Andrew Murray on the New Covenant

I started reading an old book the other day, Two Covenants by Andrew Murray.

He says if the New Covenant is to be better than the Old, it has to provide for man's obedience. "The New Covenant provides a guarantee, not only for God’s faithfulness, but for man’s too! And this in no other way than by God Himself undertaking to secure man’s part as well as His own."

This reminds me of what I'd thought and written about the New Covenant in Covenant of Hope. The old covenant failed because we couldn't keep it. "Do these things and you will live" is not enough. We need God to do in us what we cannot do in ourselves. 

You can download Two Covenants here.

Business class and the hope of heaven

Last week it happened:  upgraded to business class for a nine hour flight across the Atlantic. Wonderful seats -- fifteen or twenty different adjustment points, enough legroom that my feet only gently contacted the edge of my own space, I could even lie almost flat if I wanted to sleep. A personal video screen probably larger than the screen of my laptop, and fully touch sensitive as well. A four course meal, or should I say five course? The ice cream sundae and the fruit and cheese were served all together, but wouldn't that count as more than one course?

Around the sixth or seventh hour, I still felt as enchanted as when we'd started, and I even felt a mild regret that the flight was not longer. This morning it is still pleasant to remember -- I think of C. S. Lewis' comment that the great desire we have for things to go on forever in our lives shows that we were meant for something more than a temporal, limited life. This pleasure suggests I was not meant to be jammed into a narrow seat row for hours at a time -- what a startling thought!

This could be my favorite air travel story for years to come. It is a story that does not center around conflict, like most stories do in our world. Should there a literary genre of people experiencing conditions so much better than they are used to, and celebrating this? Is this the stories we shall experience in heaven?

But really heaven is not about comfort or architecture (as impressive as those may be). It is primarily about seeing God. The intangible God hidden from view. God with us, yes, but it requires our faith, our ability to cling to a truth despite what our immediate perceptions would tell us. In heaven, faith will become sight. Then we shall see him face to face, and when he appears we will be like him.

God wants to make me new?

God wants to make me new. “And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord's glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory,” That sounds pretty crazy. I want to laugh, like Sarah laughed. My mediocrity is way too tall and imposing. A solid wall rising up to heaven, like the wall of Jericho, like the Berlin wall. But those walls came down. Can I live in hope that this wall will come down?

After writing this, I still feel the unnerving sense of uncertainty between two worlds, what I know and what might be. Who am I? Reluctant to change because I’m afraid?

Scripture talks about transformation as though it is finished, a done deal. But it also says over and over again that newness is an attitude we have to take up, a calculation we have to make, something we need faith for (and faith implies something we don’t see yet). And this seeming paradox makes sense, it is how God’s promises often work. He makes a promise, so we can be assured that He will do it, that is the finished aspect. But he makes a promise because the time has not yet come to do what he promised. That is the waiting in faith without seeing aspect.

Some of the promises of newness

Jeremiah 31:31-34: God will write the law on our hearts, we will all know him, and won’t need to be taught to know him. (Jeremiah wrote this as a future promise, but Jesus brought the New Covenant).

Romans 6:2-4: In Christ’s death we died to sin, and rose again to new life.

2 Corinthians 5:17: Anyone in Christ is a new creation

2 Corinthians 3:18: We all reflect the Lord’s glory and are being transformed into his likeness.

Gal 2:20: I have been crucified with Christ, and I no longer live but Christ lives in me.

Some of the reminders that newness takes time.

Rom 12:1-3: present yourselves as living sacrifices, do not conform but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.

Romans 6:11: Consider (calculate) yourselves as dead to sin and alive to God.

2 Corinthians 5:2: We groan, longing to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling

Gal 2:20b: “The life I live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God,” If it is by faith, it is not by sight.

Prayer for the suffering

Lord, open their eyes to see the compassion in your eyes.

The story behind this:

My mother in law passed away in November 2007. My wife and I went up for the funeral, and stayed for two weeks as she began putting her mother's house in order. On my first day back at work, I thanked my supervisor for letting me stay away for two weeks, and told him about the funeral, the grieving and the celebration. Another colleague listened to our conversation, and I was struck by the compassion in her eyes. Weird, I thought, sympathy without words actually happens. I'd thought it was a literary cliché, a cliché from the kind of books I don't like to read much. But in real life, it's actually pretty neat!

A year and a half later our son was in a bad road accident while we were traveling in California. We got the phone call from the police that he'd been airlifted to the hospital. As we booked a quick flight home and hurriedly prepared to drive to the airport, wondering just how bad things might be, I thought of my colleague's compassionate glance and wished I could sign up for another one. Then as we got on the plane, a new thought came to me. James says that all good gifts come from God the Father. So that meant that the glance of compassion I still wanted but couldn't have because my colleague wasn't nearby, really came from God. What I'd appreciated in her eyes that day was a reflection of the compassion in God's eyes, if I could see them. That was a comforting thought. And ever since, in times of sadness, I've thought about God's compassion as I saw it reflected in my colleague's eyes that day. (As it turned out, our son had broken legs and a broken finger plus a dislocated elbow, but no head injuries and no internal injuries).

Another aspect of this story came to mind a couple years later. One of the common generalizations about men and women is that men always want to fix a problem, while women want compassion. We men are supposed to learn to listen to our wives and respond to how she feels, not just suggest how to fix it. But what, I thought, do we want God to do? God, revealing himself as "he" not "she," should be a fixer right? And who could be better at fixing things? Don't we always pray for a quick fix? An instant healing, a new job right now! But what if God chooses to not fix all our problems right away, but expresses compassion with us as we endure the problem?

So I pray for those in distress, that the eyes of their hearts would be opened to see God with them in their distress.

When prayer feels unreal 2

Yesterday I remembered a time in prayer when I was honest about not feeling fervent, and God welcomed my honesty. I remembered last night a thought from Psalm 25. The first verse says (in some but not all translations) "To you, O LORD, I lift up my soul."

Yes, to the Lord, I lift up my soul. My soul as it is, not the soul I should have, not the soul I'd like to think I have or want others to think I have. But the one I really do have, with its warts and imperfections, ego, selfishness and pride. That is the soul I've got, that is the soul God has resolved to transform. He knows how much is yet to be transformed, and does not view finishing the task as impossible or even arduous.

Sometimes prayer feels unreal

At another prayer meeting someone prayed so earnestly. “We’re yours Lord, we just want to belong to You, You alone.” And I was quiet. Do I really want first and foremost to live for God and not myself? I wasn’t sure.

As I went home I did open up to God. “Lord, I’m willing to make a few sacrifices for your kingdom. I went to that prayer meeting didn’t I? I’ve gone to some other meetings, I’ve taken a few risks to try to serve you. I've worked in hard climates for you. But don’t ask me to do anything really painful, like getting tortured or imprisoned. Then I felt a flash of joy, as if God whispered “Thanks for leveling with me. I knew it already, but thanks for not pretending.”

But as I write this I'm wondering, shouldn't I be willing to do anything to serve God? I do sense in me a longing, a readiness to press in closer to God. Lord, enlarge and strengthen this longing to be closer.

Prayer: when the familiar isn't boring

Group prayer can feel routine. A couple weeks ago, I was feeling bored as our prayer meeting started. Then we rea some familiar passages about the importance of prayer. Nothing new, but afterwards, I felt content, perhaps even "strangely warmed", to a small degree.

There is a mystery. The words of Scripture are not just words, but are pointers to God, life himself. I think he came to us and gave us a fresh bit of life last night as we read together. And I had asked for that. I had written on my yellow prayer request card that we'd be encouraged and inspired again for prayer.

That night I hadn't wanted to pray. I'd thought I had nothing new to say, that there was no point in me saying the same things once again. But I was reminded that night how the familiar, the "same old" could still bring life.