To will one thing

“Father in Heaven, what are we without you?
What is all that we know, vast accumulation though it be,
But a chipped fragment if we do not know you?
What is all our striving?
Could it ever encompass a world, 
But a half-finished work
If we do not know you?
You, the One who is one thing and who is all.

So may you give
To the intellect, wisdom to comprehend that one thing
To the heart, sincerity to receive this and this only
To the will, purity that wills only one thing
In prosperity, may you grant perseverance to will one thing
Amid distraction, collectedness to will one thing 
In suffering, patience to will one thing.

You that gives both the beginning and the completion
May you early, at the dawn of the day,
Give to the young the resolution to will one thing 
As the day wanes, may you give to the old 
A renewed remembrance of that first resolution
That the first may be like the last
And the last like the first
In possession of a life that has willed only one thing,
To know God.”

Soren Kierkegaard
from Purity of Heart is to Will One Thing

Before I ever stumbled upon Quakers, I sensed an inward call to simplicity. As I wrestled with scripture and bumbled my way into a newfound prayer life in the hope of hearing the voice of Christ, I knew a singular devotion to God was the very heart of faith. In the dawning days of my spiritual journey, I wanted to seek first the Kingdom of God above all else, just as Jesus instructed his first followers and as Kierkegaard so beautifully captures.

Along the way toward becoming a Friend, I made a few stops among other faith communities, including a Presbyterian church plant. Because they were brand new and small in number, they asked me to serve as an elder and youth leader for the congregation soon after I arrived.

I was neither qualified nor ready for either post, but desperation often drives decisions in the church. What I did have was a great deal of passion and lots of questions about faithfulness. It turns out passion is often appreciated. Questions—not so much. For instance, I wondered why we were pursuing a building program amid a famine killing thousands of people each day in sub-Saharan Africa. With wars raging all around us, I wondered out loud how Christ-followers could stay silent, let alone support the violence and bloodshed. In a world where so many people did not know and follow Jesus, I asked whether we were doing enough to reach out to our neighbors or others around the globe. My Presbyterian fellowship was extremely gracious as they simultaneously appreciated and endured me.

Faith and belonging to a church were so new to me. Christ had changed my entire life, and I was trying to “work out my salvation with fear and trembling.” It puzzled me when God seemed to become an addendum to our lives rather than central to our very existence. Of course, this is hard to gauge, especially in someone else’s life. In retrospect, I can see now that my impressions about others were likely wrong or, at least, unhelpful. My youthful zeal would be a gateway to important lessons I needed in humility, wisdom, and maturity.

The pastor of the church was a fine fellow and a real friend to me. I peppered him with lots of questions about our calling to serve Christ in the world. In a moment of  justifiable exasperation, he said: “One day, Colin, when you are older, have kids, and are carrying a mortgage, you will see why your big ideas and idealism won’t work in real life.” Stunned, but not thoroughly surprised, I nodded my head without blinking and decided to begin a search for a new faith community.

The truth is I loved those people. They had welcomed and befriended me, teaching me much about faith. I did not feel like I was better than them or more faithful. In fact, my deep fear—both then and now—centered on my weaknesses rather than theirs. I knew that I would relent if I did not have a community around me that constantly pushed me toward obedience and purity of heart. I would grow weary, bored, apathetic, cynical, or complacent, left to my own devices. Or maybe worse yet, my mind would spin in endless circles around those big ideas rather than putting them into practical action. It was self-interest, not some prophetic impulse, that compelled me to raise uncomfortable questions and alternative options about following Christ.

Of course, my former pastor was on to something true. He wasn’t some faithless fraud, trying to lull the sheep into passivity and accommodation to culture. He was describing a reality he had witnessed and experienced over many years of ministry. As the newness of faith fades, and the withering daily demands of everyday life sap our spiritual passion, it becomes so very easy to lose a sense of hunger and thirst for the things of God. Spouses, children, houses, jobs, ministry, money, retirement, sports, hobbies, and our deep longing for personal fulfillment come as both a blessing and a barrier to a simple and singular focus on Christ. Without perseverance, growing wisdom, and honest sincerity, life’s many beautiful choices can dazzle and divert us into distraction instead of finding their proper place in a life firmly rooted in the way and will of Jesus. Somehow, I knew this was true, at least for me. For my soul’s sake, I chose to find a community that would keep me in the struggle instead of letting me off the hook.

I wish I could say I fought through that mixed bag of blessings and barriers over the last thirty-five years without distraction or a loss of passion, but I did not. The inner impulse and inclination to pursue a life of singular devotion waxed and waned. Friends, it turns out, have the same temptations as Presbyterians. What seemed so clear—the daily choices about how simplicity gets expressed in relation to wealth, resources, time, relationships, and a thousand other things–grew more muddled by the complex choices and competing loyalties that confront and confound us every day.

I confess I don’t live with the same weight of painstaking urgency that my twenty year-old self labored under. The hunger and thirst to know God alone are just as sincere, possibly even more resolute. Rather than a quest of discovery, however, the sense of it has and is shifting toward fulfillment or completion. I still mull big ideas and refuse to give up on high ideals, but a sturdy realism and broader experience temper them now. Some days I wonder whether this is simply me giving in—accomodating to the cultural pressures to fit in, fall silent, fade into the background—rather than allowing God’s Light to shine brightly. Other days, I rest gracefully in a truth learned over the last three decades: God is God, and I am not. The restoration of the cosmos does not depend on me. My piece is to know God and see Christ’s power work in and through me.

These days, I often return to Kierkegaard’s Purity of Heart. I keep a copy of it in my Bible and read it many mornings as I sit alone with God to pray, read, and receive the grace and wisdom for a new day. I need, I am finding, this encouragement to will one thing and allow that first passionate pursuit to find its completion in the last chapter of my life. If young people have their passion or enthusiasm discouraged by well-meaning people, I find that older people do, as well. Being sensible, responsible, and prudent—these are messages I hear directed toward those my age. Rarely am I asked, “in these last days of your life—when you have nothing left to lose—how are you giving yourself away for God’s glory and the good of others? Are your heart, mind, and soul sincerely and solely focused on that One Reality that matters? Do you hunger and thirst to know only God?” And so, I return to Kierkegaard because he keeps these queries rumbling around in me when I and others are more inclined to let me off the hook.