It Might Just Mean You're in March

From the Iowa Department of Transportation

By the time you read this, the high temperature for the day will be 54 degrees. But I’m writing it on Monday, and on Monday–right now as I write–it’s 9 degrees with a windchill that makes it feel like -12. And Monday Melissa–along with the Monday versions of you all–are living in the aftermath of a blizzard.

Part of that aftermath, of course, is snow removal. Like many of you, I remove my own snow from the sidewalks and the driveway. So, like many of you, I imagine, I was outside this morning running the blower and using a shovel to clean up the rest. All while the wind continued to howl, and Mother Nature routinely slapped me in the face with any light, fluffy flakes that weren’t thrown in the right direction. 

I normally find blowing and shoveling snow somewhat meditative…in December and January and maybe even February. But not in March. Not when I’ve already tasted the sweet victory of wearing shorts outside in a non-tragic way. Not when I’ve already taken the long way home from work with my sunroof open and the window down to let the freshness of a warm afternoon fill up my senses. Not when I’ve seen the first green plants pushing up from the earth in their bold, yearly march toward heaven. Blowing and shoveling snow in March is deflating, and I found myself lacking a certain motivation to get the job done and done well.

A lack of motivation isn’t just a problem we face when the snow falls in March, it finds us in our lives of faith too. There are seasons in faith that feel like March blizzards–not because they're the hardest seasons we've ever faced, but because we've already seen what warmth looks like. We've already tasted something real. We've prayed prayers and sung songs that felt alive, and have experienced a community that met us with a deep sense of love and belonging in ways that were new to us. We've seen grace break through, leaving our hearts strangely warmed. 

But then…the cold returns. And we find ourselves going through the motions, clearing the same ground we thought we'd already cleared, wondering why it all feels so much heavier, so much more meaningless than it used to.

Theologians have a word for this: acedia. It's often translated as sloth, but that doesn't quite capture its essence completely. Acedia isn't laziness. It's more like a spiritual windchill–a numbing that sets in not at the beginning of the journey, but somewhere in the middle, when the novelty has worn off and the finish line isn't yet in sight. 

The desert fathers and mothers knew it well. They called it the noonday demon, the one that whispers: What's the point? Nothing is changing. You've done this before and here you are again.

There’s not a simple fix for this, so I won’t pretend that there is. Motivation in the life of faith isn't something we can manufacture through grit and determination or by simply harnessing enough willpower. In fact, I’ve found that the answer rarely starts with trying harder. It starts with simply being honest and naming that the ground feels frozen again. And it asks us to resist the temptation to perform enthusiasm we don't feel.

Author and speaker Steve Maraboli once wrote, "Life doesn't get easier or more forgiving, we get stronger and more resilient." Honestly, the first time I read that, it didn't feel like good news. It felt like someone telling me the winters don't actually get shorter, I just get better at standing in them. Which, if you're me on a Monday morning at -12 windchill, is not exactly the comfort you're looking for.

But the more I sit with it, the more I think Maraboli is onto something our faith tradition has always known–and also something it pushes back on. Because yes, we do get stronger. We do become more resilient. And the winters don't actually get shorter. But we are not left to simply toughen up and endure. 

We are promised bread for the journey. Light for the way. We are promised that all we thirst for will be quenched–that we will run and not grow weary, walk and not grow faint. We are not promised that the cold won't return. We’re promised that we won't be left standing in it empty-handed.

So if you're just not “feeling it” in your faith life right now–if prayer feels like talking to a wall, if showing up feels more like obligation than belonging, if the songs aren't landing and the words feel hollow, and the homilies feel like they’re written for somebody else–that doesn't mean something is wrong with you. And it doesn't necessarily mean something is wrong with your faith either. It might just mean you're in March.

It means the journey is long and you are human. It means you've been at this long enough to know what warmth feels like, which is exactly why the cold is so hard to bear. And it means acedia has found you, the way it has found every serious person of faith who came before you, so you are in good company…you don’t have to panic. March might feel like it lasts forever–but to date, it never actually has. 

So keep showing up. Slower than usual, maybe. With less grace than you'd like, perhaps. Do the thing–the prayer, the practice, the getting-yourself-there–not because it feels meaningful right now, but because you trust that meaning isn't always available to your feelings in the moment. And when you do, you won't be standing alone. You'll be met there. That's not a promise I'm making. It's one that's already been made by the One who made us…and the stinkin’ March blizzards.

On the journey with you,
Pr. Melissa

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