Humility

Humility, by Andrew Murray, is one of the simplest yet most profound books I have ever read. I just keep going back to it again and again. And again. Because understanding what humility is and actually getting to a place where it is the constant disposition (or even direction) of my heart are two completely different animals. Death to self is life in Christ. I know that. But what does that practically look like?

Rest in these thoughts for a bit…

“Until a humility that rests in nothing less than the end and death of self, and

which gives up all the honor of men as Jesus did to seek the honor that comes

from God alone (which absolutely makes and counts itself nothing) that God may

be all, that the Lord alone may be exalted- until such a humility is what we seek in

Christ above our chief joy, and welcome at any price, there is very little hope of a

faith that will conquer the world.” (p. 26, emphasis mine)

“It is a solemn thought that our love for God is measured by our everyday

relationships with others. Except as its validity is proven in standing the test of

daily life with our fellow-men, our love for God may be found to be a delusion. It

is easy to think that we humble ourselves before God, but our humility toward

others is the only sufficient proof that our humility before God is real. To be

genuine, humility must abide in us and become our very nature.” (p. 53)

As I pursue Christ, I pursue humility, for there is no humility apart from Him. He is the very definition of that great aim. He is the impartation of life and the antithesis of pride and death. O, that I may learn to be more like Him and dwell in the rich depths of humility.

My prayer and declaration in this journey…

“How great is God! How small we are! Lost, swallowed up, in love’s immensity!”

(p. 101)

Amen.

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The (American) Bride

Once a daughter, silent sleeping
Woke unto a blissful sight-
That she had grown through wont and weeping
To become a bride of striking might.

Ran she from her ample slumber,
Calling dawn with steady chords;
“Lie we no more, tarry, lumber,
Draw we now our battle swords!”

‘Twas grace that taught her heart to sing,
Selfless love that gave her purpose;
Humility bought that precious ring
For which her heart e’er searchest.

Oh, take my heart and make me better,
Take my heart and make me bold.
Bind my spirit in richest fetter,
And give my hand a ring of gold.

Too long ago, before she slept,
She knew her ardent lover.
Too soon thereafter, ran she off
To the tight grip of another.

Stubborn she, and often selfish,
Trusting not her bridegroom’s way,
Levees built to stay her passion
Long ago had given way.

So, lumbered she, encumbered greatly
With riches, comfort, charm-ed life,
Until the burden proved too heavy
For the bridegroom’s ailing wife.

Never was she meant to carry
Such a load of toil and strain;
But thought she this would win the favor
Of her groom, His heart’s refrain.

Oh, take my heart and make me better,
Take my heart and make me bold.
Bind my spirit in richest fetter,
And give my hand a ring of gold.

Thus she slumbered in her working,
Never peaceful, forging on;
So slowly did she come to realize
She had His true love all along.

And, as she wandered, bleakly peering,
Searching to and tossing fro,
She sensed His ever-lasting Spirit
Lead her where she longed to go.

“Oh! Lead me farther into glory,
Make my face to shine and glow;
Dress me proud in white-washed linen
To match my heart of purest snow.”

Oh, take my heart and make me better,
Take my heart and make me bold.
Bind my spirit in richest fetter,
And give my hand a ring of gold.

Her other lover left her weary,
Proving never to fulfill;
For riches can not reap the harvest;
Riches know not how to till.

Returned she weak and heavy-laden
To He who loved and knew her best;
Ashamed was she, but joyous He
And offered kindly her to rest.

His heart a fount of pure emotion
Yearning for His cherished one;
She now could see with both eyes open;
Her days of slumber now were done.

Professed He to His purest bride,
“I vow to love you always, true.”
And gently hushed in velvet whisper,
She gave her heart and said, “I do.”

Oh, take my heart and make me better,
Take my heart and make me bold.
Bind my spirit in richest fetter,
And give my hand a ring of gold.

The Appeal of Sacrifice

"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known."

The stirring last would-be words of Sydney Carton, Charles Dickens' damaged hero in A Tale of Two Cities, always bring a twinge of hopeful yearning to my soul. A yearning for a memorial to justice and truth. A yearning for meaning far beyond the natural state of things. A yearning for the eternal.

The opposer of sacrifice is selfishness. Living for myself with the belief that my needs are more important and valuable than your needs. The blood lust for selfishness- looking out for number one- is the mediation my flesh believes will satisfy, when ultimately- always- it fails. Miserably. My flesh believes that entitlement is the answer, because it is something I can create and control. But sacrifice is a much fairer fruit. A much more rare ambition.

And therein lies the appeal of sacrifice. It isn’t easy. It doesn’t come naturally. And it yields many scars that mark this road less traveled. It is a rare gem.

It is Carton's selflessness, his peaceful resignation to take the place of his rival in the grip of a rabid mob that desires nothing but revenge that draws me in. It is a beautiful picture of sacrifice. Walking into the lion’s den with a resolve that chooses not to keep the animals’ appetites at bay but invites the consequence it knows must come. Sacrifice.

“Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh.” Carton knew there was no escape, no avoidance of Madame Guillotine. And still he went. To take the place of the man who would live for everything that moved Carton and brought notes of love and purpose to his cold heart.

Would I do that? For my enemy? Would I lay down my life for one I knew would get everything I ever wanted when I would taste none of it?

Or one step further…could I live a life of sacrifice and lay down my life daily for something greater than myself? For my enemy? For the enemy of my Lord? It is my constant prayer that I would. That I would live a life that is not my own and can only speak in roaring tones of the goodness and sacrifice of One who lived a perfect life and sacrificed that I may live. That I may have everything.

We are drawn to sacrificial characters because they represent an elusive, intangible quality that our hearts search for but can not fully comprehend until they meet the Jesus who loves and saves them. That deep yearning for justice and truth that I feel every time I read the final decisive lines of my favorite Dickens novel is simply a yearning for something that I can not create. Or control. It is a desire for the eternal. It is a desire to know the One who sacrificed everything for me and the acknowledgement that I have no noble role to play. My role is sacrifice, because He first sacrificed for me. My role is love, because He first loved me.

The appeal of sacrifice:

“I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him, foremost of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name, with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place- then fair to look upon, with not a trace of this day’s disfigurement- and I hear him tell the child my story, with a tender and faltering voice.”