love

The gifts of the spirit are meant to be given away

The more I mediate, the more I crave silence. The more I pray, the more I yearn for solitude. The more time I spend in silence and solitude, the more I want to share this experience with others. 

God moves in us in mysterious ways. He changes our hearts and shapes our wills. He draws us ever closer to him, whispering in the quiet spaces, “I love you. come to me.” 

Our job is to listen, to submit to the stillness wherein God resides, for it is there that he is found. This is why “Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed (Mark 1:35, NIV).” But Jesus did not stop there and neither should we. 

Jesus went off in solitude and prayed in silence so that he could hear the Father, but then he returned to his community. As important as it was for him to commune directly with God, it was equally important for him to share God’s word and God’s love with the world. The gifts he received from the Father had to be given away in order for them to mean anything. 

This is the work of faith. We trust God enough to give him our time and our attention. We give him our lives. In turn, he gives us salvation, joy, peace, comfort, and so much more, but he gives us these at a price. 

The price we must pay is that we do not get to keep these gifts to ourselves. We cannot hoard God’s love and his blessings. We must give freely of what we have been given, for to try to keep God’s blessings to ourselves is to lose them. 

In order to maintain and grow in our relationship with God, we must sacrifice our selfish desires, aspirations, and fears at the altar of love. We have to die to our old ways and old attitudes so that we can be reborn in God’s image. God, who is eternally giving himself to us through the very fact of our existence, requires that we, too, give ourselves to others in the same way. 

This was a difficult lesson for me to learn, and I still forget it often. I am not living for me. I gave up my life the day I turned it over to God in prayer many years ago, and I reaffirmed this commitment when I died and was reborn with Jesus in baptism last year. My life belongs to God and to those I would serve by his grace, love, and mercy. 

So when I meditate, I am not meditating for myself. The silence is not my own. I am neither its cause nor am I the final recipient of its blessings. It connects me to my creator so that I may be more conscious, present, and attentive to the needs of others. I am merely a vessel. 

Likewise, when I pray, I am not praying for myself. My prayers are not for me alone. They are to make me more useful to God and to my fellows. The solitude within which I seek God gives me the courage, wisdom, and compassion with which I may go into the world to do God’s work. I am merely a servant. 

Jesus gave his life for me so that I may give my life for him. Whatever peace, inspiration, and comfort I receive through grace in prayer and meditation is a gift not for me to keep, but to pass on to others. I am merely a container to be filled by the spirit that overflows from within me for others to experience God’s loving mercy. 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

Divine mic drop

“‘You are God’s Beloved!’ I hope that you can hear these words as spoken to you with all the tenderness and force that love can hold. My only desire is to make these words reverberate in every corner of your being ‘You are the Beloved…’ The voice that speaks from above and from within whispers softly or declares loudly: ‘You are my Beloved son or daughter, on you my favor rests.’”
-Henri Nouwen, Spiritual Direction: Wisdom for the Long Walk of Faith (2006, p 29)

As I read this during my morning prayers, I found myself thinking about people that I love and praying for them. I sat there in silence wishing that my daughter could hear and know these words as true, that she is God’s beloved. I thought about my wife and wished, in the depth of her being, she could feel these words, that she is God’s beloved daughter and on her his favor rests. Then a friend came to mind and I wished the same for her. This continued as different people for whom I have a special place in my heart popped into my head. 

Right then, mid-thought, a voice cut through all of the prayers, thoughts, and images that were previously running through my mind. This voice said, “You wish this for everyone else, but why can’t you hear it yourself?” Taken aback, I sat there for what felt like an eternity, but was most likely only a few minutes, meditating on this question that went straight to my heart. 

“Am I actually God’s beloved?” I asked myself. “Is that really true? Am I really worthy of his love like that? Why don’t I know it? Why can’t I feel it? What is it in me that is keeping me from accepting this powerful truth that I so freely wish for others? Why do I exclude myself from this miraculous gift? What is it you are holding onto that you believe is preventing you from being worthy of his love and forgiveness?”

In this brief moment of thought and prayer, my life flashed before my mind’s eye and I was shown a deep truth that I had been previously unwilling to see. It’s not that God didn’t love me, but that I was unable or unwilling to accept his love. In wanting others to experience the abundance of God’s grace and mercy, he was able to show me that I was holding myself back from also experiencing it. They are God’s beloved children, but I am also. 

Now what exactly does this mean and how will my life and perspective change after having this realization gently and lovingly forced upon me? I have no idea, but I do know that I am willing to allow God to show me. I am willing to let him love me. I am willing to be loved, to be his beloved. 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

Capacity for love

Early in our relationship, my wife gave me this warning. She said, “Remember, the amount I love you is also the amount I can hate you.” I’ve sat with this statement for years and, the more I’ve thought about it, the deeper the sentiment becomes.

When I’ve told other people this story, I’ve gotten mixed reactions. Some people laugh, others are taken aback, and some people really get it. There’s a deep truth in her words.

Love, as I have come to understand and experience it, is more than just a feeling. It’s a capacity. In other words, there is a space in our hearts which love is intended to fill. The more we love someone, the greater this capacity for love becomes.

But what happens when that person hurts us, leaves us, or passes away? That same capacity for love then becomes filled with other emotions. Our potential for love becomes our potential to feel everything else.

So the amount we love someone is also the amount we can be hurt by them if they betray or abandon us. It’s the amount we can miss them if they leave or if we go away. It’s the amount we can worry about them if they are hurt or sick. It’s also the amount we can grieve for them if they die.

Upon understanding this truth, there is a temptation to protect ourselves by limiting or shutting off our capacity to love. If we don’t open ourselves up to love, we can’t get hurt, after all. But this is a grave mistake because any attempt to limit our capacity to feel pain, anger, or sorrow also limits our capacity to feel love, joy, and pleasure.

While these may all feel like different emotions, they have the same source. Our capacity for love is our capacity for all emotions. If we want to feel love, we get to feel everything. And the amount of love we are capable of feeling is the amount of every other emotion we are capable of feeling also. Love, after all, is a capacity.

When my wife told me the amount she loves me is also the amount she can hate me, she was really telling me, “I’m opening my heart to you. The greater my love grows for you, the stronger my feelings become for you, the more vulnerable I become in the process. By loving you, I am giving you the power to hurt me. Please don’t hurt me. I will feel it deeply. I am entrusting you with my heart. Please be kind.”

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

I’m afraid of losing her

Ever since my daughter was born, I would check on her multiple times each night to make sure she was still breathing. Nearly ten years later and I still do this. If she goes to sleep before me, when I go upstairs, I check on her before I go to bed. If I wake up in the middle of the night, I go in her room to check on her before going back to sleep. If I wake up before her in the morning, I check on her before I go downstairs. 

I’ve often thought about why this I do this. I’m sure it’s partly out of habit. I’ve been doing it for so long that it’s just something I do. But there’s more to it than that. 

Of course, I check on her because I love her. She’s my only child and we are extremely close. She means the world to me and I adore her. But if I’m being honest with myself, that’s only part of why I check on her so often. 

Having reflected on this behavior quite a bit over the years, the thing I keep coming back to is fear. I’m afraid of losing her, of something happening to her in her sleep, and of her dying suddenly with no warning or explanation. I’m afraid of this because, deep down, I still feel like I don’t deserve her. 

My daughter is such an amazing soul. She is thoughtful, compassionate, kind, creative, hardworking, and extremely smart. I’m in awe of her and I have more love for her than I ever thought I was capable of having for another human being. The thought of losing her terrifies me. 

I have done a lot wrong in my life. At times, I have been selfish, careless, and unkind. Especially in my youth, I have done many things that I regret. And while I know that my shortcomings and mistakes do not define who I am, I also know that I have a life better than I deserve, especially when it comes to her. In the back of my mind, and sometimes in the forefront, I am haunted by the thought of losing her as some kind of divine punishment for my pride, anger, and other wrongdoings. 

Sometimes, this fear drives me to be a better father. It motivates me to spend as much time with her as possible, to be as present for her as I am capable of being, to guide her as best I can, and to let her know that I love her often. Other times, it’s just fear. It results in worry, anxiety, and restless nights. 

The thing is that I know that God loves me and forgives me for my past mistakes. I have confessed them to him and another person, and I have tried to right my wrongs to the best of my ability. I also know, however, that what’s done is done and I cannot change the past. I have to live with my mistakes. 

I’m not sure why I’m writing all of this other than that I needed to get it out. I needed to acknowledge it and put it “on paper” so to speak. Perhaps I wonder if other fathers have the same feelings toward their children, a feeling of absolute unworthiness for the unfathomable miracle that they are. Maybe this is my way of reaching out for connection with those who feel the same way that I do, or maybe someone else needs to know that they are not alone. 

What I am sure of, however, is that God is loving and merciful, so loving in fact that he sacrificed his own son to pay for my sins. For me to continue to wallow in grief and remorse is almost ungrateful, almost a denial of that gift, and it certainly does not make me more useful to God or the people around me. My fear is a subtle way of rejecting God’s grace. 

Perhaps that’s what this is all about. Maybe, through the deep and unexplainable feelings I have for my daughter, God is showing me how much he loves me. I might be making too much out of nothing, but it doesn’t feel like nothing to me. It feels like everything and, as I check on her this evening and kiss her goodnight, I will do so as a form of prayer. 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

The heartache of the spiritual path

The spiritual life does not save us from heartache or suffering. It opens us up to experience life more fully. By choosing to live with an open heart, we are choosing both joy and sadness, pleasure and pain, connection and heartbreak. We get it all. 

Whether we know it or not, when we step onto the spiritual path, we are making a decision to feel everything, to experience everything. As a spiritual director once told me, “Unfortunately, we do not get to selectively numb. We can feel everything or nothing.” Openness is a package deal.

But it’s hard. Living with an open heart is hard. Love is hard. People we care about pass away, some betray or abandon us, and others disappoint us and let us down. And, in spite of this, we have to keep going. 

People who were on the path before us, who once led, guided, and accompanied us, they sometimes fall off or walk away, or they may simply stop seeking. They stop growing. Likewise, people we entered onto this journey along side, or met along the way, may not stay with us for the long haul. We are lucky if they do, but chances are they won’t. 

Quite often what feels like a parallel path of lifelong companionship turns out to be only a brief meeting at a crossroads. Even the deepest connections, connections that feel eternal, may not last but a moment before we are pulled by God or self in different directions. And parting hurts. 

If we are dedicated to this path, however, if we have chosen to love and seek God above all else, we must keep going. For those of us who long so deeply for divine connection with the infinite and eternal source of all things that nothing else will suffice, we must continue on the path even, or perhaps especially, when it gets lonely. We must walk in faith with our broken hearts toward the one who heals all wounds. 

But it’s not going to be easy. Easy was never the promise anyway. It’s going to be real. It’s going to be true. It’s going to be meaningful. It’s going to be rewarding. It’s going to be fulfilling. But it’s not going to be easy. 

This hardened world will break our fragile hearts, but as the late Leonard Cohen said, “That’s how the light gets in.” 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

Don’t touch the stove

A manager of mine once told me that managing people is a lot like raising children. At the time, I didn’t have any children, but he was a good, sincere man and a very important mentor for me, so I took his word for it. He explained that, while many employees would be great and should be treated accordingly, there would always be people who would test the limits of my patience and kindness. 

“Some people are going to see how far they can go before getting in trouble,” he explained. “They are like a child reaching out to touch a hot stove. At first, you say in a stern, but kind way, ‘Please don’t touch the stove. It’s hot. It will burn you.’ But they keep reaching for the stove. So now your tone changes, becoming harsher, ‘I said don’t touch the stove. It’s hot. It will burn you.’ But their hand gets closer still. Now, you are getting frustrated because your attempts to be kind are being ignored. ‘Hey!’ you exclaim, ‘I told you not to touch the stove! You’re going to get burned!’ In spite of this, they just keep reaching for it. Finally, you realize that you are wasting your breath. You have done and said everything you can to help them, but they simply will not be helped. Discouraged and annoyed, you say, ‘Fine. Touch the stove. See what happens, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.'” 

Not only was he right that some employees are just this stubborn and defiant, but he was also right that parenting is also like this from time to time. Some people simply need to learn the hard way. They need to get burned before they will believe the stove is hot. For whatever reason, they are unwilling or unable to learn from the mistakes of others. They have to touch the stove themselves. 

Unfortunately, all too often, I’m “some people.” In an attempt to guide me in the right direction and to save me from unnecessary suffering, God gives me all sorts of warning signs. Like a loving father raising a stubborn child, he tries to teach me how to live a good life, but I resist, insisting that I can do things my way. He tells me that my ways are flawed, to trust him, and that he will not lead me astray, but my pride and selfishness frequently stop me from hearing him. 

I keep pushing until he finally says, “Fine. Touch the stove. See what happens, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Inevitably, I get burned and then turn to him for help. And like a loving father, he is always there to comfort and teach me when I am willing to listen, even if sometimes he lets me feel the pain I caused myself a little longer than I would like. 

God does not save us from the consequences of our actions. We have to live with them. That is our cross to bear. He does love us enough, however, to try to warn us before we choose poorly, but we don’t always listen. So often, we exercise our free will by pushing the boundaries of his grace and breaking his heart. And yet, if we repent, if we turn back to God, we will be forgiven and welcomed home like a runaway child because he wants nothing more than for us to choose him like he has chosen us. 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

The vessel matters

One of my wife and my favorite things to eat on a cold, winter day is a Korean stew called gamja-tang. Gamja-tang is a spicy potato and pork neck-bone stew cooked and served in a hot stone bowl. The pork neck-meat is tender and succulent, the potato is soft and creamy, and the broth is spicy, rich, and full of umami.

Ever since we first got married, one of our weekend rituals, especially during the colder months, has been to go to the Korean market for groceries, and to get gamja-tang and sushi for lunch. Over the years, the markets we go to have changed, and, as our life together has gotten more full, the frequency we go on these dates has become more sparse, but even after fifteen years, groceries and gamja-tang remains one of our favorite ways to get away and spend time together.

Most often, we prefer to sit down and eat together in the little food court of the grocery store. However, there have been occasions when, for one reason or another, we took our food to go. But whenever we have gotten takeout, the soup never tastes the same and we cannot figure out why.

The gamja-tang we take home looks exactly the same as the gamja-tang we eat in the restaurant. It has the same ingredients and the quantities are the same. The taste, however, is different. It’s less rich, less flavorsome, and lacks that unami deliciousness it has when we eat it on-site. The best we can figure, the bowl the stew is served in is what makes the difference between the eat-in and the takeout versions.

When gamja-tang is cooked, it’s cooked directly over the fire in a stone bowl. This bowl is then placed on a small, stone platter and served to customers in the same vessel it was cooked in. When gamja-tang is ordered to-go, however, the stew is transferred out of the bowl it was cooked in and into a plastic takeout container. Since the only real difference between eating gamja-tang in the food court and eating it at home is the container it is served in, we have to assume that this is the cause for the noticeable difference in flavor.

In my many years spent as a coffee drinker, barista, and espresso machine repair technician, I have observed this same phenomenon with coffee. When coffee is served in a ceramic cup, it tastes different than when it is served in a glass, paper, or plastic cup. I don’t know why, but it just does. Apparently, the vessel matters.

The same principle seems to apply to us. As much as we don’t want it to be the case, and as unfair as it may seem, how we present ourselves, how we dress, groom, and carry ourselves, plays a large role in how we are perceived and received by the world. This is especially true when we are trying to carry a message to others.

We all want to be loved and accepted as we are and for who we are, but there is only one who has ever truly loved us unconditionally in this way. That one is God, the God who knew us before he formed us in the womb (Jeremiah 1:5), the God to whom nothing is hidden (Hebrews 4:13), and the God to whom we will return to answer for our lives in death (Romans 14:10-12). This same God who knows us better than we know ourselves (Psalm 139:1-4) also loves us beyond our comprehension or deserving (Romans 5:6-8).

God loves us for who we are, but everyone else has conditions and expectations. For this reason, how we present ourselves matters. The container matters. Our outward appearance doesn’t define us or make us any more or less loved by God, for God’s love is perfect, but whether we like it or not, it does affect how we are perceived and received by the world. Much like Korean stew or espresso, changing the container changes perception. So if we want to be taken seriously, if we want our message to be heard, we have to look like we are serious and deserve to be listened to.

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

Invest in spiritual tools

When I was a teenager, my father told me something like, “Invest in quality tools. If you buy cheap tools, they will break. Then, you’ll be buying them twice, the first time when you buy the cheap tools and the second time when you buy the expensive tools to replace the broken cheap tools.” Needless to say, I didn’t listen. For as long as I can remember, defiance against authority has plagued my decision making, even when it means self-sabotage. 

Many years later, I was in the middle of a project for work in the city and I realized that I didn’t have a flat-head screwdriver. So I made a quick run to the store. But there are not many hardware or tool stores in the city, so I stopped at the closest place I could find, which happened to be some sort of dollar store. 

Hesitant but in a hurry, I grabbed a screwdriver and checked out with the cashier. All the while, I thought to myself, “This thing is cheap, but it’s a screwdriver. What could go wrong? It’s not the best screwdriver, but it will get the job done. How could they mess up a screwdriver?” I wasn’t convinced, but I was trying to keep my spirits up. 

I made my way back to the job-site and put the screwdriver in the screw-head. As I attempted to turn the screw, the entire tip of the screwdriver broke off in the slot. I immediately thought back to my father’s warning about buying cheap tools and my head fell in shame and frustration. 

As much as I wanted to be angry at the manufacturer, the store I bought it from, or even the screwdriver itself, I knew that this was my fault and I couldn’t blame anyone else. After all, the signs were there – my father had warned me, I knew it was a dollar store, and my spidey-sense was tingling, even if I tried to shut it up – I just chose to ignore them.

More important than the dollar and some change that I spent on a screwdriver that couldn’t drive screws, I had just wasted an hour of my life and the job still wasn’t done. So I found a hardware store, bought a decent screwdriver, and went back to the job-site to finish what I’d started. It’s been several years since this happened, but both the lesson and the image of that broken screwdriver are burned into my memory.

I recently recounted this story to a friend when we were talking about how fortunate we are to have a set of spiritual tools with which to navigate our lives and through which to solve the problems we face. This wasn’t always the case and I’m beyond grateful that, through God’s grace, I have been given a new lease on life. I spent many years trying to manage with a set of cheap, broken, or non-existent tools. 

It wasn’t until I hit a spiritual, emotional, and psychological bottom that I was able to admit that what I was doing wasn’t working – that I was using a broken screwdriver – and I had no idea where to go or who to ask for help. But “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit (Psalm 34:18 NIV)” and, through the kindness of people in my life who loved me, as well as the help countless generous strangers, God heard my cries and delivered me out of my suffering. 

It’s been many years since I made the decision to turn my will and life over to the care of God and more recently Jesus Christ, but I now have an entirely different outlook on life and an entirely new set of tools with which to work. Of course, I still make poor decisions rather frequently, whether out of obstinance, impatience, or ignorance, but I now know that in God’s word and in his grace, there is an infinite store of wisdom, love, and peace at my disposal if only I am willing to trust him and not settle for cheap tools that don’t work anyway. 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

Snowmen aren’t forever

As we were coming home this evening after a long day of church and youth wrestling, my daughter and I noticed that the snowman she built earlier this week had started to melt. It still has its general shape and the sticks she used for arms are still there, but it is a smaller, less distinguished version of itself, and its holly-leaf eyes and nose are gone. “Awww,” she said, “My snowman is melting. I worked so hard on him.” 

“Sadly dear, nothing in this world lasts forever,” I told her, “So we have to appreciate them while they are here.” “But daddy,” she replied, “I saw a sign the other day that said, ‘Presidents are temporary. Wu-Tang is forever.'” I grew up listening to the hip hop group Wu-Tang Clan so I couldn’t help but to laugh when I heard this.

“That’s just hyperbole, dear,” I said, “Wu-Tang is not really forever any more than your snowman is.” “What’s hyperbole?” she asked. “It’s an exaggeration,” I told her, “but its an exaggeration not meant to be taken seriously. It’s a joke. Wu-Tang Clan has been making music for over thirty years, but, like your snowman, they aren’t forever. Only God is forever.” 

Now, I realize that this is too much for a nine-year-old to fully comprehend. Honestly, the concepts of transience and eternity are too much for any of us to fully comprehend. However, I don’t think it’s a conversation that should be avoided. Our time here is extremely short and our time with our children is even shorter. What good does it do to withhold the most important conversations about the most important subjects from them? 

Of course, I want my daughter to enjoy her childhood and to be a kid for as long as she can be a kid, but I also want her to know that there is more to life than simply what she sees and feels. My hope is that, by understanding just how impermanent her snowman, or Wu-Tang Clan, is, that she appreciates it even more while it lasts. 

Her experience of building that particular snowman in that particular moment was truly one of a kind. It never happened before and will never happen again. Her sadness in seeing it melt is real and it should be acknowledged as such. If she cared about what she created, of course there is some grief in its passing, even if it is just a snowman. This sense of loss is real and it will not be the last time she experiences it. 

But I don’t think God created this world of impermanence simply for us to exist in a perpetual state of sadness, grief, and loss. Rather, the fact that we live in an ever-changing world where everything that is born eventually dies and everything that is built eventually crumbles should make us appreciate the preciousness of each and every moment, experience, and interaction as the amazing gift that it is. Furthermore, this experience of impermanence calls us to go deeper, to seek or settle into that which does not change, does not die, and does not pass away (Malachi 3:6). 

Like my daughter’s snowman, “Everything around us is going to melt away, (2 Peter 3:11).” So our task, it seems, is to cherish our time here as much as possible without clinging to it. As St. Francis of Assisi said, we are to “wear this world like a loose garment.” But we are called to do so while loving so deeply that, through our example, others may also come to know the constancy of God’s eternity through Christ Jesus (John 13:34-35). 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox. 

Be right or be free

During the recent snowstorm we had, my wife unknowingly parked in a parking space that someone else had shoveled out for herself. By the time she parked there, almost every parking space in our complex had been cleared out, so it seemed harmless to take whatever space was available. But when she returned to her car, there was an angry note on her windshield. 

The note read something like, “I don’t appreciate you parking in the parking space that I shoveled out for myself. I had to get surgery and was counting on being able to park in that space when I got back. That’s why I put the orange cone there.” 

The problem is that, when my wife parked there, there was no orange cone. It was simply one of many empty parking spaces. She also had no way of knowing that the person who shoveled it out was having surgery. Nor was this an assigned or handicapped parking space. It was truly an innocent misunderstanding, but this misunderstanding created an unfortunate chain reaction.

Anger is a funny thing. It often seems as if it’s contagious. For example, my wife unknowingly parked in a parking space that another woman believed belonged to her. The woman got angry and left an inflammatory note on my wife’s car. When my wife read the note, she got angry. Feeling she was unjustly criticized, I then got angry on my wife’s behalf. But I soon began to see the absurdity of all of this anger over a parking space. 

As I sat with this thought for a while, it occurred to me that resentment is really a distraction. In fact, it’s a deadly distraction in that it separates us from God. It prevents us from looking to him for guidance and listening for his quiet voice. Resentment convinces us that our feelings are more important what Jesus’s says is the greatest commandments of all, which is to love God with all of our heart, soul, and mind, and to love our neighbors as ourselves (Matthew 22:36-40 NIV). To willfully hold onto a resentment is to defy God himself. 

And so we have a decision to make. We can either be angry or we can be obedient. We can hold onto resentments or we can make room in our hearts to hear God’s voice. We can be right, at least in our own minds, or we can forgive and be free. As it says in the book of Matthew 6:14-15, if we forgive others, God will forgive us, but if we choose not to forgive, we will also not be forgiven. A heart filled with anger has no room for love and, since we are told that God is love, that means that a heart filled with anger has no room for God (1 John 4:8). 

Robert Van Valkenburgh
Grappling With Divinity

To read my poetry and shorter writing, please visit Meditations of a Gentle Warrior and subscribe to receive my daily meditations in your inbox.