Divine Plagiarism

It is remarkably easy, I think, to forget about God’s accounting of things. If we wanted a warrior to challenge a giant, we would not choose a shepherd boy. If we meant to reshape the structures of the known world, we would have put together a committee of the best scientists, artists, lawyers, philosophers and engineers. We would certainly not have recruited a handful of barely literate fishermen and a lawyer-turned-tentmaker. God’s math is just different than ours.

In LOTR (I have to use a Tolkien analogy whenever it is relevant in the least,) a summons is sent out for the best and the brightest of the free peoples of Middle Earth. Swordsmen, wizards, and warriors set out to save the world. Yet, the one that ends up accomplishing the task the fellowship sets out to do is the least likely of all heroes, a mildly adventuresome hobbit who finds the strength to face his fears. We could learn much from Frodo. When we consider a task, we look for capability, not pliability. We want people who already have strength, and then we look for ways to bring them on board. God sets this logic on its head. He who spoke the universe into existence with a word has little need for our strength. He looks for someone willing to be used, and He gives them the strength they need. In God’s economics, brokenness is the only currency of consequence.

So I am sitting across a table from a man that I respect greatly. In the midst of describing some far-off plans for missionary work, my whole ‘type A’ thing takes over. I distinctly recall making some Krushchev-esque gestures on the table. (Fortunately, I kept my shoes on.) As my awareness of my surroundings returned to me, I remember shrinking back into my chair, making a sheepish apology for getting a bit out of hand. You see, I have a tendency to forget myself. My voice, my manner, and even my stature is, well, big. This is not intentional, in fact, it is rarely even conscious. While on Praise Team, I would sing louder without a mic than the other two male vocalists on mics. I wasn’t trying to, I just sang until I could hear myself, and that happened to be really loud. I guess I never really saw myself as intimidating, and I have a hard time realizing that others could see me in that light. It is strange, really… it is only when you start to get a sense of yourself that you really gain a sense of the other. I have learned much recently about who I am, but I am only starting to learn about what that means to others. I am beginning to realize that my silence can be as meaningful as any words. I am trying to learn listening as a language. I’m not quite fluent yet.

My friend says something deeply true to me. I know something about strength, or at least the appearance of strength. But I am only recently learning brokenness. He says that God does not need my strength, but He will use my vulnerability. He is right. ‘A broken heart and a contrite spirit,’ I think it goes. It is not strength but brokenness that makes a man great by God’s accounting. And He has finally found a way to break me.

I think of Darius. A man destined to be used to do great things. In a way, great deeds were just part of being Darius, as much as his hair color or his taste in figs. Just by being who he was, he had the gifts required to play his role. To steal C.S.L’s phrase, he was sixpence none the richer for them. So the real question is not one of capabilities, but of pliability. God was going to use him one way or another. Really, He uses everybody one way or another. Darius had the choice that we all have: he could choose to be part of the blessings God would work through him, or he could cut himself off from those blessings.

‘A woman who will set a people free.’ I believed it when I said it. I believe it still. God will use her in great ways, of that I have little doubt. But it is not so simple, I think. A ministry here was a legacy of hers, yet I wonder how many blessings she received as she blessed others. I wonder if she ever was free to receive them, or whether she was still trying to prove something. It is not mine to know; it is between her and God. I will still pray that she finds her true strength. I will pray that she finds brokenness.

I am not so different, perhaps. ’He will do great things,’ or that’s the rumor at least. That never was the question, really. I thought that it was for far too long. I had worried so much about things going the way they were supposed to, about doing all the things expected of me. ‘To whom much is given’ and all that. I worried so much about being in the right place that I forgot with Whom I was there. Mary and Martha again. I am sure that He will use me for His will; He uses all of us for His will. Will I be blessed as I am used? The only way that I will find His blessings is in brokenness. Valor and courage are forms of strength, certainly, but perhaps it takes a deeper strength to remain vulnerable. It certainly is scarier.

It all comes back to a question of authorship. We can try to write our own stories, but He will weave our vignettes back into His Great Story. We will not change the endings of that story, but we will cut ourselves off from His blessings. He asks us to yield ourselves to Him, so that He can lead us as characters in His story. He asks us to stop wrestling Him for the pen. Yet again, we must lose our lives to find them. Letting go of the pen, we dive fully into the story. Yielding to His story, and we find yourself in the midst of a story worth living. After all, He is a better Author than any of us.