None of us is immune to moments of pressure. Their weight, met with what seems to be our feeble resistance, can feel unbearable, if not overwhelming. Our lives seem to be like a ship tossed in the storm, beaten by the waves on every side. With its bending and bowing, the hull appears destined to breach. We are constantly bracing for impact. Our sails are tattered, and the only movement we feel is subject to the tempest. The storm of life moves us as it wills.
The appearance of this pressure varies. It is different for each of us; its manifestation comes from something deeply personal. It’s a dry root giving offspring to bitter leaves. For some, those leaves are the desire to be accepted and belong. Others question their worth and measure. Are we living to the fullest height of our potential, or do we feel abandonment and rejection, tossed aside and unworthy of another’s affection? Though its appearance may seem unique in each of us, the wellspring of our pressure is universal—an immense, insatiable longing to be loved.
The wellspring of our pressure is universal—an immense, insatiable desire to be loved.
However, because we are convinced, deep within our hearts’ crevices, that we do not deserve to be loved, we engage in the unforgiving, temporarily rewarding, yet never all-fulfilling life of productivity. God created work and called it “good.” Still, somewhere along the way, we transformed it into a cruel master to whom we’ve surrendered our inconceivable, heavenly value. Though God describes us as fearfully and wonderfully made—he calls us his own—we have allowed productivity to determine our tattered worth. And we find ourselves hopeless, seemingly never doing enough to satisfy productivity’s appetite.
Yet we torment ourselves by working—producing—with fragile hopes of earning another’s esteem and affection. And this is no less true within the Church.
Even as I write these words, I wonder if anyone will read them. I question their impact and their resonance within the heart of someone who stumbles upon them. There is a hope that they will find them useful—meaningful—and worthy of my energy. Are they powerful, or are they void of any real significance? I only desire that they renew the reader’s passion for their Holy Lover. Jesus told us to speak to the mountain and it would move. But how can my words move mountains if they cannot disrupt one’s attention for just a moment?
For many in the Church, the much-desired Sabbath’s rest has been shoved to the back corner of the guest room closet, next to our worn-out sneakers and tarnished childhood trophies. We must continue to toil, not from a position of joy, but often to quiet the voices from the pulpit who cry out for additional volunteers. It seems that there is simply too much work to be done, and the opportunities to give of ourselves are endless. It’s not that we mind serving so much as serving is not what we truly need. Yet, we have forgotten the simple joy we once experienced in our relationship with Jesus. It was a joy of yesteryear when those sneakers were barely broken in and the trophies still sparkled in the sunlight.
We don’t resist the call to serve; we resist that serving has become our substitute for rest.
Paul tells the Church at Philippi to always be full of joy, but can we honestly claim this to be our current condition? Or, might tired, lonely, broken, and scared be more fitting descriptions of today’s Church? If joy is our aim, then how must our methods change? What is to be required of God’s people?
Most of us began our faith journeys with the same ambition—to please the one who gave his life for us. We hoped that our every thought and action would delight our Lord. Our intentions were most noble, and they were not necessarily wrong. However, we eventually found that we merely traded the world’s rules for another, equally leaving us exhausted and deflated. So, again, how do we move forward?
Christ’s blood purchased what we could not afford only to assure us of what we could not lose.