The Spiritual Discipline of Discomfort

 For thus says the Lord: Only when Babylon’s seventy years are completed will I visit you, and I will fulfil to you my promise and bring you back to this place. For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope—Jeremiah 29:10–11.

 

I have sleep apnea; I have a CPAP machine on my nightstand that I should use more regularly than I do.  So, why don’t I do it?  Well, I never can seem to get the seal just right, and so it drives me crazy to hear myself breathing inside the mask.  Or, I don’t remember to put it on before I fall asleep at night.  (For those who’ve never had to use a CPAP, you really do have to be ready to be completely still before you put it on.)  Even on the nights I do put it on, I usually wake up after three or four hours thirsty or having to go to the bathroom—and they say you really need more time than that for the treatment to be effective. 

 

While these are all valid-sounding reasons for not wearing a mask, in the end they are excuses.   If I’m honest they all come down to one answer: I don’t want to be uncomfortable.   It seems I’d rather risk my health (and subject family to snoring and worrisome erratic breathing) than wear the mask.  When I put it on paper it seems obvious!  My decision is fairly self-centered.; my personal comfort trumps all other concerns. 

 

Who was that masked man?!

Wearing a mask.  Now there’s a topic that we’re all familiar with right now, thanks to the ongoing pandemic.  COVID-19 spreads primarily by aerosol transmission and solid science tells us one of the best means of protecting ourselves from it is to wear a mask.  Nevertheless, some of us still resist wearing them.  It isn’t so much that it protects you (although it does); it’s more that it protects the other.  Like me not using my CPAP,  those that choose not to wear masks do so for a variety of reasons they consider valid—e.g., they can’t breathe when they wear them, they don’t want to live in fear, they have the right to do as they please, they believe COVID-19 is not real and/or is politically motivated.   Ah, we human beings get so creative when it comes to coming up with excuses, but in the end, they all come back to the same root: I don’t want to be uncomfortable.  That is to say, we choose to put our personal concerns ahead of concerns for the common good of all. 

 

Of course, since our institutions are made up of individuals we shouldn’t be surprised when we find the same reluctance to be uncomfortable at work in our Churches.  At a recent webinar, the Rev. Emily Kegler said: “The white American Church is unwilling to be uncomfortable.”   She argues that our “discomfort with discomfort” has made the Church buy into constructs designed to make us feel comfortable.  She includes viewing whiteness as superior and maleness as the default gender, and our infatuation with American consumerism, as examples.  She argues we become protective of (dare I say, we worship) these constructs (or idols).  When we do that, we’re constantly in damage control mode, trying to protect the sanctity of the structures we’ve created to make us comfortable.  It’s hard to embrace others—and to embrace Jesus—when we’re so busy protecting our personal comfort.

 

Although I think she’s spot-on, I admit these are hard words to hear. Kegler’s statement challenges me as a white male.  She speaks like a prophet, and I don’t know too many prophets that are warmly embraced by their audience.  When I hear it, my knee-jerk reaction is to begin making excuses—to protect my comfort. 

 

But Kegler argues that our challenge is to find ways to embrace discomfort, not just once in a while, but on a regular basis.  

 

Discomfort needs to become a regular spiritual practice.

 

After hearing this, if we are open, we might be inclined to ask: In what ways am I willing to be uncomfortable?  While that’s a good starting point, we need to go further.  Left to our own devices, we will tend to limit our discomfort to “small doses” that we can tolerate.  Therefore, says Kegler, the real question we should ask is: Where does God’s world call me to be uncomfortable?

 

The post-COVID-19 world has forced us into uncharted territory.  It’s now clear this isn’t just a temporary inconvenience.  We’re in this for the long-haul.  Although we pray there will be a day soon when there is an effective vaccine and the spread of COVID-19 is controlled, I don’t think we’re ever going back to exactly the way things were BP—before the pandemic.  The world has changed, and so must we—both as individuals and institutions, such as churches.  We can’t go back to the way things were; we can only live in the present moment and move forward into whatever the future holds, knowing that God promises it will be good—Jeremiah 29:11.  

 

In the meantime, just as was true when Jeremiah wrote the verses above, discomfort is already here—and there’s much more to come.  So, perhaps instead of avoiding it, it’s high time we learn to embrace it, and even to thrive in the midst of it.  It’s not like we have a choice at the moment.

 

FOR REFLECTION: What is the discomfort you’ve been avoiding and how does God call you to embrace it?

Making Beauty Out of Broken Pieces

But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God and not of us

—2 Corinthians 4:7.

 

My family and I recently spent a restful week vacationing at the Outer Banks.  We rented a cottage by the sea and enjoyed some much-needed time away.  We spent quite a bit of time on the beach.  Is there any better activity for soul restoration than lying on a secluded beach listening to the ceaseless motion of the waves?    

During our week, Becca and I collected quite a few shells (and some rocks).  As I walked along the short, I was constantly hunched over trawling through the surf to see what my hands came up with.  There were times where something large would brush against my leg, or I would catch a glimpse of a larger shell under the water.  Inevitably, however, before I could get my hands on it, the elusive item was swept away by the waves.  While I retrieved a few smaller complete shells, many were broken pieces.  

 

I was frustrated by my futile pursuit of ocean artifacts, until one afternoon toward the end of the week I laid out all the shells we’d collected on a table.  While many of the larger shells were indeed broken, and none of the complete shells I had were all that spectacular by themselves, when I merged them all together, I created something that I thought was quite beautiful [see photo].  

 

The next morning, as I sat on the porch of our cottage listening to the surf in the background and further contemplating my shells, an activity I did at a spiritual retreat several years ago.  Each person was asked to think of something of which they desired to “let go.”  There was a loaf of bread, and as each person named something, they tore off a piece of bread and placed it in a bowl.  When we were all done, that bowl was placed at the foot of the cross.  As the broken pieces of bread mingled together it became virtually impossible to keep track of which was mine—and I think that was the point.  My broken pieces merge with those of the whole world and all God sees is beauty.

 

After this activity, we celebrated Holy Communion.  Although we used a fresh loaf, I saw a connection to the former broken one.  What Jesus accomplished on the Cross somehow mends together all our broken pieces into an integrated and healed whole loaf. 

 

The shells in my collection reminded me of those pieces of bread in the bowl.  Even the “complete shells” are broken pieces; they are that which a sea creature has “let go.” Sometimes the shell remains after the creature within dies; other times they are that which a creature casts off when it no longer fits them—e.g., crabs do this.  They are most vulnerable until they grow a new shell—but without taking this risk they can never grow.  

 

Everywhere in nature, God makes something whole and 

beautiful out of broken pieces.  

 

The verse at the beginning from 2 Corinthians comes from a section of the letter where Paul talks about how God has placed the ministry of reconciliation in fragile, vulnerable human hands.  Paul explains that God does it this way so there is no doubt that the source of power is God—not us.  He later tells his readers (then and now) that we are Christ’s ambassadors, and that God makes his appeal through us—2 Corinthians 5:18-20. 

 

Ponder the metaphor that Paul chooses: God places priceless treasure in rather common earthen vessels like you and me.  A well-used earthen vessel has imperfections and will develop cracks, chips, and inevitably, broken pieces—and so do we.  But just like the shells in my collection, despite our imperfections—maybe even precisely because of them—God views us all as creations of unspeakable worth and beauty.  (Remember that even the risen Christ himself still bore the scars of crucifixion.)  If we allow it, the light of God’s love will shine through our broken pieces, as we share God’s message and love with others.  

 

It is through our willingness to be seen as broken pieces 

that the world catches glimpses of the Divine.

 

FOR REFLECTION

 

•   What does God call you to let go of, so that the Divine can shine through your broken pieces?

•   Is there a “shell” that cramps your growth right now?  Are you willing to risk casting it off? Do you trust God to keep you safe and give you a “new shell”?

•   Do you consider your earthen vessel beautiful or do the broken pieces bother you?

•   Can you see past individual imperfections in you and others to see the beauty in the collection of broken pieces that make up your community?