I feel like I lost myself way before I ever read Jesus’ call to deny yourself, pick up your cross and follow me. I was only twelve years old when chronic illness stole the energy and innocence I used to know, turning self-denial into a necessity rather than a holy choice—I know how few things I can say yes to without the rest of the week turning into an inescapable no.
And so I naturally resist the call to deny myself even further, assuming Jesus wants me to give up the few remaining things that make me feel human. He must be telling me that what I want doesn’t matter, or that I can’t be myself and be a Christian at the same time. He must be asking me to enjoy praying more than I enjoy eating pizza and watching baseball, and I don’t know if I’m capable of that.
But as I’ve been studying Ignatian spirituality—and more specifically the practice of finding God in all things—I’ve found myself asking questions that place Jesus’ call to self-denial in a different light. What if I’m not meant to destroy my desires, but to destroy the belief that God can’t be found within them?
What if Jesus isn’t commanding us to be less human, but to deny the ideas and distractions that keep us from seeing our humanity as a gift?
We don’t die to the part of ourselves that desires beautiful experiences. We die to the part of ourselves that dismisses this beauty as ordinary and refuses to see common grace and the hand of God in the midst of it all.
We don’t deny our ache to be loved. We deny the voice telling us we can’t be loved and it’s not worth it to reach out for help. We resist the urge to ignore messages or respond to them harshly. We look for evidence of grace in other people when it’d be easier to list the reasons why humanity is hopeless.
We don’t shrink into people with no identities, but we base our identities on how much we’ve been loved rather than how much we’ve accomplished or endured. We don’t ask God to make us disappear, but to meet us as we are and pour His love through our uniqueness into our neighbors.
And perhaps when we’re eating pizza with a ballgame on TV, we don’t see these things as competing with prayer but providing a gateway to it. We thank God that even in a world in such need of redemption, enjoyment is possible, and meals are a way to experience our bodies as a place where grace can meet us.
We die to a worldview that includes God in nothing and are resurrected to a life that seeks God in everything.
When I’m too dizzy to leave bed and all I can think of is the life I’m missing out on, I’m not going to approach Jesus if I believe He wants to deny me of as much goodness as my illness has.
But if I believe that He, Himself, is goodness and wants to meet me in this place, I can deny the idea that love will never find me and there’s nothing more for me than pain—and that’s a call I’m willing to answer.