Today. This evening, I wonder at the words of Martin Luther, who cried out in surprise and joy when he first unlocked the truth, “God must be mercy, God is mercy!”
“Yes, God is mercy,” whispers an eternal breeze blowing through walls and souls so quiet and easily one can miss it. If the will of God is unstoppable and Jesus came to set the prisoners free and our captivity is sin and death and the will of God is supreme, then “God is Love” must mean some thing unbreakable.
Just what did He do for those three days underneath the as of yet unrolled away stone? He did not ascend to the Father, that came later. He did not go to Starbucks for coffee.
If to obey the command to relax rests on the grand notion “that the truth will be preached to all prisoners,” then can we not believe all the legalists wrong? New Pharisees return to the law like a dog returns to its vomit, and forget that Christ died to kill sin and death once and for all. And yet, I sit here questioning the mercy of God. No, not questioning maybe more asking for justification, which of course, I want on my terms.
“God loves me, but He doesn’t like me.” I don’t think it’s my voice (even though its sounds familiar) that repeats these lines over and over at the most inopportune times.
“When I am weak, He is strong.” At this moment, I think I know what this phrase means. When I feel most weak in spirit when my flesh aches to be held, to be caressed and comforted, I’m often overtaken with a warmth flowing over me that I can’t explain. A supernatural warmth that comforts as if unseen arms sense the cold wind of descent and slumber, encouraging me to embrace despair.
It feels like a sort of holy invasion. Not like the wages of sin are death but like the gift of God is grace, not eternal sleep but eternal life, not like God is hate like the New Pharisees tell me but like God is love like holy men tell me over and over that “God is mercy.”