Giving Up

 

I just read an FB post on the topic of Lent, in which the author suggests taking some risks in one’s spiritual practice as an alternative to the habitual and comfortable practice of “giving up” something for Lent.

Several times in the past I facetiously (but honestly) considered giving up church for Lent. When I told people that, they would laugh as if I were being ironic. I never corrected their mistake. Now that I’ve been unchurched now for over a year, I can no longer use it as a joke, especially since I didn’t actually give it up for Lent; I gave it up because the elephant in the room that everyone else was ignoring had squeezed me into a corner, and I couldn’t breathe. But that’s another story…

This pandemic has unwillingly unchurched us all, in spite of our dogged efforts to pretend that “virtual church” is a workable substitute. It’s not only unchurched us, but severed us from the living, breathing joy of simple human company. We haven’t yet felt the full pain of that bereavement, as it goes on withering our hearts. But that’s yet another story….

 

Reading that post about Lent just now, I got snagged by the phrase "giving up," and I suddenly heard it in the context of "giving up the fight," or possibly that of a fugitive "giving themselves up" to the pursuing lawful authorities.

 

I decided that will be my Lenten theme this year, to “look over the precipice” and take the risk of asking myself these questions:

What battles have I been fighting that I am never going to win? What bloody ground shall I choose to carry my white flag over?

What inevitable accounting have I been fleeing from? What black-robed judgment lies in wait to call me on the carpet?

Here’s a realization that just rolled over me like the proverbial bus: I don’t know how to give up. (Can a person throw themselves under the bus?)

And what about “giving in” versus “giving up”?  What’s the difference?

I mean, we’ve all ended futile disagreements by saying, “I give up!” and we all know what it’s like to be badgered to the point of saying, “I give in.”

 

But what does all this mean in the domain of God?

Well, I think it might have to do with how stormy the weather is, how muddy the road is, and whether we’ve ignored the plain instructions we’ve been given:  to take nothing for the trip except a walking stick — no bread, no pack, no money, not even an extra shirt.

To travel without a destination; without an itinerary; without baggage; without money; without even a change of clothes— there’s a lot to argue about here. Lots of excuses. Lots of “what ifs” that sound so reasonable and practical when you come right down to it.

 

Nevertheless, I was surprised to realize that it’s perfectly possible to surrender without even knowing what battle I’ve been fighting, and to give in without ever knowing what it is I’ve been resisting.

 

 

 

 

It doesn’t matter how much blood is on the ground.

It doesn’t matter how tall the baleful magistrate’s bench is.

 

It doesn’t matter who wins, when I’ve only been fighting myself.

 

This white flag stands for a lot of things—

but I don’t need to list them all.

 

I’ll just tie it to my walking stick and trust myself not to open fire.