Originally posted in my old newsletter, “It’s Hard Being Human,” on August 6th, 2021
It’s hard being human. Yes, it is.
It’s hard to honor our limits. To recognize that time is not on our side all the time. To admit we need help, and we need to feed ourselves and we need to rest — sometimes, we have to stop everything, excuse ourselves, and go to the bathroom. And sometimes, we just have to let ourselves fall on our knees.
It’s hard to accept that I can’t be my own god — I can’t save myself; I can’t protect myself without also harming myself; I can’t do it all, be self-sufficient, and fill all the gaps all with my own feeble body, soul, and spirit.
No, I just can’t. I’ve tried, and I fail, every. single. time.
Now that I’m sure you feel encouraged, I must say: Welcome. I’m glad you’re here. These letters you’ve signed up for, I have to disclaim, are not primarily to provide you with a pep talk or a church sermon, but to give you a place at the table with me. Whatever demographic you fall into, you’re welcome here. Jesus, who I personally claim as the One who’s saved me and given me an eternal, living hope, makes room at the table for everyone, right where they are, exactly as they are.
There are so many sacred moments in the Gospels that tell of how Jesus ate dinner with outcasts and rejects — the ones who knew how far from perfect they were. I imagine Him at the dinner table not talking very much, just listening. I can see Him engrossed in conversation with a prostitute sitting next to Him, hanging onto her every word, sipping from His glass of wine, popping a piece of bread in His mouth, and learning about this woman and her life.
“My father, well, he wasn’t around much, you see,” she might have said to Him, her glass sloshing a little in her hand and her voice lowering to a whisper as she begins to retell her story.
“He had a drinking problem. We’d find him, like Noah, passed out in the vineyards or in the plaza over and over again. When he was around, he’d hit us, groaning and yelling like a barbarian. I left as soon as I could — but an unmarried woman isn’t worth much around these parts. That’s how I ended up, you know, doing what I’m doing. I had nothing, no dowry — was unwanted apart from my body for a few minutes.” In an effort to compose herself, she takes a sip from her glass and with her eyes narrowed she says, “but I’d rather be here than in my father’s house.”
I know that if Jesus listened to a story like this, His heart would be heavy, and He’d be breathing deeply to keep Himself from weeping uncontrollably as this woman shares her story with Him. He’d be gutted with compassion. It’s not like Jesus wouldn’t have already known her story, since He’s the Son of God, but He knows there’s something sacred in hearing it come from her lips.
I think this is why He told the religious leaders to go read Hosea 6:6 — “I desire steadfast love, and not sacrifice, knowledge of God and not burnt offerings.”
Steadfast love and knowledge of God. This language signifies intimacy.
I think that’s the purpose of the dinner table. The table is open for every part of our rejected, imperfect inward selves to be welcomed and met with mercy.
I get to sit with Jesus and tell Him my story, not as justification for what I’ve done, but to invite Him into myself. I can do this because He’s made room for me, and He’s made it clear that it’s not a rebuke I’m here to wait for but steadfast love and compassion — a mouth that is slow to speak, slow to anger, and an ear that is quick to listen.
“Love your neighbor as yourself,” Jesus says another time. I think this is how we do it.
I have to sit at the table for a while first, with Jesus, and let Him hear my story, inviting Him to have access to the fear I’ve repressed, the shame I’ve shoved away over and again, the critic I’ve let bully me around, the child whose voice I’ve taken away. He’ll touch these things and while scars will still be there, I’ll know redemption.
Then, I can love. Because I’ve not been rebuked first — but loved.
In his book Blue Like Jazz, Donald Miller quotes his friend and says,
“to be in a relationship with God is to be loved purely and furiously. And a person who thinks himself unlovable cannot be in a relationship with God because he can’t accept who God is; a Being that is love. We learn that we are lovable or unlovable from other people. That is why God tells us so many times to love each other” (146-147).
Yes. This is why Jesus has dinner with the tax collectors and the sinners — the outcasts and the rejects — the ones who are perfectly aware of how imperfect they are. This is why He’d be fully attentive, listening to the prostitute’s story and inwardly crying out with compassion. Because a part of love is acknowledging all the parts of someone and meeting them with mercy first.
I’m an unraveling perfectionist because I’m learning how far from perfect I really am, and so much of the journey has made me feel like a ball of yarn that fell to the floor and has become completely undone. The lack of control. The self-righteousness and judgement. My natural default to bitterness and inward rage and stubbornness; rebellion, irreverence, and pride. It kills a part of me that I’m not “the good girl” I always thought I was. But in being exposed to all the parts of myself — the ones I’ve embraced and the ones I’ve repressed and denied — I’m being met by a Man who is not yelling at me, telling me what I’ve done wrong or how gross I am, but is giving ear to my story, giving me a voice, making room for all of me at the dinner table, and touching me with mercy, steadfast love, and redemption.
This is the beginning of the knowledge of God — knowledge of self.
It’s hard being human. I will never deny that. These letters are the retelling of my (continual) experience in becoming unraveled — it’s an experience that feels unbelievably painful, feels involuntary most of the time, but I would never trade it. Because after 20+ years of professing to know God, I feel like I actually mean it now.
For the one who is just a season behind me, I hope you’ll find a seat at the table for yourself here. There is plenty of room.