Surviving Storms

Photo credit Marchauna Rodgers, all rights reserved

Psalm 51 has taken on new meaning for me of late, especially verse 17. David, after Nathan’s message from the Lord and the recognition of his sin with Bathsheba, poured out his heart, acknowledging his sin and penning those precious words,

“The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise” (Psalm 51:17, ESV).

My broken heart and broken spirit are from different circumstances than David’s. I didn’t rape the wife of a close friend then have him murdered. But the cause of my broken heart and spirit are not significant to this post. Rather, I want to focus on the lessons I’m learning as I walk through pain. By God’s grace, you will be able to appreciate a new perspective on Psalm 51:17, as well.

Before going on, though, I have to say that this is not my original thought. This passage was a gift from a dear sister in the Lord who knows me well and loves me enough to share my pain. Her words, spoken from her own place of deep brokenness and grief, over similar issues, brought such comfort, I literally broke down in sobs.

In a world where grief is despised and brokenness looked down on, when strength and success and “winning” matter, even in the church, experiencing grief and being despised for brokenness (or at least experiencing the disapproval of others) is hard. It can feel like true vulnerability is a demonstration of failure, especially for a Christian who is supposed to be exude happiness and the strength of the Spirit all the time no matter what.

Just to be clear, I do not believe that we are supposed to exude happiness and the strength of the Spirit all the time. God gave us our emotions. He expressed strong emotions in the Old Testament. Jesus demonstrated strong emotions in his earthly ministry. Paul struggled with depression and suicidal thoughts (2 Cor 1:8, 9). In fact, after the way the Spirit ministered to my heart in the midst of some of the deepest grief, brokenness, and pain I have ever experienced, I think that the suggestion that Christians should be happy all the time is a lie straight from the pit of hell, fashioned by the father of lies with the express intent to cause as much damage as possible.

Now, back to the lesson God has been teaching me. Deep heartache and the agony of a broken spirit are gifts we can offer to the Lord, not once we’ve survived the pain, but in the midst of it.

When our hearts are broken beyond repair and our spirits are crushed, God does not dismiss our pain, nor does He simply stay with us in the midst of it. God meets us in our deepest anguish and (if we’re willing to entrust it to Him) receives our brokenness as a love offering.

Hebrews 13:15 talks about offering up a “sacrifice of praise.” While I am not sure what the writer of Hebrews was thinking of, or the significance of the context (we’re only getting half of the conversation), what I do know is praise and sacrifice don’t go together. At least it is not a natural connection in my mind. I think of praise as the spontaneous eruption of thankfulness in response to good circumstances. A sacrifice of praise conjures up something different. And yet, as I think about David’s perspective in Psalm 51 and what the writer of Hebrews shared in Hebrews 13, sacred and beloved hymns begin to come to mind.

“It is Well with My Soul” was not penned in the midst of joy and celebration. It was penned in the midst of emotional devastation. “Amazing Grace” captures deep emotion, both for the song writer and for others whose grief was not expressed in English. Even the iconic “Be Thou My Vision” comes from a story of suffering, heartbreak, and pain where St Patrick’s example of faithful obedience at great personal cost continues to inspire us seventeen hundred years later.  

If we were to unpack many of our most beloved hymns, most would probably have stories of brokenness behind them. Many of the psalms do. Though stories and journeys look different, many of those who captured the messages we treasure did so in the midst of pain. That pain, offered as a sacrifice of praise in the midst of circumstances that felt anything but praiseworthy, continues to bring glory to God and to point us to our Savior today, thousands of years after being written. What a gift.

My heartache isn’t magically gone because God receives my broken spirit as an offering. Rather, my heartache is redeemed, reframed, redefined. What remains of my heart can be laid at Jesus’ feet, my pain a gift and a declaration that I am no longer defined by my brokenness, failures, or rejection. I am learning to stand in the beauty of my identity as God’s image bearer, however flawed my reflection may be. It is a joy I can’t quite put into words, a freedom I can’t quite describe.

While I wouldn’t recommend the evangelism strategy of the Woman at the Well, whose invitation to “come meet this man who told me everything I ever did” transformed her village, I think I understand it. I am broken. I fail. I miss the mark. I can be selfish, insensitive, inauthentic, and critical. And, I am made in the image of God. I am not defined by my failures. I am not the sum total of my worst mistakes. I am a child of the King, He sees me. He knows me. He calls me His own. I too shout, in ecstasy, come meet this man who told me all I ever did, and who loves me anyway. Wow. What a gift. I will bring my praise in the midst of my pain, offering it up as a gift to the One who loves and redeems me. And I will do so with joy.