A Vessel Broken Beautifully

I have often looked upon the cold pavement of the marketplace—and I have found myself envying them. They have no heart to break. They do not feel the weight of a person’s eternity, nor do they throb with the bitter aftertaste of a Gospel rejected. They have no tongue that must speak. They know nothing of the burden of the LORD, that heavy and holy 'must' which compels the fumbling tongue to disturb the world's false peace and cry out for the sake of eternity. They are not called to be a spectacle, nor to endure the indifference of the crowd. They simply exist. To be a stone is to be silent and unfeeling, but to be a servant of Christ is to be made of glass and fire—fragile enough to be broken by the sins of others, yet compelled to burn with a truth that the world cannot contain nor know nothing about. Should I then envy a stone that knows nothing of God?

I move among people looking like a man at peace, but inside I am caught in a storm of the Spirit’s making. On my shoulders rests a constant, heavy weight—a cold and demanding sense of 'ought' that never leaves me. I am married to it. To the passerby, I am just a nuisance, a man with a confused mind who bores them with a message they find as useless as the mud under their feet. But before the throne, I am the Lord's captive, bound by a cord I did not weave. I find no stillness until Christ has been heralded in the streets, for I am compelled by a love that will not let me go.

I am, by my own nature, a man who loves the quietness of seclusion and the solitude of a hidden garden. I seek the stillness where no eye finds me. Yet, I find myself pulled toward the heat, stench, and noise of the crowd by a thread I dare not break. It is the thread of divine command. I am bound to the souls of men by a holy necessity; and though my flesh cries out for the shadows, the Spirit draws me out under the sun. The only way to lift the weight of 'ought' is to bow the neck to the 'must' of the Gospel.

The world speaks of the 'calling' as if it were a trophy of gold, a high glory to be sought and worn with a light heart. They paint the herald as a man standing atop a mountain in the sun. But they do not tell you the truth of it: that to be called often feels like a slow drowning. It is the sensation of a tide that never ebbs, a constant wave that hits you over and over covering up to the head, drowning you while you scream, "Lord, save me!"

How strange and terrifying it is to see men chase after titles like Pastor, Reverend, or Bishop, as if they were just medals for their own pride. Do they not realize that every title bears accountability? Do they not tremble knowing that with every honor comes a much harsher judgment? (James 3:1) They say the words—that teachers are held to a higher standard—were they to feel the actual weight of one man’s eternity, they would realize that a title is not a prize to be sought, but a burden too heavy to be desired. It is a fearsome thing to think the Lord would hold me responsible for even one soul. I can barely carry the weight of my own failures; how could I ever carry a whole congregation? A title is not a trophy; it is a debt. I would much rather be a nameless fool in the street than a titled failure before God.

I am buried under the needs of others while my own soul gasps for air. It is a glory, but only the kind a survivor knows when they are sent back into the storm. I never chose to swim in these waters; I was thrown into them by a Hand most divine I cannot resist. I did not walk into this calling—I was overtaken by it, until my 'self' is drowned and only His message remains.

I stood at the edge of the square, a man completely undone. My hands shook I had to hide them in my pockets to steady myself. I am an uneducated man who stumbles over his own shadow, yet there is a fire in my chest I didn't start—a flame that forces me to speak of things far greater than myself.

Then the accuser whispered: 'Who are you? You are just a broken jar of clay. How can you offer water to the thirsty when you are parched yourself?' He was right. I am unfit. I am just a beggar trying to describe a feast. But the Spirit reminded me: the Master doesn't look for a polished vessel, but a broken one, so the Light can shine through the cracks. It isn't my fullness the thirsty need, but the Water of Life that flows through me, even in my own drought. 

'Who are you?' the accuser asked. 'You are a man with whom God is,' the Spirit replied.

As I stood trembling, a ray of light broke through my shame. It didn’t give me sudden strength or better words; instead, it made me feel smaller than the dust. I realized then: the message doesn't depend on my perfection, but on my obedience. God is with me (Matt 28:20); there is absolutely nothing to fear (Psalms 27:1). I continuously cried aloud until my voice cracked, out of my belly flowed rivers of living water, and the world melted away. Yet the Lord’s yoke pulled at me with steady grace, and I moved. I learned I need not be a giant to do His work; I only need to be a man who, despite his fear, steps into the river because he trusts the One who told him to. I was a picture of weakness, but in that weakness, the burden was light.

On my way home, with the noise of the square still ringing in my ears. I broke down inside and wept, but not out of sadness or regret. I wept because I was completely spent—the quiet sobbing of a broken tool that had been gripped by a Sovereign Hand to do His work. There is a terrifying peace in doing the thing you fear, simply because you love the One who sent you. (1 John 4:18)

I am a weak vessel, a thing of cracks and clay pushed to its limit. Yet, in that straining, the work was finished. I obeyed because I love Him. I am exhausted beyond words, spent in the service of a King who uses the weak to humble the strong (1 Cor 1:27). My flesh is weak, and that is the reality; my 'self' is mighty, and that is the illusion. It is an illusion that God must shatter by compelling me to stand where I would never choose to stand. He breaks the pride of the man to release the power of the Message. In this breaking, the 'must' becomes a mercy, and the 'ought' becomes a song (Ps 40:3).

On the outside, He has given me a burden that required His strength to carry. On the inside, He has graced me with an occasion to praise His name with thanksgiving. I lie down now with the weight of the world gone, replaced by the peace of God. I have been broken by His will, and in that breaking, I find my rest.