At Heaven’s Weight
Sundays are holy. Not more than Mondays or the other makings of the week, but in a focused, formulaic kind of way. You forgo the draw of bed and brunch to sing and sit at Sunday service. This single choice of sacrifice, a blurry snapshot of the chasmed Christian.
Somewhere along the way, denial of self has become the road to righteousness. We see this begin as well-understood, practical callings to take thoughts captive, be slow to anger, and to find meaning out of suffering. We see it in the stories of the Israelites wandering, in Paul’s imprisonment, in Jesus himself, fasting for 40 days. And, of course, there’s merit to inspecting the data we receive as thoughts, feelings and sensations. They aren’t fact, after all. But a practice of denial as a baseline can quickly turn to a dangerous demonizing of feelings and desires where erosion is elevation.
That’s why Sundays were for fasting in college. “I care too much about food” I’d thought. It took up so much of my life, my mental space. “I’ll give this to you, God, deny this earthly desire…catch a glimpse of how you felt fasting.” “I’ll feel closer to you, more focused.” And I was, in a way. I was proud to go 24 hours without eating after a week of only having dinner. Every time I felt those hunger pangs and denied them, I felt strong, proud. I had cracked the code. I could feel that burning, that closeness, that discipline. And suddenly, hollowness was holy.
This wasn’t some leap I had made due to pre-existing disordered eating factors. It was a message I heard packaged many ways before. “Give your depression to the Lord” “Lay your anxiety at His feet” “Pray about the anger you have for your spouse” “Rebuke anxiety in the name of Jesus”
Like it was sinful and self-born to be deeply affected in these ways. Like it was a sin to be hungry and “give in” instead of giving it to God. Like it was holy to deny the self (the inherently wretched, sinful, worldly being).
I’d suffer as a sacrifice for my shortcomings. I’d wither as worship.
And maybe, on the inevitable day I’d erode into dust, I’d be a sort of martyr in the eyes of God. A wretched sinner, dedicated to discipline.
Maybe you’re not skipping dinner. Perhaps you're not happy at the feeling of hunger, but the rejection of sadness and grief finds that familiar holy hollow in your body. Maybe the denial of anxiety and depression keeps the chasm. Maybe the absolute inability to wonder outside of what was spoken in Sunday service sneaks its head into a “steadfast” caricature empty with the sand.
Most of us unknowingly search for this skewed sanctification.
Anything to get closer to heaven’s weight.
