I recently enjoyed a short but much-needed weekend reunion with some of my old friends from college when I flew to Texas for a wedding. We got to reminisce and celebrate together. I got to catch up with people who care about me and support me. It was an environment where I truly felt loved and known. I was sitting in the airport waiting for my flight back to New York and a slow sadness came over me. I realized that I didn’t want to come back to this city. Once having an excitement for big dreams of changing the world here was overshadowed instead by the prospect of returning to a city that had surfaced so much pain and yielded so much uncertainty, anxiety, and loneliness. I was scared to return to a place that had made me feel so weak and powerless.
Though I have witnessed the power and authority of Christ in my life work itself out in amazing ways in this city, the space in between those moments of glory – the many examples of all that I’m unable to accomplish, to change, and to speak into – feels magnified. My frustration of my powerlessness in these spaces feels intensified. Injustice, pain, hopelessness, fear, and distrust seem to be prevailing narratives of this city, and like that 70 degree weather that comes and goes in the middle of a long winter, my trip out of the city revealed glimpses of hope and joy that I wish I could have held onto longer. Faced with these thoughts and emotions, I realized how deeply I’ve been experiencing a ‘poorness in spirit’ as my heart aches for renewal.
It is lonely, humbling, and tiring to admit these things. Especially in a city with big vision and drive. In Christian circles, no one wants to stay poor in spirit for long. It almost feels like we give space for suffering and sadness one minute, but move on to bigger, better, more exciting things the next, leaving just enough time to feel the cathartic release of confession without the time and space to wade in these things together. I’ve experienced a quickness to offer platitudes and tie neat little bows on circumstances. We are quick to jump to how things should be, how we should feel, and the answers we should arrive to.
Yet as I seek the face of God, I’m pointed to people like David who lived for years in the tension of having been anointed king, but was seemingly stuck in a situation of running, living in caves, and being powerless to change his circumstances. I’m pointed to John the Baptist who, having baptized Jesus, was powerless to speak to the heart of King Herod, asked to preach in his court only to tickle Herod’s ear, and was ultimately beheaded. I look at scripture, and I see Jesus leading people where they don’t want to be led. I feel angry when God points to these things because it’s not what I want to hear or what I want my faith journey to be like. Seeing what a life of surrender and faith really looked like for the “man after God’s own heart” and for the “greatest man born on earth” is frustratingly discouraging, yet also speaks validity and solidarity to the powerlessness I feel. It points to the need to sit in that powerlessness, to wrestle with God’s goodness in it, and, in brief moments of clarity, to be thankful for the character formation happening because of it.
Led to a place in my own journey of living in caves and being faced with the Sauls and Herods in my life, I pray for an authentic cultivation of vulnerability and authenticity, rather than a desperate desire to control or escape. I think of the story in Acts where Paul and Silas are in prison. Even when the shackles are released miraculously, they stay the night to minister to the guards. They sang praises amidst being shackled and they knew of their authority both in freedom and as prisoners. I pray for comfort in the fact that God Himself aligns and identifies not with those with power or agency, but with those who are poor in spirit to whom He promises keys to His Kingdom. And as I pray into God’s heart, I also pray to be able to live out the rest of the beatitudes. May I give space to mourn and grieve well. May God cultivate meekness in my heart as I crave what is good and righteous. May I be a peacemaker and not hurt others in my pain. The night after Paul and Silas stayed in that prison, they received a parade out of the city because of their status as Roman citizens. God, may I await the fanfare and parade of being escorted to Your arms as a citizen of Your Kingdom.
Previous Posts:
• Even in the Rain
• Living God's Love
• Love That Sees
• More Than Candy
• Farewell, Dear Friend
Daniel Du serves on Cru's field staff reaching millennials in New York City.
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