Filthy Rags

The insufficiency of my works
Was made known to me in the most surprising of ways
It was when I considered all the whiskys of the world.

I imagined that Jesus came to visit
And while I was fleshing out the scene
I was stopped completely-
Stopped when I tried
(And I desperately tried)
Tried to think of what I would offer My Lord
To drink.

He made the world…
What would I give him?

He loved me while I was yet a sinner
(And loves me even now)
What dram could possibly be worthy?

I thought of the warmth of Talisker
And the smoke of Laphroig
The peet and earth of Lagavulin
The light and sweet dryness of an Oban 14
The robustness of a Jura
The smooth memory of my first Glenlivet
The syrupy sweetness of a blended Legacy…

None of these seemed sufficient
None of these seemed enough
None of these measured up.

I thought of all these and more
I remembered every dram I’d ever had…

None seemed good enough for Jesus.

As I remembered all the drinks
I remembered with them the smell of cigar smoke,
The bond of brothers,
How we rejoiced in God
And thanked Him for His goodness.

I remembered how we talked,
Long into the night
About theology and philosophy
And love.

I remembered the sip and smell and feel
As I talked about Jesus
With brothers (and sometimes sisters)
From all walks of life-
All those conversations
With all those people
With all those whiskys (and whiskeys too)
And I just could not think of one good enough.

And so I realized
My righteousness
Was indeed as filthy rags.

And yet
Jesus himself
Had brought me through
Such a host of memories of His blessings
As I remembered each whisky drunk
That He again showed me love in my distress
As I tried simply to imagine
What I would serve Him to drink.

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