Juice of the Earth // Hosea Week 3




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“So you can imagine my excitement when I arrived at the prophets. Because the prophets, they just punch everybody in the face.” — Jimmy Needham


Brayden is probably full blood German. Unaware of the blood clot in his mom’s leg, the fatigue in his father’s voice, or the dog trained to keep his sister alive, the two-year-old needed juice, and he needed it now.

His brother filled up his cup with water and handed it to him.

“Here, juice of the earth.”

And Brayden drank the whole thing because he didn’t know the dang difference.


I went to youth group a couple weeks ago. The place was littered with progressive teenagers. They were all dressed much cooler than I dressed when I was a teenager. They were hugging each other and being all sorts of inclusive to me even though I was “old.”  I reminded myself that I was there because I was promised cookies.

During worship one of the kids came on stage and grabbed the microphone. I noticed right away that he was crying. He pleaded with his ministry as if it was their last chance.

“What’s the point of coming to the door if you’re not going to come in?”

And in my head I answered that question.

“Because I’m fine sitting by the door and getting what comes through the cracks.”

I don’t want to be satisfied with God, and the second I walk through that door, I will be.

I wanted to be satisfied by the cookies I hoped to receive once service was over. I wanted to be satisfied by a congregation of charismatic worshipers who sang “Days of Elijah.” I wanted to be satisfied by a man who loved me and a marriage that would give me the opportunity to be a mom. I wanted to be satisfied by tulips and hot tea and Publix and I didn’t want to have to give any of it up so I could be satisfied with God.

When Joel talked about the “door of hope” at the last Bible study, I couldn’t help but think that I would never walk through that door. I would come to the door, sure. I would sit by the door and listen to the sounds of what lies beyond it. I would smell the fragrance that seeps under the door and perhaps even get a glimpse of what’s inside when someone opens it. What’s the point of coming to the door if you’re not going to come in? Well, progressive teenager, walking through the door just isn’t as romantic as sitting beside it.

And this, friends, is my sin. I refuse to be satisfied with Him. I am an idolatress.

At the heart of my sins, my brokenness, my apathy, is that I refuse to be satisfied with the bread of life and living water. God is food for me, and I won’t eat. God is water for me, and I won’t drink.

God’s grief communicates to the prophets that there is so much more on the other side of the door that I may never see because I’m afraid that the door will shut on my dreams, my desires, my temptations. The prophets “implore me on behalf of Christ to be reconciled to God” (2 Corinthians 5:20), but I see the tears of the progressive teenager and think “How nice it must be to have the freedom to cry.”

I drink the juice of the earth. I drink the whole thing because I don’t know the dang difference.



 



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