by Marie Matter
It is a truth universally acknowledged by all parents that one’s house is never cleaned faster, more efficiently, and less effectively than in the 15 minutes before guests are coming over.
Having young children – I have a four-year old daughter and a two-year old son – means that even when the house is truly clean, there is a low-level hum of chaos in the air. So, when a guest is on their way, we go into what I call “looks clean mode.” “It doesn’t have to be clean, it just has to look clean” is a sentence I’ve said more times than I’d like to admit.
While this is a ridiculous but harmless mantra when it comes to tidying up, it’s also true that, all too often, I ascribe to this very idea in my spiritual life. I don’t have to be patient, I just have to look patient. I don’t have to be forgiving, I just have to look forgiving. I don’t have to be holy, I just have to look holy.
The practice of Lent doesn’t allow me such delusions. It’s not a quick fix, it’s not “looks clean mode.” It’s a spiritual deep clean, a stripping away of the grime I’ve allowed to build up in my soul. Moving through Lent, fasting from things that numb or placate, allows that grime to soften and scrub away. It’s not comfortable or particularly enjoyable. It is part of a process that can hurt, that can be embarrassing, that can be shameful. And yet, it’s also a process of being made new.
Psalm 127 opens, “Unless the Lord builds the house, those who build it labor in vain… It is in vain that you rise up early and go late to rest, eating the bread of anxious toil; for he gives to his beloved sleep.” Oof. Could it be that striving for “looks clean” in my spiritual life is what’s causing exhaustion and anxiety? I think that’s at least part of what Solomon is getting at here. And so it’s in this practice of Lent, this stepping back from the “bread of anxious toil,” I’ve chosen to build my house with, that I can find rest leading to restoration.
Following Christ is a continuous journey toward being – not merely looking – like him. In order to truly have a thriving, dynamic spiritual life with Christ, I must shift my priorities toward the pursuit of the kingdom of God, the pursuit of righteousness. I must acknowledge, accept, and surrender to Jesus coming into the home of my soul, running his hand along the shelf, and seeing all the dust and dirt I’ve exhausted myself trying to hide. Being a Christian doesn’t mean being spiritually ready for guests, but rather requires adopting the humility of a hospitality that invites God into our mess, knowing that he not only sees it, but is also the only one able to come alongside us to and get to work cleaning it up.