God, if You’re really in this, show me. I knew this was a dangerous prayer. But I meant it. I have been on the ride of my life, and the ride feels dangerous. But I’ve had to open my mind to consider not what I was doing but why I was doing it.
God has been ruining me for justice, and in some way, this has required a willing brokenness. Not the kind that is little more than an inconvenience, but a crack in my wholeness.
Who was Jesus broken and poured out for? In Luke, Jesus said, “for you” (Luke 22:19). Matthew and Mark both say, “for many” (Matthew 26:28; Mark 14:24), and Matthew even added “for the forgiveness of sins.” Perhaps the most astounding thing about Jesus’ death on the cross is who He died for.
Of course Jesus said “for you” to His disciples. They loved Him, they followed Him, and they embraced some element of self-denial by being His students. These are the people I like to think of Jesus dying for. You know, the ones who wrote a bunch of the Bible and died for their faith. These are the types I want to be broken for too. If I’m honest, and if I’m picking whom I sacrifice for, I’m thinking future martyrs, gospel writers, and world changers. I love to pour into believers who take Jesus seriously. Eager learners who pester me with burning questions about Scripture that keep them up at night. These are my people. Love. You. In fact, this was who I served. Volunteering and even working at a church, I ministered to the convinced who preferred a table in the upper room.
This convinced demographic worked for me, or at least it was familiar. The ridiculously hard part came when the question sunk in deeper, since Judas was also part of the “for you” group Jesus referred to. Now I had a problem because this didn’t seem fair. I realized who Judas represented: those who would turn on me despite what I sacrificed or why. It’s something like the homeless man I gave a burger to in Portland who told me, “I hope this satisfies your white guilt for the day.” And the addict I helped find a recovery program who turned back to heroin and I never heard from again. And the young single mom I helped find shelter for who spent the money on a new phone and a manicure. And the believers who thought I was crazy.
This facet of broken and poured out for you? Not what I envisioned. A romanticized notion of social compassion gets trashed once you actually turn your bias to the bottom. This is where sometimes instead of a “thank you,” you get a “!&%# you.” Deep disappointment exists here. Betrayal resides here. Rip-your-eyes-out frustration lives here. Inflated White Savior Complex lives (and must die) here. Hooray! Okay, anyone still want to join me?
This was one reason I was detached from the margins, citing irresponsibility and recklessness and thanklessness. They’ll spend it on booze. Get off your lazy butt and get a job, and then we’ll talk. I was shockingly ignorant about the cycles of poverty and addiction. Nor did I even remotely understand the difference between empowering and enabling. So much of my initial “help” was so not helpful. Ignorant intervention is absolutely a contributing factor to cycles of oppression.
This is what God taught me through Judas at Jesus’ table, eating the broken bread that was His body: We don’t get to opt out of living on mission because we might not be appreciated. We’ve not allowed to neglect the oppressed because we have reservations about their discernment. We cannot deny love because it might be despised or misunderstood. We can’t withhold social relief because we’re not convinced it will be perfectly managed. We can’t project our advantaged perspective onto struggling people and expect results available only to the privileged. Must we be wise? Absolutely. But doing nothing is a blatant sin of omission. Turning a blind eye to the bottom on the grounds of “unworthiness” is the antithesis to Jesus’ entire mission. How dare we? Most of us know nothing, nothing of the struggles of the poor. We erroneously think ourselves superior, and it is a wonder God would use us at all to minister to His beloved.
Jesus came to the filthiest place possible (earth), a place full of ungrateful, self-destructive people who would betray Him far more than they’d love Him (a whole planet of Judases). He broke His body for rich people who would curse Him the second their prosperity was endangered. He poured His blood out for those who would take His Word and use it as a beating tool. He became the offering for people who would slander His name with brutality, yet His grace was theirs for the asking until they drew their last breaths, even if all they could offer Him was a lifetime of hatred and one moment of repentance. One moment of repentance people—that’s all it takes. Now that’s grace.
When Jesus’ followers asked what to do about the weeds in the harvest field, He said to treat them the same as the wheat, “because while you are pulling the weeds, you may uproot the wheat with them” (Matthew 13:29). There was one Judas, but eleven disciples who were forever transformed by Jesus’ broken body. The risk of encountering a few weeds is not sufficient reason to avoid the whole field of human suffering, because identifying with the wheat but not the weeds is a complete misrepresentation of our own life. The correct character to identify with here is the weed shown mercy, not the Savior capable of discerning the human heart. Our God advised us well: humans must treat the wheat and the weeds the same. We are only qualified to administer mercy, not judgment, because we will pull up many a beautiful stalk of wheat, imagining him/her a weed.
In Indonesia, I got to hang out and minister amongst the wheat in prison. These women have committed heinous crimes—some of which you and I might deem unforgivable. But you know what, they have already been forgiven. And because they know it, the confined life they have been sentenced to—they are experiencing immense freedom. It was in an Indonesian prison that I experienced the love of Christ like never before. And oh yeah, I got my hair cut. In prison.
Getting my hair washed in an Indonesian prison.
Getting my haircut by an inmate
Got my haircut in prison by this lovely lady named Putri
Me and some of the women from the Indonesian prison
