“What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this dying body?” The Apostle Paul, Romans 7:24
I’ve been hateful lately. A hypocrite and slanderer. Annoyed with the people I’m meant to love. Easily offended, impatient, and unkind. Judgmental, and happy to tell you all about it. I’ve felt “at capacity.”
It’s a tricky season. On the one hand, merriment and festivity. On the other, extra stuff. Extra traffic. Extra busy-ness. Extra family. And sometimes extra disappointment when the holidays don’t look like they do in the movies. Unless the movie is National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, in which case, when it DOES look like the movies.
I have known the Lord for thirty-three years, so I have learned that when I behave this way, it means I haven’t spent enough time with Him. As the preacher Ivan Tait says, “you smell like the place you dwell.”
Intellectually, I recognized my problem. It wasn’t hard to diagnose. And so, over the past few weeks I’ve made a point to check in with the Lord. To let Him know that I messed up, and I needed help. I also listened to sermons about love and patience. And I talked with other Christians about my problem.
But it didn’t fix it.
So I committed a day to it. I got the kids off to school, and then I stopped the clock. I gathered my worship playlist and my Bible, and I got quiet. Right at first, a flood of tasks came to mind, reasons to get up and get busy. But I was in dire need of change, so I didn’t give in. I committed to sit until I had dealt with me. And in that quiet place, I played “Clear the Stage” by Jimmy Needham. That song gets me every time. I went all in.
Now, in my years of parenting, I’ve observed that there are three levels to discipline. (1) At the lowest end, and arguably not discipline at all, is “the quick fix.” This is the moment Mitchell brings me his sticky hand, or a dirty diaper, and points to the issue like, “Fix this, so I can get back to what I was doing.” This requires minor intervention on my part, and very little from the child. (2) The next level, “correction,” is the moment I point out a child’s error with the expectation that the child change his behavior. Depending on where we are, or what the error is, this may be all that is required. (3) But then there is a next level— the highest level— what I call the “breaking point.”
The breaking point is very easy to get wrong. To start with, parents can misjudge when it’s necessary, either not thinking it’s needed when it is, or thinking it’s needed when it isn’t. Secondly, parents can bring too heavy a hand to bear on it, hoping to force it, or speed it up. This strips away the child’s ability to arrive at it on their own, which in turn plants seeds of rebellion rather than repentance. This does more harm than good. Thirdly— and the most tricky— parents can misread a breaking point. They think they’re seeing one because the child cries or shows signs of remorse, but really the child’s heart is far from it. Or, the parent can want it to be one, and so they call it one, when really it is the parent who is at her breaking point. And so, the parent hoists the white flag over the whole thing, and calls it a win. This is the worst possible outcome. I’ve learned that children smell fear in leadership, and will exploit it. Tiny Napoleons, they will come again to attack tomorrow at the weak point in the gate.
But the breaking point— when it is right— is the sweet spot of parenting. It is when the child truly regrets their action, and in that moment, a child’s heart is open and tender. They are soft toward their parent. They don’t just invite you into their vulnerability, they crave you to join them there. They want to hear your words of love, acceptance, and wisdom applied like a balm over their wounds. They are humbled, and in that intimacy, their character is forged, as is their relationship to you. For certain sins, the breaking point is the only way through.
I realized, in my quiet place, that this was what was missing in my own life. Sitting there with Jesus, I understood that all these weeks I’d been going to Him like Mitchell with a sticky hand. “Fix this,” I’d say. But I never really brought him my open, broken heart. I’d been telling Him what was wrong, but I’d not invited Him to tell me anything in return.
The holidays, for Christians, are all about Jesus, aren’t they? We donate, give, bake, serve, share, sing, and attend church. We are so busy about Him. But I can’t help but think of Isaiah chapter 1, when God calls out to His rebellious children, “Who demands this trampling of My courts?”
They easily could have answered, “You do!” and been right. He had ordered the sacrifices, festivals, offerings, and assemblies. And clearly, by His own admission, they were doing all of it, as asked, and lifting their hands in “countless prayers.” But God saw that behind it all, their heart was very, very sick. They needed a breaking point.
In two thousand years, not much has changed. We are still too busy–too “at capacity”– unable to really make room for Him. There’s often no space in our day-to-day for the hard, messy business of deliverance. Or like Martha, we’ve invited Him into our home, laid out the red carpet, and made Him a meal, but we can’t seem to sit still long enough to really shut out the distractions and listen. But if at any point, I am once again busy about Jesus— sermons, fellowship, charity— but can’t remember the last time He brought me to my knees, I need to S T O P.
Get alone, and worship, until the act of worshipping brings humility. Rest in that humility, until I am truly repentant, until the Spirit shows me every lie, and every idol, and every sin. Repent, and let Him speak into every one of my wounds, offenses, and unforgiveness, until I hit my breaking point. Until I remember beyond any doubt that He loves me, and you, more than His own life, and couldn’t be any closer to me than He is in that moment. Until He gives me His heart, the deep and vast and infinite resource of love that bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Until I am reminded of how it is He loves me, so ugly, vile and cruel, and how then in turn I might love even the ugliest of others.
What a beautiful irony He wrote, when He decided salvation couldn’t be arrived at intellectually. And that it couldn’t be earned with good works. When He decided it didn’t get you anywhere to be powerful, or rich, or talented. When He determined it wasn’t going to be easy. When He sent a tender, crying baby into a cold, dark night– into a cold, dark world– to a people that had no more space for Him then than now, and asked that we make room. He asked the kings to come from afar, and the shepherds to come from the fields. And to un-busy ourselves. Get quiet. And listen, willing to break.