there was demolition work at my kitchen table.
i thought that it equaled the christian life.
renovation; faith’s highest priority, it seemed to me.
the work headed up by a foreman with hard hat on and drawn plans rolled up under his arm. and coffee. always coffee. his eyes had seen this job a million times or more. he drank deep from his travel mug and faithfully got to work on the project of me.
but the machines have stilled.
they’ve sat quiet these months and now they languish under snow.
the metal engines that dug deep, making the landscape ugly – but always with promises:
– beauty is coming
– all will be restored
– it won’t be long now
is the purpose of our faith only to make us better? is it just the ultimate self help guide? when one finally sees how unlivable the house of their heart is, it is tempting to call in a the orange steel of those trucks hoping that they might be able to make this heart as close to perfect as possible.
but i must have taken the keys out of the ignition some time back. i think i laid them down right over…now where did i put them?
honestly, i don’t care.
that foreman shows up at the door ready to work each morning while i’m making breakfast and checking to see that children have brushed their teeth.
the question now is was that ever jesus? maybe at one time it was and now it’s just a wolf in sheep’s clothing? i’m still not sure.
because the relentless christian pursuit of self-improvement sounds different to my ears these days. it seems like a twisted take on repentance and forgiveness.
the one where i mess up and tell god i’m sorry and he forgives.
yeah. that one.
so there has been no heavy lifting. no roads shut down for months at a time. and no jesus standing with plans for the brand new heart he’s set to build in me.
because the cross is nothing less and so much more than a fleet of those construction trucks my son used to name religiously.
– dump truck
– bull dozer
all the work is finished.
my heart is already new.
i’m slow to learn and still figuring out how to work it. and when i go to old places imagining that i still have a heart of concrete, i have to tell god that i’m sorry.
i’m sorry, lord.
and he forgives me.
i feel the weight of a stone heart lifted again and feel the beating of the flesh heart he has put in me.