Renouncing Self-Preservation: A Journey of Faith

I fell into a dreamless sleep on the plane to El Salvador. The late-night packing and three AM wake-up hadn’t allowed for much rest, so the drone of the engines was all the white noise I needed to drift off. Then God woke me up. (Rude, right? lol)

“I need you to renounce the idol of self-preservation.”

It was so clearly not me that my mind came groggily to attention. The statement had no condemnation, judgment, or harshness, just a nudge, like “please hand me the remote.”

“Ok, Lord, I renounce the idol of self-preservation in the name of Jesus.”

There was no clap of thunder or sensation in my body, so I waited a few beats and asked, “Can I go back to sleep now?” and promptly passed out again.

I wish I could see in the spirit what was broken off in that moment. Had I been more awake, I may have pondered and made something of it. Instead, I placed a mental bookmark and moved on. The trip to El Salvador was incredible. The chronic anxiety I’ve wrestled with since I can remember was non-existent. It would be tidy to say the anxiety’s been a non-issue since, but that’s not the case. The bookmark, however, often brings me back to that moment.

This world is deeply damaged. The enemy, whose only objective is destruction, has wreaked havoc and ruined lives, and we, with our finite minds and mortal bodies, fight to preserve ourselves in the midst. What choice do we have but to survive? Our rescue comes in the form of Jesus, our Savior, and yet here we are, surrounded by death and dismay. Scripture says we are co-heirs with Christ, so we try to stand on that name, only to be buffeted by the wind and waves and eventually beaten to a pulp. What of victory? Where is that?

Some of us go low, try to take the route of humility, and allow the waters to break over us while we choose the way of the cross. But still, it often feels like drowning, which sounds pretty in a song, but is experientially a slow and agonizing death. We find we have no moral ground high enough to stand on and no self-justification that will ever be adequate to silence the war around and within us. Surely God has more for us than suffering? Where is the joy?

I don’t know how to reconcile the idea that I am both an heiress and a servant. My flesh wants to stand on one or another, thinking too much or too little of myself, when in reality, I am not to think of myself at all. If Jesus did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, how do I find the right place to plant my feet? If Jesus was obedient unto death, does God ask the same of me? If so, how am I meant to live in the meantime?

I suppose the fear is that God is not truly benevolent, kind, or loving – that we will suffer endlessly at His hand. We imagine God to be a fickle master, subject to the whims of fury and displeasure. Our minds cannot wrap themselves around glory, so we struggle to trust Him. The way of the cross is life, suffering, and death. What kind of loving God would ask that of His beloved Son, let alone us?

Were we granted the perspective of eternity, we may begin to understand “light and momentary suffering” in view of God’s incomparable glory. We would see that we suffer, but not at His hand. We suffer because the world is broken beyond its complete and final repair, but God gives meaning and purpose to our suffering. He weaves our pain, tears, and losses – great and small – into a tapestry displaying the splendor of His infinite love. And He asks us to abide in the midst, trusting that His glory will thrill us (and it does thrill us) beyond any and all temporary anguish we feel in the here and now.

The truth is, our Father is benevolent, kind, and loving. He is infinitely perfect, supremely light, and completely good, deserving of our lives and so much more, simply because He IS. Obedience causes our flesh to roil in an attempt to preserve what we hold most sacred in the throne room of our hearts. Yet when the presence of God – His being – shines brightly against our idols of self-preservation and self-reliance, we see them for what they are – shiny pieces of trash we’ve collected like crows in our nests.

I am an heiress because I dwell in Him – His throne room, His presence, His glory, His infinite wisdom and kindness, His perfect and precious love. I am not grasping at equality (He has no equal), I am reaching for His presence – I in Him and He in me. In that there is no room for anything else.

I am a servant because whatever happens here and now is wrapped in divine will and purpose. My life, enfolded in His grip, is glory to the Father and little else. Very little else.

It’s apparent to me now that God asked me to renounce the idol of self-preservation so He could move into that space and dwell there. He has shown me His perspective, beyond my world and my life. The victory is in Him. The joy is in Him. My days are in Him. Life, suffering, and death are in Him.

He is worthy, which sounds great in a song, and is experientially like oxygen, no matter where we stand, sit, or lie down. It would be tidy to say that I live in this place every moment of every day, but it’s a process. Anxiety still demands that I set up little monuments of self-preservation to ward away suffering and struggle, but the light and love of God won’t let it stand for long. Every time I return my attention to who He is, those idols come to life and bow before Him. He reminds me of His promise to meet my every need as I seek His kingdom and His righteousness. He whispers to me of days to come when I will know Him fully, even as I am fully known and loved and treasured.

The Lord is with me; I will not be afraid.
    What can mere mortals do to me?
The Lord is with me; he is my helper.
    I look in triumph on my enemies.

Psalm 118:6-7