Resting and Rising

Note: I intended to post this last week, but just remembered that I never did. I wanted to keep editing it—it didn’t feel…what’s the word…perfect yet. You’ll see why that is particularly hilarious after you finish reading.

Last Sunday afternoon, I made my first foray into the bread-baking world. I felt instinctively that bread dough, like an animal, can sense your anxiety. And since I wanted my bread to be calm, fluffy and happy, I took some deep breaths as I began and assured myself (and the dough-to-be) that all would be well.

The first lesson I learned about bread-making is that it takes a lot of time. There’s no getting around that. It involves several rounds of resting, kneading and rising…and those mini-seasons simply can’t be rushed. So during the first dough rise, I took a walk to the park. As evening exchanged places with day, I breathed in the warm, flowering air and delighted in all the people walking, shuffling, and toddling about me. On my way back I even treated myself to a purchase in faith: a new jar of raspberry preserves. Sure enough, I arrived home and pulled a bowl brimming with pillowy dough from the oven. Huzzah! I did a little jig and the world felt right.

Then, I made a mistake. A little one….but big enough to squelch my jigging spirits. I punched the dough down. I thought I remembered somewhere that you’re supposed to do that. Unfortunately, not for this recipe. I realized this about 10 minutes later when the dough was sort of flat and unwilling to be shaped into loaves. Arrrg. I dumped the dough back in the bowl and, scowling, proceeded to eat a bunch of chocolate covered almonds.

After the regrettable almond episode, I calmed down a bit and decided that potentially awkward bread was better than none at all, so I went back and begrudgingly re-shaped the loaves. As I let them rise for a second time, I remembered my initial bread dough-senses-your-anxiety theory and forced myself to listen to music and do some yoga. At one point, a familiar chorus struck me anew:

“Lord you are perfect, in all of Your ways

You're not easily angered, You make no mistakes

No, nothing can stop You...Nothing can stand in Your way”

And that was when I realized. The LORD is perfect. Not me. Obviously, I’d forgotten about that (and not just with the bread loaves, but a lot of things recently).

Oswald Chambers says: “I have the responsibility of keeping my spirit in agreement with His Spirit, and by degrees Jesus lifts me up to where He lived- in perfect consecration to His Father’s will.” Revelation: I’m not created to aim for my own perfection— I’m created to agree with His perfection. Essentially, I can’t serve both God and perfection.

It’s an old problem for me but I’m realizing anew just how deep the roots have dug in there. Clearly, I need help. And as much as I resist it, part of the solution is found in worship and rest….when I do that He changes my perspective and I want to agree with Him. It takes TIME. There’s no getting around that. And it requires the kind of rest that allows Christ to raise me again to new life.

So as I slathered some jam onto a warm slice of whole wheat bread later that night (yeah…after all that, it turned out just fine), I sighed….reluctantly thankful for this unexpected lesson on the necessary imperfection of resting…and rising. 

In spite of the wonders

Today I wandered back to an old post from this blog to find a quote for a friend, and as I read through my thoughts from last year, I realized how many things, both within and without, have changed. I have grown in my ability to see light and beauty, to daringly plop my ankles into water and splash about in a hope-driven life. And yet, I am also struck by how many of last year's questions still remain, unwilling smudges I try determinedly to scrub out.

Take this morning, for example, when Psalm 78 stuck in my spirit like a chip in the windpipe. I believe I literally coughed at it. How dare the scriptures so baldly bare my soul to itself?

"They forgot what he had done,
   the wonders he had shown them....
18 They willfully put God to the test
   by demanding the food they craved.
19 They spoke against God;
   they said, “Can God really
   spread a table in the wilderness?
20 True, he struck the rock,
   and water gushed out,
   streams flowed abundantly,
but can he also give us bread?”

It was like a page torn from my thoughts. Thoughts I didn't even know I'd had. On the surface I've noticed a recent tiredness, body and bone and spirit tiredness. But underneath that surface….apparently….is my old friend, Unbelief. "In spite of his wonders, they did not believe" (78:32). I'm thankful for what has changed in the past year, I really am. But I still wrestle with this God who breaks open rock and pours water into my wide-mouthed need. I raise one hand in praise of his wonders while the other holds a little canteen of self-preservation close to my chest...just in case He runs out.

Once again, the Israelites and I are on the same page. "But can he give us bread?" I mean, sure, He can provide me with beyond-belief-gifts and rock-water-joy and deep-creased-change....but can he also give me bread? Essentially, can he sustain me? I'm content now, but what if I feel strangled again by loneliness, swallowed by depression, smothered by this city? What if I run out, dry up, and curl in? What if I fail? I am helplessly prone to wander away from trust in this God of Glories.

Last Thursday night, during lectio divina with my house church, we listened to the passage about the woman with a disabling spirit in Luke 13. Read the whole thing if you can. Here's a snatch:

11 And behold, there was a woman who had had a disabling spirit for eighteen years. She was bent over and could not fully straighten herself. 12 When Jesus saw her, he called her over and said to her, “Woman, you are freed from your disability.” 13 And he reach out and touched her, and immediately she was made straight, and she glorified God.

I'd been meditating on the phrase: "she could not fully straighten herself." The person leading prompted us to ask God: Who should I become in light of this? So I asked. Actually, I prayed, somewhat tongue-in-cheek, 'So God, are you asking me to become someone who can straighten herself out?' (Don't ask God questions like that. He'll answer you). And I just knew His response in my spirit. No, He replied. I'm asking you to let me touch you.

And so…..that's what I'm working on today, friends….and for the remainder of this Lent. Believing that God is enough. Remembering the rocks he's opened and trusting in Him to sustain me still. Admitting my inability to straighten myself out. And learning to let myself be touched.