What kind of God are you?
That question has been tossed heavenward more times then I can count. It’s deeply knitted into the heartbeat of my faith; always pulsing, constant and steady, in the weeping and the wonder.
I breathed it out in worship on December 6th last year. Knowing that you are worthy, and knowing that your worth is beyond comprehension, so in awe of all you had done and all you were doing I sang that question heavenward: what kind of God are you?
I whispered it on December 24th. Weeks after laying my brother in the ground for your cause, I crawled on the floor before the familiar nativity scene and I whispered with fear and trembling: what kind of God are you?
I roared it in January. Satan took another shot at me, and this time I went down, falling broken and beaten on the ground: what kind of God are you?
I’m typing it now with tenderness and adoration. What kind of Savior are you? To come and get me in the darkness. To come and find me – a captive in a kingdom so far from your throne. To endure captivity yourself; to die in my place. To give me everything. What kind of God are you?
I wept it earlier today, filled with regret and repentance. Knowing that I have treated the one who has never left me like a waste of time. Knowing that I have treated the only worth in the universe like a consolation prize. What kind of God are you? To endure this? to put up with my pouting pestilence.
It’s there every time I get a Facebook message from her about you. And I feel again this confusion. Wait. Why is she using words like God? Why is she talking about you like she believes? What kind of God are you? That you can rescue. That you do rescue. That you take my favorite people and give them to me forever.
It’s written in the deepest DNA, the most authentic part of who I am. In the moments when the hair on my arms stands up and my physical body can sense that you are real and this relationship we have is solid enough to stir my physical senses and I feel it in the core of who I am: what kind of Father are you? What kind of King? What kind of friend?
And whether that question is cradled in fear or hope, doubt or delight, confusion or clarity, it always seems to be followed by the same resigned surrender and adoration.
Thank you for finding me. Thank you for climbing inside of darkness to come and get me. Thank you for always fighting, always watching, always winning, always wanting. Thank you for the fullness of joy in worshipping the right One.
Thank you that I know exactly what kind of God you are: mine.