Spill On Aisle Nine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I hate spilling things. 

Milk from a leftover cereal bowl. Coffee from a knocked over cup.

I feel stupid when I spill something, like I don’t have my act together.

Embarrassed. Clumsy. Space Cadet.

Heaven forbid if a child spills.

On a just washed floor. On a brand-new dress.

Jesus tells me that I am a pharisee, but He’s not mean about it.  He gently shows me when I’ve been holding a standard for others  that I can’t keep myself.  He shows me it’s okay to be in the middle of a holy mess.

When God pours into the human heart, He doesn’t stop pouring when it’s full. He keeps pouring because He is into the spilling. He likes watching His blessings flow over the top, running into things, dripping off the counter and onto the floor.

When He sent a prophet or a priest to anoint a man the instructions were clear: Pour oil over the man’s head until it’s running through and off his beard, getting into his eyes and ears, forging rivulets down the back of his neck.

When a woman comes to anoint Jesus, she pours nard, thick and gooey and pungent, over the top of His head. 

Jesus must have smelled amazing for days. 

It was a saturation anointing and Jesus loved it.  Everybody else hated it.

Heaven forbid if somebody wastes something on Jesus.

Jesus is a filler and a spiller.

Wine that was once water spills from a vat’s brim at a wedding.

Bread and fish spill out of baskets after thousands eat their fill.

Breaking fishing nets spill their catch into the boat of a repentant fisherman.

Blood spills.

Twice. 

First in a garden, reminding us where it all began. Then, on a hill, the skull place, declaring where it all finishes.

God is into the spilling of things because it thrills Him to see the running of it, the movement of His glory and mercy and joy and grace and all things holy, running and spreading over everything.

I am learning not to run and clean it up. I am learning, like the fisherman in the boat, to kneel in the middle of the spill.

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