Note: For the purpose of fluidity, I’ve used the
masculine pronoun when speaking about God.
I try to use more gender inclusive language when talking about Yahweh
but either I’m not a very good writer or I’m not very good about talking about
God. Frankly, I don’t really know God’s
gender anyway. I digress.
Let’s first begin with
a narrative: I believe in a God that created people to live together in a
garden. God lived amongst his people, he
loved the creation and it was so good.
God’s only condition for keeping harmony was that we didn’t try to get
between God and the creation. God called
this interference sin. God warned us
that the punishment for committing sin is alienation and death. As the story goes, despite our conscience, we
sinned, and found ourselves naked and alone.
But even though we deliberately disobeyed God, he came looking for us
anyway. And when he found us, he asked
us why we were hiding. We told him it
was because we ruined everything, we disrupted the harmony, and we were
afraid. And so God grieved because he
knew that this meant the end of his creation.
It meant evil, disintegration, and suffering would plague everything
good he created. So God changed his mind
about death and began working on a plan to save the creation. Instead of destruction, God chose
redemption. And that’s been the story
ever since: God has worked tirelessly to restore harmony. Sometimes, we help; sometimes we get in the
way. But in the end this God desires
reconciliation, not punishment; and the more we give control of the universe
back to God, the more ‘in tune’ the dissonant notes of this universe
become. I believe in a God of love and
mercy.
My Lent so far: Over
the past few years, Lent has been my favorite time of year (and probably not
for the right reasons). Spiritual
disciplines are kind of my hobby of mine (this is supposed to sound
ironic). For most of the year, I humbly
go about my business, praying the hours, periodically fasting, seeking
solitude, and writing blogs about it.
But then Lent comes and I politely grin as I watch the less advanced
struggle through giving up booze, coffee, television, or Facebook. Suddenly people become interested in
aestheticism and I’m the expert. I get
to give advice, pontificate on the saints, and offer support to others with
quips like, ‘It’s supposed to hurt,’ or ‘the only way to know (what good this
fast will bring) is to go through with it.’
Lent is the time where I don’t have to explain my strange dietary
restrictions or why I can’t go get a beer with you tonight. Lent isn’t difficult for me, it’s
awesome! Over the past few years, I have
gotten really good at Lent.
But then I met a girl.
Now I’m really bad at Lent.
My rhythm is off. The disciplines
that were as easy as breathing have become increasingly difficult. My moral decisions have become a gray murky
mess. I have found myself declaring more
self-imposed ‘Feast Days’ (that is, days I am allowed to break my fast) than actual fasting days. In the midst of wedding planning, trying to
buy a house, taking care of a 7-month old puppy, and struggling to be a decent
youth minister, I haven’t been a very generous, thoughtful, kind, organized,
responsible or creative person. By my
estimation, I’ve been a very bad boy.
And because of this I’ve found myself naked and alone in the
woods. Until now, it’s been easy to
believe in a God of love and mercy when I’ve been behaving, because frankly, I
think I deserve it. It’s easy to let God
be in charge, because, what bad could happen to me if I haven’t done anything
wrong.
So in my misbehaving and stress, I hear God coming for
me. So I hide. I gather all of my belongings, run inside,
and deadbolt the door. And I wait. I tremble as I watch the door, waiting for
God to kick the door down and take back everything he’s given to me.
But God just knocks.
Gently. Patiently.
And as God knocks, I continue to go about my business. I can’t open that door. I try to tend my garden that was once basking
in the sunlight. A garden that God and I
used to tend together, I’ve removed from the raised beds and planter boxes and
brought it within the walls of my own estate.
And as God continues to periodically knock on the door, I watch everything
begin to turn brown. The vines aren’t
producing fruit anymore, despite the fact that I’ve worked harder than ever to
fertilize the soil and water the roots.
My flowers don’t bloom.
I know what I have to do to save my garden: Open that door. But I’m too afraid of getting what I deserve,
too afraid of facing his shame and disappointment, too afraid of God taking it
all back and trampling it under his boots.
Perhaps all the ways I’ve ‘failed’ this Lent, I’m
discovering Lenten humility. Humility is
allowing God to love me at a time when I least deserve it. Faith is trusting that God is better at
forgiveness and mercy than I expect him to be.
It is trusting that God doesn’t intend to destroy my life when I behave
badly, but rather, God desires to save my life no matter what. Consequences are not God’s punishment, they
are the result of life lived without God.
At the moment we open the door and let God in, the healing begins and
God does everything in his power to set things to right again. I told you I believe in a God of love and
mercy. I lied. I repent of that.
Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner.
Shalom.
