Sunday, March 16, 2008

Surrender

I want to share here something I wrote in my journal this morning. I'm sharing it because it's important, but it's hard, too. It's messy. It's painful. It's forcing me into deep and quiet places. If over this next week, I don't have much to say here, this is why.


Surrender: to give oneself up, as into the power of another; submit or yield. (www.dictionary.com)

I’ve spent the last two and a half days rediscovering just exactly how bad I am at surrender. I’ve tried arguing, negotiation, ignoring, baiting, avoiding, and running in the opposite direction. None of them worked.

You see, there are things that Jesus is asking of me right now that I don’t like. Things that scare me – terrify me actually. There is a slow shattering that is occurring that I find frightening and painful. There seems to be the promise of freedom in it, but it has seemed that freedom only comes at a cost so high I’ve not been sure I’m willing to pay it.

I went alone to Palm Sunday Mass last night. Traveled downtown to the cathedral where I attended mass in high school. I picked the cathedral because I knew there would be enough people in attendance that I could slip in and out anonymously. Just me, and time with the Lord, in a corporate setting that would also allow me the freedom of my own thoughts. I went alone, because I somehow knew that I wouldn’t want to talk with anyone once it ended.

So I sat, and stood, and knelt and sang. I accepted the strips of palm leaves that someone handed me. I prayed, and wished “peace be with you” on those around me. And I listened and was caught off guard by what I heard. I wasn’t expecting the Passion to be the topic of discussion. Protestants talk about the triumph on Palm Sunday – the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, with the crowds giving praise. We talk about the triumph and we leave it there. The triumph was hardly mentioned. What caught me deeply off guard was the long, responsorial reading of the gospel passage. Three readers at the front, a narrator, a voice, and Jesus, with occasional parts for the whole congregation to join in. So we read, from the entry into Jerusalem, through the breaking of bread at Passover, through the suffering and arrest in the garden, through the trials and the whipping and the crucifixion. And as I dutifully followed along, I was caught off guard by the part the congregation was asked to read. We played the role of the crowd – the accusers. The ones demanding the release of Barrabas, and shouting “Crucify Him”. And it hit me that I am part of that crowd in a way that it has never hit me before. That I stand there, sinful. That Jesus shed his blood for me. And that I am fighting against the will of the one who was willing to die in my place.

I reflected in my journal last night that for the first time in my life I am dreading the journey through Holy Week. I usually find it enjoyable. Well, enjoyable may be the wrong word to use, but I generally find it to be a week of positive reflection. As I look into this coming week, I see nothing but images of shed blood, of broken bodies, of my own heart finally and completely shattering. And I dread the coming pain.

Surrender, I’m discovering is not an easy or painless thing. It is rarely bloodless or tidy. It is the thing that comes after the battle, when the losing side is too weak to carry on, and the cost in lives would be too high to let the battle carry on. It is not a place of negotiation. You can ask for the conditions you desire, but you ask from a position of weakness. You’ve lost, and the victor holds the power in the negotiation.

It’s taken me two and a half days of fighting to find a place of surrender. To reach a place of crying out to Jesus that I need Him to once again set me free, and that I’ll go where He asks and do what He requests in order that I may find that freedom. It happened at 8:10 this morning, after a night passed in alternating bouts of arguing and sleep. In dreams and uncertainties, and pain and anger and tears. One line from a David Crowder Band song came through my head, and I cried it out to the Lord, “Deliver me.” I saw an immediate picture, of a strong leather strap wrapped around me snapping, and four things flew into the air and away from me.

I’m still dreading Holy Week. I dread the lecture I’m attending tonight, that I know will draw me deeper into a place of brokenness on behalf of the world. I dread the moments of hunger. I dread all the other moments I know are coming. The body broken and the blood poured out. But in that dread I see beauty forming. I see the hope of resurrection, of new life. I see myself being pulled deeper, and I am thankful.

5 comments:

Shelley said...

love this...thanks for the courage to share. broken and poured out for the world, what better way is there to spend Holy Week. praying for you. s

Drew said...

lisa, thank you for our candor and courage. God manifest's himself through you in your reverence and sensitivity to his son's work on the cross. the shedding of blood is a brutal, horrible thing. Jesus was filled with agony and anguish, no doubt, on our behalf. his road was lonely and painful in those last days...

yet...

hebrews 12.2

Lisa said...

Shel...
thanks for reading. broken and poured out for the world indeed. glad we got to start Lent together in Rome, and glad we get to walk out this holy week together too. praying for you too.

Drew...
thanks for stopping by. For the joy set before him indeed. Love the passage and grateful for the reminder.

Unknown said...

from kierkegaard's wikipedia page:

"...dread is a way for humanity to be saved as well. Anxiety informs us of our choices, our self-awareness and personal responsibility, and brings us from a state of un-self-conscious immediacy to self-conscious reflection... An individual becomes truly aware of their potential through the experience of dread. So, dread may be a possibility for sin, but dread can also be a recognition or realization of one's true identity and freedoms."

Lisa said...

love that quote... thanks Kirk!