So this blog post has been about 27 hours in the writing.
A mixture of a pretty jam-packed few days and a bit of mulling over exactly what Holy Spirit is stirring. And how. And why.
I spent the last two mornings in a really precious place of worship. Me and Jesus and the Bible. Me singing. Him speaking. Me trying to listen.
I've not come to any new conclusions, or any grand revelations, but rather the simple and quiet reminders of the known truth that I hipe my whole life is always being built upon.
There's this stillness and beauty in this secret place that no where else can or ever could compare to.
There are these lyrics that I love…
I can't get past the fire that burns in Your eyes. I can't get past Your heart that burns with desire.
The image that those words saturate my mind with is one of being caught. By Jesus. Of not being able to fall past the outstretched arms of the One who loves me so well.
It's the reality of that love that we don't even have the words to explain or the mind to comprehend.
That love that enables me to live free.
Not in a way that irrelevantly takes grace for granted… But in a way that lives totally secure and completely free from the past and abundantly transformed in the reality that the God of the universe accepts me in my mess and then loves me into wholeness and holiness.
I go back to Isaiah 53.
I turn there.
I pause there.
The suffering servant.
He who had no stately majesty or appearance to attract us to Him.
He who was despised and forsaken of men.
A man of sorrows who we knew not.
He who carried our griefs.
Who carried our sorrows.
Who was pierced for our transgressions.
For my transgressions.
He who was bruised and crushed for us.
He who did no violence.
He in whom there was no deceit.
He who took the inquity of the world upon Himself and bore it willingly in love.
He who drank the cup of wrath with my name of it.
And He who rose, and who lives to make intercession for us. Our merciful, faithful High Priest.
Jesus, who had nothing in His physical appearance to attract or draw us to Him, but who this passage describes as so magnificently beautiful in more ways than my heart and spirit can even comprehend.
A perfect man, who would take my imperfection?
A holy God, who would bear the consequences of my sin and rebellion in His own flesh?
A God who saw that I deserved nothing but hell, but who chose to bestow on me mercy unending?
As the song sings, ‘Oh the beauty of this man’.
The innocence of Jesus strikes me.
He was despised and forsaken and rejected.
He was oppressed and afflicted.
He was beaten and bruised and condemned.
He was murdered.
But yet he was totally innocent.
I am not innocent. We all stand in the guilt of our failure and the weight of our mistakes. None of us hold any merit worth boasting in. We are at our core sinners in need of a Saviour.
Redeemed to be lovers of God, but still battling with our flesh.
But not Jesus.
Perfect, spotless, sinless, Jesus.
He deserved none of what was given Him. None of what He chose to bear.
I can’t imagine the physical pain he bore in His body, but I definately can’t come close to imagining the heartbreak of facing the rejection and slander and accusation of those He loved enough to die for.
That walk to the cross.
Knowing even the Father turn His face away.
And choosing it in love.
Which is really the meekness of Jesus.
The meekness of Isaiah 53.
Being meek is a choice.
It’s not weakness. It’s strength under control.
It’s Jesus, not opening His mouth in the face of accusation, when He holds the wisdom of the ages inside of Him.
It’s Jesus, allowing them to take Him away when He held the strength of the God-head inside.
It’s Jesus, nailed to a cross for the sin of the world when He could have called legions of angels to His rescue.
It’s Jesus. Perfect in meekness. Perfect in beauty. Perfect in Isaiah 53. And the absolute meditation of my heart today.