Lately as I’ve been praying, I’ve found myself, more than once, unable to ask God for some things. Even in silent prayer, I can’t will myself to complete some requests. In those moments, I realize that I’m a human, a speck, and I see my size and authority in relation to God. Who am I to ask things of the Almighty, the Cosmic Christ to whose will the very universe owes it existence? Moreover, what have I in my overinflated self-importance to add to or give to the One who is the originator of all?
Yet the mind-blowingly wonderful truth is that this God, this creator became nothing, scum, on account of me. He suffered on a Roman cross with me in mind. Such truths are almost too wonderful to ponder, like the radience glowing from Moses’ face that symbolized the Glory of God. I imagine the people of Israel having to turn away from that glow, yet being drawn back as if magnetically, forcing one more glance.
You see, Jesus didn’t visit our planet and die the most miserable of all deaths to make bad people good. He came to make dead people live. He came to make me live. Me, who would never even be able to dream of deserving his attention. And my only response, the only thing I can offer, is to point mutely at him. Not by my goodness. Not by my merit. Not even by my decision. It’s Jesus who saved me, and there’s not a thing I can do in this world that adds to or takes away from that. The power of the forces of Hell isn’t enough to snatch me from his tightly-gripping, ever-loving hand.
So I hold out my arm, silently pointing to the One who made the stars to shine, and who sacrificed so much to purchase me. It’s all I can do.