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- Written by: Don Goulding
Why are you depressed, O my soul?
Why are you upset?
Wait for God!
For I will again give thanks
to my God for his saving intervention. (Psalms 42:5)
As I mounted my bicycle, there was an extraordinary sunrise. Blood fire began above the hills, then it ignited the underside of charcoal clouds. A stab of crimson bled, north and south, along the horizon. Eventually, half of the morning sky hummed in electric fuchsia. The spectacle rushed into my eyes and filled my soul.
Then I plunged my bike into fog. The whole of life was confined to the few square yards my vision penetrated. My riding goggles clouded with dew, and there was little to remind me of God. Thought fragments haunted—the discord of a relationship, the weariness of battling, how cold I felt. Fear loomed. Would a commuter run me over?
I recalled that beyond the fog, the glorious sunrise was growing. I couldn’t see it, but it was there. Fog is a temporary vapor, just as Despair is a malignant spirit, earmarked for destruction. His blockage is brief and doesn’t change the brilliance of Jesus one iota. My hope in Christ will prevail, and Despair will be annihilated in the lake of burning fire. I win, he loses.
Jesus blazes on his throne of splendor. His white-hot love saturates heaven. Rays from this same luminance tinge our world to hint of what’s beyond. No matter what trial blocks my view, the radiance of Jesus is my present, and future, reality. How foolish, O my soul, that you are downcast from a bit of life fog.
Prayer: Lord, renew my burning hope through the burdens of life.
- Details
- Written by: Don Goulding
So Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. Just as the Father has sent me, I also send you.” And after he said this, he breathed on them and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” (John 20:21, 22)
So also it is written, “The first man, Adam, became a living person”; the last Adam became a life-giving spirit. (1 Corinthians 15:45)
I turned 360 degrees, analyzing each piece in the modern and contemporary pavilion of the Seattle Art Museum. Above me, cars tumbled through the air. Beside me, boxes of breakfast cereal rested on silk inside a glass case. All around, thought fragments were regurgitated onto canvas, then hung under lights for examination.
Art touches our emotions, and the effect that room had on my feelings was shock. I was shocked at how easily I identified with chaos, and sickened that we put a frame around our fractured reality and extol it. It didn’t matter that the collection was housed in a bedazzling skyscraper, or that the expenses were underwritten by the richest man on the planet (Gates). It was a brazen display of mankind’s brokenness, and without a remedy in sight.
No human or institution can return what we've forfeited since Eden. Neither government reforms, nor technological breakthroughs, nor any amount of money can heal our planet. Only Jesus can do that.
The first Adam received life when God breathed into him—now the last Adam breathes a second chance at life into us. Jesus breathes out, and I breathe in. When we both do our part, peace floods my squirming mind. I know why I’m here. I’m ready to be sent.
The choice is remade with each new day. I can join the world’s homage of our dysfunction, or inhale the breath, words, and life of Jesus. What about today?
Prayer: Spirit of Jesus, breathe your cure into me.¯
- Details
- Written by: Don Goulding
Like a lamb led to the slaughtering block,
like a sheep silent before her shearers,
he did not even open his mouth. (Isaiah 53:7)
I was bent over the bed, bare bottom exposed. “You,” here Dad stopped to administer a smack with the belt, “…will,” another pause and another swat, “…never,” spank, “…lie...”
Before the next stroke came, I stood bolt upright, yanked up my pants, and said, “Okay, I’ll never lie again.”
Needless to say, there were more swats to follow.
At Jesus’s flogging, each stroke came with a word that imparted my sin—hatred (crack), gossip (thump), hypocrisy (crunch). Then came the nails—evil thoughts (clang), pettiness (ching). I’m so glad he didn’t stop in the middle and say, “Okay, enough.” Instead, he remained silent, and absorbed every last, sin.
Jesus voluntarily remained on the cross as he was beaten, until he was no longer recognizable. He remained utterly silent as he was maimed for my sin. That silence knifes a truth to my heart—mature love is absorbent. With every cut of the whip, and each thud in his face, he took on more of my villainy.
Now, here I am, trying to love as I have been loved. I wrestle with temptation and struggle with trials, but the most difficult test is absorbing the evil of others. Can I be gracious when they cause injury with intent? Can I enter their world of pain and draw some of it away? Do I have absorbent love?
A dry sponge only pushes spills around. It must first be saturated, then wrung out. I’m of no use to God until I’m saturated with an awareness of my own guilt, and then have it wrung out of me by the work of the cross. I’m left emptied of my sin, but humble, malleable, and absorbent to others.
Prayer: Father, let me be a sponge in your hand, ready to absorb.