things

I know you'll be disappointed in me, but sometimes I give in to the temptation to dwell on that which I think I want and wish I needed. You know the sort of stuff, peaches and red mailboxes. Black and white photography and Pottery Barn rugs. Vegetable gardens and porch swings. Things which, in some ways, represent simplicity to me. Things that I think home is defined by.

I say to a friend that I am learning that all of those dreams, all of those hopes and empty desires, are finally looking like the rubbish Paul called them. They're looking like them, but they're still retaining the stink of everything I want. The closer I come to leaving all of this, all of this blessing and all of this life, the more tension I feel to stay. The paradox is knowing I won't. Temptation is easier to run from when you read the end of the story and I have.

One man's trash is another man's treasure and this earthen vessel holds more garbage than I can stand sometimes.

I say she is one of my favorite worshippers. Her voice hungers after something/Someone in a dry and thirsty land. I long to worship You, not just words and deeds, but a pure sacrifice her voice speaks to music. A beautiful thing.

Confronted daily with my need to change. My flesh screams and my mind protests. My vision is blurred and my step falters. My character is faulty and my determination to do better always falls short. I am frustrated when my response to hearing sin gloated over and boasted of is anger. My head rears in righteous indignation: You can't do that! Asceticism rules my person, a pride filled arrogance to abstain from things I will not touch and things I will call sacrificed to idols. A Pharisetical snubbery of all things unclean.

And He lays prostrate in heaven and cries. His eyes shut, not even glimpsing the unrighteousness we feast our eyes on. He bows at His father's throne and begs for our souls, turning his back on us only for an instant and still never lessening his love for us. Bearing all the burdens of our sin, made to bear the burdens of the tax collectors, the prostitutes, the Pharisees and the saints all equally.

Turn my eyes to the High King of Heaven; He who knew no sin; He who became sin; He who runs to meet the sinner and gives the finest robe to the dirtiest pauper. He who looks at me and you equally.

High king of heaven
My victory won
May I reach heaven's joy
Oh bright heaven's sun
Heart of my own heart
Whatever befall
Still be my vision
Oh Ruler of all