“When He got off the boat, a man with an impure spirit came from the tombs to meet Him.” (Mark 5:2 NIV)
Jesus is always willing to meet us at our very worst. He is not afraid of our filth, our stench, our nakedness, our anger or our personal darkness. Isn’t this amazing?
I’m reading an autobiography this week that describes a woman living in such destitution. She is plagued by her poorness and her past. She talked to people long passed on and possessed no social skills. Unwashed and unwanted, she roamed the East End of London on an unknown mission. Yet when a kind-hearted nun treated this woman with dignity, it ultimately changed her story. What Christ-like compassion God’s servant expressed!
Jesus meets us amidst our abasement. He does not sneer or pull away or retreat from our filth. He acknowledge our need and restores our righteousness. He makes us whole again.
I’m so glad for a God who gets close to me at my ugliest with the intent of rescue and restoration. Aren’t you?
“When they came to Jesus, they saw the man who had been possessed by the legion of demons, sitting there, dressed and in his right mind;” (Mark 5:15 NIV)
Jesus makes us whole and our wholeness is a witness to the world around us.
Today, I’m feeling less than whole. I’m a bit like that man in the graveyard. I wasn’t driven there by demons, but beleaguered by loss. It is comforting to recall that Jesus still meets us in our darkest hours. He crosses the proverbial lake (the abyss between heaven and earth) to come to our rescue. He will not leave us in our brokenness, it is not His way. He seeks us out and affirms our true identity: sons and daughters of the living God. He calls us out of the graveyard, dries our tears and makes us whole once more.
This man ran to Jesus as His boat pulled upon the shore. I’m running also, utterly convince that His nearness is the only absolution for my sorrow.
“And He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well, go in peace.” (Luke 8:48 ESV)
Lord, today still hurts. The cemetery is where grief often sends us. Yet you see us from the far off shore. We are grateful that You have crossed the abyss to avail Yourself in our darkness. May we respond by running into Your embrace over and over again until we are fully restored. Amen.
I can feel your pain! I just observed the 6th anniversary of the death of my oldest child, who was 59 yrs. old when she died of breast cancer. To say it was a shock is an understatement! But her legacy lives on through the lives of her son and his 3 little children (who never got to meet their grandma Susie). Blessings to you, Anna. I remember your brother from the days when you would bring him to Humboldt for worship service at LifeGate.
Death feels terribly unfair. I suspect that life in heaven will also feel unfair, but in such a gratifying way. <3 I'm so sorry for your loss. I can't imagine such a goodbye to my own children. Praying the Lord continues to comfort you as only He can. Thank you for remembering Chris. <3