I am currently undergoing a fast the church has called for 21 days.  (Undergoing is how I speak of remodeling the house. It is so full of wreckage while everything is being upgraded, and so joyful when the upgrade is complete, even though you are exhausted.) A fast is a time of inviting the Lord into all the rooms, nooks and crannies you’ believe you have hidden in the dark from the Lord.  For me it’s all about discipline colliding with indulgence. Jesus has the discipline, and I have the indulgence. However, a fast often ends up with me going in to a room I believe I kept dark only to find that the Lord has been in there with the lights on.

I think of  life and humanity very much like addiction. Life is a constant war with the human reality of failed virtue. I’ve been addicted to alcohol and tobacco and other things. There are a lot of little things I’ve tripped over too. Stopping those things is where discipline and indulgence collide. It is where Jesus meets my worst self.

Weakness, frailty, indulgence, seem irresistible. They intimidate to the extent that even the consideration of change is intimidating and painful, even without any movement toward change. Any effort to change feels doomed from the start. The craving inside to give in seems larger than any strength, mental, emotional, or physical I have available to stand firm. The mind and emotions attach themselves to the addiction/failing to the point of justifying my entire life in the direction of my weakness. Failings become repetitive and habitual.

“Poor me” is a constant mental and emotional refrain, which hides behind denial of the facts. Looking at the pain and sorrow caused by the world and people around me seem overwhelming and beyond fighting. I often cannot comprehend the way through or imagine having the strength to walk through it, even though I daydreamed the victory often. I find myself more committed to failure than success.

You can’t say that the Lord does not have compassion, but you can say that he has no respect and no regard for these thoughts and feelings of failure. They are not His thoughts and feelings, and He does not want them to be ours. He is not opposed to stepping in with one of the most frightening words in my vocabulary, “Accountability.”

Accountability is a stunner. It is the terrifying scrape of the key that enters the lock that opens the gate to my freedom. Bit by painful bit, accountability began to tear down the room I had built to accommodate alcoholism. It was no one else’s fault, but my choice. I had no reason for self-pity, but open ended opportunity for joy. It was not about my strength, but about the Lord’s. Learning to trust Him where I could not walk alone was the order of the day. The room was destroyed. Alcoholism had no place to stay. It left. And so the Lord has worked on other addictions, shortcomings, and failings in my life. I expect his efforts to continue as long as I live, and I am grateful. When I think I am on the verge of giving in to failure, I find myself walking over the bridge He has created in my life to His success. I am surprised by joy and His ability in my life.

The greatest comfort in my life is that the Lord has faithfully promised not to leave me, forsake me, or give up on me. I know that I’m in life over my head, beyond my depth. I know the Lord provides the possible in the impossible. I have seen Him do it over and over again.  I am grateful.