Okay, so I realize that it's not unusual for me to be occupied (or pre-occupied!) with my physical body. It's not just a hobby, you see, it's a way of life--this pain in which I dwell. This morning I awakened with a headache and got to thinking of what a poor, broken-down bargain God made when He made His home in me. A fixer-upper, He thought, but the walls and wiring are disintegrating before our very eyes.
Imagine, the Kind of Kings came into THIS and calls it home. How can that be? How on earth can that be?
But two profound revelations (though profound and revelation are redundant, aren't they?):
1. He was broken when He came. Broken for me, He enters my broken body to make me whole. Broken with sin--sin that I caused-- He comes into my sin-riddled body to cleanse me from that brokenness. AND, though He was broken, He was also Whole. Wholly resurrected, wholly Holy, made new--all for my sake. So He makes me. His human body still looked broken (ie, see Thomas and the holes in His hands and side), but where it counted, He was complete. Whole.
2. It is not on earth that it counts (as in 'how on earth can this be?'). There is no power on earth capable of being broken and whole at once, of doing what Jesus did/does. It's only and fully Heaven's work. Kingdom work. Yes, it's God's work that means He can make His home--willingly, gladly, eternally--in an earthly body that is neither whole nor complete. In an shell that is fading day by day. God does not look at me and see brokenness. He sees wholeness. He sees one in whom His Holy Spirit lives. It doesn't matter what the casing's like. Jesus told Thomas, "I've not yet ascended to the Father." On earth His human body would continue to bear the scars of brokenness, of the cross, of all that He's borne. It's in Heaven that new bodies are given.
So I thank God. My very body is a picture of what He's done for us. I remember again. I don't have the luxury of imagining I have the strength to live without Him. My broken body houses the only Strength capable of keeping me upright. Even a ramshackle (don't you like the way that word sounds?), decaying shell such as mine is a mansion, because it houses the King.