Significantly Insignificant

“All flesh is like grass,
and all its glory like the flower of grass.
The grass withers,
and the flower falls, but the word of the Lord remains forever.”           

—1 Peter 1:24-25

One thing I love about Scripture is its explicitness. It doesn’t mince words. Instead, it emphatically puts forth truth, unabashedly, in a manner in which we cannot deny its meaning or intent.

And we need that. Straight, to-the-point, undeniable truth—the kind that penetrates the hardest of hearts. Don’t we? Without it, we too easily rationalize it away, side-stepping anything that hints at personal accountability, anything that demands an answer for our wayward actions and attitudes.

All this to say that, without fail, the word of the Lord remains forever. Forever. I don’t know what thoughts this weighty statement impresses upon you, but to me it conveys the limitless power of our God. More than the Lamb of God, it portrays the Lion of Judah—whose sovereign plan comes to pass with full certainty and matchless authority. The world, which is perishable, will soon fade. The Word—never.

Let that sink in. We go about our days anxious of outcomes, worrying whether this or that will come to pass. No doubt that’s a derivative of our inherent fallibility. But God wills His perfect plan and it happens—there is nothing left to happenstance.

I’ll get to my point. Though this world and the life we live within it would never admit it, we are significantly insignificant. Just endeavor to wrap your mind around the size of our galaxy, let alone the vastness of the universe it inhabits. We are small. Tiny, actually. Pay close heed to how the late astronomer and religious skeptic, Carl Sagan, described us, and our planet—he was spot-on:

“Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there—on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.”

Insignificant—you. And I.

And yet, God, whose word—in all its glory, it all its power—stands forever, cares. He cares for you. He cares for me. He concerns Himself with you, with your problems, with your shortfalls, with your worries and your doubts. And He does the same with me. It’s astounding, if we’d only stop to ponder it.

One would need to look no further than the nighttime sky to grasp how wide and deep and long is the love of the God of the universe—that He would willingly and purposefully sacrifice His own Son for our eternal salvation.

It seems rather silly, then, doesn’t it, to allow our hearts to be filled with distrust? In light of His mighty, enduring word, to let our minds be consumed with disbelief?

Thankfully the God whose word reigns in unending triumph is the same God who readily offers unrelenting grace. To you, and me—significantly insignificant inhabitants on a mote of dust suspended on a sunbeam.

Grace to you, to fathom simultaneously the infinite God and His intimate care,

Voice of another

'Psalms for the poor?'

‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’
—Matthew 5:3


 I believe this particular statement Jesus made as much as any. Poor in spirit? Spiritually impoverished. Spiritually flat broke. Bankrupt.

When Jesus saw the crowds and sat down to teach them, He saw me. And He saw you.

Crazy, isn’t it, how He saw us, from almost 2,000 years ago, from halfway around the world? I have no doubt His sermon on the mount was directed right there. At us. Apparently, His vision knew no limits. He was able to perceive, with amazing clarity, the spiritual ineptitude each of us knows so well. And perhaps crazier, in the face of such a sight He unhesitatingly offered that promise: that ours would be the kingdom of heaven.

Truly, it’s the most poignant picture of grace: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us, forever securing our place in the kingdom of heaven.

Grace. It’s a word tossed around in church, amongst those who affiliate with a ‘religious’ circle. No doubt one need not stray far from a Sunday pulpit to hear of it, but even then, taking it in, on a personal level, is as simple as getting real with God. It’s me, and you, being honest about the wrath we know we deserve, and yet, without fail, escape entirely by the blood of the Lamb. We can be, and stay, caught in its unrelenting grip, so long as we bank on it wholly, by His gift of faith.

Like broken beggars, sitting roadside in our tattered rags, we are, time and again, afforded the opportunity to effectually plead with our King, as did David before us: ‘Psalms for the poor, good Lord, Psalms for the poor?’


Psalm 51

Have mercy on me, O God,

according to your steadfast love;

according to your abundant mercy

blot out my transgressions.

Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity,

and cleanse me from my sin!

For I know my transgressions,

and my sin is ever before me.

Against you, you only, have I sinned

and done what is evil in your sight,

so that you may be justified in your words

and blameless in your judgment.

Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity,

and in sin did my mother conceive me.

Behold, you delight in truth in the inward being,

and you teach me wisdom in the secret heart.

Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;

wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.

Let me hear joy and gladness;

let the bones that you have broken rejoice.

Hide your face from my sins,

and blot out all my iniquities.

Create in me a clean heart, O God,

and renew a right spirit within me.

Cast me not away from your presence,

and take not your Holy Spirit from me.

Restore to me the joy of your salvation,

and uphold me with a willing spirit.


To the world, poverty is the surest sign of weakness—the epitome of helpless dependence, that which is to be pitied above all. But to Jesus, it couldn’t be more different. To Him, it’s the foolproof recipe for redemption.

Read the Psalm again. It says according to His great mercy, well-deserved wrath is lifted. According to His longsuffering love, all sin is wiped away, transforming our tattered rags into majestic robes.

I bank on this Psalm, I do, even as I write. And in so doing I get real with God about my destitution, to realize my blood-bought restitution.

Would you too?

Let go of the façade of self-sufficiency and fully embrace His matchless grace—both for the sake of your salvation and His glorification.

And then, and really only then, respond with David, in-kind:



Lord,

Then I will teach transgressors your ways,

and sinners will return to you.

Deliver me from bloodguiltiness, O God,

O God of my salvation,

and my tongue will sing aloud of your righteousness.

O Lord, open my lips,

and my mouth will declare your praise.



Father in heaven, I have sinned against You, and You alone. I lay prostrate before You—guilty, broken, and utterly poor. LORD, according to the riches of Your mercy, forgive me, forgive my striving, my futile attempts to earn righteousness, and grant me the humility to fall hopelessly into the arms of Your saving grace. I pray this, Father, in Your Name, and for the sake of Your Renown, Amen.


Grace to you, to plead, with me, 'Psalms for the poor?'

Voice of another

Verse of the Week

For me, writing has always been responsive, more contemplative reflection than mindless ritual. That’s how I’ve always preferred it anyway. If too habitual, goes the thought, authenticity could suffer, rendering the writing more a pursuit of vanity than an honest attempt at influencing eyes to see. As such, it’s been such a drought of late the cobwebs had to be cleared from my keyboard. And honestly, even as I type I’m not certain my blog still holds a place in cyberspace.

What brings me back? Nothing less than God’s grace. He has again poured living water into the broken cistern that is my heart, turning parched, dusty ground into a refreshed pool, shallow as it may be. As the water collects, so too do my thoughts, and for the first time in almost a year, there’s enough volume to have something to say. You be the judge of how profound or influential—I’m just glad the rainy season appears to have returned.

Without further adieu, let me expound on faith—something close to the heart of Jesus, as reiterated again and again in Scripture; an object often far from reach for sinners like you and me, as evidenced again and again in our wayward lives. Now there are many facets to faith, so the following exposition shouldn’t be taken as comprehensive, not even close—simply, it endeavors to dig into just a sliver of a most abundant and delectable pie.



19 For through the law I died to the law, so that I might live to God. 20 I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me. 21 I do not nullify the grace of God, for if righteousness were through the law, then Christ died for no purpose.

—Galatians 2:19-21



These particular verses in Paul’s letter to the Galatians set the table quite nicely for the point I wish to make about faith. Focus on the latter half of Verse 20, where the Apostle purports that his faith in the sacrificial love of his Savior is the driver behind the life he ‘now lives in the flesh.’ I take it as incredibly significant that he didn’t limit his statement to, ‘…the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God.’ Apparently Paul felt that would’ve been incomplete, so he tags on the phrase, ‘who loved me and gave himself for me.’ That matters. That matters a great deal. Here, Paul’s added quill strokes glorify the object of his faith--Jesus--by ascribing to Him a quality of love unrealized in this life, even by the closest of friends, and a sacrifice compelled by and attached to that transcendent love, one which is literally the epitome of true love (‘Greater love has no man than this…’). And not only does it glorify the Son, it characterizes Paul’s faith in the Son. Mine too.

Disclaimer: what I’m about to say may sound exceptionally pompous, but I honestly believe it to be true.

Not unlike David, I am a man after God’s own heart. I believe God made me that way (as He has undoubtedly made others), with a heart after His own. That is to say, our relationship is based upon, through good and through bad and through, at times, awful, the connection between our hearts, not upon religious ritual or simple subscription to a commonly held creed. I have heartfelt faith in Him, though it waxes and wanes seemingly as often as the monthly cycle of the moon. But the point is, when it’s there, it’s really there—faith in His faithfulness despite the lack of my own. And when it’s not, it’s really not—so no need to feign it.

Before declaring me blasphemous, consider David. He was genuine with God, at times exuberant in joy, at others inconsolable in his disappointment and frustration. His life was far from perfect (like mine!), but his relationship with God was real, raw, unencumbered by pious façade—the only way He wants it anyway.

Back to faith. My faith. I’ve always had this sense that the heart of the matter of faith is that it’s the heart that matters most. And that’s why love is the foundation upon which genuine faith stands. God wants our heart. Nothing less. For better, for worse. And our faith in Him, as imperfect and frail and feeble as it can be, must be rooted there, if it’s authentic…and ultimately productive. James said faith without fruit is counterfeit (paraphrasing here), but faith can only yield fruit out of a fertile heart (think about the direct correlation between obedience and love).

The heart is wild—at one moment in passionate pursuit of its Maker, at another (the next?) swooned by the harlotry of the world. But it is true; the heart does not lie—which is why frank faith originates only from there. And, why our faith in Him matters to Him, above all else.

One more quick point. If faith flows out of the heart, put stock in a desire for God, as slight as it may begin. Another reason for my hiatus: I was waiting on the more significant details of a reinvigorated faith. Results, actually. And it’s not that those aren’t important—they should be the end of such authentic belief. But there’s something captivating, even enchanting, about the moment unadulterated desire for the God of the Universe is sparked. Savor that. Value it the same as your Maker does.



Grace to you, to find satisfaction in the heartfelt desire of faith, even before the details are figured,

Voice of another