Growing into our Faith

“You’ll grow into it,” was my mother’s constant refrain when I looked at her through the mirror in the clothing store, pleading with my facial expression not to buy the pants that felt like pantaloons. Just once, I wondered, could I get clothes that fit? They’d be so comfortable, I imagined. I wouldn’t need to grow.

I remembered this frequent occurrence when a preacher spoke of God giving us “a crown to grow into.” I’d never heard the life of faith described in such a way, but it made me think of those times with my mother. Like then, we need to be willing to put on a faith that doesn’t fit, one we need to grow into. It means looking silly. It means being uncomfortable. I suppose, those are the prices of growth. 

How much better would it be to wear a faith that fit? We could finally be comfortable and not need to grow. We wouldn’t have to change the way we live or think. We could go to church and never feel uncomfortable. We could sit in the pew and not think anything new. (No wonder people love singing, Give me that old-time religion.) We could watch the news, talk with friends, and only affirm what we already believe. Oh, how much easier that would be!

But I know, deep down, that we were born to grow. Because we worship “a God who passes all understanding,” how can we possibly expect to remain where we are, spiritually? And yet that is what we so often desire, and what we too often do. 

So, today, I’m going to put on shoes that cause my feet to slide, pants that scrunch when I pull my belt tight, and shirts that force me to roll up my sleeves. I’ll have to live with the funny way I look, and the uncomfortable way I feel, knowing that I’ll grow into them, just like my mother, and the preacher, said.

Random Details

It began with a collection of random details: a faun, an umbrella, a sledge, and a lion (whom he first encountered in a nightmare). From them, C. S. Lewis began to tell a story that became The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. He did not set out to tell a story to explain Christianity, as I once thought. Instead, he told a story and through that story, through the random details, people have heard the story that is beyond, or beneath, all stories.

I found this information about the creation of a book I love fascinating. It did not take away from the power of the story. In fact, it added to it.

As much as our egos would love to have us believe we are the masters of our destinies, the authors of our lives, I believe, in the end, our lives are a series of random details. That is not to say they are meaningless. Quite the opposite. What I learned about C. S. Lewis and the writing of his classic tale is that through random details can come a story of profound meaning. Through our stories we can see and hear another story, the story that is beyond, or beneath, all stories.

Many mornings, I attend a meeting where those in attendance share details from their lives. On the surface, they can sound random, sordid, and far from what we sometimes call “sacred.” And yet, from those random details, out of the stories, one can hear another story, a story of forgiveness, undeserved love, grace and genuine humility. When it happens, it’s beyond inspirational.

What’s so moving, though, is not the random details, but the story that comes from them, through them. Fauns, umbrellas, sledges and lions can become so much more. So can DWI’s, lost jobs , and broken relationships. So can a phone call, written note, and a chicken pot pie. The ordinary can become extraordinary, much like bread and wine.

As I write this, sitting on the patio of my studio enjoying a beautiful fall morning, I hear a gentle breeze swirling around me. Looking up, I see that what I hear is not the wind but the sound of the leaves as the wind blows through them. Perhaps that’s what happened when C. S. Lewis wrote his story. Maybe that’s what happens as we live our lives.

Choppy Water

The summer after my father died, my mother rented a house on a New Hampshire lake. When I arrived, it was windy, the water choppy and grey. Only after the winds calmed did the lake settle, revealing clear water through which I could see rocks, sunken logs and fish below. Looking back, I can see a valuable lesson the 20-year-old could not.

Long before that summer, I had formed habits of emotional protection which I can only describe as perpetual motion. I reasoned that if I kept moving, rushing around like the wind, I could keep the waters of my life choppy and would never have to look beneath the surface.  I also thought such frenetic activity made me seem confident and interesting, but what I was, was frightened beyond words. I didn’t want to look at the hurts and insecurities lying submerged like rocks, so I kept the winds blowing. 

I’d like to say that 40 years later I’m a placid contemplative wonderment, but the fact is I still revert to old habits from time to time. Looking around me, I can see I’m not alone. The ways to stir the waters are countless: we spend our days glued to our phones, attended every game our childen play, and accept every invitation. We devote ourselves to our work, our church, or some political cause, so we won’t have time to look beneath the surface of our lives.

Keeping the water choppy can make us feel better, more secure, or more interesting, but it’s also exhausting. 

When I feel the breezes blowing, and the whitecaps remind me of my fear of looking below, I try to remember the lake in New Hampshire. Then, maybe, I’ll step back, breathe, and let the waters settle. Perhaps then I’ll know what the psalmist meant when he spoke of sitting beside still waters.

It doesn’t come naturally, but new life rarely does.