David's Plea

Frustrated, restless, and quite near panicked I opened my browser bible in hopes of finding comfort. What I found was much more than that. I found a kindred spirit, a partner in prayer, a Godly man who prayed the cry of my heart in words I would have chosen had I known them. I knew not where to look, but providence guided my mouse as I closed my eyes, rotated the scroll wheel, and clicked the mouse wherever it would land. In my desparate flailing God gave me Psalm 25 and David's plea.

Though I know I've heard verses from this Psalm before I cannot remember ever specifically reading it. In my time of despair it resonated in my inmost being. I read David's words and they sounded in my head like the prayer of a brother sitting in the chair next to me, holding my hands, and praying with me.

I am struck by David's humility. In times such as what I face (and what David was apparently facing) it is easy to climb up on one's high horse of self righteousness. It's tempting to scream for justice when what is really needed is mercy. This is what I found in the Psalm. Never does David beg for vindication; rather, he cries out for God's goodness instead of extolling his own. Indeed, he does not ask to stand on his own goodness but relies on God's greatness.

 Turn to me and be gracious to me,
for I am alone and afflicted.
 The distresses of my heart increase;
bring me out of my sufferings.
 Consider my affliction and trouble,
and take away all my sins.

In these three verses I find my prayer, my heart's cry. I can particularly relate to the distresses of my heart increasing. The stress of my situation is such that I actually fear for my health. I finally understand that old King James turn of phrase "sorely oppressed." Apparently it's ok to feel this. David felt it. He (and I) is alone and afflicted. He (and I) has affliction and trouble. He (and I) feels the heavy weight of an anxious, distressed heart. He (and I) confesses it. He (and I) turns to the only source of comfort and the only manner of relief. Consider me, oh God, and take away all my sins.

In this Old Testement Psalm I find the good news of Christ. No man stands in his own righteousness before the Holy God. My only hope in this life, in the next, in the good and in the bad, is in the righteousness of God. And I pray this now, all day: "Guard me and deliver me; do not let me be put to shame, for I take refuge in You." Not because I am worthy, but because of your love, your mercy, your grace my great and good God.

David's plea is my plea. 

Sour Dough Sanctification

I love to bake, especially bread. My dinner rolls are raved about by everyone who has had them. The French bread I make always brings the family joy. I've made an Amish white bread that the kids beg for again and again.

The one type of bread I've never baked, however, is sour dough. I know I don't have the patience to create and maintain a good starter. Also, the process kind of scares me a little. The idea of starting with something old when making something new just seems off. So, I've never tried to get my San Fran on and make a crusty loaf of sour dough.

In my spiritual life I've gone the other way, especially concerning sanctification. The promise of God is not only to save me from eternal damnation (salvation), but also to change me in the mean time (sanctification.) But, it's a scary business. Unlike with the bread where I'm afraid to make something new with bits of something old, when it comes sanctification I'm afraid to let go of the old. I want to mix some of the old sin into this new life I have in Christ. Apparently I'm not the first Christian to deal with it.

Paul wrote to the Corinthians:

 Your boasting is not good. Don’t you know that a little yeast permeates the whole batch of dough? Clean out the old yeast so that you may be a new batch. You are indeed unleavened, for Christ our Passover has been sacrificed. (1Cor 5:6-7)

This verse has been plaguing me today. I've been contemplating the new man I'm not, and I know (and have known probably forever) exactly why. I refuse to cooperate with God when it comes to my sanctification. I ask Him to wash me clean, but I don't really mean it. I want Him to sweep, but not to mop. I ask to be wiped down, but not scrubbed up. Where God would have me made anew into an unleavened new man, I keep snatching a bit of the old lump and mixing it in. As Paul notes, it works its way through the entire batch of dough.

If I hold onto any of my old sin the entire new man is not a new man. This is the point in the thought process where I would normally start making excuses. I've been this far before. I recognize the need to put off the old man and put on Christ, but something in me resists. I bargain with God to let me keep just a little of the sin. I offer myself to God, but only if I can keep something back. This technique works great...until it doesn't.

A point is inevitably reached at which one realizes that the tiniest speck of that old yeast has wrecked the entire new lump of dough. That's where I'm at. Not only have I discovered the loaf ruined, it's grown out of proportion, wrecked the oven, and destroyed the kitchen. I'm struggling to find adequately descriptive words for this. I thought I could be a 99% Christian, keep that one little percent of the old sinfulness (you know, the fun bits) in my life and handle it. But I can't.

It's time for a little metanoia, a change of mind, repentance. I believed one thing (keeping the old), God proclaims something else (utterly remade), and it's high time I get on board with what He says about the matter.

 But put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no plans to satisfy the fleshly desires. (Rom 13:14)

I've always made those plans. No more. Obedience time. No more sour dough sanctification. I'm ready to give it all away, the entire sin starter.

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away, and look, new things have come. (2Cor 5:17)

It's time to show myself and the world those new things.