Lord, what does it look like to be made your own? What does it feel like to belong to you in such a way that nothing impedes our relationship? – no circumstance, no trial, no individual stands between us; no desire, no goal, no dream stands between us; no idol, no sin, no indifference stands between us.
What does it look like to be made Your own and not be owned by the world and its offerings? The phrase, make me your own, may conjure up thoughts about losing our independence, our identity, or our freedom. To be owned may not create images that we would necessarily embrace. It sounds counter-cultural, and yet, the Lord asks something different than the world. He asks that we allow ourselves to be His, in a profound way. He invites us to be His special possession.
“But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s special possession, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light” (1 Peter 2:9).
We are chosen, but have a choice. God has called us a special possession, but, we must say yes in order to stand in “his wonderful light.” So I pray… Lord, has my soul drifted away from your wonderful light? Does my heart depart from your heart? Have my thoughts wandered away from your thoughts?
Resistance comes to mind, maybe some stubbornness thrown in. Yes, definitely some stubbornness. What is it in me that chooses resistance? Where does my heart resist, my thoughts protest, my soul oppose? Am I holding out on being fully God’s special possession? What might I be missing by not standing in that “wonderful light” He offers? It may or may not be intentional, but if I am fully His special possession, then, I am fully in His will. I do want to be fully in His will. I stumbled across this hymn, “Have Thine Own Way”
Have Thine own way;
Thou art the Potter,
I am the clay.
Mould me and make me
After Thy will,
While I am waiting,
Yielded and still
Yielded and still. Giving up my ways is a good surrender. Supple clay in the hands of the Potter creates art, otherwise I am merely a clump of clay, hardly discernible from the next clump. If we are supple in the Potter’s hands we are molded into something beautiful. And each clump of clay is uniquely designed, containing specific characteristics, for a special purpose, for such a time as this.
To be molded, to be made His own special possession, fully in his wonderful light, we must consider living yielded and still.