a surrender - 72

(Continuing "a surrender", chapter ten)

 

in this moment

 

I've lost my memory. That’s what Heather tells me. I’m in the hospital and I don’t remember all that has been happening over the last few weeks. And every time she explains it to me, I immediately forget again. It’s some kind of amnesia, the doctors told her. In time, they said, my memory would come back, though probably not everything.

But I remember what came before. A worldwide pandemic put a stop to retreats on the farm for two years and, for a number of reasons, we didn’t have much hope for starting them up again. Then another family on the farm, with two children Ian’s age, who had been good playmates for him, decided to move away. And, more recently, some policy changes had been announced. There wouldn’t be any more “resident volunteers.” I hadn’t been too surprised by this, rather I was surprised it didn’t happen sooner. But that put us in another very difficult situation. 

Because we’ve come too far. We’ve taken too many steps away from the boat. And the life we’ve been given has been too good. For almost thirty years, I have been free to do the work that love inspired me to do, and give it as a gift. I’ve been free to give my time to poor people, and disabled people, and old people. I’ve been free to give every day to my child, so I know him and he knows me. And to help him grow and learn, with more depth and freedom than any school can allow. I’ve been free to share work equally with Heather, so she’s free to give her time to her writing and her garden and her friends. And everything that has come to us has been free too, given by people who are also inspired by love. By God.

Jesus told his followers that God wanted to give them life, and make them free. And God has given us life and freedom. 

So it doesn’t seem right to turn my back on that, to go back to being an employee, looking to an organization to tell me the value of my work. It doesn’t seem right to let my actions be driven by a job description or a manager’s priorities. Or by someone’s demands for rent. And I don’t want anyone to have to give me anything because official policy says so. I only want them to give me what they want to, inspired by love, the same love that inspires me. I know that will be enough for me, and for my family. More than enough.

Continued...

a surrender - 71

(Continuing "a surrender", chapter nine, "God doesn't need our help") 

Looking back over the years since I walked away from the Navy, I’ve noticed something strange. Again and again, when I had been narrowly rescued from disaster, it turned out that the people involved were not trying to help me at all. They weren’t the ones rescuing me. The Navy lawyers were just trying to avoid the cost and negative publicity of a trial. And I was set free. The person who called the police was just trying to get rid of a homeless guy. And I ended up in a warm bed. The board of the campground was just saying no to a project that was too costly. And Heather and I, and our three-year-old child, kept our home. The new owners just found it simpler and easier to offer free housing to dedicated volunteers. And we were able to continue to “freely give” as Jesus taught us. 

When I thought I had to come up with a plan to save our life on the farm, I pushed my idea feverishly. But God didn’t need my help. When the new owners were being advised to send our family away, I didn’t even know it was happening. But that didn’t matter. Because God didn’t need my help.

It is said that the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good people to do nothing. I entered the Navy with thoughts like that in mind. And burned myself out working in a homeless shelter, thinking the same thing. But, to be honest, I didn’t find the people in the fight against evil to be particularly good, myself included. What I found instead was that the fight against evil justified a lot of things that, it seemed to me, could also be called evil. But this failure also doesn’t matter. Because whether evil triumphs or not is not going to be determined by us. God stops evil, often through circumstances and people who know nothing of what they are doing, or even by turning one evil against another. God doesn’t need our help.

God wants us, yes. But not for our labor. God doesn’t need a workforce. God doesn’t need an army. God doesn’t need our help. God wants us, but not for what we can do. God just wants us—for us. There is nothing we can offer God, but ourselves.

That’s what faith is. A surrender of ourselves.

It takes no strength at all. It is a surrender in weakness, when we despair of our strength. It takes no effort, because it is the end of effort, the end of pushing, the end of struggling. Surrender is the end of what we can do, and the beginning of what God can do.

And what God can do is love. The power of God is the power of love. It is the inspiration and the energy for every good thing, every good word, every good action. It connects every person who loves, and makes them one family, one body. It owns everything and can provide anything, because, when love inspires it, any thing owned by any person can be given. As a free gift. Love is a power that cannot be bought or stolen or used for evil. It is a power without limit and without end.

And it is a power that is made perfect in weakness.

Continued...

a surrender - 70

(Continuing "a surrender", chapter nine, "God doesn't need our help") 

There’s a letter by one of Jesus’ early followers, in which the writer says he prayed that a certain weakness, a “thorn in the flesh,” might be removed from his life. He prayed this again and again. But God didn’t remove it. Because, God told him, “my power is made perfect in weakness.”

We human beings, though, individually and as societies, are not content with weakness. Weakness means vulnerability. Which means danger. So we work very hard to build up our strength. And we organize ourselves, to combine our strengths into something even more powerful. This power is impressive, greater than any of us, and it gives us hope. A hope we cling to. No matter how many times our organizations fail us—our governments, our corporations, our unions, our hospitals, our churches—still we cling desperately to this hope. The “power of the people” will save us. It must.

But Jesus avoided this power, and he embraced weakness. He chose to be poor. He gathered no political party, led no army. Instead, he trusted that the power of God would provide for him and his followers, and protect them. He chose to be weak because God is strong. And God’s power is made perfect in weakness.

Despite our continual pursuit of strength, sooner or later each of us must face our weakness. Maybe it’s in a monastery garden, when our life has fallen apart. Maybe it’s when we realize that we are not the hero we thought we would be. Maybe it’s when we admit that we are an alcoholic. Maybe it’s when we accept that our organization will not survive. Maybe it’s when we look in the mirror and discover that we are old. In that moment, we have a choice. Cling to our hope that our strength will always return, ever stronger—or admit that our strength, even the strength of all of us together, isn’t enough. Isn’t enough to stop the pain, the hunger, the lies, the isolation, the death. Not even within ourselves. And it will never be enough. If we can admit that, then we are close to surrender, to faith, close to embracing our weakness, and trusting God’s power instead of our own.

We face that choice again and again in our lives. Each time it is more difficult. Though I had walked thousands of miles, the first step with Heather by my side was the most difficult. And the two of us losing our place to live was nothing compared to the possibility of losing our home when we had Ian with us. I often think of that story of Peter walking on the water. I’m sure his first step was frightening. But he was still close to the boat then, he could easily get back to it if he needed to. Then he took another step. And another. He was getting pretty far from the boat. A few more steps and he wasn’t sure if he could swim back in time. Each step took him further away from safety, each step made him feel more deeply how vulnerable he was. Though he had made it a long way, it didn’t get easier. Because each step was a greater risk, each step was more impossible than the last.

But that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that it’s impossible for us. It doesn’t matter that, even if we could manage to all work together, we still wouldn’t have the strength to stop the evil and suffering in the world. It doesn’t matter. Because God never asked us to. God never put the world in our hands. God doesn’t need our help.

Continued...

a surrender - 69

(Continuing "a surrender", chapter nine, "God doesn't need our help") 

Soon after I found out that the new owners were letting us stay, I learned that they had been advised not to. During the transition, some outside advisors had been brought in to help. And one of the advisors told the church group leaders that they should start fresh. None of the people who had been living on the farm should be allowed to stay. I think this was supposed to avoid complications and give the new group freedom to do things their own way. This advisor happened to know us, though, and knew our situation. I couldn’t believe it. How could he do that? I felt like confronting him, but wasn’t sure if I should. Then a few days later I was helping out in the bakery, washing dishes alone in the communal kitchen, and one of the advisory meetings ended in the next room. The man was there. I didn’t know what to do. So I decided that, if he just left, I wouldn’t say anything. I heard people walking out the front door. Then the door to the kitchen opened.

It was him. He started chatting, but I turned on him and said, “I know what you did.” 

He stopped, confused. 

“You told them to get rid of us,” I continued, my voice shaky. “But God saved us.” 

I knew that this man had been involved with many efforts to promote justice and help needy people. “You say you care about the vulnerable,” I said. “Don’t you see that we’re the vulnerable ones here? The powerless ones? That we would lose our home and have nowhere to go?” I was so upset, I was trembling. “You sit in those meetings, with the owners, making big decisions, doing what’s best for the organization, and we’re outside waiting to know if we’ll still have somewhere to live.” I took a breath. “I understand you’re sad that the community is losing this place,” I went on, before he could say anything. “But, please, please, think about what you’ve done here. If they had listened to you, they would have pushed us—our child—out. Because of your words.” Another breath. “But they didn’t. We’re still here. Because God….” 

He interrupted, defending himself, but I couldn’t bear to listen to it and rushed out of the room. I wished I could have said it better. But maybe that was enough.

Continued...