Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting. Psalm 139:23-24
A couple of months ago I injured my shoulder working-out (or maybe I was reaching for a second box of Girl Scout Cookies, but that’s neither here nor there). After several trips to multiple doctors, a few of rounds of meds, and an X-ray there was little improvement, and last week I eventually ended-up laying on a large sliding table, being slid into a giant metal tube for an MRI (short for Magnetic Resonance Imaging).
The MRI uses radiology or invisible light imaging to be able to look deep into the soft tissues of the body, essentially allowing you to view the stuff that is nearly impossible to see any other way.
It takes a long time, and while you are being examined you can’t move at all or the image isn’t as clear as it needs to be.
As I lay there inside the tube, being bombarded by what is essentially a huge internal scanner, I experienced profound discomfort. No, not physical pain at the procedure itself, but emotional apprehension at the countless things the doctor might find.
Looking that closely, that deeply into me, it seems she was bound to find something; some dormant disease or foreign presence, something terrible that would make or had made me sick. In fact, lots of people avoid the doctor for that very reason. They’d rather die from something attacking them internally, than know what’s happening and dealing with it.
Many people avoid God for the same reason.
We’re fine with a comfy, non-invasive weekly visit to church; some easy community or low-level spirituality. But real vulnerability, a truly transparent heart laid open and visible is something we’d rather avoid. So we hurry and rush through religious activities, trying not to think too much about the stuff really going on inside.
Most of us are unwilling or unable to really strip away the layers of image and roles and labels and defenses, and truly face the deepest part of ourselves.
If I’m honest, I resist that too.
And so I move, believing that if I do enough, if I stay busy enough, if I create enough, then I won’t have to stop and confront what’s really happening inside, because to do that would be to notice the severe injuries my heart has sustained and to realize just how hurting and weary and angry I really am—and have to do something about it.
Psalm 139 speaks of God knowing us that intimately; every hair, every breath, every atom. The writer though, doesn’t feel threatened or fearful at this thought, but comforted. For the psalmist, allowing God that kind of access is the greatest source of peace he or she could have.
They call Jesus the Great Physician for this reason. He desires His work to go beneath the surface; to the deep and hidden spots, because that is where healing happens and that is where life is altered.
May you slow down long enough to notice your hurting places.
May you be willing to open yourself up; to provide the time and stillness to really be seen and known by the One who sees and knows in a way no one else can.
May you be still and be healed in the deepest parts of who you are.
