Death Grip

The thing that we count as precious

Is the thing we will carry with us

Everywhere.

Like a child and his favorite blanket

With its silky border against his cheek.

By this we know that we count God

As precious, when we carry him

Everywhere.

When we set our hearts to converse with him

And our minds to reach for him,

And our eyes to behold him.

When we know He’s in the room

Right now. Sitting next to me

And across from me,

Within me.

How precious is God to me?

Do I esteem Him as precious?

Do I leave him waiting outside the office door

Until I clock out for the day?

Or tell him, “just one minute

While I discipline my kids.”

Or “Pardon me, Jesus,
I need to take this one.

It’s an emergency.”

Or “Jesus, can you wait over there

While I write this poem for you?”

Or “Jesus, can you sit tight

While I suffer this agony, or

Feel this joy, or achieve this success …

Excuse me a moment while I

Live my life."

Is God really precious to me?

Does his counsel matter to me?

Do I ask him what he thinks

Or feels about a thing?

Do I ask his permission?

Request his approval?

Let him know how much

I love him and appreciate him

A thousand times a day?

Do I dive into the depths of suffering

And search for his face, as for buried treasure

Hidden amongst the barnacled wreckage,

Turning it all upside down

Just to find a trace of Him

A breath of Him

A whisper of His

Still

Small

Voice

Do I plead with my own heart

On his behalf, to love him,

Shaking my heart and yelling

“Wake up, wake up! And

Value what is good and virtuous.”

Or do I let my sluggish heart sleep till noon,

Dreaming of things that don’t matter,

Loving things that rot.

Do I scan the horizon of every moment for Jesus,

Do I strain my eyes to see him who is invisible?

I am convinced that we are all, every day

At our desks, facing a very special kind of exam.

The test is a simple one.

The bell rings; the exam begins.

Will I count God as precious today?

How much does he matter to me?

My hands will tell the truth.

My feet. The ruminations of my mind,

The actions of my lips

My life will tell the truth.

What does my life say?

No just my lips – my life?  

This is the test.

The heart of man is a riddle,

A mystery. A dead-ending maze with

Twists and angles and crevices.

But the test will reveal it.

Life will solve the riddle of my heart

For me and for everyone.  

Is it all just religion, or culture, or pretense,

Or do I believe that Jesus is the Christ

The son of the living God? Do I believe this?

Do I breathe this? Is it real?

In a single 24 hour period

There are one million things

That will assault my senses

Bills, meals, dishes, paychecks,

Awkward silences, uncomfortable problems,

Offensive personalities, “why me?” situations.

One million things.

There is a perfect moment, when the baby

Finally stops screaming. She closes her eyes.

I am afraid to even breathe. She takes a deep breath.

Her body relaxes. She is finally going to sleep.

And it is at this perfect moment

That a fire truck screams down the road.

One million things.

Stuck in traffic.

Taking a shower.  

Diagnosed with glaucoma.

Internet stopped working in the middle of a demo.

What will I do for my wife on our anniversary?

One million things.

There are one million things to go into and out of.
Life is an undulating thing, a roller coaster road.

And it will test my grip.

Always. That is what is being tested.

I say that God is precious to me.

How precious?

Sitting on the mantle collecting dust precious?

Or do I hold my God in a Death Grip

Refusing to let go, even as the world

Falls apart around me and I plunge.

The prybar of life is

Relentless.  Pulling and yanking

My fingertips, biting and wrenching

And screaming into my ear

Tapping my forehead

Like a Chinese water torture,

Begging and pleading,

Finding frayed strands

Of my heart and pulling,

Lying and cajoling, murmuring,

Whispering, slapping and beating,

Anything

Anything

To get me to open my fingers

Release my grip.

And lose.  And lose.

Not Christ, but the experience of Christ.

I cannot lose Christ, but I can lose

Christ in this moment,

My provision. The one who could have

Redeemed this moment.

The redeemer of moments.

How many moments

Have I wasted? How many moments

Could have been filled with the glory

Of Christ, a blazing redemption,

But I let go. With these fingers. 

I must learn a Death Grip.

My heart must come to know

Who is precious. And cling.

Because the time comes for all of us

When the world comes to an end.

I do not mean apocalypse.

I mean fundamental change.

The moment when nothing will ever be the same.

The massive tectonic plates of life

That seemed so sturdy, have shifted and the very ground

I walk on has betrayed me with a shudder, with a groan,

And I am cast into darkness. And silence.

Where faith is no longer theoretical.

But necessary for survival.  

And we will be reduced.

To ashes. Reduced to our simplest form.

Like fractions. 

Pray with me. Pray with me.

That in this place, the place of pressure,

That we continue to clutch his robe,

Though the whole world

Call us fools, like Job’s wife hissing

In agony and rage: “Curse God and die!”

Pray with me.

That when our faith is tried,

It might be found true gold,

And not just a shiny trinket,

A gum wrapper glittering

In the grass.

Let us love God

All the way down to our bones

Holding his face in a Death Grip

With every fiber and muscle, so tight,

That we would be torn in half first

That our blood would spray

Before we would ever let go.

Pray for us.

Info

This poem was read at Alethia Church on 9/18/11.

Click the link below to download this poem in MS Word. 

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