For many of our clients, and for many of us, we know this pain well. Many of our immigrant clients come from countries where they faced brutal oppression and constant danger. Many of them lost loved ones and don’t know if they’ll ever see their families again. They were irreparably harmed, unceremoniously torn out of joint by people with power. What can be said to them? What can possibly be expressed to provide comfort and peace in the midst of such deep travail?

In John 15, Jesus tells his friends to abide in his love. Abide is such a wonderful word, with an aura of luxuriating, waiting-without-a-care, guiltlessly delighting in a lazy front porch conversation on a summer evening, a glass of lemonade in your hand. It is, mostly, inert—but it is a beautiful and wonderful inertness that comes from confidence in the relationship and a deepening of attachment to Jesus, who sacrificed everything for us.

For many of us, Christmas is a wonderful reminder of all of the gifts we already have. Family, stability, support, and vocation. We can rejoice in these things and feel the well of strength rising within us. For many of the Clinic’s clients, many of these blessings may be in jeopardy or simply absent. For isolated ex-offenders, beleaguered immigrants, domestic violence survivors, and homeless teens, it is difficult to even conceptualize joy. But, many do. Many focus on those things that they do have: family, children, their relationship with Jesus, whatever modicum of stability they do have. They hold on to these things and it gives them strength to carry on.

Do you know any “Yes!” people in your life? You know what I’m talking about—the kind of person that’s up for anything, always ready to jump on an opportunity at a moment’s notice. Their idiomatic lexicon is replete with sayings like, “Let’s do it!” and “I’ll try anything once!” and “No regrets!” If you don’t think you have anyone like that in your life, it’s you. For sure.

Sacrifice is an ambiguous concept. But it is not flowery. It is not a dandelion that can be blown any direction we please. Sacrifice is an anchored reality. It is a particular thing that one gives up for some other more beautiful reality. And further, we believe that there was one sacrifice that is the paradigm for all sacrifice; and it happened in the first century in an occupied country to a peasant without a home.

Backward-looking, we sit in awe of the Cross, where cataclysmic injustice was done to justify us. Forward-looking, we set our gaze on the New Heavens and the New Earth, where justice will replace suffering, where peace will replace war, where God will wipe every single tear from our eyes. Christians are people of memory—and we not only remember backwards, but we remember forwards.

What we fear determines what we worship—worship being what we actually do with our thoughts and emotions and body. If I fear being alone, I will do everything in my power to make sure I have companionship. If I fear not having enough money, I will do whatever it takes to make sure I get and keep all that I can. If I fear what people think of me, then I will do whatever it takes to manage my image. We are fearful-beings; we will fear something. The Bible simply tells us to fear God, the only Being worthy of our fear.

But look beyond the humor, look beyond the “human, all too human” side of resolutions and you’ll see something that is precious and thick. We long for something transcendent. We hope for some final resolution of all of our worn-down hopes and teary-eyed dreams. That resolution to lose 15 pounds may be a longing for a new body, one that will never be corrupted or see decay. That resolution to read 12 books may be a longing for a renewed mind that is perceptive and wise. That resolution to treat people better (Lord, help us) may be a longing for people to live in peace with each other, for us to not learn war anymore (Isaiah 2:4).

Hope is humbling. Hope acknowledges that there is something that you need that you don’t currently have. It’s an acknowledgement of a lack. Paul says in Romans 8, “Who hopes for what he already has?” Answer: no one. If you already have it, it’s not hope. It’s called having it. Hope hurts. It’s hard to say that you desire something because intrinsically wrapped up in that desire is the possibility of that desire not being satisfied. And if it’s not, then what? You can’t help but imagine what will happen if your proposal is rejected or if your dream job never calls for an interview. And in the imagining, the hurt begins. This prospective pain makes hope a dicey proposition.

Jesus taught this to his followers in fairly concrete terms. He said if you’re going to invite someone to your fancy soiree, invite the poor and those who can’t pay you back with a return invite (See Luke 14:7-14). And, in a very famous passage in Mark, he says that all “payments” made for the sake of the Kingdom of Heaven will be repaid by God in the end—and then some (See Mark 10:17-31). In the reality of Christ’s kingdom, we are free to be generous and free to receive generosity because we all know where the gift comes from.

At the Clinic, we deal with the legal complexities of suffering in many of its guises. Poverty. Abuse. Betrayal. Relational baggage. Debt. Mental anguish. Homelessness. Death. It’s all there: suffering persistently parading its wares in open mockery of the goodness of God’s creation. And yet, for James, suffering gets turned on its head. Indeed, for the beleaguered, for victims of injustice who cling to vibrant faith in a God who suffered deeply and traumatically, suffering gets transmuted into something beautiful. Suffering becomes redemptive. Death leads to resurrection.

There is rest to be had in ministering to others. As Tim Keller points out, there is a freedom to self-forgetfulness. Serving others, fulfilling others’ needs, actually fills you. But there is a rhythm that’s modeled for us in the Bible. After fashioning everything from nothing, God set aside one entire day for rest. God rested to show that he was God and that His creation was good. When we enter into that rest, we too are renewed by the understanding that God is God and that His creation is good. When I rest, I realize, shockingly, that the world doesn’t depend on my awesomeness in order to continue. It depends on God’s.

And that is what forgiveness is. It is the “and yet” after the laundry list of horribles and rampant disregard of human dignity. Forgiveness is the “and yet” after the trauma of race, gender, or class-based violence is heard and seen for the monstrosity it is. Forgiveness is the cosmic “and yet” of a God shamelessly crucified by a world he came to redeem.

And that’s the paradox of being human. We love freedom—but we use it to enslave. Today’s freedom fighter is tomorrow’s oppressive dictator. We are “bent,” as C.S. Lewis put it, towards destruction and we use our power to take it away from others. Not only do we enslave others, but also we allow ourselves to be enslaved by meager things. I rush around, looking for something else to occupy my time and entertain me and fulfill me and satisfy me. We enslave—we are enslaved.

We all long for home. But, this side of paradise, we all are homeless, restless. St. Augustine famously wrote in his Confessions, “You have made us for yourself, and our hearts are restless until they find their rest in you.” Augustine hit on something profoundly human here. Whether we are homeless or have lived in the same house for forty-seven years, there is a restless striving that is baked into life.

Community is true when it is gritty and glorious; sacrificial and satisfying; when it is a fellowship of “differents” gathered around a shared vision of justice, a shared Savior. But we must come expecting to be poured out, to sacrifice. If I seek fulfillment in community, I will leave empty. If I seek to be emptied for the community, I will find fulfillment.

God gave us emotions. Far too often, we either suppress them or glorify them. Jesus, however, chose a third way: he used them. Jesus sees the crowds, feels their pain in a genuine way, and tends to their needs. Thus, Christ demonstrates how emotions are tools we can use to showcase what the kingdom of God is like: plentiful, healing, restorative, and just.

"Whoever is generous to the poor lends to the Lord, and he will repay him for his deed." -- Proverbs 19:17