The other night, I was at a church service and I was really asking God to do something.
I’ve just been jaded. Really, really worn down. I’ve heard every kind of sermon there is, I know all the right theology, I’ve read every bestseller, I know all the songs and what they’ll say next. It’s a bad place to be. It feels like maybe, I’ve tapped out on faith and I would never have that fiery, from-the-gut connection that I used to. I’ve gotten out of it before, but maybe this time, I would have to learn how to settle. I guess it would be okay.
This song came on. I’ve heard it before. I’ve heard it a billion times. But the second I sang the lyrics, “the Glory of God,” I totally lost it. I mean really, like I was blubbering in a dark room with hundreds of other people hoping they wouldn’t look. They looked. I didn’t care. I sang glory until my throat rolled over. I could see dust spinning in the projector; I don’t know why but it made me weep harder.
I know that emotions and all that don’t mean everything. It’s just that I was really thinking of glory, of the overpowering, overwhelming, unbearable weight of God. The galaxy-sculptor. The infuser of oxygen and orbits and musical chords. I got this really big picture of God for a moment. I was dust in a sunbeam. And I thought of Him touching the dirt of the earth, breathing the same air and singing the same songs, a God so big and yet so close, a glorious God who threw stars into space and bled in my place — and for a while, it was hard to handle. A huge God, yet intimately here.
I knew I hadn’t even begun to approach the surface of an infinitely vast God. I’m glad for that. I’m glad that my tiny, squishy, fragile little brain could even comprehend a tenth of a tenth of a tenth of Him. He’s that good. He’s got enough grace for an endless heart that’s wired for eternity.