I Worship You

 

I worship you

I stand and sing

I worship you, Exalted King

To you I cling.

I worship you

I bow and kneel

I worship you

Lord, be revealed

I worship you, Exalted King

To you I cling.

On my chair lay a cross fashioned out of a strip of palm branch. I grew up in a tradition of symbols providing a touchstone with the divine. As a young teenager, I sat for many an hour with other church teens fashioning palm crosses to be distributed on Palm Sunday. The cross on my chair yesterday briefly took me back to those happy hours.

Then we stood to worship, singing Hosanna. Hosanna. In my upstretched hand I held the palm cross and waved it before my Lord and King. As I did so, I realised that I was not holding the cross lightly. I was clinging to it. Gripping it as with all my might.

The enormity of Jesus’ suffering on the cross for me gripped me. The unconditional, endless love of the divine Saviour as he hung there in agony, never giving up on me: it hit me with a wave of gratitude and humility. I sensed his presence powerfully as I poured out my heart to him.

Later, in sharing the profound experience I’d had, initiated by God through that palm cross, I explained that I recognised that I am totally clinging to his cross. Gripping it, more aware than ever of my absolute dependence on Him.

I sensed by others’ reactions that they wanted to extend compassion to me, thinking I was at a particularly low point. But no. Not low, but a new awareness of the absolute dependency we all have on the Cross of Christ. It is a delusion to assume we just need to hold tight when times are rough for us individually or globally. It reveals our pride, our independent streaks. Rebelliousness.

May we all be clinging to the cross today and every day as we walk with alert prayerfulness through this Holy Week, to the cross, through the cross and to the glorious day of victory and resurrection. May we all be exquisitely aware of our own dependence on his love and sacrifice and his saving grace.

Hosanna. Save us, Lord. Hosanna.

Blanket of Deception

 

In North Korea, a blanket of propaganda and lies has settled over the nation, blocking out the truth and deceiving many.  In Russia, a similar blanket has lowered over the populace, spinning out propaganda which distorts and denies truth. Autocrats around the world lie to their people, telling horror stories of the enemy and fueling a ‘them and us’ mentality.

The one in the west who voiced accusations of fake news is now the voice raised most often in promulgating it.

But this blanket of lies is not fire-proof.

The light is in the world, and the darkness cannot overcome it. May the fire of the Holy Spirit of truth flame brightly in the hearts of all who love Jesus, who is the Way and the Truth and the Life. And may that holy fire expose and totally incinerate those untruths being spread by the father of lies.

Lord Jesus, open hearts and minds and spirits to hear and see you, to receive you with joy and to serve you with courage and perseverance today.

Short-sighted

 

Other Radio 4 listeners might have caught the programme yesterday about eyes. I heard a few minutes of it as I drove between places.

My take-away was that developing eyeballs need exercise. When the eyes of young children are focused on screens, they grow too big and that makes them myopic. Yes, that can be corrected by glasses, but it can have other negative effects that come through later in life – an increased risk of developing glaucoma, for instance, macular degeneration, and maybe something else.

The antidote: the healthy development of children’s eyes hinges on their being outside every day, naturally exercising their eyes as they focus and refocus on things near and far.

God has given us so many ways to encounter him. Focusing too closely on just one way – be it through a particular preacher/teacher/writer, doctrine, nature, worship music, or even the Bible itself could distort our vision of the height, breadth, length and depth of the amazing God. I hesitate about adding prayer to that list, because surely one can never pray too much? But perhaps if the prayer is not well-informed by Scripture, teaching, nature and even experience, it could veer into a self-centred distortion of the reality of God.

I’m reminded of Jesus declaring, ‘I came that they might have life, life in all its fullness.’ Perhaps it is in the embrace of all the facets of life we are offered that we really gain a true perception of who God is.

I don’t want to have spiritual eyes which are myopic; I crave to have spiritual eyes which see as much of the truth of the glory of the God we worship as I can take in. I don’t want to slide into a spiritual blindness which results from too narrow a focus on too constricted an understanding.

On this glorious spring day, I intend to listen to hear God in the garden as well as in his Word.

 

Sharp shards of pain

 

This morning I have bounced back to a previous art journalling collage – back to the broken alabaster jar. And as I looked at the broken bits in the picture, I realised how many shards point up. How easy it is to blame God for my brokenness.

First Martha, then Mary, spoke the same first words to Jesus after Lazarus had died. ‘If only you had been here…’

Ouch. Broken bits pointing to heaven. Pointing a finger of reproach, of accusation. If you had been here. No wonder Jesus cried. Of course he cried tears of anger at the power of death, but he also cried tears of grief and sorrow with his dear friends, and probably tears of disappointment that the sisters felt abandoned, let down, by him.

‘If only you had been here…’

On my collage are the declaratory words of Jesus, his promise to us: ‘I will never leave you.’ Never. Leave. You. Trust. Let go.

As I navigate my brokenness this morning, (aware that I am not even aware of all the brokenness in me), I offer up those sharp shards of disappointment, of silent accusation, of reproach. Where I have felt let down by God. Where I have wondered where he was. ‘If only …’

As glass is ground down to be recycled into a beautiful or functional new object, so I offer these shards to you, Jesus, this morning, that you would grind away the sharp accusations – some unspoken and maybe not even acknowledged by me – and transform my understanding. Fill me with the joy of your salvation, as I hear again your words, ‘Behold, I am making all things new.’

Trust. Let go. ‘I will never leave you.’

Sepia Monotony

 

The sepia monotony of winter is finally giving way to the riot of spring colours. Sitting in my window, I see a branch of the forsythia beginning to open yellow and bright, a colour splashed along the drive as the dozens of daffodils swell and burst open, their trumpets heralding a softer season coming.

God knows our needs down to the most minute detail. And it is often through the minute detail of his creation that he speaks peace and consolation.

Somehow I need to appropriate that encouragement into the technological tedium I often feel challenged with. Messenger links that fail to work. Signature pages for a tax return that require signing and uploading. A protest letter about the proliferation of plastic which requires me to sign on to a different platform than I use, so makes me hesitate and draw back. Yet another banking issue for Mom. Just a lot of little gnats of technological unease that can undermine peace of mind.

I’m watching the daffs bob in the rising wind. Slightly bowed down, but still standing.

May I bow only to you, Lord Jesus, this day and every day. Strengthen resolve, encourage perseverance, and keep my eyes above the waves. (bit of a mixed metaphor there, sorry about that…)

May I take inspiration from those saints who I know, and those who have gone before. And on that note, happy St Patrick’s day.

Up from the wilderness

 

Don pointed out the deer skull lying on the verge. All traces of skin and flesh gone, it lay bleached white beside the road. I remembered that deer. Mary and I had come across it months ago, killed by a car, and we had lifted it to the side of the road so it wouldn’t be mangled and mauled by other road users. Now all that was left was this stark-white skull.

The hill on which Jesus died was nicknamed, the Bible says, ‘the place of the skull’. Visiting one of the two possible crucifixion sites with Mom several years ago, the depressions in the rock rising on the hill did resemble the hollows of a skull.

I am not thinking of death this morning, despite this beginning. Instead, I am thinking of life, the real life we find in Jesus. ‘When all is stripped away, I simply come.’

Life on earth is vulnerable. Plans can change due to things out of our control. We are affected by things happening half-way across the world. ‘When a butterfly flaps its wings, it causes a hurricane on the other side of the world.’ The butterfly effect.

True? I’m not sure about the detail, but certainly, the globe is a community which affects and is affected by things which start in a local pinprick of a place and spread like a rash.

This morning I am using the ‘zine’ I fashioned at the art journalling group I go to. I am using it to raise my eyes to the majesty of the Most High God. I am using it to restore my song to rise to give God glory. I am using it to remind myself of the extravagant love and grace of God.

Up from the wilderness, leaning on her beloved…

How does this relate to the imagery of the bleached skull? Rather than just focus my eyes on the heavens to regain a right perspective on things, I am focusing them on the place of the skull: the stark shock of what Jesus did for me at Calvary, and a depth of gratitude for his love for me. And the assurance of life everlasting, where every tear is wiped away.

‘In this world you will have trouble,’ Jesus told his friends. Tells us. ‘Take heart, for I have overcome the world.’

So although disappointment has catapulted me into a wilderness, today I am stronger than yesterday as ‘up from the wilderness’ I come, ‘leaning on my beloved’.

Thank you, Jesus.

Tigers in my life

 

I’ve got in mind a picture of an elaborately carved wooden ceiling, like one you might find in a cathedral or a castle. Those gifted craftsmen (and women?) who carved such works of art may have done it as an expression of their love for the creator God. I hope that their relationship with Him was enhanced as they worked.

As beings made in His image, we all have the creative urge, and how he must love our efforts, whether professional or untaught.

Yesterday we saw a picture of one of our eight-year-old grandsons proudly displaying a paint-by-number depiction of a tiger. It looks amazing, and I’m smiling as I think of his pleasure in creating this work of art showing one of the most splendid of animals. I hope that as he painted, his appreciation for creation and the loving God who made the tiger will have swelled.

As finite beings, our vision of the glories of God will always be limited unless God himself enables us to see from his eternal perspective. I think he is always ready to give us glimpses or experiences of the beautiful majesty of his infinite presence.

May the Lord help me to expand my expectations of Him today, looking for his generosity and beauty in the trivial and routine, in the dailiness of my life, prepared to receive glimpses of glory even in the mundane.