Amsterdam, Dim Red

I’m in Amsterdam. Today my phone was stolen, my iphone. It amazed me how frustrated I was. Frustrated that I didn’t think to put it in my bag instead of my pocket or just to hold it. Frustrated I didn’t keep the pass code on it so no one would have been able to access the insides of it. Frustrated that someone wanted to steal it from me and did so easily, right when I was unaware. It was interesting that the most frustrating thing about it was that I lost my thoughts that I had written on my phone and my pictures: memories and experiences that I wanted to keep to remember. The cost of the material object was not on the forefront of my mind; my frustrations, by that regard, seemed deeper.

Today I went to the Red light district in Amsterdam. For the first time I observed women being sold for sex with my own eyes. There they were in the windows staring at me. Some appearing as if bored, others distracted, others had a fake, alluring smile plastered on their face, all of them looking lifeless, a mask of survival separating them from the hundreds who strolled along, peering at them like they were a commodity to be used and reused and reused, without thought to the cost inflicted. The beds were right behind them. In the window you could see the velvet sheets. I saw a man enter the door after the beckoning women. Forthwith I can only imagine, pleasure for one, new cuts of brokenness for the other. But can that even be called pleasure for the one? I hardly dare to think so, but rather lust, fulfilling the flesh for a moment but not satiating it; giving mere crumbs to the beast that will always ask for more, heedless of the cost.

My petty frustrations and feelings of loss, of memories, thoughts, and experiences from earlier were silenced by what my eyes and heart gazed on. To think of how much is stolen from these women and these men is something that can only be known and summated by God.

My friend mentioned how God was wanting her to ask how he feels about this all, to enter into him, dwell in his emotions and not just ours, how there was brokenness and deep sadness but not hopelessness, never that. My soul deeply agreed. I was struck with how it is all the same-the men will experience one more pleasure, one of many. For the woman, it is one more night of being taken from, being given in exchange for. It is all the same, the traveler getting drunk one more time, saying they want a new experience, seeking, striving for something new yet settling on the monotonous repetitions of thrill, of pleasure, of soul-numbing, mind-alluring experiences. Brokenness is the same and over and over again. I was struck then by Jesus and the immensity of the difference that He brings, that He is. Jesus brings, is, newness! Not only restoration, but growth, adventure, the satiation of desire, of delight, excitement, and of experience. I saw how with brokenness, there is no growth there, no challenge or light, in contrast there is digression, there is ease into apathy, and there is dimness, dim red.

Holy Spirit, this broken world, we desperately need your freshness, your newness of life to wash over and consume us. Plant new seeds of restoration, of growth, of Hope, of You into the soil of death and decay that stands ready to receive you, longing and groaning for a Savior such as only you are that can fulfill the innermost needs and breakdown the darkest hardness. Bring the broken places, people, and world into the dance, the Dance of love, the dance of the gospel, a bride with her Bridegroom.