I come full, heavy, burdened… my heart the overflow of want and anxiety and hope and grief. I kneel down with intentions and quick-spun words, tossing them down onto the bed and smoothing them to lay flat and visible against purple and blue and green of the bed spread.
I come brimming: ‘Lord, I…’
Weeks ago, in that space of meditation prior to communion, he reads slowly through the Beatitudes. His sermonette focuses on the poor in spirit.
‘Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’ ~ Matthew 5:3
Poverty is abstract as best… something we see on television; wide-eyed children with flies on their faces and distended bellies, and ramshackle huts with mud(dy) floors and miles upon miles of undrinkable water. We can distance ourselves from this because it is just that: distant. Far way. Other worldly.
‘This isn’t about lacking material goods,’ he was saying, ‘this is about a bankruptcy that exists in the human heart.’
Spiritual bankruptcy. This I know. That deep need that clamps down on my heart and makes me cry out; that dank, scummy pit that held me until loving hands reached down to scoop me out (Ps. 40). Oh, I know this too well.
As I kneel in the quiet gray of morning, I remember that I come empty. In slow, deliberate movements I peel back that which masks my true condition: gone are my well-crafted words and careful phrases. Gone is any veneer that pretends that I am anything but bankrupt. I come… grimy hands outstretched, a beggar with nothing to offer but need.
And yet… confident!
For the One I kneel before knows my need, and has slaked it through blood and violence and love on a cross. Has lifted me from the slime and darkness of the pit and set me before Him.
I come bankrupt: ‘Lord, You… are holy, mighty, merciful… You are all I need…’