Crowns and Sacrifices and Fruits

As the voices ascended in united singing during the worship service last Sunday evening somewhere in Surulere, Lagos, a new sky of understanding opened up to me on this hymn-"Crown Him". 

While we did the first stanza, my mind jumped to the second (though it never got sung in the long run). This stanza starts with the line "Let every kindred, every tribe on this terrestrial ball..." and ends with "...And crown Him Lord of lords".

God made me see the rare privilege I, and indeed every other true worshipper have been accorded.

We are actually to be the coronating officers to The King of kings. You and I, mere mortals that we are, have been graciously elevated to the position of King-makers to Divinity. 

This is a calling so high it is humbling in it's grandeur. And that with not a trace of politicking nor lobbying on our part. If that isn't awesome, I don't know what is.

This privilege interpretes that there is a spot on Christ's head at every point in time awaiting a coronation from no one else but you and I, as individuals.

It was so startling a revelation I'd to pause to let it sink in before I could rejoin the singing congregation, on an entirely different song, of course with a better understanding of the act of worship.

All through the week I went about with a fresh consciousness.

I ought to maximise the privilege. I must exhaust all the crowns I've got at my disposal. Coronation is serious business. I need to give it all the attention it requires. I have to do it in all ways possible- singing, dancing, giving, preaching, listening, caring, sharing, every single, simple and mundane activity of every day living, in fact, just being should be an act of worship. I should do it according to the specifications- in Spirit & in Truth (John 4:24).

Thinking about it all this evening, as I mentally prepared for service, I got another insight from Hebrews 13:15. "...sacrifices of praise" and "...fruit of our lips".

Tomorrow is another Sunday. Let praises ring true. Let your songs resound sincere. Not just the movement of lips, not just the utterance of words prearranged in harmonious rhythms.

Tomorrow is another Sunday. Another opportunity to kick-start a flagging attitude of gratitude  Make it a Sunday unusual. Let the King receive a crown. Let Heaven hear a different melody.

Let it indeed be a sacrifice. The fruit of your lips. 

You know, fruits don't just appear. Lands are prepared. Seeds are carefully chosen and planted and cultivated and watered and nurtured. Weeds are taken off. Care is taken such that nothing chokes the plant nor hinders its growth. It takes hope and faith and a great deal of patience.

Lands of salvation, seeds of God's faithfulness, accepted in humility, watered with joy and gladness.

Note this, weeds must come up. Tiny shoots of thoughts of what should have been. Sprouting pre-occupations with unanswered prayers, and desires not yet met. Weeds of comparisons with folks we started with who have left us in the dust long ago. I mean it's the 11th month already, the tunnel seems to be getting darker and the nights longer. Where in heaven's name is the light? Where are the miracles? The promises that ushered in our 2014?

Tares sown by the enemy. They could morph into a mass of murmurs, climbing vines of complaints, binding ropes of bitterness.

We owe ourselves to identify and ruthlessly uproot these weeds. We owe ourselves to constantly water the seeds of His faithfulness else they would never bear fruits of gratefulness. We owe ourselves to remember that it is a sacrifice. A sacrifice of the natural human logic that says "see before you praise" to take on the supernatural and beyond-human method of praising through the pain, praising despite the struggles, smiling at heaven through the tears,  praising in advance.

Else, we might only fill up the pews and make up the attendance. And then, though we dance off our soles and clap down the roof, sing along with the choir and scream out our lungs, heaven would not take note. Because no crowns were brought. No sacrifices were offered. No fruits were borne.

If I default, if you default, if we default, this King is as desirous of excellence as He is humble. He'll let stones do the honours. And you bet they'll deliver, just the way He wants it.

May no stones take your place. May no stones take my place. Not in time. And not in eternity in Jesus' name, Amen.

Stay Favoured.