Nothing in my hands I bring.
It’s a line from an old hymn, and a refrain that periodically echoes through my imagination. Any Christian could tell you it describes a core element of our theology, that salvation is not earned, but is a grace freely given. But true as this may be as a matter of doctrine, as a matter of practice this lovely idea wars with the implicit assumption most of my life makes: that I in fact bring quite a lot.
This assumption breaks the surface now and again, when I notice stabbing resentment at someone else’s success where I struggle, or when someone is praised while I am overlooked. The pang of loss, distinct from mere disappointment, suggests I believe I am entitled to something more, that I have in fact brought something of such value that I ought to be rewarded for it. One can be a ‘saved by grace’ Christian and still be quite convinced of the merit he or she is accumulating through her good Christian work, fueled, perhaps unconsciously, by a belief your good work means you deserve some particular outcome—as evidenced by the anger or even shattering of faith when the outcome doesn’t materialize. Or one can use holy words themselves as tactical tools, religious or moral or charitable success as an acceptable arena to prove one’s self, to possess, accumulate, dominate. I mean this as a confession, not an accusation.
Yet this line resounds in the cavernous space of my interior, calling me with a simple beauty of resistance: nothing in my hands I bring.
Why would I want to meditate on such an idea? Is it true? Even if it were, why would it be a good thing, and not something to change or hide or fake away?
In parallel with this line, not exactly accompanying it, is an image I periodically find myself picturing, not consciously imagining or dwelling on, but one that seems to briefly shimmer then dissolve when I settle into internal quiet, when I try to pray.
This image is of me—not the physical embodied me, at least not all of me, but the sense of me. An arm reaches upward, and an arm—not mine, but God’s, not a physical embodied picture of God, not the whole of God, but the sense, the idea, the impression of God—reaches down, clasping my outstretched hand.
This image is a metaphorical representation of my awareness of my need, my increasingly vivid knowledge of my dependency as I navigate uncertainty as a constant companion, outside of the (false) sense of security a salary affords. I have known my need in new ways over the past few years, and with it, known increased desire for not only the help God offers, but on some level, with whatever strength I can muster, for God.
So I marshal whatever strength I can and cling to God. My arm stretches up. My hand holds the lifeline fast.
But over time the image has expanded, suggested new possibilities. What happens if I cannot hold tightly enough, cannot muster the ongoing awareness of my need when times are flush, cannot keep up the reach when I grow tired? What happens if my hand loses its grip on the hand holding mine?
I experiment with the image: fingers uncurl from the iron grip, fist unclenches.
Yet I remain held fast.
As I release my clenched hold, I am surprised to find the hand reaching out for me is not dependent on the strength of my grip. I remain held when I cannot hold on.
In this image, only one of my arms stretches up. Where is the other? I imagine a landscape materializing around the image, a sheer rock face, my other arm grasping some handhold cleaved from the cliff. Mostly I cannot see what it is holding to, but I sense it is reaching for something—something other than the God-ward hand stretching up. I think this hand is trying to protect me, it holds tightly to something that feels secure to keep my safe. But what if by keeping me attached to something else, it is pulling me away from the hand of God reaching out to me, holding my outstretched arm? What if my attempts to stay secure are creating the tension that makes it harder to be held by God?
I imagine letting go of whatever the other hand is holding to. It feels terrifying. Are my feet secure, at least? Do I dare dangle from this one outstretched hand, beyond my control or comprehension, whose grip on me is distinct from whatever sense of grip I manage towards it? Is letting go any different from falling? Even in my imagination, it feels impossible. I understand the hand of God holding me as true safety, but the cost of accepting it is letting go of the manufactured safety I can manage with my body pulled in tension toward some other handhold. The only way to relax into what is on offer is to bring nothing in my hands.
Anthony Bloom, an Orthodox Archbishop whose life (Russian émigré, atheist convert, medical doctor and member of French resistance in WWII) brings practical credibility to his profound spiritual writing, says in his devotional classic Beginning to Pray that to pray means to be a searcher, to know there is always more than we already possess. It is our very sense of ‘possessing’ that impoverishes us, he argues, keeping us from the richness and freedom of the kingdom of God and all its beauty, truth and glory. “We must long for the true riches of the Kingdom, being careful not to be beguiled by what we already possess so that we turn away from what is ahead of us.” When we hold to temporary riches, visible possessions, false security, we struggle to be open to true riches; the more we speak of possessing, the more we cut ourselves off from receiving, from all of life being open to us as a gift, a manifestation of divine love.
To hold something in your hands—to march through life with your material wealth and human insight, your accolades and accomplishments—is to be folded inward like a cage, to make your possessions as small as the hand that encloses it. Conversely, to inhabit an awareness of possessing nothing, proceeding with open hands, claiming nothing as your own, allows you to receive it all as a gift, not yours to control but to receive and enjoy.
What happens if you let go of the possessions, the false security, the handholds you’ve created to protect you and seek to live as though nothing in your hands you bring? What is the good on the other side of what sounds very terrible and frightening? “As long as you are rich there is nothing to thank God for, and you cannot be aware of being loved. . . . We cannot go ahead Godwards, unless we are free from possession in order to have two hands to offer and a heart absolutely open.”
But empty-handed, you become aware, Bloom says, that God is love, that God is upholding you by his love. More than the arm outstretched to pull you from an abyss, God is, perhaps, the abyss itself, the place you have fallen into, the rock on which you may rest—not crushed or disappeared but gathered up like a held child. When nothing in our hands we bring, perhaps we have all we really need.
