Stepping Out of Our Spiritual Comfort Zones: New Ways to Experience Lent and God’s Presence All Year Long
by Sarah K. Butterfield
Stepping Out of Our Spiritual Comfort Zones:
New Ways to Experience Lent and God’s Presence All Year Long
by Sarah K. Butterfield
"You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart."—Jeremiah 29:13
It is 1990, and my mom is jubilant. She unpacks the groceries and holds up a tin can in victory. There is a blonde boy pictured on the front, with Arabic writing next to his smiling face. This was a far cry from Skippy or Jif, but two years into our new lives as missionaries to France, we were desperate for peanut butter. When my mom finally found it in a neighboring city, it had been imported from North Africa.
She grabbed the can opener, and we peered inside. Our first hint that something was different was when we tried to spread it. We had to wrestle clumps of it onto the bread because it lacked the oil necessary for a smooth spread. When we tasted it, there was a distinct lack of salt or sugar, making the whole affair rather bland.
Our French friends and neighbors couldn’t understand our obsession. “Butter? Out of peanuts?” they would ask, half scandalized. Their skepticism was perhaps warranted, since they were, after all, the culinary geniuses behind Nutella. In my young mind, Nutella was the best thing about upending our lives and moving across the ocean. This was a treat that I was thrilled to discover, but my parents thought it fit for dessert and not a sandwich condiment. Thus, the need for peanut butter.
So much changed when our family moved to France when I was seven. We learned to read and write in a different language. We learned new cultural norms and ways of living. My parents navigated new careers in full-time ministry, and my siblings and I navigated new schools. All the cartoons and candy were different. Money, license plates, and fashion looked different. There was a lot of love for our new country, but there was something to be said about the comfort of familiarity.
This is why, during our first few years on the mission field, packages from back home (before “home” became much harder to pinpoint) were so prized. Inside were such delicacies as packets of ranch dressing, Kool-Aid, taco seasonings, Oreos, and peanut butter. America in a little cardboard box.
We may have been in the land of baguettes, croissants, and pain au chocolat, but sometimes what we needed most was plain old peanut butter on white sandwich bread–finding respite in its creamy familiarity.
There are times in life–hard and painful seasons–when we long for the comfort of the familiar. We turn to our tried-and-true ways of connecting with God, the spiritual practices that make us feel the safest and held. This is a gift. In my faith tradition, the spiritual practices that were the most emphasized were Bible reading and intercessory prayer, the kind of prayer where you pour your heart out to God and ask for help in return. The taste of these practices is so familiar to me that I default to these habits in times of crisis, comforted by my favorite passages in Scripture and soothed by my one-sided conversation with God.
In times of ordinary life, however, when we're not dealing with any crisis except for the everyday mundanity and frustration of being human, spiritual growth requires us to stretch beyond the familiar. Spiritual practices, after all, are tools of transformation to become more like Jesus. We engage in them to love God better and to love our neighbors better. And we can expand our ways of knowing and connecting with God by engaging in spiritual practices that seem foreign or difficult to us.
Years after our first tin can of peanut butter, when French food became as familiar and comforting to me as a jar of Skippy, I went to an American boarding school for missionary kids who had lived in all parts of the world. It was there that Heidi, who had lived in Mali, introduced me to peanut butter on rice. And Liz dared me to try apples and peanut butter, a combination which initially made me wrinkle my nose in disgust. Since I wanted to be a kind friend, I tried both of these concoctions and was surprised by how much I enjoyed these new flavor combinations.
During my senior year, I took a Church History class where I learned about the early Christian monks and the monastic traditions of our desert fathers and mothers. Our teacher organized a kind of field trip, where we stayed on campus but took on the typical duties of an early Christian monk instead of going to class. He even procured a long brown hooded robe for each of us, complete with a length of white rope to tie around our waists.
On the Friday in question, we gathered in the auditorium and donned our robes. Dressing the part was the easiest. The real test of our commitment was the vow of silence we took for the day. We walked in a silent line, our robes swishing, to the prayer chapel on the third floor of our school building. Our teacher led us in a morning liturgy; throughout the day, we would practice praying the hours, a novel concept to all of us from evangelical church backgrounds.
Between these regular intervals of prayer and worship, we were responsible for copying passages of scripture as well as doing some light yard work. We stopped for a silent lunch at a long table, slurping our beef stew and trying to talk with our eyes.
At the end of the day, we took off our robes and resumed our normal lives. But I thought of this day often. I was intrigued by these early spiritual practices and wondered if there was any place for them in the midst of a busy, modern life. Over time, I learned that there are a myriad of ways to deepen my relationship with God and with others through spiritual practices. Some came more naturally to me, and others stretched me way beyond my comfort zone.
We didn’t observe Lent in my faith tradition, and so fasting, in particular, was one of those foreign practices to me–one that I would rather avoid. It sounded hard, and I couldn’t understand why someone would actively choose it. But Richard Foster explains that when our fasting is centered on God, it “reveals the things that control us” (From The Celebration of Discipline). It can help us rightly reorder our desire for God.
We started attending a church that observed the liturgical calendar, and a few years ago, my two boys asked me what I was going to give up for Lent after they had learned about it during an Ash Wednesday service. This was especially convicting because I had been the one to teach the class! Challenged, I spent time in prayer, discerning what to go without for forty days.
That year, I went without makeup—every time I looked in the mirror, I reminded myself of my own belovedness in Christ. This practice was surprisingly difficult for me, revealing my ego and my need for others’ approval. The next year, I gave up my prime parking spot for pick up at my boys’ school, and I was confronted with my obsession with convenience and control. Last year, giving up all forms of writing and publishing revealed my deep need to leverage my talents and experience for likes and follows.
Humbling experiments, all of them. The cravings and desires of my heart were exposed, giving me the opportunity through prayer to realign my heart to God’s and to look to Jesus to find true nourishment for my soul.
I would have missed the richness of this spiritual practice and the subsequent growth it prompted had I not been willing to step out of my comfort zone and try something new.
What gifts are we leaving unopened when we only stick to the familiar practices we know and love?
What about you? What new spiritual practices might God be inviting you to explore? If you’re used to the quiet intimacy of journaling, perhaps you could experiment with walking prayer or worship through art. If intercessory prayer is your natural rhythm, consider balancing it with the practice of listening prayer, allowing space for God’s voice. Maybe you’ve never tried a day of Sabbath rest, practicing gratitude through a daily journal, or reading a Psalm every time you want to scroll on your phone. Each of these might offer you a fresh perspective on God’s presence in your life.
Trying something new isn’t always easy; it might feel uncomfortable or awkward at first–like peanut butter that doesn’t quite taste right. But just as I learned to enjoy unexpected pairings and new traditions, you, too, might discover a depth and richness in your relationship with God that you didn’t know was possible.
God meets us in our familiar spaces, but He also calls us into uncharted territory to deepen our faith. And spiritual practices are ways we can grow deeper in our knowledge of God over the long term. Knowing God is the one pursuit that is always worthy of our time, so step out of your spiritual comfort zone and try something new. You just might find that it nourishes your soul in surprising and transformative ways.
"So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live your lives in him, rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness." —Colossians 2:6-7
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Theology on Purpose is a podcast for women who want to deepen their knowledge of God, explore matters of theology, and live out a robust faith. Each episode equips and empowers you to grow spiritually, strengthen your relationship with God, and make a meaningful impact in the world around you. Tune in for thoughtful conversations, practical insights, and tools to live your faith with intention.
SARAH K. BUTTERFIELD
Sarah K. Butterfield is the author of Around the Clock Mom: Make the Most of Your God-Given Time, a resource that helps busy moms steward their time faithfully. In her role as a writer, speaker, and the Director of Children and Family Ministry for her church, she has a heart for empowering women to grow deeper in their faith. As part of this mission, Sarah hosts the Theology on Purpose podcast, as well as writes regularly for her own website and other publications, such as Red Letter Christians, Relevant, and (in)Courage. She lives in San Diego with her husband and two boys, where she loves getting lost in a book and overindulging in ice cream.
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