I have read some
of God in the Dock, by C.S. Lewis, but for the first time, I'm
reading his essay titled "Meditation
in a Toolshed," in which he is describing the scene from within a
darkened shed. The sun is brilliantly shining outside, yet from the inside only
a small sunbeam can be seen through a crack at the top of the door. Everything is
pitch-black except for the prominent beam of light, by which he can see flecks
of dust floating about. He writes: "I
was seeing the beam, not seeing things by it. Then I moved, so that the beam
fell on my eyes. Instantly the whole previous picture vanished. I saw no
toolshed, and (above all) no beam. Instead I saw, framed in the irregular
cranny at the top of the door, green leaves moving in the branches of a tree
outside and beyond that, 90 odd million miles away, the sun. Looking along the
beam, and looking at the beam are very different experiences."
Since focusing my scripture reading toward the Gospels, I have given attention to the accounts, more than once, of the woman with the alabaster jar, and notice some similarity to what Lewis writes. "Do you see this woman?" Jesus asks, as if He is speaking as much to me as the guests around the table. With a jar of costly perfume, she had anointed the feet of Christ with fragrance and tears. She then endured the criticism of those around her because she alone saw the One in front of them. While the dinner crowd was sitting in the dark about Jesus, the woman was peering in the light of understanding. What she saw invoked tears of recognition, sacrifice, and much love. Gazing along the beam and at the beam are quite different ways of seeing.
The late seventeenth century poet George Herbert once described prayer as "the soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage." At those words I picture the woman with her broken alabaster jar, wiping the dusty, fragrant feet of Christ with her hair. Pouring out the expensive nard, she seemed to pour out her soul. Fittingly, Herbert concludes his grand description of prayer as "something understood."
The woman with the alabaster jar not only saw the Christ when others did not, Christ saw her when others could not see past her reputation. "Do you see this woman?" Jesus asked while the others were questioning her actions, past and present. "I came into your house. You did not give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You did not give me a kiss, but this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not put oil on my head, but she has poured perfume on my feet. Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—for she loved much." Her soul's cry was heard; she, herself was understood. I should be so spiritually fortunate!
I'm disapointed in myself when I think of how many times I might have seen Jesus as a good man, historical character, interesting teacher, one who sees, one who hears, one who loves. And laid my Bible down, or arose from my knees bowed in prayer, easily walking away felling like I have seen and heard everything I need to see and hear.
Since focusing my scripture reading toward the Gospels, I have given attention to the accounts, more than once, of the woman with the alabaster jar, and notice some similarity to what Lewis writes. "Do you see this woman?" Jesus asks, as if He is speaking as much to me as the guests around the table. With a jar of costly perfume, she had anointed the feet of Christ with fragrance and tears. She then endured the criticism of those around her because she alone saw the One in front of them. While the dinner crowd was sitting in the dark about Jesus, the woman was peering in the light of understanding. What she saw invoked tears of recognition, sacrifice, and much love. Gazing along the beam and at the beam are quite different ways of seeing.
The late seventeenth century poet George Herbert once described prayer as "the soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage." At those words I picture the woman with her broken alabaster jar, wiping the dusty, fragrant feet of Christ with her hair. Pouring out the expensive nard, she seemed to pour out her soul. Fittingly, Herbert concludes his grand description of prayer as "something understood."
The woman with the alabaster jar not only saw the Christ when others did not, Christ saw her when others could not see past her reputation. "Do you see this woman?" Jesus asked while the others were questioning her actions, past and present. "I came into your house. You did not give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You did not give me a kiss, but this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not put oil on my head, but she has poured perfume on my feet. Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—for she loved much." Her soul's cry was heard; she, herself was understood. I should be so spiritually fortunate!
I'm disapointed in myself when I think of how many times I might have seen Jesus as a good man, historical character, interesting teacher, one who sees, one who hears, one who loves. And laid my Bible down, or arose from my knees bowed in prayer, easily walking away felling like I have seen and heard everything I need to see and hear.
Father, God, the
fact is, I confess, this morning, I have seen and heard very little. Taking a bit longer and taking the risk of
not accomplishing my goals and wants may well change everything for me. I commit to staying longer in Your presence. Time; searching for a better perspective. Amen
