Engaging in serious contemplation and then attempting to explain it is not always a good idea.
I run the risk of sounding pretentious. Or worse, schmaltzy.
But as I plodded through the rituals of Easter, weighted thoughts flitted about in my headspace, tugged at my spirit.
I spent most of my youth chasing after feelings to supplement my faith, as though feelings would somehow make it more tactile, more genuine. And often, they did. I was an abundantly emotional teenager, after all, as most are.
As I grew older, I began to feel callous and hopelessly desensitized when I no longer cried when confronted with stories or images of the crucifixion of Christ. It no longer caused emotional anguish or sorrow.
I no longer wept at the depth of my gratitude, or the passion of my love for a God who would become human, only to be tortured and brutally murdered.
What I have ultimately realized is that God never really asked for me to have passionate emotions toward Him. Feelings are transient by nature, of course. Their job is to ignite and flee, engorge and deflate.
It seems as though God asks for much more sturdy, difficult offerings: Devotion. Obedience. Humility. Sacrifice.
Perhaps I chased feelings for so long because they were much easier to catch.
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