But some days, that blessed person and I are very different. Other days, I hear the Word, but what I hear does not take root in me. I rejoice when I hear it. When I hear of the courage of the martyrs, I desire to be like them. When I hear of the saints, I long to pray like them. I want to live clinging to Christ as they did.
Yet after making such resolutions, when I return to my daily life, the self-centered structure of my habits begins to choke my resolve. It becomes heavy. My old identity, my old habits, my old self rise up and resist the new identity that follows Christ. Thinking about it exhausts me. My heart melts. Even though the Word stirs me, the thorns are many. Slowly, I abandon my new identity. I slip back into my old ways.
As people say, “Better the genie you know than the angel you don’t.” Instead of embracing the unfamiliar way of living in Christ, I choose my old genie—my selfishness, my desire for honor, my craving for attention, my pride, my harshness, my stubbornness, my irritability, and so on. Even if my genie is bad, she is mine. Without her, I struggle to know myself. The Word has no root in me; it does not sprout; it does not bear fruit. My self-love gives no soil for the Word to grow. I hear it, then I abandon it.
Some days, I hear the Word and delight in it. I hold it in my heart. I begin to do good. For a week, my thoughts revolve around it alone. My prayer book lifts me up. The seven fasts strengthen me. I feel compelled to fast in the feasting months, to do gazillion prostrations, to go to church twice a day, etc. When fasting approaches, even my refrigerator trembles, for I am thoroughly cleaning it up! I leave behind my old life, count my sins one by one, and enter repentance. I even wonder why people do not repent, like me; why they do not serve God with zeal, like me. I rise to admonish them, to correct them. My zeal scorches everyone around to make everyone like me. I give advice without being asked. I go around instructing people on how they should live, until they call me “God’s police.”
I imagine myself as “the defender of the Church,” “the fighter for truth,” “the guardian of righteousness.” But in reality, I am trying to shape my surroundings into my own image. If people do not listen, my frustration reaches them; or my anger burns them; or my sarcasm wounds them. (In my mind, I do all this “for God” and “for the Church.”)
I feel confident in what I am doing. Yet after a while, this way of living becomes difficult. When my zeal cools and I grow weary of church life, my worldly concerns return—my own issues, my family’s issues, my children’s issues, my country’s issues, my relatives’ issues. I struggle to believe that God’s way can protect my life or the life of those whom I consider as mine, my tribe. So I turn toward the world.
I take revenge on my enemies. I cheat. I chase. I deceive. I steal. I invent excuses to avoid moments of reflection—birthdays, baptisms, weddings, funerals, and so on. My life is filled with thorns.
Those who hear “church,” “Christianity,” or “Christ” from me look at my life and see only worldly thorns. They say, “If Christianity is this thorny, keep it away from me.”
But there are other days—days like today—when I come to church to hear and hold the Word, when I do not want to leave after hearing it, when I open my heart to bear fruit, when I ask God to give me eyes that see Him and ears that hear only His voice.
On such a day, my whole being is offered to God. My ears hear His Word. My mouth says, “Holy, Holy, Holy,” and again responds, “Lord, have mercy; Lord, forgive us; Lord, be gracious to us.”
I say, “Lord, I am not worthy for You to enter under my roof, but without You I have no life. Give me this bread and cup of life; enter into me and give me life; make me bear fruit; make me one with my brothers and sisters in one bread and one cup.”
This is my fruitful day. A day when the fruits of patience, prayer, humility, and love for others appear in me.
The purpose of my life is to make this day the day of all my days.
