Beggars Can’t Be
Choosers
It was Christmas Eve. I was around ten or eleven years old. And my family and I were in Charleston, West Virginia for the night. We had decided to break up the long drive to Louisville, Kentucky, where my grandparents lived. Originally, the plan had been to grab an unceremonious bite from a local fast-food establishment. Christmas Eve dinner would be burgers and fries. When we arrived in Charleston, the sky was already dark, and night was setting in. I was hungry. A burger and fries sounded divine.
But on that night, in that town, all the fast-food joints we stopped at were closed. It was a tragedy—perhaps not quite of “no-room-at-the-inn” proportions. But our stomachs were rumbling. And our spirits were grumbling. The prospect of having to split a pack of Ritz crackers for Christmas Eve dinner did not lift anyone’s mood.
As we checked into our motel, my dad shared our story with the man behind the desk. He considered our situation for a moment and then shared that a hotel down the road was offering a complimentary wine and cheese spread for its guests that night. It might be worth poking our heads in and asking if we could partake. After checking in and unpacking, we wandered down the road to the hotel and cautiously entered the front doors, keenly aware that we were interlopers, not the guests for whom this spread had been laid. But when one of the hotel staff heard our story, he assured us we were welcome and invited us to eat whatever we’d like.
We were extremely grateful. But to call their offering a “spread” might have been generous. There really was little more than cheese cubes, grapes, and crackers. Even so, at that point, it made little difference. We would take whatever we could get. When you are hungry—not just peckish, but hungry—are you really all that concerned about the menu? Do you really still insist on the luxury of choice? There is a point on the continuum of hunger at which personal preference for this food or that food fades away, and all that remains is the hunger itself. I believe this is the point from which the old adage originates, “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Perhaps you’ve reached this point before, when after an unintentional delay in eating, you would consume just about anything. Or perhaps you’ve experienced the equivalent in the realm of thirst, such as on a hot day when you’ve worked hard and gone without a drink for hours. Suddenly, water itself tastes sweet, like the juice of some undiscovered fruit.
“My Flesh Faints for
You”
When I read today’s psalm, what immediately captures my attention is the visceral need of the psalmist. He describes his need for God in terms of an aching thirst and hunger. His “flesh faints” for God (63:1). He is desperate.
Perhaps you’ve heard the saying, “There are no atheists in a foxhole.” The idea seems to be that, in especially desperate situations, we all recognize some foundational spiritual principles. We are not in control. We can’t do it on our own. We need help. We need a higher power.
But it’s important to observe that today’s psalm is not a foxhole prayer. Consider that striking line, “Your steadfast love is better than life.” Here the psalmist is not drawing a contrast between God’s salvation and a desperate, life-and-death situation, saying I’d prefer God to save me than to die. Rather, he is soberly comparing God’s love to life—that is, to the biological phenomenon of being alive, of eating and working and sleeping, of surviving and growing and enjoying the goodness of this world. This comparison indicates the point from which the psalmist is speaking. It is not from a foxhole. It is not from a pit of despair, not from the prospect of impending bodily demise. The psalmist speaks from a position of already enjoying life, or at least comfortably surviving. He’s not saying, “I’m about to physically die, God, where are you?” His desperation is not physical but spiritual. He’s saying something more like, “I’m living, but—strangely, it still feels like I’m going to die. Nothing means anything anymore. Life seems like little more than the tick-tock of my beating heart. My soul is thirsty to the point of collapse. Even a rich feast does not satisfy. If this is life, why do I live?”
A Hungry Soul
One of my favorite philosophers, Simone Weil—who grew up in a Jewish family and would later become a follower of Christ—insists that faith, at its heart, is less a matter of belief and more a matter of hunger and thirst. Faith does not originate with a rational analysis but with a visceral, prerational need. She writes, “The soul knows for certain only that it is hungry. The important thing is that it announces its hunger by crying.... The danger is not [that] the soul should doubt whether there is any bread”—that is, the danger is not that the soul might fall into disbelief. Rather, the real danger is that “by a lie, [the soul might] persuade itself that it is not hungry. It can only persuade itself of this by lying, for the reality of its hunger is not a belief, it is a certainty.”[1]
When I read today’s psalm, I see a soul “that announces its hunger by crying.” Not only do I see the hunger in the language of famishment and thirst. But also in the psalmist’s pleas. As we noted earlier, beggars can’t be choosers. To be hungry for God is not to desire specific outcomes or to enlist God in personal schemes. Notice that the psalmist is not bombarding God with a wish list of requests. He is not fantasizing about a God who will do just what he wants. All he asks for is God Godself. He desires God’s presence, God’s companionship. “I seek you, my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you” (63:1). “My soul clings to you” (63:8). (That word “cling,” by the way, is the same word used in Genesis to describe the union of marriage; “for this reason, a man leaves his father and mother and clings to his wife.”)
Chooser or Beggar?
I suppose where all this is leading me is to a simple question: “Am I a beggar? Or am I a chooser?” This question alone is probably enough to give me a pulse on my spiritual health any given day. Am I hungry and thirsty for God? Or is God just a part of the supporting cast in a drama centered on me and what I want?
Many things conspire to make me a chooser. The news cycle and our political drama conspire to convince me that the outcome of an election or some legislation is more important than living in God’s love amid the immediate, here-and-now fluctuations and interruptions and mundanities of my day-to-day. Advertising and the feeling that I’m not enough or do not have enough conspire to convince me that securing “this” or “that” will make me happier and healthier than I would be if I meditated on God and ordered my steps according to the way of love. Conflict and competition conspire to convince me that winning and proving myself and not being dismissed or disrespected are more important than receiving God’s embrace and knowing myself to be God’s child, blessed and beloved.
When I am a chooser, I am focused on outcomes. Which is to say, ultimately, I am focused on my own interests above all others. But when I am a beggar, I am focused only on my need, not on how my need will be met. I am hungry and thirsty for God’s steadfast love, and it tastes sweet wherever I find it. And here’s a surprise; I find God’s presence and love quite often in places where I’m not expecting it or looking for it. It’s certainly not in the acquisition of things or the small petty victories I secure over someone else. Rather, it’s at a hospital bedside with someone who is physically struggling. In the tears of another person who has opened their heart. In becoming vulnerable myself and discovering I am not alone. In the smiles and laughter of children (even when they’re not quite following the rules!).
In some communities of the early church, Psalm 63 was prescribed as daily reading, just like the Lord’s Prayer. It’s not too hard to see why. Like the Lord’s Prayer, Psalm 63 orients us properly toward life and the world, not as conqueror or competitor, but as beggar, not as someone who can secure life on their own, but as someone whose heart is open and desperate to receive the gift of love. Psalm 63 reminds us that what makes life is good is nothing we make—but only what we receive from God through one another. Power, possessions, and prestige will not fill our soul, no matter how much we attain. Only God’s steadfast love will satisfy.
Prayer
Whose steadfast love satisfies our soul,
Attune us to the frequency of our heart,
That we might become more aware
Of what truly satisfies
…
Lead us not into the pursuit of outcomes,
But deliver us into the delight of your love,
Found in the here and now.
Open our eyes
To your presence with us,
That we might cling to you.
In Christ, our lord and savior: Amen.
[1] Simone Weil, Love in the
Void: Where God Finds Us (ed. Laurie Gagne; Walden: Plough, 2018), 62.
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