“My life is full of convenience. It is full of transaction, at its best a mutually beneficial exchange of value, a kind of arm’s-length benign use of one another for our own ends. But it is not full of contemplation. It is often efficient. But it is lonely.”
I’m beginning to think that there’s a particular feeling in your 20s, its a constant tension that is found between a need to be content and a longing to move forward, to improve upon the current state.
I find myself here.
With this tension comes an innate fear of failure, a crippling anxiety from not doing enough but somehow feeling like even that is too much.
I find myself here too.
Failure has been a through line within all of my writing.
In fact, my first blog was about the idea of succeeding at things that do not matter, which still nibbles at the back of my mind from time to time.
Most of my writings are a vomiting of the thoughts that bounce around my mind nonstop, an attempt to get them to leave.
These thoughts don’t leave though.
They are nestled in to stay for the long haul.
I’ll be returning to them later, but I want to revisit something else first, a passage of scripture that haunts me and gives me incredible peace.
This nuance is truly all I have at the moment.
I’m finding comfort in that.
A few weeks ago I was on vacation, and my family had lunch with a couple.
We met at the pool discussing every facet of life and decided to continue the conversation.
As the food came to the table, one of them mentioned, “God doesn’t call us to fail.”
I instinctively thought to myself, “Oh, yes He sure does!”
However, I sat there quietly, emotionless, as I so often do.
I don’t even remember what this was in reference to, but the phrase has rattled around my head.
It took me to the passage of Scripture I briefly mentioned above, my favorite passage, which I return to often.
“Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?” And I said, “Here am I; send me!” And he said, “Go and say to this people: ‘Keep listening, but do not comprehend; keep looking, but do not understand.’ Make the mind of this people dull, and stop their ears, and shut their eyes, so that they may not look with their eyes, and listen with their ears, and comprehend with their minds, and turn and be healed.” Then I said, “How long, O Lord?” And he said: “Until cities lie waste without inhabitant, and houses without people, and the land is utterly desolate; until the Lord sends everyone far away, and vast is the emptiness in the midst of the land. Even if a tenth part remain in it, it will be burned again, like a terebinth or an oak whose stump remains standing when it is felled.” The holy seed is its stump.”
Isaiah 6:8-13 NRSV
I have always been quite angered at the weak usage of this powerful passage.
It’s become a bit of a trite “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me” type of passage.
I’ve heard verse 8 championed at youth retreats, conferences, and convocations.
We get fired up for God to send us out to save the world.
We get fired up because God chose us to be special.
We get fired up because we are going to do great things.
But what if God calls you to failure?
What if God calls you to a person who will never change?
What if God calls you to a life of silence?
As I sit here overwhelmed by God’s silence, knowing that His voice is still out there.
I know that to some extent He has called me to those places before.
I know that He has ripped me from those who I loved so much.
I know that change is not dependent on me.
I know that He still moves.
I think I know, but my tears while writing this may tell a different story.
I may want to know more than I actually know.
I find myself here.
Recently, I heard a child cry out during church right after the pastor said, “Lord hear the prayers of our heart in this time.”
I chuckled to myself, but felt quite jealous.
I wish I could have yelled into the silence too.
I wish I could cry and scream, but I kept my head down, confessed my usual rhythm of weekly sins that seem to stay the same and moved forward to the Eucharist.
If I screamed, everyone would look at me.
They’d think what’s wrong with him.
I’d probably say something to the effect of Jesus telling us to be like the little children.
They’d say “not like that.”
Maybe one day we’ll be able to admit our frailty.
Maybe one day we’ll love each other as we are.
I hope I can cry at church again.
But, for now I find myself here.
Have you ever thought about how old Adam and Eve were in the garden?
I talked with my dad about this the other day.
We talked about how the story makes more sense if they were children.
I think children would be a lot better at naming the animals.
I think children are easily duped by snakes (not that adults would be much better).
I also think the reaction and fear makes sense when viewed through the eyes of a child.
The blaming.
The hiding.
It’s childlike.
But they bounced back quickly.
They acknowledge and bounced back.
Maybe that’s what we should do too.
I don’t know, but it makes sense to me.
We’re a lot like them.
I’m a lot like them.
I find myself here too.
I haven’t written anything here in a while.
I’ve taken a lot of time off from live streaming my faith.
Yet, I’ve written more than I have in my entire life.
I’ve read more, but I’ve been afraid to share.
I had hurt people with my words or maybe I was removing the scales from their eyes.
Either way, I didn’t want the pain.
I used to say if I could just touch one person, it was worth saying.
I impacted far more, but it didn’t bring the relief I was looking for in the moment.
I’ve wondered what to say. I apologized to some.
I didn’t want to hurt people, but speaking out does.
Life is confusing like that.
I find myself here.
My life is a rhythm of shipwrecks.
They’re stacked one after the other.
A spiral of defeats and attempts.
I’m tired.
Endless second chances.
I find myself here, glad I don’t have to carry it alone.