Longing for Aslan
Recently I was walking in the woods and I was struck by how they looked like springtime in Narnia (yes, we do be that nerdy sometimes). Next, I was struck by a pang and I exclaimed to my friend, Peter (I’m including his name because, well, what a coincidence!), “I hate that we’re not in Narnia and there’s no Aslan to emerge out of the woods and speak what my heart needs to hear, that he’s taking care of me.”
It reminded me of this quote from Narnia that my heart has been continually drawn to:
I’ve been drawn to this with a longing. If only I could be Lucy and finally awaken to the voice of God. If only, after such a long silence, He would show up and remind me that He transcends my circumstances of heartbreak and uncertainty. I’ve been searching restlessly for His validation and rest for a long time.
Recently, though, almost everything that’s given me the illusion of stability has been taken away. Uncertainty in/about my relationships, community, the end of college, my future. And for a while, I protested. I kept waiting for God to show up like Aslan would show up to Lucy just when she needed Him the most. I took it as a sign of His abandonment that He never broke through to me. He never came to rescue me or give me relief.
I’m sharing all of this because I can imagine I’m not the only one in a place like this. I can’t be the only one exhausted from searching for where God is to be found. I know He exists, I try to live how He commands, I talk to others about Him. But where is He in my own life? In my own sorrow and fear? How could I genuinely point others to Him if I hadn’t figured out how to find Him in my own story?
Of course, He is in the world, can’t you see it? Of course, He’s in Scripture. Of course, He’s in other people. But where is He in me?
Well, I don’t intend to leave this post with depressing questions screamed into the void. Not that I’ve fully answered this question – that would be pretty wild. But, I have come to some deeper realizations that I wish I’d taken seriously years ago. So, I’m going to share them.
“Do not hold me”
Part of my new realization came through meditating on Jesus’ appearance to Mary Magdalene after He had died and risen. In the Gospel of John, she’s heartbroken and so grieved that she doesn’t notice the angels who ask her why she’s weeping. She doesn’t notice Jesus is the one who asks her why she’s weeping and who she’s looking for. She notices Him when he says simply, “Mary.”
She runs to him and (presumably) throws her arms around Him. And curiously, He says, “Do not hold me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father; but go to my brethren and tell them” what she has seen (John 20:11-18).
At first, I thought I was drawn to this because the Holy Spirit wanted to point out that I needed to just ask for Jesus to appear to me. Well, I was wrong. Which I realized as soon as I started wondering about why He tells her, “Do not hold me.” Why did He say this? It almost hurt my feelings for her. As I was reflecting, I realized that He was teaching her to behold Him with the eyes of faith, in her heart. It was not the time to rest in His physical presence, there was work to be done. He had to ascend to the Father and she had to witness to others. But was He abandoning her for this work to be done?
No. Instead, He was sending the Holy Spirit, so that she wouldn’t just behold Him physically, but contain Him inside herself. In the same way, God has never abandoned me, but I’ve been searching frantically to find Him outside of myself, in my experiences, in the words of others holier than I, in my books. I could never really connect to Him there. It hasn’t been until quarantine, though, and the ripping away of my mirage of security (and physical church and community) that I’ve had to come face to face with where He has been the whole time: in me.
Contemplative Prayer
The contemplatives have always known this, the Desert Fathers, people much wiser than me. In solitude, in the stillness, He meets me there.
I’ve taken to twenty minutes of daily contemplative prayer, and prayerful, silent meditation on an attribute of God or an aspect of who He is, like Father, or King. I’m not intending to give a treatise on contemplative prayer (there are plenty of those, try The Way of the Heart by Henri Nouwen). I just want to express that this isn’t just for monks or super wise old people. And it’s finally here that I hear the voice of my Father, calming my fears, bringing healing to painful memories and wounds.
I want to give an example. I was sitting and continually bringing to mind the idea of God as my Father. As I did this, I felt led through a series of images of my life. One was an image of getting lost on a mountain in Lebanon after someone had pulled out a gun and I ran away in fear. Another was driving down the road where my grandma’s car brakes had given out, imagining her fear, and finally, seeing the place she had crashed. Another was reading a horrible Tweet about me in high school, and another was crying about a boy who ignored me. Then, in each of these memories, I saw a golden aura surrounding me and the words spoken to my heart, I am with you always. This still voice repeated itself, memory after memory, and I felt the healing being done in my heart, the long-awaited healing. The intense fears that I’m alone and unsafe that control a lot of my life and heart started to loosen their hold.
Consider contemplative, silent, still prayer. Consider that this might be the way to hear the voice of God speaking to you in the direct way He spoke to the prophets. If you’re not sold, consider Jesus’ 40 days of fasting and silent prayer in the desert. Think of how His identity was tested by the Devil. It’s like how ours is tested as soon as we enter into silence, isn’t it? Our identity is tested as each lie we believe rises up, as the fears come to the surface, and the flawed ways we usually try to find peace are nowhere to be found. Yet, in the silence, we can finally hear who God created us to be, and He can change us according to His will.
I’ve only begun a journey, one I’ve never before taken, that no other person will take or can take for me. That’s the way of the heart, as Henri Nouwen writes. I’m confident that I’m on a journey that will see me through the uncertainties and hardships of life. I no longer have to be jealous of Lucy, in fact, she should be jealous of us. We have the Holy Spirit.
A wannabe philosopher 