My relationship with the Holy Spirit has its ups and downs. I'm never quite sure how to take her, or talk about her. It seems a little crazy to say, “The Holy Spirit led me to …” or “The Holy Spirit is working through…” If I say those things, won’t people think I’m a little touched in the head? Most people who believe in a higher power have moments when that higher power comes close and they feel a connection to God in their daily lives. Christians refer to that presence as the Holy Spirit. The times in my life when I’ve had a “god-filled moment” (as my priest would say) are usually when I’m feeling low. When life has worn me down, when I’m worn out, anxious, desperate, that is when I reach out to God, “Help me.” In those moments, I’m searching for a connection to something bigger, something that can soothe me and bring me peace.
Once in a while, when things are going along just fine and I’m feeling just great, the spirit smacks me upside the head with a sharp dose of clarity. I'm a pretty "spiritual" person, so to speak. I like to read and study spiritual things, from various traditions. I know about nonattachment to desire, about putting faith in the practice rather than the end result, I know about surrendering to God. I can speak about it and write about it and sometimes I can even do it. I spend quite a bit of time doing church things and thinking about Christianity. I am a dedicated student. I pay attention, I teach, I volunteer, I serve on committees, and I do my “homework”. If Christianity gave out grades, I would expect least a 97% on my final--I am that kind of student. My studies brought me to Peter Rollins’s excellent book, How (Not) to speak of God, and while reading this book, the Holy Spirit gave me a sucker punch right where it counts.
In his book, Rollins describes a liturgy to address prosperity. I’ve heard of prosperity gospels, and transactional faith. I seriously dislike the idea of doing something spiritual for personal gain, the idea of, “I worship God so he gives me happiness, peace, money, or a life in heaven.” I expected to wholly embrace and understand this liturgy. In his description, Rollins tells a story of a man accused of being a Christian. He’s put on trial, all the evidence is weighed of his church participation, his Bible study, his theological writings, his public speaking about Christ, and he is found Not Guilty--Not Christian. Confused, the man asked how he can be not guilty, with all the evidence before him. The judge replies, “The court is indifferent towards your Bible reading and church attendance; it has no concern for worship with words and pen. Continue to develop your theology, and use it to paint pictures of love. We have no interest in such church-going artists who spend their time creating images of a better world. We exist for those who would lay down that brush, and their life, in a Christlike endeavor to create such a world.” (Rollins 2006).
When I read those words, I was struck speechless. I was laid low. The striving, the preening for recognition, the practice, the intellectual learning, all fell away and I was stripped of pretension. I felt naked and ashamed, held in the hand of God. All my knowledge of right words and right action only amounted to more idols that distracted me from God. I was accomplishing tasks, rather than loving. I was checking things off the to-do list in my brain, so I could move on to the next assignment in my imaginary course, Becoming a Christan 301. I was just as much of a sinner as I’d ever been, just as much of a poser, just as much of a liar.
What could I do now? If I promised to do better, to try harder, to love more freely, those promises would soon become points of pride again. There was nothing I could do to make myself worthy; I had failed once more. Frozen, I knelt and sobbed, “God forgive me. I have not loved you with my whole heart. I have not loved my neighbor as myself. I am truly sorry and I humbly repent.” Kneeling, exposed, and full of sorrow, I sobbed, crying, “God, please help me to love you…”
In my sobbing, God saw me. I was broken open, and cool relief flooded down with my tears. There was nothing in my heart that surprised God, no crevice in which I could hide, no wall I could build. God saw through the veneer that made me presentable. God knew my pride, my posturing, my envy, in every form, at every time. God knew, and God loved me. It is a terrifying thing to be loved unconditionally. I’ve felt the love of God when the world has laid me low. I’ve felt it lift me up and hold me. Now, I felt it knock me down, and strip the scales from my eyes. And God kept right on loving me, even though I still couldn’t get it right.
In my desperation and relief, I stopped trying. Once again, I gave it up to God. I knelt and wept, and gave up my pretense in place of prayer. All the hymns I sang, the psalms I recited, the prayers I prayed, spoke directly into my broken heart, and I knew. I knew the incredible, unconditional grace and mercy that God has for me, a sinner. In that moment, I could lay down my burdens, my striving, and my pride, and make way for the love of God. Thank you God, for knocking me down, so I can let you love me.
Rollins, P. (2006). How (not) to speak of God. (5th ed.) Brewster, MA: Paraclete Press.
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