A few weeks ago, God brought to my attention that I have a worry problem. This was news to me. I’ve known worriers, and I don’t act like them. I’m not the kind who frets over how to pay an unexpected bill or tosses and turns, fearful for the future of my children. Even so, I see that I have a problem with worry. Here’s what happened:
First, in my Lenten devotional book, John Paul wrote about learning to depend on God; he compared the journey of Lent to the forty years of wandering in the wilderness. God provided their every need, but the people had no control over their provision. He finishes the thought by saying, “For the Hebrews, the experience of being totally dependent on God thus became the path to freedom.” I had never considered a connection between trust in God and freedom.
The next morning I was listening to Creflo Dollar preach, and the topic was trusting God. He talked about 1 Peter 5:7, “Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you” (NIV). Dollar described the usual kinds of worry for bills and children and health. And then he said something startling: “Worry is a perversion; carrying anything that you were not designed to carry is unnatural.”
That caught my attention! I’ve heard a number of things labeled “perversion” in my life, but worry was not one of them. I realized he is right: Scripture makes clear that we are not designed to carry worry and anxiety. Jesus is explicit that worry is not a part of the believer’s life (Matthew 6:25–34). Paul tells us to give everything over to God, and then we will experience the peace that passes understanding (Philippians 4:6–7).
So, as I was contemplating how to structure a new assignment for my students, the Holy Spirit gently said, “cast your care.” Driving to work and considering how to resolve a conflict with my wife, I was reminded to present it to God. My first thought was, “am I worrying?” I quickly realized the answer was yes. I don’t have to think about turning over my finances or my children to God; I know those things are best handled by Him. And I know that God cares about the little things as well, and I try to turn those over too. The “stuff” I know I can’t really handle is easy to give to God.
What I’ve realized in the past three weeks is that there’s a whole other category of “stuff” that I’ve been dealing with myself, and I shouldn’t be. I’m a teacher; I’ve got more than a dozen years of experience creating assignments, so I “know what I’m doing.” But does that mean I don’t seek God’s help? I’m reminded of Paul’s words: “but in every circumstance and in everything” (Philippians 4:6, AMP). Every doesn’t leave room for anything to be left out.
I suspect that this is how we come to “pray without ceasing.” With the Holy Spirit as our constant companion, we say, “How should I handle this?” and “What do I say to this person?” and “When is the best time to handle that situation?”
I’ve become much more aware both of my own desire to handle things and of God’s desire to relieve me of unnecessary burdens. And I’ve discovered that all burdens are unnecessary. I wasn’t designed to handle them, and God, the loving Father, is waiting to take care of them.
So what are you worrying about?
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from Lent and Easter Wisdom:
The greatest light comes from the commandment to love God and neighbor. In this commandment, human freedom finds its most complete realization. Freedom is for love: its realization through love can reach heroic proportions.–Pope John Paul II
In thinking about yesterday’s post, I see that part of Jesus’ agenda was love. To write that seems incredibly foolish in a sense–we say, “of course Jesus came to love.” And of course, Jesus said that people will know that we are His disciples by our love (John 13:35). I don’t know about you, but my love is not always so evident, and I don’t often hear teaching about love–God’s or mine. In the tradition I grew up in, Jesus came to save. In the tradition I moved into, Jesus came to heal and deliver. Now, I hear more about Jesus coming to bring abundant life and to empower.
All of these are true. But it seems to me that all of these are manifestations of–and secondary to–love. Jesus came to show us God in the flesh, available to see, hear, smell, touch, and taste. One of the remarkable things about Jesus’ ministry is the frequency of His touch. In some circles, laying hands on someone is a power transfer (and I believe it can be that). But obviously, Jesus didn’t need to touch someone to manifest the power to heal–the gospels provide a number of examples of Jesus healing at a distance. Jesus touching the lepers was about love, not power. There’s a moving scene in Kingdom of Heaven; the king of Jerusalem has died of leprosy, and his sister removes the silver mask that always covered his face. She blanches at the sight but then bends to kiss his horribly disfigured face. Or I think of my own impulse to kiss my child’s bloody knee–why else would I put my lips to a wound but love?
“God is love.“
“The greatest of these is love.“
“Love your neighbor as yourself.”
Knowing this is one thing; living it is something different altogether. Last Sunday, Chris finished a series on love and said that one of the tests of our love is how we respond when we are treated like a slave. That one’s stuck with me because it’s hard. When I’m controlled by my emotions, love manifests only when I feel it–and that ain’t very often! True love–the greatest of these–is costly because it’s calculated. It’s a choice. And it’s a choice I can make only if I’m truly free of my emotions and free of myself.
In His journey to Jerusalem, Jesus chose love, and not just at the end when He chose death. Early in the journey, as He left Jericho, Bartimaeus called out to Jesus for healing. Luke tells us that “Those who led the way rebuked him and told him to be quiet” (18:39). Was that the disciples, focused only on the destination? Jesus stopped, put His destination aside, and restored the man’s sight.
Teddie gave a good illustration yesterday of the tunnel vision shown by those who rebuked Bartimaeus. She took a napkin and stuffed it in a cardboard tube. Outside the tube, the napkin is free to fulfill its function. Inside the tube, it’s bound up, restricted, pretty useless. Looking from the perspective of the napkin, not much can be seen–the confining walls of the tube, a little bit of the world outside. How easy it is to miss the opportunities–the cries–for love when we see so little. Truly, love requires freedom: freedom from selfishness, freedom from emotion; freedom to choose.
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