more fierce and wild at every word

Chapel posed an interesting question today: as Christians we are told to not become weary of doing good--and the speaker asked, "What if you do?" She answered by reminding us through George Herbert's "The Collar" (wonderful poem by the way, if you haven't read it, do) of our position as a child of God and his role as our Lord.

But I'm left with more questions. I found myself sitting in my classes thinking, "Yes, he's my Lord, I'm his child...I know this, but I'm still weary, bone-tired--not just physically. It's a good truth, but what do I DO?" As I type this, I'm thinking that her message was one of resting in those roles--but my heart is stuck on the line before: "I raved and grew more fierce and wild at every word." I'm mired in the trying, or more truthfully, I'm mired in the wanting to try. I want to rest and let it all go, but that seems so contrary to all I've been taught. I'm not sure I can find the balance between letting go and holding onto enough so my life can keep running--responsibilities are still there and transferring to a hermitage is probably not an option. I think I want to sometimes.

What was Paul thinking when he wrote those words? Did he ever get weary of it all--the trying and striving--is that what it is all about? Is endurance found in pressing on, or is it in resting? Maybe the resting just seems too simple, or perhaps just not practical, or maybe it's just that it leaves me with nothing to DO. Resting is such an abstract concept, and I'm not sure I know how to make that happen.

Turn up the still small voice

I've always wondered something, or maybe it's just that I could never make the concept harden into concrete. In a situation where you have to make a decision, not between right and wrong, but a life decision toss-up--should I go here or there, take this job, live with these people, do this for the summer...how can you determine God's will. Maybe I've just been afraid to voice the question before. It seems like the concept of praying for God's guidance is a one of those elementary faith issues. People always talk about having or not having a peace about a situation, or a feeling of God's leading--but I never seem to feel that way. When I'm faced with a decision, I pray about it, yes, but nothing seems to happen--at least nothing by way of a holy nudge or a cosmic, flashing neon sign. Things just seem to work out or they crash from the sky when the motor fizzles out; I take the opportunity that presents itself as God's will because it is there. In that case I feel more reactive than proactive. Maybe I just need to listen more--so I can hear that still small voice more clearly.

It's not that I expect to get the whirlwind or the roaring flames--but sometimes I've afraid I've missed the still small voice. Maybe I'm just thinking too hard; maybe I just wish I could hear that voice in my heart so I can know for sure I'm doing the right thing; maybe I'm just looking for some certain security that I'm living God's will for my life. Sometimes I wonder. Does wanting to do God's will equal doing it?

Yet sometimes I can look at my life and know without doubt that I've had absolutely nothing to do with where I am. I'm like Philip, snatched up and plopped in the middle of the desert next to an Ethiopian chariot--I'm in this place, I don't know how I got here, but I can see the purpose--or at least I'm catching a glimpse of purpose. Other times both roads look the same, and I can't discern God's will. But perhaps this is all part of being human--not God--to press on when you aren't certain. Pray, seek guidance, then use your brain and whatever feelings you might have to make a logical decision. It's just that everything isn't logical. And the question always remains....how do you really know?

streets of gold

I love driving back to campus from Wisconsin in the evening. If I can leave about a half hour before dusk, I'll be traveling due west at sunset. The amber and fiery rose sky fills my windshield, and I want to stare directly into the sun, until I start to lose the road and have to look away.

This time the ride was especially beautiful--the recent snowfall had melted from the road, leaving it bare except for the tiniest film of moisture that spread like a glaze over the highway. It was just enough so the sunset could be reflected--between the black silhouettes of trees the road became shining gold that faded into a dusty rose as the sun sank lower.

Hungry

I've been feeling rather dry lately. Perhaps that's why I haven't posted in ages. I suppose we all go through these phases of feeling emotionally and spiritually tired. But I've noticed something. It seems as though I periodically feel the need to withdraw into myself--pull the covers of my life over my head because I'm too emotionally tired to face it. Sometimes I can find the source of my exhaustion--lack of sleep, stress, the usual culprits. Other times it seems to happen ex nihilo. That in itself isn't odd, of course. But I'm finding I don't withdraw to renew. I more withdraw for the sake of being dry--and sit there, my lips cracked with thirst, my emotions comatose. Outwardly I seem to be ok; I'm a good enough faker for that, but on the inside there is nothing--I'm unable to be present to my family, friends, and life.

But I can't sit there for long. It might be a couple days, weeks, or sometimes longer...I emerge from my hermitage starving for life--more accurately starving for God. That's what I hate about this withdrawing most of all. I pull away from him too. But, whether it's good or bad, this is when I realize all over again that I can do nothing or be nothing without Christ. My own attempts are futile; my own food is unsatisfying. I need him alone. I know all this, yet why do I wait until I'm starving and dehydrated to seek him? You'd think I would eat when I'm hungry, drink when I'm thirsty, but so often I deliberately refuse the nourishment that I really need and more often truly want.

I suppose the answer lies in discipline...being disciplined enough to seek consistently. And I want it--consistency, but I'm still learning how to get there.