Occupying God-Given Space

I think it’s finally time for me to talk about humility.

In May of this year, I stumbled upon a Hebrew word while volunteering at a Level III atrium in Chapel Hill. Anavah. It would be several months before I would understand why this word “rang the bell of my heart” (to borrow a phrase from a friend).

I have long wrestled with finding my place in the world. This topic has been the focus of my inner contemplation for much of this year. I’ve always been irked by people deflecting compliments of their work saying “Praise God!” or “All glory to God!” It has been even harder for me to accept it when people praise God for the work of my hands with no recognition of my contribution. I’ve never been able to shake the feeling that neither way is right—accepting all the accolades for our work (when none of us act independently of the blessings of God, direct or indirect), nor deflecting all praise to God as though we were no meaningful part of what was accomplished.

A piece of the puzzle

Something recently fell into place for me via my study of the book To be Told by Dan Allender. In a chapter entitled “Writing your destiny,” he suggests that “God wants us to relieve suffering, pursue justice, facilitate reconciliation, and free the heart to love, but he desires for us to do so in a way that reveals his character.” Later on, he says “As you write your story, you must keep in mind that the glory of a single human life is meant for more than what is likely…Our dreams must reveal the unimaginable—that we will reflect the character and glory of God into the lives of other people.” Allender asks the reader to ponder “What is it that you reveal about God?”

It’s clear that my story has shaped me into this person who is passionate about belonging—especially for those who have been rejected and unwelcomed, relegated to the outside without a place to feel at home. As I journaled about this “calling,” I found myself berating God for allowing people to be rejected. I blamed him for the pain of the unwanted (as I blamed him for my own experiences of rejection), and found that the truth my heart was clinging to is that I had to welcome the stranger into my home because God himself refused to do it.

But within Allender’s reframe, I began to wonder if my work of welcome was more of a partnership between me and God than I was willing to admit: if I have been made to reflect the character of God, was I, in fact, revealing to people God’s heart to welcome everyone? His overwhelming, untiring desire for everyone to have a place to call home; to be “let in”?

What else wasn’t I seeing?

I’ve had to consider that my reaction to sharing recognition for my life’s work is an act of self-protection rooted in woundedness. I admit I have this deep-seeded belief that if I am going to be known and seen, I have to do it myself—no one else is going to protect me but me. I’ve blamed God for my experiences of pain and rejection, and have tried to fill a God-like role when rushing in to aid those experiencing the same kind of hurt. Is it any wonder that I have been crushed under the weight of my own savior mentality, experiencing severe over-extension and burnout that has helped no one that I love, least of all myself.

I have often seen “giving God the glory” as a constant turning of a single spotlight away from myself, leaving me in the dark, forgotten. But what if—what if it was actually a sharing of light? What if it’s to my great benefit to work tirelessly to bring God glory? In order to co-create with someone, don’t you have to be near them? And God is light. What if co-creating with God in the way only my unique self can is actually the only way I can be truly seen and deeply known? “For with you is the fountain of life; in your light do we see light” (from Psalm 36).

The Truth is, God is generous.

I recently re-encountered Matthew 20 where Jesus tells a story about a landowner who hires workers for his vineyard. As the day progresses, the landowner continues to find more and more workers that he invites into the labor. In the finale, everyone gets paid the same wages, much to the anger of those who worked longer than the rest. I identify with those laborers’ interpretation of the landowner’s actions as unjust! As someone who is proactive and has a strong work ethic, I want dibs on reaping what I have sown. The landowner asks the grumbling workers, “Am I not free to do as I wish with my own money? Or are you envious because I am generous?”

I am starkly reminded that what I plant in this life does not actually belong to me, nor does the harvest that comes from it. The seed is Gods, as is the earth, and the sun and rain that feed the growing plants. The oxygen we breathe is his, and our bodies were not made by our own hands. Like everyone else, I am rewarded not because I am a good, hard worker. I am rewarded simply because he is generous—and not just in the wages, but in offering us meaningful work itself.

In Mattew 6, Jesus says to do our work with our eyes focused beyond the eventual reward “And your Father who sees everything that is done in secret will reward you.” And here, I come back to my opening theme of humility.

What a trap pride is. How woeful that it is so tantalizing to self-elevate. If we labor with God but try to stand apart from him to separate our glory and keep it for ourselves, we will find ourselves merely in the shadow of one far greater than we are, and therefore dimly lit instead of being truly seen in his blaze of pure light.

I have struggled with craving immediate recognition for the work of my hands. I want to hear the “good and faithful servant” reassurance now. I am afraid of being forgotten, so I long for accolades to assure me I am not invisible. But I am beginning to see that when I strive to be seen other than in the Light himself, I find myself trapped in destructive practices: relying only on my own talents, strength, resources and abilities; using these limited things to give people inadequate versions of what only God can give; often distorting my well-meaning gifts by making them bear the weight of my own needs; finding myself destroyed by criticism or failed work. I often find myself grasping for my share, begruding others the fair day’s wages they are receiving, because of my fear of scarcity.

Just like the landowner of the parable, in his mercy, God goes out and collects the uncollected and welcomes them in alongside those already eager at the gate. If we are offended by his generosity of welcome, then we aren’t acquainted with need enough to appreciate his lavishness.

Defining Humility

Anavah, the word that preluded these unraveling discoveries of heart, means “to occupy your God-given space in the world.”

I think I am still uncovering the significance of this word to my life. To me, it means that I don’t have to strive and overreach for my life to make a difference. It means I have what I need to do what I’ve been asked to do. It means that God has eyes on the big picture, and that he’s filled every place of need with another person shaped perfectly to fit that need (so I don’t have to “do it all”). It means that my unique self is seen and valued in a way that is special just to me. It means I am needed and wanted. It means that I have been intentionally invited to accept his generous light. It means I will be seen fully as that light passes in and through me, reflecting him in me and me in him in a mutually giving love.

As I’ve prayed for more humility in my life, it’s been impossible not to see how interconnected humility is with need. To accept that I exist, operate, and work within a limited range is to accept that there will be a great many things outside my purview. In order to fulfill my unique purpose well, I will have to be dependent, work within community, accept deficit. I will need others. I will need God. This, for me, is the hardest lesson of all. I am constantly working on believing that being in need does not mean that my being is less-than, that I am a failure, and (the deepest fear) it does not mean that I will not be loved, seen, or valued.

There is only beginning

This is not an end to my musings about self-worth, legacy, and meaning. It is merely the beginning of a new leg of the journey, and this is the current view from the road. I thank God for this recent vista, from which I have been able to look back and see congruency between certain markers along the way. Living into my God-given space in the world is a forever labor, but I am awakening to a true love of the calling.