Grooms and Fathers; Trying to "be someone"

Two seemingly unrelated thoughts this morning:

1. Doug wrote on the bathroom mirror this morning lyrics to a Phil Wickham song for me to reflect on: 

When we arrive at eternity’s shore
Where death is just a memory and tears are no more
We’ll enter in as the wedding bells ring 
Your bride will come together and we’ll sing
You’re beautiful, You're beautiful, You're beautiful

First, its an amazing song and a beautiful portrait of Revelation 21 (the new heavens and the new earth), which alone is heart stoppingly beautiful and particularly significant to me. But then it also references the oft used analogy of the church as the bride of Christ. It got me thinking about analogies... God the father, Jesus the groom. Both very male (after all, the bible was written by men, so it makes sense). Both putting a lot of pressure (or perhaps placing a lot of importance) on men to model these things well. If one has never felt the indulgent love of a father, or the doting adoration of their groom it would be very difficult to wrap one's head around those analogies. As parents I think about this a lot. I never want Avery to wonder what it's like to be loved beyond reason or understanding. I want the phrase "rooted in love" to make all the sense in the world to her. I want her to be able to relate well to that analogy. If I get nothing else right as a parent, than to make that child feel well-loved, and to be able to grasp God's love for her - I'll feel like a success. 

2. Still in 1 Corinthians today (1:10-31) and Paul is talking to the factions among the Corinthian people. He talks about how the group of them are hardly the best and brightest. The point he was making was that God uses the weak so that people can see His strength. His was is confounding - turns reason on his side - but He uses the little guy, the underdog to do great things. The bible is littered with stories like this. But this morning it occurred to me that I've spent the better part of my life trying to be anything, but. After leaving military world where everyone had roughly the same stuff and lived as one little community - and entering into the civilian world (which is pretty much the opposite of that), I always felt a little... lesser. My family didn't have much money. The kids around me had nicer, newer, better. Their families took nice vacations. They didn't wonder how they were going to pay for college. Their cars didn't look like they'd been salvaged from the junk yard, and there was never a crisis where their parents weren't sure how they were going to pay the mortgage. I realize that those things didn't reflect on me personally, but they certainly made me feel a little like an outsider - even when I was on the inside. And so I spent a lot of life trying to compensate for that. Prove that I could be just as good. Have things are just as nice. Have a nice wedding. Get a good job. A nice car. A good life. It's not all about the stuff - though there's definitely an element of that. It had more to do with feeling second rate - and wanting to prove that I wasn't. I could have a good husband, a beautiful child, a good life. And it drove me to work really hard and be reasonably successful. 

But looking now I don't think there's anyone who would call me the underdog. I got an invitation to my 10 year high school reunion last week. And as much as I swore I'd never want to go, I saw that one girl in particular who terrorized me through middle and high school was on the organizing committee and it made me want to go. Not even to talk to her. It made me want her to know that my life had turned out well - maybe even better than hers. Maybe the "better than hers" was the part I wanted her to know (bear in mind I haven't thought about this person in the better part of the last decade, but as soon as I saw her name this sinister thing in my nature reared its ugly head). I was talking to my mom and she pointed out that I likely have been more successful than anyone in my graduating class. That doesn't necessarily mean that I make the most money (I'm sure I don't), but that I have the best job. Most of the women in my honors classes gave up their careers to have kids and here I have both. Working at an amazing advertising agency. There's a certain glamour that for a moment felt like it vindicated me. I am worth something! Look! You were wrong when you said I was worthless! 

Then I read Corinthians and Paul talking about how Jesus wasn't interested in using the cool kids, the successful, the rich, the beautiful people for whom everything came easy. Yet I've worked so hard to be one of those people (or have aspired to be at least). What are the implications of that life long pursuit for my faith?