Thoughts and Reflections

One thing we all have in common: During our past, at various times and in many ways, we chose a way to cope with life apart from God. Recently, I recalled a moment when I made a decision that set the course for my life. I don’t remember how old I was – probably around eight. Below is my journal entry.

I woke up, startled from a bad dream. My sheets seemed to be covered with spiders. Terrified, I jumped out of bed and went to tell my sleeping parents what happened. I don’t remember what they said, but I was sent back to my bed, alone. Somewhere, during the short walk back to my room, I changed. I stopped hoping that I would ever receive comfort when I was afraid. I resolved, from that moment on, to handle my fears alone.

But I was not fine. I overcame my terror because I had to. No one was there to help me. I did not feel strong and capable. I felt terribly alone. I had given in to the message I had heard my whole life: I did not matter, and therefore, did not deserve any kind of care. Something inside me died that day. I felt empty, alone, lifeless, and resigned to the fact that I would always feel that way.

I am still like the little girl I was that night. Life is so much easier if I go through it alone and stare down the shadows that terrify me. When I am afraid or hurt, the only safe thing to do is force my emotions back down where they belong and be fine.

But my fears won’t go away when I stare them down. Unlike phantom spiders, they have substance. When I pretend they aren’t there, they don’t fade away into nothingness. On the contrary, they grow bigger in the shadows of denial.

My real fear that night was that I would always be minimized and discarded. On a deeper level, I feared that this is what I deserve. That I wore a mark that separated me from the rest of the human race. That mark read, “No care required.”

My fear grew as I killed my longings and isolated myself from others. The more I hid, the more I feared exposure and dismissal. Independence was no longer a coping strategy that numbed my pain, but a prison cell that cut me off from the light, fresh air, and warmth of the outside world. God once said to Cain, “Sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you.” Independence crouched at my door that night. I did not recognize it for what it was – sin; and I did not realize its desire – to own me.

Most of my Christian life, I’ve viewed my independence as a holy thing. I trust Jesus, and him alone! I don’t need people. Yet, I know I am a slave to others’ opinions. Whenever I am a bit vulnerable and someone misreads my situation, I instinctively feel like I am being told, “There aren’t any spiders! Go back to bed!” And my heart says, “Why did you set yourself up? Stay alone! Jesus will take care of you.”

But the Jesus I’ve believed in is not very comforting. My need for independence has distorted my view of him. When I am frightened and alone, I hear a voice that I mistake for His.

He spouts out Sonship theology like this. “The only reason you are so afraid is that you are acting like an orphan! You don’t really believe the Gospel. If you trusted me as your only Savior, you wouldn’t have overreacted to the phony spiders, and come running into my bedroom. Now, be a good “daughter” and go back to bed!” The irony!

He spouts out Reformed theology like this: “The spiders were ordained to be in your bed before the foundation of the world. I promised I would use them for good. If you believed me, you wouldn’t be in my bedroom right now! Repent, and go back to bed…”

He addresses my idolatry like this: “If you loved me more than you loved feeling safe, you would be content with a bed full of spiders. You wouldn’t come running to me to serve your need for comfort! Repent and go back to bed!”

He strips his own promises of any remnant of comfort. “I will NEVER leave you or forsake you!” is transformed into: “If you knew I wasn’t going to abandon you, you wouldn’t be crying out to me about the spiders! BUCK UP! And go back to bed!”

Perhaps you catch the common message: “Go back to bed!” As long as I believe in a “buck up” Jesus I cannot change. Even learning about justification by faith does not help. The good news of the Gospel simply means that I don’t have to perform to gain access to this kind of God. “Bold I approach the eternal throne, and hear him send me back to bed…” My heart is not strangely warmed…

Jesus has given me the solution. He tells me, “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart...” Jesus is humble and gentle? For real?

I have found it impossible to imagine a Jesus who would wipe away my tears and hold me as I tremble. What’s it like to have Jesus “charm my fears?” Or, to know him as John Newton did, a Savior who “soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds, drives away his fears and makes the wounded spirit whole.”

I have become desperate to know Jesus as he really is. I’ve spent the last year and a half observing his conversations, noticing his posture, his words, his emotions, his actions. I’m amazed at what I’ve discovered. Jesus is compassionate, gentle and amazingly wise with people as foolish and sinful as I am.

But I learned something even more precious. Jesus made himself vulnerable. He willingly endured more scorn than I have ever experienced, and he didn’t buck up! Instead, his heart was broken.

Scorn has broken my heart and has left me helpless; I looked for sympathy, but there was none, for comforters, but I found none. They put gall in my food and gave me vinegar for my thirst. Psalm 69:20,21

I’ve been afraid that Jesus would join the voices of my abusers and tell me that I was wrong to feel thirsty, to desire sympathy, to long for comfort. I did not want to hear him tell me that I deserved the scorn and contempt I received, or that it was no big deal. But Jesus, himself, was heartbroken when he was scorned. He, too, looked for sympathy, for comfort, and received none. By experiencing it, himself, and being honest about the pain he felt, he has helped me understand what I felt that night. My heart was broken. I had been unwilling to admit it. Instead, I hardened my heart against God and others until it was unbreakable.

Jesus wore my hard, unbroken heart before his Father and was justly condemned and rejected. He has clothed me with the righteousness of his vulnerable, loving heart. The Father and the Son willingly put themselves through the grief of separation so that I could be fully embraced. Jesus is not a heard hearted Savior who runs over those he owns. When we are frightened or troubled, he does not send us back to our beds, alone. Instead, he says, “Come!”