I met my husband for the first time after returning from a year with a (well known) missionary organization that we semi- affectionately refer to as Camp Millet, because birdseed is what we ate for breakfast many mornings. I learned some valuable things in my time there, but as a timid and wounded INFJ, I also internalized some messages about God that were frankly bizarre. My idea of the heavenly Parent morphed into a kind of Jonathan Edwards meets Nightmare Before Christmas. God was scary, unpredictable, capricious, exacting.
Aside from being consistently warned of the ever present danger of “losing one’s salvation,” we were told many times that any Christian not serving on the mission field was out of God’s will. That is “religious speak” for not good enough. I read pamphlets during that year about how college was wrong for Christians. So I had an epic struggle on my hands. I ultimately decided to go to college, but feared that I was turning my back on God by pursuing an education, although a wise older friend pointed out that God was plenty capable of showing up wherever I was, even in the halls of academia. It took me quite some time to understand that Christ truly dwelled in me, regardless of my geography.
I had the privilege of spending my sophomore year of college in Spain. Some of my most vivid and pleasurable memories of that semester are of sitting with art in famous museums and galleries. I felt an intense wistfulness while looking at some of these beautiful pieces. It wasn’t enough for me to simply receive the beauty that was present through someone else’s creative gifts. I remember wishing with all my heart that I might be PART of the painting somehow. I wanted to fully enter into it, to have it envelop me, swallow me up.
I suppose one could say that such experiences and feelings highlight our need to be connected to something bigger than ourselves, and our desire for God. And that is partially true. But in my life it also speaks to a pattern that has played itself out over and over again. The churning uneasiness with ourselves that makes us long to escape. Into art. Into unhealthy relationships. Into soul-tormenting religion.
Same song different verse a couple of years later: I was in communications with a protestant convent. They seemed to embody what I so desperately needed: assurance that God thought I was okay, and I wanted to live among them. The oh-so-wise sister whom I exchanged much correspondence with finally said to me: “You are trying to run away from something, and that is not what we are about here. You need to realize that God loves and accepts you the way that you are.” Easy enough, right?
In subsequent years I would be part of several groups and spiritual movements in my misguided attempt to find God’s will for me. The end result was always that I felt more disconnected from God, myself,and others. If we can judge things by their fruit, as the bible tells us to, than what I needed to do was curse that blasted fig tree of discontentment instead of expecting something different from it each season.
My mom gave me some advice once that I have remembered always and finally took to heart: “When you are deep in a hole, stop digging.”
In an effort to stop my purposeless excavating, several years ago I returned to the church of my youth. I needed to go back to the beginning. This was the church where I first felt the unconditional love of God, many years before, and had left because I felt it was too mainstream, and not spiritual enough.But it was within this church that I found gentle balance in the wisdom of a group of amazing older women with whom I met every week. They were just regular people who loved God and it showed in their love for me and each other. They were not bombastic, not trying to be on the cutting edge of anything, not weird. And their normalcy helped to create a sense of stasis in my spiritual life.
I was beginning to understand what it meant to be led by God and not driven. The gentle voice became more discernible, and I learned that following it led to healthy and loving outcomes. Perfect love indeed drives out fear. And I am now certain that when fear is driving me, it is NEVER the voice of God. Period.
And so here I am in my forties, still practicing balance in life and faith. While temptation for many may come in the form of desire for more things, that is not my particular Achilles’ heel. It is usually the more subtle, but deadly voice that says in some way that “Who and where you are is wrong. You are not doing enough, not being enough.”
I do know that there are needs to be met in the world. And I believe that we are all meant to reach out and love those around us. But that can only happen when we are present to ourselves and God. The famous “sending out” scripture for missionaries that was so ingrained in me at Camp Millet comes from Isaiah 6: “Here I am, send me!”
For so long the sending and going have been emphasized in the church. The result of this rush to do great things for God has been, in my experience, damaged ministers passing on unhealed concepts of God. In order to reach out in real love we must first truly be able to say HERE I AM, by fully inhabiting ourselves and our lives in love and gratitude.
This writing was inspired in part by the “Enough” posts at SheLoves and I am linking up with Emily for her wonderful new series “Dare to Love Yourself.”
