A Different Story

I’m running a bit behind, likely the result of two months of life sans structure.

Seems most folks have done their year-end reflection and year-start resolving, and I suppose I have too. I thought this would be the morning that I brought the pondering out into the light of day.

I would reflect on God’s faithfulness during an uncertain year past. I would detail how He has both led into a new business venture and provided unexpected work to fill the gap until that business can pay both the bills and some salaries. I would remind you of how He continues to work that certain uncertainty to draw me to love Him more, trust Him more and obey Him more.

And then I would spell out some expectations for the year to come: lofty goals, a grand vision, and some stuff I really just need to get done.

While I wrestled how to empty my head of all that onto paper this morning, I meditated over a few passages that speak to God’s renewal, His refreshing and restoring. I wanted to connect this desire to reset with the surety of how He desires to do that very thing in me.

Reset, I thought. A good word for the new year.

And as I listened to Him in Ezekiel 36, He did just that. Reset.

As in flipped my chair and reset me on my ear.

I don’t know so much about the newness of the year right now. I’m not sure it even matters to me that we’re four days into it anymore. What I know is that I need to rethink a few things.

I need to reset.

Let me tell you how it went down.

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Passages about newness seem to make my blood move faster. How can you dismiss God doing a new thing? So this place in Ezekiel sounded really good today (and believe me, Ezekiel is not a place I usually go to feel good):

I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. And I will put my Spirit in you and move you to follow my decrees and be careful to keep my laws. You will live in the land I gave your forefathers; you will be my people, and I will be your God. I will save you from all your uncleanness. I will call for the grain and make it plentiful and will not bring famine upon you. I will increase the fruit of the trees and the crops of the field, so that you will no longer suffer disgrace among the nations because of famine. (Ezekiel 36:26-30)

What’s not to love about this? He’ll give me a new heart and a new spirit, move me to follow Him, save me from my filth, and bring plenty. All good.

All good.

But then there’s this context thing that calls me back. I don’t like to yank out a few verses by themselves, especially in a place like Ezekiel that blindsides me with crazy twists and turns. So I thought it wise to back up and at least remind myself of the original audience hearing these words.

I began with the first verse of chapter 36 where God gave Ezekiel a word not for the people of Israel, but for the land.

Ezekiel prophesied to the mountains.

The land had become desolate over Israel’s sin, but now God promised restoration. The mountains would produce fruit again and would sustain life. This was important, because the people of Israel would come home to the land again soon. And this message, these words of life, Ezekiel spoke directly to the land.

I read the passage aloud, something I do to pay attention. By the time I was halfway through the chapter, my arms waved in wild gestures and my voice rose as though the back yard should hear this word. This was exciting stuff — if God would promise restoration to the land, how much more did He have in mind for His own people? And I knew that part was coming where He said “I will gather you . . . ” and “I will give you a new heart . . .”

I didn’t want it to go right by me.

And then came verse 22.

No wild arm movements.

No loud voice.

I dropped to a hush — and to my knees — as the Lord began to give Ezekiel the word for the people of Israel.

“Therefore say to the house of Israel, ‘This is what the Sovereign LORD says: It is not for your sake, O house of Israel, that I am going to do these things, but for the sake of my holy name, which you have profaned among the nations where you have gone. I will show the holiness of my great name, which has been profaned among the nations, the name you have profaned among them. Then the nations will know that I am the LORD, declares the Sovereign LORD, when I show myself holy through you before their eyes. (Ezekiel 36:22-23, emphasis added)

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It is not for your sake.

Israel, God said, Listen. I’m going to do all these things. I’ll restore the land, and you to it. I’ll sprinkle clean water on you. I’ll bring you back and give you a new heart and a new spirit and I’ll be your God. I’ll do all that.

But hear Me when I tell you, it’s not about you.

You need to be ashamed. You are disgraced. I can’t pretend it’s not like that. Oh, I’ll cleanse you and resettle your towns. I’ll do that. I’ll give in to your plea for restoration.

But know this: It’s not for your sake.

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Here’s what made my voice fall to a hush: it’s not about me.

God loves me. Oh, you know He loves me. And you too.

But it has nothing to do with me. Or you.

God restored Israel to the land, and He redeems me and you for one reason and one reason only: for the sake of His name.

Here I am this morning, caught in the tension of what Louie Giglio might call significant insignificance. That place where I am suddenly so deeply aware of my smallness, and my shame, and my disgrace.

And yet . . .

. . . and yet at the same time I see His heart for me. I see what He’s willing to do on my behalf. And that rocks me.

And yet . . .

. . . and yet I see how what He’s willing to do for me is not for my sake but for His own honor, which I’ve managed to sully. So when He restores me, He’s restoring His own honor.

And yet . . .

. . . and yet He loves me. Deeply, intimately. And I believe that brings Him joy.

And yet . . .

. . . and yet . . . and yet.

I could yet all day.

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So this morning, I set aside my thoughts of the new year. I shelve, at least for the moment, expectations to which I’ve been giving shape. And I consider the worth of His name. That His honor is worth all He did to defend and all He continues to do.

As I dare to poke my nose out into frigid January air, if I find anything worth pursuing in this year might it be as John the Baptist, on facing some competition from a certain Messiah: He must become greater; I must become less.

Jesus, All that You are doing for me, even in this moment, even that is not about me. It’s about showing Yourself faithful and holy and just and full of grace . . .  Get that past my head. Make that real to me. Make me less so that You become greater. Less, less, less.

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