They can’t say we didn’t try

+ A Blessing For Those Who Tried

🎧 If you’re a paid subscriber, you can listen to me read this reflection for you as part of The Secret Field Notes Podcast, Episode 36.

Hi friends,

I’ve failed pretty spectacularly over the years. Sometimes it’s been public; thankfully, most of the time, it’s been a private experience. But sure, I’ve run into my limits more times than I can count. I’ve launched things that failed or worse, fizzled. I’ve had ideas that came to nothing. I’ve written and submitted a full book that was rejected. Despite knowing better, I’ve been disappointed in my book sales, comparing myself to others in my lane. I’ve cried my eyes out over my kids and spent many nights lying sleepless for hours with worry, rethinking how I handled every single moment of their lives. I’ve become well-acquainted with the gap between my own ideals and my lived realities. I’ve had to go on long walks with my shame. I’ve had to make amends. I’ve had to rewrite my own long-accepted narratives. I’ve been embarrassed, even humiliated a time or two. Repentance and I are good friends by now.

Basically, newsflash, I’m a person.

Sometimes being a person is a real beat down.

There is this hilarious little clip from the television sitcom The Simpsons that I’ve never forgotten. The kids, Bart and Lisa, are leaving a situation where they experienced failure. On the way home, their mother Marge asks their father Homer to say something to the children. Homer stops and turns to the kids, ready to offer his sage advice:

“Kids, you tried your best and you failed miserably. The lesson is: never try.”

“The lesson is: never try.”

The amount of times that I have sarcastically offered that pseudo-comfort to myself or to my friends who are engaged in effort is legion. Legion, I say.

Business failed? The lesson is: never try. Church that was trying to do things differently had to close? The lesson is: never try. Launched an online campaign that didn’t get traction? You get the idea.

We always laugh when I say it - I mean, we all get it, boy, do we get it - but if I’m honest, some part of me has wondered over the past couple of years if … maybe Homer was right? Maybe the lesson was to just stop trying? I mean, trying is costly. Maybe it isn’t worth it.

Maybe the lesson was to stop trying to write a book that matters to people. To stop trying to save the world. To stop trying to swim upstream. To stop nattering on about the necessity of peacemaking and the fruit of the Spirit and beauty and hope and goodness. To stop trying to hold onto and reimagine Christianity in the face of rising fascism co-opting the Gospel I love.

Maybe it would be easier to just stop trying. To get small. To get quiet. To go home, like John MacArthur wishes us ladies would do. To stop caring. To stop loving. To stop making an effort. To stop trying to move the needle forward on justice and peace. To give in to apathy and status-quo-maintaining and that’s-the-way-the-world-works resignation.

I guess I get that instinct now. I get it in a way that I didn’t when I was younger and more idealistic and energetic, before I’d had my rear-end handed to me by the powers and principalities of our ages or my own stupidity.

It is so costly to try. It takes a toll.

We know this all too well by now. I know you know.

So lately, me being me, I’ve developed a little counter-saying¹ to my joke-y repetition of Homer’s wise saying, “the lesson is: never try.”

Now, when I feel that familiar exhaustion or embarrassment or sadness that comes with failure or loss or limitation, when I know that I’m entering a fight I might not win, when I know I’m engaged in a battle that could break me: now, I just quietly say to myself: they can’t say you didn’t try.

They can’t say I didn’t try.

In the face of absolute nonsense, they can’t say we didn’t try.

They can’t say we didn’t care. They can’t say we didn’t make an effort.

We may not succeed but dammit, we are trying.

Maybe the church will close, maybe the non-profit will shutter, maybe the wrong person will win, maybe the wicked will prosper, maybe you don’t get the job, maybe your book won’t be published, maybe you can’t save the one you love, maybe you weren’t the right leader, maybe democracy is ending, maybe the apocalypse is nigh, maybe you screwed up, maybe your marriage ended, maybe you tried to do the right thing but it came out wrong; maybe maybe maybe the worst will happen and you will be sitting beside the smoking rubble of your life for a long time.

But they can’t say you didn’t try.

We are marching, we are showing up, 
we are protesting, we are conscientiously objecting. 
We are knocking on doors and putting up signs.
We are writing, we are singing. 
We are cooking meals, we are reading poems aloud, 
we are texting friends who have gone quiet, 
we are organizing, we are growing flowers. 
We are joining movements and showing up, 
it's always better late than never.

We are paying attention, listening.
We are writing letters and praying 
like it means something. 
We are trying to hold the powerful accountable. 
We are caring about other people’s children
 (there is no such thing as other people’s children). 
We are making a nuisance of ourselves. 
We are not going home. 
We are not becoming smaller and quieter 
and more easily governed. We are 
giving away hard-earned money and 
learning the names of the kids in the neighbourhood. 
We are loving, best as we know how, 
holding true to our ideals, 
believing in another dawn's invitation to try.

They can’t say you didn’t try.

No one will ever be able to say that you didn’t try.

A Blessing For Those Who Tried

God, we've known effort and disappointment.
We entered the proverbial arena with a lot of hope,
and now we're left, dusty and beat-up and gasping for breath.
Our sense of purpose feels pointless now,
We come to you with our longing and shame.

Bless those who poured their hearts
into a dream that died. Gather in grace,
every courageous step that was taken,
every yes that was offered in good faith,
every brave attempt made, 
every milligram of hope we still hold, and 
hold us in your steady love.

Thankfully, your love, your redemption,
your rescue and your plan has never depended on
our impeccable effort or relentless success. 
(That was smart.)

When we feel futile and ridiculous for even trying,
give us your perspective on the long game,
on the unseen and uncelebrated realities, 
on the promise of renewal and redemption.

Bless our stubborn refusal to quit caring. 
Bless our unreasonable hopes, our tenacious refusals
to cave to the powers and principalities of our age,
to be talked out of decency and resilience,
and our faith in Love, despite evidence to the contrary.

When we wonder why we bothered trying, 
surround us with voices that hold space for our despair,
but guard us from self-delusion or self-pity. 
Help us to find kindred spirits and elders 
who journey with us.
If there is a glimmer of hope left,
help us not to miss that beacon.

No one will be able to say that we didn't try, Jesus.
(We'd rather succeed, don't get us wrong, so if you wouldn't mind
helping that along, once in a while,
we would appreciate it, thank you.)

Maybe we were ridiculous to try 
to move the needle for goodness in this old world 
but we won't regret trying. 
We won’t regret throwing our hats in the ring.
We won't regret believing in your love,
your grace, your heart for the under-dogs.

Maybe we got the crap kicked out of us, 
but we had glorious moments too. 
Help us not to lose sight of that.
Help us to remember the victories along the way,
to honour the progress however unnoticed.

We tried. We accomplished a lot of good too
(even if it’s hard to feel it sometimes). 
Bless all of us who did not acquiesce 
to apathy or status-quo.

Maybe ours is the kin-dom, too, eh?

May we carry on, stubborn and lovely, 
unashamed and undeterred, 
resilient and secure in your love.

We know our efforts are seen,
even cherished, by you,
the God who never stops loving,
who never stops trying, too.

Amen.

Alongside you,

S.

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1. Is it a mantra? I don’t think so. It’s not inspiring enough to be a mantra. But you know me and my little “sayings” and how I just love a one-sentence reminder that’s in constant rotation.