It was a good Easter yesterday. Our table was full following our morning church service, and after our guests left, Audrey and I bundled up for a walk in the ravine. As we walked, we talked about the Enneagram, and I tried convincing her that the one, not the four, is the most tortured type. At first, she wanted to disagree, but then she admitted, “I guess that makes sense—because fours enjoy the torment of their melancholy.” We came back to a quiet house, the boys having left with Ryan to play basketball at our local gym, so I picked up the novel I’ve borrowed from the library and stretched out on the couch to read. An hour later, they came home hungry, and I emptied leftovers from the refrigerator for a piecemeal dinner. We played a round of Clue before the twins’ bedtime, and when the day finally drew to a close, I opened my laptop to face the tower of emails I’d let grow over the weekend. I also entertained—briefly—the thought of checking social media.
Since the beginning of Lent, I haven’t visited Facebook or Twitter. This abandonment of social media was, admittedly, an abrupt decision made on the morning of Ash Wednesday after I re-read a small portion of Michelle Van Loon’s book, Moments and Days. She suggested choosing a fast for Lent with a spiritual goal in mind. “Rather than simply giving up, say chocolate, because you feel you should fast from something at Lent, it might be more helpful to think in terms of an area in your spiritual life that is not flourishing, and focus your Lenten discipline in that area.” Because I’d given up sugar in the New Year for a month, I decided that my Lenten fast wouldn’t be food-related. And even though I didn’t think I had pathological addiction to social media, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to give it up.
In truth, there was nothing magical about withdrawing from social media for the last six weeks. And maybe that’s one of the lessons I might have gained. The spiritual life is less like wiggling your nose and blinking your eyes into sainthood, even if you do it for forty days straight. Because on the forty-first day, the same choices will lie in front of you. Who are you becoming?
I confess to wanting a once-and-done kind of spiritual life. During Lent, I wanted to fast from social media and be cured of distractibility. In the New Year, I wanted to fast from sugar and be cured of gluttony. But once-and-done doesn’t seem to fit the nature of the project. There’s a lot of plodding with God, a kind of daily-ness that won’t be cheated. The spiritual life is more incremental that we want it to be. God’s grace comes to us like manna. You and I will eat today, but we will wake up hungry tomorrow. We will never be rid of our dependence.
My fast from social media has worked like a cleanse—but now I see that there is yet work on the other side of the deprivation. How might I best engage social media now? What new habits can I form? That question reminds me of one of my favorite lines from Shannan Martin’s Falling Free:“I have so much more for you than your tired, stubborn ways, Shannan.” I think that’s a beautiful way of characterizing the gift of repentance. Repentance is a turning from and a turning toward. We turn from our tired, stubborn ways which are familiar to us and yet decidedly broken in order to then turn toward God. We put off in order to put on. We lay down in order to take up. And while I think Lent has helped me turn from—from the reflex of boredom, from the habits of distraction, from the need for other people’s approval—honestly, I’m not sure what I’m turning toward yet. What does it look like to have a healthier relationship with social media? That’s probably a question I still need to turn over this week, a question I need to have answered, at least partially, before returning to social media.
Because maybe the real reward is in the forty-first day.