Living Death: Who will die to Heal the Brokenness of others?

In the famous poem "Who Am I" quoted below I am reminded of one fact that is true in every person I meet.  It is a truth that gives me comfort, hope, and the absence of all fear when dealing with all people.  In spite of all the fronting and gaming and projecting that people may give us-- there is a life of brokenness (recognized or not) underneath the surface in all people that we meet. There are questions, doubts, insecurities . . . perhaps walls, fears, anxieties, regrets, real struggles and so much more.  So we hide from community lest we be discovered.  In being discovered is the fear of not being loved and perhaps rejected.  Thus we play the game of life which hopes to convince others that we are better than we really are.

And the cool thing is that this is where the gospel can come in with full force and power. The holidays are upon us now and with that is the reminder that Jesus has come not to break the bruised reed nor to put out the dimly burning candle.  After all, if I am honest that is often what I feel like-- someone on the brink of breaking, a man whose candle seems to be burning dimly and nearly extinguished.  But Jesus came for me and you and others-- to restore, to heal, to brighten our lives.  He died for this. And if we are to see this same healing and brightening in the lives of others we must face the question of Jesus: ARE YOU WILLING TO DIE FOR OTHERS like he did? What Bonhoeffer said is absolutely true: "When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die." It is the only forward for us, for the churches, for the people of God. Who will answer the call with a firm: "Yes, I will die for others around me so that they can be healed?" It is the only way to bring people into an encounter with the resurrected Jesus and His power.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer: Who Am I? (written in Tegel Prison)

Who am I? They often tell me I stepped from my cell's confinement
calmly, cheerfully, firmly
Like a squire from his country-house.
Who am I? They often tell me
I used to speak to my warders
Freely and friendly and clearly,
as though it were mine to command.
Who am I? They also tell me
I bore the days of misfortune
equally, smilingly, proudly
Like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really all that which others tell of?
Or am I only what I myself know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
struggling for breath, as though hands were
compressing my throat
Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness
Tossing in expectation of great events,
powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
faint, and ready to say farewell to it all?

Who am I? This or the other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? a hypocrite before others,
And before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army,
fleeing in disorder from victory already acheived?
Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou Knowest, O God, I am Thine!