It was during one of those nights of many nights lying awake, mortality breathing on my cheek, when I took stock of my prayers. You see, my prayers are not really prayers. They are more like distress flares over a dark sea.
"Real" prayer, so to speak, that personal and intimate bending of heart, mind and will toward God when one is alone, has become far too intimate for me. I am afraid of what I will see, not of God, but of myself. I shudder at the thought of too much scrutiny, so I shutter the windows to my heart.
How silly, I know, to think God cannot see what I try to hide. The fact is, I am not hiding a thing from God, only from some part of myself. And even that is not true; the denial is of something, and that thing is known and understood. I see everything that is known. The denier knows.
But perhaps not even that is true. Perhaps that is why I do not pray, because I do not want to learn another heretofore unknown thing about myself, about how I have let another person down, or disappointed God. It is sad to say this, but it is true that the vast majority of my Christian experience revolves around disappointment: that my parents and teachers and friends and family and God -- always God -- expect more, are disappointed. How rare to hear a sermon about a God who is not disappointed, to hear of his pleasure, approval and delight. Is nothing ever good enough for him? Is he never happy? Has he no contentment? One wonders what sort of God we worship who never delights in his children without some reminder that they have left him a bit cross, a tad disappointed. Is this the way God -- our Father -- wants us to think of him? Surely there are days he wants us simply to be grateful that we are not under condemnation, celebrating the freedom of a love that perfectly casts out all fear. Or are we always and every day to feel that we have let him down? Is that the perfect love that casts out all fear? Or is that the imperfect love that casts out just some fear?
This morning I will go to church. I will be reminded again to sing about how wonderful God is; I will be reminded that I must say nice and right things about him, or else. I will also be reminded that I have fallen short, that repentance and contrition are due once again. That I still have things to work on, to improve. That God loves me unconditionally -- but.
St. Paul declares that there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. None! Nada. No condemnation at all. And yet there is so little freedom in the wake of such great news. Nearly every Christian I know worries, worries so much they weigh their words, their prayers, with diligence bordering on obsession. They speak watching their tongues, afraid to say the wrong things, afraid to upset God, afraid that he will take something away from them in order to teach them some hard lesson. Most of the time, it all seems like a great big bargain: "God, I will be obedient and grateful and prayerful and adoring, just don't mess up my plans, kill me before I have lose my virginity, take my well-paying job from me, harm my children or strike me with illness. Deal?"
And I notice that when I raise this issue about fear, about there being no condemnation for those who are in Christ, I am greeted with a rejoinder that leads inexorably to some anxiety about whether anyone is really certain about being IN Christ Jesus.
I have heard Christian teachers of prayer exhort their charges to "pray with precision," to pray with bold "accuracy." But why? What will happen if I don't? Something bad? Will God punish me if I fail to put the name of Jesus in every sentence I speak? Will I be in trouble if I forget to close my prayers with the "in-Jesus'-name-I-pray" coda? Will I be in trouble if I am not "specific"? Will I disappoint God again?
Indeed, if my prayers in the dark are not always signal flares over a vast silent sea, they are, sometimes, a question. What, O Lord, does it mean that "perfect love casts out all fear?" Where, O Lord, is this love, this place of fearlessness where love is not disappointed?
Admittedly this personal essay carries with it the potential cause of more anxiety, namely that we should be anxious about having God wrong. But that sort of anxiety would be silly. What is not silly is that there is a gospel that claims to have set us free, free from guilt, anxiety, fear; from having to weigh our words; from worries about whether God will smite us if we don't get everything right. Even the signal flares in the night are OK, no? Surely God does not shame us for being afraid. Does he?
If there is anything he might shame us for, however, is that as Christians we believe that fear is normative, that God must always be approached with language that appeases his short temper; that God's default emotion toward us is anger and that he is always looking for reasons to chasten. But the irony suggests paradox: God might be angry for our seeing him as fundamentally angry.
To rephrase another St. Paul passage, if God is against us, who can be for us? Sadly it seems I believe that God is against us. Unless, of course, I get everything just right.
©Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
8 comments:
I've often thought many of the things you express here and I've come to the conclusion that the reason Grace is so difficult to understand, especially for those who have asked for and received it, is that it is not a natural part of the universe. With Adam's sin came the necessity for retribution. Much as Newton's law about action/reaction, sin requires punishment.
That continues to be the case and we humans know it in our souls. Yet, we've heard about the miracle of grace as well. It seems so marvelous, but we, much like a child who finally opens his Christmas present and finds what he's always wanted, we cannot believe we actually have it.
Thus, to spend time worrying about whether God is going to take it back if we don't do everything, just so.
May God bless you this day and always, my friend.
Dear R.,
Thanks for the sweetly reasonable and honest comment. I appreciate it immensely.
Peace,
BG
Your thoughts are echoes of the Psalms.
Why do we return to a God who reminds us of our true place? Why can't we have a God who makes us feel good all the time about whatever we may do?
The psalmist cries, why?
Hey Bill- just checking in briefly from the Old World. I'd like to be able to tell you that atheists don't have existential worries, but unfortunately, we do too. I'm afraid that it's part and parcel of being human, no matter what one's belief system.
In any case, I wish you all the best. Life is an amazing gift, however you look at it. Cheers from summery Vienna, Scott (zilch)
You've struck a chord with me on this one, Bill. I've been thinking about basics of faith--the measure of success if you will. I hope to write about it soon. Thanks for sharing your thoughts--you've dared to put into words what many Christians, I believe, are suffering, yet without acknowledging it as such. May God bring you ever more comfort and joy, brother.
Dear Zilch,
I am glad to hear that all is well in Austria.
Yes, of course -- worry, anxiety, angst -- all assail the human soul. Who, really, is exempt? But do such feelings suggest some answer, some distant calm? Are they like a lighthouse, suggesting firm ground, a beachhead, a safe harbor?
Peace to you,
Bill Gnade
My dear Milton,
It is always a blessing to hear from you. Always. Thanks -- again.
Peace,
BG
Dear Pewster,
I do thank you for the reminder of the Psalter. It is a place rich with honesty; with being free to complain to God. Psalm 88 -- perhaps my favorite of all psalms -- just sits there, all bleak and grave. And yet it is filled with hope, for the Psalmist is speaking to the silent God Who listens; Who speaks in words that cannot be uttered. It is perhaps the frankest of all psalms; I believe if Jesus had penned a psalm during Holy Week, it would be Psalm 88.
In fact, I believe it IS the Holy Week psalm, a portentous glimpse into the agony of Gethsemane and the prayers from the Via Dolorosa.
Peace,
BG
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