I am rendered useless when it comes to loving nearly anything at all, much less the King of all heaven who ransomed my heart and my soul, my life and my mind—but how could one so perfect, so holy and whole, ever desire my affection or need my heart’s embrace? When I think about Jesus—my imperfect, distant, flawed, speculative knowledge of his person and character—all I can think of is how dimly I grasp his goodness. And how utterly ill-equipped I am to respond even to that.
From what I know about Jesus—from what I understand about things I’ve heard other people say, things I’ve experienced and read—what echoes in my soul, the deep calling out to deep, is his utter goodness. He is good. He is rich and holy and wise and smart and playful and sweet and persistent. He is respected and feared but tender and kind. He wants to hear everything I have to say and is never frustrated by or disappointed in me. He gives the best advice and tells the funniest jokes and is the safest company I’ll ever keep. He knows me better than anyone will ever know me, and loves me better than anyone will ever love me.
He is good. He is good. And yet with all this, with all he has saved me from and given me, I have no idea how to love him.
How feeble my attempts seem, and how frequently I fail as I blunder in my affections and selfish, short-sighted grace. All I can do is hold out my hands in the darkness.
Find me. Please find me. You who ransomed my heart and mind, make known to me the path of life. Let me love you. Help me love you.
There is nothing I am less good at than love. I am far better in competition than in love. I am far better at responding to my instincts and ambitions to get ahead and make my mark than I am at figuring out how to love another. I am schooled and trained in acquisitive skills, in getting my own way. And yet I decide, every day, to set aside what I can do best and attempt what I do very clumsily— open myself to the frustrations and failures of loving, daring to believe that failing in love is better than succeeding in pride. (Eugene Peterson)
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