One evening at training camp, we walked through The No Hope Room, a room that was a simulation of the hurting people we will encounter in our work over the next year: addicts, physical abusers, prostitutes, trash heaps, vagabonds, and even more than I can describe. On our first trip through the room, we were instructed not to talk to anyone or touch anyone, but just to observe and feel. Though they were merely AIM staff acting the part of these broken people, the pain and sin and hurt were real.
However, my reaction was not to hurt for them, to cry for them, or to want to help them. My reaction was the reaction I have grown accustomed to in order to protect my heart: to put up walls, to detach, to feel nothing. I’ve lived in New York for over two years, where every day I walked by women and men who have nothing, who freeze at night on the streets, walk around barefoot on subway cars asking for spare change or food, and mumble nonsense to the voices in their heads. I’ve seen sex exploited in every possible fashion and addicts screaming in agony for another hit to make the pain subside. I’m used to it.
But I don’t want to be used to it. I walked out of the No Hope Room and noticed other World Racers with tears streaming down their faces, unable to comprehend how people can live and survive in those conditions. My first thought was, “I’m tougher than they are, I can handle seeing people in those conditions.” But then, for the first time I realized that it’s not normal to be detached. It is my defense mechanism, my safety, but it’s not the type of love God demonstrated to me by dying on the cross for my sins, even when I rejected Him and spat in His face. It is not the kind of love He has shown me how to give to others.
Sure it’s easy to love orphans and babies, and I am excited to get to love on the kids in the places we will be visiting. But who is going to love the unlovable? Who is going to continue to hold the woman with AIDS who is screaming profanities at you and scratching your arms and spitting in your face?
Who is going to hug the leper, feed the disfigured, bathe the dirty, and love the helpless?
That’s when I hear the voice of the Lord say, ”
Cameron, you are.” And it scares me to pieces to pray that God would give me a heart of compassion, because I know that if I ask for compassion, He will break my heart and it will hurt and it will be scary. Being detached has become part of my identity, and to have the compassion of Jesus Christ means that all of my safe, secure walls will fall and I will be completely changed.
Ignoring the cries of my comfort zone against this, here goes:
LORD GIVE ME A HEART OF COMPASSION!!!
