Your presence seemingly evades my own, like a wisp of smoke disappearing in the wind. How, Lord, do I still the wind in my life? I long for you like a deer longs for the fresh water of the spring. My soul feels parched. There are times at which I feel as though my relationship with you is sustained only by a memory of being with you. Like a husband and wife whose love perseveres by the thread of a distant vow. I’m desperate for a touch of your love.
I dare not live on in this place, separated from you by a chasm of my own design. I know that you are near, though I feel that you are far. Will you really meet me where I am? Will you show me where you are?
You have a robe of grace and forgiveness to wrap around me, I can see it. It is so bright and colorful. The purest thing I’ve ever seen. It shines with the light of your Spirit. I am sure that if I wear such a garment I will not live to feel it’s touch on my skin. Who am I to merit such a royal gift? Here I am covered in rags and filth. A ragged soul riddled with sin and shame, untouched by love and undeserving of restoration. Yet, I am drawn to you like a vile fly is drawn to a brilliant light. The robe beckons me with it’s warmth. Even from here, across the chasm, I can feel it. It won’t even fit me, I’m sure. It’s much too . . . lovely for the likes of me.
The Lord pulls me into the clutch of his unrelenting stare. He tells me something. Something I’m not sure I understand. In fact, I am sure I don’t understand.
“The robe isn’t for you. At least, it’s not for you the way you see yourself. This robe won’t fit the person that you see in the mirror.”
I knew it. If only I could touch it, though. It would at least put me out of my misery.
The Lord continues on, “The man that you have known to be yourself all this time must die. He is an impostor. He has only convinced you that he is you. These rags don’t belong to you. The filth that covers you is just a lie, doing it’s best to convince you that it is a truth. It isn’t a matter of your will. It’s a matter of my will. You cannot try harder to be a better version of a broken reflection.”
How can I be who you say I am? How can I see myself as you see me? Please wash me! Please clean me! Do what you will with me!
“I have already washed you. I washed you with my blood, and scoured you with my Spirit. This is a matter of life and death. Or should I say, a death that leads to life. I took you up on the cross with me. Your ragged soul died with me. You were washed by my death. My last breath was your last breath. But do not fear, for a new breath restored my life, just as my breath restored yours. You are new. Your filth is in the grave. Your shame was buried. Your sin will never draw another breath . . .
“. . . You are exactly as I made you to be. My beautiful son. My wonderful boy. My courageous warrior. And I will never see you any differently than how I made you. And I made you perfectly. I do not make mistakes.”
He steps towards me and wraps the robe around my body. Tears fill his eyes as he looks into mine. The love from his presence melts every bit of filth and grime that no longer has permission to take refuge in my temple. This robe fits perfectly, and it was made just for me.