Dearest Lord, save me from greatness.
(Not that I truly need it-were it not for my own ego.)
Because I want so badly to make a name for myself. I like to think I desire fame in relation to your kingdom. And perhaps I do. But the heart is deceitful above all things and-if I’m honest- I find a facade of humility to be quite handy along the road to grandiose repute.
So remind me, Triune Father, that the way of Christ is opposite the way of greatness. Human greatness, at least. Remind me, Lord, that Christ lived quietly, that his life was inconsequential to so many at that time: “another rabbi in town? Who cares?” Remind me how, on the day Christ breathed ‘it is finished’- that Pilate was in his palace, finishing a late lunch, and -perhaps and the precise moment of Christ’s death- ran a hand through his hair and thought about the Jew he’d met and seen off to execution that morning. What a strange fellow, he thinks, but aren’t they all? And Pilate, like most of the other humans alive at that precise moment, went on his way completely oblivious to the greatest story being played out at Golgotha.
So I thank you, Lord, for through the cross you have shown me the way of small greatness, concentrated greatness, greatness that pours out and away from oneself. Greatness which one might name ‘grace.’
Call me only and ever into the greatness of grace, dear God. Thank you that you are not fooled by my pretensions. You know me too well.