Hedgehog mode

I remember my first experience with a baby hedgehog. My friend deposited a trembling, warm little creature into my hands, tiny feet pressing into my palms. I couldn’t stop smiling. I just stared down at the quivering mess of coffee-colored velcro—er, spiny fur—while the owner whispered to it and gently tried to smooth down its spines. Finally, a teeny pink nose peeked out. Hedgies had faces!? Sniffing out the excitement of this new skin-colored bean chair, it forgot itself and even let out a little grunt of happiness. And then I forgot myself and said something back; something generic like “It’s so cute,” which apparently sounded deadly enough to put up the sheath of terror. No more privileged glimpses of the real hedgehog tucked inside that prickly shell.

All too often, I find myself in hedgehog mode. Not necessarily because of the way I waddle to class on a -25 F morning or because of the static electricity hitchhiking via my hair. Rather, it’s because I want to hide. Life is full of unknowns and detours, joys and disappointments. It’s risky.

There is perhaps nothing more risky than love. The deeper the love, the deeper the risk.  Years ago, when I was crushed by the loss of a dear friend, I remember my dad musing, “You can’t love without pain. But without love, what do you have?” His words have stuck because I’ve watched him live them time and time again. It takes courage to risk being transparent with someone who might not like what they see. It takes courage to sacrifice time, energy, and emotion on people who probably won’t notice. It takes courage to tell someone the truth they desperately need to hear when they might hate you for it. Is it worth the risk?

God saw a risk once. He willingly gave up his blameless son to redeem lost, fallen people—people who may or may not respond to Him. Maybe it started even earlier, in the beginnings of time, when He decided to create mankind with volition—the ability to choose to honor God and enjoy everything He had blessed them with, or deliberately rebel and fracture that harmonious relationship. That was risky. But without that risk, love would be robotic and meaningless.

Jesus Christ saw the risk when He became a man, God incarnate living among men, who “knew no sin.” God “made Him to be sin on our behalf” (2 Cor. 5:21). God “demonstrated His love while we were yet sinners, in that Christ died for us” (Rom.5:8). Notice the objects of that love: we. The “yet sinners.” In case we forget, by God’s standards, we aren’t “good” people. We are selfish to the core, and given the right circumstances, are capable of incredible hate. Just look at the recent conflicts of the Ferguson riots or the ISIS fighters in the Middle East.

You can fight that reality, that you have “fallen short” (Rom. 3:23) with your whole being—but then you will never appreciate the fullness of God’s love. We find “redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of His grace” (Eph. 1:7) Grace is not only God giving us something we don’t deserve, but especially when we deserve the opposite. Without accepting that “the wages (fair payment) of sin is death (separation from God who created you),” you will never accept the amazing second half of that verse: “the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ” (Rom. 6:23). It’s a gift, and it’s free to you to take by faith—because it cost someone else His life (see Eph. 2:2-9).

Think about that. Would you spend money on a gift for someone who hated you? Or for someone who might not accept the gift because they’d rather pay for it themselves? How about for someone who will accept the gift but then put it on the shelf to collect dust, and then never even think to thank you? Jesus risked everything. He gave up His life so He could offer us the gift of eternal life and restored relationship with God (2 Tim. 2:5).

If that kind of risk defines true love, well, it doesn’t sound like what I heard a well-meaning adult explained to four-year-old Sunday school children once: “Love is when you feel warm and fuzzy toward someone.” I’m pretty sure Jesus didn’t feel “warm and fuzzy” suffering on a cross. His kind of love is mind-blowing. It “casts out fear” (1 John 4:18). And it’s been “poured into our [believers in Christ’s] hearts by the Holy Spirit” (Rom. 5:8).

Wait a minute. I have that love poured into my heart somewhere? I’m the baby hedgehog in this picture, God. I don’t like pain. I’d rather put up spiny sheaths and not talk to people and not reach out…

…and be miserable. Stuck inside a dark cocoon, never experiencing the joy that could come from loving.

I read these beautiful words today: “The only way to stop your heart from breaking is to stop your heart from loving. You always get to choose: either a hard heart or a broken heart. A broken heart is really an abundant heart — all those many beautiful pieces only evidence of an abundant life.” – Ann Voscamp