Thursday, October 17
It is 5:50 Indiana time, and we are flying over the southern coast of Italy. The sun is out in full here, of course, and the coast looks lovely. Amy and I watch as both the toe and the heel of the boot unfold before us.
The distant isles, the prophets promised, would join Israel as the inheritance of the Messiah. Surely this includes Italy and Indiana. And perhaps only at 30,000 feet do you begin to catch vision for the scope of the kingdom. Yahweh is not some tribal deity, not some local god. He is the creator of all, and all creation is both his handiwork and his realm.
So as I go to the land the Messiah walked, I am also reminded that the Messiah owns all the land, and all the ocean. The paradox of the incarnation is that the creator and designer of the coast of Italy and the plains of America is actually the one who walked amongst the dusty hills of Israel.
The mystery of the incarnation is rather overwhelming at 30,000 feet.
There is something else rather mysterious at 30,000 feet. It is why I have such a small view of God. In particular, why should I ever worry or fret, when I see the kind of God who calls me his child. A few minutes ago, I leaned over to Sarah as we gazed down on the Aegean, dotted with mountainous isles as far as the eye can see. I whispered to her, ” your Dad made this!” I wasn’t referring to myself, obviously.
But I need that reminder at least as much as she. Looking down on creation, it is not hard to find new depths in the ancient promise, “if God is for us, who (or what) can be against us?”
Jesus, I believe. Help, thou, my unbelief.