Psalm 36

An oracle within my heart concerning the sins of the wicked:

There is no fear of God before my eyes; my sobriety comes and goes with each passing wind of temptation to lust or sloth; I put up no determined resistance to what is contrary to Holiness. Rather, I flatter myself that if I pay no attention to sin, the transgression will fade to insignificance, the evil wondrously mitigated. Though I discover my iniquity myself, speak condescendingly to my neighbor, despise and belittle my brother, and am embittered against the one who sees my faults, I will conclude that it is but natural; the offense is not great; “God? Who is He?”

When I speak pompous words of intent and activity, I cover myself with filthy deceit. Self-promotion, pride, emptiness more wicked for the fullness it professes – these sins fill my heart and spill from my mouth. True wisdom has long since departed; the mind of man and the heart alone cannot achieve the wisdom of God however vigourously they knock about, poke in the corners, and work to stir up and inflate understanding. A man in sin continuing can know nothing of wisdom, for wisdom, true wisdom, leads to what is God.

Goodness and that man who reconciles himself with ‘one more time’ have chosen paths and gone their ways. A hundred earthly acts of good may be garnered to overshadow his wretchedness, but he cannot reach the goodness of true godliness; he cannot do good anymore than he can stand on water. The works of man cannot produce the righteousness of God.
I have turned from holiness; there can be no good. Even at rest my sins multiply in me and against me; my mind pursues what is not right, it nurtures grievances, it dwells on humbling experiences sighing. But I am unable to sigh and cry over sin; I do not abhor sin – it is my precious, my bosom friend, my heart’s familiar one. It is mine, my pit, and I am loathe not to fall into it.

This is me. Ah help! Oh hope! Where is there freedom, where is my saving from the ‘right way’ of death?

Your mercy, O Lord; if it were not in the heavens,
Your faithfulness, if it was not so high as the clouds,
Your righteousness is rugged and stable,
Your judgments, who can fathom them?

By these we are preserved; by these the birds of the air and the beasts of the field yet live – You uphold them; and You are our preservation.

- these are lost and dying. there was an old lady across the way from my house who was wheeled out most evenings to participate in the sunset and evening air. She was there but she wasn't; from the beginning she was waited on as if by pallbearers. I ached for her as I watched her head droop lower and twist to the side. Her mouth needed wiping then; her tongue stopped shaping words, and the women talked around her; she couldn’t see her granddaughter’s picture or the excitement in her eyes. The children were shooed off, night set in, and she was wheeled away. I made her a cake once; it molded as I debated whether or not to break cultural rules and stagger through an explanation of what it was for. She had no where to go and no one to point her the way. Her body lies covered by a few inches of dust in an open cement casket pointed south by southwest.

They all go this way, the future so unclear they stumble into it as children off the merry-go-round. It’s a tough question, this “what is to become of those who never hear,” and one that I only find answer for in the sovereignty of God. Some tell me that’s no answer at all, that everyone has a choice. I agree in a way they find disagreeable:
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holy advance


"Formerly I have wished to live longer, that I might be better prepared for heaven; but this consideration had very very little weight with me, and that for a very unusual reason, which was this: - after long trial I found this world a place so unfriendly to the growth of every thing divine and heavenly, that I was afraid if I should live any longer, I should be no better fitted for heaven than I am. Indeed I have hardly any hopes of ever making any great attainment in holiness while in this world, though I should be doomed to stay in it as long as Methusaleh. I see other Christians indeed around me make some progress, though they go on with but a snail-like motion. But when I consider that I set out about twelve years old, and what sanguine hopes I then had of my future progress, and yet that I have been almost at a stand ever since, I am quite discouraged. O, my good Master, if I may dare call thee so, I am afraid I shall never serve thee much better on this side the regions of perfection. The thought grieves me; it breaks my heart, but I can hardly hope better. But if I have the least spark of true piety in my breast, I shall not always labour under this complaint. No, my Lord, I shall yet serve thee; serve thee through an immortal duration; with the activity, the fervour, the perfection of 'the rapt seraph that adores and burns'."

Samuel Davies (1st great awakening)

When we abide in Christ, we feel more than ever that we must ask for more grace. He who knows Christ best knows his own necessities best. He who is most conscious of life in Christ is also most convinced of his own death apart from Christ. He who most clearly discerns the perfect character of Jesus will be most urgent in prayer for grace to grow like Him. The more I seek to be in my Lord, the more I desire to obtain from Him, since I know that all that is in Him is put there on purpose that I may receive it. “And of His fullness have all we received, and grace for grace.” It is just in proportion as we are linked to Christ’s fullness that we feel the necessity of drawing from it by constant prayer.

CHS

In this manner, therefore, pray…

What I say here is particularly related to prayer that accompanies the preaching of the Word and anticipates the saving of men’s souls; the implication, though, is unbounded, extending to prayers over broken bones, fearful expectations, intemperate weather, and lost socks. The statement that raises this discussion is “assuredly I say to you, whatever you ask the Father in My name, He will give you.” And the question that springs from the statement is “What in the world is He talking about?”

The sovereignty of God and the necessity of prayer are truths juxtaposed. These are a paradox that refuses the natural mind full admittance into the great hall where conductor and symphony create their magic. But the music is no less real for our being unable to see its conception, and the closed doors only heighten the piquancy of the melody. Let us assume, without taking the time to explain or support, that both themes, sovereignty and prayer, are completely established and unconditionally supported by Scripture. The former has determinedly required and simultaneously instigated, compelled and enabled the latter; the latter, rightly applied, supports the authority of the former, seeking to see and speak by its light and vocabulary, appealing on the basis of God’s character to His good intention and foreknowledge. Prayer does not require anything be left un-ordained, sovereignty does not preclude our asking “whatever.” The one leads to the other, the other points back to the one.

more as i write it

the age of truth


There will be no new God, nor a new devil, and we shall never have a new Savior, nor a new atonement: why should we then be either attracted or alarmed by the error and nonsense which everywhere plead for a hearing because they are new?

What is their newness to us; we are not children, nor frequenters of playhouses? Truly, to children a new toy or a new play has immense attractions; but men care less about the age of a thing than about its intrinsic value.

To suppose that theology can be new is to imagine that the Lord himself is of yesterday. A doctrine which is said to have lately become true must of necessity be a lie. Falsehood has no beard, but truth is hoary with an age immeasurable. The old gospel is the only gospel. Pity is our only feeling towards those young preachers who cry, "See my new theology," in just the same spirit as little Mary says, "See my pretty new frock."

CHS

What Christians believe

Often in religious discussion one will hear “well, I believe that…” or “Christians believe…” as if believing a thing lent credence to it. The thought runs if I believe it, it must be valid; so we act and speak like what we believe is conclusive evidence for what must be true. Or the phrase is used to soften the edges of the rigid singularity of the gospel. Or it is employed as a cover for a less than adequate knowledge of what Scripture teaches. In reality, what we believe doesn’t matter (I expect hell will swallow much of what men glibly claim to believe).

The critical issue is what the Word of God says, and the necessary thing is whether our thoughts, our beliefs, align with what is contained in it. So in our telling the whole truth, let us direct all attention to the Scriptures themselves for therein is the gospel of the righteousness of God revealed from faith to faith, therein is life.