Slapping Myself Against the Glass

Tonight as I was going through the house, turning off the lights, I noticed a tree frog squatted outside on the windowsill. I see him there on a regular basis; in fact, I’ve gotten in the habit of looking for him. He seems almost friendly, although he startles me when he pops up out of nowhere to nab a moth fluttering at the glass.

Maybe it was the hopeful expression on his face – if a frog can be said to have hope – but for the first time ever, I wondered what he would do if I put my fingertip against the pane. I drew my finger lightly over the glass just above him. WHAP! He launched himself against the window. Getting nothing, he closed his mouth and settle down on the sill to wait. Now I wondered how much of a short term memory a frog has. So again, I ran my fingertip across the pane. WHAP! He hit the glass, his mouth wide open and his pink tongue hanging out. Was a frog capable of learning? I pondered the thought and then, once more, rubbed my finger over the window, despite the smears I was making. SMACK! With as much vigor as before, he threw himself in pursuit of what turned out to be nothing.

At this point I stopped teasing him, partly because I felt sorry for him, but mostly because he reminded me so painfully of myself. How often has Satan drawn something across my path – prestige, possessions, pursuits – and fooled me into thinking it was what I wanted? How often have I jumped at what looked like a good thing, only to find myself unsatisfied? How long will it take me to learn – or remember - that God is the only food that will satisfy me?

Half an hour later I tried to fool him one last time. He wouldn’t look at my fingertip but kept his eye on me instead. Is a tree frog smart enough to realize who is behind the deception? Am I?

Bread-and-Water Worship

On my dining room wall hangs a picture of Li Ying, a Chinese sister in Christ who has been in prison since 2001 for printing an “illegal” Christian magazine. Seeing her picture reminds me to pray for her.

On Sundays Li Ying is alone in her cell. She has no Bible to read, no pastor to encourage her. If she is struggling, no other believers lay hands on her and pray with her. No one holds out to her the elements of Communion; no one collects her offering. Perhaps she kneels on the floor of her cell and prays or sings quietly, a capella. Hers is a bread-and-water kind of worship.

Over here, we drive over paved roads to gather freely with a hundred other believers in our climate-controlled, carpeted sanctuary. Talented musicians skillfully play their instruments as we sing a variety of songs. We open our Bibles and follow along as the pastor teaches us to understand and apply the Word of God. After the Communion feast we laugh and hug and make plans for Sunday dinner.

Imagine then that several of us decide to dine at a gourmet restaurant with linen cloths and lighted candles on each table, and a world-class chef in the kitchen. As the waitress seats us, I push away the candlestick and set up my laptop. Ignoring your conversation, I barely acknowledge the waiter when he offers me a menu. Distractedly I mumble for him to bring me a corn dog and a Dew. Would you not ask yourself why I even bothered coming? Would you point out to me that I was cheating myself, missing out on the exquisite food and drink available to me?

Next Sunday when Li Ying draws near to God, He will be waiting for her. He will bring to remembrance the Word He planted in her heart. Nothing in the cell needs distract her from His presence. She will have no fundraiser items to deliver or borrowed books to return. She will have no text messages to receive or send. She will bring no offering but herself. He will be her Communion Feast.

Perhaps I am the bread-and-water worshipper.