More Than Mere Dust

“For He knows how we are formed, He remembers that we are dust.”  Psalm 103:14

I have been doing more than a little dabbling in discovering new ways to spend time with God.  They are not really new ways at all, I suppose.  They are old ways that the old saints used that some of us newer saints are finding to be valuable. 

Take for instance the “rhythm of prayer” – choosing to pray at specific times of the day – morning, midday, evening and night, and focusing on particular Bible passages from the Psalms, the gospels or the epistles. It’s not a legalistic thing, but more of a discipline thing.  It doesn’t replace a continual communion between God and me, but it puts into place some times when God can guarantee that I will be listening!

Discipline and I are casual acquaintances.  We have bumped into each other on many occasions.  We are not quite best friends. Someone once told me that if I make “discipline” my friend, one day I will turn around and discover “delight” has joined us. 

Today’s prescribed reading is Psalm 103:1-14.  The aim is to read through the words slowly and allow them to sink in and give the Spirit room to highlight a word, a phrase or a sentence.  I am trying hard not to treat the exercise like an old fashioned Promise Box – picking something out consciously and try to fit it to whatever circumstances I face. 

Psalm 103 is a familiar Psalm.  I can finish off many of the lines without reading.  Some of the lines come with music attached.  There is a plethora of words and phrases for the Spirit to highlight, but He waited till the end sentence.

“He remembers that we are dust.”

“The trouble is,” said God to me, “I remember that you are dust…but all too often you don’t! You think that you are something better than dust.”

Dust doesn’t climb any corporate ladders.  It’s not interested in how much money is in the bank account.  Dust doesn’t wear designer labels or have to have the latest gadgets.  Dust doesn’t compare itself with anyone.  It has no ambition to win or at least not come last in the game of life.

“I remember that you are dust,” said God to me, “and I’m very good with dust…”

“Then the Lord God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.” Genesis 2:7

Dust in God’s hand is something more than mere dust.

The Things I See in You

I see in you what I am looking for

A faith convinced that God is there

He turns His ear to every whispered prayer

And you - his name and nature bear

I see in you what I am looking for

A faith that fills your heart with song

To celebrate that you to Him belong

And in your weakness He is strong

I see in you what I am looking for

A faith that laughs at trying days

That thumbs the nose at come-what-mays

And in the battle always, always stays

I see in you what I am looking for

A faith that anchors in the storm

That sings for joy amid the locust swarm

And surrenders to God’s Spirit to transform

I see in you what I am looking for

A faith that lays before God’s mighty throne

All crowns and works of great renown

Content to ever be the Saviour’s own

I see in you what I am looking for

In all your scenes that play across life’s stage

The narrative God writes upon the page

With life in light and shadow you engage

εὐχαριστήσας

“Deep joy is found only at the table of thanksgiving.” Anne Voskamp

Yesterday I was told that Jehovah Witnesses have Communion just once a year.  Even then, most of the congregation don’t take part.  It is something that is reserved for those who are part of the 144,000. 

Communion is a kind of re-enactment of the Last Supper.  The words and actions of Jesus are remembered as the bread and the wine are shared among believers.

“He took some bread and gave thanks to God for it. Then he broke it in pieces and gave it to the disciples, saying, “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this to remember me.” Luke 22:19

καὶ λαβὼν ἄρτον εὐχαριστήσας ἔκλασεν καὶ ἔδωκεν αὐτοῖς λέγων· Τοῦτό ἐστιν τὸ σῶμά μου τὸ ὑπὲρ ὑμῶν διδόμενον· τοῦτο ποιεῖτε εἰς τὴν ἐμὴν ἀνάμνησιν.

Once upon a time, in my dim and distant past, I knew and spoke a little Greek. The letters were as familiar to me as any other set of letters.  I can even boast that once upon a time, in that same dim and distant past, I had also learned a little Arabic.  I don’t claim to have a gift for languages.  I swiftly forgot both languages when I stopped using them.

I remember enough to know εὐχαριστήσας has something to do with the word we translate as Eucharist.  I grew up in the Roman Catholic Church. Where other churches might celebrate Holy Communion, we celebrated the Eucharist.   The Greek word “Eucharist” means “thanksgiving”.  The “Charis” bit of the word translates as “grace”.

If you are not allowed to participate in communion does that mean that you don’t have the opportunity to give thanks?  Does it also mean that you don’t have the opportunity to receive grace? From what was said by my friend sharing her experience as a Jehovah Witness, before someone introduced her to Jesus, there’s nothing to be thankful about and there is no grace needed. It’s all about how many doors you knock on, how many magazines you hand out and how many Bible studies you initiate.  It’s about meeting a quota.

My friend talked about two boxes in the Kingdom Hall.  One was for offerings.  The other was for service reports – the amount of doors knocked and the conversations you’d had.  40 hours a month minimum was required by the organisation to prove you were a committed member.  How different might our churches be if we committed ourselves to 40 hours witnessing and evangelism a month – not to prove anything, but because the love of God was so strong in us that we just couldn’t help ourselves!

I have been convicted about this thanksgiving and grace thing – this Eucharist thing.  In some churches perhaps they are so worried about communion becoming an empty tradition if done too often that they fall into the trap of not celebrating it often enough!  I am not sure if the early church kept count of times they broke bread together.  Remembering Jesus and expressing their thanks to Him for their salvation was always at the centre of their fellowship.  I think they probably didn’t allow themselves to fall into familiarity with celebrating the Eucharist.  I think they took great care to keep things fresh and vibrant.  They never got tired of saying “Thank you!”

I realised yesterday that I am having a hard time being thankful.  I appear to have fallen into a pattern of picking fault.  I have put myself into the centre of my universe and if things do not fall the way I want them too, I scowl! 

I scowled because a salad I had asked for came with more than half a plate of coleslaw.  I don’t like coleslaw.  I spent my mealtime scraping the mayonnaise off the ham and off the tomatoes.  I’d even said grace before the meal!

The absence of thanksgiving and gratitude robs us of joy. Without joy we are robbed of our capacity to see the things we should be grateful for.

How differently we would all live if we saw the things we should be grateful for and never get tired of saying “Thank you!”

Love Letter

I think, if you have been a Christian long enough, you have come across one or two testimonies of people whose lives have been turned around because of a Gideon Bible placed in the drawer of the bedside cabinet in a hotel room or hospital ward.  On a recent holiday I discovered a Gideon Bible on a shelf in the caravan we were staying in.

Surprising though it might be, according to the gideons.org.uk website, many people in Britain have never seen a Bible. Many seem to have a picture in their heads of a man sitting in an attic writing the Bible. They have never read it and can’t imagine a time or a place when they might want to. Some presume, because of the kind of Christians they have met, straight laced, sombre and sour faced, that the Bible is something that takes away the joy of life.  It is all full of “Thou shalt not…”.

They don’t know that it is a love letter.

I know it’s a love letter and I have fallen in love with the author. I know Him and I know His words.  They tell me that I am the apple of His eye and my name is written on the palm of His hand.  They tell me that wonderfully and fearfully He made me. They tell me that as my shepherd, He carries me gently on His shoulders.

I am blessed to be someone who loves reading.  I have never felt reading the Bible to be a chore. I haven’t always understood what I have read, and it has prompted me to dig a little deeper, or a lot deeper.  Treasure doesn’t always lie on the surface.

I treasure His words. They are life to my spirit.

One very tired and weary day last week, I read these words from Isaiah.  I read them, not silently in my head, but out loud declaring each phrase and sentence, speaking faith to my heart.  I didn’t feel tired or weary when I got to the end.

Have you never heard?
    Have you never understood?
The Lord is the everlasting God,
    the Creator of all the earth.
He never grows weak or weary.
    No one can measure the depths of his understanding.
 He gives power to the weak
    and strength to the powerless.
Even youths will become weak and tired,
    and young men will fall in exhaustion.
But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength.
    They will soar high on wings like eagles.
They will run and not grow weary.
    They will walk and not faint.

(Isaiah 40:28-31)

The Gideons place Bibles or New Testaments in many places like hotels and hospitals, prisons and care homes...and schools.

One school I know had a visit from the Gideons.  They handed out small New Testaments to the first year pupils.  In years past, pupils had collected their New Testaments and spent time flicking through it, looking up the verses for “If you are sad…” or “if you have lost a loved one”. The novelty value lasted for a while but, in the end, it was just another book and they didn’t really like reading. 

We live in a different world.  Today I found the ground in front of the school littered with the confetti of half a dozen New Testaments torn to bits.

A love letter shredded.

It’s enough to break your heart.