I have a strong tendency to assume the role of a victim. It can be big or small. It can be as simple as having plans cancelled on me. It isn’t hard for me to blow things out of proportion. Recently I spoke to a group of high school kids I’ve become familiar with over the past two years, through working with YoungLife. It was while preparing to give this talk that I realized just how much I felt the victim of God.
This is the story I shared with these kids:
When I was sixteen years old I began to fall into depression. I was a generally happy, friendly junior in high school when one day it all began to unravel. I can remember the moment it happened fairly clearly; I was sitting in my English class and suddenly had the urge to jump off a building. It wasn’t out of adventure, like base-jumping—it was a moment of desperation as my world began to sink away from my feet. My family, which always seemed invincible to me, began to fall apart. My closest friends separated without a word of explanation. My counselor who I’d been going to for years suddenly had cancer. I had no one to turn to.
Suicidal thoughts began to pour into me like a waterfall. I couldn’t drive anywhere without fantasizing that I should drive off the road into a tree. I couldn’t look at a tall building without wondering how long it would take for me to hit the ground after I jumped. My life felt utterly helpless. What felt worse is that I knew Jesus. I felt like I loved Him. Where was he? I started to think he had abandoned me, that I was now forgotten in the same way I was by everyone else I loved at the time. I didn’t understand why He wouldn’t just make me better.
One day I decided that I was sick of feeling this way. It was a cold, January night my junior year. I was up late in my bedroom and my family was long asleep. I felt hopeless and I felt alone. I decided that I was going to jump from an interstate bridge not too far from my house. The winter caused the water to be lowered—I knew the impact would kill me. I can remember grabbing the keys to my truck and walking down the staircase, determined that I was going to die that night. I stopped half way down the staircase and asked God one last time, “do you care at all?” I stopped for a moment, waiting for Him to respond. I didn’t hear anything. I didn’t feel better but I did think. I thought about Jesus and all that I knew about him. I thought about Him calling Lazarus out of the tomb after being dead four days. I felt dead. I thought about how he came back soon after he raised Lazarus, to eat and be with him. I realized that God wasn’t going to send a pillar of fire to stop me before I got into my truck. He was simply calling me to walk to Him, like he called Lazarus to walk out of the tomb. It was simple, but it was enough. I thought about the way that Jesus had wept for Lazarus before he called him out. Maybe Jesus was weeping for me too. I turned and walked back up to my room that night. I wasn’t cured, but I was willing to walk a little further out of the tomb. I was willing to hope that maybe one day I could sit at the table with Jesus again, and see that He never abandoned me. It took another half of a year before the suicidal thoughts left. The small whisper of hope I had pulled me along.
As I was reliving all of this in preparation for my talk—I began to feel really bad for myself. I felt bad for that sixteen-year-old. All I could think was “wow, why did God have to put me through that? I was so young and fragile.” I felt bad because my story was so sad. But I realized the truth in that moment. It wasn’t just my story—it was my story and God’s story, together. It always was. I’ve come to believe that I never was, nor can be, God’s victim. He doesn’t leave me in pain for pain’s sake. He allowed me to go through that ordeal for His glory. He saved me from death. In hindsight, I was never abandoned—He gave me just what I needed (and at just the right time) to combat my dark depression. He was weeping for me while I was weeping for myself. It was through the pain that I learned dependence on God. It was through pain that I grew closer to Him.
God is patient. He knows that I still get stuck playing the victim. But He is gracious. Down the road I know He will show me, again and again, that He didn’t victimize me. He will show me all the beautiful things he brought forth while I was doubting Him.
Photo by (flickr cc): Ricardo Williams
