Someone asked me a while back for advice for some scripture passages that they might read with their spouse at night in order to draw closer to God in their marriage and also to one another. This person confessed their previous efforts left them wanting for something more and frustratingly not closer to one another.
As a younger man, I would use quiet mornings to read Scripture and journal about what I would find there. For months, this was a rich exercise. I would rise from the table, feeling like my day had perspective; as if I'd oriented myself to the map and was now ready to begin exploring. Lately, having lost that particular discipline, I feel hungry inside.
Hunger is not a bad thing in itself, really (at least, living in a culture where food is not so difficult to come by). A stomach's growl is our body's very normal way of letting us know it needs more fuel. But certainly, hunger is meant to be paid attention to and reveals an immediate need that requires attention sooner rather than later.
What are we hungering for, then? When our attempts to approach God in prayer, or to know God more through studying Scripture, end with only more longing, what are we missing?
Have we become so existential that only what we experience in the here-and-now has value to us? Maybe we've lost our ability to look at the horizon, to see where our praying and Scripture reading playing into the larger picture of who God is and where our lives fit into the cosmos; the old forest vs. trees problem. Maybe we've lost appreciation for the things that only come with time and perseverance.
"And not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces perseverance, and perseverance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us." ~ Romans 5:3-5
Or maybe we are too busy to think about "big things." It's become a litany of the modern day, when someone asks, "How's it going?" quite often, "busy" is one of the words that leaps to our tongues. And if we're not saying it, we're probably feeling it as this polite intrusion is keeping us from getting things done. Maybe we're just too distracted, our brains too cluttered with boxes of obligations to make space for big ideas or a bigger God. And if so, maybe we're so adept at squeezing God into our schedules that the moment we allow more space for it, we're scared at just how much space God can fill; so much bigger than any of the other boxes we shuffled around; definitely much bigger than we could lift or fit neatly into a space some where.
We can be such emotional pack-rats, grabbing hold to everything that seems to have meaning and cramming it into our attics, even though we'll forget it is there after a while, like dusty boxes full of things we'll never use but that takes up space nonetheless.
JP Moreland articulated once that although we have more stuff, more security, more food than any culture in existence has ever had, we are less happy than we've ever been. He argues that it is because in the last 3-4 decades, humanity (Western Civilization specifically) has sought to be happy instead of seeking "a life of virtue." The distinction is that we've equated virtues with ice cream: that we use the same word for foods we like and for what Christ did on the cross (i.e., "I love ice cream" and "God so loved the world...") He says that for centuries, through many cultures, people have pursued a life of virtue over one bent on being happy, and have found a level of contentment, even in the midst of adversity, that seems illusive to many today.
Is that the problem? Are we so bent on being happy, entertained and dazzled, in other words, self-absorbed, that we've forgotten what it is to be part of something bigger than ourselves? Is our stagnation with prayer and Scripture a result of trying to make our own universe, where we shuffle and arrange things around us, keeping the things that give us a moment of pleasure closer and pushing back the uncomfortable baggage we'd really rather not bring to the light of day. Doing that instead of finding the steady joy that comes when we live, not for ourselves, but for something bigger?
People are hungry for answers to questions about God, about why bad things happen, about why they are miserable, or at least, unaccountably discontent. And for some reason, we've all decided we won't be happy until there are answers that will attend to us, like butlers, and bring order to things for us. And until then, we all seem content with misery instead of the agonizing task of crucifying our self-orbiting universe and entrusting ourselves to something bigger; of surrendering our control (which is a pleasant-enough myth) to the One who is life and peace Himself.
It seems to me that seeking peace instead of happiness is more than just avoiding materialism. It's more than rearranging furniture but more like tearing out walls and remodeling altogether. Not just re-ordering but a complete reshaping. Of course, demolition is both messy and dangerous work.
In a recent Nooma video, Rob Bell talks about how often we think of God as being the One who sits way off in the distance up there, and every now and again drops down to visit, to help "blessed" people find parking spaces and bargains at the mall. In the quest to discover what God is like, he offers that perhaps God is more like a song that plays everywhere and in every person; that knowing God is not a matter of knowing the song but being in tune. I bit down on another hook when I listened to him talk about this, tears threatening to break over the wall of my eyelids. It seems to me that being in tune has less to do with understanding musical theory and more about having the courage to play.
Maybe if we all just played more, we wouldn't fret so much about "experiencing God" or finding answers.
We can be such emotional pack-rats, grabbing hold to everything that seems to have meaning and cramming it into our attics, even though we'll forget it is there after a while, like dusty boxes full of things we'll never use but that takes up space nonetheless.
JP Moreland articulated once that although we have more stuff, more security, more food than any culture in existence has ever had, we are less happy than we've ever been. He argues that it is because in the last 3-4 decades, humanity (Western Civilization specifically) has sought to be happy instead of seeking "a life of virtue." The distinction is that we've equated virtues with ice cream: that we use the same word for foods we like and for what Christ did on the cross (i.e., "I love ice cream" and "God so loved the world...") He says that for centuries, through many cultures, people have pursued a life of virtue over one bent on being happy, and have found a level of contentment, even in the midst of adversity, that seems illusive to many today.
Is that the problem? Are we so bent on being happy, entertained and dazzled, in other words, self-absorbed, that we've forgotten what it is to be part of something bigger than ourselves? Is our stagnation with prayer and Scripture a result of trying to make our own universe, where we shuffle and arrange things around us, keeping the things that give us a moment of pleasure closer and pushing back the uncomfortable baggage we'd really rather not bring to the light of day. Doing that instead of finding the steady joy that comes when we live, not for ourselves, but for something bigger?
People are hungry for answers to questions about God, about why bad things happen, about why they are miserable, or at least, unaccountably discontent. And for some reason, we've all decided we won't be happy until there are answers that will attend to us, like butlers, and bring order to things for us. And until then, we all seem content with misery instead of the agonizing task of crucifying our self-orbiting universe and entrusting ourselves to something bigger; of surrendering our control (which is a pleasant-enough myth) to the One who is life and peace Himself.
It seems to me that seeking peace instead of happiness is more than just avoiding materialism. It's more than rearranging furniture but more like tearing out walls and remodeling altogether. Not just re-ordering but a complete reshaping. Of course, demolition is both messy and dangerous work.
In a recent Nooma video, Rob Bell talks about how often we think of God as being the One who sits way off in the distance up there, and every now and again drops down to visit, to help "blessed" people find parking spaces and bargains at the mall. In the quest to discover what God is like, he offers that perhaps God is more like a song that plays everywhere and in every person; that knowing God is not a matter of knowing the song but being in tune. I bit down on another hook when I listened to him talk about this, tears threatening to break over the wall of my eyelids. It seems to me that being in tune has less to do with understanding musical theory and more about having the courage to play.
Maybe if we all just played more, we wouldn't fret so much about "experiencing God" or finding answers.
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