Human Again

When my spirit had grown weak within me, You knew my path.
-Psalm 142:3

My daughter had her middle school musical performances last weekend. It was a junior high-adapted version of Beauty and the Beast. If you don't know the story, I cannot relate to your childhood. 

One of the songs in this version of the musical was called "Human Again." The servants of the Beast who had come under the castle's magical curse had all been turned into objects: a candelabrum, a clock, a feather duster, a teapot, and more.  
And they sang a song about their longing. One day, they dreamed, they would be human again. Hmmmmmmm...

I want to be human again too. 

I don't often spend time considering what keeps me human or what keeps me from humanness, but I've tasted both. 

I know there are days that I am not much of a human being. 
So let's start there. Let's slow down and choose rest for a moment. Let's practice confession. 

I wonder sometimes if it's possible to be a human being anymore, when so little time is spent being anything. I think I am a human accomplishing most of the time. Ain't nobody got time to be anymore these days. 

My taxes need to be done. My car has a red dashboard light that seems to be angry with me. My job has deadlines. Dishes need to be washed. Kids need support. Money needs to be made, then paid, then made, then paid. I also try to stay up on the news all the time because I have a need to be perpetually irritated. 

And somewhere along the continuum of doing and scheduling and working and accomplishing and scrolling and checklisting and stressing and raging and caring and even all the good necessary things to keep surviving..... 

I realize that I've spent very little time humaning. 
And I want to be human again. 

A few years ago while hiking in Scotland, I met a new friend and we shared a few miles walking alongside each other. He told me that he was practicing seeing the "grain of life." He meant that he was trying to move slowly enough to remove layers of distraction like a woodworker might sand old wood, revealing a finer grain underneath with more detail and beauty. Only in slowness would the next layer be able to be revealed. The day after that walk I took a train. And as I watched the countryside whizzing by me, everything a blur, I knew that he was onto something. I think he was trying to become human again, and I wanted to be like that too. 

I wish I were better at following what I know is true about being human. 

When Jesus taught his disciples to consider the flowers that spread across the meadows and the birds that fly above them, he was not only telling people to learn from them. He was inviting them to pause long enough to notice that the world was continuing just fine independently of them. He was inviting them to be present, and to understand that God made people as human beings, not human doings. He was inviting them to live within their limits, and to find worth from their connection and trust in God more than their ability to manage their lives successfully all the time (whatever that means). 

One of the central pieces of our humanity is learning to rest in God's simple love. 
I've been teaching the scriptures lately with a lot of cultural detail and background study. And I've been talking a lot with people about the theological intricacies of atonement and justice and nonviolence. Those are all important in our faith, and my goodness, they have a place. 

But at the same time, I can see the tiredness in people's eyes— the need for rest, and not simply understanding. And today, I'm tired too. And I feel that need for the simple rest that Jesus offers over and over again (especially on a rainy Monday, when I'm writing this.) 

So in this moment, I am practicing rest, knowing that I'm allowed to stop doing. And I'm inviting Jesus to make me human again. 
Are you present enough at this moment to join me? 

God's simple love is big and broad enough to be our hiding place. You're allowed to be worn out by [insert your life reality] and simply lay everything down and be. 
Like the Psalmist wrote (Ps 73), our bodies and our minds may wear out, but God's presence is more than enough for us.  

I trust you will find that today, knowing that you are known, you are loved, and you are invited to be human again, in all of its beautiful frailty. Jesus is with you. 

Jesus, give me grace to recover the beauty of life with you that I have been missing. 

Peace, 
Keith