(Brief notes for prayer meeting 5/1/21)
Read Proverbs 4, then focus on verse 23: "Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it."
The whole quality and content of our lives flows from the state of our hearts. There is a very real link here to Micah 6:8 "walk humbly with your God" - the need for care and prudence. We can easily break what is around us and we can (unintentionally) do ourselves spiritual self-harm.
We are vulnerable, prone to wander, prone to needless anxieties and to sinful distractions. Our hearts can become weighed down by disappointments and frustrations - the very things that can suck the spiritual life out of us. (Parable of the Sower)
We need this warning, this exhortation.
We need to recognise the dangers we face and not assume our defences cannot be breached.
But it is more than a defensive posture we need. Guarding our hearts, in large measure, means filling them with good things, allowing them space to breathe the clear air of heaven. To taste the royal food of the Saviour's banquet. To embrace truth that shines a light on error.
And asking the Lord to guard us, to keep us in the depths of our being: "you who through faith are shielded by God's power for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time" (1 Peter 1:5).
We can ask him as we pray to help us keep our hearts, to help us to embrace the wisdom that is our Lord Jesus Christ. The life we have in him is life indeed. From him flows rivers of eternal joy and goodness. Let's not be diverted from that, from him.
Wednesday, 6 January 2021
Tuesday, 5 January 2021
A doorway into sacred space (Joy in the Journey 77)
"Between every stimuli and response there is a space; silence and solitude creates a sacred space, an elongated space; this space gives you time to develop a creative response to what you're feeling - otherwise there is only reaction."
No one knows who said this - in fact, it may never have been said or written originally in that form at all. It's probably a conflation from several minds. But it poses an interesting possibility. One that isn't always in play, of course - some stimuli produce instant reaction for which there is no gap in which to make any kind of choice. Those reactions are embedded within our minds and graven on our psyche.
But the entrance of God's Word brings light. It opens, by the Spirit's creative energies, a space, often elongated and by nature sacred, in which we can pause to consider and then to respond.
When we read the Scriptures, as we intentionally stop to pray with the psalmist, "Open my eyes that I may see wonderful things in your law", we find we've entered that space. It's not time standing still - we wrestle continually with thoughts that race within the gaps between the passing of the seconds and discover, to our dismay, that time hasn't stopped and our distractibility has betrayed us once more. No, it's not the suspending of time but it sometimes is its elongation. The unknown author has chosen well.
And in that Spirit-given space there are possibilities and invitations to sit, like Mary, at the Master's feet, to mine the gold of divine promises, to carve for ourselves clefts in the rock, as we look to the Rock that is higher than we.
It can't really be explained. It's hard enough simply to describe it. But we know it's real. The Lord is there. He has purposely opened for us a doorway into animated suspension. And in that realm of light he delights to answer our prayer and we catch glimpses of those "wonderful things", indeed the Wonderful One, he whom our heart desires.
As this year opens before us, we might want to pray that our rushing hearts would be hushed and our frantic pursuits halted, for a moment or two - moments in which the Lord Jesus himself meets with us. That with Isaiah we might know our lips touched with live coals, that with the two on the Emmaus road we might know our hearts strangely warmed within us. In the spaces between the seconds.
No one knows who said this - in fact, it may never have been said or written originally in that form at all. It's probably a conflation from several minds. But it poses an interesting possibility. One that isn't always in play, of course - some stimuli produce instant reaction for which there is no gap in which to make any kind of choice. Those reactions are embedded within our minds and graven on our psyche.
But the entrance of God's Word brings light. It opens, by the Spirit's creative energies, a space, often elongated and by nature sacred, in which we can pause to consider and then to respond.
When we read the Scriptures, as we intentionally stop to pray with the psalmist, "Open my eyes that I may see wonderful things in your law", we find we've entered that space. It's not time standing still - we wrestle continually with thoughts that race within the gaps between the passing of the seconds and discover, to our dismay, that time hasn't stopped and our distractibility has betrayed us once more. No, it's not the suspending of time but it sometimes is its elongation. The unknown author has chosen well.
And in that Spirit-given space there are possibilities and invitations to sit, like Mary, at the Master's feet, to mine the gold of divine promises, to carve for ourselves clefts in the rock, as we look to the Rock that is higher than we.
It can't really be explained. It's hard enough simply to describe it. But we know it's real. The Lord is there. He has purposely opened for us a doorway into animated suspension. And in that realm of light he delights to answer our prayer and we catch glimpses of those "wonderful things", indeed the Wonderful One, he whom our heart desires.
As this year opens before us, we might want to pray that our rushing hearts would be hushed and our frantic pursuits halted, for a moment or two - moments in which the Lord Jesus himself meets with us. That with Isaiah we might know our lips touched with live coals, that with the two on the Emmaus road we might know our hearts strangely warmed within us. In the spaces between the seconds.
************
As pants the hart for cooling streams,
When heated in the chase,
So longs my soul, O God, for Thee,
And Thy refreshing grace!
For Thee, my God, the living God,
My thirsty soul doth pine;
O when shall I behold Thy face,
Thou Majesty divine!
God of my strength, how long shall I,
Like one forgotten, mourn?
Forlorn, forsaken, and exposed
To my oppressor's scorn.
Why restless, why cast down, my soul?
Hope still, and thou shalt sing
The praise of Him who is thy God,
Thy health's eternal spring.
To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
the God whom we adore,
be glory, as it was, is now,
and shall be evermore.
(Nahum Tate, 1652-1717
Nicholas Brady, 1659-1726)
Thursday, 31 December 2020
No more night (Joy in the Journey 76)
The Bible begins with darkness - a darkness that was over the surface of the deep. And everything, within that darkness, was formless and empty, devoid of meaning and order and beauty.
Until God spoke the first words that are ever recorded from his mouth: "Let there be light." Light to flood and eliminate the darkness. Light that will allow for shape and harmony and life itself to flourish. The empty filled and the formless ordered and beautified.
Our lives also began in darkness, hidden deep within the womb. And from our earliest days we have known darkness - a daily darkness as the sunlight fades and a daily darkness in the shadows cast by sin within and chaos without. In the gospel, the voice of God is heard speaking the same illuminating words as he shines into our hearts the light of his glory, seen in the face of Jesus Christ, his Son and our Saviour.
And yet we still know the rising and fading of the light, from day to day. We live within time and we live in the overlap of ages - this present evil age that has been invaded by the saving reign of Jesus, the age to come now present in embryonic power. We have become "light in the Lord" but still wrestle with the sorrowing darkness.
As the Bible draws to a close, a future is promised where “there will be no more night” (Rev. 22:5); no more darkness or chaos. That darkness is not dispelled by the brightness of the sun, but "the glory of God gives it light, and the Lamb is its lamp" (Rev. 21:23).
The creation of sun, moon and stars for light on the earth was always subsidiary, temporary and prophetic, pointing forward to a day when the whole creation will be ablaze with true light, the light of a glory that is full of grace and truth, a glory that banishes the curse, that brings to an end the old order of things, that ushers in a future healed of sorrows and devoid of pain.
So, as one year closes - and such a year - and as a new one begins, we long for the day when "The nations will walk by [his] light" and we pray with sure and certain hope, “Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.”
Until God spoke the first words that are ever recorded from his mouth: "Let there be light." Light to flood and eliminate the darkness. Light that will allow for shape and harmony and life itself to flourish. The empty filled and the formless ordered and beautified.
Our lives also began in darkness, hidden deep within the womb. And from our earliest days we have known darkness - a daily darkness as the sunlight fades and a daily darkness in the shadows cast by sin within and chaos without. In the gospel, the voice of God is heard speaking the same illuminating words as he shines into our hearts the light of his glory, seen in the face of Jesus Christ, his Son and our Saviour.
And yet we still know the rising and fading of the light, from day to day. We live within time and we live in the overlap of ages - this present evil age that has been invaded by the saving reign of Jesus, the age to come now present in embryonic power. We have become "light in the Lord" but still wrestle with the sorrowing darkness.
As the Bible draws to a close, a future is promised where “there will be no more night” (Rev. 22:5); no more darkness or chaos. That darkness is not dispelled by the brightness of the sun, but "the glory of God gives it light, and the Lamb is its lamp" (Rev. 21:23).
The creation of sun, moon and stars for light on the earth was always subsidiary, temporary and prophetic, pointing forward to a day when the whole creation will be ablaze with true light, the light of a glory that is full of grace and truth, a glory that banishes the curse, that brings to an end the old order of things, that ushers in a future healed of sorrows and devoid of pain.
So, as one year closes - and such a year - and as a new one begins, we long for the day when "The nations will walk by [his] light" and we pray with sure and certain hope, “Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.”
************
Light of the world, for ever, ever shining,
There is no change in Thee;
True Light of life, all joy and health enshrining,
Thou canst not fade nor flee.
Thou hast arisen, but Thou declinest never;
Today shines as the past;
All that Thou wast Thou art, and shalt be ever,
Brightness from first to last.
Night visits not Thy sky, nor storm, nor sadness;
Day fills up all its blue,
Unfailing beauty, and unfaltering gladness,
And love for ever new!
Light of the world! undimming and unsetting,
O shine each mist away!
Banish the fear, the falsehood, and the fretting;
Be our unchanging day.
(Horatius Bonar, 1808-89)
Book releases in 2021 I'm looking forward to
In no particular order (and doubtless there shall be more...)
The Theology of Jeremiah: The Book, the Man, the Message
A World Without Email: Reimagining Work in an Age of Communication Overload
Turning of Days: Lessons from Nature, Season, and Spirit
Empathy Diaries, The: A Memoir
Hope in Times of Fear: The Resurrection and the Meaning of Easter
(The links are to Amazon listings, for simplicity's sake. You can obviously buy them from other places.)
Tuesday, 29 December 2020
I have strayed like a lost sheep (Joy in the Journey 75)
At times during this year, you may have felt the Lord drawing your heart towards him, in love and longing. In the fires of suffering and in the midst of pain and struggle, he has been to you immeasurably kind, pouring grace into your soul and raining mercy upon your life.
Often, in those moments, during those seasons, the words of scripture seem to you like "apples of gold, fitly framed". You have opened its pages and seen there almost a glow, because the Lord is speaking, through his living Word. The Spirit is breathing solace and strength into you. When that is our experience, we're maybe reminded of the words of Psalm 119 and they become ours:
Open my eyes that I may see
wonderful things in your law. (v.18)
The earth is filled with your love, LORD;
teach me your decrees. (v.64)
I meditate on it all day long. (v.97)
How blessed we are to have the Bible! Its words lead us, over and again, to the one who gave it, to knowing the Word who was made flesh, the one to whom the law pointed and who fulfils it completely. Love for God's law becomes love for our saving Lord.
But perhaps you have also known times during this year when your heart has declined. You have felt lost and helpless, aware so keenly of a cooling in your affection for the Lord. You've become conscious of a distance that has disturbed you and made you weep. Self-isolation of the soul, away from its true Lover. Let the final petition of Psalm 119 be yours:
"I have strayed like a lost sheep,
Seek your servant." (v.176)
How strange those words seem - after all the love, all the deeply-rooted affection and delight in the Lord and his Word, the psalmist speaks with anguish at his state. He has wandered, he has got himself lost. He needs to be found.
Does that sit with the rest of the psalm? Sadly, yes, and our own experience proves it. No Christian life is an endless blue sky, cloudless until the dawn of heaven breaks in a sunrise like no other. Seasons of profound gratitude, of knowing that there is no one like the Lord, that Jesus is your joy and all your hope is secure in him, can give way to barren days and weeks, seasons of regret that begin to calcify into despair.
How good, when we know the sadness of a shrivelling soul, to join the psalmist in the plea, "Seek your servant". Confessing that we have gone astray, we ask our saving Lord Jesus to come find us, and by his Spirit once more draw us back. To take us up into his arms, renew our hearts and carry us home again.
He is the Good Shepherd who gave his life for his sheep. He continually seeks us, from all the places we might wander and stumble into unseen dangers. Pour out your heart to him; he doesn't despise us for our misgivings and shame. He is the suffering Servant, the Lion of the tribe of Judah who is also the Lamb that was slain. He seeks and saves the lost, always.
******
(If you're making plans for next year's Bible reading, you might be interested in a plan that isn't a plan.)
******
Often, in those moments, during those seasons, the words of scripture seem to you like "apples of gold, fitly framed". You have opened its pages and seen there almost a glow, because the Lord is speaking, through his living Word. The Spirit is breathing solace and strength into you. When that is our experience, we're maybe reminded of the words of Psalm 119 and they become ours:
Open my eyes that I may see
wonderful things in your law. (v.18)
May your unfailing love come to me, LORD,
your salvation, according to your promise; (v.41)The earth is filled with your love, LORD;
teach me your decrees. (v.64)
May your unfailing love be my comfort,
according to your promise to your servant. (v.76)My soul faints with longing for your salvation,
but I have put my hope in your word. (v.81)
Oh, how I love your law! I meditate on it all day long. (v.97)
How blessed we are to have the Bible! Its words lead us, over and again, to the one who gave it, to knowing the Word who was made flesh, the one to whom the law pointed and who fulfils it completely. Love for God's law becomes love for our saving Lord.
But perhaps you have also known times during this year when your heart has declined. You have felt lost and helpless, aware so keenly of a cooling in your affection for the Lord. You've become conscious of a distance that has disturbed you and made you weep. Self-isolation of the soul, away from its true Lover. Let the final petition of Psalm 119 be yours:
"I have strayed like a lost sheep,
Seek your servant." (v.176)
How strange those words seem - after all the love, all the deeply-rooted affection and delight in the Lord and his Word, the psalmist speaks with anguish at his state. He has wandered, he has got himself lost. He needs to be found.
Does that sit with the rest of the psalm? Sadly, yes, and our own experience proves it. No Christian life is an endless blue sky, cloudless until the dawn of heaven breaks in a sunrise like no other. Seasons of profound gratitude, of knowing that there is no one like the Lord, that Jesus is your joy and all your hope is secure in him, can give way to barren days and weeks, seasons of regret that begin to calcify into despair.
How good, when we know the sadness of a shrivelling soul, to join the psalmist in the plea, "Seek your servant". Confessing that we have gone astray, we ask our saving Lord Jesus to come find us, and by his Spirit once more draw us back. To take us up into his arms, renew our hearts and carry us home again.
He is the Good Shepherd who gave his life for his sheep. He continually seeks us, from all the places we might wander and stumble into unseen dangers. Pour out your heart to him; he doesn't despise us for our misgivings and shame. He is the suffering Servant, the Lion of the tribe of Judah who is also the Lamb that was slain. He seeks and saves the lost, always.
******
(If you're making plans for next year's Bible reading, you might be interested in a plan that isn't a plan.)
******
O Thou, to whose all-searching sight
The darkness shineth as the light,
Search, prove my heart; it pants for Thee;
O burst these bonds, and set it free!
Wash out its stains, refine its dross,
Nail my affections to the Cross;
Hallow each thought; let all within
Be clean, as Thou, my Lord, art clean!
If in this darksome wild I stray,
Be Thou my Light, be Thou my Way;
No foes, no violence I fear,
No fraud, while Thou, my God, art near.
When rising floods my soul o'erflow,
When sinks my heart in waves of woe,
Jesus, Thy timely aid impart,
And raise my head, and cheer my heart.
Saviour, where'er Thy steps I see,
Dauntless, untired, I follow Thee;
O let Thy hand support me still,
And lead me to Thy holy hill!
If rough and thorny be the way,
My strength proportion to my day;
Till toil, and grief, and pain shall cease,
Where all is calm, and joy, and peace.
(Nicolaus Ludwig Von Zinzendorf, 1700-1760
Tr. John Wesley, 1703-91)
The darkness shineth as the light,
Search, prove my heart; it pants for Thee;
O burst these bonds, and set it free!
Wash out its stains, refine its dross,
Nail my affections to the Cross;
Hallow each thought; let all within
Be clean, as Thou, my Lord, art clean!
If in this darksome wild I stray,
Be Thou my Light, be Thou my Way;
No foes, no violence I fear,
No fraud, while Thou, my God, art near.
When rising floods my soul o'erflow,
When sinks my heart in waves of woe,
Jesus, Thy timely aid impart,
And raise my head, and cheer my heart.
Saviour, where'er Thy steps I see,
Dauntless, untired, I follow Thee;
O let Thy hand support me still,
And lead me to Thy holy hill!
If rough and thorny be the way,
My strength proportion to my day;
Till toil, and grief, and pain shall cease,
Where all is calm, and joy, and peace.
(Nicolaus Ludwig Von Zinzendorf, 1700-1760
Tr. John Wesley, 1703-91)
Sunday, 27 December 2020
Christmas at the Burning Bush
(Sermon preached on Sunday 27th December 2020. Text: Exodus 3:1-10)
The child in the manger, surrounded by loving parents and adoring Shepherds and Wise Men and the odd farm animal too. It all helps to make Christmas such a warm time. Mince pies, brandy cream, and the baby Jesus.
But it's dangerous.
Because we can handle children (ok, maybe not all the time). What I mean is, we can manage the idea, the picture. We can draw on personal experience of taking up a babe in our arms - they're so small, so vulnerable, so delightful.
And, yes, when it comes to thinking about our Lord Jesus, there is something very helpful in remembering that he was, indeed, born as a weak, helpless, vulnerable baby boy.
It's good and right to picture our Lord as a baby. His full humanity - his ability to be our great high priest - depends upon it. But the danger is in letting that picture dominate our thinking. Because it’s not the whole story. And without the whole we have no real hope.
So, having raised the red flag, let's disarm the danger, by taking ourselves back into Exodus 3, to Moses and the burning bush.
However new you might be to the Bible you've probably heard of Moses. And there are some things that immediately come to mind about him:
And he saw a bush that was on fire but not burned up. A very strange sight. But even stranger: the living God spoke to him from the flames.
That puzzling scene has the help we need so that we don't nullify the meaning and the experience of Christmas.
Moses meets the Son of God and he is aflame with fear at the sight. Christmas ought, in its own inimitable way, have something of that effect on us. We’re not dealing with a doll in the manger; this is full and proper deity, Almighty God.
2. The Holy One comes down to save
But what’s the point of this? Is God saying to Moses, ‘You can’t ever come close to me? You can’t know me, can’t ever be anything but terrified in my presence?’
No, it's not about that. Look at these words:
This is the most amazing foreshadowing of Christmas - the language and the imagery: coming down, in order to save. Jesus comes into the world (comes down from heaven) to be the Saviour. That's why he's given the name Jesus, after all.
The child in the manger, surrounded by loving parents and adoring Shepherds and Wise Men and the odd farm animal too. It all helps to make Christmas such a warm time. Mince pies, brandy cream, and the baby Jesus.
But it's dangerous.
Because we can handle children (ok, maybe not all the time). What I mean is, we can manage the idea, the picture. We can draw on personal experience of taking up a babe in our arms - they're so small, so vulnerable, so delightful.
And, yes, when it comes to thinking about our Lord Jesus, there is something very helpful in remembering that he was, indeed, born as a weak, helpless, vulnerable baby boy.
If one of the friendly but clumsy cattle in the stable had accidentally threatened to squash him underfoot, the little baby Jesus wouldn't have stretched out his hand like some kind of budding Jedi knight and zapped it away.
It's good and right to picture our Lord as a baby. His full humanity - his ability to be our great high priest - depends upon it. But the danger is in letting that picture dominate our thinking. Because it’s not the whole story. And without the whole we have no real hope.
So, having raised the red flag, let's disarm the danger, by taking ourselves back into Exodus 3, to Moses and the burning bush.
However new you might be to the Bible you've probably heard of Moses. And there are some things that immediately come to mind about him:
- he was the baby in the basket
- he grew up in Pharaoh's household
- he killed and Egyptian and went into hiding
- he led Israel out of Egypt and through the Red Sea
- he received the 10 commandments
And he saw a bush that was on fire but not burned up. A very strange sight. But even stranger: the living God spoke to him from the flames.
That puzzling scene has the help we need so that we don't nullify the meaning and the experience of Christmas.
1. Moses meets Jesus
Who is this in the burning bush? It’s “the angel of the LORD”. Who’s that? Well, to cut a long story short: it’s the eternal Son of God - it’s Jesus before he became Jesus, before he took human flesh and was born in Bethlehem.
What does this tell us about him? What does it tell us about God?
It tells us that he is more holy than we could ever begin to imagine. Greater, far more majestic, far more pure. Untouched by the stains of sin we know all too well.
This is the living God. The creator of all. The eternal One. In his radiant holiness he’s not to be messed with. You need to take off your sandals, Moses.
Similar things happen in the NT:
We need to put away those cosy, air-brushed ideas of Jesus that keep him in the stable. He is burning, blazing light.
Moses is puzzled by the sight of the bush not being consumed by the flames so he goes to have a look (anything to break the monotony of watching the sheep). Curiosity gets the better of him but he is blown away when the Lord speaks to him from the flames: "Moses hid his face, because he was afraid to look at God."
Who is this in the burning bush? It’s “the angel of the LORD”. Who’s that? Well, to cut a long story short: it’s the eternal Son of God - it’s Jesus before he became Jesus, before he took human flesh and was born in Bethlehem.
What does this tell us about him? What does it tell us about God?
It tells us that he is more holy than we could ever begin to imagine. Greater, far more majestic, far more pure. Untouched by the stains of sin we know all too well.
This is the living God. The creator of all. The eternal One. In his radiant holiness he’s not to be messed with. You need to take off your sandals, Moses.
Similar things happen in the NT:
- When Peter realises who Jesus is, he falls at Jesus’ knees and urges him to go away, “for I am a sinful man.”
- When the guards realise who this man in the garden is, they fall to the ground. Those possessed by demons do likewise.
- When John sees the risen, glorified Christ in a vision, he falls to the ground "as though dead".
We need to put away those cosy, air-brushed ideas of Jesus that keep him in the stable. He is burning, blazing light.
Moses is puzzled by the sight of the bush not being consumed by the flames so he goes to have a look (anything to break the monotony of watching the sheep). Curiosity gets the better of him but he is blown away when the Lord speaks to him from the flames: "Moses hid his face, because he was afraid to look at God."
Moses meets the Son of God and he is aflame with fear at the sight. Christmas ought, in its own inimitable way, have something of that effect on us. We’re not dealing with a doll in the manger; this is full and proper deity, Almighty God.
2. The Holy One comes down to save
But what’s the point of this? Is God saying to Moses, ‘You can’t ever come close to me? You can’t know me, can’t ever be anything but terrified in my presence?’
No, it's not about that. Look at these words:
“I have indeed seen the misery of my people in Egypt. I have heard them crying out because of their slave drivers, and I am concerned about their suffering. So I have come down to rescue them from the hand of the Egyptians and to bring them up out of that land into a good and spacious land, a land flowing with milk and honey.”
He has seen the misery of the people - the injustice and the pain, the terrible struggle with all the powers of chaos. He has heard their cries.
This is deeply moving. Jesus sees us and hears our cries. The places no-one else sees, the depths of our hearts, the canyons of our souls - he sees. And the cries that never break the silence but continually break our hearts - he hears.
But that’s not all. Listen to this - listen and be amazed and astonished and comforted beyond all your hopes:
He has seen the misery of the people - the injustice and the pain, the terrible struggle with all the powers of chaos. He has heard their cries.
This is deeply moving. Jesus sees us and hears our cries. The places no-one else sees, the depths of our hearts, the canyons of our souls - he sees. And the cries that never break the silence but continually break our hearts - he hears.
But that’s not all. Listen to this - listen and be amazed and astonished and comforted beyond all your hopes:
“I have come down to rescue them.”
Far from keeping them away from him, he wants them to be his people, to belong to him. The fact the bush isn’t burnt up is a sign and a picture of his people not being consumed by his holy presence.
He wants us - really and truly - to be able to live with him. Not consumed but comforted and consoled. And then sent into the world, bearing glad tidings.
Far from keeping them away from him, he wants them to be his people, to belong to him. The fact the bush isn’t burnt up is a sign and a picture of his people not being consumed by his holy presence.
He wants us - really and truly - to be able to live with him. Not consumed but comforted and consoled. And then sent into the world, bearing glad tidings.
This is the most amazing foreshadowing of Christmas - the language and the imagery: coming down, in order to save. Jesus comes into the world (comes down from heaven) to be the Saviour. That's why he's given the name Jesus, after all.
He didn’t come into the world to mock us in our unholiness but to make it possible for us to finally live in God’s presence, by taking away - carrying on his back - all that ever stood against us, everything that put our accounts in desperate debt.
Not to be burnt-up by his holy light but to live within it - to live in the light of his holy glory, to bathe our souls in it, to allow ourselves to be healed by it. Forgiven. Cleansed. Purged and purified.
That glorious prospect is only heightened by the reality of his holiness. He wants us to be his children. Astonishing.
Not to be burnt-up by his holy light but to live within it - to live in the light of his holy glory, to bathe our souls in it, to allow ourselves to be healed by it. Forgiven. Cleansed. Purged and purified.
That glorious prospect is only heightened by the reality of his holiness. He wants us to be his children. Astonishing.
He came down to rescue. Let’s finish by thinking about that.
3. The rescue
Israel's rescue would be through terrible plagues falling on Egypt, as punishment for the sin of standing against God's plans for the world (this was never just about Israel).
And Jesus? How does he save?
By taking the plague and the punishment upon himself. Christ was made a curse for us, when he hung on the tree. “Noel, Noel, the story of amazing love.” Yes indeed, Chris Tomlin.
Here is where it gets really real. We can't keep him as a baby in our mind's eye. Yes, people do that with their children - bring out the old photos, when they were tiny children, and smile with warm nostalgia.
But we must not do that with Jesus.
He came down to save - and saving meant the cross: the pain and the shame, the agony and the darkness. He allowed himself to be plunged into it to rescue us.
(Remember that powerful scene in the Christmas Day video, of the boy going into the mouth of the serpent?)
Into your world this Christmas - into your life, with all its complications - a voice is calling. It’s the voice of the Holy One. He’s calling you take off your shoes and to then come near, not to stay away. To bow in honour and worship of the child who became the man Christ Jesus.
Coming to him won’t destroy you, it will remake you.
And he’s calling you to come to him, afresh, as a Christian, from all the failures that grieve your heart and with all the burdens you carry. They will not - they cannot - consign you to endless rejection, because Jesus loves you freely and heals from all wandering and shame.
He commissions us to walk in the light, as he is in the light. Saved and renewed, in awe of the living God. With his light shining out from within us, into such a needy world as this.
Our eyes are blinded by that light and yet, strangely and wonderfully, we’re able to see better and more clearly than ever before. Because we’re seeing the burning and beautiful glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.
The one who has now come down, to rescue us.
Friday, 25 December 2020
On Christmas Day (Joy in the Journey 74)
Christmas Day! Here at last. After all the suffering of this year, all the pain and confusion, we can today remember that the Word was made a bonny baby boy, chortling in his crib, bathed in light and untouchable joy and ethereal warmth. Or so it seems and so we oft-times picture the incarnation of our Lord.
But that is not the truth. That picture does not hold the hope we need and it cannot contain the truth about the Son of God. No - this is the witness of Scripture:
"The Word was made flesh and made his dwelling among us."
He was made flesh - made like us in every way, except for sin. Made to feel the cold, the hurts, the longings and the agonies of life in a such a world as this. Not exempt, but frail and breakable. Able to be crushed on the cross, pulped by Pilate's henchmen. Not evading evil but putting himself into its hands, to do its worst to him. Not hiding away from the horrors of sin but standing up, up from the trenches into the full force of enemy fire.
And being made flesh, he made his dwelling among us. Not apart from us. Not a distant neighbour that no-one ever really sees or gets to know. No, dwelling among us, such that those closest to him could speak of him and his life with complete authority.
You might know that the original language uses the term tabernacled among us. It's quite a word. It points to Jesus as the true temple, the fulfilment of the tabernacle from the wilderness days. The place where God is present with the people, where their sins would be exposed and atoned for. The place of fire and light, of judgement and mercy, of holy, saving love. All this, and so much more, in the unique Word that was made flesh.
We don't need more schmaltz and sentimentality. We need a Saviour. We need the Word made flesh. We need him to live among us, to make his home in us, as the true dwelling-place of God. That's why he came and that's what he is, in the glory that is radiant with truth and grace.
May this be, in the kindness of God, a truly happy Christmas!
************
After all pleasures as I rid one day,
My horse and I, both tir’d, bodie and minde,
With full crie of affections, quite astray,
I took up in the next inne I could finde,
There when I came, whom found I but my deare,
My dearest Lord, expecting till the grief
Of pleasures brought me to him, readie there
To be all passengers most sweet relief?
O Thou, whose glorious, yet contracted light,
Wrapt in night’s mantle, stole into a manger;
Since my dark soul and brutish is thy right,
To Man of all beasts be not thou a stranger:
Furnish & deck my soul, that thou mayst have
A better lodging than a rack or grave.
(Christmas (1) by George Herbert, 1593-1633)
Tuesday, 22 December 2020
Filling the hungry with good things (Joy in the Journey 73)
Mary's song, the Magnificat (Luke 1:46-55), extols the virtues of the God of reversals, who "brings down rulers from their thrones but lifts up the humble". The way of the world, long established by power-brokers and wheeler-dealers, is being over-turned through the coming of the Messiah. To pander to and pamper the privileged is not his way. He doesn't play those games. When the powerful preen themselves they show who they belong to, whose values they have enshrined in their hearts, and whose destiny they will share.
The way of the Most High, the road less travelled, is the one that is exemplified in the Christmas events - the high and mighty are by-passed and put on notice that a new King has been born, a different kind of King. With his coming, "the darkness is passing and the true light is already shining" (1 John 2:8).
And within Mary's song of exaltation there is a statement of the most profound joy and lasting satisfaction for all who know their need: "He has filled the hungry with good things". By contrast, those whose trust is in their wealth, and are deceived by its riches, will be "sent empty away," finally betrayed by what held their trust. But those who are denied by the powerful, who see and own their inner poverty, who feel the desperation of a hunger that can only be met by knowing the living God - well, they will discover in the Lord the deepest reality of life in all its fulness.
This year has been harrowing for so many people and for all kinds of reasons. Emotionally, mentally, physically and economically, it has been a time of relentless stress and many have been stretched beyond breaking point. The deep anguish brought on by the pressures of the pandemic has taken the heaviest toll. And within the faceless statistics we are presented with each day are hungry souls, starving for hope and meaning and mercy. Mary's testimony, in these simple but sublime words, is that those who come to the Lord honestly seeking him in their hunger will be filled.
That isn't a promise of green pastures all the way. It isn't a cheap and cheerful façade behind which real sorrows have to be hidden. This is the promise of God that he will himself come and inhabit the human heart, to beautify the broken, restoring precious lives and making them glow, for "those who look to him are radiant, their faces are never covered with shame." (Ps.34:5) Filled, finally, to the measure of all the fulness of God, in the shoreless ocean of his love.
Tasting and seeing even the smallest part of that glorious destiny, we say with Mary,
"My soul glorifies the Lord
and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour."
************
The way of the Most High, the road less travelled, is the one that is exemplified in the Christmas events - the high and mighty are by-passed and put on notice that a new King has been born, a different kind of King. With his coming, "the darkness is passing and the true light is already shining" (1 John 2:8).
And within Mary's song of exaltation there is a statement of the most profound joy and lasting satisfaction for all who know their need: "He has filled the hungry with good things". By contrast, those whose trust is in their wealth, and are deceived by its riches, will be "sent empty away," finally betrayed by what held their trust. But those who are denied by the powerful, who see and own their inner poverty, who feel the desperation of a hunger that can only be met by knowing the living God - well, they will discover in the Lord the deepest reality of life in all its fulness.
This year has been harrowing for so many people and for all kinds of reasons. Emotionally, mentally, physically and economically, it has been a time of relentless stress and many have been stretched beyond breaking point. The deep anguish brought on by the pressures of the pandemic has taken the heaviest toll. And within the faceless statistics we are presented with each day are hungry souls, starving for hope and meaning and mercy. Mary's testimony, in these simple but sublime words, is that those who come to the Lord honestly seeking him in their hunger will be filled.
That isn't a promise of green pastures all the way. It isn't a cheap and cheerful façade behind which real sorrows have to be hidden. This is the promise of God that he will himself come and inhabit the human heart, to beautify the broken, restoring precious lives and making them glow, for "those who look to him are radiant, their faces are never covered with shame." (Ps.34:5) Filled, finally, to the measure of all the fulness of God, in the shoreless ocean of his love.
Tasting and seeing even the smallest part of that glorious destiny, we say with Mary,
"My soul glorifies the Lord
and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour."
************
Tell out, my soul, the greatness of the Lord!
Unnumbered blessings, give my spirit voice;
tender to me the promise of his word;
in God my Saviour shall my heart rejoice.
Tell out, my soul, the greatness of his Name!
Make known his might, the deeds his arm has done;
his mercy sure, from age to age to same;
his holy Name--the Lord, the Mighty One.
Tell out, my soul, the greatness of his might!
Powers and dominions lay their glory by.
Proud hearts and stubborn wills are put to flight,
the hungry fed, the humble lifted high.
Tell out, my soul, the glories of his word!
Firm is his promise, and his mercy sure.
Tell out, my soul, the greatness of the Lord
to children's children and for evermore!
(Timothy Dudley-Smith, 1926-)
Monday, 21 December 2020
Don't drive the people away (Ambrose)
I had been like a gentle lamb led to the slaughter. (Jeremiah 11:19)
(James Stuart Bell, Awakening Faith, Day 355)
If the highest goal of virtue is the betterment of the most people, gentleness is the loveliest of all, which does not hurt even those it condemns, and makes those it condemns worthy of forgiveness. Moreover, it is the only virtue that has led to the growth of the church, which the Lord established at the price of his own blood, embodying the gentleness of heaven. Seeking the redemption of all, he speaks in a gentle voice that people’s ears can endure, under which their hearts do not sink, nor their spirits tremble.
If you endeavour to improve the faults of human weakness, you should bear this weakness on your own shoulders and let it weigh upon you. For we read in the Gospel that the shepherd carried the weary sheep and did not cast it off (Luke 15:5). And Solomon says, “Do not be overly righteous” (Eccl. 7:16), for restraint should soften righteousness. For how can people whom you despise, who think that they will be an object of contempt and not of compassion, feel safe to seek healing from you, their physician?
The Lord Jesus had compassion on us in order to call us to himself and not frighten us away. He came in meekness and humility, and so he said, “Come to me, all you that labour and are heavy laden, and I will refresh you” (Matt. 11:28). So the Lord gives rest and does not shut out nor cast off and rightly chose disciples that would interpret his will, which is to gather together and not drive away the people of God.Ambrose
(James Stuart Bell, Awakening Faith, Day 355)
Friday, 18 December 2020
Six Recognitions of the Lord (Mary Oliver)
1.
I know a lot of fancy words.
I tear them from my heart and my tongue.
Then I pray.
2.
Lord God, mercy is in your hands, pour
me a little. And tenderness too. My
need is great. Beauty walks so freely
and with such gentleness. Impatience puts
a halter on my face and I run away over
the green fields wanting your voice, your
tenderness, but having to do with only
the sweet grasses of the fields against
my body. When I first found you I was
filled with light, now the darkness grows
and it is filled with crooked things, bitter
and weak, each one bearing my name.
3.
I lounge on the grass, that's all. So
simple. Then I lie back until I am
inside the cloud that is just above me
but very high, and shaped like a fish.
Or, perhaps not. Then I enter the place
of not-thinking, not-remembering, not-
wanting. When the blue jay cries out his
riddle, in his carping voice, I return.
But I go back, the threshold is always
near. Over and back, over and back. Then
I rise. Maybe I rub my face as though I
have been asleep. But I have not been
asleep. I have been, as I say, inside
the cloud, or, perhaps, the lily floating
on the water. Then I go back to town,
to my own house, my own life, which has
now become brighter and simpler, some-
where I have never been before.
4.
Of course I have always known you
are present in the clouds, and the
black oak I especially adore, and the
wings of birds. But you are present
too in the body, listening to the body,
teaching it to live, instead of all
that touching, with disembodied joy.
We do not do this easily. We have
lived so long in the heavens of touch,
and we maintain our mutability, our
physicality, even as we begin to
apprehend the other world. Slowly we
make our appreciative response.
Slowly appreciation swells to
astonishment. And we enter the dialogue
of our lives that is beyond all under-
standing or conclusion. It is mystery,
It is love of God. It is obedience.
5.
Oh, feed me this day, Holy Spirit, with
the fragrance of the fields and the
freshness of the oceans which you have
made, and help me to hear and to hold
in all dearness those exacting and wonderful
words of our Lord Jesus Christ, saying:
Follow me.
6.
Every summer the lilies rise
and open their white hands until they almost
cover the black waters of the pond. And I give
thanks but it does not seem like adequate thanks,
it doesn't seem
festive enough or constant enough, nor does the
name of the Lord or the words of thanksgiving come
into it often enough. Everywhere I go I am
treated like royalty, which I am not. I thirst and
am given water. My eyes thirst and I am given
the white lilies on the black water. My heart
sings but the apparatus of singing doesn't convey
half what it feels and means. In spring there's hope,
in fall the exquisite, necessary diminishing, in
winter I am as sleepy as any beast in its
leafy cave, but in summer there is
everywhere the luminous sprawl of gifts,
the hospitality of the Lord and my
inadequate answers as I row my beautiful, temporary body
through this water-lily world.
I know a lot of fancy words.
I tear them from my heart and my tongue.
Then I pray.
2.
Lord God, mercy is in your hands, pour
me a little. And tenderness too. My
need is great. Beauty walks so freely
and with such gentleness. Impatience puts
a halter on my face and I run away over
the green fields wanting your voice, your
tenderness, but having to do with only
the sweet grasses of the fields against
my body. When I first found you I was
filled with light, now the darkness grows
and it is filled with crooked things, bitter
and weak, each one bearing my name.
3.
I lounge on the grass, that's all. So
simple. Then I lie back until I am
inside the cloud that is just above me
but very high, and shaped like a fish.
Or, perhaps not. Then I enter the place
of not-thinking, not-remembering, not-
wanting. When the blue jay cries out his
riddle, in his carping voice, I return.
But I go back, the threshold is always
near. Over and back, over and back. Then
I rise. Maybe I rub my face as though I
have been asleep. But I have not been
asleep. I have been, as I say, inside
the cloud, or, perhaps, the lily floating
on the water. Then I go back to town,
to my own house, my own life, which has
now become brighter and simpler, some-
where I have never been before.
4.
Of course I have always known you
are present in the clouds, and the
black oak I especially adore, and the
wings of birds. But you are present
too in the body, listening to the body,
teaching it to live, instead of all
that touching, with disembodied joy.
We do not do this easily. We have
lived so long in the heavens of touch,
and we maintain our mutability, our
physicality, even as we begin to
apprehend the other world. Slowly we
make our appreciative response.
Slowly appreciation swells to
astonishment. And we enter the dialogue
of our lives that is beyond all under-
standing or conclusion. It is mystery,
It is love of God. It is obedience.
5.
Oh, feed me this day, Holy Spirit, with
the fragrance of the fields and the
freshness of the oceans which you have
made, and help me to hear and to hold
in all dearness those exacting and wonderful
words of our Lord Jesus Christ, saying:
Follow me.
6.
Every summer the lilies rise
and open their white hands until they almost
cover the black waters of the pond. And I give
thanks but it does not seem like adequate thanks,
it doesn't seem
festive enough or constant enough, nor does the
name of the Lord or the words of thanksgiving come
into it often enough. Everywhere I go I am
treated like royalty, which I am not. I thirst and
am given water. My eyes thirst and I am given
the white lilies on the black water. My heart
sings but the apparatus of singing doesn't convey
half what it feels and means. In spring there's hope,
in fall the exquisite, necessary diminishing, in
winter I am as sleepy as any beast in its
leafy cave, but in summer there is
everywhere the luminous sprawl of gifts,
the hospitality of the Lord and my
inadequate answers as I row my beautiful, temporary body
through this water-lily world.
(Thirst, pp.26-28)
The Deal God Didn't Make And Cannot Keep (Joy in the Journey 72)
Psalm 44 expresses deep agony. The nation is in turmoil and, seemingly, a sitting duck for its enemies. They not only feel weak, they are weak, desperately so. And they are gloated over with great glee.
It hadn’t always been like this. In times past, things had been far more positive, far more expansive and assured. Looking back from the rusting present, they were the golden days, shiny and inviolable.
And the writer of the psalm knows where the blame lies. The fault can be laid, fairly and squarely, at the door of the God to whom they belong. The living God, the God of all the earth; the unconquerable, all-powerful God of covenant faithfulness. And right now, this God is acting deaf, playing dead and covering his eyes to their harsh reality. In a devastating charge, he is accused of having sold his people for a pittance and been none the richer for it.
What galls the writer is that this would be understandable if they had acted treacherously towards him, but they hadn’t. They had been faithful to the covenant; they had kept their part of the bargain - and he had reneged on his (see Lev. 26:3-8). And so he must be roused, awakened to their plight, stirred to take his own vocation seriously. Wasn’t it he who said they would be his people and he their God? Then it’s time to make good on his commitment.
Those are serious charges against a God whose character is supposedly marked to the core by faithfulness and integrity. But this is a deal he did not make and cannot keep.
The apostle Paul quotes verse 22 in Rom. 8:36 as he speaks of his and his colleagues' experiences in serving Jesus. They are not spared the suffering; in fact, they’re like sheep ready to be slaughtered. Nevertheless, "in all these things", in all the struggles and sorrows, in all the perplexities and alarms, they are more than conquerors in Jesus.
The experience of God’s people, as much in the Old Testament as in the New, would be traced along the arc of suffering for the sake of God’s purposes in the world. That would, of course, be uniquely fulfilled by Jesus the Messiah. Yet, whilst not replicating his atoning work, his people nevertheless share in bearing his marks upon their bodies and fill up his sufferings in their own flesh (Gal 6:17; Col 1:24).
The (gospel) mystery of the anguish of Psalm 44 is that, if it wasn’t discipline for sin, then it must have a sanctifying - that is, a missional - dimension to it. The work of God progresses in the world not through sweeping all his enemies away in military victory but by the triumph of love over evil, even in the face of slaughter.
It hadn’t always been like this. In times past, things had been far more positive, far more expansive and assured. Looking back from the rusting present, they were the golden days, shiny and inviolable.
And the writer of the psalm knows where the blame lies. The fault can be laid, fairly and squarely, at the door of the God to whom they belong. The living God, the God of all the earth; the unconquerable, all-powerful God of covenant faithfulness. And right now, this God is acting deaf, playing dead and covering his eyes to their harsh reality. In a devastating charge, he is accused of having sold his people for a pittance and been none the richer for it.
What galls the writer is that this would be understandable if they had acted treacherously towards him, but they hadn’t. They had been faithful to the covenant; they had kept their part of the bargain - and he had reneged on his (see Lev. 26:3-8). And so he must be roused, awakened to their plight, stirred to take his own vocation seriously. Wasn’t it he who said they would be his people and he their God? Then it’s time to make good on his commitment.
Those are serious charges against a God whose character is supposedly marked to the core by faithfulness and integrity. But this is a deal he did not make and cannot keep.
The apostle Paul quotes verse 22 in Rom. 8:36 as he speaks of his and his colleagues' experiences in serving Jesus. They are not spared the suffering; in fact, they’re like sheep ready to be slaughtered. Nevertheless, "in all these things", in all the struggles and sorrows, in all the perplexities and alarms, they are more than conquerors in Jesus.
The experience of God’s people, as much in the Old Testament as in the New, would be traced along the arc of suffering for the sake of God’s purposes in the world. That would, of course, be uniquely fulfilled by Jesus the Messiah. Yet, whilst not replicating his atoning work, his people nevertheless share in bearing his marks upon their bodies and fill up his sufferings in their own flesh (Gal 6:17; Col 1:24).
The (gospel) mystery of the anguish of Psalm 44 is that, if it wasn’t discipline for sin, then it must have a sanctifying - that is, a missional - dimension to it. The work of God progresses in the world not through sweeping all his enemies away in military victory but by the triumph of love over evil, even in the face of slaughter.
And yet, gloriously, in the face of such malevolence "nothing can separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord". Nothing will prevent the whole cosmos being flooded by the light of his glory, as the waters cover the sea, even when the daily reality is that his people ”are considered as sheep to be slaughtered”.
The truth was, he hadn’t forsaken his people; he hadn’t refused to keep the bargain they believed he had made with them. There never was a promise of seamless victories over all hardship and all enemies. Rather, their experience would presage the coming of the Messiah, whose sufferings would be for a world of sin. And those who suffer with him will have the Spirit of glory and of God resting upon them as he leads them in the unbreakable security of his love. We have his word on that.
The serpent would strike their heel but, in the Messiah, they would crush his head, through the gospel of the God of peace (Romans 16:20).
The truth was, he hadn’t forsaken his people; he hadn’t refused to keep the bargain they believed he had made with them. There never was a promise of seamless victories over all hardship and all enemies. Rather, their experience would presage the coming of the Messiah, whose sufferings would be for a world of sin. And those who suffer with him will have the Spirit of glory and of God resting upon them as he leads them in the unbreakable security of his love. We have his word on that.
The serpent would strike their heel but, in the Messiah, they would crush his head, through the gospel of the God of peace (Romans 16:20).
************
How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,
Is laid for your faith in His excellent word!
What more can He say than to you He hath said,
You who, unto Jesus, for refuge have fled?
In every condition, in sickness, in health,
In poverty's vale or abounding in wealth;
At home or abroad, on the land, on the sea,
As days may demand, shall thy strength ever be.
Fear not, I am with thee, O be not dismayed!
I, I am thy God, and will still give thee aid;
I’ll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand,
Upheld by My righteous, omnipotent hand.
“When through the deep waters I call thee to go,
The rivers of woe shall not thee overflow;
For I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless,
And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.
When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie,
My grace, all sufficient, shall be thy supply;
The flame shall not hurt thee; I only design
Thy dross to consume, and thy gold to refine.
The soul that on Jesus has leaned for repose,
I will not, I will not desert to its foes;
That soul, though all hell should endeavour to shake,
I’ll never, no never, no never forsake!
('K' in Rippon's Selection, 1787)
Thursday, 17 December 2020
What does 'all things' in Romans 8:32 mean?
Jim Packer suggests it means this:
The meaning of ‘he will give us all things’ can be put thus: one day we shall see that nothing – literally nothing – that could have increased our eternal happiness has been denied us and that nothing – literally nothing – that could have reduced that happiness has been left with us. What higher assurance do we want than that?
Packer, J.I.. Knowing God Through the Year (p. 297). John Murray Press. Kindle Edition.
Wednesday, 16 December 2020
In praise of a really cheap bible
Back in the spring - Lockdown Spring - I bought a new bible from 10ofThose. I had been using a single-column NIV but was struggling with how deep it was (the physical bible, not the contents - I mean, they're also deep and, yes, I struggle with them, too). The bible I bought was the NIV, British spelling (yay, no more roosters), 2-column, grey faux-leather with lime green zip. This one:
I paid £7.99 for it. I didn't really expect much, to be honest. But it's become my regular reading bible over the past months and I really like it (it's currently £9.99, btw - hardly extortionate).
The best bit is probably the 9-point text, which is a great size (11-point would be even more fab but that would make this a much bigger bible). The text is nicely dark and the paper pretty white giving great contrast. The paper quality isn't tops but this is a bible for under £8. Yes, there's bleed-through but that's pretty standard on all but the very priciest bibles.
I knew, however, that I was going to hate the zip - open in hand I'd always found a zip got in the way. And when perched on a shelf in the pew at church. But I don't hate it. It's not a problem (and, actually, I really like the splash of colour it brings to the bible). I haven't been using it in a pew, it's just been sat open on my desk. We'll see how that goes.
Durability? I dunno, can't say. But the price makes me feel comfortable with hauling it around and not worrying too much (the zip means the pages will be protected - another win for the zip).
I do still like a single-column layout but here's something else I've noticed: reading muscle-memory (it's got a proper name but you can go look that up) has meant I actually enjoy this double-column edition. I suspect that's because it seems to be pretty near to my old beloved 1984 NIV hardback, popular with helps, from back in the late 80s. Just a hunch.
Overall, what more can I say? It's what's inside that counts. And this package helps in getting there.
Prayer in an unhealed world
(Notes for Tuesday evening's prayer meeting)
And notice, for our encouragement to continue faithful in prayer, just as the disciples' disappointment was turned to amazement, so too we are assured in Ps.126 that,
"Those who sow with tears
will reap with songs of joy.
Those who go out weeping,
carrying seed to sow,
will return with songs of joy,
carrying sheaves with them."
The harvest may not be immediate but it remains assured. Our tears are bottled, our prayers are heard. And God's real and true and perfecting answer will be given.
And when the world is finally filled with light and bathed in blessing, as our sorrow is turned to gladness, we will again recognise whose world it always was and is, whose hand directed and whose voice commanded. "It is the Lord!" will then pour from our hearts as an overflowing spring of joy, welling up in eternal life.
The resurrection of our Lord Jesus is (along with his death upon the cross) the hinge on which history turns. A new world is birthed on the first day of a new creation week (Jn. 20:1). Death has been overcome, sin has been defeated.
Jesus shows his hands and speaks his peace into the hearts of his astonished disciples (Jn. 20:19f). Nothing could ever be the same again. Invincible hope has entered the cosmos.
But the scene immediately following in John 21 brings us down to earth a little. The disciples decide to spend a night on the lake and, as experienced fishermen, would have reasonable confidence that their nets will fill up with fish.
But the scene immediately following in John 21 brings us down to earth a little. The disciples decide to spend a night on the lake and, as experienced fishermen, would have reasonable confidence that their nets will fill up with fish.
Except they don't. And if they had expected the resurrection of Jesus to mean an immediate end to the futility of life in this world, they would have been sorely disappointed.
The same remains true for us. A new creation has dawned, the sun is rising above the horizon, but the full light of day is yet to appear. This world is not yet put right in every respect. There remains much distress and dysfunction.
But our Lord comes to his wearied disciples and directs them, instructs them, leads them, so that there might yet be fruit for their labours, a catch to take home to their hungry families. In this not-yet-renewed, still-broken world, with sorrows and struggles all around us, the Saviour still comes to us as his people and continues to meet us in the labours that are all but unavailing, lifting the burden and bringing hope and blessing.
He directs us according to his wisdom, placing us in the theatre of broken dreams, at the sharp end of grief and loss, emptiness and pain, and tells us to cast our nets into those waters. When we cannot enter others' lives, he calls us to the agony of prayer, longing and pleading for those who are lost, weeping with those who weep. Because this world is not yet finally healed and restored.
Andy Le Peau writes that "Christ is already present with those who suffer, who grieve, who are anxious, who rejoice in a good outcome. How can we join him as he offers grace to them?" (Andrew T. Le Peau, Write Better, p.172)
We join him as we pray.
The same remains true for us. A new creation has dawned, the sun is rising above the horizon, but the full light of day is yet to appear. This world is not yet put right in every respect. There remains much distress and dysfunction.
But our Lord comes to his wearied disciples and directs them, instructs them, leads them, so that there might yet be fruit for their labours, a catch to take home to their hungry families. In this not-yet-renewed, still-broken world, with sorrows and struggles all around us, the Saviour still comes to us as his people and continues to meet us in the labours that are all but unavailing, lifting the burden and bringing hope and blessing.
He directs us according to his wisdom, placing us in the theatre of broken dreams, at the sharp end of grief and loss, emptiness and pain, and tells us to cast our nets into those waters. When we cannot enter others' lives, he calls us to the agony of prayer, longing and pleading for those who are lost, weeping with those who weep. Because this world is not yet finally healed and restored.
Andy Le Peau writes that "Christ is already present with those who suffer, who grieve, who are anxious, who rejoice in a good outcome. How can we join him as he offers grace to them?" (Andrew T. Le Peau, Write Better, p.172)
We join him as we pray.
And notice, for our encouragement to continue faithful in prayer, just as the disciples' disappointment was turned to amazement, so too we are assured in Ps.126 that,
"Those who sow with tears
will reap with songs of joy.
Those who go out weeping,
carrying seed to sow,
will return with songs of joy,
carrying sheaves with them."
The harvest may not be immediate but it remains assured. Our tears are bottled, our prayers are heard. And God's real and true and perfecting answer will be given.
And when the world is finally filled with light and bathed in blessing, as our sorrow is turned to gladness, we will again recognise whose world it always was and is, whose hand directed and whose voice commanded. "It is the Lord!" will then pour from our hearts as an overflowing spring of joy, welling up in eternal life.
Tuesday, 15 December 2020
Sanctified By The Truth? (Joy in the Journey 71)
It seems so very obvious: Jesus wants his people to be sanctified; that is, to be made holy. No grime, just goodness. No more tainted love, just pure and sincere devotion.
In fact, he prays for just that in his great prayer in John 17:17-19:
Sanctify them by the truth; your word is truth. As you sent me into the world, I have sent them into the world. For them I sanctify myself, that they too may be truly sanctified.
But what does he have in mind?
He links the sanctifying - the setting apart - of his disciples to his own act of being set apart: "for them I sanctify myself, that they may be truly sanctified". So, he made himself holy so that we too could be holy? Is that what this is saying? Wasn’t he already and always holy, anyhow?
The emphasis here works in a slightly different direction. Jesus is speaking about setting himself apart for doing God’s will, not making himself pure (that was never in doubt). He committed himself to this calling so that he might rescue people from sin, from the clutches of death and decay, and reconcile them to God, safely brought into his family. That's why he sanctified himself.
Sanctify them by the truth; your word is truth. As you sent me into the world, I have sent them into the world. For them I sanctify myself, that they too may be truly sanctified.
But what does he have in mind?
He links the sanctifying - the setting apart - of his disciples to his own act of being set apart: "for them I sanctify myself, that they may be truly sanctified". So, he made himself holy so that we too could be holy? Is that what this is saying? Wasn’t he already and always holy, anyhow?
The emphasis here works in a slightly different direction. Jesus is speaking about setting himself apart for doing God’s will, not making himself pure (that was never in doubt). He committed himself to this calling so that he might rescue people from sin, from the clutches of death and decay, and reconcile them to God, safely brought into his family. That's why he sanctified himself.
And he expressly states that, just as he had been sent into the world by the Father on that mission, and had responded by setting himself apart for it, so too is he sending his disciples into the world. That's why he is praying for them, that they - and the church in its collective experience - might also be sanctified, belonging to God and serving him and his plans of love. That they might be enabled and equipped to fulfil their calling to go into all the world with the good news. Set apart and sent out; that’s the church of Jesus Christ.
Notice, then, the crucial role played by the Bible in this: "sanctify them by the truth; your word is truth." As we read, listen to and meditate on scripture, the Spirit who breathed it out works it into us, aiming to make us more like Jesus. Yet not simply in terms of what we usually think of as holiness - clean hands and a pure heart, gentle words and gracious behaviour. Yes to all that, please God. But, crucially, becoming Christ-like in our commitment to, and sacrificial outworking of, the great mission of God. Set apart to be like the Saviour of the world, who came in humility, who lived the deepest compassion and offered himself in committed love.
If Jesus prayed for that, it would be good to add our Amen to it.
Notice, then, the crucial role played by the Bible in this: "sanctify them by the truth; your word is truth." As we read, listen to and meditate on scripture, the Spirit who breathed it out works it into us, aiming to make us more like Jesus. Yet not simply in terms of what we usually think of as holiness - clean hands and a pure heart, gentle words and gracious behaviour. Yes to all that, please God. But, crucially, becoming Christ-like in our commitment to, and sacrificial outworking of, the great mission of God. Set apart to be like the Saviour of the world, who came in humility, who lived the deepest compassion and offered himself in committed love.
If Jesus prayed for that, it would be good to add our Amen to it.
************
Lord, her watch Thy church is keeping;
When shall earth Thy rule obey?
When shall end the night of weeping?
When shall break the promised day?
See the whitening harvest languish,
Waiting still the labourers' toil;
Was it vain, Thy Son's deep anguish?
Shall the strong retain the spoil?
Tidings, sent to every creature,
Millions yet have never heard;
Can they hear without a preacher?
Lord Almighty, give the word:
Give the word; in every nation
Let the gospel trumpet sound,
Witnessing a world's salvation
To the earth's remotest bound.
Then the end; Thy church completed,
All Thy chosen gathered in,
With their King in glory seated,
Satan bound, and banished sin;
Gone for ever parting, weeping,
Hunger, sorrow, death, and pain:
Lo! her watch Thy church is keeping;
Come, Lord Jesus, come to reign!
(Henry Downton, 1818-85)
Friday, 11 December 2020
The Listening God (Joy in the Journey 70)
Eugene Peterson comments that, "Pastoral listening requires unhurried leisure, even if it's only for five minutes. Leisure is a quality of spirit, not a quantity of time. Only in that ambiance of leisure do persons know they are listened to with absolute seriousness, treated with dignity and importance. Speaking to people does not have the same personal intensity as listening to them." (The Unbusy Pastor)
Peterson's words may expose our hurt and disappointment, because we know we have not been listened to, nor have we listened, quite like that. But alongside the regret, we might also find an echo and a resonance in our spirit that comes from knowing that the living God is a listening God. Such is how he is portrayed within the pages of scripture.
Of course, he is also the speaking God who has an awful lot to say - not because he is 'gabby' but because his words are the expression of his infinite life and the bestowal of it. But the God who speaks is also the God who listens to his creatures. That is quite astonishing.
Our words have so little to offer to him - no wisdom he does not already possess; no knowledge that isn't eternally his; no insights he has been sorely lacking. We have nothing to add; we cannot utter anything truly original. And yet he is pleased to hear us and to listen with the full weight of his being.
He invites us into his presence to present our requests to him, with thanksgiving; to ask, to seek, to knock; to call upon him, to give him no rest, to plead urgently for justice and mercy and grace to help in times of need. All this and much more besides. Not to furnish him with things he needs to know but to honour our own being as thinking, feeling, speaking creatures, made in his image and likeness.
Knowing this, David was able to pray,
Listen to my prayer, O God,
do not ignore my plea;
hear me and answer me. (Ps. 55:1)
You, LORD, hear the desire of the afflicted;
you encourage them, and you listen to their cry... (Ps. 10:17)
The God who already knows all things listens to us, takes the time to hear, to honour the dignity he bestowed upon us in creation. He is unhurried and untroubled. There is no clock to watch. There is no-one more important he needs to go see.
Which makes his invitation, "Call to me and I will answer you" (Jer. 33:3) far more than mere platitude. It comes with the full assurance of being seen and known and heard.
Few may understand us, but God our Father does, to the furthest edges of our souls. Our Lord Jesus faced all the temptations common to us and hears us as our great and sympathetic High Priest. The Holy Spirit searches our hearts, hearing and listening to their cries and longings.
He doesn't demand that we make sense as we pour out our hearts to him. He isn't scoring our coherence. He is our Father who listens, with unhurried leisure, to his children.
Peterson's words may expose our hurt and disappointment, because we know we have not been listened to, nor have we listened, quite like that. But alongside the regret, we might also find an echo and a resonance in our spirit that comes from knowing that the living God is a listening God. Such is how he is portrayed within the pages of scripture.
Of course, he is also the speaking God who has an awful lot to say - not because he is 'gabby' but because his words are the expression of his infinite life and the bestowal of it. But the God who speaks is also the God who listens to his creatures. That is quite astonishing.
Our words have so little to offer to him - no wisdom he does not already possess; no knowledge that isn't eternally his; no insights he has been sorely lacking. We have nothing to add; we cannot utter anything truly original. And yet he is pleased to hear us and to listen with the full weight of his being.
He invites us into his presence to present our requests to him, with thanksgiving; to ask, to seek, to knock; to call upon him, to give him no rest, to plead urgently for justice and mercy and grace to help in times of need. All this and much more besides. Not to furnish him with things he needs to know but to honour our own being as thinking, feeling, speaking creatures, made in his image and likeness.
Knowing this, David was able to pray,
Listen to my prayer, O God,
do not ignore my plea;
hear me and answer me. (Ps. 55:1)
You, LORD, hear the desire of the afflicted;
you encourage them, and you listen to their cry... (Ps. 10:17)
The God who already knows all things listens to us, takes the time to hear, to honour the dignity he bestowed upon us in creation. He is unhurried and untroubled. There is no clock to watch. There is no-one more important he needs to go see.
Which makes his invitation, "Call to me and I will answer you" (Jer. 33:3) far more than mere platitude. It comes with the full assurance of being seen and known and heard.
Few may understand us, but God our Father does, to the furthest edges of our souls. Our Lord Jesus faced all the temptations common to us and hears us as our great and sympathetic High Priest. The Holy Spirit searches our hearts, hearing and listening to their cries and longings.
He doesn't demand that we make sense as we pour out our hearts to him. He isn't scoring our coherence. He is our Father who listens, with unhurried leisure, to his children.
************
I love my Lord because He heard my voice;
My God, He listens to my prayer.
Because He hears me when I call on Him,
Through all my days I shall pray.
My soul was saved from death, my eyes from tears;
My feet now walk before the LORD;
Yet in despair I thought my end was near,
My faith in life disappeared.
What can I do to thank God for His love,
For all His benefits to me?
I will life up salvation's cup on high
And call on Him by His name.
My vows to Him I promise to fulfil,
To Him I sacrifice my life.
He freed me from the servitude of sin
And now I serve as His slave.
Unite in praise, great family of God,
His children, bring to Him your thanks.
City of peace, where God has made His home,
With one accord, praise His name!
(© Jonathan Barnes)
Thursday, 10 December 2020
Why Psalm 104 gets quoted in Hebrews 1
Hebrews is replete with quotations from the psalms. And maybe sometimes it seems like they've just been reached for as a repository of useful quotes. But, no, there's surely always more going on than that. We maybe just need to dig a little deeper.
Take Psalm 104 for instance. It makes an appearance in Hebrews 1 - only briefly and pretty routinely. The writer is arguing for the Son's superiority to angels and uses Psalm 104:4 to contrast what is said about angels there to what is said about the Son in Psalm 45. So far, so expected.
But is there any deeper reason for the selection of Psalm 104? Perhaps there is. That psalm in its place within the psalter acts as a prelude to the double-barrelled reciting of covenant history in Psalms 105 and 106. There, the history of Israel, from the call of Abraham to the wanderings in the wilderness, follows on from the celebration of creation in Ps.104.
And what follows in the next chapters of Hebrews? Especially in chapters 3 and 4, the focus is on Israel and their history, in particular the wilderness generation (through the lens of Psalm 95).
A simple collocation of ideas? Possibly. Neither Psalm 105 nor 106 is quoted in Hebrews, after all. But maybe it's further evidence for just how much the psalms helped forge the theological framework of the NT and its understanding of salvation history.
That would get my vote.
Wednesday, 9 December 2020
The Books That Got Me Through This Year
Ok, you're right, that title is a bit melodramatic. Point taken. But here are a few books that meant a great deal to me this year. In among all the other books that I get to read because of what I do, these books were special:
Wendell Berry, Stand By Me - I read other books by Berry this year, too, and loved each of them but the short stories in Stand By Me (some of which I'd read before) were so absorbing, like oceans of calm. Often bittersweet, never less than humane and earthed in God's good but now fractured creation, these stories wove their magic in my soul on many an evening.
Martyn Lloyd-Jones, Faith on Trial - sermons on Psalm 73. It's almost getting to the point where a book like this feels like it's from a bygone age, such is the whirling speed of life. But it was so timely, so completely poised with deep spiritual wisdom. Like gulping fresh air when you've been under water too long.
CS Lewis, Perelandra and Till We Have Faces - ok, this is not one book, it's two. But I read them almost simultaneously (which could have been complicated and confusing but somehow I managed to pull it off). TWHF was intriguing, being so well loved and held by many to be CSL's finest fiction. I thoroughly enjoyed it, too. Perelandra, the second of the sci-fi trilogy I've read this year, was by turns achingly beautiful and deeply distressing, on occasion opening up worlds of meaning and shockingly humbling.
J Todd Billings, The End of the Christian Life - written by a man with terminal cancer, this is elegant, thoughtful, pastoral wisdom at its finest. Reading it seemed to both slow time down and make it seem smaller, in light of eternal realities.
Alan Jacobs, Breaking Bread with the Dead - anything Jacobs writes is a joy to read but this was also timely (as in, for our times) and offers to help shift your perspective a few degrees. I'm so glad for it.
Marilynne Robinson, Jack and When I Was a Child I Read Books - another double A-side! It was inevitable that Jack would be in this list - such beauty and longing and sorrow - but I'm adding a book of essays, too, because they force you to slow down. They're not light reading but slowing down the mind to grapple with more than present crises was such a necessity.
Richard F Lovelace, Dynamics of Spiritual Life - this is now an older book (I'm suggesting 1979 is old only because Lovelace was writing from and for that moment in time) but remains so relevant. I don't really know enough in detail about the church history he deals with to make any informed assessment of his conclusions, and some of his predictions or hopes for the immediate future certainly don't seem to have transpired. But this is deservedly considered a classic. It rebalances thought even while pushing it further, embedding core realities more deeply and demanding they be reckoned with.
Graham Greene, Our Man in Havana - this is more by way of honourable mention, just because it made me laugh so much. I first read it when I was 17 and had a distant, 40-years-ago memory that it was enjoyable. For once, that kind of memory didn't let me down. A necessary means of escape.
There were probably more but these remain in my mind. Poetry by Christina Rossetti and Mary Oliver also figure highly but some things go without saying. And now they've been said.
Tuesday, 8 December 2020
Don't harden your hearts (Joy in the Journey 69)
Psalm 95 opens with verses of luscious praise to the living God, "the Rock of our salvation". They've often been used to open a worship service, calling us together and turning our eyes heavenwards.
It's such a shame, then, that the second half of the psalm spoils it, dissipates the warm glow and dampens the elevated spirit, as it moves from the call to worship to the clearest warning: "Don't harden your hearts."
The change of tenor and tone of voice is quite disturbing. A dark cloud has now crossed the face of the sun, a sinister chill has fallen and it feels like it's time to pack up and go inside. Such a shame, we were having a lovely morning.
Why the warning? And why does it so disturb and even disappoint us?
The Psalms aren't only for our comfort, they're also for our instruction and training in righteousness. They're scripture, after all. And the placement of this warning is inspired.
It reminds us of our continuing vulnerability to sin, even if we've been Christians for many years. If we're tempted to think, 'That's not me', we need to see how the psalm lays down a continuity between the people it was written to and those of the wilderness generation it refers to: "As you did...in the wilderness." They hadn't been there in person but they were of the same spirit, in the same need, from the same broken human stock.
Sometimes we close the door of our hearts to the Lord and his voice because of the weight of disappointment and duress we have known. Where is the promise, now, that he will not forsake us or let us down?
At other times, the slow-burn of temptation catches and begins to blaze and we find we're on the cusp of giving in to it. But how could we do that when we know Jesus has so loved us? By hardening our hearts, bolting the door.
Or we harden ourselves through small, decisive choices. They're barely visible to the naked eye, adjusting the set of our hearts by tiny degrees, but the long-term effect is to take us completely off course.
We need the warning.
But it's no accident that it comes after the opening half of the psalm, where the worship is sincere and compelling. Praise and the unfolding of the greatness of God - his person and work - are the necessary counterpoint to the urgent warning.
It's such a shame, then, that the second half of the psalm spoils it, dissipates the warm glow and dampens the elevated spirit, as it moves from the call to worship to the clearest warning: "Don't harden your hearts."
The change of tenor and tone of voice is quite disturbing. A dark cloud has now crossed the face of the sun, a sinister chill has fallen and it feels like it's time to pack up and go inside. Such a shame, we were having a lovely morning.
Why the warning? And why does it so disturb and even disappoint us?
The Psalms aren't only for our comfort, they're also for our instruction and training in righteousness. They're scripture, after all. And the placement of this warning is inspired.
It reminds us of our continuing vulnerability to sin, even if we've been Christians for many years. If we're tempted to think, 'That's not me', we need to see how the psalm lays down a continuity between the people it was written to and those of the wilderness generation it refers to: "As you did...in the wilderness." They hadn't been there in person but they were of the same spirit, in the same need, from the same broken human stock.
Sometimes we close the door of our hearts to the Lord and his voice because of the weight of disappointment and duress we have known. Where is the promise, now, that he will not forsake us or let us down?
At other times, the slow-burn of temptation catches and begins to blaze and we find we're on the cusp of giving in to it. But how could we do that when we know Jesus has so loved us? By hardening our hearts, bolting the door.
Or we harden ourselves through small, decisive choices. They're barely visible to the naked eye, adjusting the set of our hearts by tiny degrees, but the long-term effect is to take us completely off course.
We need the warning.
But it's no accident that it comes after the opening half of the psalm, where the worship is sincere and compelling. Praise and the unfolding of the greatness of God - his person and work - are the necessary counterpoint to the urgent warning.
These opening words put kindling into our hearts and light a fire of devotion - a bright and holy flame that brings before us, in the warmth of spiritual affection, the beauty and blessing of the living God. "For the LORD is the great God, the great King above all gods." He is "the LORD our Maker... And we are the people of his pasture, the flock under his care." Under the care of the Good Shepherd who laid down his life for his sheep.
The psalm is calling us to join in the song of praise, to come with thanksgiving and joyful gladness. Taking up that call has the capacity to re-order and reclaim our hearts, to keep them from the deadening deceitfulness of sin.
And, like the pure nard that Mary lavished on our Lord Jesus in readiness for his death, such devotion reaches others - "the whole house was filled with its fragrance" - and helps to sustain within each of us a softness and responsiveness of heart.
************
My eyes are dry,
The psalm is calling us to join in the song of praise, to come with thanksgiving and joyful gladness. Taking up that call has the capacity to re-order and reclaim our hearts, to keep them from the deadening deceitfulness of sin.
And, like the pure nard that Mary lavished on our Lord Jesus in readiness for his death, such devotion reaches others - "the whole house was filled with its fragrance" - and helps to sustain within each of us a softness and responsiveness of heart.
************
My eyes are dry,
My faith is old;
My heart is hard,
My heart is hard,
My prayers are cold.
And I know how
And I know how
I ought to be,
Alive to you
Alive to you
And dead to me.
O what can be done,
For an old hard like mine?
Soften it up
Soften it up
With oil and wine:
The oil is you,
The oil is you,
Your Spirit of love;
Please wash me anew,
Please wash me anew,
In the wine of your blood.
Keith Green (1958-82)
Keith Green (1958-82)
Monday, 7 December 2020
Apostasy and Recovery (Lovelace)
It appears that the recovery of apostate bodies is not only a possibility according to biblical teaching but that it is in fact the central theme of the history of redemption... If the implications of Romans 11 are stretched a little, it would almost seem that apostasy is a prerequisite for recovery and that the proponents of every formal orthodoxy must be allowed to show their share in human nature by a period of backsliding and decay, so that every mouth may be stopped and God's mercy vindicated.
Dynamics of Spiritual Life, p.302f
Whether you find yourself agreeing with Lovelace's assessment or not, the possibility is indeed a humbling one. It is also supremely hopeful.
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