There is a story in horseman’s circles, a story that leads me to harmony and grace again and again. Two great masters of American horsemanship, one mentor, and one student practiced the essential elements of aids, timing, feel, and all the important nitty-gritty. After the session, when the mentor left, the student said, “I’m going to really try to get this.” The teacher’s parting words, as he climbed into his truck to drive away, warned, “Don’t try too hard.”
I have been that student, more than once, and wondered, “What the hell does that mean? I’m not going to get this if I don’t try really, really hard. I’m going to work every day to do a good job.” So, I mindfully, carefully, craft my technique, perform my exercises, school my movements, again and again. I read. I reflect. I try and try. I try so damn hard that my technique, my exercises and my movements obscure my feel. I know it’s getting worse but I don’t know how to make it better. Until one day, I finally lay down all my effort. I give up, give up and just ride. Suddenly, amazingly, my feel comes back and there is harmony. My aids have meaning. The horse follows my thoughts: he relaxes his jaw, releases his back, and steps into the movement that had eluded us. Nine times out of ten, harmony comes after I lay down my effort and quit trying.
Horsemanship is the lens through which I learn. I relate most things in my life to it, particularly my relationship with God. Lent is my time to try, and I like trying. I like extra devotions, I like mindfulness practices, I like service, I like mostly all of it (except giving up candy, that I can’t manage at all). This Lent, I am trying for right speech. I am trying to speak honestly and lovingly at all times. Trust me, I’m not doing so hot, especially at home with two little kids, or after a rough day teaching middle school students. God bless it, I’m trying my heart out. It’s good for me, all of this trying. But, I know I will try too hard. I will fall short and I will berate myself and I will give up and I will try again. All of this trying will exhaust me, until I can’t try anymore.
The grace of God, like harmony between horse and rider, does not come in the moments of trying. For me, it comes after I’ve layed down my effort and surrendered. The grace of God cannot come from the correct kneeling, prayers, devotions, or Lenten practice. All of those things are technique. Technique is important, with horses and with religion. Correct technique, position, knowledge, and mindset prepare me for the goal, they set me up to receive it. We cannot have correct technique without trying, but eventually we have to quit trying and surrender to death. No technique can save us from that reality; no technique can save us from pain, loss, and death.
Grace comes to life in the death of Good Friday. On that day, I can lay down all my trying, all my failures, all my shortcomings. I can admit I am a mess, and that I can’t do it alone. I can rest in the presence of a God who admits the same thing, a God who meets me in death and despair. I can sit in the darkened church, surrounded by the soft sounds of crying, led gently into death, grief, and loss with my community. In this moment, I know that I am not alone, I am not unloved, I am not unworthy, no matter how much my trying falls short. Jesus took it all into his death and love returned him to life. I hear him saying, “Don’t try too hard.” I can lay down my effort on the cross of Christ, and find grace.
No comments:
Post a Comment