I’m forty so I’m old enough to say things like, ‘When I was
a boy, [insert simplistic critical anachronism here].’ And I’ve been a
Christian for almost three decades, so let me tell you, when I was a spiritual
boy, things were simpler. Back then, I meant it when I said, ‘Jesus is my best
friend.’
But now it seems more like Jesus lived and died a long time
ago, like I can no longer say, as I once did, that he and I ‘hang out.’ I do
still believe that he kicked death’s ass; that he is somehow, somewhere alive
and well. But – maybe I’m just getting old – Jesus doesn’t seem quite as chummy
as he once did.
I saw a cougar last night. My eyes hadn’t quite adjusted,
but I saw it, dimly, and I heard it move over the crusted snow, and I felt its
presence with the hair on the back of my neck. Maybe Jesus is more like that?
Like a mountain lion, out there in the dark, a predator, watching, more aware
of me than I am of him, and very unlikely to follow me back inside for a BFF
chat. True, there’s always the Holy Spirit, present and faithful, but I’ll curb
my urge to be theologically correct for the sake of this point: God often seems
just beyond my range of vision, like a suspicious silhouette in the shadows, ready to consume my selfish flesh in a thrashing if only I would
yield to the pain and overcome my basic instinct to make a run for it.
It’s Lent. And I should probably know more about what that
means, but here’s what little I do: it’s about the prep. Lent is a season of
preparation for Good Friday and Easter. That's doubtless a simplistic explanation, but it makes
sense to me. Because, really, if the incarnate Son of God willingly died by
public execution, then properly acknowledging that event wouldn’t be something
I could just stumble into. And same for Easter: if a man has been lynched and
killed and was consequently dead but nonetheless is alive again, that too would
be something I’d need a little lead-time to celebrate properly.
There’s one more thing I know about Lent: it seems usually
to involve some kind of self-imposed dietary restrictions or otherwise
uncomfortable penitential asceticism. Normally, I’m happy to dismiss such extremes
as vain attempts to impress God. And isn’t that convenient? me-so-friendly with
Jesus that I needn’t bother with legalistic rituals? and what’s on the tube tonight? and
please pass the chips?
The thought started as a side effect from a recent Twitter
hangover: maybe I’d be closer to Jesus if I tweeted less? (God help me, that
sounds trite. But look: the Pope got a Twitter account, and now – only a few
months later – he’s decided to abdicate. Just a coincidence?)
Now I’m thinking maybe I should take it up a notch. What about
skipping the whole internet? Giving-up Facebook would be too easy, like a
neighbour who quit broccoli a few years ago. And my erratic blog behavior
wouldn’t suffer for the interruption. Dropping Instagram might make some of my
more distant followers wonder what's become of me, but I doubt I’ll tumble into the abyss if I
don’t stay LinkedIn for a few weeks. I’m pretty sure I can still write a sermon
without the googles, and my phone, apparently, works as a telephone and not
just a mini-computer so hearing it ring with a call instead of just ding with push
notifications is a real possibility. I could set an automatic reply on my email
with something hip and not-too-holier-than-thou like, ‘Hey, it’s Lent. And this
is crazy. But here’s my number. So call me, maybe?’
What would happen to my spiritual night-vision if I stared
at screens a bit less? I might be getting too old for the Buddy Christ but maybe
my eyes could still adjust to the Lion of Judah. Granted, a few weeks offline
is not likely to be the existential flaying I might need, but it couldn’t
hurt.
Or, at least, I don’t think it could hurt.
It probably won’t
hurt. I’m pretty sure it won’t.
No, of course it won’t.
This won’t hurt, will
it?
