Holy Spirit, come rest on us.

Many years ago, my brother came home from school to tell us that the mother of one of his classmates had died. I didn’t know the woman or her son, but I burst into tears as if it had been my own mother who died. I could not separate the sorrow of another from my own lived reality. In my mind, it was all the same. 

In hindsight, that should’ve been my first clue that I process things differently than some. It’s why I don’t watch sad or scary movies as a rule (watching the movie Remember Me without context was one of the worst decisions I’ve ever made), and why I will cut you off if you start detailing your medical trauma. Your pain becomes my pain. It’s a strength of mine because it allows me to relate to people quickly and meaningfully, but it’s also a weakness and often overwhelms me with fear and anxiety. 

Like many of you, my heart has been heavy this week. Every Friday, my mom and I pause for an hour to pray for our country together. We’ve been doing this for the past year as a way of relating our present helplessness to our eternal hope. Some days, our prayers sound like cries of anger. Other days, they sound like divinely-inspired supplications. This past Friday, they sounded like muffled sobs as scenes of suffering crawled across my mind and arrested my language.

That evening, I carried my grief into Keller Auditorium in downtown Portland, Oregon, where I stood alongside thousands of other Christians for the first night of the Holy Spirit Conference, hosted by Bridgetown Church. As I closed my eyes and raised my hands in worship, I pictured those marching in Minneapolis that day. Then the words of Genesis 1, verse 2 appeared in my mind. They read, “Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness covered the surface of the watery depths, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the surface of the waters.”

 

I continued to sing lyrics like, “All splendor and glory forever He is holy,” while watching the picture shift. I still saw those marching, but this time the Spirit of God was hovering over them and preparing to make all things new, even when all they could see was the formless and empty world around them. 

The next evening, I wrote the following (this is a direct excerpt from my personal journal): 

The Holy Spirit Conference wrapped up today with dancing, clapping, and shouts of joy. Then I came back to the Airbnb and learned that another person, this time a 37 y/o man, had been violently shot and killed by ICE in Minneapolis. It’s hard to hold these two things at once – the joy and hope we have in Jesus right now and the reality of living in a broken world where so much acute suffering is happening on our streets right now. What am I supposed to do with that? How am I supposed to respond? I am overwhelmed by choice and equally overwhelmed by limitation. What does it mean to celebrate King Jesus as an innocent man lay dying in the street? I want a clean answer – God knew that he was too good for the world to receive so he took him out and now the man gets to be with Jesus. But I don’t have those answers. I want to understand, to have a bow that allows me to more easily walk in the tension between these two worlds. But I don’t have that. And I get, too, when Christians are the ones who die, we can say, “At least now they get to be with Him.” But what if they aren’t Christian? What do we say then? I suppose we say that Jesus conquered death and that we don’t have to know the other side of the story. I guess we say that we trust that he is hovering over us making all things new even when we can’t see the evidence. I do not want my faith to be so shallow that any single death disrupts it. And I also don’t want my faith to be so shallow that any single death is insignificant. For those who have abiding joy, how do they find that joy in the midst of such grave circumstances? What does it look like to see a man dead on the ground and to still experience joy in Jesus? I want that. I want the vision that allows me to see beyond the moment and into the eternal. For the joy set before me, I want to be able to endure the cross. But right now, those worlds don’t seem integrated. It feels like celebrating Jesus means to maintain a good mood, not to worship Him and partner with Him even as the world devolves into chaos around me. I want to love Him more deeply than I do today, and I want his love to strengthen and equip me to pursue his vision with joy even in in the midst of our present circumstances. Holy Spirit, it is only by You that this can be accomplished. Please breathe afresh in my life and the lives of those around me. 

I can sense in this moment the desire to protect my energy because I don’t trust that you are big enough to hold my sorrow and my joy. I fear, in my own life, that there is only room for one, and I am too afraid of the sorrow that I numb it with false joy. Lord, in this moment, I am feeling so much pressure. Everyone else is responding, so should I! I should do something! Or say something! Or encourage someone! I don’t want to be on the wrong side of history – I need to call ICE out or else I’m complicit! The pressure is reactive and it’s burning me out on every neurological level that I become paralyzed. Jesus, help me to discern your voice, to see and follow your movements, even as the world screams and shuffles before me. Holy Spirit, attune me to the sound and power of your whisper – that I would want to respond to your leadership more than my own or that of those around me. Father, bring me into your arms, comfort me, and shine your light, even when I don’t know up from down. Lord, heal this broken and tragic world. Come quickly, that we my delight in you.”

The sorrow stuck with me as I washed my face, lay down, and awoke the next morning. My alarm went off, but I did not get out of bed. Instead, I stared out at the Portland skyline for another 30 minutes or so until I could move. 

And then I got ready for church. 

While getting ready, I shared with my mom that I hoped they would address what was happening because I was desperate for guidance. I think I was also desperate for validation. Because I am more sensitive than some, I often feel embarrassed by the weight that I carry, as if it’s overdramatic or insignificant. Sometimes I struggle, too, with what Christians choose to speak about and what they don’t.

Really, I was desperate for a good example. 

That morning, we walked in with tea and coffee in hand, and we worshipped. Towards the end of worship, the pastor of Bridgetown came up and shared that his job is not to report the news and it’s not to offer political commentary, but it is to teach people how to grieve, lament, and hope. He didn’t try to make sense of the injustice, but he pointed us back towards Jesus by reminding us that every loss of human life grieves God and that this is not the end of the story. He then led us in a time of verbal prayer interspersed with worship modeled after the ancient practice of Prayers of the People. Together, we cried and begged for God’s mercy and justice, restoration and return. We pleaded, and we praised. We held both things at once in a reflection of our own reality – that Jesus has already come, and yet is still coming. That victory has occurred, and yet is still occurring. That we have hope now, and yet we ache for that hope to be realized. There was no more powerful place to be in that moment than in that room full of people earnestly seeking God as we cried out and petitioned him to restore our world and illuminate the darkest, ugliest, most broken, and tragic places. 

The Lord heard me that morning, desperate for guidance, and he answered me. 

As the worship continued, I once again saw the images of what’s happening in Minneapolis flash across my mind as if edited into some cinematic closing montage for a film. They were images of people being beaten, taken advantage of, oppressed, and used. They were also images of resistance and the conflict that comes from a better world crashing into this one. And as I watched this play out, I sang its soundtrack with lyrics like, “Again and again and again and again, you rescued me out of the mess I was in. You traded my sorrow for something to sing. Now I’m dancing on the grave that I once lived in!” What a strange juxtaposition – sorrow and joy. And yet that is the tension that we live in.

Now, I know this has been longer than some of my other posts, but I want to take a moment to talk specifically to those who carry the pain of others like I do: You don’t have to do it all. You don’t have to know it all. You don’t have to have an opinion on it all. You don’t have to comment on it all. You don’t have to make your words or actions visible. You don’t have to watch the videos (please especially hear me on that one). 

I am a firm believer that not a single one of us is designed to carry the world’s sorrow, and that there is no one right way to be. Instead, all of us have the opportunity to uniquely join with God to refresh this earth. I worry that by consuming as much pain as we do, and by expecting others to do the same, we risk turning human suffering into entertainment disguised as advocacy, thereby preventing ourselves from engaging fully in our daily lives and properly discerning what is ours and what isn’t. That is not to say don’t be informed. Please be informed. It also isn’t to say don’t act. Please act. But it is to say, have boundaries. 

If you’re like me, you need more boundaries than most, and perhaps permission to turn off the news, stop scrolling, and rest. Jesus was more attuned to human suffering than anyone else, and yet he knew when to say no. He was the singular person responsible for restoring our world, and yet he knew the value of resting, retreating, and having dinner with friends. I encourage you – yes, you. The one who feels everything and wants to use that energy to react, to help, to show up, to do things. 

Take a minute. 

Pause. 

Stop talking. 

Listen.

You are not the world’s savior, and thank God for that. There will be things for you to do. Some will be loud, and some will be quiet. Some will be now, and some will be years from now. Be patient. Be present. Don’t fall into the trap of thinking that laughing and recovering is any less important than shouting and protesting. Or that showing up for your neighbor on a random evening is any less significant than sharing resources online (in fact, I’d argue that it’s much more significant). Or that creating space for earnest prayer is a waste of time. In fact, it’s the best weapon we have.   

2 Peter, verse 8 says this, “Dear friends, don’t overlook this one fact: With the Lord one day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years like one day.” I am inspired by those activists in history who met quietly in homes and church basements for months or even years as they crafted their next steps – the ones that didn’t just react to the present moment, but responded to the opportunity before them by seeing the world they wanted to bring about and thoughtfully considering what it would take to get there. This is the long game, friends. Don’t burn yourself out by only reacting. 

The last thing I’ll leave you with is the verses that have resurfaced over and over again in my mind for the past several months, “Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable – if anything is excellent or praiseworthy – think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me – put into practice. And the God of peace will be with you” (Philippians 4:8-9). The apostle Paul wrote this while wrongfully imprisoned. He knew what it meant to suffer, and yet he also knew what it meant to rejoice in the Lord while he did. I think God knows how easy it is for us to get confused, to lose sight, and to become bogged down by the weight of this world, which is why he gave us these verses two thousand years ago. I believe that through them, he reminds us to look up and to see what is good, because those are the things that will last forever and inspire us to keep going. The rest is only temporary. 

This is a message for both of us, because we need each other. The next time I’m panicked or overwhelmed, you have permission to grab my face and speak these words over me. Otherwise, I’ll lose sight. It takes a community of people coming together with a clear vision and purpose to support the longevity of our efforts. I am honored that I get to walk some of this out with you, and I hope that my words can be helpful as you walk some of it out with me. 

I will offer this too: the world is heavy, and we are all carrying a lot in our own lives and the lives of those around us. I would love to pray regularly for any of you who are reading this and would like to be prayed for. You don’t have to be a Christian. You don’t have to be someone who’s kept in touch. You just have to be you and to be just desperate enough to ask for help. I promise we’re in this together. If you reach out to me on Instagram, I might not see it right away, but I will see it. Otherwise, Messenger, WhatsApp, or just good ol’ text will do the trick.  

xx

Abbey

Titular Song: Rest on Us (feat. Brandon Lake & Eniola Abioye) by Maverick City Music, UPPERROOM – I’ve actually used a different lyric from this song as the title of another post, but it felt like the most pertinent song, so I’m using it again.