Our voices cried out in the darkness, words of praise to the God who called us His. It is surreal to stand among these hundreds of people whose names I barely know and sing the same words to the same God. These strangers; these fellow exiles whose stories I will probably never know, our cries are the same.
You are good.
You are greater.
You are God.
Oh, how he loves us…
And as these words are half sang, half shouted, I find myself letting go of the cynicism that tells me to plant my hands firmly in my pockets and not remove them (what if someone should see me and reveal my secret charismatic side?). I find myself letting go of the identity of a Sydney Anglican and crying out alongside my brothers and sisters to the God who is not determined by denomination. We are his children. We are his beloved. We are simply His.
For all of my intellectual understanding, I find an emotional detachment has grown in me. A cognitive understanding does not necessarily draw me nearer to my God. I am not saying theological education is a mistake. Far from it. I am however confessing that my love for my saviour is too often disconnected from my knowledge of him. Oh, I wish they would grow alongside one another. But they do not.
Tonight, however, I felt small in a crowd of brothers and sisters. Yet so sure that in spite of my insignificance God knows every hair on my head and every beat of my heart. Every scar and every sigh. Every smile and every syllable spoken.
I am His.
We are His.
This place. These people. They remind me of that. They draw my hear to adore him. He draws me nearer. And for all this, I am thankful…