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.

You are the man

Second Samuel 12:1-13 tells a story that should make any weep at man's injustice to fellow man and cause even Hollywood script writers to question the suspense factor in their detective stories.

A typical "big man" who had lots of stuff at his beck and call forcefully snatches the only source of livelihood left for a poor man and his family.

This is of course just a parable of the real event recorded a chapter earlier.

Trust King David (giant-slayer extraordinaire, teen champion, who successfully played 'bull-fight' with both a lion and a bear, and lived to tell the story, musician par excellence, prolific writer, thrice anointed king, Spirit-filled warrior, the man after God's own heart) he bellowed in royal wrath and roared with righteous indignation- "WHODUNNIT!?!?!?".
He didnt stop there, he went ahead to mentally arrest, arraign, convict and sentence the 'vile' offender, with neither bench nor jury. No appeal.

He continued his tirade of judgement until God's servant, prophet Nathan delivered the bombshell- "You are the man". Bewildered, Dave staggeringly sank back into his throne.
How?
When??
Where???

How often do we 'born-again christians' sit in our exalted seats as believers to deliver judgement on others?

How often does the brightness of our halo throw others up in such stark relief that we summarily dismiss them as beyond redemption?

How frequently does the thought of our humility get us so conceited we miss the true meaning of the word?

How like Brother David do we envisage the rot to always come from without our spotless beings?

How unlike Master Jesus are we, who despite having all the facts and the truth at His finger tips decided to let mercy rule with the most profound statement in history- "go and sin no more"

As Christ in His wisdom pointed out to us, we need to first dislodge the log in our eyes before contemplating the speck in our brother's eyes. (Matthew 7:1-5)

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm all for letting others know when they are wrong. I'm also all for showing the right way. The Bible doesn't just advocate it, It commands us to do so. (Titus 2:15).

However, this must be done in, with and out of love. Never should this be done from a holier-than-thou stand point. (Rom 14:1, 15:1)

Of all the multiple privileges we enjoy as christians, condemning others is not a part of the package.

If, like Brother David, you have already drawn conclusions about the next person, why not complete the imitation- swallow your pride, admit you are wrong and seek forgiveness, both from God and man. Once confronted with a "You-are-the-Man" moment of truth, let's not pass the buck. Rather, let's own up. We owe ourselves and the gospel we preach an attitude of active acceptance and sincere penitence.

When a member of The Family errs as is inevitable, let us also be slow to judge and quick to forgive. Let's strike the balance of rebuking with authority, yet correcting in love. Like our master, let us shepherd with both a rod and a staff.

If we kill instead of treating our wounded soldiers, how do we encourage others to join our Army?  As Henry Ward Beecher put it, "the church is not a gallery for the exhibition of eminent christians, but a school for the education of imperfect ones".

Let's make our christianity indeed Christ-like. Then, can we boldly declare the love of Christ. Then, will we radiate that divine warmth capable of attracting people of all nations to the reality of Christ's unconditional love.

God bless you.

In the language I can understand.

"Speak to me, Lord, in the language I can understand".

While I was growing up, that's one prayer my dad prayed, actually still prays, ever so often. Dutiful daughter I was, I picked it up and added it to my personal prayer
vocabulary.

Of course, when I became born-again, that sentence in all its 10-word glory made much more sense to me. From then on, I said it not as a grammatical and flowery addition to my prayers; it became the heart-felt desire of a soul hungry to hear God.

I, however, reserved it for those times I wanted to read the Bible or a Bible-based book. Those moments just before the preacher/speaker at any gathering mounted the podium. Those oh-too-frequent times I didn't know which exactly step to take.

As I read Max Lucado in "He Chose the Nails" (a book i STRONGLY recommend) the chapter titled "I Will Speak to You in Your Language" threw that sentence in a whole new light. After over a decade, the full import of what had almost become a casual mantra really sank in. And believe me, it packed quite a sucker punch- it hit real hard.

I've somehow, always expected God to speak in the vocal tones of my limited human language. My mind had already confined His expressions to those available in my dialect. Even while I said that prayer, the boundaries of my experience bordered the answer. As the words left my mouth, God who searches the heart and tries the reins must have been mildly amused at the mental pre-determined format in which I desired His responses, and my dogged insistence and refusal to even remotely consider the existence of alternative "languages" through which He speaks.

In my ignorant wisdom, as it were, God should be well versed in the idioms, proverbs and nuances of my language for me to understand. I never knew that to Him, speaking to me in the language I could understand goes beyond the boundaries of syntax and structure. I forgot that He who by causing confusion ironically created all human languages at Babel (Gen 11: 7-9) and understands even the chirping of the birds- He sure didn't speak Igbo, English, Hebrew, Aramaic or French when He commanded the ravens to feed Elijah (1 Kings 17:4) could speak my, your or any other language He desires.

Nevertheless, not one to be restricted by the fickleness of human experiences and the shallow imaginations which shape language with all its inadequacies, God moves beyond the realm of speech to the realm of events. He speaks, in Pastor Lucado's words, through the "day-to-day" drama of our individual lives. He reaches through the heavens down to the earth, through eternity into time to impress His Truth in our hearts in such a way that understanding is inevitable.

God articulates truth through the "Abjectness of Adversity". He is quite lucid in the "Language of Laughter". He bellows through the "Bounties of Blessings". He speaks through the "Solemn Silence of Sorrows". He whispers through the "Wintry Winds Weird events". He enunciates clearly through the "Erosion of Ecstasy". He resonates through the "Rhythm of Riches".
Through the "vernacular of want" and through eyes "Misted over by Misery", through "untold pains" and "un-worded wails", through "shared smiles" "corporate conquests" and "bitter betrayals", His intents ring out clearly. He always, always speaks in the language we can understand.

If only we could divest ourselves of preconceived notions and truly listen, we would hear Him. Better still, we would understand.

David must have also had a taste of this experience for him to say "the entrance of your Word gives light, and understanding to the simple". (Ps 119:130).
The word "entrance" presupposes barriers. Things put in place, by us and our environment which stop us from hearing God as He in His wisdom speaks in our own peculiar "language" that would communicate best to us per time. Steel doors on metal frames and rusty immovable hinges that bar God's Words from gaining entrance into our hearts.

As I caught this, I found myself praying.
But as I continued my study, my prayers changed three times within 90 minutes. First, I needed God to over look the door and just speak. Then, I asked Him to oil the hinges so the door would open smoothly and without a squeak. Finally, The Spirit made me understand- "Success, you don't need no doors". So I now pray, God don't just oil the hinges. Don't even stop at opening the door, though that would be mighty nice. God, please, remove the door and pluck away the frame. I'm now prepared to join my predecessors who listened, and understood and learnt. I'm eager to learn new "languages", no matter how difficult. I now say that structurally simple but profoundly meaningful prayer with a brand new heart and from a whole new perspective- I just know it's gonna be an awesome adventure with My Father. "Speak to me, Lord, in the language I can understand".

There's always room for one more person.
Would you care to join Us?

I have an Itch

I.
Have an Itch. 

This Itch emanates from the centre of my being. Right at the junction where pleasure and pain are defined. I respond to the stimulus and I scratch, but instead of abating, the Itch increases in intensity. 

Yes.
 It is exactly what you think. 

Concerned not to embarras myself in public, I rush to the privacy of my room. I take agonising minutes to rid myself of all barriers. 

I must. Repeat. I simply must give this Itch all the attention it requires. 
I must scratch with all diligence. 
I must itch this Itch with all the thoroughness it deserves. 
All encumberances out of the way, I settle down to itch the Itch. 

Oh No, wait. The door is open. 
I can't afford to have this Itching session interrupted. I need my privacy to do this right. I bolt out of bed and bolt the door. 

Finally the stage is set. 

As I begin, I carefully explore all the angles and poke into every crevice. 
Gently at first, I soothe, and then I get into the heat of the event. 

Awwwww, sooo satisfying. 

Before I get carried away, let me let you in and give you a brief 
background to this Itch. 

I woke up this morning with this Itch. 

It's been coming and going for the past 72 hours and i kept ignoring it. 

However, it came out in full force today. Indignant, I guess at being so contemptuously ignored and it's demands outrightly denied. 

Hmmm, this Itch. 

That restless feeling that makes me know there are feelings waiting to be "speakings", thoughts churning to be aired, lines roiling to be penned. 
This Itch that tells me: 
"Put it down". 
"Shout it loud". 
"Make it known". 

It assures... 
There are patterns to be analysed, emotions to be dissected, feelings to be discussed. 

It makes me know that impressions would soon turn into expressions. 

It is that concentration of grammar that makes my throat tight and my fingers fluid. It makes my head float in the skies with my feet firmly planted on terra-firma. 

This itch makes me, even if just for a fraction of a nano-second, a part of the select group of humans who have a way with words; those mortals 
who imitate immortality by employing verbs and nouns and adjectives, who with proverbs and oxymorons and metaphors, and all other such parts and figures of speech create a world of their choosing and discretion. 

Magicians who, regardless of the limitations of organised language, weave the fleeting strands of imagination into a colourful tapestry of "reality". Masterfully dissipating one affection while whipping into frenzy, a passion for another. 
Sonorously orchestrating what would have been the discordant clangs of our individual experiences into a harmonious tune of our common humanity. 

I have spoken. 
I have written. 
I have thought. 
I have crafted. 
And. 
I have created. 

Semantics, concord, lexis and structure aside, The Itch seems to have subsided. 

Whether I made sense or not would most likely be the source of another itch. 

For now, I simply roll over on my stomach and savour the bliss of an Itch-free moment... 

Reminiscing... Ruminating.  As I put pen to paper. I reason.  Since I had to go through the experiences, I might as well remember. Not in bitterness, not for sorrow. But to learn. And to teach.