(20) “Heaven has the mic now.”— Fifty Shades of Grace: The View from Above
“I Just Can’t Want to Do That…”
Stepping into the Hardest Part of the Litany of Humility
Let’s be honest.
This is where it stings.
If the first part of the Litany of Humility is about asking to be freed from the need to be praised, preferred, consulted, or defended…
…this next part asks for something even harder:
to want that freedom.
To actually desire to be passed over,
to be less noticed, less affirmed, less important—
so that someone else can shine.
And if you're thinking, “I Just can’t want to do that,”
you’re in good company.
That phrase—hilariously honest—was spoken by my friend Katherine Freeman’s 3-year-old granddaughter.
Katherine asked her to do something she thought was reasonable, and after a long, thoughtful pause, the little girl replied:
“I just can’t want to do that.”
I haven’t been able to shake it since.
Because honestly? That might be the truest reflection of this entire prayer.
The Litany of Humility asks us to want things we don’t naturally want.
And sometimes the most honest prayer we can pray sounds exactly like a 3-year-old:
“Jesus, I just can’t want to do that. Not yet.”
But keep her voice in your back pocket—because it’s going to come in handy again.
“I just can’t want to do that.”
And isn’t that exactly how this part of the Litany feels?
We know what God is asking.
We even believe it’s good.
We just…can’t want it.
Not yet.
This stretch of the Litany doesn’t just touch our insecurities—
it uproots them.
Because we’ve all been trained—by life, culture, even our wounds—to be seen, to be chosen, to matter. We strive to be the best, to leave a mark, to be affirmed and admired. And now, we’re being asked to pray that others receive those very things instead of us?
It feels like spiritual suicide.
Or, more truthfully… it feels like surrender.
But here’s the hope:
Grace can make you want what you don’t yet want.
It won’t force you.
But it will shape you.
Like clay in the Potter’s hands,
your resistance can become your altar.
Your ache can become your offering.
And on the other side of that holy tantrum—the one inside your soul that says, “I just can’t want to do that”—is the whisper of Jesus saying:
“But I can help you want to. I’ve done it Myself.”
This isn’t false modesty.
It’s not pretending you don’t care.
It’s learning to be free from needing to win.
It’s trusting that if God chooses to lift someone else up,
you’ll be there to celebrate them—wholeheartedly.
And when your time comes, if it does,
you’ll know it wasn’t because you clawed your way there.
It was God. It was grace. It was right.
So if this next stretch of prayer feels like dying,
you’re probably praying it right.
But take heart:
On the other side of “I juar CAN't want to do that,”
is the freedom of not needing to.
The peace of not striving.
And the joy of being content to be as holy,
as noticed,
as celebrated
as God desires you to be—and no more.
Because that, dear friend,
is enough.
Hungry for more?
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