In Christ Alone

In Christ alone my hope is found

He is my light, my strength, my song

This Cornerstone, this solid ground

Firm through the fiercest drought and storm

What heights of love, what depths of peace

When fears are stilled, when strivings cease

My Comforter, my All in All

Here in the love of Christ I stand

Amen, amen, amen. 

I know that this is true. 

How can I know? When faith is believing what we can't see? I don't know. Perhaps I don't really know it. But something inside me reaches for you when I sing these words and I think it's my soul. It's not a conscious reaction; it's instinctive. It's profound. It tells me that these words are truth. 

You are my solid ground. 

So many times I scrabble about looking for hope and light in other places but I come back to you every time. I lean on someone else only to find that they shift and they stumble too. I cast about for help, for advice, for support, for love  - and find that it only reliably comes from you. 

How often I fail to recognise that you are the only solid ground - other areas sometimes seem solid but turn out to be quicksand.

You remain firm. You never change. You stay put. You never let me down. 

You are eternal and everlasting and immutable and all those long words. 

The only problem is me; sometimes I forget. Sometimes I don't even forget; it's more stupid than that. Sometimes I just stop believing it for some reason and I try something else. I look to people for comfort, or to food, or to books, even to sleep.  But it never satisfies for long. I'm sad and worried all over again, I'm hungry again. I still have questions despite the texts. I am soon weary again.

But you are the One who stills fears, who brings peace. 

I stand in your love.

In Christ alone, who took on flesh

Fullness of God in helpless babe

This gift of love and righteousness

Scorned by the ones He came to save

'Til on that cross as Jesus died

The wrath of God was satisfied

For every sin on Him was laid

Here in the death of Christ I live

My God, what did you do for me? You gave up glory in Heaven to come and be one of us down here. You ate and laughed and wept and taught and loved and did all the things that you did and then you bled and you died. 

As if it were not enough for us to kill you, we mocked you as well. Insult and injury. No, we didn't know what we were doing. You were dying for each and every one of us and we either turned away or spat at you. Even your friends ran and hid. Your own mother watched you die. I don't have the capacity to understand fully what you did but the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end every time I sing this verse. 

You were light itself but you allowed the darkness to engulf you. You knew what would happen but you came and loved us and did it anyway. You, who never did anything wrong, who could at any point have called down lightning from heaven to stop the whole thing and prove your deity. 

You did this for me. 

For me. 

You love me so much that you would come yourself to do what was necessary to 
bring me home. I can never deserve what you did for me.

There in the ground His body lay

Light of the world by darkness slain

Then bursting forth in glorious Day

Up from the grave He rose again

And as He stands in victory

Sin's curse has lost its grip on me

For I am His and He is mine

Bought with the precious blood of Christ

I am so thankful that your story doesn't end with your death. Many stories do end like this; someone does something noble, selfless; he gave his life for his cause, and those stories are wonderful, inspiring, even... but only one ends like this. 

You rose from the dead. 

You came to life again. If even death is not the end, there is nothing that can defeat you. And because of your amazing grace and love for me, I can say that death is not the end for me either, nothing can defeat me. 

There may be many battles but you have won this war. 

You bought me with your blood. You paid the price that needed paying and I am yours. 

Oh, my God. 

Nothing can stop me from one day being with you, because of what you did. You, the living God, the creator of the universe; you, who can see history from the beginning to the end, you, who are the context of everything, the thoughts and dreams and hopes of all your children - you made me free. 

'If the Son sets you free, you are free indeed.'  John 8:36

Amen.

No guilt in life, no fear in death

This is the power of Christ in me

From life's first cry to final breath

Jesus commands my destiny

No power of hell, no scheme of man

Can ever pluck me from His hand

'til He returns or calls me home

Here in the power of Christ I'll stand

Oh Lord God I so want to live this way. You took away my guilt and yet I keep trying to take it back. You banished fear and yet I can't help hanging onto it. I am quite sure that the power of Christ is somewhat muted in my life, but each day I am trying to let more of it shine through me. I need lots of help.

I am a work in progress. I know that I'm not finished yet. I know that I'm not what I was. I know that I will be better, and most importantly I know that I am loved just how I am. You will never give up on me. You'll never shake your head impatiently and say that if I haven't learned by now then I'll never learn. You always, always, reach down and gently help me to my feet.

Try again. I am loved, imperfect as I am. 

Nothing can separate me from your love. 

Nothing can prevent me from being with you. 

I am saved and I am safe. 

No power of hell, no scheme of man can ever pluck me from your hand. 

No power of hell. If you are for me, then who can stand against? I am yours and nothing can change that. All the rubbish that goes on in my life, all the mistakes I make, the voices in my head that tell me I've really messed up this time, it's no good, I'll never amount to anything... nothing matters. 

Only you. And your voice is the one that tells me, 'I am loving you, my daughter. You are precious to me. I will never let you go.'

The other guy? He'll never win. He can cause me no end of trouble but he can't win. I am loved by the true and living God.

I am amazed.

Whether one day - tonight, tomorrow? At the ending of the world? When it's time, when it's all over for me down here I will go home to be with you and I will see you with my own eyes. What a day that'll be. I will be bowing very low on that day. And I believe that you will lift my chin until I look into your eyes and I won't see any condemnation or reproach or disappointment. All there'll be is love;  I'll see how much you love me. 

And then I'll stand in the warmth of your presence with my arms raised high, surrounded by everyone who has ever loved you down through the ages and we'll sing this song until all of creation joins in. 

I can't wait.  

You are my God and I am your child. 

Thank you.




In Christ Alone 
Words and music Stuart Townend & Keith Getty
Copyright 2001 Kingsway Thankyou Music

Linking up with Tania Vaughan at Monday Ministry.

Toenails

Oh, Lord.

I'm writing this and I don't know if I'll ever press the little orange 'Publish' button because I'd rather we kept it just between you and me, but then it's already between you and me, so why write it down at all?

It's because this is how I sort out my thoughts. I don't know what I think until I write, and then I find out. Sometimes I get from A to B via P, Q R and Z, but I get there eventually. Usually. 

Last week it was Maundy Thursday. Usually at church we have a simple meal together, a subdued Communion service and then we watch the altar in church being stripped. The golden cross and candlesticks removed, the beautiful embroidered cloths folded up and taken away. It always touches me and it's a very thoughtful way of getting ready for the bleakness of Good Friday, the emptiness of Saturday and the celebration of Sunday. I love Easter.

Anyway, much easier to talk about how I love Easter than what happened last Thursday. I planned to go to the Maundy Thursday service at church and I checked the time in the Church notice sheet as evening stuff is always a bit awkward to manage around the children's bedtime. It was as I was checking the notice sheet that I noticed something. It was to be a service of Holy Communion with foot washing.

Now, I have always been moved and intrigued by the way you washed the disciples' feet at the Last Supper. I've tried to put myself into your position, and into theirs. The twelve, who sat mute as their Lord knelt before them with a towel around his waist and washed their dusty, crusty, sweaty feet. Poured water over the filthy toes and patted them dry, and moved on to the next.

Peter, who indignantly pulled his feet away saying that it wasn't right, it wasn't happening that the one he knew was the Son of God should go near his hard skin and fungal big toenail.

But you explained why and Peter opened his heart and lifted his feet one at a time to welcome you. Wash the whole of me, Lord, because you are the only thing that matters to me.

Foot washing. At church. I wondered how it would be managed; who would be washing and who being washed, and I started to feel just the slightest bit anxious about it. Not enough to change my mind about going, but still, a little worry set in.

Getting my feet out in public?

As I dried my toes after the shower that morning I realised that my feet were not particularly presentable. I made a mental note to trim my toenails and give them a new coat of polish. As you know, I'm not the sort of woman who has regular pedicures and while in the summer I try to keep my toes looking reasonable because they poke out of sandals, over the winter the nail polish has more chance of growing out than being removed and reapplied. Indeed, the big toenail one each foot had a patch of leftover purple varnish but the rest were bare.

I bent low to my toes and gave them a quick once over with the nail clippers. Is this too much information? Surely you're not squeamish about all things toenail-related like some people? There is nothing inherently distasteful about toenail clippings, in my opinion, if disposed of correctly. But let's not get into that.

Pushing on. I tidied them up rapidly, taking care not to clip down the sides and trigger anything ingrowing, and then I assessed the nail polish situation. Being too idle to locate the nail polish remover, I sort of scratched at the patch of purple with my thumbnail. Some of it came off. I rubbed at it and it became quite a bit smaller. Decided - never mind, no-one will notice.

So I reached into my bedside table drawer and found the first bottle of polish that I came across. Not particularly bothered what colour it was. Slapped it on. Indeed, the pink hid the scrappy bits of purple. It was almost as if the new polish dissolved the old and it even went on smoothly. One, two, three, four, five, change feet and repeat.

Waft toes in the air for a few seconds to dry.

Do it again.

There. Much better.

Cosmetic improvement left and right. All ready for foot washing later in the day. Made mental note to change socks and give feet a quick squirt of something fragrant just before leaving for church.

This is where my mind started working.

It didn't feel right.

As I pulled on my slippers, I began to ponder the superficiality of it all. It just about sums me up.

I'm fine on the outside. Nobody would ever suspect what I'm like. The new nail polish glided over the broken and tatty remains of the last application and hid the damage beneath a shiny new layer. No-one could see that underneath the pink there was worn out patchy purple. Two coats of gloss and it took the eye completely away from the uneven trimming and the weeks of neglect.

Washed my feet in the shower and the grime and sweat from yesterday was gone. It wouldn't take long to accumulate again.

With a fresh coat of pink, they looked like butter-wouldn't-melt-feet. Without close examination no-one would notice the small patch of low-grade athlete's foot that has been a problem on and off for (ahem) quite a while now. I could clear it up with a consistent routine application of cream but I don't tend to bother.

See? That's the thing. I don't bother. My feet are rarely on show so I don't bother to make them presentable until it seems likely that someone might come into close contact. And when I do, I do a quick cosmetic job that will just about get me through.

That's me.

To the untrained eye I'm pretty presentable. (I'm not talking appearance, here; that's a whole other story). A nice enough person. Glossy, in some respects. More or less socially adept, superficially cheerful, often remembering to ask after people, making a generally good impression, messing up occasionally. Those who know me well might now and then notice a chip in the nail polish, so to speak, or suspect that all is not fragrant all the time, but there's only one person who still sees the buried remains of previous varnish, the callouses and the infections and the tough bits prone to cracking.

That's you.

You don't care about the nail polish, do you? You don't care whether I'm buffed up on the surface and looking good, sounding good, smelling good. You can see what's on the inside. The deep-down stuff that can't be hidden from the One who knew me from the beginning and knows my most secret thoughts, worries, fears.

And when it comes down to it, whose opinion matters, but yours?

'You have searched me, Lord, and you know me

You know when I sit and when I rise;

You perceive my thoughts from afar.

You discern my going out and my lying down;

You are familiar with all my ways.

Before a words is on my tongue,

You know it completely, Lord.'

Psalm 139:23

Lord, you know me.

Nobody sees me but you; you are El Roi, you are the God who sees. There's nothing I can hide from you. The jealousy when I feel that someone is doing better than me, the pride when I think I'm doing better than someone else. The selfishness, the spite, the cruel and critical thoughts that spill over into my speech sometimes. You know what I'm going to say before I say it and I suspect that sometimes the angels wince at the sound of my voice.

The times when I don't trust you, don't believe you or don't listen to you. When I say one thing and quite consciously, deliberately do another. When doing the right thing is too much trouble; much easier to look the other way, pass by on the other side of the street. The times when I'm sorry for what I've done and the times when I absolutely am not. The times that I hang on for dear life to the wrong things and let the right things pass me by.

I don't want to be polished smart on the outside and rotten on the inside.

What I am in my heart is what eventually will rise to the surface, and that frightens me a bit. I know that there's much that isn't right, isn't as you want me to be. And if I, flawed and blinkered, am capable of detecting the rubbish that lurks within, when half the time I don't even grasp the extent of my failure, then how much more is there that you can see that I can't?

'Search me, God, and know my heart;

test me and know my anxious thoughts.

See if there is any offensive way in me,

and lead me in the way everlasting.'

Psalm 139:23-24

Thank you, Lord, that you love me too much to leave me like this. Thank you that you have a plan that is just for me. Thank you that I can see your hand in my life; I know that you're at work. Thank you that sometimes even when I feel like I'm stuck, stalled and going nowhere, I know that you are there, never abandoning me, never giving up on me.

I am a work in progress.

'Cleanse me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.'

Psalm 51:7

Thank you that you have washed me clean indeed. 

Jesus, you died so that I might be forgiven - that I might not be held to account for all that rubbish that's buried below the surface. Keep on working in the hidden depths of me so that the bits that do see light of day are suitable for a Child of God. I want to shine as your light in the world. I want to reflect your glory. 

My feet are never going to be that much to look at, I don't think, but that doesn't bother me too much. I can always put on another coat of nail polish. And who looks closely at them anyway? Even me, I'm five feet nine inches away from them, and they're mine. They go where I go. I might leave footprints as I walk but you can't tell what sort of person left a footprint.

My heart? That's another matter. It affects everything that I do, everything that I say. I leave bits of it behind when I interact with people, and from those pieces they see who I am deep down - I can't help it. It might not be immediately obvious, but it's the part of me that makes me who I am. I am what I am on the inside.

Who am I? I am your daughter. What I am reflects on my Father. Don't let me sell you short, Lord God. Wash my feet, and like Peter I say wash my head and my hands too. 

Welcome, Lord Jesus. 

Come, Holy Spirit. Do your thing. 

PS. As it was, I didn't get to the Maundy Thursday footwashing service. I was all geared up for writing a meaningful, insightful piece about how it went, but as it was the children didn't settle down at bedtime and so I gave it a miss rather than draw even more attention to myself by being very late.

Perhaps it was for the best.

Or perhaps I didn't need to get my feet out in public for you to give me food for thought.

Thank you.

Every knee shall bow

'Therefore God exalted him to the highest place

and gave him the name that is above every name,

that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow,

in heaven and on earth and under the earth,

and every tongue acknowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord,

to the glory of God the Father.'

Philippians 2:9-12 NIV

Amen.

I'm not sure that there's anything else worth saying. 

But still, I have more to say. Why are you not surprised?

This morning I had a tune in my head and it was the tune to the famous hymn written around these words. I identified the tune, hummed it, brought to mind which words I could remember and had a little sing to myself in the shower and it grew and grew in my head. 

At the name of Jesus, every knee shall bow,

Every tongue confess him king of glory now;

'Tis the Father's pleasure we should call him Lord,

Who from the beginning was the mighty Word.

I'm looking forward to that day. When every knee bows at your name, Lord Jesus. In heaven, where the angels bow down already; what a day that'll be up there. Down here on this troubled, tired and fearful world, and in the other place as well where I'm guessing that there won't be much celebrating when you come back. Oh Jesus, oh for that day when the whole of creation acknowledges you. What a day that will be.

That day the tension between your Kingdom and this world will be gone. I know that you won't come back as a helpless baby in a stable; there won't be any doubt about who you are or why you've come or any room for interpretation. You will be magnificent. You will come in all your glory. It will be beyond our imagination and it will be unmistakably you. The whole world will know that you are the Lord. 

Lord, when will that be?  There are a lot of times that I am completely at home here; quite possibly too much so. It's often comfortable and easy and complacent and I sit tight in my familiar little world being very much at home. And then...just sometimes... I feel out of place. I find it very hard being here and believing in you and looking around me at all the people who wave you away as irrelevant, or even worse than irrelevant. At all the rubbish that's happening in the world and trying to fathom why you sometimes intervene and sometimes you don't. Looking at the pain and misery and fear and evil and trying in my small, mostly ineffectual way to combat the things close to home. Trying to get it right. Trying to be tactful and understanding and tolerant and loving while standing firm for you; not being shaken by what I don't understand, by other people's challenges or scepticism. Knowing what I know with all my heart and so often failing to communicate that when I should.

I can't wait for the day when I can just sit at your feet and look at you. For the day when it's all out in the open, all there for all to see - that you are the name above all names and there is no-one like you. 

That you are God. The beginning and the end. That all the other things are irrelevances. Nothing else matters.  

Down here other things do matter, Father, and sometimes I find myself bogged down in trivia and unable to separate the real from the imaginary. Worrying, lying awake, trying to get my prayers to express what I want to say to you, giving up and focusing on myself instead - every day falling short of what I would give you if I could. But here's the thing - you love me anyway. My little half-buried sparks of longing to do the right thing - you dig them out and brush them off and treat them as treasure. I take little baby steps and you are delighted in them. You take my life and you hold it in your hands and you love me, imperfect as I am. One day I will be what you want me to be; I will be transformed. The useless stuff hindering me will fall away and all that will be left is the person you created me to be.

Me and an endless sea of perfect creations without any pain or dissatisfaction or unease or self consciousness or worry or tension. Triumphant and full of joy.  

At the name of Jesus, every knee shall bow. I know that this day will come. In this world or the next? Only you know the answer to that one. I don't know if it will only be when I am with you in Heaven and I am surrounded by all the people who have ever loved you. I shall do as they do. I shall find St Paul and ask him about so many things. I shall find doubting Thomas and thank him for making me feel so much better about myself.  I shall find Peter and tell him what an inspiration he's been. I shall find Martha and tell her I find it hard to sit and listen as well. I shall find Moses and David and Abraham and Joshua and Solomon and James and Mary and all the others and I shall probably not have the courage to talk to them. Or maybe I will. Maybe I'll be one of them. 

But I'm starting to ramble. 

...and every tongue acknowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord,

to the glory of God the Father.'

You are Lord. You are the glorious Lord and one day the whole of creation will see your glory and fall at your feet and that's how it should be. 

Brothers, this Lord Jesus shall return again,

With his Father's glory, with his angel train;

For all wreaths of empire meet upon his brow,

And our hearts confess him King of glory now.

Let your kingdom come, Lord Jesus.