The Treasure

One of my favorite pictures of the lowest place:

“The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and covered up. Then in his joy he goes and sells all he has and buys that field.” (Matthew 13:44)

The man finds a treasure hidden in a field. He’s walking through someone else’s field and stumbles upon it. He can’t take the treasure, because the field belongs to someone else. What if that person were to claim ownership? He sees the treasure, but it’s not his. Not yet.

The man has an idea. He covers up the treasure again so no one else will find it. Then he goes home and sells everything he has. He’s getting rid of his house, his clothes, his livestock if he has any. He’s selling things for cheap, trying to get together a lump some of cash as fast as possible. And as his possessions are going, he’s feeling more and more excited. “Get it out of here,” he’s thinking. “Get rid of it all! The faster it goes, the faster I can buy the field and claim the treasure!”

To me, this story stands in direct contrast to another picture, in another Gospel. Mark tells about a rich young ruler who comes to Jesus asking for eternal life. They talk for a little, and then:

“Jesus, looking at him, loved him, and said to him, ‘You lack one thing: go, sell all that you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me.” (Mark 17:21)

How did the rich young ruler respond?

“Disheartened by the saying, he went away sorrowful, for he had great possessions.” (Mark 17:22)

Two people, two opposite reactions. The first man joyfully sells all he has. He can’t get rid of it fast enough. The rich young ruler simply thinks about selling his possessions, and he goes away sorrowful.

At any given moment in time, there is a treasure right in front of me. It’s waiting for me to reach out and take it. The treasure is: the love of God. It’s a priceless treasure, all around me at all times.

At any given moment, there are various things that prevent me from resting in the pure love of God. God loves me, but I’m planning an event, and I’m worried about whether or not it will go well. God loves me, but a friend of mine might be upset with me, and I can’t rest because I need them to be ok. God loves me, but the kids won’t go to sleep, and they’re driving me crazy, and I really need time to myself.

So the treasure lies hidden in the field.

But there are certain moments when I reach the breaking point. Moments where I give up control and admit that I need God. Moments when the pain is too much, or all my plans are falling apart, or I feel like I’ve failed as a mom–and then, for an oh-so-brief window, all of a sudden nothing else is as important as hearing the voice of God.

It feels like the man who found the treasure, because in that moment, I’m getting rid of all I have. Worries? Plans? Guilt? Personal space? Doesn’t matter. Those things can wait. Get them out of here. Right here, right now, for at least 30 seconds, I’m going to give my full attention to God, no holds barred, letting myself be completely present to him.

Then, God speaks. I hear him. His love is real. I never want to leave.

God’s love brings incomparable joy. But part of it, at least a small part of the joy, comes from the…power? ability? to get rid of everything else. Like ruthlessly going through your house and throwing away whole shelves of junk. Clearing out space. Getting free so the real life has room to happen.

Most of the time, I’m the rich young ruler. God’s love calls me, but I go away sad, because I can’t give up the things I’m holding onto, not even for a moment. But then, it only takes a moment to tap into eternity. And those moments when I find the treasure, when I sell everything, when I buy the field and claim it for my own–those moments add up, slowly, over time. And so I go, day by day, waiting for them.

Rejoice

Writing about the lowest place can start to feel a little masochistic after a while. All these topics about sacrifice, turning the other cheek, humility, silence. I look back on the posts, and I worry that I sound like a flagellant.

But I’d be the first to admit: I’m not looking for the lowest place out of some pure, self-sacrificing motive. Jesus says to sit at the lowest place at the banquet so that the host will come and ask you to rise higher. Humble yourself before the Lord, and he will exalt you. If you lose your life for Jesus’ sake, you’re really saving it in the long run. It’s not that different from self-preservation, really, it’s just playing the long game.

Because the goal is freedom! The goal is life and love and abundance! The goal is everything you’ve ever wanted. It’s just a question of HOW to get there. WHICH ROUTE to take: The one going up? Or the one going down? There’s only one way to the treasure.

The way up says: let’s make my life better. Let’s find the best job I can, one that will make me happy. Let’s work out issues in my relationships so I can interact with my friends and family in a healthy way. Let’s find a good work-life balance, and exercise and eat a clean diet so I can live well.

It all sounds great. The only problem with the way up is: if there are any setbacks, I can’t be happy.

I’m doing after school tutoring once a week. And I enjoy it. The kids I work with are great, and I choose curriculum that I like. But I ask myself every week: “What am I doing? Am I making a difference? Is this worth the time spent? Couldn’t I get out and find something I enjoy even more?”

Whenever I ask the question, “Could I be enjoying myself more,” it’s always downhill from there. Because all of a sudden, the amount I’m enjoying myself now is not enough. And I start thinking about all the different careers that I could have if I put my mind to it, and all the difference I could make and how it would be better money and more fun…

That’s the trap of the upward trajectory: you’re not actually happy until you’ve ARRIVED.

And it’s the smallest things, too, that keep you from arriving. “Everything in my life is great right now, except I just don’t like this tutoring job.” Or: “Yeah, I’m totally happy. I just wish my kid would eat more vegetables.” It’s like I can’t just let go and BE, because there’s this one thing that isn’t exactly the way I want it.

But what about the way down? Is happiness possible in the lowest place? Auden thinks so. Here, from one of my favorites:

Beloved, we are always in the wrong,
Handling so clumsily our stupid lives,
Suffering too little or too long,
Too careful even in our selfish loves:
The decorative manias we obey
Die in grimaces round us every day,
Yet through their tohu-bohu comes a voice
Which utters an absurd command–Rejoice.

– “In Sickness and in Health,” W. H. Auden

I hate being wrong. Hate it, hate it, hate it. Being wrong, even about something small, is one of those things that niggles at my brain. I have this crazy paranoia sometimes: “Well, everything seems good now. But at any moment, I could find out that I’m doing something terribly wrong, and I didn’t even know.” That seems like one of the worst things ever to me, to have it suddenly revealed that, in spite of all my efforts, in spite of all my best intentions, while I was completely oblivious to it: I was wrong.

That’s why this poem is so freeing to me. Auden captures something beautiful here: “For all have sinned, and fall short of the glory of God.” I’m ALWAYS in the wrong! Even when I’m at my most “right,” I’m wrong! Being wrong is not some bombshell waiting to drop on me when I’m least suspecting it. Being wrong starts at Point A, ends at Point B, and includes all the distance in between.

Wrong, clumsy, stupid, self-absorbed, playing the martyr, cautious, neurotic: now, rejoice!

“For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus.” (Rom. 3:23). The beauty of the lowest place is: joy starts now. I’m not waiting to get this one thing in order, and then everything will be perfect and I will be satisfied and happy. Instead, life’s a mess. I’m an explosion. There’s nowhere to go from here. Let’s sit in the pile of s*** and party–because I’m justified. I’m redeemed.

And once I know how to rejoice in the lowest place, then what could possibly stop my joy? Nothing!

Auden

I had an easy enough time dying to my potential as a piano player because I hated practicing. So my senior year of high school I finally quit taking lessons (although is that what it really means to die like a grain of wheat? We’ll keep thinking about that). But in college, I discovered another skill that I really wanted to pursue: Poetry.

My junior year I declared as an English major at Wheaton College, and I started trying, REALLY trying, to write poetry. I went to poetry readings whenever published poets visited the school. In my classes I studied Homer, Dante, John Donne, George Herbert. I went through a Haiku phase, where I spent pages and pages copying the same poem over and over, changing a syllable here, changing a word there, trying to hear the difference it made, and why was one way of saying better than another?

I took a creative writing class. I blogged, kept notebooks. I wanted to be good. I wanted to be great. I wanted to write like T. S. Eliot or Emily Dickinson. I wanted to write something true and beautiful and wold-shattering. (I would get hugely frustrated and sad that I didn’t have the talent I wanted).

And then I came across W. H. Auden.

Auden was one of the great influential poets of the twentieth century. By age 20, at the beginning of World War I, he was already a national phenomenon in Britain. The term “Audenesque” was tossed around in literary circles. His poems helped shape the entire national consciousness regarding the war effort.

The man was a poetic genius: any rhyme-scheme, any rhythm, he could trot out the lines, no problem. He would choose the most difficult and constricting poetic forms and come out with these beautiful stanzas that sounded completely natural and gorgeous.

He was famous, he was rich (as poets go), he was changing the world. And then: around age 40, he became a Christian.

It was completely unexpected. Auden was a practicing homosexual. He lived a bohemian lifestyle. At the time he was in a communal house with a group of artists. And the housemates started realizing: Sunday mornings, good ol’ Wystan would ordinarily sleep in until noon. But the past month he kept disappearing and nobody knew where he was going. Turns out he was going to church.

Knowing Jesus changed Auden as a person, definitely. But the thing that struck me, because this doesn’t happen for everybody: knowing Jesus also changed him as a professional.

After his conversion, Auden went through his old poems and rewrote his previously published work. He took some of his most famous poems and deleted the punchlines, because he said they were a lie.

He completely changed his poetic style: he no longer wrote mass-appeal poetry that would shape the entire national consciousness. Instead, he wrote difficult and long poetry that no one could understand, often on religious themes. Or he wrote lyrics to operas. Or he wrote personal poetry, like poems dedicated to couples on their wedding day.

All the critics of his time (although technically the jury’s still out, and history will have the last word) declared that the new, Christian Auden was just a WORSE poet than the old secular Auden.

My professor at Wheaton, Dr. Alan Jacobs, taught us all the above information and emphasized how intentional this was for Auden. How, for him, converting to Christianity totally changed his ethics as a poet. He no longer gave himself free reign to pursue the highest reaches of his art. Instead, he was constantly filtering himself through a new lens: how was his art serving people the way Jesus served?

Auden’s poetry got really quirky in his later years. He wrote about quantum mechanics. He wrote joke poetry. He wrote a poem where each section was about a different room in his house (including the toilet), and dedicated the different sections to different friends. He wasn’t taking himself, or poetry, seriously anymore. It wasn’t this grand project that would change the world and save culture from falling off the cliff. It was fun.

To me this is a fascinating example of a man who had reached the highest place, and willingly, gladly, exchanged it to search for the way to the lowest. If you’ve read My Name is Asher Lev, Auden’s journey is essentially the opposite. Asher was coached and disciplined and urged to sacrifice his religion in order to make great art. Auden sacrificed his greatness as a poet so he could remain true to his religion.

At the time, this encounter with Auden was one of the circumstances that led me to give up poetry. There were other factors, too, like tree branches, and the movie Speed Racer (the live action version). But that’s another story for another time. Short version was: I stopped trying to become a better poet.

I can’t say that I was wasting all this potential, because I really never had the talent to make it where I wanted to go. But for me, it was meaningful that I stopped trying. I’ve still written now and then, for fun, over the years. And sometimes when I come up with something I like, I start daydreaming again about being a rich and famous poet (hah!). But I never write in the same way as I did that year. Never with ambition.

It was so helpful for me to see someone great step away from their greatness for the sake of Jesus. For the sake of the truth. And because of Auden, I think I, to some extent, understand what it looks like to let go of my “potential.” To let go of an upward trajectory in something I care about.

But the thing I still don’t understand is: what does it mean to actually go down? What does it mean to die, like the grain of wheat dies? I think about this in my ministry, in parenting, in my relationships, in my work. I have the feeling like I’m stuck in the middle between these two forces, the one pushing me up, and the one pulling me down. Which means I essentially go nowhere. Because it’s scary, you know? It’s scary to go all the way.

Potential

When I was young, a friend of the family came over and heard me play the piano. And he told me, “You have such a musical gift. You have to make the most of it!” It wasn’t just the ordinary, “Oh, good job, keep on going,” kind of a comment. This person was vehement that it would be essentially a crime if I didn’t continue to pursue music, keep practicing, and live up to my potential.

Do you get that sense from the world? If you’re good at something, you are morally obligated to develop that skill. You owe it to yourself. You owe it to the world. You have to get better.

Problem was, I hated practicing piano. I liked being good at piano. Hated practicing. In high school I was pretty tortured by this idea, that I was betraying my gift because I was too lazy to practice. Not only that, I had spent so many years learning piano, it felt like a waste of all those years as well to give it up.

I felt a similar pressure at school. I was good at piano, but I was GREAT at school. I knew how to give each teacher exactly what they wanted. I knew how to get the A. And it was a given in my mind: if I could, then I must.

This is what I mean by: the world hates the lowest place. Everything trajectory must point upward. Over time, if I’m not improving, then I’m wasting.

In Jesus’ ministry, there is a fascinating turning point. He lives as a traveling preacher/miracle worker for three years. He does many amazing signs, culminating in the resurrection of Lazarus, a man dead three days.

This is a very public miracle. Jesus was famous before that; afterward, he’s a superstar. When he rides into Jerusalem, crowds and crowds of people come out to meet him, throw palms at his feet, and call him the king.

Even his enemies essentially give up hope at this point:

“So the Pharisees said to one another, ‘You see that you are gaining nothing. Look, the world has gone after him.'” (John 12:19)

This should have been Jesus’ moment! He had the whole country within his grasp! He could have been king!

And yet the very next thing he says to his disciples is this:

“The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified.” (John 12:23)–Sounds good, sounds like he’s going to step up, take the throne, live up to his potential. And then he makes a 180:

“Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies it bears much fruit.” (John 12:24)

And then he spends a few days at the temple, he talks to his disciples for a long time in the upper room, he gets arrested, and dies.

Seems like such a waste of potential. He could have had such an impact on the world. He could have freed his people from the Romans. He could have healed thousands more. He could have had thirty more years of impactful ministry. And he throws it all away to go die.

But we’re on the other side of history, we know the truth: that in dying, Jesus changed the world more fully and completely than anything he could have possibly done while he was alive.

And Jesus knew it too. He said, “UNLESS a grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies it bears much fruit.” For the grain of wheat, dying was the very thing that allowed it to fulfill its true potential, to grow into a wheat plant.

For Jesus, dying was the very thing that allowed him to fulfill his true potential as savior of the world.

What does this mean for me, for you? What potential do you have in this world? What potential do you have for eternity?

I have all this restless desire inside of me. I want to do more, be more, have more of an impact. But I can’t get around it: if I’m going to really believe Jesus, then the road to truly fulfilling my potential lies through the lowest place.

Lent, Part 4: Confession

The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately sick; who can understand it? “I the Lord search the heart and test the mind, to give every man according to his ways, according to the fruit of his deeds.”
– Jeremiah 17:9

We know the two masters now. First, there’s my Self, the Worst Boss Ever. My Self is a slave driver, whipping me to work harder, punishing me when I fail, complaining and arguing, puffed up with her own importance.

And then there’s the Good Master, always patient, always forgiving, who tells me the truth about my flaws, but gently. The Good Master is humble and hopeful, and he looks out for my best interests even above his own.

I know which master I would rather serve. But how? How do I escape the tyranny of my Self? Isn’t she always there with me? It’s not like I can get away from her. Won’t she always threaten and punish me if I don’t give her what she wants?

Another practice of Lent, besides self-denial, is confession. Acknowledging my sin, facing my weakness, humbling myself before God and bringing him all the evil of my heart.

Why does the church emphasize confession during this season? It seems like a whole month and a half of just beating myself up: saying how terrible I am, not giving myself things that I enjoy–these sound like things that the Worst Boss Ever would do. What is the Good Master up to when he leads us to do these things?

When I was in college, I had to write a paper on Augustine’s Confessions. I chose to focus on the fundamental question behind the premise of the book: What is confession? What exactly did Augustine think he was doing, writing these hundreds of pages of his Confessions? What was the activity that he was engaged in before God? And how was he teaching us to relate to God?

After lots of reading and underlining and highlighting and starring, I came to a pretty simple conclusion, but one that had profound implications for my faith. I argued in my paper that Augustine believed confession was: agreeing with God about the state of his own heart.

Augustine went many places with his book as he wrote it. He told a story about stealing pears when he was young. He told about his education, about his sexual exploits, about his relationship with his parents. He told about hearing the Bible taught for the first time and about his eventual conversion.

But in all those accounts, the crucial act that he performed in writing his story was to offer up the intentions and motivations of his heart and agree with God about what they were.

Too narrow is the house of my soul for you to enter into it: let it be enlarged by you. It lies in ruins; build it up again. I confess and I know that it contains things that offend your eyes. Yet who will cleanse it? Or upon what other than you shall I call? “From my secret sins cleanse me, O Lord, and from those of others spare your servant.”

I believe, and therefore I speak out. Lord, all this you know. Have I not accused myself to you, my God, of my sins, and have you not forgiven the iniquity of my heart? I do not contend in judgment with you who are truth itself. I do not deceive myself, lest my iniquity lie to itself. Therefore, I do not contend in judgment with you, for “if you, O Lord, will mark iniquities: Lord, who shall stand it?”

– Confessions, Book 1, Ch. 6

“I do not contend in judgment with you.” This was crucial in Augustine’s mind: to let God judge his heart. To agree with God’s judgment upon his heart. To say, “my heart contains things that offend your eyes.”

Because after the offense comes the cleansing. After the accusation comes forgiveness.

How does this all relate? What does any of this have to do with the two masters?

It relates because I believe that confession is our primary way of shifting our allegiance from one master to another.

To agree with God’s judgment on my heart: that is the ultimate betrayal of my Self. That is the rebellion. To strip off all the achievements that my Self has been clinging onto and instead say, “My heart is desperately sick. All the good things I’ve achieved–those are just a facade. My true motives were weak and dirty and evil, and they fall so short of the glory God made me for.”

My Self hates confession. She hates the process of tearing down all the cloud castles we’ve worked so hard to build together. She’ll resist it for all she’s worth.

But this is how I serve the Good Master: by agreeing with him. By calling my sin what he calls it. By opening the house of my soul and bringing all of its dirtiness out into the light.

And this is the secret of confession: if I submit to God’s judgment of my sin and agree that what He says about my heart is true, simply because He says it, then yes, I feel judgment for my sin. But then I also submit just as fully to God’s forgiveness of my sin. If I agree with what the Good Master says about my deceitful, wicked heart, then I also receive the benefit of agreeing with him when he pronounces me clean.

This is the purpose of confession. Not to wallow in my sin; not to beat myself up about how evil I am; but to free me from my sin. To embrace forgiveness that comes simply from God’s word, not from anything that I do. I confess, and poof! I’m made clean.

If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.
– 1 John 1:9

My Self loves to parade around her achievements so she can feel good. And it might be nice in the moment to bask in the glory of doing something, of having something to point to. But my Self is never satisfied. After one thing is done, she’s always asking for the next thing. And when I make mistakes, she never forgives, not until I earn my way back, dig myself out of the hole.

I prefer the Good Master. He made me by the word of his mouth, and he sustains me in the same way. His word pierces my heart to reveal my sin, but his word washes me clean and makes me new in righteousness. In all of it, it’s his word that does it–the only thing I do is agree with what he says.

Lent, Part 3: The Good Master

No one can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other.
– Matthew 6:24

Before I had kids, my Self and I didn’t get in very many arguments. I could basically satisfy most of its wants and needs. My life has been pretty easy, as lives go. And God filled in the gaps where I had difficulties here and there.

But after kids, I was in constant struggle with my Self. Because for basically the first time in my life, my Self was no longer my only master. Now there were the kids. I was trying to serve the kids.

No one can serve two masters! It’s true. It’s really true. I feel it almost every day. Kids are one master. My Self is another. And day by day this is how it goes: either I will hate my Self (by depriving it of its felt needs) and love my kids, or I will be devoted to my Self and despise (resent) my kids.

But there’s another way.

Now that you have been set free from sin and have become slaves of God, the fruit you get leads to sanctification and its end, eternal life.
– Romans 6:20-22

I have another master now. Not the kids. Not my Self. Not any person in this world. But there is a Good Master who takes me in.

What is the Good Master like?

He’s very forgiving. When I make a mistake, he gently points it out to me, with kindness and understanding. He shows me where I went wrong but doesn’t blame me. Instead he comforts me because he knows how bad I feel when I mess up.

He’s self-sacrificing. My other boss always makes me take the heat for my mistakes. But the Good Master bears the consequences on himself. He’s willing to lay himself on the line for things that are all my fault.

He understands the little guy. The Good Master isn’t up there in his ivory tower, oblivious to the struggles and experiences of his employees. He’s been in the trenches. He went through everything I’m going through, so he can empathize with my weakness.

He’s a big team player. He never expects me to do anything on my own. Instead, he wants me to constantly talk to him and ask him for help, so that we can do everything together.

He’s a great improvisor. My screw ups don’t bother him in the slightest because he can take even the worst mess and turn it into an opportunity for something great.

And that means he’s process-oriented, not results-driven. He doesn’t care what my output is; he just wants to talk me through my work, day by day. It means a lot to him that I just show up and try.

He doesn’t want me to worry about budget. My other boss is tightfisted, and she wants me to think carefully about every penny spent. But the Good Master says, “No big deal! That’s just a drop in the bucket. I’ll take care of it–just charge it to my expense account.”

He doesn’t even actually need me as his servant. He’s entirely sufficient in himself, and all his needs are already met. So the whole reason why he’s taking me on is not for him, to serve his agenda, but because he knows that this is what’s best for me, this is what will make me happy.

No one can serve two masters. I can either serve my Self (or the kids, or other people), or I can serve the Good Master. And it’s hard sometimes, because the Good Master is infinitely patient. He doesn’t make me feel bad when I ignore him and serve my Self. Whereas, when I try to shift my allegiance away from my Self, the Worst Boss Ever usually throws a fit and tries everything she can to make my life miserable. And so most of the time I find myself going back to her. Yeah, it sucks. I know it’s not going to turn out well. But she’s familiar. I’ve grown up with her. I know what to expect.

So I serve my Self. But whenever I’m tired of her tantrums, her binges, her touchiness, her highs and lows, her ability to make my life miserable, then I can go to the Good Master. He’s always waiting for me. He’s always ready to take me in.

Lent, Part 2: A Lenten Prayer

Like I shared in the last post, I started realizing I was enslaved to the Worst Boss Ever shortly after my younger daughter was born.

This was fall of 2016. I had a son who was two and a half, and a daughter who was around six months old. And I was working harder (sort of) than I had ever worked in my life.

Every day, I felt like I was constantly sacrificing, never getting to rest, never getting time on my own. And yet, at the end of each day, I would look around at a messy house and two messy kids and feel like: I had accomplished absolutely nothing. I couldn’t even really remember what I had done all day. How was it possible to feel so tired, and yet have produced nothing to show for my work?

Many times I would check out. I’d say, “I deserve a break,” and so I’d start watching a show on Netflix, and do the bare minimum with the kids–change their diapers, feed them junk, get them juice, that’s all. I thought I was practicing self-care. I thought that taking time to watch my show was something I needed to do in order to survive.

And then, whenever I came out of the binge-watching, I would feel bad that I hadn’t given the kids enough attention. I would then try to do a “good mom” thing with them–like take them hiking or plan a crafty activity or cook a healthy meal. Something, anything, at least one thing, to make me feel like I was at least trying to give them a good life.

But then, it was tiring to do “good mom” things, and so when I couldn’t do it anymore, I would check out again.

Back and forth it went: Try, check out. Try, check out.

The Self (the Worst Boss Ever) wants two kinds of things: comfort and achievement (and maybe excitement is a third category). In serving my Self, I was taking turns trying to give it those two things. I rested to give my Self comfort. I worked to give my Self achievement. But those two things are inherently contradictory! If my Self is getting comfort, it’s not getting achievement. If it’s getting achievement, it’s not getting comfort. This is why the Self is the Worst Boss Ever–because it won’t ever be satisfied!!!

In the midst of slavery, God showed me a prayer that changed my life:

Almighty God our heavenly Father,
You declare your glory
And show forth your handiwork
In the heavens and on the earth:
Deliver us, in our various occupations,
From the service of self alone,
So that we can do the work you give us to do
In truth and beauty and for the common good,
For the sake of Him who came among us as one who serves,
Your son, Jesus Christ our Lord,
Who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit,
One God, forever and ever, Amen.

This is one of the Collects from the Anglican Book of Common Prayer. This prayer has defined my mindset towards motherhood, towards work, towards any kind of activity that I’m given to do.

“Deliver me, in my various occupations, from the service of self alone.”

I was enslaved to my Self. When I tried to do good things for my kids, I was trying to earn “good mom” achievements for my Self. When I rested, I was trying to grasp at comfort and entertainment for my Self. No matter what I tried, whether I worked or rested, I was caught up in serving my Self.

It’s not always bad to serve my Self. I don’t believe Lent is about an extreme version of Self-denial. And that’s why I love that this prayer has the word “alone:” Deliver me from the service of self alone. It’s not bad to serve my Self. But it’s bad when the only thing I can serve is my Self. It’s bad when I can’t say no to my Self’s demands for comfort. It’s bad when, if I do say no, my Self punishes me by making me feel resentful and bitter towards the kids, towards the work I do, towards my life in general. It’s bad when I can’t say no to my Self’s demands for achievement–or when, if I do say no, my Self punishes me by telling me I’m a worthless failure.

In those moments, the only thing I can say is, “Deliver me. Deliver me. Save me from this prison where I constantly serve my Self and constantly fail to satisfy my Self and constantly feel miserable.”

Lent, Part 1: The Worst Boss Ever

My boss can be very particular about things. Sometimes, if I don’t make her coffee just the way she likes it, she’ll get mad, and I won’t hear the end of it for hours.

She’s not very forgiving. She loves reminding me of all the mistakes I made during the past day, so she can tell me exactly what I did wrong, and what I need to do to make sure it never happens again.

And she demands a lot! Just today I went half an hour out of my way to pick up lunch for her because she was craving Vietnamese noodles.

At the same time, she gets very upset any time something throws off her routine. If plans change at the last minute, she’ll often freak out and nag at me until I figure out exactly what the new plan is and how it’s all going to work.

She even tries to control my appearance. If I don’t look presentable in the way she wants, she’ll make me go back and change.

And she’s very touchy–when a project doesn’t go her way, or if someone says something that threatens her ego, she’ll sulk and play the victim, and my life will be miserable until I can soothe her.

The worst of it is, she gets resentful about the kids. She thinks all the time I spend with them, and the effort I put into taking care of them, is directly taking away from serving her needs.

Ok, I wish I had some clever way of delivering the punch line, but I can’t think of one, so I’ll just tell you: the boss is my Self.

Get it? Get it? It’s like I’m my own boss. And most of the time in my life, I’m serving my Self: I say, “Ok, Self, what do you want to do today? What do you want to eat? What do you want to wear?” And my Self has very particular wants, and if I don’t give her what she wants, she makes me feel bad until she gets it.

This is all kind of tongue in cheek. But I really did start thinking of my Self this way in the first months after my daughter was born. It felt like there was constant conflict between my kids’ wants and needs and those of my Self: The baby wants me to wake up and feed her and rock her; my Self wants to sleep. My older son wants me to play a game with him; my Self just wants to lie on the couch and read a book. Both my kids need breakfast in the morning; my Self has emails that she wants to get answered.

For the longest time, I really was resentful of the kids. They take so much time and attention and hard work. I loved them, but I also felt like they were this constant obstacle, preventing me from doing the things that I (my Self) wanted to do. I would tell people I was just waiting for them to turn 18 so they would get out of the house and I would be free. But one day, I felt like God flipped my perspective.

“What if,” he said, “What if it’s not the kids that are making your life miserable right now? You wanted to be a mom. You love your kids. Even now, you want to take care of their needs and sacrifice for them. That all sounds really good to you. But you just have a hard time doing it.

“What if,” God said, “What if the real source of the problem is your Self and all the desires that your Self has? If your Self didn’t have those desires, then you would be perfectly happy changing diapers. You would be perfectly happy reading the same book 50 times. You would be perfectly happy spending half an hour walking a 5-minute distance because kids like to stop and lie down in the middle of the sidewalk.

“What if,” God said, “What if it’s not your kids who are making unreasonable demands on your time and energy and patience? What if your Self is the one being unreasonable? What if it’s your Self who’s being demanding? You feel like you’re a slave to your kids–well, what if it’s totally the opposite way? What if you are a slave to your Self?”

Today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent. In liturgical churches, Lent is a season of mourning and penitence. A season of self-denial. People give up things for Lent, like social media, or chocolate. Why does the church do this? Why has this been a practice for thousands of years?

Because the church knows a secret.

The rest of the world thinks that the goal of life is serving the Self. Our society worships the Self. We practice Self-care. We do Self-motivation. We glorify our Selves online, making them look really good so everyone else can see the great Self we have. We’re told on every side: “Your Self deserves this food or that beauty product or this house or that career, this vacation or that significant other.”

The world has been totally brainwashed. They spend their whole lives serving the Worst Boss Ever, and they love it. They are completely enslaved, and they have no idea.

But the church knows. The church knows that the Self is a slave master who pushes us and pushes us to do more and get more and be more–and then the Self beats us up because we aren’t giving it enough rest and comfort and relaxation. Our Selves are sucking us dry, whipping us to the bone, never satisfied with what we give them, always looking forward to the next thing.

Lent is a time to be set free. Lent helps us say: “No, Self, I will not give in to your demands. I will not serve you. You’re not the boss today. You can’t make me do what you want.”

In the next series of posts, we’ll talk more about the Worst Boss Ever, how to rebel against the tyranny of the Self, and who our real Master is.

Book Recommendation: The Chronicles of Prydain

Every now and then (or maybe just this once) I want to share and recommend a book or a series that has impacted my thinking about the lowest place.

This week I read The Chronicles of Prydain, by Lloyd Alexander. It’s a children’s series, I would say about 5th grade reading level. Each book is short, and the writing is stylized. Not necessarily the kind of read that most adults enjoy. But these books gave me one of my first experiences with the journey to the lowest place.

I first read the series in middle school or maybe early high school. And I felt as though here in my hands was wisdom. Fantasy books are all about the humble woodcutter hiding secret power, and unlocking that power to save the world, thus rising to fame and glory. This series is no less dramatic in its scope. But the tension that Lloyd Alexander plays out brilliantly is: there are some kinds of power (or maybe all of them) that need to be sacrificed rather than claimed.

The story wrestles with the themes of pride and humility, of glory and lowliness. Is a hero someone like Prince Gwydion, who is wise and strong and competent in all things? Is a hero someone like Coll, the grower of turnips and pruner of apple trees? What tasks are truly worth doing? What work brings the most glory and honor? Is it slaying monsters or hoeing a field?

More centrally, as the characters move from book to book, from one crucial choice to another, they continually choose to give up the thing most precious to them.

When I read a book, the thing I take away from it, the impact that it makes on me, usually comes, not from the plot, not from the world, not even necessarily from the characters, but from the overall aesthetic–which, to me, is a combination of all three. What kinds of people are these? What kinds of choices do they make? And, when they make their choices, what kind of mercy (or lack thereof) does the author have on them?

Some books have an essentially selfish aesthetic. The characters want the things they want, and luckily enough, circumstances work out to bring them a happy ending.

Still other books try to be more realistic: The characters aren’t necessarily good or bad, and what happens to them is as random and chaotic, or potentially tragic, as what happens in “real life.”

The aesthetic of The Chronicles of Prydain is the aesthetic of the lowest place: “He who tries to save his life will lose it; but he who loses his life for my sake will save it.”

Listen, Part 2: Silence.

He was oppressed, and he was afflicted,
yet he opened not his mouth;
like a lamb that is led to the slaughter,
and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent,
so he opened not his mouth.
– Isaiah 53:7

Now Jesus stood before the governor, and the governor asked him, “Are you the King of the Jews?” Jesus said, “You have said so.” But when he was accused by the chief priests and elders, he gave no answer. Then Pilate said to him, “Do you not hear how many things they testify against you?” But he gave him no answer, not even to a single charge, so that the governor was greatly amazed.
– Matthew 27:11-14

There are so many techniques that can help us listen better. Just for fun, let’s start with the hardest one out of all of them: silence.

I’m talking about a particular kind of silence in a specific context. Silence in general–just the act of keeping your mouth shut–is definitely a helpful listening aid. But it’s not the hardest. The specific kind of silence we’re talking about here is: silence before an accuser. It’s the silence of Jesus on trial, the lamb led to the slaughter who did not open his mouth.

Sometime around my son’s second birthday, I started to notice a subtle change in the way he cried. Before then, his wails and screams had been pure distress. He would bawl his little baby heart out, let loose with all he had, because his world felt like it was ending, and there was nothing to do but cry.

After the change, he would cry just as loudly as ever, but there was a shift in attitude. A new message was being communicated. Little baby had been crying: “I’m so very unhappy!!!!” New terrible toddler was crying: “Look, Mommy, I’m sad, why aren’t you making me feel better????”

Ok, maybe it’s been my imagination all this time. But I swear to you, the little kid learned how to accuse me with his cries. It was all tone of voice and facial expression. He didn’t need to say a single word, but the message came across loud and clear: “I’m upset, and this is your fault!!”

It’s amazing how being accused has such an instant effect. With little baby cried, I felt so much compassion for what he was going through. He was just a small human expressing his pain! And it was so easy (sometimes) to be the kind, patient mom who would “shhh” and cuddle and hold until the distress was pacified.

After the shift to terrible toddler accusations, the first hint of a cry would drive me off the wall. I would feel my heart harden, my mouth turn down, my tone of voice grow harsh. Even when I tried to gentle myself and approach with the same compassion that came so easily earlier, I couldn’t help but react viscerally in anger, because I was being accused! My kid was calling me a bad mom!

There’s just something about being accused. It shuts down all listening processes. It puts me into defense mode, shields up, claws out, here, let me give you all these reasons why your accusations are the farthest thing from the truth.

What’s going on here? Why do accusations bother us so much? Let’s look at some examples of everyday accusations:

“There are dishes in the sink.”
“We started fifteen minutes ago.”
“You have a B- in French this grading period.”

What would your response be to hearing these statements? I’ll tell you mine:

“Yeah. And?”
“I’m really sorry, I got stuck in traffic.”
“It was so unfair! The teacher made our very first test so hard that the highest grade in the class was a D-.”

Three different examples of how we often respond to accusations.

1. Go on the offensive: Someone is accusing me, so I’ll accuse them right back. “There are dishes in the sink.” That’s what’s said. I hear: “Why haven’t you done the dishes yet?” So I respond with: “Who says it’s my job to do the dishes? Do them yourself!”

2. Apologize, and give a reason to explain the behavior. “We started fifteen minutes ago.” I hear: “You’re late. You’d better have a good reason.” So I explain. “I wasn’t being lazy. I wasn’t being inconsiderate. I wasn’t doing it on purpose. Look, I have a legitimate reason for being late that everyone can empathize with.”

3. Blame a third party. Or a flaw in the system. Anything to shift responsibility off of me alone. “You have a B-in French.” I hear: “You’re failing. You must have done something wrong.” In this example, especially, (which really happened to me in 6th grade) it’s almost impossible to imagine NOT trying to answer this accusation. Because it really wasn’t my fault! Because I did everything right! I got the second highest grade in the class on that test! It was the teacher’s first year, and she had no idea how to calibrate her tests to a beginner’s level. I felt so strongly about it at the time that I still remember these details, 19 years later: the injustice of getting in trouble when I did everything right is so overwhelming that it felt impossible to stay silent.

And yet that’s exactly what Jesus did.

He stood before the Jewish council, before Pilate, before the crowds in Jerusalem. He let them throw false accusations at him all night long. And he didn’t say a word to defend himself.

Why?? What does he gain by staying silent? Why would he do it then, and what possible motivation could I have for trying to imitate him now?

I don’t exactly know why Jesus stayed silent then, but I can tell you for right now: imitating him will drastically improve our relationships with people. Let me explain.

We’re bad communicators, guys. We all are. We feel one thing and say another. We don’t want the real worry on the inside to come out on the outside. And so we put up all these blinds. So many, in fact, that we’re usually not aware we’re doing it at all.

Take my examples of everyday accusations. Each person saying those things was expressing something they felt. But the thing they felt was not at all the thing that I heard.

“There are dishes in the sink.” I heard: “Why didn’t you do the dishes already?” But they felt: “I just got home from a long day, but I feel like I can’t relax, because I see something that needs to be done.”

“We started fifteen minutes ago.” I heard: “You’re late. You’d better have a good reason.” But they felt: “People don’t care about this project enough to get here on time. I feel alone.”

“You got a B- in French this grading period.” I heard: “You’re failing. You must have done something wrong.” But they felt: “My daughter has so much potential. If she doesn’t live up to it, then I feel like I’m failing her as a parent.”

These are hypothetical translations, but you get the idea: what we say at first is usually very different from what’s underneath.

Now, a normal conversation will often help get at the truth. For instance:

“There are dishes in the sink.”
“Honey, is that really the first thing you have to say to me when you get home?”
“Sorry. I just had a long day, but I feel like I can’t relax, because I see something that needs to be done.”
“Well, don’t worry. I’ll do them later, so you go relax.”

That’s how things often go. Communication isn’t a once-off. You don’t have to get it right the first time, because you can keep trying to get at the underneath, keep asking, keep expressing.

But, self-justification shuts the process down.

“There are dishes in the sink.”
“Yeah. And? What’s your point?”
“Nothing.”
“Ok, fine.”

Hence the need for silence. It’s not a permanent silence. We don’t have to take vows. But it’s a breath. It’s a moment of recalibration. It’s sidestepping the accusation, and looking for the feeling underneath.

“There are dishes in the sink.”
*Silence.* I feel accused. It’s not only my job to do the dishes. And he knows that. So there must be some reason why he’s saying this right now.
“Honey, is that really the first thing you have to say to me when you get home?”

Silence in the face of accusation. When Jesus was finally nailed to the cross, he said, “Forgive them, Father, for they do not know what they are doing.” I think he was able to say this about his accusers and executors because: he had spent all night silently listening to them. Not to the accusations–but to the real people with real fears and worries underneath.