Sometimes I
startle myself by waking up with a song running thru my head. Like Wednesday
morning. Stepping into the bathroom,
then to the kitchen for vitamins, meds and hydration, on to the living room taking
on the regiments of stretching therapy before adding a cold pack to my shoulder
and settling down for devotion, all the while singing various phrases (off key,
I’m sure) and humming as though it had been playing in my head all night long.
Sometimes it seems as if the Spirit plunges into the recesses of mind and
memory, returning to the surface with a thought to begin the day. I am repeatedly
thankful for the many hymns that linger there, like forgotten, buried fragments
of an archeological dig. A line from Augustus Toplady's Rock of Ages had surfaced
memorably: “Nothing in my hand I bring, simply
to the cross I cling.”
The
remaining lines didn't seem to make it to the surface. Perhaps they were not
necessary. But with those two lines, my morning began. Before I could pick up
either apprehension or confidence for the day I was thinking about the things I
try to keep hold of while clinging to the cross.
While opening the Last Days of Jesus, the hymnist's thought was at once a statement of fact:
I can’t bring anything to God's throne that will mark my righteousness; for I
sin and fall short of the glory of God. But is it not also a plea? "Help
me to unclench my determined grip upon these things I carry—my guilt, my
wounds, my sense of righteousness, my ideas of you." It is my heartened
prayer, for though I latch on to these things instinctively, they too fall
desperately short. It is like clinging to a security blanket while struggling
in a turbulent river. Its release may very well be the beginning of my rescue.
Bettyann and
I were talking about letting go a few nights ago and the illustrative story
came to mind of the fella who fell off a cliff.
But not far had he fallen when he caught hold of an exposed root. In desperation he cried out: “Is there anyone
up there that can help?” An instant
reply came: “Yes and I’ll save you, just
let go of your hold.” With that instruction,
the hanger-on desperately yelled: “Is there anyone else, up there?”
I’m learning
more and more these days that God in mercy must remove everything from my
hands, so that I can cling to Him entirely. Yet like my grandchildren when
young, my children when young and sometimes, at seventy four, refuse to let go
of the toys in my possession as I struggle to crawl into my father's lap. As I
write I realize I live in God's presence with fingers wrapped tightly around
worries and people, pride and false idols. Time after time, like a loving
parent, God has asked me to surrender what blocks me from moving closer,
removing what I refuse to surrender, shattering the things that block my vision.
Such shattering, said C.S. Lewis, almost seems one of the marks of God's presence.
While
reading John’s Gospel I read the story with a shattering Jesus himself embodied. John
reports, "When evening came, [the disciples] went down to the lake, where
they got into a boat and set off across the lake for Capernaum. By now it was
dark, and Jesus had not yet joined them. A strong wind was blowing and the
waters grew rough. When they had rowed three or three and a half miles,they saw
Jesus approaching the boat, walking on the water; and they were terrified. But
he said to them, 'It is I; don't be afraid.'"
I’ve
imagined, hundred of times, I suppose, of God will look like in my lives if I let
Him take full control. I’ve had the
different designs laid out as I’ve waited for an answered prayer that will make
all else fit into place. How many times have I expected to meet the Christ, I
know, on the shore and found Him instead walking on water, and my expectations were
left in confusing pieces, my ideas in ruins. And yet Jesus still calls out to
me, this past Wednesday, early this Easter morning, "It is I" as if
to remind me: what you are looking for is with you, Bill. Don't be afraid.
Sovereign Father,
God, in such a moment as this, it is often a very idea of You in the process of
shattering. Other times, it has been a fear that You gently pried out of my
hands. Father, it seems that there will be no end to this childlike struggle.
It’s like no sooner than one false idol is shattered another is formed at my
hands. The calf is destroyed even as I move the bricks of Babel into place. Thank
You for your grace, as I’m reminded of Your mercy in the startling ways You have
come walking into my life again and again—even in my sleep. Also thank You for
the grace in continued education that my most hopeful prayer is always the cry
of surrender: Nothing in my hands I bring, simply to Your cross I cling. Amen
