This morning it occurs to me that some of the writers of the psalms—mostly King David and Asaph the Levite singer—recounted the “wonders” of God nearly 300 years after the life of Moses. They kept the miracles in the front of their minds no matter how much time had gone by. I imagined they talked in their homes about the plagues, the parting of the Red Sea, the manna and quail from heaven, or the way Aaron’s staff budded. I imagined Jewish families talking about the miracles as part of regular conversation: the walls of Jericho falling, a widow’s sun raised, and the oil that multiplied. On and on they might have talked about these miracles so their heart stayed full of wonder and worship as they considered this God of unimaginable power.
I want to keep the miracles in my mind always. I want to remember, like the command to the Israelites, the wonders of God. I want to meditate on how Jesus arrived on the scene as a healer, as someone with authority over demons, and as someone who had complete control over nature and physical elements. I want to mediate on Jesus raising the dead and, most of all, on Jesus Himself raised to life. It’s as if God keeps saying, “Remember who I Am. Remember my power. Remember. I am the Lord.”
I go about my ordinary day and forget. My heart forgets. This isn’t some tiny religion of comfort or happiness or self-satisfaction. It’s the biggest thing there is: Jesus—our God of unimaginable power, love, and authority. We worship Him.