Sunday Morning
Sin everywhere, sin all around me, sin all through me.
I'm ready for the New Jerusalem, where we will all be safe from sin. I'll be safe from yours--and even more, you'll be safe from mine.
I'm weary from trying to put to death my own sin. It's constant, ever before my eyes. Yet I know that I am blind to most of it. I labor to see it all, to stop it all, to fight with every ounce of me.
And I am starting to just feel tired. When will it end? When will I arrive? Never? Can't I just rest for a while, be blind for an hour?
And I see it all around me--every institution, every person. Rotten with sin. Yet we try and function as a church, as a company, as a family, as friends, and all the while we are broken people. Constantly messing up and stepping on each other. I hate it. I rail against it. I want to break it down and build something perfect instead. If it can't be perfect, why bother?
And I know I'm in trouble.
Because I can't be perfect.
And neither can you.
And I want you to be. And I want to be.
My eyes have slipped down, and now they look at you and me. They look for the perfect, they hunger for good and truth and love, and as they look around, they don't see it. Everything is marred and everything is tainted.
And the still small voice whispers to me, "where are your eyes, dear heart? where are you looking? you cry and cry, asking how you're supposed to do this. I know. I see. I see more of the sin than you. I see how broken you are, more than you do. I see those people you want to be perfect. I see even more brokenness than you. But I won't tell you their story or how yours ends, yet. I will tell you mine. I will tell you of the love I have for you, brokenness and all. I will tell of my son, and of the tree he hung on. I will tell you the story that matters most, and how I love you, brokenness and all."
As he whispers, my eyes move back up. They behold the son, the perfect, the good, the true, all that is love. And there I am satisfied. There I find grace--for myself and for you.
I'm ready for the New Jerusalem, where we will all be safe from sin. I'll be safe from yours--and even more, you'll be safe from mine.
I'm weary from trying to put to death my own sin. It's constant, ever before my eyes. Yet I know that I am blind to most of it. I labor to see it all, to stop it all, to fight with every ounce of me.
And I am starting to just feel tired. When will it end? When will I arrive? Never? Can't I just rest for a while, be blind for an hour?
And I see it all around me--every institution, every person. Rotten with sin. Yet we try and function as a church, as a company, as a family, as friends, and all the while we are broken people. Constantly messing up and stepping on each other. I hate it. I rail against it. I want to break it down and build something perfect instead. If it can't be perfect, why bother?
And I know I'm in trouble.
Because I can't be perfect.
And neither can you.
And I want you to be. And I want to be.
My eyes have slipped down, and now they look at you and me. They look for the perfect, they hunger for good and truth and love, and as they look around, they don't see it. Everything is marred and everything is tainted.
And the still small voice whispers to me, "where are your eyes, dear heart? where are you looking? you cry and cry, asking how you're supposed to do this. I know. I see. I see more of the sin than you. I see how broken you are, more than you do. I see those people you want to be perfect. I see even more brokenness than you. But I won't tell you their story or how yours ends, yet. I will tell you mine. I will tell you of the love I have for you, brokenness and all. I will tell of my son, and of the tree he hung on. I will tell you the story that matters most, and how I love you, brokenness and all."
As he whispers, my eyes move back up. They behold the son, the perfect, the good, the true, all that is love. And there I am satisfied. There I find grace--for myself and for you.
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