I recently read an article written by an Orthodox Christian theologian who talked about “giving up God for Lent.” His position was that he has, and continues, to spend a lot of time defining God, worshipping the God of his “rigid ideologies [and] complacent Theology… who validates his unwillingness to explore heresies and rewards him for arrogantly dismissing them as sinful; the God who grounds his intellectual arrogance in His omniscience, and his politics in His omnipotence…”
The article was an excellent reminder of how often we create God in our own image, a deity who conveniently confirms our passion for being right and corroborates with us in our own righteousness. The author goes on to say that this is a God who is nothing more than an idol of Modernism, and is dead. The urging is to meditate on a God who, try as we might, is ultimately a mystery. The suggestion is to look for a God who is more complex than we imagine, who is more magnificent than we can grasp, and who is more powerful and present than even the most religious of us can discern.
I don’t know about you, but the truest way that I have found to let go of the God of my imagining is to settle in prayer and silence. Whenever I am able to let go of God in my image, I find that a space within me is cleared just for the God who truly is. And in that space, I find a restfulness that no longer seeks to have definitive answers, and I find my longing for God is satisfied.
Sometimes people take on a new discipline for Lent. It is a worthy endeavor, and even more so if it moves us to a deeper connection with God, so I invite you to find some silence in your day for the purpose of letting go of your preconceived ideas of God in order to meet the God who truly made you and loves you beyond all measure.
Lori
“For Lent, 1966” by Madeleine L’Engle
It is my Lent to break my Lent,
To eat when I would fast,
To know when slender strength is spent,
Take shelter from the blast
When I would run with wind and rain,
To sleep when I would watch.
It is my Lent to smile at pain
But not ignore its touch.
It is my Lent to listen well
When I would be alone,
To talk when I would rather dwell
In silence, turn from none
Who call on me, to try to see
That what is truly meant
Is not my choice. If Christ’s I’d be
It’s thus I’ll keep my Lent.