Entering into the Temple

Lord, today I crawl into your Temple.

Today, my silence is my prayer.

Today, my tears are my washing your feet.

The trails on my cheek mark my search for you.

Today, groans voice my hosannas.  

Today, my gasps are my offering of my lips.

Not because I’m heroic.

Not because I have superhero faith. 

Not because I'm greater than my circumstances--be they financial difficulties, broken relationships, aging and ailing parents,  devastating diagnosis, confusion.

Rather, I’m weak. Tired. Broken.

Hands are limp, too tired to be raised.

Feet are still, too weary to dance.

So, no, it’s not me.

But you are my Savior.

You have shown me your great love

by rescuing me from my greatest need, even while I was still your enemy.

You have looked to my profit

—what profit me if I lose my soul but had health, wealth, and prosperity (Mat. 16:26)?

You have looked to my blessing—given every spiritual blessing in you (Eph. 1:3).

You have looked to my eternal joy

—you have called me into communion with you, to be with you forever, with eternal pleasures at your right hand (1 Cor. 1:8-9; Ps. 16:11).

But you are my Substitute.

Dying for me, rising for me, you are my life.

You and your Spirit in me give rise

to a praise, a truth, a knowing,

deeper than this circumstance and pain,

more eternal than this light and momentary trouble.

It is your praise that wells up out of the depths of me, from places I do not know, but rest in.

It is your life in me, your Spirit in me, that praises even in wavering gasps.

But you are my Sanctifier.

You are my Priest, allowing me to make these lip sacrifices of praise to you (Heb. 13:15).

You are the new, true Temple

—the place where heaven meets earth, where holiness touches the unclean, where God is present.

As I enter into the fellowship of your sufferings (Phil. 3:10),

I come to you, the Temple,

you sanctify my pain, turning it into an offering of praise.

You take it—be it illness, divorce, family, ailing and aging loved ones, uncertainty, financial straits—

purifying me, refining me, for my good and the praise of your glory.

Tears can be lavers;

silence can be prayer;

weakness can be incense.

You are my Sympathetic Priest.

Never alone, never alone.

But you are the Same.

In life, death; health or illness; wealth or poverty; desert or garden,

You are the Same—Savior, Substitute, Sanctifier, Sympathetic Priest.

Whatever my moment is, my changing, fleeting circumstances,

You are the Same.

I, by your grace, still whisper,

whisper with the breath you still give me,

whisper along with the Spirit’s groans:

“To the King of the ages, immortal, invisible, the only God, be honor and glory forever and ever. Amen” (1 Timothy 1:17).

King—my Lord, who bought me, claimed me as his own, and claims and governs every moment, sovereign in his love, even over the moments of suffering.

Ages, immortal—unchanging, same loving, blessing Creator, entering into time and entering into my pain, inviting me into his one-time suffering so I will be his for the ages.

Invisible—with me to the end of the age, more Real and Present than pain, eyes fixed on Jesus the invisible.

The only God—who else has the words of life? Who else has hope? Who else is Savior, Substitute, Sanctifier, Sympathetic one?

Be honor and glory forever and ever—yes, even this moment, these long moments, are wrapped up in this glorious, eternal purpose, of praise to the Worthy One. Holy, holy, holy, as the achy knees still bow, the weary head still bows, the tired hands still open.

So, no, it is not me. It is You. You.