This is long. Grab a coffee.
In my mind’s eye, I had an image of a watering can being poured out on cracked, dry land: the water beads and runs away without nourishing the soil.
It can be really easy – I know it is for me – to feel that we – that I – pour ourselves out for the sake of others, only to have it make no real impact on the landscape. I recognise that this image is an incomplete metaphor in that it does not reflect the complete reality: people and circumstances change or grow in a myriad of unseen ways.
Nevertheless, the complexity of feeling poured out – exhausted, ineffective – remains.
As I sit with these complicated emotions and the images of dryness and barren lands, I am drawn to the text of Isaiah 35:
The desert and the parched land will be glad; the wilderness will rejoice and blossom.
Like the crocus, it will burst into bloom; it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy.
The glory of Lebanon will be given to it, the splendour of Carmel and Sharon;
they will see the glory of the Lord, the splendour of our God.
Strengthen the feeble hands, steady the knees that give way;
say to those with fearful hearts,
“Be strong, do not fear; your God will come, he will come with vengeance;
with divine retribution he will come to save you.”
Then will the eyes of the blind be opened and the ears of the deaf unstopped.
Then will the lame leap like a deer, and the mute tongue shout for joy.
Water will gush forth in the wilderness and streams in the desert.
The burning sand will become a pool, the thirsty ground bubbling springs.
In the haunts where jackals once lay, grass and reeds and papyrus will grow.
I am reminded that in the Scriptures, the life of God flowing in us, and the presence of the Spirit, is often depicted as water, and its absence, as dry and barren lands. In Psalm 63:1, David cries out: “O God, you are my God; earnestly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.” It seems that in the story of God and God’s people, we are created to need the Spirit like water – essential for survival, and crucial to cultivate the conditions for growth.
As I sit, holding all these things – the imagery of a watering can and the feelings of being futilely poured out; the encouragement of Isaiah that the work of God brings flourishing to barren land; the challenge of theologians to seek a fruitful life – Spotify brings a song up in the play list that has made me stop: “On the first part of the journey, I was looking at all the life…The heat was hot and the ground was dry, But the air was full of sound”. In their song, ‘A horse with no name’, the band America sings about journeying through a desert, and although it is hot and dry, the place is teeming with life; when the rider comes to the edge of the ocean, he realises that the ocean is like a desert too – all the life is hidden under the surface and we can be fooled into thinking it is a barren place.
As I journey through this process of exploring all these feelings, I am aware of my inclination towards resentment for the energy I feel I am fruitlessly expending – and I am conscious of the call to rise above that inclination; to instead find the space where the peace of God abides and nurtures grace for other people’s journeys. I am reminded that the Scripture speaks of water as a metaphor for God’s presence – and that in my initial picture of a watering can, I had placed myself in the position of the water. How arrogant!
I am immediately drawn to a painting on my wall that I painted as a responsive, prophetic piece during a church service a few years ago: a jug of water being poured out to wash a foot. The water is highlighted with gold paint, and the message speaks straight to my heart right now: the blessing that is poured out in the water is a blessing regardless of the person who is pouring the water – the hand that pours is merely facilitating a moment of divine intervention. In my ego and desire to make a meaningful impact on the world, I have assumed a sense of importance in this space that is not mine to take. When I revisit my initial image of a watering can poured out in the desert, my eyes are drawn to the life underground: the water that I saw as beading and running off the hard ground has run into deep places under the surface that is nurturing the hidden life below the ground – the hidden work of God.
I am reminded of a prayer that I lead often – a prayer of surrender used by the Baha’i:
Oh, God, make me a hollow reed,
from which the pith of self has been blown
so that I may become as a clear channel
through which Thy Love may flow to others.
However, when I went to look up the reference, I found the next part of the prayer, which I hadn’t seen originally:
I have left behind me impatience and discontent.
I will chafe no more at my lot.
I commit myself wholly into thy hands,
for thou are my Guide in the desert.
It seems particularly poignant that this prayer references the desert – and particularly meaningful for me to have only seen that additional section today, as I reflect on this.
I feel the call to focus on being a conduit for the movement of God and to keep a closer watch over the inclination I have towards expectation rather than making space for God to move. I am feeling challenged to remember the depth of importance of that prayer: let me be a clear channel through which God’s love flows to others.
Surrendering my need to succeed and allowing God to do the watering is deeply liberating.
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