Saturday reflection: Lent 2012

The second most visited post on this blog is one I wrote about Lent in 2011: 33 things to give up for Lent. All year long people have come to this post by searching for Lent. Which is interesting, since Lent is a period of forty days (plus 6 Sundays) between Ash Wednesday and Easter. It doesn’t last all year.

Several years ago, some friends and I wrote about Lent. When I started that blog, I said

What I’m seeing is posts from you which would wrestle with what we learn when we give up that which we enjoy for the sake of better understanding that in which we delight. Not all of us are from a liturgical background. That’s the point. I want to have some wrestling with lent, with fasting, with self-denial as self-discovery, with the relationships between forms and faith and relationship.

For 2012, I decided to gather some of the posts I’ve written about Lent and fasting. I also decided to post it 10 days before Ash Wednesday in case you want to plan ahead.

And so you know, in 2012 Ash Wednesday is February 22 and Easter is April 8.

Some comments on fasting from Matthew 6

Some comments about silence

  • Deliberate silence - Excerpt: “I am involved regularly in deliberate unsilence. Every day I am generating words and thought images and stories and photos with the intention of disrupting silence. And so are you.”
  • habits of sight. - Excerpt: “Some habits are desirable. We call those “disciplines.” Some habits are not. We call those “addictions.” Some are neutral. We call those “drinking coffee.” For the last six weeks I gave up a way of seeing called twitter. When Lent started, I hadn’t exactly intended to give it up. However, I was beginning to wonder whether Twitter was a discipline (staying in touch with a group of people that I was beginning to care about and for) or an addiction (staring at the flow of comments in every spare moment) or neutral (stopping to say ‘hi’ while walking to the office coffee pot).”
  • listen – Excerpt: “I discovered that I use noise. I discovered that when I drive and start talking with God, I finish a couple sentences and reach for the radio. I didn’t realize how often I do that until I watched my hand reach for the radio that no longer was there.”
  • 8 ways to get better at following, part 2 - Excerpt: “Most of us have heard about sabbaticals. A sabbatical is a break from something. It could be taking a day each week with electronic devices turned off or six months away from work. The idea of sabbatical is rooted in the idea of sabbath.”

Some comments about Sabbath

I know that Sabbath seems like the opposite of Lent. It’s time to eat and rest, where Lent seems to be about suffering. But for many of us, truly taking time off, giving up the franticness for family and feasting and frivolity and fellowship, would be its own kind of fast.

  • Our sabbath group - Excerpt:  We started a couple years ago. Just for six weeks. Now we can’t stop. It’s not complicated, by the way. It starts with “you hungry? For supper and God?” And goes from there.
  • Burdens and breakfast - Excerpt: “These were people who weren’t just tired. They were tired from living up to expectations. They were tired from having to look over their shoulder, expecting pastors to pester them, expecting Pharisees to flog them. Every step was a burden. And Jesus says, “try my yoke”.
  • A question of stopping - Excerpt: “Late at night, when being driven by the list, rest seems desirable, but out of reach. In the morning, when being driven by the list, rest seems long gone. In the middle of the day, between the calls and the visits and the ambiguity and the precisely-phrased demands, rest seems impossible.”
  • On rests - Excerpt: “I used to play tuba. As such, there were often long stretches of music pieces we played during which I didn’t play. We would spend these times counting very carefully (1-2-3-4, 2-2-3-4, 3-2-3-4 and so on). It was stressful at times because you had to make sure you entered at the right place.”
  • Time is hard to take - Excerpt: “Ironically, it is easier to confess to you my inability to stop than it is to just stop. Is it possible that there is in the confession a desire to receive compassion, empathy, understanding…from you? I mean, you know exactly what I’m talking about. You are, as I am, a part of a culture which, whether inside or outside church, finds stopping difficult. We feel as though we must be productive in our work, in our rest, in our play, in our wasting of time. If we can’t do something, we must at least create the facade of busyness.”

Rest. Pray. Talk.

Three teenage young men are excitedly discussing music videos and life in the next room. I’m glad for the extreme enthusiasm flowing through the doorway.

Sometimes I am a tired parent. That youthful enthusiasm rises to the surface fewer times than it did in my earlier years. So it’s nice to be surrounded by that!

Jesus was not “up” all the time. In Mark 6, he just had to get away. He took his band of closest buddies with him. He just knew that he had to get some space.

I don’t know if Jesus was an introvert or an extrovert – but he was definitely a rock star. That level of celebrity would be hard for anyone to cope with. Jesus coped and rose above the pressing crowd sometimes in a human and a divine way. He did know when he needed space and rest. He also knew when he needed to fight a battle alone.

As Jon has reminded us several times, it’s OK to get away sometimes. You need a break. God created seven days with six for working and the seventh for rest. This principle is from the beginning of the Bible to the very end.

We sometimes feel like there is so much important stuff going on that it would be foolish to say no to any of it.

Wrong.

Stop at least once a week. Take more than an hour. Step away from your computer and turn your cell phone off. Go for a walk with your best friend, if they’re near. Call them, if they’re far. Remember that when Jesus got away in Mark 6, he went with his friends. Sometimes we just need to be with people who love us – even if they don’t completely understand us. Or just pray. God always understands.

pages, dogs, sabbath and slack.

If you read this blog by Mailchimp email, you didn’t get anything from me on Thursday. You are getting two posts today.

It wasn’t that I didn’t write anything for Thursday morning. It’s that, with more than 2000 posts written at various blogs, I wrote created a page instead of a post on Wednesday night. And a page doesn’t get recognized by Mailchimp.

So I fixed it Thursday morning. And didn’t get mad. And never once called myself an idiot.

I was talking to a friend earlier in the week. He was trying to figure out why he was getting so mad at the dog. I reminded him of all the things that were chaotic in his life, things that he couldn’t do much about. I told him about how mad I used to get at our dog. I told him that I realized that I was mad at the dog because I was mad at myself and frustrated with changes that I wanted to make and couldn’t. I was getting upset because I wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t about Shiloh at all.

And he said, “So you are telling me I should give myself a little slack.”

I was.

Which I did for myself when I realized what I had done on Wednesday night. I had simply made a mistake. I didn’t ruin your life. I didn’t ruin my life. Nothing happened other than maybe you had one less distraction in your morning.

It’s a good idea for this weekend, perhaps. Cut yourself a little slack. Take some Sabbath. Quit trying to be god. We already have a perfectly good one available.

If you want to see some hats and help some people in Joplin who got hit by the tornadoes and are still helping kids through art, head to ErnestineEdna.com

Burdens and breakfast.

It was Saturday. The disciples were tired and hungry. They followed Jesus, sleeping wherever, eating wherever. On this day they were hungry.

They were walking on a path leading through a field. The grain was ripe. The disciples picked some, rubbed their hands together so the hulls broke away from the grain. They ate.  It wasn’t bread, but it was food. It took the edge off.

“Jesus!”

The voice came from along the path.

“Jesus! Look!”

Jesus looked. A couple of Pharisees, on their short walk to the synagogue, were pointing: “Your disciples are breaking the rules of the Sabbath.”

And, of course, they were. Picking a few grains was harvesting. Harvesting was work. Work violated the rest rules of the Sabbath. The religious people were precisely right.

Jesus responded quickly.

It was no surprise, of course. He had just asked people who were tired and weighed down to come and walk with him. It seemed odd to have to get up and move closer to him when moving anywhere was the last thing that anyone wanted to do. These were people who weren’t just tired. They were tired from living up to expectations. They were tired from having to look over their shoulder, expecting pastors to pester them, expecting Pharisees to flog them. Every step was a burden.

And Jesus says, “try my yoke”.

Though from agriculture, the image isn’t of an egg. It’s a carved wooden bar that fits over the shoulder of an ox. It’s what the plow is hooked to, the cart. Built well, it leverages pulling power. Built wrong, it digs in.

Sometimes the rules don’t help with the work. Instead, they cut the shoulders. But, Jesus says, his way of living gives life. Then he defends hungry disciples eating grain from pointless pointed rules.

The more I feed your ego, the more I starve your soul

I wrote that in my journal Tuesday afternoon. I was sitting on a sofa, looking at the piles of work on my heart. It’s buried among a bunch notes and lists and descriptions and projects.

But here’s what I think it means.

It is possible for me to feed your ego. Not here. I mean one on one. I can build up your reputation. I can raise expectations about how good you are, about how people should talk to you. And you can do that for me.

Or maybe I should say to me.

Because every time I increase expectations on you, I may make you feel better, more needed, more affirmed. But I also am creating more for you to live up to. And that kind of pressure can starve the soul. We worry about living up to what people want from us and we forget the quiet cultivation of a healthy soul, nurtured not by crowds but by quiet conversation with God.

Paul and Barnabas showed up in Lystra one day. They healed a guy who had been lame. Immediately, the crowd said they were gods. In fact, the priest of Zeus showed up with sacrificial bulls.

Paul immediately tried to stop it: “Friends, why are you doing this? We too are only human, like you. We are bringing you good news, telling you to turn from these worthless things to the living God, who made the heavens and the earth and the sea and everything in them.”

But it was hard. People want to worship something that looks like it works. They want to be identified with a hero, to ride the coattails. I understand. I do it too. And I’m feeling pretty convicted.

People make lousy gods. We make great people, but we make lousy gods.

Here’s the video version: Ego and soul