Treasures

“I choose the appointed time; it is I who judge uprightly.”

The voice ringing across the heavens declared. But in my heart for the first time I heard the rest of the announcement:

“Now is your time, enter into the Judgement Room of the King; Present yourself before the Judgement Seat to give an account for your life.”

I had been there before, to stand witness to the accounting of my friends and colleagues. I had seen a number of them so far, and I had to testify to the truth of the judgement. Each had some area of failure, as I knew I did, but for the most part their lives were lived for our King and each had received their crown of glory. Now it was my turn.

Eagerly I picked up the bag at my feet and heaved it one final time with joy upon my shoulder. It was very heavy. Loaded with the treasures gathered over a lifetime of service; gather for my King. As a groom yearns to put the ring on his bride’s finger, I had yearned for this time, this moment when I would lay my treasures at the feet of my beloved King, my Savior, my Friend, my Lover, my Jesus. Oh what a glorious time, it had arrived, at last.

As I climbed the steps to the great hall I rejoiced in the brilliance of its white marble and golden roof and doors, glistening in the ever-present brightness of Heaven. Guarding the entrance, on either side of the door where two lions. Unlike the statues on earth, these were very much alive and I suspect their presence was far more symbolic decoration than practical guards for here everyone knew Who ruled. Their thick golden manes flittered in the gentle breeze of the cherubim’s wings who stood by their sides holding scales of justice in one hand and swords of fire in the other. Beneath these mighty beasts with heads resting on their powerful toes were new-born lambs. I smiled at the profound symbol of love as I passed between their watchful eyes and through the entry way into the Judgement Room.

It was a plain room. At the end opposite the entrance stood the Judgement Seat, upon which the King of Heaven sat. Around the room were twelve pillars, each with an elder sitting on its base - my jury. Between the pillars stood my assembles witnesses. Those with whom I had lived, Who, like I had done before, would bear silent testimony to the truth of the justice. In front of the Seat was a table. On one end of the table the Book of the Law lay opened; on the other end the Book of Grace. Two angels acting as scribes sat behind the table. And standing between the angels was my Lord, Jesus.

As I scan the crowd of witnesses my eyes fall on my three greatest treasures; Josiah, my miracle son, born at a time when children weren’t supposed to be conceived, he lit up my later years and renewed my understanding of my Father’s heart. Next to him was his sister, Bethany. Behind them both was Brittany, my wife. Her auburn hair cascading like a crimson tide across the beach of her fair-skinned shoulders. She was my confidante, my helper, my lover, my friend. By myself, I was good, but she was all that was excellent in me. In her presence I could take on the world, and did. In her smile I saw understanding. In her eyes - pools of love I called them - I saw the forgiveness of God. In her arms I felt the comfort of the Holy Spirit. And in our kiss and embrace I knew the love of Jesus for His church.

I approached the table and lowered my treasure bag to the floor. Made of tightly-woven purple cloth embroidered with and intricate design of pure golden thread and sealed with a cord of golden silk, it contained my items of treasure; gathered over my lifetime for this one moment. Each representing a talent, a gift, an ability, a dream. One is a picture of Paul - a homeless AIDS patient I took home to die with us so he’d know love - real love; another is a book I’d written; another is a small chest full of thousands of gold pieces representing the church I pastored, each gold piece a soul saved thru my ministry; the last was a double-edged, sharp, shiny sword representing the powerful effectiveness of my intercessory prayers. Each treasure was lifted out of the bag and placed on the table before my king. Finally just the bag itself lay on the floor at my feet. It was a glorious moment as my Lord leaned over to pick up my treasure, until I saw the fire in His eyes.

As each piece was examined and held out to my cloud of witnesses, it either disappeared altogether or melted into insignificance. Finally I saw my bag itself, now a tattered, torned, muddied scrap of rucksack, frayed and course.
The Lord showed His anger as He challenged me to produce my treasure again. Each one He said were freely given, but each was returned unopened and unused. Like a jilted lover whose letters and gifts are returned to sender, so my gifts had been buried under the fear of risking and failure.

The book was never written by me but by another because its message was fundamental to the will of God for my generation, but I was too selective, too afraid to write just another book; I wanted significance before I would write, in case my book met with failure and insignificance. As the man to whom my book was given - the one who really wrote it - stepped forward from the gallery of witnesses, he whispered to me:

“Thanks, without your refusal, I never would have received this gift.”

The treasure chest was lifted up and the gold pieces thrown into the air as my Lord’s anger raged at the lost souls because of my delay. The chest, not as full now, was lowered and given to another, all because I was too afraid to risk rejection and ridicule to preach about my Jesus. I was afraid my sermons would not be good enough, powerful enough, significant enough. It belonged to another because the gates of hell would not prevail against it even though I would not prevail for it. As the real pastor claimed his chest full of souls, he mouthed the words:

“Thanks for my people”

Next Jesus picked up the picture of Paul, with tears in His eyes He turned the picture for me to see. The face was missing. With fire in His voice he pronounced the justice of this treasure. Paul died in bitterness and sin, cursing God because no-one showed him real love and after all isn’t God a God of Love? I walked right by him and never showed him love because I was too afraid to touch this leper of sin. My heart cringed as a sulphery voice, allowed in only for this moment, was heard from beneath the room:

“Thanks, he’s mine now.”

By now I was on my knees, barely able to look up as Jesus lifted high my sword of intercession. His silence deafened me as he swung it around in the air. Nothing was heard. That was the problem. I had seen other swords swung around and then the prayers of intercession sang out, creating a melody of prayer that filled the room; but my sword sang nothing. Finally, as my head lowered to the floor, I heard the clang of my sword hitting the floor. Thrown down by a God angered to silence. Opening my eyes I saw not my shiny double-edge saber, but a rusty, bent, dull, decaying butter knife of selfish “Save me, help me, comfort me” cries of a spoiled child too afraid of the dark to venture forth with the light.

Reduced to tears now, I looked over to Brittany, my only treasure left, and my heart was pierced. Beside her stood another man, one arm around her waist, the other around the children. As my eyes understood the justice of this scene, he looked at her and she kissed him. She, like all the others, given freely, were not mine because I was too afraid of love that I doubted anyone could or would ever truly love me. Therefore I worked in each relationship to subtly sabotage it so that she would leave and I would be painfully, and martyrly proven right. As I crumbled into a sobbing heap on the floor I heard her husband voice:

“Thanks, for everything.”

In the presence of an angry, hurt, loving Father, I knew I could never reproduce my treasure. I lay on the floor, face buried in the rag of my life, weeping uncontrollably at the futility of a life full of promise, but imprisoned and extinguished in fear.
Like the foolish servant with only one talent I heard from the lips of the one I said I served, the words of dread:

“You foolish, wicked servant, depart from me.”