The joy this morning, in the wake of two decidedly different mission stories, is that He comes to us in his own ways, in his own time. Some believe in an instant, but some trek into a wilderness before he brings them on home.
We have a new go-between, a new prophet of sacrifice and gifts who’s done it all once and forever, whose story includes King David, a freedom fighter named Moses, and Rahab, a prostitute with a heart of gold. We have a new royalty, and he’s the prince of peace.
Music inscribes itself upon our hearts and reminds us that God is always near.
Hell or High Water is rarity, one of those low-budget films that’s a treasure. But I’m guessing few will see it because it’s not about spectacle at all, but about us.
The poet who gave us Psalm 140 is an orchestral conductor ringing out praise from the music set before him by bringing in, on cue, all the heavenly tenors, the sun, moon, and stars; those beastly basses too, sea creatures and mountain crags; and the regal sopranos, kings and queens over all the earth; even a gadzillion preschoolers.
The thirst here is for nothing in a jug, for something a whole lot more than lemonade. The thirst here is for living water in the parched soul of someone who’s wandering in a desert where there’s nothing more than hot sand.