“That’s the thing about being alone. It’s not that you feel like you don’t have anybody. It’s like you feel like nobody has you… we can’t even put it into words, but we can feel that.” -Theo Von, Comedian.
I have a love/hate relationship with the quietness of the night.
I love the floating feeling that stirs in my gut and whispers in my ear that all is well: my sons have fallen asleep (presumably in their own beds), and my sweet wife has drifted as well. I am alone, but I have all the evidence in front of me that I am not on my own; those nearest to me are able to be reached if the need arises. I am free to feed my running mind with whatever information I would like: I can pull out a book, or flip on a screen to watch a show or documentary that would incite complaints if my family was awake with me. There are few places more peaceful than my bed, in the dark, with my hand gently placed on my wife’s sleeping back, and my eyes locked on another World War II documentary.
However, I hate the agonizing thoughts that bubble up and boil over when I am stuck, unable to sleep once more. I hate that slightly discolored spot on the ceiling that I stare at, wondering if anyone else has ever survived the loneliness and directionless sinking feeling warring with my intestines. I hate the aged accusations that hide in the crevices of my mind until the sun goes down, and a younger version of me is brought back to the surface. In a moment, I am transported back to the moments I least want to visit: a sensitive child who wonders if anyone notices me, a broken teenager longing for a united family, or a friend who can offer direction to my listless heart and nagging brain. It is at this point that I realize the focal point on the ceiling of my marital bedroom sure resembles the lonely drywall from my teenage years.
I hate the creeping sensation that cloaks all that God has done in my soul. The painful prodding that abandons and subjects me momentarily to the depths of darkness and emotional debris that forced me to my knees before Him in the first place. Although it has since been shown to be untrue by the cross, I hate the feeling that experience had proved: I am alone, and no one would notice if it stayed that way.
Although I have all the evidence to shake it, that spot on my unlit ceiling nags at me on some evenings: “You may now have somebodies, but that does not mean they have you. Just give it time.”
I cannot help but recognize that this same faceless predator chases down those around me. Perhaps you cannot put words to it, but I am certain that this overwhelming hollowness of heart has been seated on your chest. This is what makes loneliness so pernicious, even for followers of Christ. We are given well-meaning phrases and suggestions, but for most of us, this is not an easy image to shake. The path of “nobody has you” is a well-worn trail — a roaring, white-capped river that numbingly hums louder than the true words of hope.
In our baptismal confessions, Christians declare the truth of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection, but that does not sort out all of our false beliefs and the experiences that have made them feel immutably accurate. Like a pair of wired earbuds in a pocket, we exist in a safe place while living in a tangled mess. We are secure, but nonetheless confused and mixed up.
Unfortunately, the painful reality for many of us is that it is true: aside from Jesus, no one has us. And even if we do have people in our corner, the slithering whisper may remain: “They do not have you.”
Jesus once said that He came to offer us life, and “life abundantly” (See John 10:10). John told his audience that Jesus died to extend “eternal life” (See John 3:16). Let me say this in unequivocally clear terms, many of us have all but abandoned belief in these two statements. We have chosen to live life as miserable Christians, acting out our days as if we had been abandoned to ourselves and what the world offers as a remedy.
What is the abundant life? It cannot be storehouses of cars, clothes, money, and other objects of wealth. We instinctively know these possessions melt, rot, rust, and fade. The word translated as “abundant” does not necessarily mean excess. (How telling it is that many of us run to that definition). Life abundant is a phrase that should connote an image beyond what we can attain on our own, it surpasses what we can conceive. The abundant life is outside our conceptions of reality, it seemingly leapfrogs our categories. The standards that we use to measure are obsolete. Like a child asking how many inches away the Sun is, or the number of minutes it would take to walk to China, our logic is entirely incompetent and without the right category. In other words, God’s measuring stick has wildly different markers. Our view of the word “abundant” is not so much the problem, it is our severely limited perspective of what “life” could be.
What is eternal life? Is it solely what is to come? If so, we should take our promise of heaven, hide it in our breast pocket, stock up on canned goods, and huddle together until our life’s light flickers away. The kicker with the word “eternal” that many of us miss is that it does not only point to what is to come. God’s eternality exposes not only that He will forever be, it exposes that He always has been. To be invited into eternal life is not an RSVP event, it is an open door to walk through right now! We can experience the overwhelmingly abundant life at this very moment.
In other words, abundance and eternal, are the Christian’s new experience of life.
“But,” you might be asking, “what’s this got to do with the loneliness of our Comedian friend that you quoted?”
In a world of quick fixes and digital, cyborg friends, the dual feelings of boredom and loneliness are to be avoided like the plague. If we are always entertained, we will grow calloused to the beauty of something that is truly entertaining and challenging. If we are always full of wonderful food, we will begin to devalue the gift of a good meal. If we are always given the facade of a full relational cup, we will never realize what it means to be satisfied by another.
Could it be that God wants us to feel loneliness occasionally?
“‘The Lord is my portion,’ says my soul, ‘therefore I will hope in Him. The Lord is good to those who wait for Him, to the soul who seeks Him. It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord. It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth. Let him sit alone in silence when it is laid on him; let him put his mouth in the dust — there may yet be hope…” - Lamentations 3:24-29
Is it possible to conceive of a new way of seeing the world, where loneliness is a mile marker on the path of following the Way?
It is much easier said than done, but I believe God is calling us to notice what lacks in order to view what is. Brokenness proves the desire for wholeness. Chaos shrieks about the need for order. Lawlessness aches for boundaries. Loneliness gives evidence that there is a greater connection we long for.
At its base, we are all a little lonely. If we dig deeper, we are more than a little disconnected, we are hopelessly longing for something bigger and deeper. Could it be that this ache in our souls, even after we place our fragile life back into the hands of the Creator, is intended to sober us and show us that our disease has a cure? Could it be that each time we feel the cold pain of loneliness, a loving Father is waiting for us to turn around and find our wholeness in Him?
Maybe it is time to run to the One who’s actually got you, whether you realize it or not.