I have two reasons to write this blog. First, I enjoy writing and want to write better, so I want to practice. Second, and more importantly, I want to dwell on spiritual things and writing about them seems to work for me. Hopefully, someone else can benefit from this, too.
If you think about it, God clearly doesn't need it. He is not made more perfect, more glorified, or more our Father when we praise Him. He does not store up praise in a bank account, He does not live off it, nor does our praise do anything for Him that He is not capable of doing.
Nor does praising God directly give us anything in return. We are not accumulating a praise-balance nor exchanging praise-units on a divine market for blessings. Instead, praising God is intended to change us, just as all the holy habits of discipleship do. By acknowledging the beauty, sublimity, greatness, and holiness of our God, we come to better understand Him and these qualities He perfectly embodies. By correctly identifying our subordinate relationship to God, we put ourselves in the mindset we need to be in to receive from Him.
That's why it pleases Him when we praise Him--the praise means nothing to Him but if done correctly, it can mean the world to us.
It's Christmas time, and I can't help but be inspired. One of the many things that inspires me is Christmas music, and one song in particular jumped out at me this Sunday morning. It's the words to Away in a Manger. Here they are:
Away in a manger, no crib for his bed,
The little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head;
The stars in the heavens looked down where he lay,
The little Lord Jesus, asleep on the hay.
The cattle are lowing, the poor baby wakes;
But little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes.
I love thee, Lord Jesus; look down from the sky
And stay by my cradle till morning is nigh.
Be near me, Lord, Jesus; I ask thee to stay
Close by me forever, and love me, I pray.
Bless all the dear children in thy tender care,
And fit us for heaven, to live with thee there.
One of the many lessons I draw from this song comes from the last line, when the worshipers pray that Jesus "fit" them for heaven. I think of this process as being roughly analogous to when a tailor fits a suit for someone; another term would be "alter."
Like it or not, we have imperfect natures and histories, and we need redemption. Jesus is the source of that redemption, but it's not a painless process, for our very souls have to be "fitted." In other words, we must be pulled, pinched, folded, sutured, sewn, and extraneous fabric needs to be excised, all while sitting very still like a toddler getting his first haircut. Our jealousy, sarcasm, lust, gluttony, and every other imperfection that has accreted onto our souls needs to be transmuted into generosity, kindness, love, and temperance.
This isn't the work that can be completed in a single lifetime, but it's a work we can choose to accept. That choice is an incredibly vital one: should we choose to come unto the Lord, we will spend our lives (both mortal and eternal) striving toward Him and the exaltation He promises. However, when we accept the Lord into our lives, we accept him shears and all. If we refuse the shears, we accept the faults, and we're not fit for heaven.
So let us accept the alterations that the Lord would make on us. Let's remember that the most important mortal being on this earth was essentially born in a barn and executed with criminals. Let's take lessons from childrens' songs, because after all, maybe everything I need to know in life is a derivation of something I learned in Primary.
For several weeks, our dear son (15 months old) had trouble sleeping through the night. He would wake, either because he was coughing, or hot, or hungry, or for some other reason, and would cry and wail. He knew how to put himself back to sleep, yet for a short time it seemed like he had forgotten. Late one night I remember doing everything I could to comfort him. I put him on my shoulder, I held him in my arms, I shushed him, hummed to him, sang to him, prayed for him. Nothing would console him, and he kept arching his back and wiggling to get out of my arms.
The solution we finally came to was to lay him on the carpeted floor on his back, then sit down several paces away. He would impossibly cry harder for a few seconds then look around for my wife and me. I would then tell him that if he wanted a hug, he would have to get up and walk to me. He would do so, and from then on it was much better going.
Sometimes I think we are the same: refusing to take comfort in any of the loving kindnesses our Father gives us every moment of every day. We want comfort, but can't adequately conceive of how to get it, so we wiggle and arch our backs painfully then wonder why nothing we do seems to work.
In these instances, sometimes the Father has to put us down and step away, not because we've necessarily been rebellious but because by doing so He can reset our minds and intents to come to Him. When we come to Him, we receive comfort, and are soothed.
Better still, however, to come to Him constantly, to look for the comfort he is raining down on us like dews distilling from heaven, and to accept it and be soothed. Because just as it is a measure of maturity in an infant when he can soothe himself to sleep, so it is a mark of spiritual maturity when learn to constantly turn to the Lord for comfort and peace no matter the pain, suffering, or confusion which surrounds us.
