There is a scene some of you may know.
It comes from the life of David Wilkerson and a young gang leader named Nicky Cruz.
New York City.
Street gangs.
Knives. Reputation. Territory.
A world where respect is earned one way—and one way only.
Force.
Wilkerson walks into that world… not as one who belongs there.
Not as one who understands it.
But as one who has been sent.
And that alone creates tension.
Because when light walks into darkness, it does not negotiate its presence.
It exposes.
At one point, Wilkerson stands face to face with Nicky Cruz.
And Cruz does what he knows to do.
He threatens him.
Mocks him.
Pushes him.
The air tightens.
You can feel it… the moment just before violence breaks loose.
And then the line is spoken.
“You come near me and I’ll kill you!”
That is not exaggeration.
That is not theater.
That is the language of his world.
Now pause there.
Because everything that follows hangs on this question:
What does a man do in that moment?
Most men would defend themselves.
Some would argue.
Some would try to reason.
Some would walk away.
Some would strike first.
All of those responses… make sense.
All of them belong to the same system.
But Wilkerson does something else.
He does not step back.
He does not raise his voice.
He does not defend himself.
He answers.
And what he says does not belong to that world.
“You could cut me up into a thousand pieces… and every piece will still love you.”
That is not rhetoric.
That is not strategy.
That is something else entirely.
Because in that moment, Wilkerson is no longer operating out of self-preservation.
He is standing inside something deeper.
Something older.
Something that goes all the way back to a hill outside Jerusalem.
Where another man stood.
And did not defend Himself.
You remember the words:
“He was oppressed and He was afflicted,
yet He opened not His mouth.”
And later—
“Father, forgive them…”
The same spirit.
The same power.
The same kind of love.
Now think about Cruz.
Because we often move too quickly past him.
We say, “Well, of course that would impact him.”
But no—step into his world for just a moment.
He understands violence.
He understands fear.
He understands dominance.
He understands survival.
But he does not understand this.
He has no category for it.
A man who will not retaliate.
A man who will not withdraw.
A man who stands there… unarmed… and says, in effect:
“You can destroy me…
and I will not stop loving you.”
That is not weakness.
That is the absence of fear.
That is authority of a different kind.
And something begins to happen.
Not outwardly at first.
No immediate collapse.
No dramatic response.
But something cracks.
Just a little.
Inside.
Because violence depends on a reaction.
It feeds on it.
It requires it.
But what does violence do… when it is met with love that does not resist?
What does anger do… when it finds nothing to attach itself to?
It begins to lose its power.
And Cruz later testified—that moment stayed with him.
It followed him.
It would not leave him alone.
Why?
Because for the first time in his life, he encountered a man who was not afraid of him.
And not because he was stronger.
But because he was anchored somewhere else.
Now bring that forward.
Because this is not just a story about two men in New York.
This is about us.
There are moments… not always dramatic… but real.
Moments where something rises up in another person.
Harsh words.
Accusation.
Rejection.
Misunderstanding.
And in that moment, the question returns:
What will you do?
Will you defend yourself?
Will you match tone for tone?
Will you withdraw?
Will you strike back—maybe not with fists, but with words?
Or…
Will you stand in something deeper?
This is where the teaching of Jesus moves from theory… into reality.
“Love your enemies.”
That sounds good… until you have one.
“Bless those who curse you.”
That sounds right… until the words are aimed at you.
“Turn the other cheek.”
That sounds spiritual… until it costs you something.
Then it becomes very real.
Because now it is not about agreement.
It is about surrender.
And this is where we must be careful.
Because this kind of response is not natural.
It is not personality.
It is not temperament.
It is the work of the Spirit of God in a surrendered life.
Wilkerson was not trying to win an argument.
He was not trying to control an outcome.
He was bearing witness.
To a love that had already captured him.
And here is the quiet truth underneath it all:
You cannot offer that kind of love in the moment…
unless you have already yielded yourself before the moment.
That is where this is formed.
In the hidden places.
In the quiet obedience.
In the daily yielding.
So that when the moment comes—
and it will—
you are not scrambling to respond.
You are simply revealing what already lives within you.
And that is what happened on that street.
Cruz met something he could not explain.
Could not control.
Could not defeat.
And in time…
he surrendered to it.
Not to Wilkerson.
But to the Christ Wilkerson carried.
And that is the goal.
Not that people admire us.
Not that we win.
Not that we prove a point.
But that through us…
they encounter Him.
So we come back to the question.
Simple.
But not easy.
When you are pressed…
when you are misunderstood…
when something rises up against you…
What comes out?
Because that answer…
is already being formed today.
Not in the moment of conflict.
But in the quiet places…
where you and the Lord are alone.
And perhaps that is where this lands.
Not out there.
But here.
“Lord…
form in me a love…
that does not defend itself.
A love that does not withdraw.
A love that remains…
even when it is not returned.”
Because that kind of love…
still breaks chains.
Even now.
Spiritual Wanderings 