(this is the fifth post in the serenity prayer series)

Gray skies.  Bitter winds.  Cold, damp days.  Exceedingly long nights.  Wildly fluctuating temperatures.  Bone-crushing barometric pressure.  Ice that falls from the sky.  Fog that freezes on the trees.  A chill that hangs on fooooorrrrrreeeeevvvvveeeeerrrrr.

There are many things I love about my home state of Ohio.

Winter is not one of them.

Every year, when November comes and the temperatures first start to plummet, my husband and I look at each other and ask, “Tell me again why we live here?”  When the temperature varies 60 or more degrees over a 24-hour time span, I think to myself, “Tell me again why we still live here?”  When we’ve not seen the sun for more than brief glimpses and it’s been twenty-some days in a row of gray, I ask myself, “REALLY—why do we live here?”  When each of these things wreaks havoc with my health and my mood and the fourth doctor in a row has suggested I think about moving to Arizona, I ask myself, yet again, “WHY ON EARTH DO WE LIVE HERE???”

The rhetorical nature of my question serves to highlight my love-hate relationship with accepting that which I cannot change.

I know why I still live in Ohio.  All that I love and cherish most is here, within a 30-mile radius.  And the Lord would have to give me an invitation of the angel-delivered nature to relocate me, at least for the time being.

But, like the vast majority of home-state-loving Ohioans, you’d better believe I’m still gonna complain about this weather.  It’s just what we do.

There are various degrees of acceptance.  And I have, indeed, accepted that this is my home—and have fully embraced the state in which I’ve lived 90% of my life.  Almost fully, anyway.

But this week was another one of those doozies—lovely, mild, unseasonable temperatures that would have been lovely to enjoy HAD THE BAROMETRIC PRESSURE NOT BEAT ME OVER THE HEAD WITH A BALL BAT.  And as I sat, writing for the third time in as many posts with a full-blown migraine, I continued to be challenged by this call to accept—let alone EMBRACE—what I cannot change.

I know I’m not alone in this—I know this first phrase in Niehbuhr’s “Serenity Prayer” is perhaps the hardest of the entire prayer.  And that is evidenced by, if nothing else, the fact that it has taken me four different posts just to get through the first line.

We began with the reminder that God is the author both of peace and of transformation, taking just the first five words of the prayer and unpacking an entire sermon worth of content within.  We then acknowledged our inner two-year-olds as we got real about our tendency toward protestation when things aren’t going as we’d prefer.  Finally, in our previous post, we identified that the call to acceptance is not a call to resignation but a call to embrace that which we cannot change.  In other words, we’ve talked about the why-not, the why, and the what else—now it’s time to talk about the HOW.  HOW do we not just accept but embrace the things we cannot change?

It is a question, as I mentioned previously, that psychologists have been trying to answer for decades, to limited success—though the closer science and the spiritual come to shaking hands, the closer we come to understanding they mystery of taming toddlers—be they internal or external.

There is a path forward—and outstretched hands to keep us steady—but I’m not gonna lie: there is more Spirit than science to finding the way. 

This prayer is, first and foremost, a reminder—just like the first step in AA, which utilizes this prayer—that we are not in control here, no matter how much we’d like to think so.  For those of us with children, with a chronic illness, with infertility, with an unfaithful spouse, with rising healthcare costs, with a terminal disease, with a pink slip on our desk—we are reminded of this more often than we would like.

But, unfortunately, not often enough that we actually GET IT.

We’re in good company, however—Jesus had to remind even his own disciples from time to time:

“Anyone who intends to come with me has to let me lead. You’re not in the driver’s seat; I am. Don’t run from suffering; embrace it. Follow me and I’ll show you how. Self-help is no help at all. Self-sacrifice is the way, my way, to finding yourself, your true self.”  Matthew 16:24-25, MSG

There’s an immense amount in this verse alone we could unpack and at least a dozen stories I could share about all the ways I’ve refused to get out of the driver’s seat or have run from suffering or have looked for salvation in the pages of yet another book—but for our purposes today, I’m going to focus on only one, short line:  Follow me and I’ll show you how.

There are three breath-catching examples within the New Testament of embracing the unexpected that we can turn to in this fashion—in this sense of, “here, come with me—let me show you how it’s done.”  Three examples we’re going to look at that show us how we can embrace the unchangeable, the unknown, even perhaps the unwanted or unwelcomed.  And because the words of Christ beckon us to follow him as he paves the way, we will begin with his example—acknowledging that this example is but one of many he sets for us.

In the days leading up to his arrest and crucifixion, Jesus makes it clear on several occasions that he knows what is coming, and that what is coming is what must be done.  But that doesn’t make what lies ahead any easier for him.  As the time draws ever closer, he feels the weight not just of what is coming but indeed the weight of the entire world and all above and below bearing down on him—and he turns to his Father, and, in a shocking display of the human side of his nature, he outright asks for a pass—not once, but TWICE.

And going a little farther, he fell on the ground and prayed that, if it were possible, the hour might pass from him. And he said, “Abba, Father, all things are possible for you. Remove this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will.” Mark 14:35-36 ESV

What we witness here is a man in anguish who is facing something he cannot change—something devastatingly difficult yet ultimately so, so necessary—but something he knows his Father COULD change, were he willing.  And so, knowing all things are possible, he does what any of the rest of us might do—he asks the Lord to spare him.

But it’s what he prays next that sets him apart: Yet not what I will, but what you will.

Jesus shows us how to accept that which we cannot change by showing us how he prefers God’s will over his own.  He teaches us here, essentially, that we can outright ask for God to align our hearts to his will, as he prays, Lord, I know if there was another way for this to happen, you, of all people would be able to find it.  Would you make a way for this suffering to be avoided—if it be your will.  But Lord, help me to always want your will more than my own.

This is our first “how” lesson—we pray honestly to the Lord, asking him to cause his will for us to be more desirable and irresistible than our own.  Again and again we pray—Father, all things are possible for you. Remove this cup from me—this pain, this fatigue, this illness, this anxiety, this loneliness, this endless slogging from paycheck to paycheck—I know that you could make it go away. If you can accomplish your purposes in my life through another means, would you please do so…

Yet not what I will, but what you will.

We pray this prayer.  Over and over, if we have to.  We pray it like pastor John Newton, abolitionist and co-writer of the hymn “Amazing Grace,” prayed it: What Thou wilt, when Thou wilt, how Thou wilt. We pray it like hymn-writer and would-be-missionary Adelaide A. Pollard, prayed, “Have thine own way, Lord, Have thine own way; Thou art the potter, I am the clay.” We pray it like the former New York Yankees second-baseman Bobby Richardson, good friend to Mickey Mantle, prayed: “Dear God, Your will—nothing more, nothing less, nothing else.”  And as we continue to pray it, and as we continue to mean it more and more and more, God comes.  And he does his thing.  And we begin to embrace the life he’s given us.

Our next example—our next model of acceptance turned embrace—is that of Christ’s mother, Mary.  For there is arguably no greater story of trust and radical obedience, outside of Jesus, than that of his mother.

While some would argue the example of Mary doesn’t fit within the bounds of this conversation because it’s not an example of suffering, I would beg to differ.  I would argue it is likely Mary did endure suffering, though maybe not physically.  (Though, having been pregnant twice, for about 300 months a piece, I would wager there was physical suffering in the deal for her, as well.)  Mary knew her heritage.  She knew the laws.  She knew this unexpected and unexplainable pregnancy would put her in the very real danger of being stoned to death.  She knew, as she stood there with Gabriel, that she would have had to answer to Joseph and to her parents.  She knew she likely would be ostracized in her village, and perhaps expose her honorable parents to that shame, as well.  She knew all of this when she nearly immediately said “let it be to me as you said.”

And this is nothing short of astounding.

David Benner, Christian psychologist and spiritual director writes, in his book, Desiring God’s Will,

Mary is… the first to accept Jesus within her—she models perfect surrender.  Mary was the first to accept that redemption should take place in the way we do not want it to take place; ruining all our plans, all our expectations, causing them to fail.  Mary agreed to allow God to deprive her of the one thing we count most basic among our natural rights—the right of self-control.

The right of self-control.

Such irony—we have so little control to begin with, if, at times, any at all.  So if we acknowledge there is little in our lives we really do have control over, WHY IS IT SO HARD TO SURRENDER IT?

Because we WANT. IT.

We want it SO. BAD.

We desperately want our lives to be a “choose your own ending” story like the books that were popular but weirdly short-lived when I was in elementary school.  We want to call the shots.  We want to guarantee the outcome.  We want for there to be no surprises.  We want to get what we want with no struggle along the way.

But here’s why, I think, those books never took off—they weren’t exciting to read.  AT ALL.  Having exhausted all thirty-some possible outcomes of all the decisions the reader can make along the way, I came away from each and every book feeling very dissatisfied.  When you can control the outcome, the necessary tension never builds in the plot.  When you control the outcome, all sense of adventure is gone.  When you control the outcome, the characters don’t truly have any agency.  When you control the outcome…

…you don’t need faith.

Mary knew, in that instant, the next chapter of her life was not going to look anywhere NEAR what she might ever have considered.  Any expectation she had of what her life would look like was now thrown out the window.  She was to become pregnant, essentially out of wedlock.  This next chapter was going to set off a chain of events that would then steer the course of the plot in a direction that would make life unrecognizable to her—that would make her future unlike all she’d known and observed growing up in her village.

And without hesitation—without a single “but what about _____???”—Mary simply responded “Let it be to me as you said.”

And in doing so, she chose faith over our innate desire for control.

Surrender.  Acceptance.  Consent.  Embrace.

Let it be to me as you said.

We learn from Mary it is necessary to voice our consent.  To acknowledge to both ourselves and to the Lord that WE are not the ones in control.  To say to him, in our moments of pain or weakness or confusion or fear, I will do it your way.  I will not fight you.  You are in control, not me.  And I will trust that you are working in this for your good.

And this brings us to Paul, our final example.

Paul—who I will unabashedly admit is my favorite writer in this big ol’ book—embodies to me a perfect example of the difference between accepting something and embracing it.  Because when Paul is confronted with a “thorn in the flesh” he doesn’t just surrender to the thorn, he rejoices in it:

… I was given the gift of a handicap to keep me in constant touch with my limitations. Satan’s angel did his best to get me down; what he in fact did was push me to my knees. No danger then of walking around high and mighty! At first I didn’t think of it as a gift, and begged God to remove it. Three times I did that, and then he told me,

My grace is enough; it’s all you need.
My strength comes into its own in your weakness.

Once I heard that, I was glad to let it happen. I quit focusing on the handicap and began appreciating the gift. It was a case of Christ’s strength moving in on my weakness. Now I take limitations in stride, and with good cheer, these limitations that cut me down to size—abuse, accidents, opposition, bad breaks. I just let Christ take over! And so the weaker I get, the stronger I become.  2 Corinthians 12:5-10 MSG  (emphasis mine)

At first, I didn’t think of it as a gift…

No truer words have ever been spoken.

This is what it all comes down to, for me.  This verse, right here.  Paul didn’t want this.  He begged for God to remove it.  God said NO.  My grace is enough.  Paul said, okay.  I will rejoice in this.  It is an opportunity for me to rely on your strength.

THAT is EMBRACING THAT WHICH WE CANNOT CHANGE.

It’s important to reiterate that what we’re talking about, here, are issues that, like Paul’s, do not go away.  No matter what we do.  We go to the doctors and the specialists and even the wackos—our first plea.  We take the supplements and don’t eat this but do eat that and we get popped and cracked and kneaded and prodded—our second plea. We lay in our beds, exhausted after our latest round of medical-roulette, trying to muster the energy just to get up and go to the bathroom and we cry out to the Lord in our pain and our discouragement—our third plea.

And sometimes, God says NO.  I’m not going to remove this.  My grace is sufficient.

You’re 47 and you long for a spouse.  My grace is sufficient.

You’re 56 and you’ve just gotten laid off.  From the third job in a row.  My grace is sufficient.

You’re 25 and you’ve been diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis and you’re trying desperately to hang on to your job because you need your full income but you keep missing work because you literally cannot get out of bed.  Again.  My grace is sufficient.

You’re 33 and your panic attacks have hit an all-time high and you’re looking at having to move back in with your parents because your anxiety is preventing you from being able to apply for jobs, let alone keep one.  My grace is sufficient.

And what is our response?

That is, of course, why we’re here, together.  We want to learn to choose a different response.

Paul shows us how.

Because Paul chooses—CHOOSES—to view this “thorn” not through his own lens—not through the lens of pain or restriction or irritation or discouragement—but through GOD’S LENS.

And instead of Why me? he chooses to say Thank you.

Instead of What have I done to deserve this? he chooses to say I rejoice in this weakness that makes me strong.  

Instead of How can I ever serve you with these limitations? he chooses to say Praise God these limitations force me to rely on you and not myself.

Instead of No, REALLY, would you PLEASE take this? he chooses to say When I am weak, then you are strong.

Instead of When will this end so I can go on with my life? he chooses to say This is the life you have given me and I will live it as fully as I am able.

This, friends, is, as they say, how it’s done.

Lord, grant me the serenity to accept that which I cannot change…

Jesus teaches us to surrender to God’s will, yielding our own—praying for our will to be shaped by our Father’s.

Mary teaches us to consciously release our mis-guided notion of control and acknowledge our life is not our own.

And Paul teaches us to see our suffering through God’s eyes, giving thanks for the opportunity to learn to trust him even further.

None of this is easy.

But all of it—if we are to indeed live abundantly in spite of our limits—is oh, so necessary.

The thorn remains.  But we are learning to embrace it.

We leave this first line, hopefully better knowing—and trusting—that his grace truly IS sufficient.

acceptance chronic illness embrace faith grace pain serenity strength suffering surrender weakness