From The Desk of David

The scene was far too familiar. The mechanical humming of the unnamed machines, the occasional “beep” that said someone’s heart was beating just once more, and the hushed whispers of nurses and doctors alike—that were loud enough to hear but soft enough to not understand. I found myself in an ER hallway again. 

I was no stranger to this chaotic yet controlled scene. You think it would be no big deal. But that was farthest from the truth. Inside, I was screaming. Setting aside the excruciating pain in my leg aside, my insides felt that this place was as unsafe as it was chaotic, as calm as it was clean, and as comforting as it was efficient. But yet, here I was—some plastic catheter hanging out of my foot, giving me the umpteenth bag of fluid and dose of medication. Why was I in this godforsaken place again? Well, that was the problem. I didn’t know. Yes, my leg was in excruciating pain and that’s what prompted us to come here but why—the why seemed as fleeting as the faces that passed me. 

But it wasn’t just the pain that was bothering me. It was the feeling this place made me feel. It was like this place brought out my deepest pains and insecurities. Perhaps it was the reminder that I was “different.” Maybe it was the feeling of helplessness that rose up in this place. Maybe it was the frustrations of being dismissed by doctors who I’d like to assume were well meaning. 

But this time was different. It was sitting in “hall wall stretcher J” that it would hit me—I hated this place because it took assault on my identity. This godforsaken place would try and tell me who I was and would try to convince me that I was worth nothing and then was nothing more than a set of mismatched genetics that left me armless and “deformed.” But what to do with this information? Well, that I had not a clue of…until God met me in another familiar place…

 This scene was almost the opposite of the first. It was cozy. It was quiet. It was inviting. It wanted people to come and stay awhile. It was also far too familiar. A brown coffee table to my left, sat next to a large grey, leather chair. The man sitting in it had a warm and kind face—tucked behind a beard and large glasses. On his table, a notebook, and a navy-blue coffee cup with coffee from this morning. His desk would be to my right and a black HP laptop sat among the “Pinterest” desk décor. A white board sat behind him, and I would be seated upon a grey woven couch with far too many pillows and a small brown table with coasters and tissues next to it. 

The man across the room was a familiar face too. Most days, he would spend our together comforting me but today, he’d also be a teacher. I’d start off telling of yet another horrible experience in the ER and then I’d tell him the revelations of “Bed J.” To which he’d interrupt “Didn’t you set out on a quest to understand the identity God gave you at the beginning of the year.” I sort of rolled my eyes at this. He was missing the point. I just wanted him to tell me I had a right to be mad, angry, frustrated, hurt, and every other emotion I was feeling. I guess it was too much to expect him to understand too. 

He’d break the moment of silence with “I see that mind racing a million miles an hour.” I sort of chuckled, trying to settle in the fact that, yet again, no one understood me. He’d shift in his seat, removing a black leather wallet from his back pocket and pull out a ten-dollar bill. “How much is this worth?” he’d ask what I can only imagine was a confused me. I’d cautiously answer, knowing he had a trick up his sleeve. “And how do you know that?” 

His question caught me by surprise. It seemed simple enough but yet, I couldn’t seem to find an answer that I know would satisfactorily answer the man. “Who says this is worth 10 dollars?” even when he rephrased the question, I was still stuck. After a minute or two of silence, I’d finally offer the answer of “the government.” The man’s smile told me I had the right answer. “And who made this dollar?” He’d ask me, with the look that told me I knew the answer. I’d offer my first answer again with a slight curiosity of how any of this mattered. 

“So, creators get to define the worth of the things they create.”

He’d offer that statement was if it was both a statement and a question. Now my mind was racing. I knew what point he was trying to make, and I was determined to throw a wrench into this metaphor. “But a dollar doesn’t have feelings.” I’d shoot back in my attempt to stop him in his tracks. The man would smile, knowing what I was doing and he’d ask one final, yet profound question. 

“Do your feelings change the mind of God?”

I’d sink back into the couch in a sort of sense of defeat. He had won this little dual of questions, but he was right. My feelings don’t change the mind of God and if He, as my creator defines my worth, then it doesn’t matter how I feel or where I am or how bad of day I’m having or anything else—I, just like all of humanity, has worth because God says we do. 

In the western world, we’ve taken emotions and crowned them king. We’ve gone above and beyond to protect our “feelings” and now, culture is now asking us to never offend the emotions of other. I once heard a Christian intellectual once offer the idea that the way to tell if something is an idol, ask if you can offend it. And that’s exactly what we’ve done, we’ve taken our feelings and turned them into idols. 

Growing up in church, I often heard the phrase of Jesus where He said, “pick up your cross and follow me.” Often, we see this in altar calls and invitations to salvation. Growing up (and sometimes even now), I often found myself sort of confused at the first part of that statement and I think we often skip over it. But I think I sort of understand what Jesus is saying there. When He was crucified, the romans made Jesus carry His cross up to Calvary. I wonder what that must have felt like. Sure, it would’ve been physically exhausting in the condition He was in, but I wonder what emotions Jesus was feeling. Was he anxious? Was he nervous? Did he feel like he failed in some way? Did he feel embarrassed and shame? 

But He still walked up that hill. He still went and fulfilled the work of the Cross—the very thing he was sent to do. So, I wonder. I wonder if being willing to pick up our cross might mean that we’re willing to follow after God in such way that at times, our emotions would run wild and tell us all sorts of things—things like we suck, we are losers, we aren’t cut out for this, that we’ve messed and failed for God to use us, or that there’s someone better cut out for this. But in spite of all of those feelings, picking up our crosses means we walk right in and know that they aren’t true. 

The apostle Paul puts it another way. He calls it dying to ourselves. Yes, I know Paul often talks about sinful ways in this context but isn’t denying the truth of God sinful? If we have fleshly desires and brokenness within us, doesn’t that mean that our emotions can lead us to sin? What if “dying to ourselves” means denying whatever false truth our emotions try and feed us in order to embrace the truth of God—that you and I have value and purpose? Regardless of where we are or what we feel. So even in “bed J,” my identity of that I’m an image bearer of God. Even in my therapist’s office, I bear the image of God. Even on my worst days, when I’ve messed up and ruined everything around me, I bear the image of God. Even on the days where I am at my best, I bear the image of God. Even when I don’t “feel like I do,” I bear the image of God. And dear friends, you do too. And there’s nothing we can do to ever change His mind or cause Him to revoke it. Because dear friends, you and I are image bearers with work to do, not an image to maintain. 

For His Glory, 

David W.