This morning it's like I'm there. Standing. Speechless.
Watching while my humble Teacher is unveiled to be the King of glory that He really is.
I want to take off my shoes, but I can't.
I want to do something, but I can't.
I want to say something, anything that would fit the moment, but I can't.
I'm glued to the ground, hands behind my back, lips sealed shut.
All I can do is observe in silence.
My eyes flit back and forth between faces like a dancing butterfly.
This glory, this radiance, is too much for me. Yet then I hear a voice speaking.
I turn to identify the source and abruptly realize, it's me.
What in the world am I thinking, saying, doing?
You don't just go and interrupt a divine experience like this!
I clamp my mouth in silence while my mind does a virtual replay.
Tents? Tabernacles? For Beings accustomed to golden mansions? Blinded moment.
If only I could rewind ten minutes and try again, prepare a script, something…
Suddenly I hear a voice from the sky declaring my Master to be His Son. Then all is hushed. Glory is gone.
I feel a penetrating gaze upon my flushed face. It's as if He can read my mind.
"It's only when you dare to speak, my child, dare to do for divinity, that you can be transfigured. Even if what you say is illogical and what you do is awkward. It's the heart I see, the heart I pay attention to.
"Don't be afraid to dare for Me, for as you do, you will be transfigured.
And it's when you're transfigured that you can truly begin to know My heart."
Dare to do. Dare to be.
Transfigured.
Monday, January 20, 2014
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Faithfulness for Faithfulness
[In reading back through my journals, I came across this entry from two Christmases ago. It's as poignant a thought now as it was then…]
Oh for more time… There have been countless things from recent days that I’ve been wanting to record in my journal yet alas, time is slipping through my fingers like water and so many things will probably remain unsaid. But I must tell of His faithfulness. He is always faithful… Faithful to sustain, faithful to give, faithful to comfort, faithful to love, faithful to bless, faithful to me.
Throughout the past few weeks I’ve seen His faithfulness time after time despite my errors and mistakes. And I’ve been thinking back to His faithfulness over 2,000 years ago… when He faithfully sent His Son, His only Son, to redeem this wretched, lost world.
I cannot even imagine the heart-wrenching tears shed that day, so long ago, when the Father gave up His Son. The pain, the agony of separation, the immeasurable sacrifice and most of all, the knowledge that victory is not necessarily certain. Eternity’s future rests upon the success of the mission. The wicked foe will try his hardest.
All Heaven feels the solemnity of the moment. The final embrace, the final words, the final smile among tears as Son assures Father, “It is for love, Abba, for love… They are Ours. I must redeem them. There is no other way to pay the ransom. There is no other way to annihilate sin forever. There is no other way to demonstrate Your true character to the world. There is no other way for them to understand divinity except if displayed in humanity.”
There is a pause. The unspoken pain of separation is felt. Father and Son have never been apart before. And through the eyes of Heaven, the reason for estrangement seems hardly worthy. Angels look on in wonder at how heavenly beings can treasure marred, sinful creations. Yet love is stronger.
The Son speaks a last time with tears in His eyes. “Oh how much I love You, My Father! Oh how much I love You! ” And then He is gone. The throne sits empty. All heaven is silenced. The attention of the universe turns upon planet Earth, upon the young virgin, with growing stomach.
After what seems like an eternity the momentous night arrives. The young couple arrange to sleep in a dirty stable. Sobs of angels ring throughout the heavenly courts, yet they know this must be. All Heaven holds its breath. Suddenly a penetrating cry breaks the atmospheric silence. Jesus is born. Heavenly beings look on in astonishment, hardly comprehending that the tiny bundle could be the King of the universe, the One who just days before was commanding the heavens. Yet indeed it is He, born a helpless, tiny babe, born to save.
For thirty-three years heaven continues in tense observation. The throne remains empty. Joyous songs remain dimmed. Once again we find a silent Heaven anxiously observing another night in history. Yet this time, it is not a baby’s cry they hear but a cry of heartbreaking anguish and soul-wrenching pain. They see Him, apparently forsaken by even His Father, still acknowledge His love and forgiveness to the undeserving. Sobs again fill the atmosphere of heaven. Finally a cry rings throughout the universe. “It is finished.” All Heaven stirs. Victory is assured. The King has conquered!
Eager anticipation mounts as angels are selected to make the triumphant flight to earth. Heaven sits on the edge of its seat, waiting… Finally the command is given. Trumpets sound and the quickest flight to earth is made. The leading angel throws the stone aside. Moments seems to drag by. Suddenly there is movement within the dark and dusty grave. Christ steps forth victorious!
After remaining on earth just long enough to comfort the heart of a weeping woman, Christ ascends to His Father. He has waited thirty-three years for this. Tears mingle with smiles as Father once again embraces Son. Heaven is reunited. Finally the Father speaks. “Welcome home, My Beloved and Only Son… You have vanquished the foe. You have conquered sin forever.” Angel voices chorus, “Hallelujah!”
And yet, though sin was defeated over 2,000 years ago, our world still exists in its deplorable state. The reason? We have not returned faithfulness for faithfulness. Human hearts have waxed cold. Christians are content to live a lukewarm existence. I see careless indifference on every side. My soul burns with agony.
But like the faithful few of long ago, there are a handful today who recognize the faithfulness of the Father. Although the depth of sacrifice is beyond human compensation, they loyally give what they can in return—their faithfulness.
Will I be found faithful to Him who has given all for me?
Labels:
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Wednesday, December 18, 2013
The God-Treasure
I've seen many styles of boxes in my life…
Woven boxes. Cardboard boxes. Wooden boxes.
Metal boxes. Jeweled boxes. Ceramic boxes. Glass boxes.
And although they might be a varied as butterflies, they have this one thing in common.
They are boxes.
You are a box. I am a box.
Some of us are bedecked with natural beauty, a jewel-like appearance.
Others feel like moving boxes, scarred by rough treatment, defaced with permanent pen-marks.
Countless have erected a formidable metal barrier surrounding the heartbeat, the vulnerable.
Some feel as though everyone can see right through the glass of our exterior.
Yet despite the extreme discrepancies, we are all boxes.
What matters is the content inside.
Because without the treasure, every box is worthless really.
We all have an empty void that we need the God-treasure to fill.
The question is,
Does the God-treasure inhabit your box?
Woven boxes. Cardboard boxes. Wooden boxes.
Metal boxes. Jeweled boxes. Ceramic boxes. Glass boxes.
And although they might be a varied as butterflies, they have this one thing in common.
They are boxes.
You are a box. I am a box.
Some of us are bedecked with natural beauty, a jewel-like appearance.
Others feel like moving boxes, scarred by rough treatment, defaced with permanent pen-marks.
Countless have erected a formidable metal barrier surrounding the heartbeat, the vulnerable.
Some feel as though everyone can see right through the glass of our exterior.
Yet despite the extreme discrepancies, we are all boxes.
What matters is the content inside.
Because without the treasure, every box is worthless really.
We all have an empty void that we need the God-treasure to fill.
The question is,
Does the God-treasure inhabit your box?
Friday, November 29, 2013
Blessed and Broken
In contemplating gratitude I am reminded of a story, actually two stories. Stories that have been the theme of my year…
It's bread He holds in His hands as He lifts eyes to heaven on the crowded hillside surrounded by 20,000 people or in the upper room with His special twelve. This bread, this life, this miracle waiting to happen…
After He blesses, He breaks. Because brokenness without blessing makes men destitute and hearts grow cold.
After He blesses, He breaks. Because brokenness without blessing makes men destitute and hearts grow cold.
The blessing always comes before the breaking.
Yet brokenness is not the end of the story.
Blessed bread is broken and given away. And it's in the giving that it's multiplied.
Yet brokenness is not the end of the story.
Blessed bread is broken and given away. And it's in the giving that it's multiplied.
Healing comes through brokenness.
The promise grows to meet our need. Whether twelve or twenty thousand.
Miracles happen. Bread is multiplied. Hearts are fed. But only through torn pieces.
Miracles happen. Bread is multiplied. Hearts are fed. But only through torn pieces.
--
I’m blessed and broken, as a token, of a love I can’t deny.
I’m torn in pieces, by my Jesus, the only way to beautify.
Though the pain be bittersweet, This transformation He will complete.
I’m blessed and broken, for only brokenness can heal.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
The Thankful One
Dust billows and rises under tired feet to meet fading day. On the horizon silhouettes form the welcoming outline of a small town where thirteen weary travelers anticipate spending the night. Gathering fatigue slows the pace of some, quickens others. All is silence besides the gentle crunch of footsteps.
Suddenly a gasp escapes the lips of one in the group as ten shadowy figures approach the travelers.
They are untouchables. They are the lowest of the low. They are lepers.
I can feel the tension, the awkwardness of the moment.
"What audacity!" one disciple whispers to the other.
"The nerve of them! Don't they realize that this is prohibited by law?"
Audacity indeed.
And Someone recognizes it.
Ten men cry for mercy from One who men say is the Mercy-Giver.
Jesus commands them to go. And they go.
Following the running men at a relaxed pace, the group of disciples and their Master continue on.
The gates of the village are not far now. Warmth and nourishment are imminent.
Yet silence is abruptly interrupted again as a man rushes excitedly toward them.
It's one of the lepers with tears flowing freely down glistening cheeks. He has something to say.
"Thank you, Jesus…
…thank you, thank you, thank you."
In his delirious euphoria he can say nothing more. But that doesn't matter.
This Samaritan has grasped what Christ has been vainly trying to teach the Jews for months.
Gratitude is a lifestyle.
One man was thankful and soon his testimony converted hundreds.
Because his thanksgiving was not a one time event, but a way of life.
And I wonder what kind of thanksgiving I have…
Am I living a life of gratitude?
Suddenly a gasp escapes the lips of one in the group as ten shadowy figures approach the travelers.
They are untouchables. They are the lowest of the low. They are lepers.
I can feel the tension, the awkwardness of the moment.
"What audacity!" one disciple whispers to the other.
"The nerve of them! Don't they realize that this is prohibited by law?"
Audacity indeed.
And Someone recognizes it.
Ten men cry for mercy from One who men say is the Mercy-Giver.
Jesus commands them to go. And they go.
Following the running men at a relaxed pace, the group of disciples and their Master continue on.
The gates of the village are not far now. Warmth and nourishment are imminent.
Yet silence is abruptly interrupted again as a man rushes excitedly toward them.
It's one of the lepers with tears flowing freely down glistening cheeks. He has something to say.
"Thank you, Jesus…
…thank you, thank you, thank you."
In his delirious euphoria he can say nothing more. But that doesn't matter.
This Samaritan has grasped what Christ has been vainly trying to teach the Jews for months.
Gratitude is a lifestyle.
One man was thankful and soon his testimony converted hundreds.
Because his thanksgiving was not a one time event, but a way of life.
And I wonder what kind of thanksgiving I have…
Am I living a life of gratitude?
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Beautiful Ugly
I love all things beautiful.
And it's a beautiful life I live. Every part of it.
Oh, I may cry. I may wonder.
I may wish things were different.
I may at times wish to see beyond the misty shroud upon my pathway.
Yet my God is also a lover of the beautiful.
And making my life beautiful is exactly what He is attempting to do. Even through the ugly.
Because sometimes it is the ugly that makes something beautiful.
Sometimes it's the only thing…
The beautiful-ugly.
If anything falls under the category of miracle, that does.
A miracle of Love poured out upon an ugly planet bathed in ugly scars.
A miracle that transforms ugly hearts.
A miracle that looks past ugly surfaces to discern uncut diamonds, hearts of beauty covered by years of filth.
He calls the ugly beautiful…
He calls each beating heart beautiful…
He calls me beautiful…
And He promises to love me forever and always. Not because I'm beautiful, but because I'm ugly.
It's the ugly that makes the greatest contrast when transformation occurs anyway.
He calls my ugly beautiful.
My love overflows.
And it's a beautiful life I live. Every part of it.
Oh, I may cry. I may wonder.
I may wish things were different.
I may at times wish to see beyond the misty shroud upon my pathway.
Yet my God is also a lover of the beautiful.
And making my life beautiful is exactly what He is attempting to do. Even through the ugly.
Because sometimes it is the ugly that makes something beautiful.
Sometimes it's the only thing…
The beautiful-ugly.
If anything falls under the category of miracle, that does.
A miracle of Love poured out upon an ugly planet bathed in ugly scars.
A miracle that transforms ugly hearts.
A miracle that looks past ugly surfaces to discern uncut diamonds, hearts of beauty covered by years of filth.
He calls the ugly beautiful…
He calls each beating heart beautiful…
He calls me beautiful…
And He promises to love me forever and always. Not because I'm beautiful, but because I'm ugly.
It's the ugly that makes the greatest contrast when transformation occurs anyway.
He calls my ugly beautiful.
My love overflows.
Friday, November 8, 2013
Weak Hands, Feeble Knees
It's dark outside. Soft light streams over my shoulders. I love new mornings. My eyes scan the page as I absorb verse after verse.
The guidelines for the race. The provisions for the runner. These things call my attention.
I haven't run a race in a long time. At least an official one.
But I know the exertion, the endurance, the positive morale needed to finish any endeavor.
And I stop to think of races I have participated in or observed. Something disturbs me.
Each runner is only running for himself.
He has the end goal continually before him. But he has no concern for the other runners.
His only concern is to win.
But we run a race in which all can be winners.
And we have no right to run past those who are weak just because we are stronger.
No right at all.
Instead we are obligated to lift up weary hands and feeble knees. Because we are not in this race for ourselves.
We have a duty to help those that are struggling to run beside us.
It would be a terrible thing to run through those gates of pearl alone.
Lord, give me eyes to see, lips to speak, hands to heal. And them to me today…
The guidelines for the race. The provisions for the runner. These things call my attention.
I haven't run a race in a long time. At least an official one.
But I know the exertion, the endurance, the positive morale needed to finish any endeavor.
And I stop to think of races I have participated in or observed. Something disturbs me.
Each runner is only running for himself.
He has the end goal continually before him. But he has no concern for the other runners.
His only concern is to win.
But we run a race in which all can be winners.
And we have no right to run past those who are weak just because we are stronger.
No right at all.
Instead we are obligated to lift up weary hands and feeble knees. Because we are not in this race for ourselves.
We have a duty to help those that are struggling to run beside us.
It would be a terrible thing to run through those gates of pearl alone.
Lord, give me eyes to see, lips to speak, hands to heal. And them to me today…
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