resentment

Mercy.

“The Lord is not slow in keeping His promise, as some understand slowness. He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.” – 2 Peter 3:9

I can’t recall ever feeling anger toward God.

Maybe if I consider defiance–or even dismissiveness–veiled forms of hostility, that would count; but if I’ve ever felt that the Father warranted any of my aggravation, resentment, or rage, it’s slipped my mind. And that seems like something that I’d remember.

A while back, I’d made some plans for this weekend. Yesterday, today and tomorrow, specifically. At the risk of being way vague, I’ll just say that these plans were not the best for me. For my heart. For my testimony. For the path I had understood God desired me to continue walking out (I Cor. 7:17, James 1:4)–for my own good for His glory. For the few weeks leading up to today, I very much knew, in my moments of honest self-evaluation, that these plans weren’t going to be ultimately helpful toward all of the above, but I simply wanted to do it anyway.

And planned to. I mean, in the world’s eyes, these plans were nothing. No big deal. Nothing criminal. Nothing scandalous. In fact, with my “world lenses” on, it actually seemed like a healthy idea. Then again, something I always use as an illustration for my kids, simply by using my two fists: If my left fist is “The World,” and my right fist is “The Spirit,” even if our two arms are stretched out as far as they can be from each other, the space between the two is still too close.

Then I checked my email a few days ago. A friend had been doing some devotional writing, and in the midst of her prayer and study, the Holy Spirit spoke to her about my specific life circumstances. So she relayed the message into my inbox, saying, essentially:

“If you’d like to get yourself out of the pit your destructive choices were instrumental in putting you in, you need to stop this pattern of destructive choices. Or you’re never getting out.”

Until I was ready to stop my behavior that had already caused incredible wounds to myself, my family, and countless others around me; until I was ready to truly make choices correlating with a repentant spirit; I wasn’t going to be–I couldn’t be–in a place to get to what I ultimately desired.

She didn’t know what this pertained to, exactly, but I did. She didn’t know about my plans, but God essentially blew them up with that message via my faithful friend. And, ugh, was that disappointing. Even frustrating.

After a few hours of hemming and hawing, I decided this warning was surely divinely-inspired (enough!) to make the necessary call and cancel this weekend’s very-much-anticipated itinerary. Again, frustrating, disappointing, and saddening decision, but 100% the right one.

It’d be great–and a little less embarrassing–to say this story was uncharted waters for me. That this experience was a new and unique life quest thrown my way. It wasn’t. Maybe not the exact same plan design as this weekend’s, but still…like a dog returning to its vomit (Proverbs 26:11), I was all up for putting myself into another temporarily-appeasing/fascinating/exciting situation that was going to ultimately…not help.

To say the least.

That’s where I go back to the whole thing about being angry with God. There was a moment after reading my friend’s email where I was like, “Come ON, Lord! Why be so extreme? Why do the things that I want to have to come with such drastic ramifications? Or any ramifications at all?” But that temper-tantrum only lasted maybe a minute before my parental logic kicked in. I don’t threaten my kids to make life harder for them; I warn them through counsel so they’ll make choices that will make life easier–OK, maybe not easier…more fruitful…for them.

How can I be angry with the Almighty, who loves me more than I love myself? Who sees and desires great things for me if I’m willing to be at peace in joyfully serving Him (Psalm 37:4)? Of course it’s our flesh nature to want what we want, when we want it. But my flesh wants the opposite of what my soul and spirit really need. If I’m sowing into my flesh the temporary pleasures I want, I’m going to reap all of that toxicity that comes with it (Gal. 6:7-8); and the result is…well, deadly (Romans 6:23).

It’s God’s mercy that saves me from death.

It’s God’s mercy–other definitions include: grace, compassion, pity, forbearance, humanity–that uses others to open my eyes to what I’m doing that could be destructive. Or simply, not conducive to where He desires to take me.

It’s God’s mercy that forgives and gives second, third, twentieth chances.

In my case, pertaining to my friend’s message to me last week, it’s God’s mercy that, in spite of my repeated failures, the restoration in my life that I truly desire is still even a possibility.

When I take even 30 seconds to really see how merciful God has been toward me–when I’ve done literally nothing on my own to earn the good I’ve received–any penchant toward anger at God feels like a waste of time and energy. I’d rather make the changes I need to make so my heart can get back on the path of being ready for whatever it is He’s purposed for me next.

Surrender, with open hands

I started this morning kneeling beside my bed in prayer. I don’t normally do that. I usually pray sitting upright on my couch. But a friend had recently mentioned a prayerful moment she’d had on her knees beside her bed, and it inspired me, I guess.

Since January 2014, Thursdays have ritually been a day focused on pursuing hope and clarity through surrender, though rarely is the focus what I’d desire it to be. Thus, I often question its effectiveness. But today is a new Thursday. So down to my bedside I went, with my journal in hand.

“Father, with open hands,” I wrote. “I surrender:”

And I wrote out the following list:

  • My frustrations with/resentment toward others who have impacted my life and currently don’t live up to my expectations–particularly, relationally.
  • My cravings for relational companionship and sexual intimacy with another woman. Particularly, my wife.
  • The ministry path you’ve purposed for me. The fear of never getting it started. The confusion of knowing where to go with it.
  • The direction of where to attend church–one that is as non-toxic as humanly possible.
  • The pain of rejection from people I care about.
  • The idle distractions of entertainment (sports-obsession) that I’ve used to balm my pain.

I turned around toward the bookshelf behind me, remembering as I wrote “with open hands,” that I own a book with that same title, written by Henri Nouwen. The first page I turned to said this:

You still feel bitter because people weren’t grateful for something you gave them: you still feel jealous of those who are better paid than you are; you still want to take revenge on someone who didn’t respect you; you are still disappointed that you received no letter, still angry because someone didn’t smile when you walked by. You live through it, you live along with it as though it doesn’t really bother you…until the moment when you want to pray. Then everything returns: the bitterness, the hate, the jealousy, the disappointment, and the desire for revenge. But these feelings are not just there; you clutch them in your hands as if they were treasures you don’t want to let go. You sit wallowing in all that old sourness as if you couldn’t do without them, as if, in giving them up, you would lose your very self.

Detachment is often understood as letting loose of what is attractive. But it sometimes also requires letting go of what is repulsive. You can indeed become attached to dark forces such as resentment and hatred. As long as you seek retaliation, you cling to your own past. Sometimes it seems as though you might lose yourself along with your revenge and hate–so you stand there with balled-up fists, closed to the other who wants to heal you.

When you want to pray, then, the first question is: How do I open my closed hands? Certainly not by violence. Nor by a forced decision. Perhaps you can find your way to prayer by carefully listening to the words the angel spoke to Zechariah, Mary, the shepherds, and the women at the tomb: “Don’t be afraid.” Don’t be afraid of the One who wants to enter your most intimate space and invite you to let go of what you are clinging to so anxiously. Don’t be afraid to show the clammy coin which will buy you so little anyway. Don’t be afraid to offer your hate, bitterness, and disappointment to the One who is love and only love. Even if you know you have little to show, don’t be afraid to let it be seen.

Each time you dare to let go and to surrender one of those many fears, your hand opens a little and your palms spread out in a gesture of receiving. You must be patient, of course, very patient until your hands are completely open.

It is a long spiritual journey of trust, for behind each fist another one is hiding, and sometimes the process seems endless. Much has happened in your life to make all those fists, and at any hour of the day or night you might find yourself clenching your fists again out of fear.

Maybe someone will say to you, “You have to forgive yourself.” But that isn’t possible. What is possible is to open your hands without fear, so that the One who loves you can blow your sins away. Then the coins you considered indispensable for your life prove to be little more than light dust which a soft breeze will whirl away, leaving only a grin or a chuckle behind. Then you feel a bit of new freedom and praying becomes a joy, a spontaneous reaction to the world and the people around you. Praying then becomes effortless, inspired and lively, or peaceful and quiet. When you recognize the festive and the still moments as moments of prayer, then you gradually realize that to pray is to live.

Father, it seems like such a simple easy task to just let go of inconvenient emotional weight like resentment and fear, yet I hold onto these things as if they’re a literal lifeline. Either I simply don’t know how or I’m actually afraid to open my clenched fists. As if I don’t know who I’ll be when I have nothing left to hold on to. Who will I be when I stand before you with empty hands, Lord? Please help me to gradually open my hands and to discover that I am not the weight I carry, but what you want to give me. And what you want to give me is freedom through your unconditional, never-ending love.