The Exhaustion of Faith

Not too long ago I was over at my parents’ house, spending time with my mother, as she recovers from surgery. The majority of our conversations have always been in the context of faith and our walks with God. This particular conversation is one we’ve had many times, in various forms: not giving up hope in God’s plan. I made a statement which has been heavy on my heart and mind ever since.

Faith is exhausting.

No one ever warned me about this. I’ve never heard anyone speak to the subject, even though the Bible has many scriptures which point exactly to this. Jesus says, in Matthew 11:28 (KJV), “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Why would Jesus provide a place of rest if He didn’t know we would become exhausted – that this world would burden us down and make us want to give up?

Isaiah 40:28 – 31 (KJV) is possibly one of the clearest passages on how much our Faith-walk can take out of us and the importance of staying connected to God. “28 Hast thou not known? hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the Lord, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither is weary? there is no searching of his understanding. 29 He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength. 30 Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall: 31 But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”

Strength cannot be renewed and rest is not found without a relationship with Jesus. “For I have satiated the weary soul, and I have replenished every sorrowful soul,” Jeremiah 31:25 (KJV).

“But ye, brethren, be not weary in well doing,” 2 Thessalonians 3:13 (KJV). Doing well can easily tire us out, otherwise the admonishment wouldn’t be necessary.

Galatians 6:9 says, “And let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.” Weariness = exhaustion.

These are just a few of the scriptures, which span the Old and New Testaments, pointing to the reality of Faith exhaustion. And each one gives a way to be replenished and renewed.

My frustration in thinking this all over is, it wasn’t until I put to words the struggle going on inside me that I was finally able to glean the scriptural help I’ve desperately needed, while dragging myself through the weariness and exhaustion, in shame. I – and others I’ve spoken to – have (wrongfully) seen the Faith exhaustion as something to hide, like a dirty secret. But – BUT – God KNEW we would become weary. He KNEW we would get tired and exhausted and run low. And He made a way of renewal, rest, and strengthening. It’s not shameful or wrong when these times come on us; it’s actually quite human of us. “But he that shall endure unto the end, the same shall be saved,” Matthew 24:13 (KJV). To endure means to “remain firm under suffering or misfortune without yielding.” What we do when the weariness and exhaustion hit is what matters.

Psalm 61:2 has carried me through many difficult times the last several years. When I’ve been at my most exhausted and feeling beyond empty and unable to go on, I’ve quoted this verse back to myself and back to God, seeking shelter and renewal. It reminds me it’s okay to cry and cry out. It tells me where I can find refuge. And it points me back to my Creator, when I’m too overwhelmed and worn out to find my way. “From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I.”

Standards

Merriam-Webster defines a standard as, “something set up and established by authority as a rule for the measure of quantity, weight, extent, value, or quality”.

On my way to church yesterday morning I was thinking about some events transpiring in my life and how I couldn’t justify them, because I live by a Standard. I began thanking God for a standard I didn’t create, for having a “box” to know my limitations and what is expected of me; to know, clearly, the best way to live and love and thrive. I had just told a friend earlier in the week, I needed to know the boundaries and expectations clearly, if our working together is to be successful. I don’t thrive in an infinite expanse of freedom – I’ll actually freeze up and become mentally paralyzed by the vast options and directions. And in that drive to church, mulling through my choices, seeing clearly the Standard set before me, I was grateful to have a clear direction.

In so many ways we talk about our personal standards and I’ve noticed how fluid they are. We raise our standards, lower our standards, throw them out the window, and change them. But a standard, by definition is a form of measurement. We don’t change what a foot or meter or mile measures, because we don’t like the length or distance of them, we adjust our plans and decisions to accommodate the measured length/distance required.

And yet…

This isn’t about bashing and beating people up. This is more a personal light bulb which lit up on a drive to church, on a Sunday morning. As a Christian, I claim I follow a Standard set up by God for His creation. In this context, God is the authority who set the Standard; the Bible is the guidebook to measure my life against and make sure I’m living accordingly. For some (many?) this may sound incredibly oppressive, however we live every day following others’ standards without question – jobs, banking, school, stores, driving, etc. All those things have standards attached to them and we, predominantly, function within them accordingly.

I love living by a rule of measurement that was designed by the Designer and Creator of everything. I have lived outside this Standard and within it, and walking holy is the most freeing, liberating, refreshing way to live. I don’t have a perfect life. I battle issues and worries and chronic illness and depression and I still say confidently: Holiness is right. The Standard is right.

The Standard doesn’t move, because I’m having an “off” day. The Standard doesn’t lower, because I’m lonely. The Standard doesn’t shift, because I want or don’t want to do something. The Standard doesn’t change for a virus. The Standard doesn’t change for racism. The Standard doesn’t change for wealth or lack of wealth. The Standard doesn’t change. It stands. We – people – are the ones who move away from the Standard.

In Tribute of Love

My parents have been married 17 years today.

I’m 31. The math isn’t hard. The dad I’ve been exponentially blessed with isn’t biological and that is the most insignificant drop of fact in the world. Dad is the definitive example of a man. He’s shown me how to be a lady, how a man should treat a woman, how not to settle for less. I have his personality- his stubbornness, his tenacity, his sense of humor, his nerdiness, his awkwardness, his type of passion for things that strike my fancy, his argumentativeness. Dad taught me to cook, sans recipe. The level of frustration we send my mom to when he and I get in the kitchen together knows no limit- she always asks what we added/did. We shrug our shoulders; we don’t know. We just create. I am his daughter to my core.

My Marmie and I tend to butt heads. We don’t see eye-to-eye. But she lets me be me. She cheers me on when I doubt my path. She holds me on the couch when I need a hug. She lets me cry and rant when I don’t know why I’m crying or ranting. Mom taught me how to love music, not in lessons and books, but with melodies and singing. My beautiful mother has experienced the shackles of oppression and hardship and poverty to, in the end, stand. She may be battle-scarred by the fight, but she still stands. Marmie has taught me to endure. She’s taught me faith. She’s taught me to seek God, to praise Him no matter how low things get. I’m a better woman because of her.

We live in a society that throws in our faces romance is dead, yet I still see grand gestures by a quiet man. The world has become tone-deaf and children grow up not knowing good music, but my ears are filled with beautiful melodies. Our pop-culture once celebrated marriage, now fights against it, but my parents are an humble beacon and example.

Happy Anniversary, mom and dad.

Lessons

Recently I was invited to answer a query by my high school journalism teacher: How many of us who took her journalism class and/or were on yearbook or newspaper staff had gone on to do something in the field of journalism after high school. I proudly posted what I do in new media. I love writing and working for Misfit Politics. I love the people I work with, and many times feel closer to them than anyone else in my life- even if we only see each other in the flesh a couple times a year. I love what I do. But there’s a part of me that doesn’t.

I’m still learning and there are seemingly no mentors to seek guidance from, so the learning process is taking some time. Sometimes I still feel new at the whole game. And that’s what it is- a game. For me, journalism was a way to tell the stories of life. I was taught to be a journalist was to tell the truth. Everyone has a story. Everyone. And it was my job to go out and find the story, write it, and share it. So when I started writing for Misfit Politics last year that was my goal- find and tell the stories of life, people, politics, America. And people were helpful at first. They offered advice and contact information and tech tips. It was great!

Then something changed. Or rather my perception changed. The seedy underside to political writing and new media surfaced. I’ve watched two people smile and hug then turn around and tear each other down to others. I’ve watched people who’ve not walked lock-step with a person who has more notoriety be verbally eviscerated in a public forum where they haven’t a chance of rebuttal. Personal vendettas are dragged onto public blogs. Misunderstandings blown out of proportion and dragged through podcasts. Jealousies traded. Scores never settled. Dirty laundry aired. And yet none of the parties involved will go to the other and settle whatever issues they have privately or maturely. Why? Who knows.

I won’t lie and say I haven’t changed. I have. That’s how life is. But I’m not fake. I have a big heart. I love people. I want to help. But I’ve become more cynical, less trusting, maybe a bit paranoid, and less likely to extend my hand if someone needs something. But I still hold to my original lessons on journalism. I’m here to tell the stories of life.