Hopefully Devoted

Last Saturday, I listened to a song that sparked a desire in me (Jeremy Riddle, "Single Mind"). I began praying that I might love Jesus more, and grow in intimacy with God. In the early evening the sun was shining and everyone else in the house was watching football, so I decided to go for a walk, longing just to be with God.

When preparing to head out, I spotted Isaiah 55:12 on a picture made for me in spring last year, so I read through the chapter in a Bible app as I walked. The presence of God quickly became strong, affirming, warmer than the sunshine. I sensed God's voice to me through the verse in its context. In attempting to write about this, words seem inadequate but I'm compelled to try because I'd love for it to be an encouragement to others.

Verse 12 says:

     For you shall go out in joy,

     and be led back in peace;

     the mountains and the hills before you

     shall burst into song,

     and all the trees of the field

     shall clap their hands.

The chapter tells of God's gracious provision, reminds us that we won't find satisfaction anywhere else, and calls us to seek God and let him deal with all our mess, because he knows in ways that are beyond us. Then, there's a declaration about God's words—that not one will fail. The first significant thing about reading this was that just a few weeks ago, someone spoke that promise over me when I was feeling spiritually spent. I smiled at the reaffirmation of it, but the Holy Spirit had more to remind me of.

As I approached a place where I've encountered God before, I remembered what became clear to me last time I lingered there in his presence. A deep desire of my heart was given new words, and I knew and I know that it wasn't just my own idea; indeed, it's far too big for me to fathom. Isaiah 55:8 says, "‭For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord". Sitting there again, another memory came back, of an incredibly moving vision early in my theology studies that involved myrtles—which also feature in verse 13 as a symbol of God's blessing. These, then, are specific words of God into my life that won't fail, and that will be attested to by peace and joy along the way (v.12). As the pieces fit together, my heart overflowed with gratitude that God would minister to me so clearly and beautifully.

The experience of God's tangible closeness is particularly difficult to describe. It carries a strong, almost overwhelming sense of being enveloped by profound goodness and peace. It tends to make me weep, sometimes a lot though this time just gently. It brings a clarity of knowing that is somehow more real than what can be seen and heard. (I understand why, in Matthew 17 and Mark 9, one of Jesus' closest followers suggested building shelters to stay in the place of a particularly wonderful experience.) To taste it is to want to hold onto it, and to realise, perhaps, what I've been missing.

In that state of communion, there's an acute awareness that even thoughts not intentionally directed at God become part of the conversation. I found myself pondering whether I've been somehow 'distant' recently, perhaps not listening or less open to the Spirit; I need God so! Then, I opened my journal and began to read, starting with the first entry in a new book last spring, whilst my friend was creating that picture. Page after page records the prayers of my heart concerning so many significant things that have since become so much clearer, whether complete (an MA), in progress (ministerial candidacy, teaching theology), or newly beginning (embarking on a PhD application). In each of these things there is now such peace and joy where at times there has been significant pain.

I see that devotion to God isn't something to achieve or to fail in, but simply to keep pursuing. Moments of tangible closeness make me deeply thankful, and I long for more. This week, I've looked for ways to posture myself in readiness to receive from God, and I want to make more of a habit of that. However, I see afresh that it's all such a gift, an extravagant manifestation of what is always there, underpinning every step taken in faith. All those hours of effort, every moment of clinging into what God has said when feeling none of it—all of that is unhidden before, given over to, and made possible by God.

I haven't been distant from God; intimacy can bring a wonderful sense of closeness, but is more than that. It's being hopefully devoted: trusting God's sustenance of our love itself (including when feeling weak and tired), as well as for whatever it leads into. It's a sure-and-certain hope in the object of our devotion, the conviction that keeps me going and blinkers out the disapproval and discouragement that might otherwise take me off course. It's found in determined, costly, exhausting action, not just in awe-inspiring experiences. When such encounters come, though, they remind me just how worthwhile it is to keep pursuing the One who leads me forth in peace, and in whose presence is fullness of joy.⬦

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