The Alabaster Jars We Refuse to Break

I have an image in my mind.


Picture something like Gollum from The Lord of the Rings. He is huddled in a dark corner, eyes narrowed, arms wrapped tightly around what appears to be a glass pitcher.

As you get closer (because you're brave and not at all alarmed by finding this strange creature in the corner of a dark room, so why wouldn't you approach him?) you notice the muscles in his arms grow tense, the veins in his fingers bulge, as he pulls the jar closer to his person. This jar is clearly valuable to Gollum and he is noticeably growing more and more uncomfortable with your proximity to him and his treasure.

Now, you've more than likely read the books or seen the movies. You get the gist. Gollum's "thing" is that he is super obsessed with The Ring. He talks about it, murmuring over and over about his "precious." He holds it, for fear of letting it out of his sight. It's an insanely realistic metaphor and picture for the things we hold dear in life, albeit an exaggerated one.

The reason I am picturing a jar in my mind as opposed to the "One Ring to rule us all" is this: a few months ago I was out on a run. It was a difficult season as I was a new parent again to my fourth child and was sorting through some lifelong struggles I have had with specific sin patterns: wanting people to think well of me in a myriad of ways, to be seen in certain light, etc. I had intentionally went for said run without listening to music or a podcast so I could focus on praying, as recommended by my husband.

As I ran, I talked to God. A better way of wording it would be I talked at God. I was a little angry and tired of replaying the same negative thought patterns in my head. Why aren't you taking this away? Why aren't you fixing things? I genuinely want to be free of this struggle!

A couple of miles in I started to listen. This is when this image was brought to my mind.

I imagined myself as Gollum, gripping tightly to an alabaster jar, refusing to let go for fear of it breaking. I imagined myself sitting in the corner of a room. People were gathered in the room and, while I was interested in joining in on the conversation, fear of anything happening to my Precious prevented me from leaving my corner.

I kept running and I kept imagining.

A woman entered the room, piquing my interest. She, too, had a precious jar. But she was far less careful with her jar. In fact, she had the audacity to smash it to pieces, pouring the contents over the feet of a man in the room. As her jar broke, she wept. This I could understand. To lose such a treasure would indeed bring someone to tears... but as I listened, I realized her weeping was not that of sorrow or loss... but of hope and joy. It seemed she would've broken ten jars if necessary. It seemed she was incurring great gain from her loss.

As I ran... I thought of Luke 7. Of the sinful woman anointing Jesus with the costly perfume from her alabaster jar, the contents being the fruit of her labors. I thought of her giving freely and sacrificing that which was so costly. And, again, I thought of myself, removed from the situation for fear of losing my own costly treasure.

On that run, the Lord was so kind to reveal my own alabaster jar. My reputation. My need to look a certain way. My need to be seen in a light of my choosing. I found myself praying, "Lord, break these jars. Take them. They are yours."

Because... while crouching in the darkened corner with clenched fists and strained muscles might protect my treasure, it keeps me in the dark. It keeps me from Jesus. It keeps me from experiencing that it really is a blessing to sacrifice and give that which is costly. It keeps me from walking in the freedom of knowing that even if that which feels precious is broken, my soul finds rest in Christ (Psalm 62).

Each day I ask the Lord again to help me break these jars. Help me break them so that the pleasing aroma of sacrifice can be experienced by everyone I meet that day. I think of C.S. Lewis' words: 

“It comes the very moment you wake up each morning. All your wishes and hopes for the day rush at you like wild animals. And the first job each morning consists simply in shoving them all back; in listening to that other voice, taking that other point of view, letting that other larger, stronger, quieter life come flowing in. And so on, all day. Standing back from all your natural fussings and frettings; coming in out of the wind.” 

So, each day I listen to the other voice. I break my alabaster jars, my idols. And I experience the aroma that comes from a pleasing sacrifice.