(Un)curated

While washing the dishes yesterday, I found myself thinking about sin. I stared at the dirty, soiled, and crummy plates, and could somehow relate.

I thought about how I romanticized sin. How I rationalized my lifestyle as okay because I was not hurting anyone. But that was a lie. I was hurting God, and in many ways, myself too.

I rejected him repeatedly, and made efforts to placate by giving him Sundays, 2.5hours to be exact. Sometimes not even that.

He gave me breath and I refused to praise him with it. He gave me life and I was too stubborn to serve him with it. He bled for me, yet got my back. On good days, I gave him my lips, but not my heart |Matthew 15:8-9|. He was the side piece to my lust, and idols.

I gazed at the sponge in my hand and observed how frayed it was. It looked like it had gone through the ringer; doing the disreputable job of removing gunk it did not contribute to. In that moment I worshipped. I worshipped because I was so full of gratitude. It felt like finding an heirloom. Or rather, no that’s not it. The heirloom had been sitting there, even displayed in a way that demanded attention. But I got comfortable. I would walk past it and see it, but not really. Or better said, I would look at it, but not see it. It was now so familiar that I no longer admired it. I know its worth, but that fades into the background. Swallowed by noise, and all the distractions and excess that come with modern day living. Like the voice crying in the wilderness, prepare ye the way for the Lord, it calls out. Almost pleading to be seen. Yet, I ignore it. At least until I am reminded. Maybe a friend visits, sees it, and exclaims with unashamed adoration, or its appraised at a high value. Or the Spirit of the Lord places a dingy sponge in my hand and causes the scales to fall off.

Who is Jesus to me you ask? He is all things to me. My Savior. My King. My Healer. My Hope. My Joy. My Strength. My Breath. My Sustenance. My Friend. My Eternal Love. My Life. My Everything.

Why is he all these things to me, you ask? Like the sponge, He took on my sin knowing that I would still reject him. He absorbed all that was handed to him, to absolve me. He was stripped, disrespected, mocked, spat on, insulted, abused, and tortured for me. Even in the moment he felt abandoned, he cried in agony, but stuck it through. Spelling out my name with His last breath. He shook the earth to show his undying love for me. He split rocks apart to let me know the length he was willing to go for me. He has given me, a sinner no reason to question his love or intentions. On the flip side, He has had ample reason to give me up to my sins. Yet, at every turn, He whispers, “I am here, and I am willing.” |Matthew 8:3|. He even goes further and gives me his name. No one has fought harder for me than Jesus. No one.

So how can I not worship him? How can I not give him the one thing he asks of me, to love him with all my heart, soul, and mind? |Deu. 6:5, Mat. 22:37|

For the cross and all that it represents that is the very least I could do.

Happy Monyaaaay!
Xo, Mel.

Image: @pinterest