Now This Explains It

My friend wrote a blog recently entitled, "When Failure Is the Only Option." Her first few lines: "I have failed this month at many things in my life. At most things. I have completely and utterly failed."

I've got to tell you, I find that honesty incredibly refreshing. I undertook last December to write a blog post every day for a year. I have failed. Utterly and completely. I love the idea of discipline, but I can never quite rise to the occasion. What to do when Oswald doesn't move me. When I am obtuse or he is indecipherable or maybe both. What to do when I just bloody don't feel like it. When God seems distant or life seems overwhelming. When I question whether I have anything worth saying -- whether I have ever had anything worth saying.

We generally speak of failure in abstract terms: If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Failure is part of life. If you don't try, you can't fail. But in the concrete, it is much less palatable. I spent my day yesterday reading The New Yorker. I did not get the dishes done. I did not weed the garden. I did not walk, and I did not do the shoulder complex my son created to tone my upper arms. I forgot that I was supposed to go to a friend's house. And, I did not write this blog. Failure, in concrete terms, does not generally look like the bold mountain climber who cannot quite reach the summit. In my life, it more often looks like laziness or selfishness or conceit or sin.

I wish God had explicitly stated that our own failures cannot separate us from His love.

My "other end," Oswald, is to be something other than a complete failure. Is it up to me or not? Some days, you seem to say, "Yes, it's up to you, and you need to get off your lazy butt, buck up and get your confounded act together." Other days, you seem to be saying, "Not by your might nor by your power."

"Jesus has prayed nothing less for us than absolute oneness with Himself as He was one with the Father" -- Oswald.

Jesus, if it's up to me, up to my ability to discipline myself to your will, I will never be one with you. I'll probably be sitting on the couch, reading The New Yorker.