A Desperate Dash
As the plane neared its destination, Carey felt an unsettling churn in his stomach. As a queasy feeling creeped up on him, he took a few deep breaths and tried to push it away. The flight was nearly over. If he could just hang on a few more minutes, he’d be alright.
A few minutes later, however, as he retrieved his carry-on items and exited the plane, the feeling did not go away. It intensified. Apparently this was no case of flight sickness, because the plane had landed, but this feeling of nausea was just taking off.
Still, he pressed on, walking down the interminably long hallway to Customs. By the time he reached the Customs line, he realized he’d made a grave mistake. He had walked right by the restrooms. Now he knew he needed one, but it was too far away. For a moment, he was overwhelmed with despair.
Then he saw it out of the corner of his eye. A trash can. Sure, it was right by the line and just yards away from a Customs agent, but at this point his desperation dispelled every other concern. So off he ran, a sharply dressed professional in his business suit, making a shameless dash to the trash can, where his nausea exited him with a violent force. And not just once or twice, but…well, you probably don’t want any more details.
Have you ever felt so desperate? Perhaps it was not nausea that overwhelmed you, but a job situation. Or a relationship. Or financial troubles. Perhaps you lived for a while in denial about whatever it was, thinking you had it under control and could manage the situation. Perhaps the fear of losing face or losing status, or just the fear of change and the unknown held you at bay, and you hoped that eventually the problem would solve itself. But the problem did not solve itself. Perhaps it became even worse. And eventually you became desperate—so desperate that you threw your denial and your pride and your fear and everything else to the side, and you made that figurative dash for the trash can.
“Your Desperation Has Saved You”?
The blind man sitting on the side of the road had been begging before Jesus came along. For him, begging was business as usual. He was always begging. But when he heard that Jesus was passing, his begging intensified. His begging became shouting. “Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!” (Luke 18:38). “Son of David” is a messianic title and reveals the reason the blind man is shouting. He believes the messiah, the one whom God has anointed to come and heal the world, is within hearing distance. And he is desperate to be heard.
Apparently he is making quite a scene, because a group of men, likely the disciples, sternly order him to be quiet. But the man’s desperation pushes all concerns aside, and he shouts even louder (Luke 18:39). Jesus hears his shouting and stops. Whatever plans Jesus had can wait. He always stops when a desperate person is seeking him.
When the blind man unabashedly makes his request, “Lord, let me see again” (18:41), Jesus says what he often does to those who seek him, “Your faith has saved you” (18:42). I wonder, though, about the character of the blind man’s faith. It was not a faith that was willing to wait for the afterlife. It was not a faith that calmly accepted its lot and serenely folded its hands. It was a faith that went beyond “business as usual,” a faith that was willing to go to any lengths to get help. It was a desperate faith. Perhaps Jesus could just as well have said, “Your desperation has saved you” (18:42).
With that in mind, I am primed to see the very familiar story of Zacchaeus in a new light, not only as a feel-good tale of Jesus restoring a lost son of Israel to his Jewish family, but also as the story of a desperate man who is willing to go to any lengths to be saved. Just to refresh our memory, Luke introduces Zacchaeus as “a chief tax collector” and as “rich” (18:42). Which means he would have been a supremely hated figure among most Jews, viewed as a collaborator with the oppressing empire of Rome, treated as a traitor who took their money for the enemy and for himself. He’s like the prodigal son, except he’s doing well for himself. And from an outsider’s standpoint, it may seem like there’s no reason for him to return home. He’s not feeding filthy pigs. On the contrary, he’s filthy rich.
But what we see on the outside does not match Zacchaeus’ insides. His story is filled with action and extremes, with running and climbing and hurrying and surrendering eye-watering sums of money, all of this reflective of Zacchaeus’ desperation. To begin, he is so desperate just to see Jesus, he runs ahead of the crowd and climbs unceremoniously into a sycamore tree. As before with the blind man, Jesus stops and sees him. Jesus always stops when a desperate person is seeking him.
Jesus invites himself over to Zacchaeus’ for dinner, where Zacchaeus’ desperation takes him even further than he has run and climbed so far, to an even greater length. He effectively renounces everything he has gained as a tax collector, promising to give half of his possessions to the poor and to reimburse anyone he has defrauded four times over. Jesus concludes, undoubtedly with a smile on his face, “Today salvation has come to this house” (19:9). But here we might read between the lines of Zacchaeus’ and the blind man’s stories a similar message: “Your desperation has saved you.” While Zacchaeus’ salvation is different than the blind man’s, it is no less immediate. It pertains to this world, not just an afterlife. Whereas the blind man receives sight, Zacchaeus receives connection and community. He has traded his riches for relationship. “He too is a son of Abraham,” Jesus declares, meaning, “He’s home, he’s a part of the family again!”
The Gift of Desperation
In Twelve-Step recovery circles, a person will sometimes talk about hitting “rock bottom” as paradoxically the worst day and the best day of their lives. They will talk about it as God’s grace. They will say that in their “rock bottom” experience, God gave them “the gift of desperation.” It is the gift of having nothing left to lose, the gift of not caring anymore about what others think, the gift of being willing to go to any length to get help. It is the gift that pushes us past denial, past fear, past pride. It is the gift that enables us to say two magic words, “I can’t.” It is the gift we receive when our need for help becomes greater than our desire for control.
I think the blind man and Zacchaeus had both received the gift of desperation. Their shouting and climbing and running, their disregard for the people who are telling them to shush or grumbling about them, their need to see Jesus and for Jesus to see them, all suggest that they are acting out of desperation. Just like Carey making that desperate dash to the trash can, not caring what the crowd around him or the Customs agents thought, not thinking about anything else but “Just get there!”
It is logical to think of “rock bottom” as a one-time event,
or to think of “the gift of desperation” as being received only in extreme
moments. But in recovery circles, the experience of “rock bottom”—the admission
of powerlessness and the surrender to a higher power of care—is actually
understood to be not just the first step, but the most fundamental step, the
step that we repeat again and again, day after day, if we want to remain well.
It is the way we walk.
“I Can’t”
I am reminded of Jesus himself, who says things like, “I do
nothing on my own” (John 8:28) and “The Son can do nothing on his own” (5:19).
In other words, even Jesus says those two little words that the desperate
rock-bottomers are saying: “I can’t” (5:19). Perhaps this is why we see
Jesus frequently in prayer. Perhaps this is why Paul advises us, “Pray in the
Spirit at all times” (Eph 6:18). Constant prayer need not be seen as an endless
mental exercise, but rather could be a spirit of honesty and openness and
willingness, in which we know our need and are ever attentive and desirous to
hear what God might be saying. By this spirit, we are connected with God. In
this spirit is salvation. Or as Jesus implied when he encountered the blind man
and Zacchaeus, “Your desperation has saved you.”
I wouldn’t wish nausea or any other malady on anyone. But those two little words, “I can’t”? I hope I carry them with me in my heart the rest of my life, and I hope the same for you.
Response
Before concluding, I would like to invite your response—only if you feel so inclined. There are grey slips of paper and pencils in the pews, and if you do write a response, you may decide for yourself whether you’d like to include your name or remain anonymous. (If you write your name, please know that I would still check with you before ever sharing your response with others.)
The question I’d like to ask is this: In what ways are you desperate today? Where would it be helpful for you to say, “I can’t”? (This could be an extremely personal thing, and you might not wish to write it down. I would affirm discretion. But if you write nothing down, I would also invite you to consider sharing your confession with a trusted friend or loved one, maybe even this week. “I can’t [whatever it is].”)
Prayer
Who welcomes interruption
Because you care for us all—
Quiet our thinking,
The restless chatter of desire,
The endless planning,
That we might hear the cry of our heart
And know our need for help
…
May our need for help
Make us like the blind man and Zacchaeus,
Pushing past denial and fear and pride,
To draw near to you.
In Christ, who came to seek out and save the lost: Amen.
