A Resolution on Resolutions
Historically, New Year’s Day hasn’t always fallen on January 1st because our calendar hasn’t been a consistent entity. Factor in a few mythological gods, Roman emperors, and a pope or two. Add a dash of Protestant Reformation and you’ll find that in the past, the New Year occurred anywhere from January 1 to March 25. (Surprisingly, it wasn’t until 1752 that England and the American colonies began celebrating New Year’s on January 1st.) That’s nothing to say of the multiple cultures that celebrate it in recognition of their own calendars. And if you really want your head to spin, don’t forget all our dear southern hemisphere friends who experience the seasons opposite to us and whose Christmas and New Year’s celebrations include BBQs on the beach.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that, in my experience, making resolutions on January 1 is a bad idea.
Because there’s nothing particularly organic about celebrating the New Year this way. For most of us, it’s simply a function of the calendar and happens primarily because we’ve reached the end of the month and need to turn the page (or in my case, glue magnets on the back of my 2012 office-sized calendar from Target and stick it to the side of the refrigerator.) Think about – there is no seasonal change or religious celebration that would motivate us to make resolutions; it’s simply a cultural obligation. Or, in my experience, the result of the guilt from eating too much, exercising too little, and overspending in the last six weeks since Thanksgiving.
But as we’ve all experienced, guilt and obligation really aren’t enough to produce effective change--especially when the bed is so warm at 5:30 and the floor is so cold. I think this may be one reason why so many of our resolutions fall flat (statistics show that only 10% of them will actually survive the year.) We feel compelled by the turn of the calendar instead of something greater; and we insist on making change in the most difficult of circumstances, relying on our own will, ability, commitment, or support group to enact that change. Really, we are simply setting ourselves up for failure.
But what if making resolutions came at a more productive time, a time more in tune with natural and spiritual renewal?
Think about the Jewish New Year celebration in the Old Testament. Rosh Hashanah (or the Feast of the Trumpets) signaled the beginning of the High Holy Days and called the people to ten days of private reflection and repentance. It culminated in Yom Kippur also known as The Day of Atonement. This was the one day a year that the High Priest entered the Holy of Holies to make sacrifice for the people; it was also the day that a scapegoat was driven from the camp to symbolize the removal of their sins and failings. So then, after these observances, the people could walk freely into the New Year knowing that their sin was forgiven and that they had been renewed.
In this case, their New Year’s resolutions were meant to be inspired by repentance and redemption; they were never intended to be the path to them.
I’m not advocating a return to the Jewish calendar--I think Paul addressed that a couple millennia ago--but I am suggesting that maybe our resolutions would have more sticking power if they came after a period of reflection, repentance, and turning to God to enable that change. For me that’s Easter. Not only does Easter follow a period designed to highlight human inability, it celebrates the perfection and sufficiency of Christ to effect change in us. Because we all know, there’s nothing like a good Resurrection to remind us of our physical weakness and the impossibility of true renewal apart from divine intervention.
So this year, I’m blissfully ignoring New Year’s resolutions. Sure I’ll stop my holiday binging and I might even enact a few schedule adjustments. But for me at least, the true reason for change doesn’t come just because I flip the calendar. And the true power to change doesn’t come that way either.
What We Give Up
But no offering comes without loss. No sacrifice without pain.
So today, on this Thanksgiving Day, giving thanks means laying down our cynicism, our doubt, our need to control, our anger and fear. Laying them on the altar, taking the knife, and plunging a death-wound. Giving thanks means surrendering those things we’ve been holding—those things that we’ve been using to keep us safe. And instead, giving thanks means saying, “You are the One who cares for me, You are the One who keeps me safe. You are the One who holds my heart.”
And when we do this,
when we offer up our entitlement, there is room for blessing;
when we offer up our anger, there is room for forgiveness;
when we offer up our cynicism, there is room for hope;
when we offer up our doubt, there is room for faith.
And we discover that what rises from that bloody, twisted mass of sacrifice is an aroma of praise—praise and thanksgiving to the One who took them from us when we finally offered them up.
Promises
Ten years ago today, when my husband and I were young enough to be confident, we stood in front of friends and family and promised things to each other. We promised to freely give our love, our time, our bodies, and our wills. We promised that to the best of our ability we would model Christ and His Church.And it was beautiful.
Almost too beautiful, because little did we realize what we were actually promising; little did we understand that giving all those things actually meant sacrifice. And not in the poetic way we had used the word. No, it meant what it is: broken, bloody, excruciating death. It meant dying like Christ. It meant crucifixion.
And it meant failing because even our best promises that day were destined to be broken. Instead of loving, we have been selfish, we have been petulant, we have been angry. Instead of faithful, we have been faithless. We have suffered, not simply for each other, but because of each other--we have driven the nails into each other’s hands.
But there was another thing that we didn’t realize that day--Someone else was making promises too. Promises like,
I will never leave you or forsake you.
I am close to the brokenhearted. I rescue those whose spirits are crushed.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.
I know the plans I have for you… plans for good, not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.
I am the resurrection and the life.
And it has been these promises that have brought us through the last ten years; it will be these promises that will carry us through even more. It is the promise that in the thousand deaths we have and will die, He will raise us up again; that when everything seems beyond hope, He will stretch out His hand with mercy and love; that He will be our resurrection and life.
So, today, I smile a bit to think how blissfully ignorant we were ten years ago, how utterly incapable we were of keeping our promises. But today, I’ll also laugh out loud with sheer joy to think that He wasn’t and He isn’t.