Click. Read. Like. Scroll. Comment. Repeat.
Simple actions with great power. Power to encourage, power to wound, power given and power taken.
And power, when wielded loosely and unwittingly, can be a terrible thing.
Two weeks ago, I had a frank moment of revelation that life couldn't continue on as it was. I felt exhausted, angry, frustrated and powerless. And I felt it all the time.
I was addicted to clicking on my browser, to watching Facebook load, to seeing the number of notifications pop up in the right corner. To knowing there were things to read, videos to watch, photographs to see, stands to take.
Addicted to the god on my screen.
You see, we can make god a lot of things. It can be the thing we care about the most in our lives, like making money or our families or our belongings. It can be the ideas or opinions we hold dearest, like politics or religion or our philosophy of parenting. It can be what we spend all our time and energy working towards or thinking about, like money, career, even happiness. It can be what we depend on the most for affirmation and identity. And it can be to whom or what we relinquish all our power.
Facebook, my friends, can be a dangerous place. Because on Facebook, all of those possibilities, all of those things we look for in or assign to our god can be found.
And when we give it too much time, we give it exponentially more power. The power to make us feel (though elusively and vaguely) connected. To feel good, to feel right about something and surround ourselves with only people who agree. We give it the power to affirm our identity or to plummet us to a point of despair. We give it the power to control our emotions, our thoughts, even the direction our day might take. We give it the power to keep us mired in what's on screen instead of what surrounds us.
This affects the very core of who we are, who we were created to be.
As a Christian, I believe I am created in the image of God. Made beautiful in his sight, brought into relationship with Him through the life, death and resurrection of His son Jesus and invited into abundant life through His Spirit. A life that is submitted ultimately to the power of God but that lives in the power that He then gives me, power to deal with all that life has, fighting with joy, hope and the knowledge that I am never alone.
When Facebook is god, this all changes. I see the ugly in myself and others more acutely. I feel the pull and destruction of comparison, rather than the deep challenge and joy of honest encouragement in real relationships. I am blown here and there all day long by anger and frustration and petty humor and confusion and the need to be affirmed by "likes" and comments. And it doesn't end when I shut the screen. It translates into real life in quicker cynicism, deeper sadness, chronic distractedness, shorter attention spans and fewer true relationships.
That, my friends, is not abundant life. It is the life of someone who has paid homage to the wrong god.
I have been off of Facebook for a little over a week now. At that point of revelation I knew I had to stop. That all the rage and chaos I was feeling inside was a result of a bad decision I was making over and over and over again in the vain hope of feeling less lonely, more connected, more aware and informed. Every time I opened my computer I was looking for something I really could not possibly find there.
Purpose. Life. Joy. Friendship.
Those first few days I felt lost, almost adrift. Like something had died or been taken away from me. As a stay at home parent, sometimes Facebook was my only means of communicating with other human adults during the day and I missed it. I longed for that feeling of being with people, even though that feeling of connectedness was just an illusion.
Sometimes we are so used to the poor version of something that we will cling to it believing it is full of riches.
I knew, though, from truly worshiping my first love, the God of the Universe, that those were not really riches. So I waited.
And soon things changed. I knew this was a moment straight from God. A gift in the midst of a chaotic season of life to take stock. To pray. To make some decisions. To invite some close friends into prayer and dreaming and hoping for what life can be.
When there was a calm moment of a child playing independently, I cleaned up the kitchen or sat for a moment and prayed for him, instead of quickly trying to get online.
When there was a child waking up from a nap, I didn't feel annoyed or interrupted because I had to shut my computer in the middle of completing a thought on a political post.
When the house was quiet, I pulled out my guitar or my journal or a book. I walked outside and dug in the dirt. Or wrote a letter.
I smiled more.
I made it to the gym and didn't wonder the whole time if there were things I was "missing" in being offline.
I initiated more dance parties around the house.
I spent more time with actual adult human beings.
I said yes to some really, really good things, both in my personal daily rhythms and in my community.
I complained less.
I hoped more.
I began to long for time with Jesus in a way I hadn't in awhile.
And in all of it, I stood up straighter. I felt less burdened, less distracted, more tuned in to what was immediately around me.
Was life perfect? Of course not. It can't be. I had a stomach bug, a toddler was working on molars, life in all its noise and grit went on. But it went on with my head held a little higher. With my hope fastened more surely on God, not Facebook.
Getting off Facebook wasn't a cure-all. It was one step, one big step for me, in saying no to a major, destructive distraction so that I could say yes to the many more beautiful opportunities I was no longer seeing.
And let me make something clear. I don't think it is Facebook's fault. I chose to be on it all the time. I kept turning to it again and again even as I felt myself changing. I gave it the power it held over me.
Some of you are thinking it sounds crazy. That something so silly could not hold so much power.
But let's not kid ourselves...whether it is Facebook or career or romance or any number of things or ideas or people, we all have that innate tendency to look to something or someone to define us, to fulfill us. We search for it in small ways or in big ways, but we are always looking. And the way I see it, life is one long journey in figuring out how to keep my eyes fixed on God, not on the things of this world. One never-ending decision to wake up and choose peace, choose joy, choose hope and love.
To choose God.
And any time I start to choose something else first, all of me suffers. I learned it 30 years ago as a young Christian and again a hundred times since.
Each time it sticks a little longer and grows a little deeper, by the grace of God.
So, I am taking it one sweet, slower, facebook-free, God-seeking moment at a time right now. And loving it.
The Ardennes: the forest surrounding Bastogne, Belgium and a critical battle location during World War II, wherein the endurance, perseverance, trust and sheer stubbornness of the Allies defeated a seemingly unbeatable enemy. For me, an allegory for the Christian life.
Showing posts with label Contemplation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Contemplation. Show all posts
Monday, February 6, 2017
Friday, June 17, 2016
Relentless
I sit here drinking in the perfect summer morning. No humidity, timid, sweet noises from a nest of baby birds in a bush not three feet away from where I sip my coffee, they waiting eagerly for mama to bring their morning breakfast, me just stopping for a brief moment.
I tried to do this yesterday. To slow down, read, write, breathe. After about 4 minutes, my leg was jumping, my coffee cup was already empty, the oppressive lists closing in on me like one long, cruel tyranny.
But I need this. This five or ten or fifteen minutes that stops the chaos. My husband took the littles for a drive and the oldest is sleeping in.
Peace. Quiet. Calm.
It's been a relentless few years for us. We have gone through and are continuing to go through some of the most stressful transitions a family can endure. Two newborns, cross country moves, new jobs, mystery illnesses, chronic sleep deprivation, all the goodbyes and making of new friends only to say goodbye again.
Some days it just feels like too much motion.
And to put it bluntly, I am glad God is stronger than I am. Because there ain't no way I'd still be standing if His strength wasn't my anchor. If his hope and peace, even on our craziest days, weren't my truth.
We move in one week. We say goodbye, we load the van with reluctant children and we set off on a new adventure.
Not that I don't like adventures, but I'm hoping for at least a few years where we can have adventures to the beach or sleepaway camp. The kind that don't shake our family's rhythm, but just bring more joy and challenges into the everyday. I'm hoping for no more moves or jobs for awhile. For the chaotic daily raising of my kids alongside friends, of working and dreaming and lots of laughter. And way fewer lists. Of no major decisions for my husband and I to wrestle through. We have had our quota for awhile, thank you very much.
For my prayer each morning to be from a verse that has continually sustained me these past seven years of change and waiting and loss and hope.
I tried to do this yesterday. To slow down, read, write, breathe. After about 4 minutes, my leg was jumping, my coffee cup was already empty, the oppressive lists closing in on me like one long, cruel tyranny.
But I need this. This five or ten or fifteen minutes that stops the chaos. My husband took the littles for a drive and the oldest is sleeping in.
Peace. Quiet. Calm.
It's been a relentless few years for us. We have gone through and are continuing to go through some of the most stressful transitions a family can endure. Two newborns, cross country moves, new jobs, mystery illnesses, chronic sleep deprivation, all the goodbyes and making of new friends only to say goodbye again.
Some days it just feels like too much motion.
And to put it bluntly, I am glad God is stronger than I am. Because there ain't no way I'd still be standing if His strength wasn't my anchor. If his hope and peace, even on our craziest days, weren't my truth.
We move in one week. We say goodbye, we load the van with reluctant children and we set off on a new adventure.
Not that I don't like adventures, but I'm hoping for at least a few years where we can have adventures to the beach or sleepaway camp. The kind that don't shake our family's rhythm, but just bring more joy and challenges into the everyday. I'm hoping for no more moves or jobs for awhile. For the chaotic daily raising of my kids alongside friends, of working and dreaming and lots of laughter. And way fewer lists. Of no major decisions for my husband and I to wrestle through. We have had our quota for awhile, thank you very much.
For my prayer each morning to be from a verse that has continually sustained me these past seven years of change and waiting and loss and hope.
"For God alone my soul waits in silence;
from him comes my salvation, my fortress;
I shall not be greatly shaken."
Psalm 62:1-2
May it be so, Lord. May it be so.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
Dreaming of Silence
1999.
London.
Some very old cathedral whose name escapes me.
Candles, darkness, stillness.
Community.
Peace.
The first time I remember ever experiencing contemplation. Intentional stillness. Breathing in prayers.
It was a small taste of many more experiences to come. Staff retreats, personal times of solitude, early morning intentional quiet before the sun (and my children) rise.
But it's elusive these days.
Don't get me wrong. I like to be on the move. People look at you like you're five kinds of crazy when you are out and about with three boys. They assume you are run ragged all day long. And I am.
But I happen to like exercise. And games of chase, hide-and-go-seek, endless games of soccer and catch. I like the movement. The noise level, maybe not so much, but I don't mind never sitting still with them.
I do, however, miss quiet and contemplation and slowing down intentionally, particularly in community. There's not a lot of time to get to our church's contemplative service right now. It's at dinner time on a Sunday, when it's Defcon 5 around here and we hit survival mode with all hands on deck until bedtime. I could go to a women's bible study at a local church if my child's nap would cooperate, but really that's just more input. More words and noise right now. I like to chew on my pastor's sermon all week and read alone...but my brain can't take too much more information at the moment. It's filled up on so much. Sensory books. Parenting books. Sermons. Worship prep. Therapy plans for the middle child.
And as I've begun to think about what "yeses" I can say when we move, I'm wondering if there will be a place, a space, just in the middle of the week, maybe mid-morning. A place where child-care is offered and men and women can gather in quiet, in contemplation. Maybe it's led by someone, maybe it's just an open time to come, be, listen, breathe. Maybe it doesn't exist yet. Maybe it can.
I don't know.
But I'm dreaming of it.
One time a week, where harried people (parents or not) can come and contemplate the glory of our God. Soak in the stillness and calm of His Spirit. Bask in the love of His Son.
I long for it. I cannot be the only one who does.
London.Some very old cathedral whose name escapes me.
Candles, darkness, stillness.
Community.
Peace.
The first time I remember ever experiencing contemplation. Intentional stillness. Breathing in prayers.
It was a small taste of many more experiences to come. Staff retreats, personal times of solitude, early morning intentional quiet before the sun (and my children) rise.
But it's elusive these days.
Don't get me wrong. I like to be on the move. People look at you like you're five kinds of crazy when you are out and about with three boys. They assume you are run ragged all day long. And I am.
But I happen to like exercise. And games of chase, hide-and-go-seek, endless games of soccer and catch. I like the movement. The noise level, maybe not so much, but I don't mind never sitting still with them.
I do, however, miss quiet and contemplation and slowing down intentionally, particularly in community. There's not a lot of time to get to our church's contemplative service right now. It's at dinner time on a Sunday, when it's Defcon 5 around here and we hit survival mode with all hands on deck until bedtime. I could go to a women's bible study at a local church if my child's nap would cooperate, but really that's just more input. More words and noise right now. I like to chew on my pastor's sermon all week and read alone...but my brain can't take too much more information at the moment. It's filled up on so much. Sensory books. Parenting books. Sermons. Worship prep. Therapy plans for the middle child.
And as I've begun to think about what "yeses" I can say when we move, I'm wondering if there will be a place, a space, just in the middle of the week, maybe mid-morning. A place where child-care is offered and men and women can gather in quiet, in contemplation. Maybe it's led by someone, maybe it's just an open time to come, be, listen, breathe. Maybe it doesn't exist yet. Maybe it can.
I don't know.
But I'm dreaming of it.
One time a week, where harried people (parents or not) can come and contemplate the glory of our God. Soak in the stillness and calm of His Spirit. Bask in the love of His Son.
I long for it. I cannot be the only one who does.
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