Care for the Hurting: Sit.

When pain is the freshest, words should be the fewest.

I forget where I first heard that and who to credit, but when it comes to walking with suffering people, I’d say it’s a pretty good rule of thumb. We’ve taken a few weeks to open a discussion on that topic — how can we as a church relate graciously and tenderly to people in their sorrow. To this point, we have considered four practices. On week one, we asked you to be alert to those in your circle who may be in hardship. The next week, we urged you to be praying that God would make you genuinely loving toward those who suffer. After that, we emphasized the rare-yet-simple practice of quiet, focused attention. And last week, we suggested turning together (both the friend and the sufferer) to Jesus for help. This is built on the certainty that Christ is our principle need — both in ease and in hardship. I gave you four simple verbs that correspond to each practice: notice, ask, listen and turn.

Today, I’ll give the fifth and final suggestion and corresponding verb. Today, I’m urging you to prioritize the ministry of presence — simply endeavoring to be a steady, faithful, compassionate friend to those in sorrow. We’ll use the verb “sit”. Obviously, this doesn’t mean that this ministry can only be accomplished in a seated position (though I tend to think that this is probably best). I’m drawing it from Job 2 when Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar heard about the sorrow their friend had endured, left their homes, found Job, wept, then sat on the ground with him for a solid week — seven days and seven nights. And according to Job 2:13, “no one said a word”.

Who knows why, but hardship is almost always compounded when it’s experienced in isolation. We simply were not meant to walk out our seasons of deep grief alone. Incidentally, we’ll see this emphasized in the familiar middle verses of Sunday’s text.

Two are better than one

because they have a good reward for their toil.

For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow.

But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up!

Again, if two lie together, they keep warm, but how can one keep warm alone?

And though a man might prevail against one who is alone,

two will withstand him

and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.

I have a friend named John who lives in Nebraska. Over the years that I’ve known him, I have watched him move tenderly and intentionally toward people in difficulty. It’s largely unseen. He just has a compassionate heart. He notices when people are hurting. And he’s willing to boldly move toward them in their pain. For the life of me, I can’t recall a single word of counsel that I have heard him offer. I’m sure he’s given helpful advice to people in sorrow; I just can’t recall it. What I have observed (and what has impacted me most significantly) is watching him practice the ministry of presence. He just knows when to show up. And remarkably, God has used it.  And he is beloved among the people in his community, I suspect for that very reason. I want to be like John. I want us all to be like John.

So that should get us started. Notice those in sorrow. Ask God to deepen in you a love for those who suffer. Humbly listen. Turn with them to our merciful Lord Jesus. And, if necessary, set down your bag, pull up a chair, and sit for a while.

We’ve been taking a few weeks to open a discussion regarding how to care for those who suffer. The language that we’re using is specific and intentional. We are opening (not exhausting) this discussion. There is, no doubt, much more that could be said (and probably should be said) on things like the ministry of presence, the sufficiency of Scripture, the harm done by trite answers, the necessity of confronting sin and the seemingly inexorable pull of idolatry. But this gets us started.

On week one, we asked you to be alert to those in your circle who may be in hardship. The verb we suggested for that topic was “notice”. The next week, we urged you to be praying that God would make you genuinely loving toward those who suffer. Here, we used “ask” as our verb. Last week, highlighting the verb, “listen”, we held forward the rare-yet-simple practice of quiet, focused attention. Today, we want to turn a corner and consider what actual help might look like. I’ll use the verb “turn”. This is, I’m quite sure, the most important practice that we’ll mention.

Those acquainted with biblical terminology might associate “turning” with the practice of repentance (and you would be right). Yet, this word is often considered only partially.  When repentance is practiced rightly, we turn from something to something (or better, someone). It is possible to turn from substance abuse to amusement or from introspection to the idolatry of relationship or from indulgence to self-righteousness. We are only helped when we turn away from our sin and to Jesus. The natural place to look in God’s word on this topic is the first two verses of Hebrews 12. “. . . since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses [those enumerated in Hebrews 11], let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God”.

This could represent a paradigm shift for some of us. Effective ministry is less sharing what we’ve learned and more looking to one we know. The best counselors, I’m suggesting, are not those who keep a full keg of wisdom on hand to distribute into the receptacles of their counselees. The best counselors see their ministry as turning – with their counselee – to our merciful Lord Jesus. Their operating principle is this: what we all need is Jesus, so let us look together to him, knowing that he will give us all we need.

I believe that it is almost always appropriate to quote John Newton. But when he opens a section by saying, “The best advice that I can give is…” then my ears perk up. This quote is from Sequel to Cardiphonia: Letters to Several Ladies.

“The best advice I can send, or the best wish I can form for you, is, that you may have an abiding and experimental sense of those words of the apostle, which are just now upon my mind,— ‘Looking unto Jesus’. The duty, the privilege, the safety, the unspeakable happiness, of a believer, are all comprised in that one sentence. Let us first pray that the eyes of our faith and understanding may be opened and strengthened; and then let us fix our whole regard upon Him. But how are we to behold Him? I answer, in the glass of His written word; there He is represented to us in a variety of views; the wicked world can see no form nor comeliness in the portraiture He has given of Himself, yet, blessed be God, there are those who can ‘behold His glory as the glory of the only begotten Son of God, full of grace and truth;’ (John 1:14) and while they behold it, they find themselves, ‘changed into the same image, from glory to glory,’ (2 Corinthians 3:18) by the transforming influence of His Spirit. In vain we oppose reasonings, and arguments, and resolutions, to beat down our corruptions, and to silence our fears; but a believing view of Jesus does the business. When heavy trials in life are appointed us, and we are called to give up, or perhaps to pluck out, a right eye, it is an easy matter for a stander-by to say, ‘Be comforted;’ and it is as useless as easy — but a view of Jesus by faith comes home to the point. When we can fix our thoughts upon Him, as laying aside all His honors, and submitting, for our sakes, to drink off the bitter cup of the wrath of God to the very dregs. And when we further consider, that He who thus suffered in our nature, who knows and sympathizes with all our weakness, is now the Supreme Disposer of all that concerns us, that He numbers the very hairs of our heads, appoints every trial we meet with in number, weight, and measure, and will suffer nothing to befall us but what shall contribute to our good;– this view, I say, is a medicine suited to the disease, and powerfully reconciles us unto every cross.”

So, there you go. My encouragement to us all this week is to love those in hardship by looking with them to Jesus. It is in his heart to receive those who grieve and it is a kindness to point your sorrowing friends to him. He can help.

Among the worthy goals of a church that aspires to be healthy is a climate where suffering people are well cared for. It’s not the only goal, but it mustn’t be minimized among a people who are to be known by their love (John 13:35). We’re taking a few weeks to discuss what that might look like. I should note that what we are doing here is just that – beginning a discussion about the graces and practices that are present among a people who desire to walk with those in real difficulty. Two weeks ago, we asked you to keep your eyes open for those in your community who need care. Last week, we urged you to begin praying that God would deepen your love for those around you. Today, I’d love for us to consider a skill that, for many of us, is either under-developed, sorely neglected, or atrophied altogether – the practice of focused listening.

In the early years of our marriage, the Lord mercifully exposed this as an unconsidered (and therefore unaddressed) sin tendency which was adversely affecting how I cared for Bridget. Frankly, I was just a terrible listener. My habit – and I don’t think I’m unique in this regard — was to listen just long enough to find out what we were talking about. Then, I’d cue up my response. If we’re discussing fear or greed or parenting or ingratitude, I’d just pull out my mental “file” on whatever the topic of the day was and start talking. I know things about parenting. I was parented. I’ve done a little myself. I’ve observed good parents and bad parents. I can quote Scriptures on the topic. I’ve read Tripp, Fitzpatrick, and Furman. I have thoughts on this topic. The unfortunate result of this pattern was that I tended to miss what really needed to be considered because I failed to take the time to really listen. Aside from being ineffective, it was dishonoring. Someone has said, “Those who won’t listen will eventually be surrounded by people with nothing to say” and that’s a prospect we all want to avoid. Solomon said, “to answer before listening — that is folly and that is shame”.

James also gives us something pertinent in the first chapter of his book. “Know this, my beloved brothers: let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger.” (James 1.19) That three-fold injunction could prove instructive for all those who want to communicate wisely and well, but that middle phrase is especially striking to me.

Slow to speak.

It takes discipline to rein in our words. I’ve heard someone describe a talkative man this way: “He speaks 10 words a second with gusts up to 50.” We all know this.

Measured speech requires restraint and this is a vital practice for those who want to walk with sufferers.

I asked my daughter, Katie, who has made this a focus of study for years, to contribute to this discussion. She immediately highlighted the importance of gentleness and time – asking questions, going slow, pressing in, restraining your words, hearing their story. Her advice: “Don’t be afraid to spend time asking about the specifics of what the struggle is like. It’s healing for someone to feel known.”  I think she’s right. Years ago, I heard a couplet from an anonymous poet:

His thoughts were slow; his words were few (and never formed to glisten).

But he was a joy to all his friends; you should’ve heard him listen.

There is so much to consider on this topic – practical habits like eye contact and nonverbal feedback, useful tools like well-thought-out, open-ended questions, cultivating a sensitivity regarding where to probe and where not to, etc. David Powlison has a worthwhile CCEF Journal article (from many years ago) that can help you strengthen that muscle. In any event, a growing love for neighbor will surely stir in us a desire to hear them. So, if verb #1 was “notice” and verb #2 was “ask”, let’s make verb #3 “listen”. Incidentally, you show me a church that notices people in crisis, is asking God for a growing love for others and is committed to disciplined listening, I’ll show you a church that is well on the way to serving those in sorrow.

In the last note, I suggested that most of us live in fairly close proximity to someone in the midst of (or on the cusp of) deep sadness – a neighbor, colleague, spouse, child, etc. My concern was that we might move around in a community of folks who need help, yet miss those needs through preoccupation or apathy. A man shared with me on Sunday that he read last week’s email on his phone while sitting in a restaurant, waiting to meet a friend who had just experienced a great loss. He was prompted to enter that meeting with a greater awareness of where his friend was. I suspect that we could all grow in the discipline of noticing.

Recognizing that Christ-centeredness does not counter human compassion (making us oblivious to the sorrows of others), we noted that following Jesus will make us more acutely aware of the needs around us. Noticing, however, is only the beginning of the discussion. What then?  Like you, I want to be adept at caring for those I encounter rather than just recognizing their difficulty. By God’s grace, I’d like to take the next five weeks to offer some suggestions in hopes of further equipping us all to walk with those experiencing hardship. My first suggestion is to take this need to the Lord. Ask that God would cause your love for others (particularly those in suffering) to deepen.

I recently heard Aaron Menikoff make a strong point in a message from Acts 21 and 22 – something I’ve reflected on since.

“Only God”, he said, “can make a person truly loving.”

If you’re like me, categorical statements like that give me pause, yet, in this case, I think he’s absolutely right. Only God can make a person truly loving. 1 John 4:16 teaches us that God’s love is a definitional thing; he is love in the way that oceans are wet. It is bound up in his very essence. Beyond that, both loves to which we are explicitly called in Scripture are well beyond our capacity to produce unaided.

“You shall love the Lord your God

with all your heart

and with all your soul

and with all your strength

and with all your mind,

and your neighbor as yourself.”

(Luke 10:27)

The “alls” and the “as” in this verse are enough to settle the “can-we-or-can’t-we” discussion. We can’t. Jesus pushed this “as” criteria even further in John 13:34 when he said, “A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another: just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another.”  That we cannot generate. And to be clear, every fruit-bearing act of obedience falls in this category. “I am the vine”, said Jesus, “you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing.” (John 15:5)

What we are called to (and what those around us might expect from us as those who follow Jesus) we cannot manufacture. We must look to the Lord. This need not feel like resignation or despair, for it is the appropriate response to every need, and it is the heart of the Father to give good things to those who ask. We ask for impossible things all the time, and it is God’s glory to do what we can’t (Mark 10:27).  So, as Jesus said, “Ask” (Matthew 7:7). That’s the first of our five encouragements. If last week’s verb was “notice”, this week’s is “ask”.

Ask that God would deepen your capacity to love those around you. Don’t ask once. Ask again and again.

And I’d love to hear how God answers this prayer.

I wonder – how recent was your last encounter with a person in tears? (For the sake of this example, let’s not count crying toddlers, reluctant students returning to school or fans reflecting on the last 20 years of UT football). I’m wondering how far back you would have to rewind until you come to someone who is sorrowful enough to cry. Really cry. Some of you may have met with a suffering friend within the last few hours. Others have been in conversation with a tearful family member or friend in the last day or so. I would be surprised if any of us – at least, any of us who live in relationship with others — have gone a full week without interacting with someone in grief. It could be profound, life-altering grief or it could be a long, grueling slog through the “Slough of Despond”. It could just be that regular, garden-variety melancholy that many people deal with — the common cold of the spirit. In any case, I’d propose that most of us live in fairly close proximity to someone in the midst of (or on the cusp of) deep sadness. You may share a home or cubicle with that person.

We all know that there is a kind of lopsided ministry philosophy that is fixated entirely on human need. You know the harm done by a man-centered gospel. Tenderness toward the hurting is not the single – or even principle – focus of ministry. Yet Christians are, at the most basic, loving people. Jesus said so.

“By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” (John 13:35)

To be Christ-centered is not to be oblivious to the sorrows of others. In fact, to follow Jesus will make us more acutely aware of needs around us.

In fact, I’d say that among the many important arguments for meaningful membership is the duty and privilege of shared burden-bearing. One of the commitments that we make to one another as Covenant Members is to provide “care for one another as members of one body in Christ”. Ours is not a vague intention to look after each other; it is a promise.

In next week’s note, I plan to speak more directly to ways that we can walk compassionately with the sorrowful, but that is not my emphasis in this note. My encouragement this week is simply this: notice. Notice those around you who are hurting. I’m quite sure that they are there. I just want to encourage you not to miss them. If it is true (and I suspect it is) that there is a 100% chance that we will bump into heavy-hearted friends in the next few days, don’t you want to be ready to care for them?

So, that’s it, friends. No more complicated than that. Just keep your eyes open. Ready your heart your see the difficulty of those around you (and begin praying that God will make you effective in caring for them).

Every Christian understands the sting of regret that comes when we’ve sinned against our Father. Contrition is one of the less-celebrated mercies of God, but it is mercy nonetheless. To sin with a sense of impunity is no good. On the contrary, it is a frightening prospect. We don’t want to be released to sin without regret. We want hearts that are quick to recognize a line crossed and quick to turn. It is grace, John Newton taught us, that both teaches our hearts to fear and that relieves those fears. For that reason, the first inklings of grief over sin should be met with awe and deep gratitude — a gratitude that deepens when you consider that your sin has neither diminished the Father’s love for you nor jeopardized your place in the family.

This comes from a right understanding of God’s heart toward his own and the stable rest that the gospel provides. The contrast between religion and the gospel is relevant at this point. Religion says, “I’ve messed up. My dad is going to kill me.” The gospel says, “I’ve messed up. I need to talk to my dad.” Our place as adoptees frees us to bring our sin to the Father, but what kind of father meets us there? You might find this excerpt from Bryan Chapell clarifying and encouraging:

“Forgiveness is the ocean that already surrounds us when we launch our prayers of repentance to God. We do not manufacture the ocean by our repentance; we sail in the peace its boundless waters provide. Repentance does not earn our forgiveness; repentance allows us to experience the peace of being forgiven. Those who have trusted Christ are already, entirely, and forever clothed in his righteousness (Galatians 3:27; Colossians 3:4). Our God is now ‘for us’; his every dealing with us is out of a heart that is tuned ‘for grace’ – that’s what forgiveness is, the desire for grace to bless the soul of another (Romans 8:32). That means that even when we experience the consequences of our sin under divine discipline, we are no less forgiven. God’s intentions are still entirely grace-motivated. He intends and gives only what is best for us and our fellowship with him. . . Forgiveness is the provision of grace that obliterates relational barriers between us and God.”

Living in the awareness that our position as beloved sons and daughters is eternally fixed and that his love for us doesn’t vacillate based on our performance will only cause sin to grow uglier, grace to shine brighter and contrition to run deeper. Terror might promote obedience to a harsh magistrate, but it’s love that promotes obedience to a loving Father – and that is positionally true for all who are have taken refuge in Christ. From that favored place, contrition is no longer a pointless exercise in flagellation but a gracious call to joyfully return, assured that our Father’s arms are not crossed but open. We needn’t (indeed mustn’t) dismiss the experience of grief over sin. Recognize it. Feel it. Acknowledge it as a mercy. Then, turn – turn rapidly – to your father whose word is trustworthy, who is resolutely for you, who has already received you, cannot deny you, and whose love will not let you go! That, beloved, is the largeness of God’s mercy!

My paternal grandmother, a native of Coffee County, Alabama, held some interesting superstitions. For instance, she held that if someone swept under your feet when you were sitting down, that meant that you would never marry. She was sure that if the cows were laying down in the field, the fish wouldn’t bite. When picking strawberries, we were never to step across from one row to the next but had to walk to the end of the row and back. I forget what harm would come if we didn’t, but it was bad. And if you woke up in the morning with itchy feet, that was indication that you would soon walk on “strange ground”.

I’ve always enjoyed walking on “strange ground”. I like visiting new places, walking through unfamiliar towns, and taking in interesting new sights. For many years, we’ve brought home coffee mugs from places we visit and as we use them throughout the year, we remember our time in these previously-unknown places. Savannah. Dubai. New York City. South Africa. Chennai. Seattle. Maine. We love everything about travel – the airports, the interesting accents, the local cuisine, the free toiletries at hotels, the colorful brochures at rest stops. We love walking on “strange ground”, but, on every trip, we eventually reach an indeterminate threshold where we’re just ready to be home. I’ve seen all I want to see. At that point, I just want to turn off the hard road, hear the familiar gravel of my driveway under my wheels, fix myself a drink and sit on my deck! The longer we’re away, the noisier my “inner toddler” gets! Are we there yet?

This experience parallels something we all know from living in a Genesis 3 world. This is not home. In fact, the more brokenness we witness, the less attached we remain. Uvalde. Buffalo. Kyiv. Even Knoxville disappoints us at times. Add to that the ordinary sorrows of life. Sickness. Separation. Relational difficulty. The ordinary stresses of life have a way of “loosening the roots” and stirring desires for home. We always quote C.S. Lewis here because he articulates this ache so well. “If I find in myself desires”, he said, “which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.” Isn’t it true that much of the frustration that we feel in life comes from expecting from life what life was never meant to deliver? This is not home.

One of the many assurances of the gospel is that we will not always live in this foreign place. Our citizenship, Paul said, is in heaven (Philippians 3:20). It’s hard to imagine a place as glorious as our eternal home. No sorrow. No pain. No death. We won’t spend eternity on “strange ground”. In time, we make it home. So, encourage your hearts with the assurance that, when “traveling days are over”, we will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Derek Kidner wrote of that last phrase of the 23rd. “To be God’s guest is to be more than an acquaintance, invited for a day. It is to live with him. It is a pilgrimage that ends at the house of the Lord. It is also a journey home”. That’s what you and I ache for. Home.

The back-and-forth catechesis of Andrew Peterson’s hymn has often quieted that restless toddler inside me.

Do you feel the world is broken? [We do.]
Do you feel the shadows deepen? [We do.]
But do you know that all the dark won’t
Stop the light from getting through? [We do.]
Do you wish that you could see it all made new? [We do.]
Is all creation groaning? [It is.]
Is a new creation coming? [It is.]
Is the glory of the Lord to be the light within our midst? [It is.]
Is it good that we remind ourselves of this? [It is.]

For several weeks, we’ve been reflecting on the 23rd Psalm and have seen how David uses two images to illustrate God’s care: shepherd (1-4) and host (5-6). Today, we consider the third of four hospitable acts. We’ve seen the well-set table and the welcome expressed in fragrant oils. Now, we hear David’s grateful testimony to God’s goodness:

” . . . my cup overflows . . .”

The “cup” in Scripture generally typifies one of two things: judgment or blessing. The language sometimes evokes frightening images of divine wrath. In Isaiah 51, Jerusalem has “drunk to the dregs from the cup of God’s wrath”. In Jeremiah 25, the nations will “take the cup of the wine of wrath” and will “drink and stagger and be crazed”. In these instances, we look into the cup, wince and recoil. That’s not the picture in Psalm 23:5. Here the psalmist considers the generous blessing of God. Here, David looks at the cup, brimming with mercy. David’s overflowing cup images a greater-than-plausible kind of provision.

Not just good. Too good.
Not just kind. Too kind.
Not just full. Too full.

This is the grace that David celebrated in the 16th (“The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup.”) and in the 116th (“I will lift up the cup of salvation and call on the name of the Lord.”) And even more vividly, it is what Paul described in 1 Corinthians 10:16 when referencing Jesus’ sacrifice (“The cup of blessing that we bless, is it not a participation in the blood of Christ?”) This serves as the basis for our rejoicing.

As we’re making our way to the table at the end of worship on Sundays, we will very often sing these words together:

He drained death’s cup that all may enter in
To receive the life of God.

Jesus knew (better than anyone) what the cup of God’s wrath contained. Surely, this prompted his prayer in Mark 14. “Abba, Father, all things are possible for you. Remove this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will.” Our enjoyment of this overflowing cup of blessing is due to Jesus’ willingness to drink – for us — the full, straight, undiluted cup of God’s wrath. The reason that blessing spills out over the rim of our cup and trickles down our forearms is because Jesus “drained death’s cup” entirely.

Such mercy.

Were that everything – if the cross stood as the sole expression of God’s grace toward us — it would be unspeakably lavish, enough to drive us to dumbstruck astonishment into eternity. Yet he has given us more. So much more.

Color.
Humor.
Story.
Babies.
Music.
Shade.
Coffee.
Wild Trillium.
Sunshine.
Chocolate. (And about a trillion other common graces.)

So, notice. Let us see them. And celebrate them. Our failure to see the overflowing cup of God’s blessing changes nothing. It’s there. And it’s full.

Not just full. Too full.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on how our ever-expanding, always-deficient knowledge of the gospel is like exploring a vast estate. Picture the expansive acreage at Biltmore or the sprawling Blenheim Place in Oxfordshire or the fictional Downton Abbey. Imagine further that this has now become your inheritance by virtue of your adoption. Now, consider roaming the grounds of your new home, finding stands of hemlock, magnolia, and rhododendron, waterfalls, hot springs, and old-growth forests, new trails that open to unexplored fields and creeks that empty into secluded ponds. The grounds of this estate are big. In fact, in this scenario, you never quite reach the boundaries of your property. The further you walk, the more you find. This, I suggest, provides a metaphor for the growing exploration of our inheritance. The Gospel Estate defies surveyors, for it has never been exhaustively mapped or adequately bounded. It’s just big. Our next section of the 23rd Psalm illustrates how our understanding of all that we are given tends to grow (and must continue to).

“. . . you anoint my head with oil . . .”

You’ll recall that the metaphor shifts in verse five from the Lord as shepherd to the Lord as host. We considered the grace shown as he prepares for us a meal in the presence of our enemies, yet the picture of hospitality continues here. An explanation might be helpful. We’re expecting guests in our home tonight. Were I to greet them this evening by first pouring oil into their hair, I’d expect furrowed brows, cocked heads, muttered protests, and a shorter-than-anticipated visit. I’m not familiar with the customs in Farragut, Karns or Blount County, but we don’t do that in Powell. In the ancient Near East, however, anointing one’s head with oil communicated esteem. These oils might be mixed with local fragrances and would serve to refresh and soothe guests who might show up fatigued from travel. Do you remember Jesus’ rebuke of his host in Luke 7? Seeing their contempt for the sinful woman’s display of worship, our Lord said, “You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment”. To anoint one’s head with oil was to communicate honor. Now consider that as a gospel benefit.

Were our Lord to only suspend our sentence, lift our guilt and clear our record, this kindness would call for ceaseless praise. Yet he does more. He anoints our heads with oil. This tender, dignifying act may seem unreasonably gracious, yet there it is.

“. . . you anoint my head with oil . . .”

It is our duty and joy to press forward in our knowledge of the inheritance secured for us by grace. To fail in this is to diminish the accomplishment of the cross, obscure the vastness of mercy and dim the glory of the God who not only forgives our sins but anoints our head with oil. “He”, the Psalmist says, “lifts the needy from the ash heap; he seats them with princes” (Psalm 113:7b-8a). Does that seem too lavish for you, Christian? Is it bigger than you think plausible? Do you see this mercy as inordinately generous? If so, look harder at your inheritance. Consider Romans 8, Ephesians 2, or Isaiah 53. If you tend to cower when approaching the Lord in prayer or if shame envelopes you so fully that you wish for your own disappearance or if you suspect that the Father forgives you out of obligation to his covenant, but actually sees you in varying degrees of contempt and disdain, may I encourage you to lace up your boots, leave the porch, find a trail and start walking? Explore further. Bring somebody with you. Hike these grounds with your siblings (or bring an orphaned friend who has yet to be adopted). Take your time. Look around. Drink in the vast gospel landscape. Take another look at the fields you’ve walked before. Keep walking. And you might want to pack a lunch because the estate that is now your home is big.