We are most certainly Adam’s kids, are we not?
It’s part and parcel of the sinful human nature, this desire that we all have—even those of us who have bowed to the lordship of Christ—to want our own way more than we want our Creator’s. Like Satan in John Milton’s Paradise Lost who would rather “reign in Hell than serve in Heaven,” I like being my own boss. In the final analysis, what that really means is that I harbor delusions of divinity, which is as crazy as it is sinful.
But I’m not God.
I can’t make myself one second younger, a fact I noticed as I had occasion to walk through the doors of a funeral home recently and saw a gray-haired guy staring back out of the reflective glass—as if the funeral home wasn’t itself reminder enough of coming attractions!
I can’t manufacture one sunset or blanket even an acre of this world’s real estate in white snow. I don’t have any idea how long the proper gestation period is for mountain goats, or what kind of food a three-toed sloth likes best. Given about two minutes in charge, I’d make a mess out of running this world. Barney Fife did a better job of running the Sheriff’s Office in Mayberry for a couple of hours while Andy was gone than I’d do running the world. And Barney almost destroyed the town!
Sometimes I think I can run my own life. Why would I think that? I couldn’t even make my family’s fleet of automobiles all run at the same time while we had teenagers at home.
And in front of my chair is another great example. I’m sure I remember having a desk here. Maybe I still do. Somewhere. Files and folders are stacking up. Post-it notes are piled up half an inch thick. Even after I’ve tossed, filed, and arranged a bunch of it, it still needs more rearranging than I presently have time to give it.
I know from past experience that even my best attempts at achieving some kind of order are still pathetic and will be all for naught in about ten minutes. Sometime late at night when no one is at the church, gremlins—or maybe, more appropriately, church mice—will appear in this room and throw paper everywhere. Somehow those mice will multiply the stuff on my desk. They’ll throw some kind of chemical in the trash basket to set off a chemical reaction causing paper to start bubbling over the edges. And they are particularly bad about hiding stuff. These mice are maddening!
So, back to those delusions of divinity . . .
Forget it! It’s a full-time job just to keep my desk clean, and I fail miserably. So I’m trying to remember that keeping this world spinning, and keeping my life running as it should, is work for Someone far bigger than me.
Copyright 2012 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.