I look around the building and see faces. Behind their faces are a history of lives lived and some stories
I know: stories of courage, of fear, of anger, of betrayal and dark
abuse that shake me. Yet I've heard their testimonies of an even deeper love and
unreasonable hope.
I see sweet newborn cheeks and innocence. I see the water
of baptism. And I want to weep for the pain to come as that little one grows up into a fuller understanding of being born utterly depraved into a world that is not the way it was created to be. Oh, how we have
marred Your glory with our broken bodies and diminish it further with our tepid words! With our lives that skim the surface and strive for comfort. If we were to stop and think. If we were to wait and listen. What would we say? What could we hear rising from these hearts in these pews today? The testimony of the saints. The
poignant mix of treasure and pain that fill our hearts as we walk the
way of the cross.
Yet by his wounds we have been healed, and though we
limp, we limp without rest along the road: responding -- blindly yearning -- to His great
love. There is a chorus of voices, thousands strong, who have walked this confusing road. They have sung their songs of faith while tottering between hope and despair (He has promised all this will sing his glory) and with them we are drawn in. We walk forward and measure out, pace by pace, our part in the story of His Great Redemption.
