Day 53 - Saturday, April 7
Title: Song of Praise for God’s Favor
Scripture: Isaiah 25:1-9
O Lord, You are my God;
I will exalt You, I will give thanks to Your name;
For You have worked wonders,
Plans formed long ago, with perfect faithfulness.
For You have made a city into a heap,
A fortified city into a ruin;
A palace of strangers is a city no more,
It will never be rebuilt.
Therefore a strong people will glorify You;
Cities of ruthless nations will revere You.
For You have been a defense for the helpless,
A defense for the needy in his distress,
A refuge from the storm, a shade from the heat;
For the breath of the ruthless
Is like a rain storm against a wall.
Like heat in drought, You subdue the uproar of aliens;
Like heat by the shadow of a cloud, the song of the ruthless is silenced.
The Lord of hosts will prepare a lavish banquet for all peoples on this mountain;
A banquet of aged wine, choice pieces with marrow,
And refined, aged wine.
And on this mountain He will swallow up the covering which is over all peoples,
Even the veil which is stretched over all nations.
He will swallow up death for all time,
And the Lord God will wipe tears away from all faces,
And He will remove the reproach of His people from all the earth;
For the Lord has spoken.
And it will be said in that day,
“Behold, this is our God for whom we have waited that He might save us.
This is the Lord for whom we have waited;
Let us rejoice and be glad in His salvation.”

Poetry: Happiness
By Jane Kenyon
There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
             It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

OUR STORY HAS ONLY BEGUN

On Easter, Jesus conquered death and the flesh.

Before, we were trapped in ever-corrupting bodies. And, after they failed, we were bound to inhabit death without hope for new bodies, still stuck with the scars from our lost ones.

Death reigned ruthless in an unbeatable stronghold. Not even our wise, good, or strong ones could escape it.

Death stifled us like a hot, heavy shroud. It blocked our vision, filtered our breath, and weighed us forcibly down. We couldn’t see past it.

But Christ, dying and rising, ruined the city of death, and set us prisoners free. He made a way out.

He snatched off the shroud and ripped it, top to bottom. He let us see what would come.

He touched us and stood before of us, cooling the stifling heat. He gave us his peace.

When we were needy and helpless, he came and joined us. And, just by joining us, he conquered our curse. His righteousness overcame the corruption of the flesh, and his vitality sabotaged death. Now, if we follow him, we can face death peacefully, pass through it freely, and put on our bodies again, remade incorruptibly, just like his.

The city of death will never be rebuilt. Its dominance will never be restored. Easter is the triumphant conclusion to the story of death’s rule over humanity.

That victory is certainly worth celebrating each year, if anything is. But now, one week past Easter, we’re each settling back into everyday life, where it’s clear that there’s more for Christ to do. We live between the Resurrection and the Return: after the conquest of death and the flesh but before the conquest of the world and the devil.

Thus, we remain subject to the oppressions of malevolent wills and the errors of imperfect ones. Our natural curse has a remedy, but our enemies still roam free.

And, sleepy, we can forget. We settle into unmerciful hours of anxious motion: grieving a close death, falling in love, doing the job, inhabiting a hard marriage, getting a lucky break, wishing a habit would dissipate, stacking cans.

Sometimes, in that everyday, the memory of Jesus’ victory visits when we least expect it or most need it, like a three-note melody, high in the violin, bursting out of our monotony. In our working, our crying, our pushing, the Spirit sometimes sings, “Christ has conquered death,” and we can lay aside anxiety.

But there’s more. Easter is not just about remembering a victory; it offers anticipation too, and that anticipation can saturate our ordinary time, transforming it with patient hope. For Easter starts a story that’s far more wonderful than the story it concludes.

What started was nothing less than total recreation, and preparation for a new war against human and demonic destruction. Just as in Christ, death died, so also in him, destruction will be destroyed, war will be conquered, the earth will be renewed, and his community of love will be unassailably gathered and set apart from sin.

For, once upon a time, a conquering, deathless human, the rightful king, secretly set his foot on the floor of his earth again. And, placing it in stewardship under his followers and friends, he promised them a triumphal entry that was worthy of his conquest, and an unchallenged rule that was more magnificent than anyone could possibly construct. His return, he promised, would not just achieve all the heights of human art, politics, philosophy, science, and craft, but exceed them in an occasion that we could not imagine, an occasion for all peoples and all time.

He who snatched off the shroud of human death would himself spread a festal tablecloth.

He who ruined death’s dark stronghold would himself build a golden city.

He who assuaged death’s heat would himself answer all pain with redeeming, transforming joy.

He left to prepare this glorious return, commissioning us, his stewards, to wait expectantly and spread the news wherever we could go, so that, when he comes, he may be met by a booming chorus in every language across the globe.

Even now, he prepares choicer wine than any yet drunk, he builds you a home to perfectly shelter your heart, and he orchestrates holy judgment with lavish restitution for every injury you’ve ever sustained. He waits for us to prepare our welcome song.

Someday soon, you’ll sit at his table, just as you sit at your table now. You’ll never need to look over your shoulder again, or remember any medicine; you’ll be safe. Instead, you’ll hear music. God himself will rejoice over you with singing.

As the voice of Christ pools around you, you’ll look left and see Stradivari weeping at the sight and sound of a violin more perfect than any he yet made.

You’ll look left and see Bach in utter amazement at the simplicity and beauty of a concerto written just for his joy.

You’ll look in a mirror and find yourself brimful with easy peace, all weariness wiped away.

You’ll breathe the smell of fresh bread, just-cooked pears, of incense, and popping sweet chestnuts.

And that old melody, the one you sometimes heard, when happiness crept up to you in your everyday waiting, when your monotony was interrupted by a burst of high and twisting notes, will form the new baseline of your life, the low rhythm into which unimaginable strains may burst forever, into everlasting joy.

And there he will be, the Lord for whom you have waited, standing with the friends and family who reached him earlier. For you were not abandoned. You may rest in his perpetual shade. Settle into his sweet-smelling embrace. Hear his voice, and be free.

He’s returning quickly, and blessed are the watchful.

So watch. Right now, in a life newly uninflected by fasting or feasts, keep patience. Stay alert to the hints of his feast, the sneaking moments of happiness that persistently come to us who follow. Every excellence you find, every beauty you encounter, every truth you perceive is a hint of Christ’ feast, and of the recreated, guarded earth. Treasure these things in your heart, and ready your heart for his coming.

The satisfaction of every desire, the just conclusion of every misdeed, and the reunion of every lost person is surely ahead. Be patient, friends; our story has only begun.

Prayer:
Come, Lord Jesus!

Peter David Gross
Executive Director
Wheatstone Ministries