Present Over Perfect

of work in the same way that Americans have begun
engaging in yoga competitions—twisted-up versions of a
purer thing. Christians want to make a difference. So we do,
and we do, and we do, and then we find ourselves
exhausted.
In more fundamentalist strains of the faith, there’s great
value on happiness, constant kindness, selflessness above
all else. These are wonderful things . . . that, over time,
make it really hard to say things like, “I need help.” Or, “I
can’t do this anymore.” Many Christians, women especially,
were raised to be obedient and easy, to swallow feelings, to
choke down tears. This has not served us well. This has
made it far too easy to injure our bodies and our souls in the
name of good causes—there are enough good causes to go
around.
Christians ought to be decidedly anti-frantic, relentlessly
present to each moment, profoundly grounded and grateful.
Why, then, am I so tired? So parched? So speed-addicted?
Again, the fault lies not with the tradition but with the
perversion of it, and with the Christian herself—in this case,
of course, me.
These days, I’m not looking for more to crusade against
or for, but trying to reimagine my faith as a soft place, the
antidote to my addiction, not the enabler.
I’m trying to relearn a set of patterns from the inside out:
centering prayer, lectio divina, the prayer of examen. I don’t
practice these things instead of Bible study, corporate
worship, or service, but alongside them, to build an inner