desperation

"I hear the Savior say,
'Thy strength indeed is small;
Child of weakness, watch and pray,
Find in Me thine all in all.'


Jesus paid it all,
All to Him I owe;
Sin had left a crimson stain,
He washed it white as snow." - Evina M. Hall, 1865


He held my hands so strongly, both of them, that I could feel the dirt. I didn't care about that though, I could wash my hands later. What was more strange was the way he looked into my eyes. There was no need for shame any longer. Shame was like a creed that he had come to live by. I am sure that he supposed if he learned to live by it, then he would not have to die by it. There is shame in being homeless. I would say, "trust me," but I don't really know how it feels. I do know how his hands felt and how firm those eyes searched mine, though they knew not what they searched for. Perhaps they searched for a small glimpse of understanding that he was normal too. Beneath all the dirt and weather-leathered skin, he too was just as normal as everyone else. Maybe he just "had a few bad breaks," as people like to say. Maybe he just likes being "out-there". People say that too. People say a lot of things. But what is true about his homeless man? Do you wonder that? I did as I held his hands for minutes to pray. He prayed too. With his eyes looking straight into mind. He talked to God and to me, and to all three of us (himself included) at the same time. Before I started to pray he assured me that my prayer would sound much better. I assured him that God just likes us talking to Him, which is something I would never say in a theology class. If I were to teach on prayer I would talk about how we should enter the presence of God--like entering the presence of a king, only bigger and greater. But him and I talked to God together and looked very simple doing it. I am sure the weeping women kneeling at Jesus feet with a broke bottle of smelly perfume, stuff that made the whole room stare, looked pretty disheveled and desperate. People sure do a lot of talking. People talked about that women and decided that she was crazy. The Bible tells that wherever the Gospel is shared people will talk of that women. There is something greater than talking. Something greater than figuring out how to get prayers answered or how to approach God. I think that while some talk, few actually approach. They are brave and titled crazy, different and serious, people "who the world is not worthy of" (Hebrews 11). There comes a point when you are desperate and don't care about holding someone hand or breaking perfume in crowds. I think we know so little of the true Gospel because we are not desperate people. So we begin talking again: how do we become desperate? Do you see it? We cannot talk about desperation or we will end up like the crowd that surrounded that women and talk righteousness crazy. To be honest I want to feel dirty hands like those I felt today more often. Maybe next time I can wash those hands or stoop to wash the feet of one who people feel ashamed to even look upon. It does not make that man feel loved if I only tell you about him or convince a group of lawmakers that he should be treated humanely or convince an evolutionist that he is more than a weak species. I think he will only feel loved if I am desperate for him. Let us pray.

O God, make me desperate!