Love, A Prayer from Ephesus

Lord, I know it's not a feeling
But Lord, I can be as disciplined as anyone
and it doesn't earn me a thing.
You desire mercy, and not sacrifice,
steadfast love, and not rituals,
But all I can do is beat my body into submission
and wake up early
and read, and try to pray.
I can write scripture on my arm, and I can talk to people about it all.
I can try to be humble, and I can try to serve more than I take.
I can repent, and I can be obedient.
But the thing closest to me
is that over which I have no control:
My heart.

I have tried so many times to hand it to you
and I keep looking down and finding it in my hands again.
So, I kneel before you, day in, day out,
in the alley behind the shop,
or between the beds in my room,
and beg you to take it from me.
Rekindle it, take my books and kindle fire,
take my prayers and infuse them with passion
Love, Lord!  Love!  Take me back to my first love!

Because I remember singing with you, dancing before you,
with the Ipod on loud and the lights dim so no one would see me.
And I remember praying in secret and seeing your fruit.
Oh, I remember that time you gave me visions and they came true,
that time I was focused so on Your glory and worth that
Nothing. Else. Mattered.
Or when You healed me, or spoke to me, or gave me visions.
And God, that was beautiful.

Lord, if I need to go to NewSpring and try to lead worship, because I will know You more there,
let me know!  Because I'll BE THERE.  I hope.  I'd want to be there, if it was for You.
And I know my pride wants to be right, and to do a new thing, and to lead, and to 'cast vision', which was a mega-church pastor's idea anyhow,
And Lord, if I need to move to a slum in Malasia and start a house church, hoping to multiply,
or go to Syria and offer myself as a shield between the military and civilians,
let me know!  Because I'll BE THERE.  I hope.  I'd want to be there, if it was for You.
And I know my pride wants to be right, and to be known and affirmed, to lead-  and that it's scared of doing something wrong.
But God, my theology,
or my ecclesiology,
is as dead as lust or greed,
if it's all about me
and not about You.
It's sacrifice, not mercy.
Ritual, not knowledge of You.

And even though all my flesh chooses the former,
and even though pursuing you sometimes feels like washing the beach,
I trust that your tide will come.  And I will wait, and walk, and wait.

Come, oh God of my memories.
Come, oh God with me now.
Come, oh coming Lord.
Make me new.