God Approaches Us
So, the group studying in the low-ceilinged, unventilated upstairs room consisted of me—a single dad and doctorate student—and three convicted criminals, two of whom will never leave prison. Together, we discussed the inner thoughts of a teenage nun who died of tuberculosis in 1897. Where was the common thread? How does God approach all five of us, living such different lives, in different places, and at different times in history?
David Young was the first to identify some common threads. He had highlighted a line in Story of a Soul that read:
I feel that if You found a soul weaker and littler than mine, which is impossible, You would be pleased to grant it still greater favors, provided it abandoned itself with total confidence to Your Infinite Mercy.[1]
David pointed out that The Little Way, which Saint Thérèse described as an elevator to God’s lap, bypasses the cultural methods we’re often told are necessary to gain access to our Creator. It brings us directly into His presence. It allows us to sidestep what C.S. Lewis called the “watchful dragons”[2]—the gatekeepers of spirituality: authors, pastors, teachers, priests, popes, or clergy who, at various points in Church history, have dictated the steps they deem essential for encountering God. David admired Saint Thérèse’s Little Way. He explained that there is no soul weaker than ours—no one smaller or meeker. We are profoundly broken and sinful, unable to lift our heads without a merciful and powerful God reaching down to raise them for us. This mindset of total abandonment is how God should find us when He approaches. He’s not searching for upright do-gooders approved by the watchful dragons or for well-spoken, well-dressed leaders representing Christianity. He is looking for the abandoned and fractured—those who have nothing to offer Him except their weakness and dependence on Him.
Fredrick Watson reminded us of something Saint Thérèse wrote to her sister Marie:
The desire to be a victim is enough of itself, but one must consent to stay always poor and without strength, and that’s the difficulty...[3]
When God approaches us, may He find us small, abandoned, and poor in spirit. While we may want to do great things for our Redeemer—and we very well might—it will never be because of our aptitude or determination. It will be because we acknowledge that we can do nothing and have nothing to offer Him but our brokenness.
David also highlighted a letter Saint Thérèse wrote to a woman named Céline:
My director, Jesus, does not teach me to count my acts but to do everything for love, to refuse Him nothing, to be pleased when He gives me a chance to prove to Him that I love Him—but all this in peace, in abandonment.[4]
Offering ourselves to God in the biggest way possible might simply mean living a life of peace and abandonment, content with our brokenness and His ability to restore us one glorious day.
For any self-respecting person, this is a hard pill to swallow. Even the quietest, most introverted among us doesn’t want to be seen as weak and powerless. This is especially true in prison. As I sat in that cramped room discussing the idea of living life as a broken soul, I was keenly aware that the men around me were in a setting where admitting weakness could be dangerous. In prison, being seen as a pushover could undermine their ability to lead and witness effectively. This was part of our discussion.
We read an example of how Saint Thérèse demonstrated this state of powerlessness:
To give up one’s cloak is, it seems to me, renouncing one’s ultimate rights; it is considering oneself as the servant and slave of others. When one has left his cloak, it is much easier to walk, to run, and Jesus adds: “And whoever forces you to go one mile, go two more with him.” Thus, it is not enough to give to everyone who asks; I must anticipate their desires, appear to be very much obliged and honored to render service, and if anyone takes something which is for my use, I must not appear to be sorry about this but happy at being relieved of it.[5]
We all agreed this approach would get you steamrolled in prison. And yet, the command of Christ remains: give up your cloak. Renounce your ultimate rights to dignity and comfort. God calls even prisoners—even prison pastors—to live lives of service toward their fellow man, even if that fellow man is an enemy. Even those we might consider the “least of these” can find others among their ranks who need compassion.
Should this be something to fear? Should the Christian inmate dread living a life of meekness, serving adversaries? Saint Thérèse had an answer:
I am not disturbed at seeing myself as weakness itself. On the contrary, it is in my weakness that I glory, and I expect each day to discover new imperfections in myself. Remembering that “charity covers a multitude of sins,” I draw from this rich mine that Jesus has opened up before me.[6]
We all agreed that being found small, weak, and abandoned before God is the most secure place one can be—even in prison. We also agreed that serving others does not mean being a “pushover.” When done in the right spirit, with firm and forceful love and a clear explanation of one’s intentions, an inmate can be strong while remaining meek before God. This display of service and humility can even inspire respect from others. We discussed several examples of Christian inmates who excel in this area. Interestingly, not one of my three friends would ever label these men as “punks” or other derogatory terms. On the contrary, these inmates were celebrated for their greatness and influence within the prison yard. Their meekness and love for others—even enemies—were already making them great in the Kingdom of God.
Finding oneself in a state of weakness and brokenness is not a cause for misery. It is a state of glory. This is how we want God to find us. When we are so meek that we surrender our cloak at the first ask—giving up our ultimate rights as individuals—when we cannot walk a mile for our enemy without walking two, we are not being “punks.” We are standing shoulder to shoulder with Christ. We should not fear our brokenness. Each new flaw we discover, each new imperfection covered by the Cross, is not a failure but a reason for celebration—another opportunity to encounter Christ. Our mistakes, which “charity covers a multitude of,” provide us with new reasons to visit the Good Doctor. They give us fresh opportunities to fall more deeply in love with Jesus. We don’t sulk in our brokenness; we rejoice in the wounds that give us another reason to depend on Him and find joy in His restoration.
[1] Thérèse, Story of a Soul, 189.
[2] Lewis, Of Other Worlds, 34.
[3] Thérèse, Story of a Soul, 240.
[4] Thérèse, Story of a Soul, 193.
[5] Thérèse, Story of a Soul, 227.
[6] Thérèse, Story of a Soul, 224.