The Words of My Mouth

My hometown was a church-going community. For many years all its businesses shut down on Sundays, and some closed early on Wednesdays to accommodate those attending mid-week prayer services. The principal of my high school was a faithful Christian man, and I believe his influence granted the local Young Life ministry nearly unfettered access to its facilities. Many of those on the school’s A-List--the cheerleaders, the athletes, and the popular crowd--identified themselves as followers of Jesus.

It was not hard for me to label myself as a Christian during my high school years. I could close my eyes, raise my hands, and sing about that spark that kept the fire going along with the best of them.

Yesterday we celebrated Palm Sunday at my church as did, I suppose, many other congregations. Each year my pastor calls the children of the congregation forward and hands each a palm leaf. As the children wave their arms, jostle about, and attempt to avoid poking one another in the eye, my pastor talks with them about familiar elements of the Palm Sunday story:

Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey. Crowds lined the streets. They waved palm branches and shouted, “Hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!”

Even though, he told the children, many said words they didn’t mean.

Had I been one of the crowd lining the streets of Jerusalem, I easily could have waved my palm branch along with the rest, honoring Jesus with my lips while my heart was far from Him. Because I’ve done so more often than I’d really care to admit.

I’m fairly certain that most of the praise I sang to Jesus during my school years sprang more from peer pressure and a desire to fit in than from a heartfelt desire to offer him what he deserved. And though I’d like to think I’ve matured in my faith and that my worship is now more heartfelt and authentic:

I affirm, It is Well with My Soul, though I toss and turn at night doubting God’s care for me.

I claim to believe that God’s Word has laid How Firm a Foundation, even though I neglect to read it.

I assert that I Surrender All, even while clinging tightly to idols of time, money, and possessions.

I sing Holy, Holy, Holy, though I am careless about observing the Sabbath or offering works of justice and mercy in God’s name.

The good news of the gospel is that Jesus came, riding into Jerusalem on that donkey not to condemn me for my careless acts of faithlessness. The One who conquered death offers me newness of life, the kind that actually starts to reflect the words I sing in church. He woos me to himself, transforming me into the kind of person whose heart moves toward the words which flow from my lips. He offers streams of mercy, never ceasing, that call for songs of loudest praise.

One of the dangers of growing up in the church, I suppose, is that the songs and stories have become almost too familiar. I can mouth the words without engaging my heart. My prayer during this holy week--leading toward the most familiar, most important story of all--is that both the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer. (Psalm 19:14, ESV)

Joining Michelle @ Graceful:

And Jen and the sisterhood @ Finding Heaven:

And with Shanda for On My Heart Tuesday: