Smallness
Riding up the ski lift, we could hear an unusual amount of hoots and hollers echoing all across the mountain. Laughing, whooping, and yahooing filled the air as we went up the mountain on the first morning chair lift.
Because you just can't ski in twenty inches of fresh powder without making some noise.
We had 23 inches to be exact, which is crazy fun when you can hardly turn or steer, but you can point your skis straight down hill and spray powder up to your waist.
My dad and I took advantage of such conditions to take some of the hardest runs through the trees where no one had yet been. I felt like I was skiing on clouds as I slid down absolutely effortlessly and silently on the untouched, untainted snow.
I slid to a parallel stop to catch my breath. My dad had skied on down and I found myself completely alone on a precipice of stunning glory. At 11,000 feet, I could see layer upon layer of mountain grandeur, covered in new snow, strikingly white against the Colorado blue sky. That's when I heard it: the loud, muffled silence. The audible silence of just me in the snow in the forest. So thick, so silent that you can actually hear it.
I wonder if that's what God's voice sounded like when he spoke but it wasn't in the fire or the earthquake or a whirlwind but rather in the quiet whisper.
One moment I'm skiing along, whooping and hollering and playing in powder. The next moment, I stop and am totally overtaken by the glory of the mountains, and I think I hear God's voice in the stillness of the snow, and all I want to do is bow down.
I feel so incredibly small, and I absolutely love that feeling of smallness. The greatest thing I need during this furlough is this feeling of smallness. It is my smallness that magnifies his greatness. It is my need for him that exalts his all-sufficiency. It is our smallness that makes his unfailing for us so unbelievably wonderful. And so undeniably real.
The greatest thing we need this Christmas is that feeling of smallness. We need to approach the baby in a manger and hear the heavenly hosts singing as the son of God comes to earth wrapped in human, finite flesh. Jesus, Lord at thy birth.
Where do you go to feel that feeling of smallness? Maybe it's a wide open meadow, the top of a mountain, or a seat under the stars. Wherever that is for you, go find it and linger there. Feel your smallness and mediate on his greatness. Let your heart sense him romancing you through the loud silence and the glory of his creation. And let your thoughts wander to that place long ago where a virgin gave birth to the Son of God and called him Immanuel, God with us. Christ, who started his life wrapped in cloths and placed in a cave, would end his life in the same way. Born to die; "born that man no more may die."
Let us find ourselves here - at the manger, at the empty tomb - celebrating our smallness and his greatness.
Because you just can't ski in twenty inches of fresh powder without making some noise.
We had 23 inches to be exact, which is crazy fun when you can hardly turn or steer, but you can point your skis straight down hill and spray powder up to your waist.
My dad and I took advantage of such conditions to take some of the hardest runs through the trees where no one had yet been. I felt like I was skiing on clouds as I slid down absolutely effortlessly and silently on the untouched, untainted snow.
I slid to a parallel stop to catch my breath. My dad had skied on down and I found myself completely alone on a precipice of stunning glory. At 11,000 feet, I could see layer upon layer of mountain grandeur, covered in new snow, strikingly white against the Colorado blue sky. That's when I heard it: the loud, muffled silence. The audible silence of just me in the snow in the forest. So thick, so silent that you can actually hear it.
I wonder if that's what God's voice sounded like when he spoke but it wasn't in the fire or the earthquake or a whirlwind but rather in the quiet whisper.
One moment I'm skiing along, whooping and hollering and playing in powder. The next moment, I stop and am totally overtaken by the glory of the mountains, and I think I hear God's voice in the stillness of the snow, and all I want to do is bow down.
I feel so incredibly small, and I absolutely love that feeling of smallness. The greatest thing I need during this furlough is this feeling of smallness. It is my smallness that magnifies his greatness. It is my need for him that exalts his all-sufficiency. It is our smallness that makes his unfailing for us so unbelievably wonderful. And so undeniably real.
The greatest thing we need this Christmas is that feeling of smallness. We need to approach the baby in a manger and hear the heavenly hosts singing as the son of God comes to earth wrapped in human, finite flesh. Jesus, Lord at thy birth.
Where do you go to feel that feeling of smallness? Maybe it's a wide open meadow, the top of a mountain, or a seat under the stars. Wherever that is for you, go find it and linger there. Feel your smallness and mediate on his greatness. Let your heart sense him romancing you through the loud silence and the glory of his creation. And let your thoughts wander to that place long ago where a virgin gave birth to the Son of God and called him Immanuel, God with us. Christ, who started his life wrapped in cloths and placed in a cave, would end his life in the same way. Born to die; "born that man no more may die."
Let us find ourselves here - at the manger, at the empty tomb - celebrating our smallness and his greatness.
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