Last week God set me up for a holy ambush.
He baited the trap rightly, knowing full well that I’m a sucker for music. Almost any type will do, but music that exalts the King draws me like a proverbial bee to honey. In the midst of that week’s errands and accomplishments, I had paused for a moment of conversation at a local establishment. Gradually I became aware of the strains of melody seeping into the atmosphere—one of those hipster, mountain-folksy, foot-tapping tunes. Intrigued, I followed the sound and, squinting through a narrow window, discovered a gathering of young adults, all standing at various levels of attention as a group of their peers led them in song. I was mesmerized.
The room was full. Onstage a pianist was energetically pumping out a melody while five or six determined teens poised in front of mics. Vocals sang true. Instruments found their notes. Nothing jarred or rang off-pitch.
But I winced.
From my back-side view, all hundred-plus bodies stood stock-still. Lips barely moving. Arms determinedly crossed. Shoulders apathetically drooped.
It was as though I had accidentally stumbled across the set of “The Night of the Living Dead”, every actor still in character. Christian zombies.
My heart began to throb with a deep, inconsolable ache.
As I wrapped up my errand and made my way to the parking lot, a damp trail bathed my cheek.
Jesus. Oh, Jesus. Those kids.
I could feel the Holy Spirit welling up in me for intercession. Ask Me for this generation.
Merging my vehicle into the flow of traffic, my spirit responded, kicking up speed.
Have mercy, Lord: forgive us. Forgive our passionless lives. Forgive our compromise. Forgive our self-focus and apathy, our fear and busyness and doubt. Forgive our embrace of a religious spirit, our willing inoculation against Your all-consuming power and jealously burning love. Send your Spirit of repentance. Let it fall like fire on this place, burning away every bit of trash to which we so fiercely cling. Let the generations be united in passion for Your holy name, flaming with a zeal that cannot be quenched.
And in that space of communion with the Father’s heart, I knew: it was time for a shift. Time for dry bones to come to life, an army of mighty warriors called to destiny and made more than conquerors; a generation confident in the depths of their Father’s love, cloaked in His fathomless grace and armed with His power to heal, restore, and renew. It was time.
But no sooner had I come to that certain conviction than doubt began to plague.
What if nothing changes? What if this generation is no different from the hundreds which have preceded it? What if the prayers of the intercessors seem unfruitful?
And just as quickly, the Holy Spirit insistently nudged.
“Ask of me, and I will give you the nations as your inheritance, the ends of the earth as your possession.” (Psalm 2:1)
I was rightly reminded of His ever-faithful promise, the declaration He had made prophetically through David to His beloved Son. As co-inheritor of those promises through the blood of Calvary, I was offered the same gift: Ask. Ask, and I will give you the nations.
If the nations are my promised inheritance, how can I not believe God for this generation?
I pulled into the drive of my home, wiping away doubt. Religion, like a douse of icy water, had achieved its purpose. I was wide-awake and ready to embrace unqualified, unflinching BELIEF.
It was time to ask for my inheritance.
Photography by Alyssa Nesbitt