Unsatisfied By Average

The Musings of a Stubborn Believer

Category: God (page 2 of 6)

Holy Ground

My steps slow at the threshold of this little hollow around which two trees hold their arms like parents in a perpetual embrace. This space between, this sheltered cove, like their child, eternally living in the safety of their shadows. Wind sings through needles and boughs, and I bow.

History holds in her hands the tales of two classes of men. 
Those who have given their souls away to be used and abused by Darkness in exchange for a little gold, a little lust, a little glamor…
And those who have given their lives away so someone else could live.

Like a man spilling his life blood for someone paler, to find it filled again, or not.  

I press palms into mat of pine needles and press my soul into the door.

I want to be the second kind of man. I beg You to make me through and through, the second kind of man…

–    –    –

I rise, back slowly away from the place. Look down for my shoes.
I sit to slip them back on, and while I do, I steal a glance back towards the cove embraced by the cedars.

And that, is when I thought of you.

And this warrior in me, this fighter that is sometimes a stranger and doesn’t fit in my skin, this thunder that must come from elsewhere because I don’t have the spark to ignite it, it suddenly flashed and roared like the end of the world. And then it was gone. But it left a burn, a throbbing ache. And a breathlessness, and a racing heart.
And this prayer:

Let each of us find in this life ground so holy that shod feet never step there.  


Never, oh never be satisfied till you have found your burning bush.  

And What If The Sun Didn’t Rise?

It’s a corner of the neighborhood that I don’t spend much time in.
Some folk endure worst case scenario whether or not it is an accurate reflection of reality. (It usually isn’t.)

You know, “what if…?”

Well, I’m going to step out of character momentarily, and ask you to dwell on a what if for a moment. Really go there.

What if the sun didn’t rise tomorrow?

I know, I know. But enter in with me. I have a reason.

You keep looking at your watch, your computer, every clock in the house, for they surely must be wrong. But hours tick by and the stars don’t move. The moon doesn’t seem to move either. Truth be told, the earth has stopped spinning.
Oh, and panic strikes. And crime spikes. And governments crack down to try to control fear so deep it abolishes reason. But their fears run deep too, and they can’t help themselves, much less their citizens. Power plants churn out the megawatts at max capacity, to fuel a world which is accustomed to sleeping at night. And people sit huddled in their houses, trying to get cable. But every satellite in the heavens kept spinning when we stopped. So there’s no telecom. Every flight in the air, and every ship in the sea wanders till there’s no fuel to wander farther. Because there’s no GPS either.
After a week, those who have survived fear’s urges to self-destruction start counting the days until the sun will rise. –In six months, when we get around to the other side of the sun.
Oh, but we’ll never get there. It’s already so cold. So cold. The middle of this night is becoming like a wind-swept antarctic. Every green leaf is withering, and with it a planet’s life-giving supply of oxygen. We’ll run out of air, and then freeze white through, before the sun shines again.

What if the sun didn’t rise tomorrow?

Those in eternal noon fare little better. Over there it’s oh, so hot. They can breathe this steamy atmosphere, but they are broiling alive. And the steamy part will only last so long…

Stop there.

I take it for granted that the sun will rise tomorrow. And I don’t have the foggiest idea of all that would ensue if it didn’t. I live in full confidence of the fact.

The sun will rise. That’s what matters.

And something else will happen too, something even more certain.
In the morning when you rise, God will be awake, waiting for you to stir.

He always is.

But let me ask you another question.

What if He wasn’t there tomorrow?

I’m not even going to go there. That apocalypse would make my above description seem like yogurt for breakfast. Utterly routine.

He’s always there. That’s what matters.

But wait, really? 
Is that really all that matters?

We rise and run into our day, shoot something that is supposed to be gratitude His way, while taking Him utterly for granted.

Perhaps partly because we’ve never stopped to consider what would be, if He disappeared.

If some morning He failed to knock on your heart’s door when you woke up, would you even miss Him?
Or did you skip Him this morning anyway, so it wouldn’t make a difference?

And what did you say would happen if the sun didn’t rise…?


He’s there. He’s promised always to be.
Always reaching His beautiful hand towards a stirring creation.

So, one more question:

Am I?

Words With the Father

That moment when the endless empty makes you realize how small you are, how big the world is, (much less the universe.) and how unreasonably kind God is for still having eyes for me.

“Where shall I go from your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from your presence?
If I ascend to heaven, you are there! If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!
If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me.
If I say, ‘Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night,’
even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with you.

How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them!
If I would count them, they are more than the sand. I awake, and I am still with you.

Search me, O God, and know my heart! Try me and know my thoughts!
And see if there be any grievous way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting!”

(Psalms 139:7-12, 17-18, 23-24. ESV)

Jesus Knows

I wonder if you, like me, have ever stood in the doorway of the tabernacle* and felt like you were totally out of place there…

–  –  –  –
I stand on the threshold. This is God’s home. And it’s a place that feels as though it has been at times more familiar to me than it is at this moment. 
His eyes hold only love. 
My head is bowed though, because my mind cradles memories fresh of petty wanderings I’d like to forget.
“Welcome home.”
“Thank You, Sir.
       
But— [with trembling, and wonder, and a bit of incredulity, and still a bowed head] 
Does Your Lordship know what it feels like to be a betrayer and a murderer?”
I know. The inane questions I ask sometimes.
He just looks at me, lets me stand there a minute. And His face is kind, and grave, and silent. But suddenly His Spirit leads me back to truth 2,000 years old. I hear, I remember. I look up at His face. 
“Yes, actually… I died carrying the sins of Judas too.”

Oh. That’s right. (and so horribly wrong.)

You Who knew no sin, accepted the sin of the betrayer. 
And it killed You, so I could live.

And this is why you can welcome me home.
Let me never hesitate.
Jesus knows. 
*metaphorically speaking, you understand.

Believe the Impossible?

“Who against hope believed in hope, that he might become the father of many nations. . . He staggered not at the promise of God through unbelief; but was strong in faith, giving glory to God.”* 

See, that’s the essence of triumphant faith to me. And the reason why Abraham received the impossible.

Because he believed the impossible. 
Hope against hope.

You’ve heard perhaps that “God will be everything we let Him be…”?

Maybe God can’t work what’s impossible, because I only believe what’s reasonable.

*see Romans 4

Sleeping Before Gethsemane

In my mind I think that nothing would have persuaded me to sleep that night…
I should think I would have been too afraid. 
They watched Him, walked with Him. He, having just given what He knew to be His last words– His last will and testament. Now He is gripped by a sadness such as they have never seen before. The Healer stumbles and sways into the garden, and more than once they have to hold Him up so He does not topple to the cold ground. 
Can you enter in to just how frightening that must have been?
Cold night; stricken Savior. 
He, who’d never stumbled? Not once?
Perhaps the 8 of them were glad to be left near the gate of the garden. Maybe sleep would erase all memory of this dread they could not understand? 
I don’t know, I wasn’t there.
What I do know is, they slept. 
The three closest ones, they followed Him till He told them to stay. But did anybody look unreservedly into His face? Did anyone dare ask why He was sorrowful unto death? Did no one cling to Him and insist He share the burden that was crushing out His life? Did any say “I’ll watch with you. I’ll go with you. Wherever. Only entreat me not to leave You…”
Or with pounding hearts did they pray, for a few minutes, that it would just go away…
I wasn’t there. 
But these two things I know: they neglected to share (or shrank from sharing) His heart because its burdens were unknown, awkward and fearful. 
And when the moment of truth burst upon them, they scattered.
Might I venture to say that had they stopped and just looked into His face, accepted the dreadful reality written there in bloody sweat, and sought to share its grief, 
they would have read there the truth about the moments to come? 
Or at least, they would not have been shocked by them. 
Jesus knew. 

I wonder: Could not they have known a little too?
In my mind I think that nothing would have persuaded me to sleep that night… 
I should have been too afraid. 
But then, what of His burdens in the overflowing eyes of this people His flesh and blood? His bride?
Don’t I sometimes neglect to share them, or shrink from them because they are fearful, awkward, unknown?
Do I ever pray, rather than that I might share them, that they might just go away?
Oh Jesus… Perhaps I would have slept too? 


PC and post: Nathan Lee Westbrook



God of the Open Door

Good morning world.

This one thought has me tingling this morning, so I’m here to shout from the [blog]top before I run out the door.

I’ve spent much of my week working the problem of addictions. (as is my business.)
One big, scary word, little scientific consensus within the mental health community when it comes to definitions and limitations.

And I’m not about to jump into the ring and argue what is and what isn’t.
Anyway, definitions have never made anyone free.

Here’s the word of the day.

“Behold, I have set before thee an open door, and no man can shut it…”

The God creative and redemptive, merciful and authoritative, sacrificial and strong, fearful and wonderful, perfect and beautiful, righteous and wroth–

He’s the God of the Open Door.

If there were no other reason to serve Him, that one would be enough.
It’s enough for me.

Strong to Save [When God Goes to War] Part II

You know the story isn’t over.
It could be. I mean, wouldn’t it be enough if He swooped in as the Hero of every rescue mission, and picked up broken pieces again, and took them home to heal?
That’s already more than we deserve.

But that’s not the end of the story. Or the chapter.

He is the Hero of every rescue mission. And there’s a reason His exploits come first…

But keep reading till the end of the tale.

He saves the afflicted, simultaneously putting the adversary in his place.
And then!–

He lights a candle. A little flame of light atop a stick of wax strung out.
Fresh home from the smoke and dust of battle, He shares His life.
He puts in the soul a fire, out of Himself, a part of Himself, and with that fire comes all the power that is His. Power to live. Power to overcome. The same power that just sent hills and hoodlums scurrying.

And watch the servant. Watch the flame suddenly catch on, as if he was all oil inside. Watch him fly into the darkness, like an arrow himself. Burning as he goes, consumed, but . . . not consumed.

Watch him run right through the midst of the garrison of darkness, setting the place ablaze. Watch his enemies come to their senses, pick themselves up to follow hard in the trail of smoke. Watch him get to the end– the dead end. And just when the pursuers think they’ll have vengeance at last, watch him leap. Watch him sail over what should have been his death sentence. While his enemies remain, confined by their own fortifications.

Watch him stop on the far side, catch his breath, raise one hand to heaven and say:

“As for God, His way is perfect:
the word of the Lord is tried:
He is a buckler to all those that trust in Him.
For who is God, save the Lord?. . .

It is God that girdeth me with strength, and maketh my way perfect.
He maketh my feet like hinds’ feet. . .
He teacheth my hands to war, so that a bow of steel is broken by mine arms. . .

Thy right hand hath holden me up,
And thy gentleness hath made me great.
Thou has enlarged my steps under me, that my feet did not slip.

I have pursued mine enemies, and overtaken them:. . .
I have wounded them that they were not able to rise:
they are fallen under my feet.

For Thou has girded me with strength unto the battle. . .”

(Ps. 18:30-39, emphasis mine.)


How can it logically be said that even with unlimited access to unlimited power, we must accept the prospect of limited progress, and perpetual setbacks?

I don’t get that.

What I do get, is that when I am His, then I am strong.
And under no other circumstances.

Strong to Save [When God Goes to War] Part I

I have no tolerance for the idea that defeat must be regarded as at least occasionally inevitable. Absolutely none.

As if every third day or so the angels trade sides for an hour and evil somehow becomes omnipotent. Really?

I think it would be good if we all made it a habit to regularly review Psalm 18. To me it’s the ultimate drama of faltering servant, and faithful God. No wonder it’s one of my favorites…

But I guess you realize it requires more than the simple existence of Omnipotent God to keep me from falling… Well, herein lies that secret too. In the first four words of the chapter. The spark that heralds a storm of Divinity.–

“I will love Thee…”

I Will. My little part to play. So simple, so absolutely necessary. Whole sermon right here…
Love. Because love will move my heart, my head, and my hands. The way work won’t…
Thee. Because love is actually inevitable. You were wired for it. It’s not if, it’s who. And only this Master has life to give away…

In other words, I’m Yours. Head, heart, and whole.

And then do you see what happens?
Hear a few verses later when David bleeds out this distress of sorrows and death–

The servant cries, and the whole earth reels in the thunder from his chariot wheels.
Hills and rills run out of the way, because He is wroth.
Breath of life and creative Word come out of mouth and nose as smoke and fire.
His chariot is alive. An angel with wind for his wings.
He arrives at His war room –a secret pavilion carved out of darkness– in the midst of the earthquake.
Walks in under escort of raining fire and ice.

He stands in the midst of His council of war, utters words that cut atmospheres. More thunder…
And His speech gets the whole host moving.

Next thing you know, “his arrows,” the very best of His fighting force, they shoot out from the place, wreak havoc on the enemy.
Seemingly out of nowhere.
And when the scattering seems complete, He sends lightnings after them.

Then all at once the agenda, the fortifications, the vulnerabilities of the enemy are laid wide open.
And He calmly walks in and picks up His servant, and carries him out.

“With the merciful thou wilt shew thyself merciful;
with the upright man thou wilt shew thyself upright;
with the pure thou wilt shew thyself pure;
and with the froward thou wilt shew thyself froward.” Ps. 18:25, 26

I’m not making it up. That’s what the Book says.

I have no tolerance for the idea that defeat must be regarded as at least occasionally inevitable. Absolutely none.

Perhaps I must be regarded as at least occasionally (or much more often) failing to call for help, or surrendering my arms voluntarily…
 

(to be continued…)

Anything For You

Maybe I’m a bit naïve.
(Hey, that’s better than cynical, right?)

Maybe I find the risk of trusting lower than the cost of suspecting.
Anyway, such is certainly the case if you’re my friend...

“Hey, can you do me a favor?”

Yes I can. And if I trust you, I won’t even ask what it is first. If it lies within my power (or anywhere near it) I want to serve you.

My girls are trusted. And by reflex I almost always answer them one way when asked:
     “Hey, can you…”
            “Anything for you, dear.”

Little words so often spoken they are almost playthings.
But one morning they strike me as carrying with them two powerful implications–

I trust you not to ask of me something I can’t give.
And I love you. So what I can give, is yours.

–  –  –  –  –

You’ve probably heard it said that it is a struggle to stand. That to live is to fight…
Truth.
But I have wondered of late, if the agony of being torn between two opinions, one the violation of conscience, and the other the perceived violation of my rights to myself, isn’t a war I myself too often drag out long after it might have been won.

I wonder that when I look at the cross, see my Friend bleeding.
Hear Him whisper “Abba;” receive no reply.
I wonder because He’s the embodiment of Love. And what could be more trustworthy?

And I say I trust Him not to ask of me anything I can’t give.
And I love Him. So what I can give, is His…

So why doesn’t every morning start with
“Anything for You…”?

I don’t know. But this morning did.

–  –  –  –  –

We rein in after the eighth mile, and I’m satisfied.
Satisfied that my new pre-run stretching routine is worth more than an extra month of training.
Satisfied that if you’re going to have a good run, you need a good start.

And the best start is falling on my face before sunrise, telling Him in no uncertain terms:

I don’t know what You’ll ask of me today. 
What You’ll ask me to surrender. 
What You’ll ask me to make right. 

But whatever it is, the answer is yes.





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