The day after lectures it was overcast and warm like it had been all week. The morning threatened showers. And it did not disappoint. Scattered showers fell around the area. Seems like they had come at just the right time all week—midday, so as to relieve the afternoon heat without interfering with the safe travel of our people. The day after rains reminded me of our opening lecture—“The Heavens Declare the Glory of God.” Not a drop falls that does not originate with God. Each one is a message from heaven that together comprise a persuasive argument for God. Today I heard the sermon because I heard a lecture this week that tuned me in.

I was sad the day after lectures. Not all the folks that could have come did come. Not all the folks that could have planned cared to plan. Not all the folks that might have scheduled better bothered to schedule at all. I don’t mean visitors. I mean Christians. I don’t mean saints from other places. I mean members from Southside. I repented before the Lord for however I fell short in preaching so that some of His people will not make time for Him. I repented for however I failed in our planning or advertising that some of His people are not hungry for spiritual opportunities. I promised to do better. I want to do better because of “How Great Thou Art.”

I was also happy the day after lectures. Funny how the heart can feel happy and sad at the same time. But my happiness and sadness were built on the same premise. For every person that made little effort there was someone who made great effort to be a participant in the lectures—mothers with children who came every morning and came back every night, men who took vacations, folks that had surgery or were hospitalized and showed up still hurting from their procedures or still groggy from anesthesia, others that always hurt but never complain about their hurt. These living sacrifices thrill me, not just in themselves, but because I know that they represent a thousand, daily private sacrifices that are offered on altars at home, at work, at the grocery store. These folks grew this week. They came to grow. They came to worship. They came to hear. They will reap what they sowed. I will be thrilled to watch their growth.

The day after lectures I felt small. I felt like Moses at the burning bush. I felt small, inadequate, unworthy. Jennifer made similar remarks herself without me telling her that I had felt the same. The contemplation of God’s greatness—His great wonders, His great purpose, His great love, His great salvation, His great promises—makes you feel small. I’m not shy of the feeling. I needed that. I needed that this week. I need to know what I would be and where I would be without God. I need such humiliation to see His wonders, to understand His purpose, to marvel at His love, to appreciate His salvation, and to glory in His promises. Feeling small makes me want to be closer to His majesty and to show Him more gratitude and manifest my love in more ways—not by doing more “church” things, but making more private investments in righteousness.

The day after lectures was a reflective day for me. It made me want to live better, to listen better, to worship better, to read better, to preach better, to make those around me better. Will I do those things? I ought. God is too great for me not to do so. To do any less will make me an ashamed workman at the judgment. It all depends on what I do today, and the day after today, and the day after that, and the next, and so on. But it starts today, the day after. This is the beginning.