Lent

If you have read any of my recent blog posts, it’s no secret that for the past few months I’ve struggled with an untraceable anxiety. As part of my own self-medication, I clung to devotionals, books about God, the Holy Scripture, and worship music as my means of getting by (since I gave up alcohol and Adderall). Wow, I must seem really holy. But the truth is I was using God for what he could give me, namely comfort and peace, and he graciously did so. But the Lord of the Universe is not to be used. I realized my devotion to him was more for my sake than for his.

I desperately made plans so that at no point would I be alone, but when the inevitable lonesomeness occurred, I always had a book in my hand or worship music or a Christian podcast playing. Hollow love. Self-seeking love. I’ve come so far giving up Adderall and alcohol and then the Lord revealed that I was still addicted to “devotional noise.” Simply put, I never wanted to feel alone. I especially didn’t want to quiet my soul enough so I could “hear” God’s Holy Spirit since the last time I tried that I ended up hospitalized and diagnosed with “psychosis.”

I had completely blocked up my spiritual eyes and ears to be immune to hearing God so I wouldn’t just be put on more medication.

But as this Lenten (lit. “springtime”) season approached, I felt challenged to place myself in silence intentionally throughout the day. Not give up my bible or my devotional books, not give up fellowship with my friends and mentors, but allow space for God to speak again. And allow him to change the motive of my heart in all the aforementioned practices.

So, I’m aiming to give him 30 minutes of solitude and silence a day. It can be broken up into various increments, but just honor him with my whole self and nothing but myself.

I also have two unrelated thoughts that have been rolling around in my head:

2)   In a devotional I’m doing, we talked about Simon of Cyrene being recruited to help carry Jesus’ cross and how we need friends and mentors in our lives to help carry our fatal crosses. One thing I just could not get out of my head was that there had to be Jesus’ blood on the cross already when Simon came into the picture. Did it get on his shirt? Maybe love is bloody and messy, just as I’m sure the Via Dolorosa was bloody and messy from Jesus’ severely beaten body. But what do we do? Do we roll up our sleeves and help carry the crosses of others, or do we get a pail of water to wash the blood out of our shirt and rinse the street of any trace of suffering?