07.13.2017
Yesterday, I saw a man overdose on cocaine.
Fall to the ground.
Be resuscitated.
Then, refuse help.
All the while, repeatedly saying “I’m sorry.”
“A sacrifice to God is a broken spirit,
A broken and humble heart, God shall not despise.” [Psalm 50:19]
King David clung to this notion in his darkest moments when he committed both murder and adultery to take Bathsheba as a wife. After being scorned by Nathan, he spiritually contracted inwards to a place of shame, guilt, and maybe even hopelessness. But, he was King David! My point? Even King David needed forgiveness.
Last night, I saw a broken heart. A contrite heart. A heart that didn’t have anywhere else to go. A heart yearning for forgiveness, but confused as to who to attain it from! But, it knew that it was dying… and that it needed Somethingto bring it back.
Excuse me if it seems that I’m unnecessarily inserting an extreme level of drama to communicate the gravitas of the situation, but take a moment to appreciate the pain involved here. Imagine watching a fellow human – no, a brother – laying in a back alley of a North Philadelphia neighborhood unconscious and unresponsive despite a light drizzle slowly seeping through a scant layer of clothes and reaching his cold, clammy flesh. Imagine seeing this with the knowledge of God’s endless Mercy, Grace, and Love. Imagine seeing this with the Hope of God’s covenant deeply embedded in your own soul. Imagine seeing a 35 year old young man – whose sins were forgiven by the blood of Christ – laying in an alley, alone and rejected by man.
To be honest, it’s a hard thing to wrap your mind around, so let me step back to the beginning.
I was standing on the roof of the church compound, talking to my older sister on the phone when I saw a man run, walk, and then stumble to a halt. As he stood there, my mind slowly distanced itself from the telephone conversation and progressively focused in on the inflow and outflow proceeding from the man’s torso as he slowly slumped to the ground. It didn’t take me long to realize the reality of the situation, but it took me several fearful moments to cut the phone call short and sprint inside for help. I burst through the back door, laid eyes on my team, and quickly thanked God for keeping them awake! Then, with a few members of the team, a pair of gloves, and two containers of Narcan, we ran outside to help the man who we would eventually call “35.”
Under a full moon and a light drizzle, the team roused “35” from his stupor by progressively calling out, clapping our hands, and then physically jostling him. Finally, he opened his eyes just enough to see us, clumsily try to shoo us away, and then fall back into an intoxicated stupor. After another succession of noises, we barely roused him enough to again get his eyes back open and propped up against a nearby wall. We asked him if he had been using anything, but he haltingly refused through a few garbled words. Not until he heard for the first time that we had found him unconscious on the side of the road did he truly admit that yes he had been using crack that night and that… he was sorry.
From then on, he concluded every sentence with, “I’m sorry.” Through the high, he spoke about a troubled past, an unsuccessful recovery, and a lost future; each accented with a heartbreaking “I’m sorry.” He spoke about a desire to get better as the ambulance rolled up, and tried to answer all the prompted questions, all the while saying, “I’m sorry.” He got up, walked to the door of the ambulance, looked around at each person involved, and then refused to get in, begging forgiveness with another “I’m sorry.” He then took his hat in his hand, and, with a look of overwhelming guilt, walked away into the damp night mumbling to himself, “I’m sorry.”
We then stood there. Not knowing what to do with ourselves, we prayed for “35.” We prayed for him and his parents, his recovery, and his sense of forgiveness. In those moments, my heart and mind stretched themselves to the Lamentations of Jeremiah,
“Water flowed over my head;
I said, ‘I am rejected.’
I called on Your name, O Lord,
From the lowest pit.”
[Lamentations of Jeremiah 3: 50-51]
In the darkest moments of Israel’s history, Jeremiah lamented the fall of his people and holy city under the hands of the Babylonians. He felt rejected and forsaken by God. However, he realized his own sinful nature, acknowledged God’s wisdom and power, and sought forgiveness for himself and God’s people like King David did for himself:
“For behold, I was conceived in transgressions,
and in sins my mother bore me.
Behold, You love truth;
You showed me the unknown and secret things of your wisdom.”
You shall sprinkle me with hyssop,
and I will be cleansed;
you shall wash me,
and I will be made whiter than snow”
[Psalm 50: 7-9]
On that night, all I saw was a man who seemed to be rejected by God and man – shamed externally and internally as he stood in the lowest pit of sin and corruption. As one of my friend’s said, “this was not what we were meant for.” The thing is, in my lamentation over “35’s” brokenness, I forgot the continuation of Jeremiah’s words:
“You heard my voice;
Do not hide Your ears from my supplication.
You drew near at my call on the day I called upon You.
You said to me, ‘Do not fear.’
O Lord, You pleaded the case for my soul;
You redeemed my life.”
[Lamentations of Jeremiah 3: 52-54]
God heard Jeremiah, he rebuilt the temple through Ezra, and redeemed the Israelites and all of Mankind through Jesus Christ. The story didn’t end in the pit. Neither did “35’s” story end in a back alley of a North Philadelphia neighborhood. God sent us, and I know God will send others to slowly, but surely, bring him back into the body of Christ.
“Do good, O Lord, in your good pleasure to Zion,
And let the walls of Jerusalem be built;” [Psalm 50:
Israel was redeemed. Likewise, I urge you to pray for “35’s” redemption so that he can be rebuilt as Jerusalem was rebuilt.
– Kiro Haroun