I heard a quote from Billy Graham recently. He told of a time when he was in the hospital very sick, and in his estimation, close to death. He said that he saw his whole life flash before his eyes and in an instant he cried out to God. Calling to the Father he did not claim confidence in his life and tell God that he had been a good preacher and a committed evangelist. No, he said that he was a sinner and that he was still in need of forgiveness, still in need of the cross.
"I am still a man in need of a savior!" I find myself thinking those words more and more often. The declaration has not grown dull over time, having been made empty my the repetition. Instead I find myself unable to come to grips with just how true it is. "Does not God grow weary of me?" The question rings in my skull and I must confess that even now I think that it is true that the Father has good reason for being angry with me. And so I do what I can to earn my way back into hope, trying to make myself feel repentant for my sin. But I know that I will be wandering off before the day closes. The truth is, that I love my sin...and I love the Lord so very little. What I do to mortify the flesh, I do out of fear and guilt, not out of love for the one who loved me first. I am a wretch...and more wretched because even though I know that I am a wretch, I still drink my daily cup of pride and put off repentance for a later day. I have seared my conscience and lost my ability to weep over my sin, except for out of fear or shame.
And yet I still hear the invitation ring out from Calvary. I hear the melody in drops of blood beckoning me to bring even what I am now to the cross. I still turn from such music and say "but it will be insincere, hollow, forced, and out of fear. I will let you down, I will end up right back where I was. I love my sin!" And in return I can still hear him calling out to me, "Child...bring all of that as well".
O how I am still a man in need of the cross! Lord how I cannot, and want not, to sing with my heart "kyrie eleison". And there at the foot of that old rugged tree I hear him whispering "then I will sing it for you..." And even now the music pours out from the very wounds that I have inflicted, and the song in drops of blood cries out to the Father. The voice that beckons me, sings for me.
Now I find myself weeping. I find myself wanting to weep. And I find myself hoping that I will never stop.
