First Sunday in Lent: Remain
“Silence before the word, however, leads to the right hearing and thus also to the right speaking of the word of God at the right time.”
A family from the school where I worked took me in for a month when I had nowhere to live. I was in between housing, dependent on those who loved me to help. The guestroom was set up like a hotel suite, with a TV on the wall, space in the drawers, and a private bathroom stocked with travel-sized toiletries. Each morning, coffee streamed in under the door to welcome me into the new day. It was a month of God’s grace poured over me through the kindness of friends. What was special was that this was the family of one of the girls I had mentored. A firecracker with dimples and an electric smile. My investment in their daughter’s life meant a great deal to them. So in my challenging circumstances, they were eager to provide a room, a bed, and a fridge stocked with food. I guess that’s what love looks like.
In the evening, before I would go to bed and read, I wandered up to Cameron’s room to check in, ask how her day was, and take some time to listen. She had lots of energy, lots of questions about the Bible, and lots of boys chasing after her! Our time was always meaningful and fun. Cameron is a little mix of drama and a little dash of southern sweetness. A delight.
Every time I popped in, she had her small, table-top TV on, blaring some silly sitcom. It was static noise. It didn’t seem to take her attention; she never looked at it.
“Why do you have the TV on? You aren’t even watching it?”
“Oh, if I turn that off, my anxiety will go crazy! I have to have noise! I sleep with it on!”
Mind you, this was before the smartphones. The TV was her best option for diversion and distraction.
It’s been at least 17 years since that exchange, and I will never forget it. Within the corners and crevices of our bodies, we carry fear, guilt, sorrow, and hurt. We carry chaos. The unknown scares us. Over time, our vices become hardwired. Shame starts to surface when we experience silent spaces. Unforgiveness haunts us. Regret plagues us. Loss colors everything single thing. Without noticing it, we become masters of evasion. Deflection becomes a default response.
The modern-day mantra: “At all costs, avoid discomfort.”
The longer we spin on that wheel, the harder it is to get off.
Lent says, “Remain.”
What a vulnerable request. Furthermore, if that restlessness comes up, when it comes up, what then? With good reason, we shove that mess down. Feeling it is too much. Shame and guilt level us, darken our spirits, and make us question everything about ourselves. Why would we ever want to feel it?
Henri Nouwen simplifies things for me all the time: “But we have a promise upon which to base our hope: the promise of his love.”
And David G. Brenner, from his book Surrender to Love (which I am recommending to everyone these days):
Jesus is the antidote to fear. His love—not our believing certain things about him or trying to do as he commands— is what holds the promise of releasing us from the bondage of our inner conflicts, guilt, and terror. Jesus comes to us to show us what God is like.
Knowing how we would react to a god who suddenly turned up on the human scene, God becomes human, to meet us where we are and minimize our fears. The incarnation is God reaching out across the chasm caused by our sin and starting the relationship all over again. The incarnation reveals true Love reaching out to dispel fear (50).
Lent says, “Remain.” Not just so we figure out how to bear up under anxiety and shame, but to experience the Pure Love of God.
“And let the peace the comes from Christ rule in your hearts”
What if over the next few weeks, we remained? What if we felt that distress all the way through? Not in isolation, but with one another. Sharing with others the stuff in our backpacks? More importantly, what if we went to our closet, got in our car for a drive, or took a walk alone and expressed, in raw honesty, these burdens with the One who willingly takes our shame. The One who absorbs it into his own body, putting it to death—replacing it with faith, hope, and love. What if we knew, beyond the discomfort, it would be cathartic, even healing? Not just an eventual release, but unexpected peace? A holy provision? What if we sat in those ashes only to find a new story beginning to take shape?
The Enemy of our souls wants us to fear the process so much so that we stay in the shadows, distracting ourselves to death. His goal is that the shame would fester and shapeshift into control and anger, resentment, and maybe even a seared conscience. Avoidance is not a bad habit; it is a tactic of the enemy.
Throughout the years of Jesus’ ministry, he references Himself as “light.” It’s not sentimental. His light is the only way to transformation. He is not looking to cause us distress by exposure; His light is reviving and restorative:
“I am the light of the world. If you follow me, you won’t have to walk in darkness, because you will have the light that leads to life” (John 8:12).
Oddly, the Spirit invites us into the desert in order to experience the faithfulness of God. It doesn’t seem to make sense, but it’s true… “I will give you treasures hidden in the darkness…” (Isaiah 45). This is one of the hardest parts of Christianity to accept. As I began to embrace my humanness in midlife, I have learned that two opposite parts of me can coexist: I can HATE this and VALUE this at the same time. This morning, I sat heavyhearted over so much pain and suffering in the world, and in the lives of those I know. I shared with Him that it is hard to trust Him. I didn’t try to order my words, polish them up, or present like a theologian. With tears, I told Him, “I feel deeply discouraged.” If I am honest, and we must be, He doesn’t seem faithful; He seems uninvolved. I told Him that. When death comes too soon, when people are mistreated in the name of Jesus, when the diagnosis is dire, when unemployment lasts too long, when a child no longer wants to seek Jesus, the heartache is excruciating. Likewise, when we see unchecked greed driving us with obsession, when our impatience cuts down those we love, when we attack someone in order to be right, we must tell Him we don’t know what to do; we don’t know how to change.
We always start with honesty. As my counselor says, come with your vulnerable parts, for that is where you find connection…with God and with everyone else.
“The Lord’s persistent habit of relating to humans with grace is the best news the human race has ever received.”
Prayer:
“Help me to sit in the moments I want to escape. My impulse is strong, and my reactions to run are just as strong. I confess my idol of comfort. Lord, Jesus, I don’t want to miss the opportunity to connect with you, to be comforted by you first and foremost. Help me remain. Not just to exercise discipline or self-control, but to remain because I believe you are with me and trust that you will come. I know you are better than anything else I look to for rescue.”