Renaissance of the Soul

by Caity Neuberger

RENAISSANCE OF THE SOUL

I didn’t known why I climbed the stairs to my attic-like bedroom, only to sit in near-darkness and sob. I didn’t known why everything on the other side of my bedroom door suddenly felt like chaos and cages and confusion. But as I reached for something, anything to ground me again, my too-quick fingers started scrolling, scrolling, scrolling past comparisons and temptations and distractions and a million signs all saying the same thing: Your life really isn’t amounting to much, is it?

It was in this mini-wilderness of discontentment and emptiness that an antiquated word floated in on some ancient breeze. A term that spoke of times gone by, when women exclusively wore gowns and the word “technology” had not even been whispered. My brain had categorized that particular word under mental files such as “history,” “medieval times,” and “the Mona Lisa.” The word in question certainly didn’t belong here. Did it?

Ever the word-paleontologist, I reached for the dictionary. Though the dictionary itself is considered to be a dry book of facts, I know differently: the dictionary tells a story, turning each singular, untethered word into a window – a window that opens into the past. Any word we have grown accustomed to hearing or speaking needs to be unearthed from the clutter and chaos of our current culture in order for us to see its true meaning. So I dug, and here is what I found:

Renaissance: a renewal of life, vigor, interest, etc.; rebirth; revival.

The words vibrated through my flesh like a gong being struck. Could this long-buried word hold some hope for my future?

At the end of the day, I climbed the creaky stairs weighed down not by a lack of answers or solutions or escape routes, but with a lack of joy. I had fluttered from one little pleasure to the next: dark chocolate, Instagram, blame-shaming, a novel, and back again. There was an unnameable longing tugging at my heart, and I was looking around wildly for something to assuage it.

Any desire, when turned away from Christ, will lead us into more emptiness. But if we acknowledge what we’re really looking for, longings like renaissance step into the picture.

Last year, I attended an “Easter Vigil” at a local church. The sanctuary was used to create a space for prayer and personal meditation. Quiet, reflective music played in the background as guests walked around the room, viewing exhibits centered on different aspects of God and His Word. As I walked and wondered, prayed and pondered, I came upon something that stilled me. A table had been set, flanked by two antique chairs. Fine dishes and foods were arrayed on it. What stopped me was the swath of thick, satiny fabric flowing from the middle of the table and all the way across the walkway. I was treading on it…with my dirty shoes.

I shouldn’t be here, was my first thought. This table was not set for me.

I felt as if I had intruded upon an intimate, romantic setting prepared for someone else. Yet inexplicably, I was drawn to the measure of preparation this feast-table represented, and so I leaned a little closer to make out the piece of paper lying on one end of the heavy table. It read like a love letter from God – to those He loved. To someone like me.

I realized that no matter how dirty my feet are (either metaphorically or physically), God is always inviting me to His table – the one set for intimacy and relationship and love and, yes, renewal.

“He prepares a table before me in the presence of my enemies,” David writes in Psalm 23, following it up in Psalm 36 with, “[the children of mankind] feast on the abundance of [God’s] house, and [God] gives them drink from the river of [his] delights.” As if this weren’t enough of an invitation, Hebrews tells us that “[Jesus] is able to save to the uttermost those who draw near to God through him, since he always lives to make intercession for them.” (Hebrews 7:25)

If God has invited us to come to His table, then we are always welcome.

So often we do not accept His invitation because we do not recognize our need. The longings we have go unexpressed. “I’m just tired,” we say. “I’m so overwhelmed.” Meanwhile, words like desperation, dependence, need, and thirst go unused.

Jesus says, “He who drinks from the fountain of living water will never thirst again.” (John 4:14) I can call this mere metaphor and dash off to other earthly pursuits, or I can acknowledge a hard truth: I have not been drinking from the right fountain. If I had, I would not be so thirsty right now. The presence of my thirst is not an indication of my failures, but rather an indication of my need. How quickly I forsake Christ for comforts. “Do not be conformed to this world,” Paul tells us, renouncing the subconscious habit we have of turning to the world for comfort. “But be transformed by the renewal of your mind.” (Romans 12:2, ESV)

Renewal in Christ is both a gift and a responsibility.

No one else can do this for us; we must come, ourselves, to God Himself. We must run heedless and willing back to the fountain of life as often as we dare, drinking deeply of the antidote to the world’s sorrows and sins: the endless, depthless love of Christ. We are all waiting with bated breath for this kind of love, but our eyes are blind to the One who waits every single day, door propped open to glory, light and love spilling out into the hallway, calling, “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28)

Perhaps these lengthy thoughts can be summed up in the words I spoke to my three-year-old a few days ago. He woke up in the middle of the night, whimpering for a cough drop (all the while refusing to take a sip of water). “I know you want a cough drop,” I whispered, “but that won’t help you heal. Cough drops make us feel better for a little bit. But water and sleep is what will make you well.”

Do we want to feel better, or do we want to be well? God Himself awaits us. Will we dare to tread on that lovely carpet of holiness and enter in to a true renaissance of the soul with Him today?

CAITY NEUBERGER

Caity is a young mama hiding away in the small world of Ohio, busy crafting stories and homeschooling her four recklessly imaginative children – all the while dreaming of returning to the Colorado mountains. You can find her on Instagram at @caityneub.