“In a culture where the landscape is dotted with shrines to the Golden Arches and an assortment of Pizza Temples, fasting seems out of place, out of step with the times.”
- Richard Foster “The Celebration of Discipline”
Lent is historically a time for fasting. For some, it has become water-cooler conversation. “So, what are you giving up for Lent this year?” and then we come up with some little of inconvenience (like giving up dessert or soft drinks or TV, etc) so that we can say we are participating.
Truthfully, fasting is a forgotten art in Christ’s church. Perhaps we’re too busy to worry with it. Maybe it stirs up images of emaciated fanatics living the desert or that it just isn’t a very Presbyterian thing to do. Or maybe we’ve grown more attached to food (and the speed at which we get it) than any other culture in human history. As Foster notes, just look at how many restaurants you pass driving down a city road. Do you remember when going out to eat was a rare and special treat?
Of course, fasting is not primarily a test of our self-disciplined (for me, it is more often a painful reminder of how self-disciplined I’m not). Rather, fasting is a way to make space for God. By removing a meal or a distraction, time is made available that is given over to God. For example, if you choose to fast one lunch a week, the time normally spent at the lunch table is spent in prayer, scripture study, journal reflections about your walk with Christ or even devotional reading (i.e., C.S. Lewis).
Fasting is the way to clear some expectant room for God to land in our lives. Every time your stomach growls in hunger, you have an inescapable physical reminder of our hearts aching for God and you can take a quick moment to pray for faithfulness or to pray for others. The same applies when we fast something other than food: when we want the fasted thing, we allow that ache to turn us to God instead, who supplies all of our needs. And the more often we bump into God this way, the more we will find our lives oriented toward him. Because that is what Lent is really about: to turn away of old ways that keep us from following Christ and to fix our eyes on Jesus more than ever before. Fasting becomes that palpable reminder to do just that.
“Yet even now, says the LORD,
return to me with all your heart,
with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning;
rend your hearts and not your clothing.
Return to the LORD, your God,
for he is gracious and merciful,
slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love…” Joel 2:12-13
Showing posts with label time. Show all posts
Showing posts with label time. Show all posts
Friday, February 27, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Lost and Found
I've never really seen the show, except for that one time I caught a bit of it while channel surfing. I'm sure it's a very good show and that I would probably like it if I invested myself into it. It has happened with other well-written shows.
In the last two weeks, much has been lost in our church. Two dearly loved servants of the church; quiet servants making bold impacts in the lives around them, yet no longer in the kitchen to help pour tea at potlucks. Another dear woman lost her memory, confused and angry that her family would take her to receive the care she doesn't know she needs. Yet another losing her appetite due to cancer treatment. All of us, losing another moment... and another... and another... as time slowly plods (or races swiftly by).
The coin. The sheep. The son. Life is turned upside down to find that which is lost. But getting lost can be so much better. Getting lost in a television show, in one's own political opinions, in the heat of the moment, are all much better than being challenged to do what is right or be a good steward or serve someone other than ourselves.
But being found means someone bothered to do the looking. Being found means we're reinvested, part of the flock again, a restored child that has to go back to doing the chores. The object in question (time, coin, sheep, son, et al.) must have some value to the Finder.
What if we too become finders, recovering lost time, finding time to rescue dying relationships, finding a space to meet God daily, finding the courage to run out to greet grace, finding the resolve to restore a sense of purpose to waking-up every morning. Our lives can be spent either way: either in losing or in finding. And only one of them leads to rejoicing.
So he told them this parable: "Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it? When he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices. And when he comes home, he calls together his friends and neighbors, saying to them, 'Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.' Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.
Or what woman having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it? When she has found it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, 'Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.' Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents."
Then Jesus said, "There was a man who had two sons. 12 The younger of them said to his father, 'Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.' So he divided his property between them. A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and traveled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living.... But when he came to himself he said, 'How many of my father's hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands." ' So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him....."
Luke 15:3-21
In the last two weeks, much has been lost in our church. Two dearly loved servants of the church; quiet servants making bold impacts in the lives around them, yet no longer in the kitchen to help pour tea at potlucks. Another dear woman lost her memory, confused and angry that her family would take her to receive the care she doesn't know she needs. Yet another losing her appetite due to cancer treatment. All of us, losing another moment... and another... and another... as time slowly plods (or races swiftly by).
The coin. The sheep. The son. Life is turned upside down to find that which is lost. But getting lost can be so much better. Getting lost in a television show, in one's own political opinions, in the heat of the moment, are all much better than being challenged to do what is right or be a good steward or serve someone other than ourselves.
But being found means someone bothered to do the looking. Being found means we're reinvested, part of the flock again, a restored child that has to go back to doing the chores. The object in question (time, coin, sheep, son, et al.) must have some value to the Finder.
What if we too become finders, recovering lost time, finding time to rescue dying relationships, finding a space to meet God daily, finding the courage to run out to greet grace, finding the resolve to restore a sense of purpose to waking-up every morning. Our lives can be spent either way: either in losing or in finding. And only one of them leads to rejoicing.
________________________________
So he told them this parable: "Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it? When he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices. And when he comes home, he calls together his friends and neighbors, saying to them, 'Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.' Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.
Or what woman having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it? When she has found it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, 'Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.' Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents."
Then Jesus said, "There was a man who had two sons. 12 The younger of them said to his father, 'Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.' So he divided his property between them. A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and traveled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living.... But when he came to himself he said, 'How many of my father's hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands." ' So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him....."
Luke 15:3-21
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Blocked Out
I made a big mistake. Recently, I downloaded the highly addictive game, "Tetris", onto my cellphone. Seeing as I have never shown compulsive behavior with any other video game, I figured I would write about it now.
In my leg-numbing sessions of wasted time playing it, I've come to realize that life is very much like Tetris.
It is a game that you can never win. You begin with the shapes descending laughably slow, slotting the chunks neatly into form-fitted spaces. You feel a subtle sense of mastery in this small success. The pace picks up. You can still handle all the pieces and you feel good about how well you're doing but you develop a knot of tension between your shoulders. Now the blocks are sliding down like raindrops on a window and the intensity increases. You make a mistake here and there, causing some empty pockets that keep you from keeping up, but you manage to stay afloat despite the gnawing sense of inevitability. Now they're streaking down like comets and suddenly things are piling up haphazardly. The pieces shoot down faster still as you hopelessly watch the blocks fill up the screen until you fall apart altogether. The game wins again. As it always does.
And yet this "game" remains one of the most addictive and timeless diversions ever (and believe me, for a video game to have any notoriety that lasts more than several months, much less two decades, is an accomplishment). Despite inevitable defeat, you hit start and go again. And again. And again. Like the fly slinging his body into the screen, desperate for freedom.
With time as one of our most precious gifts to steward, why spend it practicing futility? When wanting a diversion from the pressure of "real life" (what an oxymoron: what most people call "real life" is neither real nor life), why do we hand over the 20-40 minutes to something that is not real? You might pat yourself on the back for getting farther. But then you drag your mind out of the game, lift up your eyes and look around the room at a world that cares nothing for the numbers on the screen. And it is definitely not changed or made beautiful, nor does it know God more because you managed to push certain buttons in a certain sequence into a certain end.
The game is the "world". We pick it up every morning to play by the game's rules: rules that favor the house and ensures that no matter what, we do not win, nor, in the end, do we matter. And as we lower our attention into the well to dangle in darkness, we are unable to notice the real world shining above us, seemingly far away: the reality of God and His Kingdom that does not keep score by the rules of the game or place value on how high our scores may seem.
In my leg-numbing sessions of wasted time playing it, I've come to realize that life is very much like Tetris.
It is a game that you can never win. You begin with the shapes descending laughably slow, slotting the chunks neatly into form-fitted spaces. You feel a subtle sense of mastery in this small success. The pace picks up. You can still handle all the pieces and you feel good about how well you're doing but you develop a knot of tension between your shoulders. Now the blocks are sliding down like raindrops on a window and the intensity increases. You make a mistake here and there, causing some empty pockets that keep you from keeping up, but you manage to stay afloat despite the gnawing sense of inevitability. Now they're streaking down like comets and suddenly things are piling up haphazardly. The pieces shoot down faster still as you hopelessly watch the blocks fill up the screen until you fall apart altogether. The game wins again. As it always does.
And yet this "game" remains one of the most addictive and timeless diversions ever (and believe me, for a video game to have any notoriety that lasts more than several months, much less two decades, is an accomplishment). Despite inevitable defeat, you hit start and go again. And again. And again. Like the fly slinging his body into the screen, desperate for freedom.
With time as one of our most precious gifts to steward, why spend it practicing futility? When wanting a diversion from the pressure of "real life" (what an oxymoron: what most people call "real life" is neither real nor life), why do we hand over the 20-40 minutes to something that is not real? You might pat yourself on the back for getting farther. But then you drag your mind out of the game, lift up your eyes and look around the room at a world that cares nothing for the numbers on the screen. And it is definitely not changed or made beautiful, nor does it know God more because you managed to push certain buttons in a certain sequence into a certain end.
The game is the "world". We pick it up every morning to play by the game's rules: rules that favor the house and ensures that no matter what, we do not win, nor, in the end, do we matter. And as we lower our attention into the well to dangle in darkness, we are unable to notice the real world shining above us, seemingly far away: the reality of God and His Kingdom that does not keep score by the rules of the game or place value on how high our scores may seem.
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