Revelation 3:17-19

"Because you say, 'I am rich, have become wealthy, and have need of nothing' - and do not know that you are wretched, miserable, poor, blind, and naked - I counsel you to buy from Me gold refined in the fire, that you may be rich; and white garments, that you may be clothed, that the shame of your nakedness may not be revealed; anoint your eyes with eye salve, that you may see. As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten."

These words from my Lord came crashing down upon me this morning like a ton of bricks (to quote an often overused phrase). To be theologically correct (which sort of makes me sick just writing this - I get so tired of these qualifications), I know and can appreciate who He was/is speaking to here, but simply must expand the territory to include me, one who is completely secure in Jesus. The fact of the matter is that I'm rich with wealth, I'm clothed with coverings that translucently attempt to hide my sin, and I'm visually "gifted" with eyes that freely wander here and there to places they ought not. Living in this country has afforded me luxury I now wish I never tasted; it's a very dangerous, treacherous place to be.

My whole life I've felt distracted, encumbered and weighed down by the perishable. It's been a yoke around my neck even when I haven't possessed much at all, especially in my earlier years of life. I've always wanted, and wanted more. I've always desired the best, the best of everything. And you know what? It's been given to me, all of it. It came to me like the male Black Widow naively steering toward the beauty of what his eyes and heart wanted, only to be swallowed by her bite. I now feel like Solomon; what has it produced? It's all chasing after the wind. If there's one thing I'm grateful for, it's that I can at least see this for what it's worth. Many go through their entire lives never gaining true sight, 20/20 vision.

But now I see, so what shall I do? John quotes the Lord and says that I should buy gold refined in fire, that I should buy white garments that the shame of my nakedness might not be revealed, and that I should anoint my eyes with eye salve that I might see. And where do these come from and what do they look like? They come from love by a source much greater than me, and they produce a love of sources much beyond me. It's not what I see, it's not what I wear, it's not what I own, but rather what I don't see (for, "We walk by faith, not by sight."- II Corinthians 5:7), what I don't wear (shameful coverings, but rather sheer, white veneers that expose a new heart), and what I don't own (anything, for it all comes from Him, and everything, for what I have is imperishable). I bask in those today, asking the Lord to satisfy my longings to own, be clothed and see with those that only He can satisfy.

Psalm 33:16-17

"No king is saved by the multitude of an army;

A mighty man is not delivered by great strength.

A horse is a vain hope for safety;

Neither shall it deliver any by its great strength."

Last night someone smashed in the passenger side front window of my car, broke in and stole several items of personal possession. I never saw any broken glass as I walked up to the car, but immediately noticed some papers on the floorboards were in a different place than where I left them the morning earlier but didn't give too much thought to it. Upon sitting in the driver's seat, I felt a breeze of below freezing air and noticed the window was open. I couldn't believe I would have done such a thing. It was open all-right; it was obliterated into thousands of tiny little pieces scattered across the seat and floor. Then my mind began to race. And it raced, and it raced, and it raced all over the place. After calling Victoria and asking her to call the police, I stood there and examined the damage. My brand new GPS, given to me as a birthday gift from my parents, was taken from my glove compartment (together with some CD's and all my automobile owner's manuals/registrations/insurance certificates), my brand new drum bag with sticks and mallets, and my old leather backpack that I loved and cherished (in a silly way - it's the inexpensive and worn things that seem most valuable and sentimental). Puzzlingly, they deliberately took one of the favorite things I possess out of that backpack and left it behind, my Bible that I've had since high-school with a personally made/engraved leather cover.

When I went to bed that night and sat up to chat with Victoria before falling asleep, she asked what troubled me most about the incident. I replied, "That I'm troubled at all is what troubles me most." Moments before crawling into my horizontal position, I had to turn to the one thing I knew would steer my thoughts and heart in the right direction, the Word of God. So I flipped to Matthew 6 and got another gut punch from Jesus right where I needed it most. "Do not lay up for yourselves treasure upon earth... where thieves break in and steal." (Matthew 6:19) If the things that were stolen were not treasures in my heart, then I wouldn't have been burdened by the incident. I've put my trust in horses and chariots more than I think or thought. Not for my salvation, mind you, but for my joy. I thought my car was a safe haven, meaning it was impenetrable, with an alarm system and all. Not so, obviously. Nothing on earth is impenetrable, nothing.

I've lost my joy lately. This incident didn't prompt it, it just served to put a spotlight on it. I recently heard a sermon that emphasized the fact that I'm on my way to a wedding feast. I don't feel like. Seems like I'm more on my way to a funeral, walking in step with to a dirge. I wish now I never possessed the things I do. They've distracted me my entire life. The good has stolen what's best.

John 11:35-36

"Jesus wept. Then the Jews said, 'See how He loved him?'"

So right on the heels of declaring that the glory of God would be revealed through Lazarus' sickness and imminent death, Jesus, upon His arrival to the tomb where Lazarus lay, wept. Why would He weep if He knew He was going to raise Him again? I'm not certain Jesus shed tears over Lazarus, even though that's what the people thought, but rather over something else. What was that something else?

While I cannot know for certain, it could have been (as some commentators believe) over the ravages of sin and their consequences upon mankind. Perhaps He cried over the waywardness of Israel and their rejection of Him as the Christ. But I believe (based upon nothing but intuition and speculation) that Jesus was sorrowful because of the sorrow expressed by those who loved Lazarus. I believe He was moved with compassion, as He was so many times before, over the people and their broken hearts at the death of someone He also loved very dearly. This would not be uncharacteristic of Jesus, but rather quite aligned and attuned with who He was, and actually still is. Jesus, the suffering servant, a man acquainted with grief (cf. Isaiah 53:3) identifies. And He not only identifies, He empathizes, He feels what others feel. Where we are, there He is, and not only in presence, but in body, soul and spirit. He's a part of us to the point that in our joy He's joyful and in our sorrow He's sorrowful.

There are times in life when I just want to cry. Cry over the heartache, the anguish and the inequity of life. Unmanly? No. Christlike? Yes. Creation is corrupt, and it's just plain sad. There are times when I just need to step back, survey my surrounds, and cogitate on this world's despairing state. It's O. K. to ruminate there for awhile. Some might say, "You're taking this all too seriously, Thom; lighten up!" I will not. Let me stay here for awhile, and then I shall look up, pray and see God do His miraculous work in spite of it all.

John 11:5

"'This sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God, that the Son of God may be glorified through it.'"

What isn't unto the glory of God aside from acts of sin? Even then, transgressions are not immune from being used unto the glory of God. The ultimate culmination of all sin is that it leads to death for all, and yet iniquity and its final demise can and often does somehow glorify God, if not now, then certainly in the after-now. On the surface these are crazy ideologies, ones that are simply counter-intuitive to the human psyche. (But to sin that grace may abound to the glory of God I cannot tolerate, nor could Paul {cf. Romans 6:15}; this extreme stretches beyond even the seemingly limitless boundaries of God's purposes.)

I often try to imagine myself in the Biblical setting of most story lines I read in the Scriptures. In this particular one found in the gospel of John I can almost hear and see Jesus telling the disciples that his good friend Lazarus was about to die, and that it was actually going to be a good thing. Pretending I'm actually there in Jesus' and the disciples' midst listening to this, I can confidently predict my internal reaction: 'What good could possibly come out of death?', I ask. 'You've got to be kidding me. This I'd like to see.', I might further think. But Jesus almost always does just the opposite of what I would naturally think He'd do. He does indeed, as promised, always bring glory to His Father, and while in His divinity He could have prevented Lazarus from dying (which would have also brought glory to the Father), He allows Him to die and then rise again in order than even greater glory might be given to the Father.

I've come to learn this morning that in the reminder that all of life is bound up in the single purpose of honoring my Creator, there are even greater glories given to God than the mind can first comprehend. If I thought, by way of example, reading the Scriptures and praying this morning brought glory to God, then there's even greater glory to Him than what I first perceived. Sometimes that greater glory will be revealed, and sometimes it won't. Sometimes the greater glory is revealed, and I simply cannot see it. Regardless, there's always something more supernaturally profound happening in my surrounds than the eye, mind and soul can absorb. So in the mundanity of my routines, and in the shock and horror of life's corruptible sin, I must believe, I must trust that as a child of the most high God, His glories will rise beyond my wildest imaginations. This is comforting, and this is also very exciting.

'So just how might you glorify Yourself today, God? Would You be so kind as to let me see it, just like you let those in the presence of Lazarus see his rising from the dead? And when I see it, God, may I marvel at the wonder of your works. This is my prayer. Please hear me now.'

II Peter 2:22b

"A dog returns to his own vomit," and, "a sow, having washed, to her wallowing in the mire."

I'm in another one of those very reflective seasons right now. They come and go as the wind blows and I never really quite know when I'm going to turn inward and begin to cocoon as I sense the cool of winter bearing down upon me. What I am most grateful for lately is that these crazy conscience climates are relatively short lived compared to the past, and that their aftermaths haven't left me crippled or debilitated. The irony of it is that the primary Scriptural theme throughout the Bible is outward and upward focused upon Jesus, but in so doing it inward and downward highlights the vacuum of my soul without Jesus. My desperation hits a peak when I see just how little I love Him because my self-centered inclinations overpower selfless responses of charity.

The writers of Proverbs 26:11 and II Peter 2:22b got it right when they stated that "a dog returns to his own vomit", and "a sow, having washed, to her wallowing in the mire". I realize that Peter was referring to apostates and their tendency to fall back into their own darkness after having partially seen the light (but the light never overpowered that darkness). However, it's not that much different for me, one who is forever exposed to the light but also sees the darkness over the horizon of my shoulder. I so frequently go back to what I know brings nothing but sorrow and sadness... myself. Not being a dog, I've never understood how and why such an animal would do something as grotesque as eating its own vomit. But they do, and they seem to find comfort in it. But I am a human being, created by God in His image, and yet I cannot understand my own equally grotesque behavior when I return to the vomit of my self-centeredness when I could eat from the selfless horn of plenty found in Christ. I amaze myself. What a complicated creature I am. I guess I really don't understand myself either.

There is one thing I do understand, however. I can see! I can look and see the utter disgust of my nature. This a dog cannot do. This a pig cannot do. And this, even a created image bearer of God, cannot do without faith granted by Him. So, I have, I possess the very first and paramount ingredient toward salvation from my own despairing self. And so today, I start there and there alone, asking God to make that the beauty of my walk so that when I do begin to savor my vomit, I recognize its unhealthiness and turn away to the savor of my Savior.

John 5:41

"I do not seek honor from men."

One of the greatest struggles of my soul is seeking the honor of men. I love their praise, I love their accolade, I love their honor. I want, if I'm honest with myself, more than anything else to be uplifted in the eyes of men. I want others to know me, to speak highly of me, to desire me, and to remember me. I want to do things that draw attention to my "greatness". This, among all other sins I could possibly commit, is perhaps the ugliest and the most heinous against God. This because He demands all honor, glory and praise, and will not share His honor with any other (cf. Isaiah 42:8). I grieve myself. I hate myself for this. And what amazes me this morning as I type this journal entry is that Jesus, who deserved the honor of men more than any other to ever live (I mean, after all, He was fully divine [cf. Hebrews 1:8] in His full humanity), did not seek that honor from men because as the Son of God He understood that such recognition was deserved by none other than God Himself.

So this morning, like the entirety of my life, I have and will continue to come before God and ask Him to forgive me for trying steal something that cannot be stolen, and for trying to make myself out to be God. This is a quiet and desperating cry of my life. Knowing, of course, that I am forgiven, what can I do to release myself from this bond of pride? How can I let go of my idol of me? I'm tired and I'm weary of wrestling with it. My thoughts are consumed with thoughts of self. I cannot go for one minute with thinking about how the world impedes the honor "due" me. What's wrong with me?

I need the gospel new and afresh. I need that hyperdermic needle of the Spirit of the living God stuck in my heart with a transfusion of love from Jesus, carrying cells of grace and mercy that are constantly pumped into my veins. I know this is the cure all, the panacea, but right now it just feels like words, things I assent to, but where's my faith, my trust? I don't know. I feel trapped, and I feel helpless and hopeless. I fear standing before God and answering for this wretched love of self.

'Jesus, I'm desperate for you. I'm desperate for you.'