We walk by faith, not by sight.
Although the road ahead
May not be clearly seen, or
Events along the way known,
Yet the destination remains
Fixed and certain – the embrace
Of the Father as He welcomes
You home, as a daughter or son.
And so we walk ever forwards,
Upwards – unstinting, unwavering,
Knowing that things yet unseen
Will come to be, and things
Now seen will pass away,
As His call goes out to us –
A lighthouse in the storm,
A beacon in the darkness.
He calls us out, and He calls
Us homeward, He knows
Our fears, and He knows
Our weak, fragile, frame.
Yet His call is certain and
He will bring us home in
Every fear and every doubt,
Each time we fall and when
We run – never forsaking us
Or leaving us lost, but
Finding us and inviting us
To ask and receive, seek
And find, knock that we may
Enter in and be received.
As we see the void in the road
Ahead we must also know
That He is the bridge.
We walk by faith, not by sight,
Hearing His voice and knowing
This – that He who called us
Is faithful, and He will do it.
Author Archives: Juan Fernandez-Arias
Awesome
From the top of K2 (the world’s 2nd highest mountain), Everest isn’t all that impressive.
It’s only when you see it in the context of its height above sea level that you are suddenly hit by the magnificence and grandeur of this mountain of mountains.
So it is with us and God. Seeing God from atop our ego and pride, God isn’t that great.
Seeing God from the depths of our murky and total depravity, suddenly the greatness of God becomes too much for our darkness-sensitised eyes to look upon, and we are immediately all too aware of his grandeur, majesty and glory, and it is the most complete definition of the word ‘awesome’.
Adoration of our triune Elohim
(Inspiration from John’s gospel)
Ah, blessèd Jesus,
You are the Word of life.
Born of woman into humanity,
You are incarnation of the Word,
Full of grace and truth.
Oh Holy Father,
By Your word,
Keep us in your Name,
That we may be one –
One like You are with the Son.
Spirit of truth,
Lead us into all truth,
Bringing continual remembrance.
Sanctify us in Your truth –
Your Word is Truth.
Resurrection
“He is not here, He is risen!”
The words hang in the air,
A freeze-frame moment
As the truth revealed slowly
Becomes the truth received.
He told us it would be so
And yet, the obvious truth
Remains the most implausible
Of all the possibilities.
Has the gardener moved Him?
Can I believe the women
Or must I see for myself?
If I can touch the wounds
Then I will surely know.
But resurrection is not
Of this world and so
Does not play by the rules
Of reason or logic or
Empirical proof – it defies
The laws of nature as it
Defies death, facing it down
Into completion submission;
The death of death through
His resurrection power.
For the eyewitnesses it
Remains true as it does for us,
That seeing is not believing,
And touching not required,
Because only a heart as open
As the tomb itself can know,
Beyond all reasonable doubt
That He is is not there,
Because He is risen!
I touch the wood
I touch the wood
Of your cross of grace.
I cannot look at you
In the eye, but I know
That I belong there.
Standing there –
The unforgiving wood
Holding you there,
As your blood runs down,
Deep red on darkest brown;
An uneasy yet perfect display
Of colours matched,
As though from eternity
One had been created
For the other, just for this.
Your blood runs down freely
Covering my hand –
Scarlet stains that make me
White as snow; clean; pure.
I know that you have
United me to your suffering
To know your life through
Your shed blood in your dying,
And to know your passion
Through your shared pain.
It is a gift of love – a gift of life,
As the horror of your terrible
Death is shared with me,
To bear in my body what is
Lacking for others, for the sake
Of your beloved bride.
You share your precious
Life-giving blood with me,
That through Your death
I might have Your life,
And in Your resurrection life
I might know You in Your death.
Revelation at Quinta
I am a work of grace
I am a work of grace.
As His grace is at work in me,
So I am empowered
To do His work –
Not a labour under Adam’s curse
But a labour of love,
Always bearing fruit.
In my imperfection
His grace is magnified.
In my obedience and love
His grace is glorified.
He only ever meets me
In His grace, and by His grace
He loves me as I really am.
But His grace is more
Than a way to be one with Him –
His grace changes me,
Shaping me in the form of itself,
Which is the form of the
One who IS Grace, the Son,
Full of grace and truth.
I am a work of grace,
And what has been begun
Shall be completed,
Then I too, like Him,
Shall be in the form of grace.
Broken:Rebuilt
The little pile of fallen stones-
Broken altar to my pride
And all I had built on the
Foundations You had laid,
Lies there, desolate, fallen,
Frozen in time like a ruin
Of a place utterly brought low.
How ignorant I was to the
Diligent, persistent work
Secretly going on in my soul,
As it grabbed what was freely given
And repurposed it into an
Image of me, subtly mirroring
The work of the Master, but
Remaining a cheap counterfeit-
Standing proud like an
Emperor with no clothes.
I didn’t consciously set out
To build my own monument,
But in the deeper recesses
Of my unconscious desire
The plans were drawn up
And the work commenced
At a continuous rate, as instinctive
As the muscles which control
The heart and lungs, twitching
Without thought or choice.
What grew up there rapidly
Was the fulfilment of desires
Indulged in the absence
Of true grace and humility,
Driven on by a mistaken belief
That I knew grace and
Understood humility.
Only now, when what was built up
Has been unceremonially
Dismantled – shaken apart by
The earthquake of the revelation
Of truth of who I am,
Can I see that I am impoverished
In my knowledge and understanding
Of grace and humility, and as I look
At the ruins of my ruin all I really know
Of these two pillars of virtue
Is that I know that I don’t know
What I need to know –
That which can only come as a gift
From the One who IS grace,
And who models humility
As a natural expression of
His divine identity and image.
It is He who has gone into
The place of my spirit ahead of me.
It is He who has looked at
The conscious desire of my heart
And seen that what was
Under construction was different –
The wrong shape, and was building
Up as a heavy weight which would
Be chained to me as I became
More enslaved to my pride,
And a building too lofty to be safe
From the risk of falling in ruin.
It is He who spoke into my spirit
And caused an earthquake –
Breaking my spirit and shattering
All that is shakeable so that
Only what is true and pure
Might remain for my edification.
He broke me, not to punish me
Or to humiliate me with the
Shameful truth that I had
Built my own idol.
No – He broke me so
He can rebuild me in His image
To reflect His nature.
He broke me to rebuild me in
The shape of true grace.
Struggling with myself
I have noticed
That there are times
When my thoughts
And actions, the attitude
Of my heart, are
Abhorrent to me.
In those times I see
That there is still
A small yet significant
Part of me which
Is the body of death-
The lifeless life
Of the flesh, warring
With the living spirit
As it holds on
Beyond its welcome
And refuses to die.
Sin has a home there.
Temptation glides in
Arrogantly and undeterred
To lead me into a place
Of destruction, turning
My gaze upon me, by
Elevating my heart to
The position of idol-
Easily insulted,
Insulting easily.
Why am I such easy prey?
How can this being
Welcome and enthrone
The living God, and yet
Give space, time and
Vast quantities of energy
To the vile voice which
Rises up to set me apart-
Brother against brother?
I see that I have humility not,
And my poverty is my iniquity.
I must put to death
The flesh by the Spirit.
I must invest more in
Being less, having less,
So I may learn humility
From the Gentle Master
Who is humble
And lowly in spirit.
This is the real me,
Because it is the new,
Immortal me, and the
Real me who He intends
Me to be.
I must not give in – I must
Wrestle and struggle
And surrender unto Him
Until what is dead
Still holding on, will be
Dead. Only dead.
Shaped for thanksgiving
It is not an end
That I would receive
You, and all the things
You give to me-
The daily blessings,
The sustained life,
My identity, my purpose,
Provision which goes
Way beyond the material
But which always meets
My needs there too.
No, there is an end
Far more glorious
And satisfying which
Can be so elusive
To my misshapen heart
That only revelation
And the experience
Of knowing it true
Would bring to me
The deeper truth
Of the glorifying,
Perfecting, completing
End of how you
Have remade me.
This end is an end
As it is preceded
By your presence,
Your provision,
Your redemption
And sanctification.
At the culmination
Of these things-
At the consummate
Moment of fulfilment,
My heart reaches out
To you in thanksgiving-
The overflow of
Its infilling and the
Perfect end to the
Perfect process which
Confirms that I am a son,
And I have the Son’s life.
As I am shaped like Him,
As I am shaped for You,
So I am, like Him,
Shaped for thanksgiving.
“And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.”
Col 3:17
“Give thanks always and for everything to God the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ”
Eph 5:20
Sophia’s poem – the balloon
Huff, puff, blow up the balloon
We’re going to have some fun!
Make sure you tie the end up tight
Or, ZOOM!, it will be undone!
By Sophia