The night before my thirtieth birthday (a couple weeks ago) was tough. The kids were asleep, my husband was traveling for work, and alone with my feelings, I felt very low.
I felt ugly. I felt unsuccessful. I felt disappointed in myself for my lack of discipline. Here I was at 30, and by arbitrary self-expectations, I was supposed to be a grownup by now, but I have so many failures and there’s just no excuse for them.
I sat down to pray. I’m pretty sure I have ADHD, so by “praying” I mean I scrawled out thoughts to God in a journal. I just spilled my guts to Him. Some of my flaws are just personality quirks, but some of my struggles are genuinely sinful things that hurt people. So I just laid it all out there. It felt good to do that.
Then I smelled something. It wasn’t something that was actually in the room, but it was the a very strong memory of a smell. What was it? I paused, then it hit me: unscented candles. Lots of them. Suddenly a familiar sense of peace washed over me.
Let me go back a little.
Liturgy of Forgiveness
Everyone has their own routines and ways of doing things. The fancy word for this is “liturgy.” (See the awesome book Liturgy of the Ordinary by Tish Harrison Warren.)
Many people start their Sunday mornings with a big plate of pancakes, a casual stroll, and an afternoon of catching up on housework before the week begins.
All churches have their own routines of what you might expect for how your Sunday morning is spent. Maybe it’s two fast songs, one slow song, the sermon, then two more songs.
Our church has an order or routine. We say scriptures out loud, we sing a song or two praising God for who He is, then the mood turns a little more somber. We sit down and spend some time in silence, talking to God and confessing sin. We grieve for our hurting neighbors, and we grieve ways that we might’ve contributed to their pain. We acknowledge the dark parts of our hearts. It’s sad. We sing the song that says “Lord, have mercy.”
Then the person who is leading the liturgy jubilantly reads a scripture about Christ and what He’s done for us, how He’s dealt with our sin already and proven Himself victorious over the darkness in us. He or she then tells us, “Beloved, Christ is risen and your sins are forgiven!” And everyone in the congregation says “Thanks be to God!”
Then it’s time for “the passing of the peace,” when we simply hang out with each other and celebrate that we get to have the peace of God because of what Jesus has done for us. It’s quite sweet. Then the service continues, and we have communion—symbolically remembering that Christ broke His body and shed His blood for us. At the end, we all lift up our hands as if we’re receiving something, and the leader at the front reminds us of promises that God has made for us. We’re sent off with a blessing and we feel full.
This happens every single Sunday. Every single Sunday, no matter how my week was, I can be confident that as long as I just show up, I will hear good news. It’s not that the liturgy activates God’s grace for us or that Jesus only forgives our sins if we pray a certain prayer. It’s not that the leaders who say the things have any special powers to bless or forgive. I just really don’t think God intends for things to be that complicated.
But, as a child, I have a whole room of people reminding me that my Father is pleased with me and loves me. And that is pretty powerful.
I Get to Participate
On Easter Sunday (a week before my birthday), I was feeling decidedly un-spiritual. Since I was 13, I’ve woken up hungry for God’s Word, but over the past couple years, I’ve struggled more. (And my emotions have been consequently less anchored.) Some circumstances have felt so big and all-consuming. And—as previously mentioned—I’ve been disappointed with myself.
But none of that mattered on Easter because Jesus is alive whether I’ve got it together or not.
Throughout the first song, each person in the congregation came up, took a flower, and put it on a cross that had been covered with wires. It was such a beautiful, pleasing thing for the senses and the spirit. You could tell that everyone, young and old, enjoyed getting to participate in this loveliness.
This experience took my breath away because I got to participate. I felt so spectacularly like a failure that morning, but whether I came to church as a perfectly self-disciplined, put-together person, or a person who has never run a mile and is less organized than my six-year-old, the hope and joy of Jesus’s resurrection is for me. It never began with me, it’s never sustained by me. But it’s for me. He is for me.
What Did I Expect?
So back to the night before my birthday.
I confessed my sins to God and suddenly smelled unscented candles.
It’s because it’s ingrained in my mind and habits that it’s good to be honest with God about my failings because I can always follow up those sad truths with even better, truer, and very happy truths. After I confess my sins, I’m reminded of God’s mercy. It’s for me. I get to participate!
Jesus didn’t come for the healthy, but for the sick. If we are aware of our need for His help, that’s not worst-case scenario. Easter wouldn’t exist if I was good enough on my own and didn’t know Him. That’s why He came. Jesus is honestly there for me, and He doesn’t need anything from me. My choice is whether I enjoy Him and partner with Him or not.
I write all this to share that liturgy is amazing. I’m a non-conformist who despises tradition for the sake of tradition, but now I see that having these rhythms once a week can truly shape my whole life. (It makes me wonder about how the intentional and unintentional routines in my home affect us!)
On that night, I felt much better about my own sins and weaknesses because I was honest with God and honest with myself, and I honestly felt His help and acceptance.
I hope this encourages you wherever you find yourself!
Love,
Hope