For some reason, I cannot envision myself rushing to the feet of Jesus, washing them with my tears, and then kissing them. And this bothers me greatly. Jesus means a lot to me, but I don’t know if he means that much. This bothers me even more.
I’m not appalled, like the Pharisee was, by what Jesus allowed the “sinner” of a woman to do (Luke 7:36-50). But I am, somewhat, appalled by my own reluctance to think I could do the same. I suppose this could be reflective of the Pharisaic spirit that might reside in me. This bothers me, maybe, the most.
A bible class I taught this morning has really unsettled my soul about the quality of homage I have for the One who redeemed me. This, I believe, is good. I’m being shown the power of the Word at work. The living Word is at work, drawing me to Himself, which is where I want to be. Moreover, it’s where I need to be.


