May 3rd, 2021
I’ve spent my day digging in the dirt, transplanting pots, and pruning copious amounts of dead branches. It’s certainly not glamorous work and if you happened to swing by for a visit - you probably wouldn’t even notice the change.
We have a nasty evergreen bush that has grown too close to our deck and pokes us everytime we climb the stairs. But it offers a welcome piece of privacy from the public park behind our house - so we keep the bush despite the jabs.
Today, though, it was time to hard prune the dead needles and limbs from the bottom two feet. I’ve put this off for a few years and after being attacked today by the nearby rose thorns - I know why I’ve tabled this project more than a few times. But these branches are dead and we’re on a hunt for “alive” this month… so it seemed almost “spiritual” to tackle this project now.
I unattractively slithered my way under the scratchy bush, trying to differentiate between the dead limbs and the viable ones. Lying there, upside down, looking up into this bush I really don’t like -- I considered the varying degrees of living branches versus the dead. Some of the limbs were barely alive… hanging on by a thread - but still alive. Some were thick and flourishing, hardy, and a pain in the neck to prune around. And some were just plain, old, typical limbs with healthy foliage.
But the dead branches were just - dead. Brittle. Tough. Dry. The dead were just dead.
And as I pruned those dead, brittle limbs, I paused for a moment and remembered…
The gospel.
Before the Light of Christ came into my life, I was spiritually dead. And there are no varying degrees of “dead” like there are with “alive.” Even the shallowest of breaths still indicates life. The faintest heartbeat speaks of hope. And even while life slowly ebbs away... right before our eyes - there is still life.
But dead is concrete. No breath, no heartbeat, no viability.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a relationship with God. I’ve served Him, obeyed Him, worshipped Him, loved Him… never flawlessly, but always leaning in His direction.
This past summer, I slowly burned my way through a study in the book of Jonah that was life-changing. For months, I journeyed with this arrogant, whiny, minor prophet who adhered to all the tenants of the commandments, but could not bring himself to love those to whom only God could save. Jonah was willing to serve God, obey God, worship and love God, but only within the context of his own set of rules.
And there was grace and a fish and three dark nights in the belly of that fish - reminding us of Another who would also spend three nights in the depths of a darker hell only to rise again.
There was grace for the prophet who had run from his call. There was grace for the people from the King of all… And the end of the book leaves us rightfully confused, perplexed, and disturbed.
The grace keeps flowing amidst the brokenness…
When I finally got to the end of this book, there was this great moment when I looked up and saw afresh the blazing contrast between performing for the King of Heaven and being redeemed by that same King.
It was a seering moment of gospel clarity to see myself once dead in my sins, unable to perform by any act of self-righteousness. Somewhere along the path of 40+ years of walking with God, I had lost my understanding of where it all began. I had lost my first love.
Once I was spiritually dead with no hope. No breath. No heartbeat. No viability. There was no magic cure or incantation I could utter to fix my plight. No performance or dance that would deem me deserving.
And Grace reached down His hand as I looked up…
And from that dead state - the miracle of eternal life began.
And all these thoughts came rushing back as I lay looking up into the brittle, dry limbs of the evergreen bush…
Alive. It’s so very different from dead.
