semblance of hope that he loves me unconditionally, but that hope hurts the most, because it's not a sure hope. And what if it's not true?
But nonetheless, the hope has entered my Spirit. I think I believe a little more every day. But, my peace has been based in hopelessness, and the type of peace that can co-exist with hope is only found in assurance of salvation—an assurance that has nothing to do with my performance, or ability to meet anyone's expectations.
Ever since hope entered the picture, I have been feeling exorbitant amounts of anxiety. My brain is constantly looking for answers to the hope I feel but can't explain.
If I can't explain it, what will I blog about? What will I tell my atheist friends? Won't I look dumb to the people on my squad who might wonder why I just up and decided to stop doubting?
And then there's this realization that my pride is what keeps me from really knowing God. So, I've started reading and studying about humility. My favorite humility quote so far is in the book, Humility, by Andrew Murray.
"Humility is nothing but the disappearance of self in the vision that God is all."

I want that. So how do I make myself disappear? How do I master self-forgetfulness? How do I have vision that God is all?—an ironic list of questions as it pertains to the topic of humility.
What I hope lies ahead for me is a truer assurance of salvation—a true realization and acceptance of love that is given freely, that I really didn't earn, and that I don't actually deserve.
I don't say I don't deserve it in a shaming way, but just to say that I tend to only receive love that I think I deserve, well, we all do. That's my favorite quote from a movie I recently watched with my team, "The Perks of Being a Wallflower." I guess maybe deep down I don't feel like I deserve unmerited love, but I think I'm a good enough person to receive love from people sometimes.
The truth seems to be that God is perfect and all loving and that he sent Jesus to bear the pain of my imperfection. I don't like that he didn't make me perfect. I want to be perfect. But, clearly, I am not.
So, my point is just that I didn't earn His love, and I guess I can't. Hopefully I can come to terms with that. Because I've been telling myself for a long time that I'm okay without love, or at least without God's love, because I don't want to be needy—but I'm believing that less and less.
Funding update:
Current funding $11,400—need $4,100 by July 1 to be fully funded
