Avalon, 5:56 PM, wt. 239
Joy Cometh in the Morning
Joy Cometh in the Morning
“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” Psalm 30:5
Not twenty-four hours had passed from the beginning of Christian Life Fellowship’s 21-day church fast, before I had broken every one of my noble intentions for the fast. It was as if the other one had been looking over my shoulder as I enumerated what I was going to give up for God. Then he smiled as he plotted to see how quickly each one could be brought to no account.
A nice lunch out after Sunday church took care of denial. It was okay to watch the Patriots, but I kept the TV on afterwards – so much for eschewing. And I won’t even go into what happened on the walk of love, when I was asked to give up the first quarter of the football game, to run errands and exchange gifts on the way home.
So when it was time to tally up the day, I was beyond chagrin and well into despair. All I could do was nod in agreement, as the other one spoke with consummate disdain of my unworthiness for any kind of leadership. Not even pleading the Blood helped much. He was right.
But as I, out of abject misery, sought the Father, I was surprised to find that He was not nearly as dismayed as I was. Indeed, it was now He who was smiling, as He reminded me of how often my namesake had begun a Psalm in utter consternation, only to have all the angry waves smoothed out by the time the Psalm ended. If that David could derive the necessary comfort from the journal process, this one could, also.
V V V
I got off to such a good start yesterday, Father. The sun was shining; there was grace everywhere, and then – the roof caved in. And the worst of it was, I think I knew it was the other one tempting me, and yet I still rose to the bait. And now –
My son, do you want to be good or look good?
Um, both, I guess. And now – I can do neither.
Do I love you any less?
No. But I have grievously disappointed both of us.
And I let you.
That’s true. You could have given me a sharp check in my spirit – sharp enough to dissuade me from derailing the train, before it even got out of the station. But it was not you who let us down; it was me.
How many fasts have you entered into, in the forty-two years that we have known each other?
Many.
Did they all start off clean?
Most did. But there were times when I seemed to get into it gradually. But this time, I wanted – I think we wanted me – to lead by my example.
We did.
And it started off great – good Scriptures, good teaching points, an up ending. . . . And then – well, you saw what happened.
What do you want to do now?
I can’t start over; what’s done is done. Though even now, I keep wishing that by some miracle, I actually could start over. . . . You are still on the throne, and you are the Miracle-Worker; is there any way we can rewind time?
So you can still look good?
You’re right; it would be a lie.
What if – you were not to present yourself as without spot or blemish? What if you were merely a struggling sinner, like those whom you hope to encourage?
I wanted this to be a wonderful step forward (for me, too) into a new vista, a new intimacy with you.
It still can be. You just won’t look as good as you wanted to.
You want me to do this? Present myself to you and them –
and yourself –
as a struggling sinner, warts and all? Why would they even come?
Because I will inform their spirits that I approve of your spirit, flawed as it is. Remember, this fast is not for the newly-arrived in my Kingdom. This is for those who have been with me a long time – long enough to become my friends, as well as my sometimes good and mostly faithful servants.
You are reminding me that my namesake was far from immaculate. But his heart was after your heart. And his Psalms – his cries of anguish – have encouraged millions over the centuries, to pick up the pieces and try again. Where would we be, if you were not the God of second chances?
Now, my son, you are coming to me in open-handed humility, begging me to have mercy on you, a sinner. This is a good way to start the fast.
I never, ever, would have done this, had I not so blown it in my own eyes, on the very first day.
I would not have allowed you to present yourself as any more perfected than you are.
Forgive me, Father, for having wanted to appear more than I am.
I do forgive you, my son. Your repentance is genuine. You may fall short of the mark again, but it will be your mark, not mine. Your expectations for yourself, not mine.
I can do this.
We can do this.
What we have now is far more mature than what I would have given them.
Which will be more useful to me?
This, I suppose. But you know how much I still don’t want to put it up there, for all to see.
Public repentance loses its appeal when the individual who approves of it has to demonstrate how it works.
Hmm.
Ponder well, my son. The buck stops right where you are sitting.
Amen.
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