I’m a bad poet (and I know it). Yes that’s awful. I’m quite cheesy at times. But I digress. This was my meager attempt to express my feelings after rashly casting judgment on a preacher who’s preaching, in my opinion, doesn’t include a whiff of the gospel. I realized that in my condemnation of his preaching, which is likely just, I was very close to sounding like the pharisee who said, ‘I thank thee O God that I am not like other men…’ The fact that I can sound like a pharisee when harping on the gospel is disturbing to me. It reminds me how easy it is to become puffed up and put yourself in the seat of authority and judgment. I, above all people, should be gracious. It’s quite a fine line – having zeal for Christ and his gospel, yet thinking and acting in a way consistent with that grace. There is a time for gospel anger (think cleansing of the temple), but most of the time I’m just angry, not gospel angry. Here’s my attempt to express it in rhyme:
Might I be a gospel pharisee?
Looking down on those who do not see
That Christ’s gospel is supreme
And motivational speaking is a scheme?
How can I who believe in grace
Disdain those who put works in its place
When I know this is also my way
To follow after the flesh every day?
Would I say that I am glad
That my soul is not so bad
To by my works try to add
To the grace that I have had?
Would I preach a gospel of forgiveness
And yet offer no deliverance
And thereby add a hindrance
To those who have offended?
Would I preach Christ alone
As the only One who might atone
For the sins to which I’m prone
And yet look down on those who don’t?
God forbid that it should be
But first let condemnation fall on me
Let me first cast my beam
For I am the sinner, O God, have mercy on me.
The gospel that I preach is for my own health
Before I should preach it to someone else
Let me, then, with grace that melts
Apply the judgment and the balm to myself.
So long as in all things Christ is glorified
I have done nothing it is he who died
And after his suffering he is satisfied
For he will judge at the trumpet cry.
I will not be on throne
For he will judge and he alone
So let me now dethrone
The judgmental streak my soul has shown.
And humble myself under his authority
And say with the Apostle, ‘I don’t even judge me’
I cannot justify even a flea
Why would I then condemn the sea?
