Toward the Garden

The institutional church calls these weeks before Easter the season of Lent; I call them a struggle. There is such a storm swirling in my spirit currently, I expect this will prove to be one of the most poignant, troubled, and, perhaps, productive Lenten journeys of my life.

You will notice that “productive” is the only adjective in any way modified in the previous sentence, meaning that I am fairly certain only about the season’s troubled poignancy. Why that certainty? Because my struggle is so profound. Because I’m asking really hard questions — of myself, likely; for God’s response, preferably — and finding very few answers.

Here’s a taste:

“Why have you put me on this road? Don’t you know, can’t you see my failings? There are hundreds, probably millions better suited for what you’re asking me to do.”

“Or perhaps you’re not calling me at all. Maybe I’m just a bad reader of your tea leaves. I assume you’re not so dastardly as to mislead me, so if there’s mistake, it’s mine. But how am I supposed to figure that out?”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to have rain falling from so many directions? It doesn’t matter how I turn, there is some part of me exposed to the storm. Was that part of your design? If so, just want you to know, it’s working.”


The questions I actually shout to God specify settings and circumstances, of course – more detail than my comfort zoning laws permit at the moment. As Joe Friday of “Dragnet” fame might say, only the names have been removed to protect the deficient.

It’s a risky business, this piece. Readers who don’t know me may question the value of such cloaked confession. The curious, regardless of their connection, may speculate about the underlying culprits. Some may just want to fix it, whatever “it” is.

People in tune with my agenda, however, will receive my words as permission for their own struggles. I don’t want you to heal me; I want you to join me. I don’t want you to fix my failings; I want you to identify your own.

Identify, but don’t expect to fix. It’s worth remembering that from the river Jordan’s baptismal waters Jesus doesn’t rise to head straight for Jerusalem’s cross; and in Gethsemene’s garden, Jesus makes three trips to the prayer chapel before he faces his crucifying accusers. If it took Jesus a while to piece his life together, we shouldn’t surprised by our struggles.

I wish there were a quicker, simpler, less painful way to wrestle with life, but there doesn’t seem to be. It seems the only way to get through storms is to hang on, wake up the master, and then learn from what he tells you – which is likely to have something to do with faith, and your lack of it. In fact, as I write this paragraph I hear the Spirit’s still small voice asking why I am no more trusting than I am. “I think you call it practicing what you preach,” says that pesky presence. No, Spirit. Right now I call it a pain.

I can’t know your struggles, or whether you have any. Whatever your circumstance, I wish for you a profound journey to the cross. I pray you will ask lots of questions, cry more than a few tears, let go of some long-cherished but misguided ideas, and discover that you wouldn’t be where you are without the one who’s prodding you along toward where you’re headed, wherever that is. If I do all that myself, maybe I’ll remove “perhaps” from this post’s first paragraph; maybe. But until then, it’s back to the questions and tears and....


Pray with me:
God, you sent Jesus...to die. Now you want to send me...to do only you know what. Make it clear. Speak it loud. Address my confusion. Get me in and out of my “garden” quickly..........or not. In the name of Jesus, Amen.