Tangled Holy Week

This week, this Holy Week, the voice of fear is loud.  I find myself tangled in memories, in questions, and the question that fear screams loudest, the question that echoes larger and encompassing of all others is this: Could this really be God?

Could this change of direction, this pull towards conversion, this thing that goes so against all that I was brought up with, could it really be God?

Does He speak only in part? What of the myriad of times I’ve heard him, and the ways that things have changed since then? What about calls to missions, about all those moments of certainty on my part?  And what if God is really and truly in the uncertainty? What if it really is a whisper, a voice saying “this is the way, walk in it?” A need to listen each and every day, each and every moment for that voice.

And how does this encompass the mystical experiences, the belief that I really do hear God speak, that he does give mission and direction.  What about tongues and prophecy and encounters with things I don’t see with my physical eyes? How do those things fit here?

I’m afraid…

Afraid of my family’s reaction if I announce this thing that is developing with a growing certainty within me.

Afraid of the high cost.

Afraid of the uncertainty, the unknowing, the vague path laid out in front of me.

Afraid of the growing certainty that this is the thing Jesus asks of me.

Afraid that the rest of my life will be entirely defined by these tensions.  And afraid that it won’t.

And so this is Holy Week, and I feel tangled up in these things.  Caught in the spiritual things that I sense but can’t put words to.  Caught in the ongoing sense of onslaught as I move forward. Caught in the memories of Malta, and of the Holy Week that followed – the week where I fasted and prayed, and so much of my life at the time began to fall apart.

And yet, five years later, deconstruction seems to be being replaced. And that feels tangling too.  Maze like, this journey I seem to be walking.  And my heart aches amidst it.

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