BP143
These are the words of a man named Nate (but they could very easily be the words of Aubrey as well)–when he became the target of the destroyer.
I walk into the church lobby for the Young Adults night ten minutes late. I am alone. My friend had something come up at the last minute and couldn’t make it, so here I am by myself. I wouldn’t be here if my friend had cancelled earlier because I would have had more time to talk myself into not coming.
I feel vulnerable walking in by myself. Everyone else is with someone. I think others think I must be a loser coming alone. If someone was with me to make my entrance into this social gathering, I would feel so much . . . safer. More . . . normal. As it is, I feel different. I’m alone for some bad reason like I’m boring or shallow or . . . overall undesirable. Who knows. I just know it’s something personal. I am fundamentally inferior somehow–less than others. I hate this feeling because what comes next is self-hatred.
One strike against me.
Even before the door closes behind me, I’m already feeling like an alien. Great, this night is going to go really well. Not! Maybe I should just turn around and leave before anyone notices I’m here.
I see two people glance over at me. Okay, I guess I won’t leave after all. Someone is going to acknowledge my presence—maybe. I watch their eyes and hold my breath.
Nope, I guess not. They see me and then turn back and keep talking to the people they are with. Ugh, it would have been better not to have been seen than to be seen and then not deemed worthy of a wave or a smile. I guess I don’t merit attention. I am not worthy of love.
That’s two strikes.
Four steps in, I stop and scan the lobby. Everyone is connected to a group of three, four, even seven people. They are chatting, smiling, even laughing. I am alone. I am on the outside. I am not in any group. I am not wanted. I am rejected. I hate them. I hate me.
Where is this hypersensitive, selfish, crappy emotion coming from? Do I sound angry? I am angry! Why do I feel so angry even before someone talks with me? What is wrong with me? I must be psycho. I’ve got a world of inappropriate emotions churning in my brain and gut that no one else knows about. Or do they? I suddenly feel like everyone in the lobby can see right through me and know my insecurity and self-centered self-consciousness.
I’m such a pathetic, weak man! No one else is scanning their environment like me. I feel small. I feel like I’m in middle school and everyone else is in grad school. I am less than them. Stupid. Young. They are bigger and possess some esoteric knowledge that I lack. They are so big, and I am so small.
I begin to feel hot. I am perspiring. Sweat is running down my back and beading on my forehead. They will see me and wonder what’s wrong with me. Why is he perspiring? Is he sick? Could he be that nervous?What in the world is wrong with that freak?
I fight the overwhelming urge to leave. The emotions are so strong in me that I am going to explode. Somehow, I stumble over toward a group of four people and stand on the periphery of those who belong. They are all talking. They fit. I feel like the proverbial third wheel. I am not wanted. No one is looking at me. What should I say? I don’t know what to say. Say something, you idiot! Just open your mouth and move your tongue. What’s wrong with you? Cat got your tongue, as my grandmother used to say? Are you an imbecile? Everyone else is talking like a normal person. What’s your problem?
I don’t fit here. I’m watching them from the outside. They are on the inside and I’m on the outside. I will never belong. I will never be one of them. Why did you even come? Have you forgotten that you will never be a member of the group?
Out of nowhere, I remember that I looked at pornography three days ago. Everyone here will know my sin just by looking at my guilty face. Yes, my face is a huge window that bares everything in my soul.
Someone is looking at me. They are talking to me. I answer. I say something similar to what everyone else has been saying—how my week has been, how tired I am, how I’m glad it’s Friday. Yes, TGIF! I go on babbling for a few more seconds. They smile and nod their heads. They are smiling out of pity. They nod their heads in unison as a way to nonverbally agree among themselves that they are condescending to me.
I talk some more but want to stop because everything I am saying is being examined by a prosecuting attorney in my mind. Why did you say that? Why are you talking so fast? Your face is kind of inflexible, robotic. Seriously, you told them that? Now everyone feels awkward. My internal critic laser-focuses on my poor eye contact.
Despite the microscope examining every word I say, I keep talking. Why am I talking? People are beginning to look away. They are disinterested. They think I’m too needy. That’s it—they think I’m a human vacuum cleaner who’s trying to suck up all their attention. I’m needy and a narcissist. It’s always about me. I’m always making it about me. See, even right now you’re making it about you! You can’t stop being self-centered.
Strike three! You’re out.
When everyone begins drifting into the sanctuary, I linger behind, pretending to check my phone. When everyone has gone into the room reserved for those who belong, I slip out the exit. I walk down the steps and head for my car. I am already crying. Feeling sorry for myself. Making it about me yet again. Why am I so selfish? I hate myself, absolutely and completely.
A second later, my racing brain wonders why no one invited me to sit with them in the sanctuary. They are so selfish. They don’t see me. Once again, I am invisible to them. I hate them! I hate me! I hate everything!
I feel a strong urge to go home and cut myself. Or, if I can fight off that old habit, I will escape into the world of pornography where I can numb myself with bestial hunger and gratification. I don’t belong around other people anyway. Not in their presence. I am an object destined to use others like objects.
God made a mistake when He made me. I am the exception to Psalm 139. I want to die. How can right theology help me at a time like this? Where are you, Jesus? Reading your word is an intellectual exercise that leaves me feeling condemned, bad, and never good enough. I hate you and I hate your word!
You never show up for me, Jesus. Never. You reserve your attention for those who are chosen. I am clearly not one of those people.
Just before I get to my car, a voice says, “Hey, Nate, where are you going? The Young Adults night is that a way,” he says, pointing to the church.
I laugh and stumble over my words (yet another reason to hate myself), trying to explain that I’m not feeling well and need to go home.
Joe doesn’t keep walking toward the church. He comes over to me and looks into my eyes as if he is looking for something. As he gazes at me, I dare to look into his eyes. I see something. I think it might be . . . pity? No. Do I dare believe it’s compassion?
“What’s up bro?” he asks. “You look kind of rough.”
I hear something gentle in his voice, and I almost believe he cares about me. He obviously senses something because he touches my shoulder and says, “You’re not okay. Let’s talk.”
I try so hard to keep it inside, but the dam holding everything in breaks right there in the parking lot and as I wipe away tears, I tell Joe everything I had felt and thought over the previous five minutes. He listens without saying a word. His hand is still on my shoulder.
Now I begin to feel humiliated for being far too transparent. I must leave now because I am feeling regret about my unfiltered honesty. The voice begins to condemn me again for being too needy. I am not a man. I am a crying boy.
Joe simply nods his head and says, “I’ve had days like that, when Satan’s voice is all I hear and God’s voice is silent; when I hate everything—me, them, God, everything. It’s all condemnation—all bad. No grace. No love. I’m so alone I literally feel like no one knows what it’s like to be me.”
He smiles at me and says, “Let’s go in. We can sit together. God never intended you to fight these battles alone.” I can tell he won’t take no for an answer, so I go back up the steps and into the church.
Two hours later, after being with the group and actually feeling like I belonged, I drive home singing a worship song. I thank God for sending a brother along with skin on to be a little Christ for me in my darkest moment. I also remember what Joe told me, and I will never forget it: “God never intended you to fight these battles alone.”
No, never alone.
Satan tells me to leave, to be alone, to hide. He wants to divide and conquer; steal and destroy.
Kill.
God tells me to stay, to be with others, to be seen. He invites me close.
He says, “Come.”
Jesus, help me remember to run to you when I feel overwhelmed by feelings of abandonment, complete worthlessness, badness, or annihilation.
“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly” ~ John 10:10
“I will arise and go to my father, and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Treat me as one of your hired servants.’ And he arose and came to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and felt compassion, and ran and embraced him and kissed him” ~ Luke 15:18-20
“But God, who comforts the downcast, comforted us by the coming of Titus” ~ 2 Corinthians 7:6