Read Online Empire's End by Jerry Jenkins, James S. MacDonald - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jerry Jenkins, James S. MacDonald
Ads: Link
if I were to become a bondservant to His Son?
So young in my faith, so new in my rapport with God, and yet here I was already trying to shape the nature of how we should work together.
The silence of God is a harsh discipline, especially when you have known the sweet, rich fullness of His voice. I found myself suddenly overcome with emotion, conscious of His presence but also of my unworthiness. So unclean, so undeserving, so lacking in merit was I that even my conversion had been the result not of my repentance from sin, but entirely His doing. Jesus had, in effect, attacked me, forced His way into my heart and life and soul.
I had not sought Him. Iâd even had to ask who He was! And when He told me, I had no choice but to surrender to Him!
Sitting on the unforgiving plateau in the hot sun under the unrelenting stillness of God, I bowed my head, wishing myself capable of wholly hiding from Him. It was as if the sun embodied Him now and my sin, all of it, was exposed. When He had merely impressed upon my heart that Theo had eaten nearly two bales of feed because he had another long journey ahead, my first response was to say no.
Well, of course it was, in my flesh. That animal had become almost human to me. But
no
?
That
was my response to God Himself?
That
was the attitude of a man who said he would become a bondservant and do anything? Did I not trust the Creator of the universeâthe One who had miraculously delivered me to Yanbu from Damascus in one dayâto provide for me without a horse? Did I not trust Him to get Theo all the way back to Jerusalem, to the Sanhedrin stables, to Nathanael himself, thereby clearing my debt?
Was my plan better? To eke out some sort of cash from this tiny band of refugees who had fled the same persecution I myself had inflicted on the followers of Jesus throughout Judea, and then risk exposing theirwhereabouts to the authorities by sending payment for my horse to the precise ones looking for me and for them?
God should have been silent toward me for my stupidity alone.
And then there was my sin. Oh, the agility of the conscience! I had asked forgiveness for the heinous acts I had committed against so many innocents, and I believed God had pardoned me. But how had I been able to sleep? How had I been able to live, to move about, to converse, to eat, to do anything with the blood of human lives on my hands?
I told myself I had merely watched the coats of the men who stoned that young deacon, the one whose face had shone when he looked to heaven, the one the followers of The Way now referred to as their first martyr. Yet I might as well have dropped the last millstone on his chest for what I did to coax that mob into action. When I couldnât distract my conscience with activity I was unable to force from my mindâs eye the distinct memory of inciting the ire of the crowd to drive that brave orator out of the assembly to where they could kill him. I badgered and cajoled and demanded to know how long they would put up with his blasphemy, and then I conveniently stepped aside and allowed them to do their duty.
That I had thrown no stone made me no less proud of the work I had done that day, and now it did nothing to salve my conscience. I wept bitterly atop that plateau.
When the sun reached its zenith and I grew faint with hunger, sweat pouring, I reminded myself that if there was a lesson here for me, I would learn it, whatever was required. If God wanted me to nearly starve to death, so be it. But I would not worry about dying, because I believed Jesus, and He had told me my role on the road to Damascus, that I was to be made a messenger not only to my own people, but also to the Gentiles.
And then the Lord sent Ananias to me to tell me that I was a chosenvessel to bear Godâs name before Gentiles, kings, and the children of Israel, and He was going to show me how many things I must suffer for His nameâs sake.
Had God been a man, I would have told Him
So young in my faith, so new in my rapport with God, and yet here I was already trying to shape the nature of how we should work together.
The silence of God is a harsh discipline, especially when you have known the sweet, rich fullness of His voice. I found myself suddenly overcome with emotion, conscious of His presence but also of my unworthiness. So unclean, so undeserving, so lacking in merit was I that even my conversion had been the result not of my repentance from sin, but entirely His doing. Jesus had, in effect, attacked me, forced His way into my heart and life and soul.
I had not sought Him. Iâd even had to ask who He was! And when He told me, I had no choice but to surrender to Him!
Sitting on the unforgiving plateau in the hot sun under the unrelenting stillness of God, I bowed my head, wishing myself capable of wholly hiding from Him. It was as if the sun embodied Him now and my sin, all of it, was exposed. When He had merely impressed upon my heart that Theo had eaten nearly two bales of feed because he had another long journey ahead, my first response was to say no.
Well, of course it was, in my flesh. That animal had become almost human to me. But
no
?
That
was my response to God Himself?
That
was the attitude of a man who said he would become a bondservant and do anything? Did I not trust the Creator of the universeâthe One who had miraculously delivered me to Yanbu from Damascus in one dayâto provide for me without a horse? Did I not trust Him to get Theo all the way back to Jerusalem, to the Sanhedrin stables, to Nathanael himself, thereby clearing my debt?
Was my plan better? To eke out some sort of cash from this tiny band of refugees who had fled the same persecution I myself had inflicted on the followers of Jesus throughout Judea, and then risk exposing theirwhereabouts to the authorities by sending payment for my horse to the precise ones looking for me and for them?
God should have been silent toward me for my stupidity alone.
And then there was my sin. Oh, the agility of the conscience! I had asked forgiveness for the heinous acts I had committed against so many innocents, and I believed God had pardoned me. But how had I been able to sleep? How had I been able to live, to move about, to converse, to eat, to do anything with the blood of human lives on my hands?
I told myself I had merely watched the coats of the men who stoned that young deacon, the one whose face had shone when he looked to heaven, the one the followers of The Way now referred to as their first martyr. Yet I might as well have dropped the last millstone on his chest for what I did to coax that mob into action. When I couldnât distract my conscience with activity I was unable to force from my mindâs eye the distinct memory of inciting the ire of the crowd to drive that brave orator out of the assembly to where they could kill him. I badgered and cajoled and demanded to know how long they would put up with his blasphemy, and then I conveniently stepped aside and allowed them to do their duty.
That I had thrown no stone made me no less proud of the work I had done that day, and now it did nothing to salve my conscience. I wept bitterly atop that plateau.
When the sun reached its zenith and I grew faint with hunger, sweat pouring, I reminded myself that if there was a lesson here for me, I would learn it, whatever was required. If God wanted me to nearly starve to death, so be it. But I would not worry about dying, because I believed Jesus, and He had told me my role on the road to Damascus, that I was to be made a messenger not only to my own people, but also to the Gentiles.
And then the Lord sent Ananias to me to tell me that I was a chosenvessel to bear Godâs name before Gentiles, kings, and the children of Israel, and He was going to show me how many things I must suffer for His nameâs sake.
Had God been a man, I would have told Him
Similar Books
