In God's wake
And leave behind a blessing (Joel 2:14)
I am fascinated by this phrase. It seems to envision God as a visiting monarch, who, on his perambulation through the town, leaves behind a token of his largesse. Rather than a golden phone box, or a right to add Regis to the name (a curse on any town I note), this God leaves 'grain offerings and drink offerings'. His people have returned to him and now he blesses them with so much abundance that they are able to again bring offerings in worship. Like gulls circling behind a ferry, who eat of the fish thrown up in its wake, we are blessed by God's passing touch.
What does this mean for us? Matthew Henry suggests a note of true humility here. In our sin we have no reason to expect the full gamut of God's blessing, but may be content with that small part that he is willing to leave behind. I wonder if we do need to press into this place of humble acceptance, whether at times we have expected too much in pride rather than humility. Have we expected our ancient buildings to be full, and our worship to be central to village life, and been disappointed when we are sidelined, when we should have been delighted by the little blessings of quiet friendship and occasional attendance. Have we confused our place as servants with the role of masters that the grandness of our surroundings suggests?
For me, I think the message is a little different. I have had to learn that hard lesson of accepting hardship as from the Lord as much as ease. In the book of Hebrews the author writes, 'the Lord disciplines those he loves'. Whether God sends or allows suffering, all things are there for our good however difficult they seem at the time. Only in accepting them can we discover something of what that good might be. This, for me, is the blessing left behind. As the juggernaut of difficulty that Joel labels the Day of the Lord passes will we find hope or desolation? I suspect the answer lies as much in our ability to receive as in God's willingness to give.
I am fascinated by this phrase. It seems to envision God as a visiting monarch, who, on his perambulation through the town, leaves behind a token of his largesse. Rather than a golden phone box, or a right to add Regis to the name (a curse on any town I note), this God leaves 'grain offerings and drink offerings'. His people have returned to him and now he blesses them with so much abundance that they are able to again bring offerings in worship. Like gulls circling behind a ferry, who eat of the fish thrown up in its wake, we are blessed by God's passing touch.
What does this mean for us? Matthew Henry suggests a note of true humility here. In our sin we have no reason to expect the full gamut of God's blessing, but may be content with that small part that he is willing to leave behind. I wonder if we do need to press into this place of humble acceptance, whether at times we have expected too much in pride rather than humility. Have we expected our ancient buildings to be full, and our worship to be central to village life, and been disappointed when we are sidelined, when we should have been delighted by the little blessings of quiet friendship and occasional attendance. Have we confused our place as servants with the role of masters that the grandness of our surroundings suggests?
For me, I think the message is a little different. I have had to learn that hard lesson of accepting hardship as from the Lord as much as ease. In the book of Hebrews the author writes, 'the Lord disciplines those he loves'. Whether God sends or allows suffering, all things are there for our good however difficult they seem at the time. Only in accepting them can we discover something of what that good might be. This, for me, is the blessing left behind. As the juggernaut of difficulty that Joel labels the Day of the Lord passes will we find hope or desolation? I suspect the answer lies as much in our ability to receive as in God's willingness to give.
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| Sailing away from France on the cross-channel ferry |
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