I felt a big firm hand on my back. I was in the middle of worshiping and didn't feel particularly inclined to be the guy getting touched. There was more bromance occurring in the auditorium then at an N'Sync and Gomorrah concert. I don't like being touched in worship all the time. Touch is my love language, but touch during serious worship often has strings attached. I can smell strings like blood in shark infested water. I just hate when people try to force and emotional response or pray over me like I'm not spiritual.
I mean, it's similar to trying to force feed pie to a man because he looks peckish. He might just have a peckish face after all.
It was Jay. Jay is tall, muscular, and as his wife describes him "A Specimen." He also has the same eyebrows as Flint Lockwoods father. His job was to coach me on the world race.
Jay had told all the guys the first night that he longed to be involved in our life. I knew because I watched him talk a day or two before. I guess I didn't really believe him. I've been burned on father figures. Third degree burns that leave me desensitized.
"Hey Jake, I haven't had a chance to meet with you. I just wanted to pray and let you know I'm here for you."
Then Jay prayed and walked away.
It was a simple moment. Yet the raw intimacy in his voice cut down so deep.
With that, I began to weep. Sobbing and grieving and bawling. Tears that ran hot like irons and seared the skin. Tears that felt long overdue.
Tears that are long overdue.
I wept and wept, lost in a moment with God.
I haven't felt the tangible love of a father in so long. Even if I had, my heart must have not been ready to receive it.
That simple moment, where a father found me and pursued me in the midst of a crowd, left me broken. And I guess for once instead of running, I pressed into the brokenness.
Memories swirled, nostalgia. I began to remember, to go into the wounds. They flashed before my face.
Older men. Alcohol on the breath. Cigarette musk on the sleeve. Filthy words and hearts speaking lies over me. It was the only "Truth" I knew. They fought me on God. They hit me when I didn't perform. They locked me outside. They treated ownership of me as a secondary unwanted result of affection for my mother instead of a child deserving of value and worth.
When the blow was first received to my heart, I shriveled and hid. I didn't want the world to know. I didn't want any of my friends to know that I was hurt and lost someone dear. I had to be the strong one, the man now. When the next wound was dealt, I was told cold and cruel things. Scalding curses fell upon me, I felt branded. The next wound came. Then the next. Eventually I stopped feeling, mourning, and believing I was even worth hurting. I felt a wretch deserving of hate and punishment.
My memories burned, flickered, flashed, and finally…
There came a memory of an incredible wound, an arrow thick with venom and piercing my once bright and triumphant heart. I slumped down. I couldn't muster the strength to get past this wound.
I deserved it after all.
It was June of last year. Winter was beginning to break. Everyday I would run outside to occupy my mind. An isolated castle of thoughts and memories. I couldn't share my burden. I spent thirty days around people yet utterly alone. I realized that when tragedy struck, I would rather hide then find rest in brotherhood.
I was so sick of the response I normally received. I was so sick of cultural-Christianity telling me pain is a sin and not a normal part of life. Sick of being told pain is a symptom of my own scabby unclean heart
"Suck it up."
"God is good."
"All things work out for those who love Him."
Ever been broken? I'm talking that heart-wrenching brokenness where you dread the rest of night more then the monotony of day. Haunting thoughts hold you captive as you ask "Why?"
Memories rehearse and bad moments echo and repeat. Could it have been different? Did I mess up?
"Why did she leave me?"
"Why is He dead?"
"Do I deserve this?"
In that brokenness we often walk around wounded until some cheery over-spiritual person comes and thrusts a cliche' at us.
"You deserve hell, so everything so far has been a blessing, you should be grateful."
Although they wouldn't say it that way. That's what they really mean though, right?
Don't you just want to hit them? Honestly, I understand why! Our entire culture and our entire church has declared war on one of the most important, intimate, and needed spiritual disciplines.
Grieving.
This is important,
Just because we may feel undeserving of mercy and grace does not NULLIFY the injustice done to us. This is such a huge thing to grasp, yet the slight shift in this thinking is immeasurably devastating.
Robbing ourselves of justice causes so much heartbreak. It becomes breeding grounds for addiction and self-devaluing.
"I am not a virgin anymore so I never deserve a husband who will treat me pure. I might as well live however, my beauty is ravished."
"I never planned to drink, but since I messed up and got drunk, I might as well go all in."
"I had a good family growing up, so it's okay that my dad controls me too much and my mom equates performance for grades."
"Kids in Africa have it much worse so it's okay that my father was distant."
Sound familiar? Have you ever just blatantly justified the injustice in order to be more thankful or grateful? Have you ever compromised because injustice seemed like all you deserved?
It's not okay. It is NOT okay.
Injustice is ALWAYS wrong.
It is wrong if you were abused, raped, molested, neglected. If you were yelled at unfairly. Peer pressured into doing things you don't want. Told to vomit until you are skinny by an unaccepting society. Never affirmed. Sheltered from reality beyond normality. It is wrong if you ever had an unjust action happen to you no matter how SMALL or huge.
I was sobbing last week. I realized that I have deep wounds from my father not being around me very much. I love him dearly but in someways I always just…
I…
Let the injustice dance freely. And that lacerated my soul.
My mind flashes to an abused child.
Could you ever tell a child that the injustice done to him is not only acceptable but it "should be worse" and he is "blessed for bearing only a little injustice?"
We do that to ourselves every day.
Every moment we take our sin and penalize ourselves for something Christ has paid for. Every time we give up on living because the past left us dirtier then we thought we would ever be.
I was told to write down every event that I felt hurt me last week.
I couldn't catch my breath at the sleight of hand with which this world had convinced me that I deserved all that.
It is near unbearable to think of how much false guilt and blatantly accepted injustice played into my daily life. I snapped to attention as the songs faded.
I'm back in the auditorium, Jay has left and I have let my tears dry.
God wasn't through with telling me how much He loved me yet.
Carl the worship leader announced that we should find another person and look them straight in the eyes.
I don't do that. I don't do it well too. Looking at my feet is my signature move.
My mind was comforted by the thought that my row was filled with women. They like eye contact, it shouldn't be too bad.
Looking to my left, they jetted, looking to my right I saw Emily.
I got a "Dude, don't awkward me under the bus right now look."
So I searched frantically for someone, all the woman and men were occupied.
So they sent me back six rows to Jay.
Jay.
Hadn't I paid my water bill already? Need I cry more Jesus?
Out of the several hundred people, Jay and I gazed at each other. I looked him in the eyes and wept. He sang over me. All my manliness and well-kept manner dissolved. I was a little boy. A little boy being sang over.
"Oh how He loves you."
Jay looked at me. A father being a father. I shattered.
Zephaniah 3:17 promises one day God will sing over us.
The way I was crying, I wouldn't deny being called a daughter of Zion.
In all honesty, I was a broken mess. Broken because I never deserved to be neglected, abandoned, forgotten. For so long I had found my identity to be utterly unlovable.
If enough people abandon you. You ask why.
You blame the common denominator.
I guess it had always been me.
Yet that moment took a lie I believed and slowly erased it. I'm not unlovable. I am not worthy of being abandoned. I am worthy of love and justice. You are too.
Maybe you need to curl up and get away with a pen and Jesus. Write down the injustice done to you. Grieve it. Cry over it. Release it. It wasn't fair, it is not fair, you DID NOT deserve that. Jesus has paid for it. And Jesus is enough.
