Broken Alabaster Boxes

Discerning the will of God is never a frantic, clutching, fearful demand. We should never approach Him demanding, "Show me Your will," as if He is only here to be swayed by man's demands or insecure fears. His desire is never for us to arrive at His will in fear. Fear of man. Fear of circumstances. Fear of our own failings. But always in trust. He wants us to come to Him with open hands. "This, Father. Or this? What would you have me do? What would bring you the most glory?" And if we walk in His ways, if we do the small obediences here, He will never leave us without His will.  He will show us. He will not leave us without knowledge of what we ought to obey, then punish us for not obeying. Deep down, we must believe this.  His will is arrived at in complete trust in His character. In faith that He will guide. In obedience to the calling.

God never calls us beyond humble obedience to something greater. He never calls us beyond patience, humility, dying to self, kindness, righteousness. He never calls us to places where we are the star and never again must die. His way up is always down. The way closer to Christ is always death. Sanctification is always work. And those great obediences? Those great things you long to do for Him? There's the apostle Paul, stoned and shipwrecked. There's John, alone in the aisle of Patmos.  There's Corrie Ten Boom in a concentration camp. There's Jim Elliot floating dead in a river with an Auca spear thrust through him. There's Christ, hanging naked upon a cross. The great obediences? These, our examples. These our patterns. There will always be humble obedience before us. The choosing to die. The giving of self. The breaking of the will. And only then there is life.

I thirst. The anguished cry descended over the crowd, emitted by the tortured Man suspended.  I thirst. The cry of humanity.  To the Samaritan woman He had said, If you drink of me, if you drink of the water I give you, you will never thirst again. Yet in His humanness He thirsted.  He the Creator, yearning for water.  He the perfect, infinite God,  humbling Himself and asking for a drink. Acknowledging His physical thirst.  He Who spoke water into existence, asking for the life-sustaining liquid. He Who does not call us to unthirsty lives, but calls us to acknowledge our needs. Physical and spiritual. To humbly say, I thirst. And drink of the cool water of relief. 

"I am the bread of life: he that cometh to me shall never hunger...the bread that I will give is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world." I am the bread. Eat of me. The sustaining bread I call you to share is my flesh, my life laid down for the world.  Eat of this death. My death. And your death. My death for sins. Your death to self. Share what I have done for you, this bread, this death, and live. Eat of me, and I will be everything you need. Truly, life-sustaining bread. Filling every hunger. Quenching every thirst. As you continually eat of me, you will continually be filled, and never need hunger again.  This is not a idealistic whim. It is not some mystical illusion. It's truth. Obey Christ's call. Do your duty. Glorify your God. Die to self. Carry your cross. And you will be eating of His flesh, imitating His life. Not simply acknowledging Him, but obeying Him. Not looking at Christ, but being los...

There is this thing about life in the summer. It's a full out run. Panting, sweating, gasping. Most times it feels like we careen into Sunday and crash into our pew with a sigh of relief. We didn't die. Success. But we as a family have begun to keep a tryst in the crazy summer. A tryst with a fire ring and 8 lawn chairs on Saturday night. Sometimes smores. Sometimes biscuits filled with oozing pie filling and creamy whipped topping still warm and smoky. Always coffee. We sit. We look at each other. No jumping for the canner or powering through the tall green in the zero-turn. Not even one more weed pulled or green bean snapped. Sometimes, in exhaustion, we would rather slumber. Or perhaps that last unfinished project nags. But we choose to sit. To hear. To spend time. Because they are more important than the crazy summer. And our choice evidences that.  So that is what we do. Bright fire crackling. Bird wings whipering.  Frogs croaking. The sun sinking.  ...