Loneliness

 I believe in the Kingdom come

Then all the colors will bleed into one, bleed into one
But yes, I’m still running.
You broke the bonds and you loosed the chains
You carried the cross of my shame, of my shame
You know I believe it
But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.
- U2, “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For”

How much do you relate to these lyrics? A little or a lot?

Scott Sauls

In certain seasons over the years, one of my prayers has been for consistent, uninterrupted sleep. Many nights, I have found myself awake, sometimes wrestling with preoccupations, self-doubt, dissatisfaction, unmet expectations, unrealized dreams, the pressure I put on myself, or the pressure I fear others will put on me. I have struggled with the burdens of the day behind me and the day ahead, and the sense that my work will never feel satisfactory or complete.

In other words, I have wrestled with the unique calling of leadership—a calling that is both a great privilege and a burden that must sometimes be carried alone.

The world is quiet in the middle of the night, free from the usual distractions of checklists, schedules, deadlines, calls, interruptions, screens, and handheld devices. In that quiet, our unsettled feelings about work can surface, but it can also expose an unsettledness regarding God.

For many of us, God’s presence is most palpable when the world is quiet. But His presence doesn’t always feel comforting. Sometimes, thinking about God in the middle of the night is disorienting and disruptive. Few things are as sobering as His presence, reminding us that we are not yet who we are meant to be.

That we fall short of the mark.

That we are smaller than we’d like to believe, or so it seems.

That one hundred years from now, our names will be forgotten by the weary world in which we now live. When we die, the world will move on. The work we’ve done—including my own sermons, books, and this blog—will be mostly, if not entirely, forgotten. In all likelihood, not even our great-great-grandchildren will know our names or care about what we accomplished.

It’s no wonder that our eternal hearts make noise in our current, temporal state. It’s no wonder our lives can feel like a paradox of comfort and accusation, inner rest and restlessness, the enjoyment of God’s grace, and shame over our lack of grace toward others.

As a leader, it’s not unusual to experience both momentum and failure at the same time. In the stillness of the night, God can be our refuge, while darkness feels like a constant companion. In that quiet, our buried anxieties, worries, guilt, and self-doubt often come to the surface. And if we’re honest, the words of Jesus don’t always bring the comfort they’re meant to. More precisely, our hearts sometimes struggle to fully accept the words He freely offers to all who believe and receive them:

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30)

Sometimes, it feels hard, and the burden heavy. The only thing standing between our hearts and His easy yoke and light burden is our own cluttered inner world. But none of us is alone in this struggle.

One of the privileges I’ve enjoyed as a pastor in Nashville is serving as a chaplain to several musicians and bands. Many times backstage, I’ve had the honor of offering a short teaching and prayer for a handful of artists at Nashville’s historic Ryman Auditorium, as well as Bridgestone Arena and the Grand Ole Opry. This experience includes interacting with the artists backstage.

On one such occasion, I was drawn into a lengthy conversation with a woman whose name and music most would recognize. This artist has enjoyed—and apparently also suffered from—being a celebrated figure, a leader, and an influencer for over a decade. As we talked, I asked her what it was like to have such a large platform, so many adoring fans, and so much opportunity to influence others. She paused, then said:

“Do you really want to know what it’s like to be me? Can I answer you honestly? Okay then, here goes. Night after night, I fill arenas and stadiums. Night after night, I have thousands of adoring fans eating out of the palm of my hand. In just five minutes, I will step out on the historic Ryman stage and relive this experience once again, and again tomorrow in another auditorium in another city, and again the next night, and the night after that. And from the moment I step foot on the stage until I walk backstage again, I am the loneliest person in the room.”

Her honest response highlighted the truth that our hearts will stay restless until they find rest in Jesus Christ. As C.S. Lewis’s Christ-like character, Aslan, said, “There is no other stream.” No amount of applause, praise, bonuses, or recognition from others will fill the void or give us what we’re truly searching for.

Only the strong, compassionate, and authoritative voice of God can bring us to that place. And that voice—His voice—has spoken.

On His way to the cross, Jesus let go of His grip on the Father and prayed, “Not my will, but Yours be done,” allowing the Father to hold onto us forever.

On the cross, Jesus stepped outside the Father’s blessing and took on a curse, so that we, who have lived under a curse all our lives, could be forever protected and sheltered by the Father’s blessing.

Jesus, the firstborn of all creation, surrendered His birthright on the cross so that He could give it to us.

In that birthright, we can finally find what we’ve always been looking for.