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.'