ours are the souls

I've had something of a strange weekend.

I woke up yesterday morning to what I can only think is some sort of prodding from God: I don't have the luxury of losing hope. There are people who need help, who need to see Christ's love lived out.

Seriously, I woke up, fuzzy and foggy and wrapping my head around consciousness, with that one message pressing onto me. That particular kind of communication has only happened once before--it was last fall, I woke up to the urgent notion that evil was waiting for me, that I had been letting corruption into my heart. I had been, actually. But the directness of the message changed my mind, righted me. Taking that situation as guidance for how I ought to interpret this one, I realized I need to take hope more seriously.

As a side note, I am fascinated by how God communicates with us via different methods at different times. Another post.

Back to yesterday. I was reading in Joshua later, and it suddenly occurred to me that I am not empty-handed. Sometimes, I feel like I have nothing of value to offer in faith. But I heard, distinctly, as I read...There are people who need what you know. Though I don't know a lot, it occurred to me that there are people who need that little. There are people who are where I've been. Who need to know that Christ is real, and that peace is possible.

Which brings me to this morning.

I was listening to Lindell preach, and there was this beautiful moment in the sermon at which he said something like this: "I have never regretted a dollar I've given to the work of Christ." I immediately flashed to meeting him recently, shaking his hand while he smiled at me, and I realized...mine is the soul for which that dollar paid. He's never regretted it because he knows that souls like mine are at stake. Don't get me wrong--I know that the dollar didn't literally buy my soul, nor did Lindell's preaching, or the building. My soul was bought by Christ's blood. I was saved by Jesus alone. But, many many people gave sacrificially, allowing God to work through them, and because of that, I came to know the blood that saved me. Mine is the soul.

A few minutes later, I was walking to the bathroom between services, and I ran into this kid who just seemed so alone. I remembered how people in this church reached out to me, giving me their phone numbers and email addresses, and asking me to hang out with them, and praying for me, and showing me grace. And as I gave him my email address, I thought...his is the soul.

This Body is beautiful. More beautiful than I can write.

I used to read accounts of early Christians--willing to die of crazy first-century diseases in order to take care of others--and I'd think that we're not doing so well. That Christians aren't so great.

But I don't think that anymore. This Body is beautiful.