Lauren Kooistra: The Giant Surrender

On Friday evening, I found myself relaxing in a giant rocking chair, with a giant sandwich in my hands, and this giant sun setting before my very eyes. My roommate Sara and I had made our way out to the rambling house that houses our church's offices, set high on a hill, overlooking the valley that is State College. We sat on the porch, to spend some time together, to tell each other what had been on our hearts and minds in these recent days, and to pray about it all. Our friend Katy joined us as the sun sank lower, and together we dwelt in peace.

The fact that peace defined our night is evidence of our giant God, because the things that are on our hearts and minds are large, and looming. They are the kinds of things that we--in our humanness--have no idea what to do with. But we came to this place, expecting peace, because we know Whom it is that we came to seek. And so, we prayed. And so, we dwelt.

Somewhere throughout the evening, someone brought something up that reminded me of something I'd been thinking of recently, and our conversation turned to the topic of:

Surrender.

An ugly word? No! Because here's what I've been thinking:

There is a difference between surrendering, and giving up.

When you give up, you have no more resources. You put down everything you've been trying so hard to keep together and--if you're lucky--you walk away. Your efforts, wasted. Your trials, for naught. Your future, tainted by the memory. Even worse, there could be no future; giving up, in certain cases, means certain death. You step off the edge, you crash the plane, you walk into the deep water and let yourself go.

But when you surrender, you turn toward the force putting pressure on you, and you say: Please.

And you give that force authority over you.

Now, depending on who you surrender to, you might find yourself in a sticky situation. The thought of it doesn't make sense, because surrender can also mean certain death. It's why you try so hard, it's why you fight as long as you can.

But here's the essence of surrender: You're asking for a re-do, you're asking for your rebellion to be forgotten. You're taking the chance that someone will have mercy on you, and that you'll make it out alive. It's your only hope, and hope is not something you're willing to give up.

Giving up means: I have no more hope. But when you surrender, something inside of you says: I am not ok with that.

Surrender is the last possible fight. It's the one last shot, the recognition that you need some help, if you're going to survive.

It is the giant paradox that says: I'll give myself up, in order to save myself.

And it's the giant paradox that means: In order to save myself, I have to let you save me. On your terms.

You're my only hope.

As Sara and Katy and I reflected on the places God is asking us to surrender to Him in, we realized that it goes against our nature. It reminds us that we are not enough, that we don't have it as together as we'd like to think we do.

We realized that surrender to this giant God feels terrifying, because with a blast of breath from His nostrils, He can destroy everything we hold dear.

But, we reminded each other: this Giant, Terrifying, Holy God is also the One who Loves us. And He can see how those things that we hold dear are the things that are destroying us. And He's calling us, in the deep places of our hearts, with the deep reality of His:

I want to set you free.

And so, together we affirmed: You are our only hope, and we surrender, to You.