Have you ever gotten to the end of your rope? — I have done what I needed to: I’ve graduated from high school, finished college, got a masters degree; I have worked, become a licensed professional, developed into a good project manager; I have been ordained deacon and then priest. And after all that, after everything that I think that I can do, I look at Jesus and ask, “What more do you want from me? What more do I have to do?” The advancement left in architecture is more gradual than what has gone before. And as for church, the chances of a priest being consecrated bishop—particularly a priest with my “unsophisticated” credentials—is nil. So I ask, “God, what more must I do?”
Friends, I have been there. I suppose everybody has to end up there sooner or later, at least those who are type A personality. But the question remains. “God, what more do you want from me?” I’ve given to God, I pray, everything that I have done, all that I possess. What does he want from me? What does he want from me?
God want from me nothing, and yet everything. I cannot offer to God anything that will add to Him, anything that will make Him greater or more glorious, anything that isn’t already perfected in Him. I cannot offer to God anything except what He has given to me. In the words of King David, “Everything comes from you, and we have given you only what comes from your hand” (1 Chron. 29:14). Any gift—any “talent”—is not my own, but is entrusted to me by my Master. So I have nothing that God needs.
This stands in contrast to a pagan view of God. The pagan view is that God can be appeased. When He is angry, he can be mollified. By providing God with something that He doesn’t have, either because we failed to give it, because He simply lacked it, or because He decided He wanted it, we can then manipulate Him into doing something for us. This understanding of God is hard to get out of our heads, because we are bombarded with it from the world, and even from some inside the Church. It’s easier to deal with a god that you can control with certain ceremonies, particular prayers, and special gifts.
But their idols are silver and gold, made by the hands of men.
They have mouths, but cannot speak, eyes, but they cannot see;
they have ears, but they cannot hear, noses, but they cannot smell;
they have hands, but cannot feel, feet, but they cannot walk;
nor can they utter a sound with their throats.
Those who made them will be like them, and so will all who trust in them.
O house of Israel, trust in the LORD—he is their help and shield” (Ps. 115:3-9).
You can offer God nothing, and yet he wants from you everything.
God wants everything from us. And you know what? He started it! He gave us “immeasurably more than all we [could] ask [for] or imagine” (Eph. 3:20). God started giving. “But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Rom. 5:8). He died for you and he died for me. Christ, while we shouted, “Give us Barabbas!” and while we were spitting on him, beating him, blaspheming, smashing a crown of thorns into his head, hammering nails into his hands and feet, while we ran through his side with the spear, even through all that, He loved us and wanted to gather us together. For me, while I dishonored my parents, stole, lied, cheated, and acted ashamed of Christ before the world, through all that, he loved me.
Christ looks at you and me and he longs—he doesn’t wish, want, or merely try—but he longs to gather us together to him. Not to abuse me as I abused him; not to embarrass me for my failures; not to condemn me as one worthy of death. Jesus want to gather us together as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, to protect, watch over, guard, and love us. He wants to gather as the hen, which protects even at the risk of her own life, which shelters from storm, which offers her warmth and comfort. He offers as the hen, which stands to gain nothing from her chicks.
Jesus longs to gather us, as did the father of the prodigal son. Christ stands looking for us, waiting for us, and he is filled with compassion when he sees us. He runs to us, embraces us, and kisses us; Christ himself has removed the estrangement between us and His heart breaks to see our predicament. He robes us, gives us a ring and sandals, and kills the fattened calf for us. For us! O Jesus, what must I do? What do you want from me? What could I do?
“Surely you desire truth in the inner parts (Ps. 51:6). “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise” (Ps. 51:17). This is what he wants. God, we come to you aware of our own sin: “For I know my transgressions, and my sin is always before me” (Ps. 51:3). I cannot escape from my sins; I cannot flee from them. The world is at ease because it does not examine itself, nor does it measure itself to a standard so perfect as our God. Even 50 years ago, the view of man and morality was totally different than it is today. Today sin is celebrated and virtue is mocked, and Isaiah’s prophesy rings true, “Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness, who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter” (Is. 5:20). But God gave us a conscience, mind, and soul, and our souls are not still if our minds do not weigh our deeds.
Yet we act as if our request for reconciliation is too much for Him. I feel that somehow, my sin is foul, vile, too much for His grace, that I must do something more before I can come to him. That is pride: pride that I may have excelled over my peers. “No temptation has seized you except what is common to man.” And likewise, no sin has been committed that is not common to man. It is arrogant to think that I alone have found a course that is past Jesus. He is the shepherd who leaves the 99 sheep and goes to search for the one.
So are we close enough for God to get us? Can we always be within His grasp? Psalm 139 has been a comfort to me when I am near to Christ, and even more solace when I stray from him. It inspires dread (in a good way).
“Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths [i.e., Sheol, the grave], you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.
If I say,
‘Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,’
even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you” (Ps 139:7-11).
I cannot find myself alone from God. Is that what I really want anyway? No solitude is comforting except in Christ’s presence and in pursuit of Him.
As the Psalmist tells us in the beloved Venite, God is near to us; He is tender; He is good. “Come let us bow down in worship, let us kneel before the LORD our maker; for he is our God and we are the people of his pasture, the flock under his care.” (Ps. 95:6-7) His loving-kindness knows no bounds, and He is ready to save. But we must not miss the day of His visitation.
“Today, if you hear his voice, do not harden your hearts as you did at Meribah,
as you did that day at Massah in the desert, where your fathers tested and tried me,
though they had seen what I did.
For forty years I was angry with that generation; I said,
‘They are a people whose hearts go astray, and they have not known my ways.’
So I declared on oath in my anger, ‘They shall never enter my rest.’” (Ps. 95:6-11).
Do you hear the heart of God? Do you hear His heart breaking at the refusal of His people? One of the most tragic and grief-stricken verses in the Bible is Psalm 78:21, which speak of Israel’s rebellion when they demanded meat to eat in the wilderness: “When the LORD heard them, he was very angry; his fire broke out against Jacob, and his wrath rose against Israel.” Oh, the loss! Israel, God’s own treasured possession that he gathered together, became the object of His wrath. How far from what the Lord desired; He called Israel to be his bride, the daughter of Zion.
How do I “kill the prophets” and “stone those sent to me”? Was I not willing? How did I refuse? Oh, yes. Lent is a time to examine one’s conscience, and that conscience is a prophet that God set inside of us. I chose to ignore God’s calling during college. I have not given my all to my vocation. I have not progressed diligently in my spiritual formation. I have not been a good steward of my body. I did not witness my faith when it might be unpopular. I struggle with anger, pride, and greed, and I easily give in, often without a protest. I have been dispassionate in my relationship with Jesus Christ. I am to slow to apologize and too quick to condemn. You need to examine yourself and see what the Spirit is showing you. No sin has befallen me that is not common to all men. Like the prodigal son, I have in so many ways sinned against God and against neighbors. I am not worthy to be called His son.
Yet I never was worthy to be so called of my own merits. “How great is the love the Father has lavished on us that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are! The reason the world does not know us is that it did not know him” (1 Jn. 3:1). The world tells me I am a sinner and not a son, for that is all it sees. But God calls me his own child.
Jesus’ love of Jerusalem is evident and yet it is also evident that judgment must come. It will not be held back forever. Jerusalem, having refused the prophets, apostles (those sent), having spurned God’s attempts to gather her children together, will find her house desolate. And what is desolation? It is deserted, forlorn, laid waste, lonely, abandoned. The desolate house is the house lacking the presence of Christ. He stands at the door and knocks. He speaks, calls us. He does not let us alone unless we so choose. And even then, he upholds and watches us.
Now is the acceptable time (cf. 2 Cor. 6:2). God wants to gather us together. There is no tomorrow, no second chance; yesterday is gone. Our acceptance of God is not a one-time occurrence; it is not a magical act that makes you a Christian, a little Christ. God calls us to Himself many times every day, and each calling is an opportunity to either gather together under his wings, or to refuse Him.
I think the song that best conveys the attitude that Christ is looking for, what he really wants from us, is this chestnut:
“I lift my voice; I lift my hands; I lift my life up to you;
I am an offering!
Lord use my voice, Lord use my hands, Lord use my life, it is Yours,
I am an offering!
All that I am, all that I have, all that I hope to be I give to you, I give to you,
I am an offering.”
