“For a day in Your courts is better than a thousand.
I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God
Than dwell in the tents of wickedness.
For the Lord God is a sun and shield;
The Lord will give grace and glory;
No good thing will He withhold
From those who walk uprightly.”
Ps. 84:10-11
Ben is teaching on this passage this week at Deer Valley. We were discussing its significance. If you could have 1,000 days to do whatever you wanted, would you really rather spend just one day in the presence of God?
Our concept of You is so small. Our experience of You is so limited. Yet these things are our own fault. You long to reveal Yourself to us; You do so in thousands of ways, all day long, every day. You long for us to experience You; You call us to Yourself over and over. We are so busy with our little lives, letting the weight of the world eat up our moments, walking hunched with our eyes fixed on the ground in front of us. Just get through the day. Just finish this project. Just get the kids to bed. Just get the house clean. When I finish these things, then Lord…
Yet the psalmist knew the joy of You. I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God…
My God. He had tasted you, and he wanted more. “How lovely is Your tabernacle, O Lord of hosts! My soul longs, yes, even faints for the courts of the Lord; my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God” (v. 1).
Yesterday I met with Debbie D., a woman who radiates Your peace and presence. She is becoming a sort of mentor to me. She reminded me again that the most important thing is time with You. The way she spoke of You, as if she talks to You all day long and listens to You even more (she does)—I know this can only come from time at Your feet, dwelling in Your courts.
“Blessed are those who dwell in Your house;
They will still be praising You.
Blessed is the man whose strength is in You,
Whose heart is set on pilgrimage.
As they pass through the Valley of Baca,
They make it a spring;
The rain also covers it with pools.
They go from strength to strength;
Every one of them appears before God in Zion.”
Ps. 84: 4-8
I love the word pilgrimage. I love that this life is a sacred journey whose end is Your presence. Every step matters. You didn’t promise I wouldn’t go through the Valley of Weeping, but You did promise to (eventually) make it a spring. You did promise to take me from strength to strength. And best of all, You promised that one day I will appear before You. You are my sun and shield. You give me grace and glory. You give me all good things. I need to spend a day on each of these thoughts, drinking them in and understanding.
Oh Abba, we know so little of You. You long to do so much. Teach me what it all means. Draw me further up and further in. Let me know You.
The psalmist ends this way:
“O Lord of hosts,
Blessed is the man who trusts in You!” (v. 12)
Learning that complete trust, the trust that brings peace and rest, comes from dwelling in Your courts. As always, I think of Abby. That was her secret, and it radiated from her as it does from Debbie. She dwelt in Your courts; she didn’t just visit. Oh, she knew the secret of her Abba’s love, and she reveled in it. She had so much joy to share, so much love to give, because she gave herself to YOU first.
I’ve been catching glimpses of that glory, but I don’t want the trickle, I want the waterfall. Let it begin today. Let me dwell with You today. I trust You to carve out the time for me to sit at Your feet each day. Help me to see and to seize those moments.
“O Lord God of hosts, hear my prayer;
Give ear, O God of Jacob!
O God, behold our shield,
And look upon the face of Your anointed.” (vv. 8-9)
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
The tablet of the human heart
Just returned from the East Coast, where my family spent a week with my brother and his wife. I was privileged to witness Scott's graduation from Princeton University, where he received his doctorate in Music Composition. It was hard not to be overawed by the prestige and reputation of the Ivy League school. My mom overheard other parents discussing their children's futures as assistants to important politicians, doing "important" work for the country. As I wandered the beautiful campus, taking in its grandeur and size, I felt small and unimportant in comparison, just a small town mountain girl with her two kids and her job at a tiny school no one has ever heard of.
And yet, as the week passed and I absorbed more of this culture my brother lives in, I felt an emptiness around me. Though I was surrounded by prosperity, affluence, and success, much of it felt meaningless. I do not necessarily say this about Scott, who seems amazingly happy and content, though only he can tell whether his work brings him meaning, and I am convinced he will never find his true purpose without Christ. But as I observed the people around me, I was struck over and over by our human drive to find purpose and fulfillment in what we do . . . and in the futility of trying to find it apart from our identity in God. So much of what I saw was a form of reaching out, a searching cry for meaning, and as I listened, I heard only chaos, or worse, silence.
Yet I was in one of the cultural centers of our modern world, the heart of all that is considered "enlightened" and "free" and "tolerant." I was surrounded by art and music and learning and big ideas. Everything goes, everything is acceptable, and it all is supposed to have meaning because you make it mean something, you apply your own personal standard, and you never, never judge. And yet we are so careful not to offend, not to pass judgment or attempt to define truth. But without definable truth there is no meaning. And without meaning there is no purpose. And without purpose we are lost.
During the week, God drew me over and over to the first five chapters of 2 Corinthians, where Paul defends his own purpose as a "minister of the new covenant." The reason my brother and so many have turned away, I am convinced, is that they know only the message of the letter that kills, the "ministry of death," engraved on stones and bringing condemnation. But Paul speaks passionately of the letter of Christ, "written not with ink but by the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of flesh, that is, of the heart." And it is this letter that is glorious and beautiful and true and bold. This letter is of the Spirit, and "where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty."
He is showing me, over and over, that freedom is only found in Him, in the truth of this message. Why has it become so twisted, to the point that my own brother and so many others believe it is a lie and a trap? What have we done wrong? May my message be one of meaning and hope, not of condemnation. May it be a "treasure in an earthen vessel," and may it bring life. And oh, God, may the fragrance of Christ reveal clearly the death that is apart from You. And may my brother, and all those seeking purpose and meaning, find it in You.
And yet, as the week passed and I absorbed more of this culture my brother lives in, I felt an emptiness around me. Though I was surrounded by prosperity, affluence, and success, much of it felt meaningless. I do not necessarily say this about Scott, who seems amazingly happy and content, though only he can tell whether his work brings him meaning, and I am convinced he will never find his true purpose without Christ. But as I observed the people around me, I was struck over and over by our human drive to find purpose and fulfillment in what we do . . . and in the futility of trying to find it apart from our identity in God. So much of what I saw was a form of reaching out, a searching cry for meaning, and as I listened, I heard only chaos, or worse, silence.
Yet I was in one of the cultural centers of our modern world, the heart of all that is considered "enlightened" and "free" and "tolerant." I was surrounded by art and music and learning and big ideas. Everything goes, everything is acceptable, and it all is supposed to have meaning because you make it mean something, you apply your own personal standard, and you never, never judge. And yet we are so careful not to offend, not to pass judgment or attempt to define truth. But without definable truth there is no meaning. And without meaning there is no purpose. And without purpose we are lost.
During the week, God drew me over and over to the first five chapters of 2 Corinthians, where Paul defends his own purpose as a "minister of the new covenant." The reason my brother and so many have turned away, I am convinced, is that they know only the message of the letter that kills, the "ministry of death," engraved on stones and bringing condemnation. But Paul speaks passionately of the letter of Christ, "written not with ink but by the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of flesh, that is, of the heart." And it is this letter that is glorious and beautiful and true and bold. This letter is of the Spirit, and "where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty."
He is showing me, over and over, that freedom is only found in Him, in the truth of this message. Why has it become so twisted, to the point that my own brother and so many others believe it is a lie and a trap? What have we done wrong? May my message be one of meaning and hope, not of condemnation. May it be a "treasure in an earthen vessel," and may it bring life. And oh, God, may the fragrance of Christ reveal clearly the death that is apart from You. And may my brother, and all those seeking purpose and meaning, find it in You.
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