“I just want to lie down.”
'”I just need a warm shower or a massage.”
“I’d love to go dancing or to a fun workout.”
“Maybe I’ll order in, instead of cooking because it’s been a long day.”
These are all things I find myself thinking and seeking out when I’m tired. I want an instant pick-me-up. I want to feel better and validated immediately.
When Paul tells the Galatians to not grow weary in doing good, he continues by explaining: “because in the proper time we will receive harvest if we do not give up” (Galatians 6:9). It’s not an instantaneous reward, that’s for sure.
This is not to villainise the things that relax us or help us recuperate, but to take us back to scripture–which is ultimately restful and sustains us more than material things can.
The days are hard when we’re feeling weary. It’s especially hard when we’re feeling weary of doing things we genuinely want to do and know God has called us to. It’s not straightforward to figure out if it is a tiredness we need to push through; or one that is alerting us to make changes and slow down. But I think Paul is speaking to that feeling of tiredness that comes from the Christian life, especially when seeing no change, no improvement, no reward. Sometimes this weariness is just inbuilt into life or the season we find ourselves placed in.
For me, this kind of weariness shows up as grumpiness and frustration. I fixate on the good things I need to do, but take my eyes off God and His ways. When we’re so used to seeking rewards and gratification in other aspects of our life, it’s hard to not make this our default in how we love God and love people. The lack of results is not a sign to give up, but is often how slow and hidden gospel work is–unbound by time.
I’m always surprised by how refreshing it is to repent. The fount of the gospel is really all the reset we need. In the Christian life—and so in the weariness of Christian life–so much begins with repentance and then gently finds its way to the cross.
When I’m thinking about pushing through weariness, I’m always thinking that I need to try harder, get more efficient or make drastic changes to myself and my life. But fighting weariness with self-effort isn’t the gospel. Living for the gospel is not something we do in our own strength. Sometimes my weariness is like damp patches on a wall, revealing plumbing issues underneath the plaster. I’m fed up and tired and all it shows is that I went about it all in my way and in my own wavering ability.
I don’t always need to stop doing–I mostly need to stop doing things in my own strength and for instant rewards.
In big cities with demanding jobs and non-stop lives, we can be proud about how tired we are and how much we’ve done. We want others to see it. Sometimes I’m tempted to roll my eyes at someone else who says they’ve had a tiring week, because I’m weighing it against the things I’ve accomplished and pushed through. When I’m feeling strong, I can wear my weariness like a badge of honour, sitting on my high horse, looking down at everyone.
It never lasts though; and I’m brought right back down with a thud. I look in the mirror and see the lines on my face and feel the hardness of my heart and then I try to sleep more or have a long shower, but it doesn’t seem to wash it away. Nothing can pick us up like the sweetness of the gospel. It doesn’t just make us feel better, it actually makes us better. It strengthens us from the inside.
To encourage the church even when suffering for Christ, Paul tells the Corinthians, “Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day.” He calls our bodies “jars of clay”, or pots that are basically made of mud. Fragile and easily broken and then mixed with the earth. But we are not like pottery that is for show or decor. We are vessels, being used for something above and beyond our weakness and weariness.
“But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us,” writes Paul in 2 Corinthians 4.
I’m tired of trying to be something I’m not. It is my prayer that I can live in this energising spiritual reality: it’s Christ who is strong and powerful, not me. It’s Christ who is limitless, not me.
And yet, in my sleep-needing body with a ready-to-grumble heart, I suppose I’ll forget as quickly as tomorrow and need a gospel reset again: all to show it isn’t a strength that’s mine.
Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash
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