God is hunting for hearts.
From my slot on the last rack, I see him enter the store. I eavesdrop as he approaches the manager. “Not hearts of paper and lace,” he says. “I’m seeking human hearts that are tender, open, alive.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” the manager answers. “I don’t have many of those.”
God indicates he wants to look, anyway.
First, he peruses the racks marked “Unbelievers,” “Atheists,” “Agnostics,” “Highly Suspicious People” and “Nice People Just Trying to Get By.” There, all sorts of hearts beat inside every type person you can imagine. But the manager is right. Most show various stages of calcification.
Visibly moved, God strides toward the “Christian” racks, including the small one at the back where I have a slot. As he takes stock of what he sees, I can tell he’s appalled.
“I told them!” he murmurs to himself, shaking his head. “I specifically told them not to harden their hearts.”1
He stands looking at the lot of us. From my perch on the little rack, I try to avoid his grief-stricken eyes.
Then he says, “While you’ve been busy labeling and looking down on all the other hearts, do you not see how callous you’ve become? It can happen with any heart – the hardening that takes place gradually, almost imperceptibly, over time.”
But you did not learn Christ in this way.2
Unable to continue for a minute, God pauses. Then he says, slowly, earnestly:
My eyes roam throughout the earth,
so that I may strongly support
those whose heart is completely mine.3
As you set your heart
to listen to my voice and to walk in my ways,
you become more tender, more open, more alive.
But each time you reject my words and my ways
to pursue your own,
your heart calcifies a bit more.
In spite of myself, I meet his gaze. Instantly, I recall something I read recently in Isaiah 30:15.
In repentance and rest is your salvation,
in quietness and trust is your strength,
but you would have none of it.
I’ve wanted rest and quietness, but – well, okay: I’ve had none of it.
I’ve fretted, instead of trusting. I’ve made excuses, instead of going back to God with what has weighed on me so heavily, and waiting there before him for his help.
I’ve listened to the voices telling me, “That verse sounds poetic and sweet, but it just doesn’t jibe with life. Frankly, honey, you’re an anxious person. You’ve lived with anxiety a long time. You might as well make your peace with it.”
But today, under God’s gaze, I see the real reason I haven’t conquered this particular anxiety.
“You hardened your heart,” God says quietly. Then, he crosses to where the manager waits.
“I’ll take them all,” he announces.
“All those stony hearts?” the manager asks. “I thought you wanted tender hearts.”
“I do.” Turning to address every person – regardless the label – God repeats what he said ages ago in Ezekiel 36:26. His voice resonates through the store.
I will give you a new heart
and I will put a new spirit in you.
I will take out your stony, stubborn heart
and give you a tender, responsive heart. (NLT)
Again, he pauses. Then, measuring his words, he tells the manager:
I’m going to give everything I have,
to pay for them all.
But I’ll only take the ones who agree to come –
the hearts willing to hear and follow my voice,
and to feel what my heart feels.
He lays open his wallet.
“Take me!” I cry.
Postscript
I wrote the original version of this post 30 years ago. I still remember where I was walking in a Mississippi neighborhood when I had the encounter with God that gave birth to this piece.
- On February 12, 1993, I published this article as that week’s Perspective newspaper column.
- On February 1, 2013, I posted this piece on this blog, under the title, “Shopping for Hearts.”
- In between, it was Snapshot 10 in my book, Focused Living in a Frazzled World: 105 Snapshots of Life.
Before reposting this time, I made some revisions and a title change.
Image by Photo Mix from Pixabay
See also
- Darkness, betrayal and the heartbeat of God
- Defender of the forsaken, The Sequel
- Heartcry of one who overcomes
- God who loves fiercely
- “It is finished” – but how?
- The heart wants to feel
