I once read that we never stop being tempted towards the flesh. Nor are we ever given a perfect sense of direction. But, the writer continued, as we mature in the Spirit, we become more and more aware of the differences between the two. We learn how to tell when we are in the flesh, and when we are in the Spirit. Similar to sailing, we begin to pick up on channel markers, begin to know the currents and the winds, such that we can sense a listing, one way or the other.
I am beginning to know when I am in the flesh because I feel thin, stretched, flying blind. I feel like Bilbo, like butter spread over too much bread, or an asteroid slowly pulling away from light into space. I feel like a rubber band, straining out towards the marshmallows (have to be in Impact to understand that one). I feel like I'm running out of gas, and I don't know when I'll hit empty. Like I'm running on fumes. Typically it develops some frantic-ness.
It's not quite the same as being tired. I can be tired, running on high but low on sleep, low on free time. I can miss a morning devotion, or miss worship one week, and I can be fine. There may be fleshly behavior out there, but I haven't charted those waters yet.
Instead, my flesh is more apparent when I get hooked on something new, when all of my mind is absorbed with a new fad. Wood turning, or contra dancing, or surfing, researching instruments, or any number of things, good or bad or neutral. Even with things the world would call good. Ministry. Church dynamics. Loving people. Seeking direction. When I sense a frantic-ness, a keeping-my-head-above-water-ness, a desperation, then I'm in the flesh. I think. And honestly it's much less common in what I'm doing than in what I'm thinking. My thoughts can fall into the flesh much quicker than my behaviors.
When I realize that I'm in the flesh, on a bad day I just keep kicking, swimming, thinking. I keep spreading, stretching, running. But, on a good day (and more and more regularly), I've learned to step back. I pray, often physically on my knees, as a sign of submission. And I offer it to God. I say, Lord, I like the idea of turning wood. But, I have a lot going on right now, and I'm totally fine if you would rather me focus elsewhere. I surrender it to you.
Sometimes it takes a few times of prayer. Sometimes it means I walk away from whatever I'm doing/thinking about. Sometimes it means I keep doing it, but trusting Him to accomplish what needs to be done. Sometimes, God surprises me and lets me have what I want, like the time he gave me a mandolin after I surrendered pursuing it.
But the key is surrender. Walking in the flesh, for me, is usually an assertion of control wrapped in lust or coveting. Surrender is the antidote- and true to much of Christianity, repentance thereto feels like death to self in the moment. An object in motion will remain in motion unless some external force is exerted upon it, right? Choosing the flesh, even unconsciously, pulls us from the presence and peace of God, and our pride carries our souls along, the inertia of an asteroid broken from it's orbit and slung into space. Choosing the Spirit again, in surrender, can only come as a challenge to pride, pulling us to ever-concentric circles of faith. And that pull, redirecting our paths against our pride, takes force and tension- the force of a greater gravity, the tension of contradictory desires. In repentance we submit to the gravity and will of the Lord once more, in a way that may be painful yet results in a wonderful breathing and relax soon thereafter. Trusting the Lord does that.
And typically when I give up striving, pursuing, stretching, I realize I didn't need whatever I was so concerned about anyway. It falls away, unnecessary and sometimes even silly. As it turns out, Jesus is all I need. The living bread satisfies, so long as it's what I'm eating.
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A small footnote here:
I tend to fall into a similar pattern in decision making. I get antsy, anxious, frustrated, spread too thin. I get frantic. And then I pray, and surrender whatever I'm wrestling through, and try to believe on God for what He has spoken to me. Namely, that He loves me, continues to be in relationship with me, calls me to write and to worship, and to pursue being the church and making disciples. God revealed this to me and a friend of mine as we were talking about leading worship- often in leading worship a song implodes. It just doesn't work. And I had, often, sought to repair the sinking song with prayer. I'll just pray the song into application. If it doesn't fit, make it fit with prayer. God's done that before, lead me into praying something unexpected that leads to greater engagement in worship. And so I try to manufacture it. Which, needless to say, fails. The Lord desires us to act, to follow, out of peace, not fear. Not frantic save-the-ship emotions. He wants us to follow in trust and in worship, which, once entered, offers much greater freedom.
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