The Soul Felt its Worth
Long lay the world in sin and error pining
Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth
I was thinking about the lyrics to the Christmas carol O Holy Night today, specifically the lyric “the soul felt its worth.” As a counselor, it is one of the most common struggles I encounter – clients who don’t feel their worth. I get it. I have experienced the same struggle. It’s a struggle that can be especially poignant at this time of year as our family celebrations, focus on things, and Hallmark “everything works out in the end” movies can intensify loneliness and the sense that life just hasn’t turned out the way we dreamed of – and when it hasn’t, what do I believe that says about me? So what can help someone feel his or her worth? According to this song, it is the appearing of Christ. Why would that be? How does a baby in a manger help me see my worth?
There’s a school of theological thought that would jump right to the idea that if Jesus would die for me, I must have worth. That’s not completely wrong, but it’s also not weighty enough to push through the fog of depression. It’s one of those Christian phrases that will sound trite to the person fighting to turn off years of emotional and physical abuse that has seared into their conscious the belief that they don’t have worth.
In order to really understand how Jesus’ appearing names our worth we need to look beyond the sweet nativity sets, the Sunday morning children’s Christmas programs, the twinkle lights, and the peppermint mochas at Starbucks. Do we understand what really happened that first Christmas?
And a great sign appeared in heaven: a woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet, and on her head a crown of twelve stars. She was pregnant and was crying out in birth pains and the agony of giving birth. And another sign appeared in heaven: behold, a great red dragon, with seven heads and ten horns, and on his heads seven diadems…And the dragon stood before the woman who was about to give birth, so that when she bore her child he might devour it. She gave birth to a male child, one who is to rule all the nations with a rod of iron… (Revelation 12:1-5)
That first Christmas was the invasion of a Kingdom, and it was opposed. There was war, and it was my heart that was fought for. That baby born in a manger is a King who staged a daring rescue of me. Let that sink in for a moment, because it is true of you also. My heart was fought for. I have been rescued. That King rescued me from the dominion of darkness and brought me into a Kingdom (Colossians 1:13). Not so that I could be His servant, or because He had to, or because He pitied me, but so that I could be a beloved daughter. He wanted to. And as a beloved daughter I belong. I belong in this family, and I belong in this Kingdom. Is not belonging the central aspect of feeling one’s worth?
I don’t come by this sense of belonging because of what I do, my creeds or church membership, or how well others around me accept and include me, although the latter certainly helps strengthen my sense of belonging (and so as the Church we should give careful consideration to this). I know I belong when I experience my King as real, as Immanuel, as near. I experience Him when I choose to walk in Kingdom reality instead of sight reality. CS Lewis said that we have never met a mere mortal, that there is a reality to the people we interact with daily that far exceeds what we see with our eyes. There is a larger story to be awed by, if we can lift our eyes out of our small stories. As our sight reality assaults us daily with relational struggles, mental health struggles, financial struggles, sickness and death struggles, can we see our immense privilege as rescued children of the King and relationally experience our King as loving and good and King over it all?
That’s the King who rescued me. That’s the King who calls me His Beloved. That’s the King who calls me to join with Him and eventually reign with Him as He establishes a Kingdom. When I look at my King, my soul feels it’s worth, no matter what the dominion of darkness tries to tell me.