He understood it well

But Jesus would not trust himself to them because he knew them all, and did not need anyone to testify about human nature. He himself understood it well.

John 2:24

I keep thinking of those rocks that are rough, with edges that snag on anything softer which passes by it. Any sort of fabric which flutters nearby is caught in the crevices of the rock, pulling and tearing with an immovable stoicism. Like when you sit on a wooden bench and the sneaky slivers of wood grasp the fabric of your skirt or shirt when you stand up, leaving you with clothing pierced through and a snarled bunch of threads.

This type of rock keeps coming to mind, I think, because it seems to be a fitting comparison for my heart and, hopefully not, but perhaps also, yours, too. It seems too easy for my hard little heart to find itself getting snagged on the people and things which pass by. And I’d really like to blame it on the others instead of looking at the roughness which resides within. I want to say, Maybe you shouldn’t have done this thing or You got too close to this hard edge or Why did you mercilessly punch your finger into this wound? If death and taxes are two absolutes, experience dictates that another absolute is our hearts running our own rough edges into the craggy contours of others’ hearts.

When matters appear to be going swimmingly, I find myself discovering another flaw or brokenness or wound through the oblivious words and actions of others. Even in situations where the other person is entirely to blame (which, admittedly, is quite rare), I still must reconcile with what that particular interaction has revealed. The fault may be theirs, but the roughness it has revealed is still certainly mine.

This season of Lent provides the perfect opportunity to look more realistically at these tangled threads, these areas where I find myself torn by the simple experience of living in a community of fallen humans. It creates the opening for mercy and grace, the chance to see how the Lord is inviting me to let my rough edges be smoothed by the crucible of life. I almost never run towards these chances the Lord offers. Instead, I find myself resisting with the vigor of one fighting for her life. I don’t want this roughness to be dragged along the pavement, aching until it succumbs to smooth surrender. I’m more prone to dig in, to harden my heart, to prickle at the first hint of pressure, to worm my way safely into caverns which cannot easily be reached.

The good news is that Jesus understands this well. He knows human nature. Not simply as the Author of life or the Creator of the universe, but as the God-man Who knows from experience what is hidden within the human heart. He knows the unfaithfulness to which we are prone and the hardness our hearts seem to naturally tend towards. Yet He also knows the freedom found in a full Yes to God’s will, a surrender to what seems to be failure, and the willingness to endure the mocking of others despite His complete innocence. He models what it looks like to live well and this, unfortunately, doesn’t mean we escape suffering or the pain inflicted by others. However, it does mean that we have One who willingly suffers this right alongside us.

Which is why I need Lent and, though my introverted heart is loath to admit it, the presence of other people. Both of these realities reveal to me the great chasm which lies between me and the tender humility of the Lord. Where He asked the Father to forgive His enemies, I am inclined to offer my view of justice. Where He is silent and opens not His mouth, I form an internal litany where my actions are always defensible. Where He spreads His arms wide and is pierced by nails, I crouch to protect my vulnerabilities and shield myself from any assaults.

I am a very dim, distant echo of being anything like our Lord.

All serious relations with God in prayer depend on the remembrance of our own nothingness without him. Unless humility is deeply sought in our prayer, we risk a spiritual life of imaginative illusions. Indeed, the great need in the years after a conversion is often to realize how slowly we are actually advancing in grace.

“Conversion: Spiritual Insights into an Essential Encounter with God” by Fr. Donald Haggerty, p. 66

Despite the littleness and hardness of this heart of mine, perhaps this is the beginning of a deeper dive into God’s merciful love. I don’t claim to have a perfect or complete sense of my own miserableness, but the glimpse I am offered is enough to know that I have so far to go and cannot do much of it on my own. This realization is stirring a desire for the roughness to be smoothed and for the snarls to be mended by One more skillful than I.

The painful events of life, the snags found in the ordinary encounters of life, can become meeting points with God’s mercy. Even though the progress seems slow and, at times, unobservable, I want to keep offering these rough spots to the Lord, inviting Him into the places which grasp and tear, so that they might be the very places which most proclaim the merciful love of God and His ability to transform us.

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Photo by Maxwell Ingham on Unsplash