zeal: it’s for every season

(Thinking about zeal, passion, lukewarm and comfortable, living a life poured out, and an exhortation from Bob Dale several years ago:)

We were exhorted yesterday, reminded of things we ought not forget, and yet somehow always do. I was listening, really listening, and I want to rise to the challenge to love Jesus according to His great example and not according to the world’s sensibility.

Do not be slothful in zeal, be fervent in spirit, serve the Lord. —rom 12.11 (ESV)

Zeal has nothing to do with physical age, spiritual age, season or calling. God doesn’t expect us to outgrow zeal along with mountain dew and hilary duff. He doesn’t think it’s another name for the bubble of bliss in which the newly saved walk. There’s no renouncement of it written into wedding vows, because it’s supposed to carry over from single to already-taken. And it’s not in the job description for youth pastors only, along with the ability to look way-cool.

It’s for all of us, all the time, until Jesus takes us home. It’s not a matter of style; it’s a matter of whether or not we’re spewn with great disgust from the mouth of God. The young can be filled with zeal, because it doesn’t require great wisdom and experience, but simply a revelation of God’s love. The old and arthritic can be consumed by it, because it’s not about dancing to the fast songs, but about a life that is poured out selflessly.

It’s about priorities, about fire in the bones, about being so wrapped up in the Second Coming that we sort of forget about prestigious college degrees, Pottery Barn couches, and making sure our kids don’t miss a season of soccer.

It’s about letting the embers of love be stirred so that we start to live like strangers and aliens, more like ambassadors; not so much for Now, more for Already and Not Yet.

It’s about knowing that

…it was the Father’s good pleasure for all the fullness to dwell in Him, and through Him to reconcile all things to Himself, having made peace through the blood of His cross; through Him, I say, whether things on earth or things in heaven. And although you were formerly alienated and hostile in mind, engaged in evil deeds, yet He has now reconciled you in His fleshly body through death, in order to present you before Him holy and blameless and beyond reproach– if indeed you continue in the faith firmly established and steadfast, and not moved away from the hope of the gospel that you have heard… —col 1

(a repost from the archives.)

jameson and william

Jameson goes to see the Red Sox.


elated and ready to roll!


the revered Sox.


the enraptured fan.


saying “cheese!” in the wrong direction. (i love it!!)


they love each other.


the ride home.

William has two teeth.

…which you can’t see in any of these pictures. I just wrote that so I’d have it recorded somewhere that his first tooth came in on the 10th, the second on the 12th.


chubby.


still chubby.


what he actually looks like most of the time.


this one’s for the feet. i love those chubby toes!!

life.

These delicate pink-kissed tulips made their way into my basket yesterday. They weren’t exactly on the grocery list, but you know. It’s a Sunday worth celebrating.

Today, lots of cooking, quick cleaning, setting tables, prepping baskets, all that good stuff.

Tomorrow, church, and a house full of friends who will join us (some for their first “Easter” ever!)

Enjoy your preparations. And remember to sing as you go: Jesus is alive!

the cross

Is it always this bad?

This: my heart.

Does the speed of life, the constant movement, prevent me from seeing, with open eyes, the wretchedness which this Holy Week — the Giant Pause — now lays bare?

A look. A word. A thought — o! the thoughts! — betrays my lack for what it is.

And slowly, surely, I am laid low.

I’m stirring the onions, breathing deeply, wondering at my sadness of soul. (My mind is slow to catch onto the truth which my heart instantly grasps.)

And I think I need the Cross. I find words that will say what I need to hear, need to confess, need to wash over me.

Days of struggling, of being disappointed with self, of grasping for love and truth and righteousness — this exhaustion falls away as I weep.

Here, in my kitchen, with my onions and baby monitor, I cry to borrow language — language that will thank this Dearest Friend.

My heart. My wretchedness. My empty attempts at perfection. My soul’s anguish. They are rags; I accept Your righteousness.

o sacred head

O sacred Head, now wounded,
with grief and shame weighed down,
now scornfully surrounded
with thorns, thine only crown:
how pale thou art with anguish,
with sore abuse and scorn!
How does that visage languish
which once was bright as morn!

What thou, my Lord, has suffered
was all for sinners’ gain;
mine, mine was the transgression,
but thine the deadly pain.
Lo, here I fall, my Savior!
‘Tis I deserve thy place;
look on me with thy favor,
vouchsafe to me thy grace.

What language shall I borrow
to thank thee, dearest friend,
for this thy dying sorrow,
thy pity without end?
O make me thine forever;
and should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never
outlive my love for thee.