Source: The Shedding Tree
I saw this quote recently, probably on facebook or Instagram, and it stopped me.
The trees are about to show us how lovely it is to let the dead things go. –Annonymous
I’ve always loved when the trees explode in their own display of fireworks–the riot of red and blazing orange that woo our gaze with their warmth and heat the crisping autumn sky. But I never realized it’s a celebration of dead things.
Before those leaves are shed, they’re colored crimson.
Before those leaves are discarded, they’re dipped and dyed flaming yellows.
But they will be shed, and they will be discarded, because those leaves, they are dead.
There’s no hope of life left to linger. They are completely and utterly dead.
When autumn’s fireworks have ceased, we see the naked and bare limbs of maples, their trunks like elephant legs, and it gives us a quiet, lonely sense about the world.
But in their naked state, they’re actually more alive than when the flaming leaves hold on to their branches heralding autumn’s last hoorah.
They’re alive because they let go of the dead things.
They’re alive because they’ve shed that which, if left to stay, would prevent the budding bumps of new growth come spring.
Life means letting go of dead things.
If we hold onto to dead things forever, we cling to crumpled remnants of what will never be. We cling to the grave.
We do that, don’t we? Cling to the grave?
Hold onto a grudge when forgiveness is budding beneath, pressing and pushing and praying to be released in our lives.
Hold onto paralyzing fear when trust is a trigger ready to be pulled, and peace wants desperately to be launched.
Hold onto material things and worldly goals when eternal things and heavenly pursuits are shoots pushing at the surface of our soul beckoning us to release them into a hungry, hurting world.
We like the dead things because they’re deceptively beautiful.
Because let’s be honest, whether we want to lose weight but can’t let go of our lattes and french fries or we want to see our marriage restored, but can’t get past the years of hurtful, angry words, we’re holding onto things we think will satisfy. Mirages of the soul.
But eventually, their beauty crumbles in our grasp, and we’re left with dust.
For years my sisters and I would take our children to Nana’s house to rake leaves. We didn’t have a leaf-blower, and the yard was too big for my mom to clean up all by herself, so we made a game of it with the kids. We’d all work together to gather the leaves in a massive mountain. When the yard was bare, our kids were released to dive into the mountain of maple, poplar, and oak leaves. I can still see them jumping in, taking turns diving and flipping, their cheeks pink with brisk autumn air and excitement.
But the leaves would get crushed and scattered.
We’d rake them back up over and over, but after a while, the mountain would become a hill.
The hill would become a bump.
And before too long, we’d drift away, lose interest, and the leaves would be left to decompose.
Because that’s what happens with dead things.
They don’t hold the weight of real life for very long, and they can’t stand up to actual use.
The trees are about to show us how lovely it is to let the dead things go.
The trees, they know the secret to a lovely life is releasing the dead and allowing the new to be birthed within us, through us, out of us.
Loveliness is the daughter of letting go.
Paul talked about this too. He understood that as Christians, we’re literally in Christ and He’s literally in us, and therefore, the capacity for new life is in us. He understood that if that holy capacity is within us, then it is for us to let go of the old ways and allow the new life of Christ to emerge.
You were living in your sins and lawless ways. But in fact you were dead. You used to live as sinners when you followed the ways of this world. You served the one who rules over the spiritual forces of evil. He is the spirit who is now at work in those who don’t obey God. At one time we all lived among them. Our desires were controlled by sin. We tried to satisfy what they wanted us to do. We followed our desires and thoughts. God was angry with us like he was with everyone else. That’s because of the kind of people we all were. But God loves us deeply. He is full of mercy. So he gave us new life because of what Christ has done. He gave us life even when we were dead in sin. Ephesians 2: 1-4a
The lovely life is the promised gift of God; the lovely life is a life that knows how to shed.
. . . seeing that you have put off the old self with its practices and have put on the new self . . . Col. 3:9b,10a
To put off your old self, which belongs to your former manner of life and is corrupt through deceitful desires, and to be renewed in the spirit of your minds, and to put on the new self, created after the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness. Eph: 4:22-24
When I shed the dead, I bear the likeness of God—the beauty of His holiness.
When I shed the dead, I bear the image of the divine.
It’s hard, though, isn’t it? When the dead is that thing that broke us? Crushed us? And we never want to forget, so we hold it tight in one hand and reach for life with the other, hoping we can somehow have both. But death and life are darkness and life and they don’t fellowship well with one another, and you and I? We’ve got to choose, don’t we? Why do we forget that life comes when we let the old ways die? Why do we hold on to that which will give us nothing but sorrow? We bite the fruit over and over again thinking that this time, it will be sweet when only that which finds its source in Christ is sweet to our soul.
I can’t get this quote out of my mind,and I am determined to etch this shedding the dead into my heart. So I go outside, and I get a crimson sumac branch and break it from the trunk it’s clinging to. I bring it inside. This year, as I think of the holiday season approaching, the season of gratitude and then the season of giving, I think to myself, I’ll strip the dead things and replace them with living things.
So I place the tree in a pitcher and sit with my boys. I ask them to think of the dead things they may be clinging to. I ask the same of myself. And as the Holy Spirit brings them to mind, we’ll remove one of the dried, brittle leaves and replace it with an ornament of life.
When we lay our electronics down—all of them, the laptops, the cell-phones, the television, and pick up a game to play together, we’ll remove a leaf and replace it with life. Time connecting as a family.
When we apologize for the short, clipped words we used with one another, we’ll crumple and crush one of those leaves and replace it with life. Kindness, patience.
When we surrender our lengthy Christmas lists to God’s economy, we’ll replace the dead with giving life to others.
I can’t grasp the living if I’m gripping the grave. I don’t want my legacy to be that of a grave robber when the option to be a life-giver is out there.
So, I’m going to choose to shed, choose life.
This will be the first Christmas tree we decorate this year. Before the matching-pinteresty one, before the antique one loaded with ornaments from a life spent collecting memories and moments. This tree will go up before the others. This tree that was dead and brought back to life.
The Shedding Tree that becomes The Living Tree.
And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.” Also he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.” Revelation 21:25
All the dead things new this year. He’s doing that in us, isn’t He? It’s trustworthy. It’s true.
In a world where a debate rages around a game played every Autumn Sunday on artificial grass, some lyrics and notes, and a piece of cloth made from strips of red, white, and blue, let us be a beacon of light that draws people’s eyes to the real issue at hand. Because in the end, folks aren’t really talking about flags and anthems and pigskin balls, are they?
Of course not.
What we’re really talking about, the heart of the matter, the fulcrum on which positions rise or fall is actually just this: I am here. I am human. I have a beating heart. I matter. Somehow, we’ve bought into an idea that by allowing one to matter we must diminish or minimize another when in reality, there is enough room, enough space on the sprawling planet for all the hearts that beat to matter supremely.
So Peter opened his mouth and said: “Truly I understand that God shows no partiality . . .” (Acts 10:34,35)
God invented the idea that everyone gets a fair shake, that there’s enough love for everyone. He’s limitless; He’s love, and therefore, there is enough of Him and enough of love for all the humans.
But as a society, it seems sometimes, that we live by the law of scarcity. We allow ourselves to be controlled by a cataclysmally crushing view that there’s not enough respect and justice and love for everyone, that we have to fight to get what is our due. We’ve bought into a liar’s lament that we live in a land of lack instead of a land of plenty, a land where when one is esteemed, another is diminished.
So we’ve begun to categorize and compartmentalize because if I am to treat you less than a human being deserves, I must first somehow separate you from me. So, I’ll call you black, and I’ll call myself white. Or you’re a soldier and I’m a civilian. Or I’m an independent, and you’re a republican. And now, there’s room for me and mine to self-preserve, and if it comes down to a brawl, well, you’re in the other box, so we’ll come at you guns blazing.
But dad-gum, we’ve missed it. We’ve flat-out missed this one thread that ties us all together–the heart that beats.
We’ve forgotten the hearts of humanity–we all have these hearts that beat and pump and keep us alive on this planet. And it’s actually the heart that matters in the end.
My dad, he had his heart stopped and started several times last week. Apparently his short-circuits. The wires misfire and his heart races to catch up to the fireworks exploding inside his chest. He lands in the ER where they know him by name, and they shock him. They stop the beating in the hopes of stopping the misfiring, and then they restart him in the hope that he’ll catch the rhythm again. The rhythm of a healthy beating heart.
And I think we the people may just need a restart too.
Because we’re beating to different rhythms and forgetting that hearts don’t beat to black, and they don’t beat to blue. Hearts don’t beat to flags or anthems or nuclear weapons. Beating hearts got their start back in a garden when God breathed His breath into the nostrils of the first man. And the first man managed to get out of sync pretty quickly, and hearts have been misfiring ever since.
See, we have this tendency to zoom in on color or politics and miss the heart of the matter entirely, don’t we?
The person who refuses to stand is broken over a broken world-a world they feel is unfair and unjust, and frankly, in truth, they aren’t wrong. The world has been unjust and unfair and unkind because it began beating to the wrong rhythm. Their heart is broken, and they’re fighting for air and breath, fighting to find the right rhythm. But the rhythm can’t be found in a football stadium anymore than it can be found in congress.
The rhythm is found in a person–Jesus Christ. So whether we kneel or whether we stand, if we don’t know Jesus Christ, we don’t truly have hope.
And while a debate rages on in our country, people lose loved ones, hurting heroes give up and commit suicide, people are diagnosed with terminal illnesses, children starve, and places like Puerto Rico remain destroyed. And the followers of Jesus? Well, we followers of Jesus become distracted and ineffective because we forget the real needs and focus instead on a stadium full of padded athletic elites. Let us not forget that a world filled with needs is our stadium, and we stand for our anthem by walking across the street to our different skinned/same-hearted neighbors’ home and asking them to dinner. We take a stand by feeding hungry humans. We take a stand by holding the hand of a bereaved mother as she grieves an early parting. We take a stand by insisting that the standard by which a life is valued is not the color of the life’s skin, the vocation, or the sexual preference of the human but by their beating heart.
It is the heart that matters.
Jesus always stopped and restarted the heart first.
Let’s make sure we get first things first.
Let’s stand for the true anthem . . . the anthem for which one day every knee will bow
Let’s stand for Jesus.
Stand for love.
Stand for peace.
Stand for long-suffering.
Stand for kindness.
Stand for patience.
Stand for gentleness.
That’s the restart we need.
Let’s do that in our classrooms at school, in our workplaces, in our sporting events, in our neighborhoods, in our homes, in our communities.
As believers, we pledge allegiance first to Jesus Christ. And that should inform every other decision we make. If all believers stand well for Jesus Christ, these issues of inequality and injustice will be resolved as more and more people walk in the light. The flag represents a nation that affords us freedom, yes, but Jesus Christ affords us ultimate freedom and eternal hope. That can never be taken.
Some will read this and assume I don’t care about our flag. They’ll be wrong. That flag represents a nation that has given me the freedom to write these words freely. The soldiers who have fought and defended that flag are men and women whom I love and want to stand and cheer for every time I see them. A dear friend just said goodbye to her husband as he takes another tour across Afghanistan. She’ll raise children alone while he bravely defends our ability to have these debates openly and without fear of retribution. For that flag and those men and women, I’ll absolutely stand. All day. Any day.
Others will read this and assume I don’t care about the reality of systemic inequality that does exist in our country. They too would be wrong. I will stand all day every day for those who are measured by anything other than the equal ground of a beating heart. On this planet, all humans are created by God.
He NEVER makes a mistake.
Each is worthy of life because the author of life in His great perfection and sovereignty breathed it into humanity. He gives life.
It is ours to respect, honor, and cherish.
Unborn life, aging life, colored life, poor life, different life.
All worthy of standing for.
Because Jesus–my flag, my anthem–came that they might have life and have it abundantly.
So, while we’re on this topic of standing and kneeling, perhaps we could do a stop and restart.
Let’s kneel to our God and stand for His ways.
By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another. (John 13:35)
Teach me your ways, O Lord;
make them known to me.
Teach me to live according to your truth,
for you are my God, who saves me.
I always trust in you.
Remember, O Lord, your kindness and constant love
which you have shown from long ago.
Forgive the sins and errors of my youth.
In your constant love and goodness,
remember me, Lord!
Because the Lord is righteous and good,
he teaches sinners the path they should follow.
He leads the humble in the right way
and teaches them his will.
With faithfulness and love he leads
all who keep his covenant and obey his commands.
Keep your promise, Lord, and forgive my sins,
for they are many.
Those who have reverence for the Lord
will learn from him the path they should follow. (Psalm 2:4-12)
Years ago we sold our home and bought another one. I was skeptical of the potential new kitchen, and with good reason. In addition to the not-so-level country-blue laminate counters was this ocean-blue floor made of tiny 2 by 2 square inch tiles. That floor was the stuff of Mexico, and I wasn’t having it. I live in the mountains of rural north Georgia for goodness sake. So when we toured the house, Jeff said, “Yes, Sarah, we can replace the tile.” “Yes, Sarah.” He said that. Direct quote, people. Can I just tell you that tile has left me sea-sick for almost 5 years now. FIVE years. To tell you that I have loathed the shiny, cobalt ceramic squares is an understatement. I L-O-A-T-H-E-D the tile. So, when I found some peaceful grey (neutral is my love language) tiles on sale for pennies, I grabbed a hammer and chisel and told Jeff it was time. Time he ante up. He promised after all. He was at work, probably doing something spiritual like preparing a sermon to share with your children on Wednesday nights, but I interrupted with photos of the new tile and requests for permission to proceed.
And proceed I did. The elation I experienced at busting those tiles with my hammer ranks right below having my children and my wedding day.
I was pumped.
By pumped, I mean I went insane. I seriously put on lip gloss and fixed my hair for the demolition. Legit. Hammer in hand, Cort by my side (I think Jeff sent him a text and told him to supervise and make sure I didn’t hurt myself), I tapped the tile gingerly at first, and then with a gusto and vigor I can only explain as being “caught up in the Spirit.” (Cort may or may not have thought I’d been overtaken by a demon, but really, he’s young, how could he know?) I banged and bashed and brandished my hammer like a crazed banshee.
Then I noticed how SLOW the tile removing process was going. I noticed after about ten tiles, the hammer was getting heavy. (Seriously, in this day and age, why does a hammer have to weight 5 million pounds?) I noticed I wasn’t quite prepared. (Read: I had to go get safety glasses because shards of ceramic are sharp and they slice skin without apology or warning. Sorry about your leg, Cort.) But I was determined. Nate was at work, but Cort quickly saw that an intervention would be necessary, so he had mercy on me and assisted. We pounded and chiseled, and pounded some more. When Jeff got home, he found only a few square feet of tile removed and a wife who was utterly exhausted. We had about 140 square feet to go.
(Some will judge my son’s bare feet. Judge away. I pick my battles.)
I was discouraged.
But I was still determined.
And I was invested. You can’t really change your mind once you’ve busted out a few dozen tiles and cracked scores more. We were all in, like it or not.
Kind of reminds me of parenting. Does it you?
So excited about having a beautiful family, we bring children into this world and it is all roses and butterflies and heavenly choirs for the first few minutes.
They don’t sleep. They end up with colic. (Lord help us, mommas of littles, how I remember those days. What in the world was wrong with me, I thought, that made my kids the only ones that cried constantly?) Or they don’t potty train. Or they bite. Or they hit. And later, they talk back. They use their phones to send inappropriate things. They hide things from you. They disrespect you. And if you’re like me, you’re convinced that you’ve done something wrong, you missed the memo on raising perfect, well mannered kids. Or maybe they don’t do anything wrong, they just don’t do anything at all. They don’t talk to you. They don’t participate in activities with the family. They just dissolve into their bedrooms, and you can’t find a way back. You wonder how you can ever get them to actually talk with you. They get a little heavy, don’t they? And the work . . . the real work of parenting lies before us. And oh my goodness, it is way more difficult than we ever could have imagined. All of a sudden, we are in shock and a little uncertain if we will make it through.
But we’re all in. They’re ours. No return policy.
And the potential for beauty and joy is undeniable.
It’s just hard sometimes, isn’t it?
When Jeff came home, he grinned at me in the midst of my mess. Then, he had this advice for me, “We just gotta keep going, Babe. We’ll get it done.”
And you know, he was right?
And here is something so beautiful. He said, “We’ll get it done.”
Did you catch that? WE.
God NEVER LEAVES us to do this incredible work of parenting alone. He doesn’t.
I will never leave you nor forsake you–Hebrews 13:5
We are all in, yes, but we are all in with the power, the might, the wisdom and the strength of the God who hung our planet into orbit and breathed life into mankind. He’s way more invested than we’ll ever be. He’s the architect! This is his gig.
In the end, every muscle in my body was sore. Look, I turned 40. Things have happened. My knees hate me. My arms are like long animal balloons filled with water. I’ll just tell you I was popping 12 hour Aleves and vitamin B12s like they were skittles. And I have concluded that all flooring guys should be nominated for Nobel prizes and given raises after every job they complete, and also they should be knighted or sainted. What? I’m not even kidding.
But, I have a lovely, inexpensive (thanks to sweat equity and my husband who can do anything in the world.) neutral floor that no future home owner will want to curse me for. It’s so pretty.
(And may the God of heaven and earth grant me new counters someday before I am 100.)
It came one way.
And hard work takes time. Lots of time. Lots of sweat. Lots of commitment.
Can we just encourage you to keep going? Keep chiseling away at the tiles in your children’s lives that need removing. Keep carefully, attentively laying the foundational mortar of God’s Word that will ground them for a lifetime. Keep doing the things that seem basic and simple and not very glamorous, but are truly critical and vital to the end result. Things like reading them the same story for the millionth time. Things like telling them tales of your own childhood. Things like teaching respect and honor. Things like requiring the truth and giving fair consequences for wrong choices. Things like Nerf Wars and dressing up like Super Heroes and watching all the Marvel movies. Things like asking your kid questions even when they only give you one word answers. Things like texting funny memes that they think are stupid, and like tucking them in at night even when they are long over it, and roasting s’mores in the middle of a rainstorm, or making them a coffee and bringing it to them in bed. The magic of insignificant things is that when you accumulate them over a lifetime, they become the mortar that cements your hearts to one another. There’s no perfect formula. Your things will be different than my things. Don’t be tempted to compare. Never measure yourself by another human. Allow God to equip you with His tools, and that will always be enough.
Your children may not thank you now. They may not always be dream-boats to raise. Sometimes they may be a lot like my blue floor–horrifying. But they are yours.
God chose YOU and appointed YOU to raise them, to love them, to guide them in truth.
Keep going, friends and fellow parents. In the end, you will reap a harvest.
I always knew the vision I had for our kitchen. I didn’t look at the tacky tile and dismiss the kitchen as useless. I knew deep inside of me just what that space could be. With parenting, we have to keep the end in mind too, you know? You and I? We know what our children can be. We know deep within us who they are meant to be. What do we hope for our children in the end? What kind of people do we want them to be? And every choice, every decision, every word shared, every interaction should take that end goal into consideration. We are NOT guaranteed that our children will walk with Jesus all their days. They get to make that decision for themselves. What we CAN guarantee is that we lay the foundation for them to walk with God. That is the choice you and I get to make. Each day. With each truth spoken, each kindness offered, each smile given. We get to introduce our children to the heart of God by mirroring Him every chance we get.
Be imitators of God as beloved children–Eph. 5:1
Keep going. Your children are beautiful. Your work is sacred and holy, and it matters tremendously. You may feel ill-equipped, weak, and unprepared, but you are all in, so keep going. Because your YOU is not just you, it is you and HIM–God Almighty is working through you.
For it is God who works in you (and your children), both to will and to work for his good pleasure–Phil. 2:13
Encourage the exhausted and strengthen the feeble. Say to those with anxious heart, “Take courage, fear not. Behold, your God will come with vengeance; The recompense of God will come, But He will save you.” Isaiah 35:3,4
Listen, O Israel! The LORD is our God, the LORD alone.And you must love the LORD your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your strength. And you must commit yourselves wholeheartedly to these commands that I am giving you today. Repeat them again and again to your children. Talk about them when you are at home and when you are on the road, when you are going to bed and when you are getting up. Tie them to your hands and wear them on your forehead as reminders. Write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates. Deuteronomy 6:4-8
Maybe you look at the landscape of your child’s life, and you think, I want to keep going or even begin anew, but where do I start? I hear you. It can be daunting and overwhelming. Parenting is the stuff of heroes. I have this one suggestion.
Just start with one tile.
And then the next . . .
and the next.
Just one tile.
Because it matters.
I’ve rebelled against Revelation for years now. I would rather have a root canal than watch a science fiction movie, and Revelation feels a lot like the science fiction crescendo of the holiest of books. Around ten years ago, we were in a Sunday School class that studied the book. The members of the class enjoyed the study so much, they did it again. We quit Sunday School. I mean really, Revelations? Study that book twice? Yeah, no thank you.
But recently, Jesus invited me back to unfold the pages and unravel the words of that sacred vision recorded by John. And when Jesus invites, who can resist?
So quietly, tucked under my fuzzy throw, french roast coffee steaming on the table beside me, Bible and journal in hand, I pushed beyond all the books filled with honey and bread of life, and stopped at the last of God’s Words to us. There I discovered something I’d forgotten.
Maybe when I knew it, it hadn’t mattered as much.
Maybe then, I hadn’t needed it like I do now.
Maybe then, my heart was younger, more naive, and less broken and heavy.
There it was in the fifth chapter of the book.
And when he (the Lamb of God) had taken the scroll, the four living creatures and the twenty-four elders fell down before the Lamb, each holding a harp, and golden bowls full of incense, which are the prayers of the saints. 9 And they sang a new song, saying,
“Worthy are you to take the scroll
and to open its seals,
for you were slain, and by your blood you ransomed people for God
from every tribe and language and people and nation,
10 and you have made them a kingdom and priests to our God,
and they shall reign on the earth.”
Did you catch that?
There are elders in heaven who hold golden bowls.
And those golden bowls are filled with incense which are the prayers of the saints.
That’s you and I–the saints. And those are our prayers.
Your prayers. My prayers.
All my prayers, poured out to Jesus.
Every single one.
He’s kept them. He kept those heart cries and he kept those pleas.
Yours too. He keeps our conversations in golden bowls.
And see this matters more to me now. More because I’ve prayed more. More because I’ve learned answers don’t always come when I want or how I want. More because the stakes have gotten high in recent years. More because I’m living life in way over my head. More because when your husband’s a pastor and you have well over a hundred kids and leaders that you love and ache and fight for daily in prayer, you just really want to know your pleas have purpose. When people text you saying they’ve lost all hope, and you tell them all you can tell them, and you listen all you can listen, and you finally promise the last resort–prayer, when that happens? You just want to know that when you go to God with those desperate needs, He’s done something with them.
And I’ve gone.
Again and again.
To my Father with requests and with pleading and with every ounce of fight in me.
Because every single life matters.
When I read those words–golden bowls filled with incense which are the prayers of the saints–I think of all the helplessness I’ve felt in the last few years. I think of all the times when I feel like everything is spiralling out of control, and there is no way I can ever keep up, or make a real difference. I think of Haiti, and hungry, hurting hearts in that dry land where there is no water. I think of how helpless I feel and how the little I do feels so microscopic in light of the magnitude of need in that place on the planet. I think of my own precious boys, now young men with hearts young and tender and vulnerable. I think of how desperately I want all that is good and true and real and honorable to fill their minds and souls and lives, and yet what control does a mother truly have over a son she’s taught to fly? What trajectory can a mother guide when their wings are nearly fully developed and whatever’s in their hearts will determine their path?
But a mother can pray. And I have prayed. I have filled bowls. And those bowls? They contain the fragrance of the throneroom of God. When I cry out to him over the matters that crush my soul with their weight, heaven carries the scent of the incense of my supplication.
Heaven carries the scent of your cries too.
I have a collection of letters from my grandmother. Faded envelopes pasted with now-vintage postage stamps and inked in her telltale cursive slant hold her thoughts recorded on UNICEF cards and stationery–the ones she shared with me when I was young. I keep them all tucked in a red purse on the top shelf of my closet because her thoughts matter to me.
And God keeps our thoughts because they matter to Him.
Jesus knew I just needed to be reminded of that–so He took me to the end of His Words to show me that in heaven our cries are collected and contained in gold.
John Piper understands these things and spoke about them too.
” . . .what we have in this text is an explanation of what has happened to the millions upon millions of prayers over the last 2,000 years as the saints have cried out again and again, “Thy kingdom come . . . Thy kingdom come.” Not one of these prayers, prayed in faith, has been ignored. Not one is lost or forgotten. Not one has been ineffectual or pointless. They have all been gathering on the altar before the throne of God.
And the flame has been growing brighter and brighter and more and more pleasing in the presence of God. And the time will come when God will command his holy angel to take his mighty censer and fill it with fire from the altar where the prayers burn before the Lord, and pour it out on the world to bring all God’s great and holy purposes to completion. Which means that the consummation of history will be owing to the supplication of the saints who cry to God day and night. Not one God-exalting prayer has ever been in vain.” (John Piper, The Prayers of the Saints)
See sometimes I grow a little faint with the facts as I see them and those bowls remind me that there is more to the story.
For our light and temporary affliction is producing for us an eternal glory that far outweighs our troubles. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. 2 Cor. 4:17,18
And I can’t help but wonder if you’re like me, and you’ve just felt a little helpless sometimes. Somehow this idea that I can go to God and fill a bowl seems to fill me with courage and will-power to do that simple thing God instructed us to do without ceasing. It gives me a burning urge to fill bowls until they are overflowing and God and all of heaven can’t help but notice the scent of Sarah’s heart poured out. And isn’t it funny that the thing that’s collected in the golden bowls is not our effort or our hard work or our determined attempts? It’s that which we’ve surrendered fully to God that gets kept.
It’s in the emptying of our hearts that we will fill heavenly spaces.
Maybe that’s why the Psalmist said it like this:
Cast your cares on the LORD and he will sustain you; he will never let the righteous be shaken. Psalm 55:22
And maybe that’s why Peter felt the same:
Humble yourselves therefore under the mighty hand of God, that he may exalt you in due time: Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you. I Peter 5:6,7
Because Peter, he spent time with Jesus. He knew the heart of the God who dressed in flesh. He knew.
God keeps our prayers.
I can’t think of a better place to leave my burdens, than in the golden goblets in heaven.
And now, now I think I understand a little more about the much to which James referred when he said,
The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much. James 5:16
In desperate times, some say there isn’t much we can do but pray.
The much of prayer is the filling of bowls . . . it’s the work of a soul who knows the Savior who saves our prayers and saves our lives and someday will return for us all.