Twenty-three years ago, I was sitting alone in the living room of the first home I ever bought, in Leesburg, Florida, meditating on God’s Word, practicing being still in His presence. I was prepared to take as long as was necessary until I heard from the Almighty Creator of Heaven and Earth. I was sitting quietly, straining to listen, trying to hear what my Loving Abba would say to me.
Slowly, imperceptibly at first, my thoughts started to wander toward deeper questions and concerns: concerns that were just scratching below the surface of my consciousness; questions that considered the purpose of my very existence. My heart was heavy with disappointment—knowing that I was still so far away from what God intended—and tempered with hopeful resignation: that His yoke is easy, His burden light, and that whatever good work He had begun in me, He would be faithful to complete.
I knew the truth of His Word; I had read it so many times over the formative years it was written on my heart. I was aware of my sin, my failures and imperfections—the places in my heart God’s light had revealed to me that were not right, places I had realized I was powerless to correct on my own. My heart was sad: I wanted to please my Abba in all I said and did, but I was irritatingly becoming more and more familiar with Paul’s “O wretched man that I am” syndrome.
That irritation began to grow until, in Jobish temerity, I started questioning this Eternal Father about just what it was He was up to with this “experiment” of His here on Earth. My line of questioning went something like this:
Why God? What’s the point? What are You up to? Why do You let this continue? How long are You going to let this continue? And when will it stop?!
Every day I begin by seeking You. Every day I start off well-intentioned and strong. Every day—it seems—I encounter something that causes me to stumble and fall. Every day I come short of Your glory. And every day, I stand back up. I say I’m sorry.
I repent, confess my self-centeredness and sin, confess my weakness and ask You to forgive me. You do forgive me—You always forgive me—this weak, fragile, dirt-creature, who supposedly carries Your image (but right now I don’t feel like I do).
I start again, resuming my walk on Your path of righteousness, continuing again to seek You, and purposing in my heart to love and follow after You no matter what. But before I know it, I’ve gone off on my own again—rinse, wash, repeat—and I am on the merry-go-round of the exact same experience. I fall. I repent. I ask for Your help. You pick me up and set me back on the path… It’s exhausting and frustrating, and frankly I am sick of it!
And each time I go through this routine, You are faithful to immediately forgive me. I know You do because I feel it. I feel Your love for me. You are kind to me. You don’t berate me or condemn me. You give me joy and comfort, and I know I am safe in Your arms. It is such a wonderful place! But then, it happens. Again.
At this point, I am really done with the whole thing.
You know I am never going to be perfect while here on Earth. You know I will continue to falter. You also know that I will never quit seeking You—I am never going to turn my back on You and never going to give up. No matter how far I stray or where I go, I cannot escape Your Presence. Your Spirit is within me. Where can I go that You are not already there? I can’t escape You…I don’t want to escape You! But why do I have to go through all of this day after day, after day, after day? Why am I still here in this monotonous existence, this cycle of brokenness?! It’s all pointless!
It would be better for You to just take me home.
I continued on like this for who knows how long: circular logic, questions, growing frustration, even anger—what, after all, is the point?!
And somewhere, in the middle of this internalized trial presented before (or against) this Infinite Being that holds All in the palm of His hand, the One in whom I live and move and have my being, the One who gave me the breath to even rail against Him—here I am, like a little barking dog, like a man shaking his tiny fist at the sky—and somewhere in that fervor I had built myself into, the still, small voice of Abba began to answer. Quietly. Gently. Very kindly—more so than I’m sure I deserved.
His answer began to stream into the thoughts of my mind, like code being written into my very soul. It was soft, but it was anything but weak. The strength of His response silenced my questioning thoughts and accusations, and I sat astonished, and listened to what seemed to be an audible voice, but I couldn’t tell. His fatherly admonition went something like this:
Yes, my son, I know you are weak and imperfect, made from dust with only my breath that gave you life. I know you struggle to do the simplest things to please me. I know you are inconsistent and self-centered and so easily distracted from the only thing that matters. I know you will continue to fall, continue to ask for my forgiveness and help, continue to walk along my path, and continue to seek me all the days of your life. I know you will never be everything that in your heart you want to be for me.
I know.
But my precious child, my son, I made you with purpose, and your struggling life is not meaningless, and it is not pointless.
Michael, you were created with a fleshly nature, capable of freely choosing me and capable of sin—a nature that left to itself will rebel against me and seek its own interests, daily. Every day you battle your very self. Every day you must purpose again in your heart to go against what you want and choose me, my Way. Every day you must do this. I know it is not easy and I know it is frustrating and that you get tired of the continual fighting. But what you don’t see, and don’t fully understand, is what this so-called merry-go-round—of following me, falling, repenting, and turning to follow me again—is achieving throughout all of creation, and the testimony it is presenting about me in heaven.
You see, my angels were created with a nature to worship and to glorify me. They were created glorious, mighty in strength and knowledge, were given the honor of worshipping me at my throne and serving as messengers of my Word; yet some refused to fulfill their purpose. Certain of my angels failed in their nature, in what they were created to be. They became prideful and resentful, full of sin, despite having perfect knowledge and experience of me, and in their rebellion were cast from my presence.
What you do not yet realize, Michael, is that every time you choose to go against your created nature—weak and imperfect, formed from dust—and, instead, choose to follow me, when you rebel against sin, you do what these fallen angels refused to do.
By choosing to serve and to worship me, you fulfill their created purpose. And you remind them of their failure and rebellion. You become a witness in the courts of heaven. You glorify me by demonstrating that even a weak and imperfect “dirt creature” will do what these angelic beings would not.
By your very life you testify in the congregation of Heaven that there is none like me. You glorify me more than you can imagine, throughout All of creation; and all creation watches in awe that, each time this weak, fragile, imperfect man falls, he freely chooses to get up and continues to follow after me.
And if I want you to do that for a hundred years more in this life, that is exactly what you will do.
At this, all I could utter was, “Yes, Sir.” Job was answered out of the whirlwind and never given an explanation; I was given an explanation, and it silenced me all the same. But before shame and self-condemnation had time to creep in, He lovingly added—
O Michael, my child—the one whose name reminds earth and heaven that there is none like me. There is such purpose in your life, beyond anything you can yet comprehend. Do not remain in frustration, disappointed with your own fragility. And do not give up your pursuit of me. Let your heart be glad and rest in my love and my mercy. Seek me with your whole heart. Honor me with all that you say and do. And when you stumble and fall—and you will—confess it quickly. Do not wallow in the mire of self-condemnation. I do not condemn those who yield to my Word and my Spirit, who—like a child learning to walk—take the next step towards me.
Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, and you will find rest for your soul!
Selah.
This testimony stands apart from the numbered Turris Fortis essays—it precedes them by twenty-three years. The series lives at turrisfortismihideus.com.