The Flat, Dull Gift from God

“Maybe the spiritual flatness you feel is part of God’s invitation to rest.”

I looked over my shoulder to the left and stared silently across the Fort Wayne skyline. I could see everything from up here. The sky was gray (it was Fort Wayne, after all), and the afternoon rain had just started. When I looked across downtown, I saw the triangular rooftops of the botanical gardens and imagined the stifling humidity inside. It is beautiful in there, though. Why don’t I ever use my pass? But my thoughts snapped suddenly back to what she said.

“Maybe the spiritual flatness you feel is part of God’s invitation to rest.”

I was there to solve the problem of spiritual flatness, not to appreciate or embrace it. This unexpected invitation to consider it differently didn’t settle well with me, so I did what I often do: I retreated. I distracted myself with the top-floor corner office view and let my thoughts wander in other directions. But maybe this wasn’t the time to solve the problem. Maybe it wasn’t a problem at all. Maybe this was an opportunity to pay attention to what has my attention and posture myself to listen. Shifting my attention back from the skyline, I focused on the gentle sway of the candle flame dancing on the table between us.

“Can you say that again?” I asked. 

Her voice remained gentle and loving as she replied, "Maybe the spiritual flatness you feel is part of God's invitation to rest."

She didn’t explain herself or help me understand. That’s not what a spiritual director does. Her job is to listen alongside me and accompany me as I try to discern God’s voice and recognize God’s presence. I could have easily moved on in our conversation if her words didn't resonate. She wouldn't have stubbornly insisted we stay there, refusing to budge to prove her point. No, after my initial retreat, I leaned into my discomfort with her invitation and listened for the painfully quiet voice of God.  

I’ve been struggling lately. The scars from four years of walking closely with trauma and death have etched themselves deep within my soul. Most of the time, they stay hidden, but other times, they get agitated and swell, burning red on the surface like welts on your ankles after walking bare-legged through a briar patch. I’ll just say the last few weeks have been thorny. My brain and body responded by becoming emotionless. My spirit feels worn out. It isn’t debilitating. Or maybe it is. Maybe I’m not as good at hiding it as I think. I’ve felt as dull as the knives in the kitchen of every AirBnB in the world—and those things are ALWAYS dull. 

‘"Maybe the spiritual flatness you feel is part of God's invitation to rest."

I thought my spiritual life was supposed to be vibrant. That’s what the singers of so many songs want me to believe. That’s the proclamation made by so many preachers. How could this dull ache of faith I can muster up right now be anything but harmful? How can it be an invitation or a gift?

I haven’t sorted it all out yet. I’m always working things out as I go. But here’s what I’m thinking as I contemplate all this. I’m still recovering from the most intensely emotional season of my life. I spent four years anticipating the next time the pager would send me into another terrible unknown. I walked alongside people through countless horrors and death, the images of which now lay dormant (but still present) somewhere deep in my psyche. A news story, a text message, or certain ringtones can awaken them like a sleeping dragon ready to unleash its fury on a quiet fishing village tragically positioned at the mouth of its lair. The feelings were intense, and faith was exhilarating during those times. But exhilarating is also exhausting, and many days, I prayed for things to be plain and boring. I wanted things to be flat. I needed them to be dull so I could rest my weary soul. 

‘"Maybe the spiritual flatness you feel is part of God's invitation to rest."

Maybe it is.

I don’t always want to feel this way, but maybe I don’t need everything to come with lights, sirens, and alarms, either. Is this time an invitation to rest? God, I hope so because I’m still pretty tired.