I drive home slowly, enjoying the now familiar detour, the roadside stands, and small peaks of blue in front of me. I am memorizing portions of Psalm 50 and singing scripture with my ipod. Reminding myself again of the sound of thanksgiving.

I think He wants sacrifice from me. I'm sure of it. I'm positive, always, that what I want can't ever be what He wants. I train myself to not want, because I've grown accustomed to sighing and handing it over to Him every time anyway. It's easier to not hope at all than it is to be disappointed by hope deferred. It's fear and a lack of faith.

It's sin. And my heart is sick.

It comes in slick, packaged neatly. It doesn't have the stink of legalism, putting on airs that make us better. It doesn't feel like asceticism, cowering under a cloak of emptiness. It sounds radical, appealing; it feels like liberation, throwing off the bonds of this world.

But this world is too much with us; late and soon: even sacrifice can be sin. We aren't so above that.

He is not glorified in my piety or my purity--He is displayed through these things: to him who orders his way right, I will show the salvation of God. Psalm 50.23 This is our testimony. This is our offering to the world.

He who offers a sacrifice of thanksgiving honors me. Psalm 50.23 But our offering to Him is thanksgiving. Thanksgiving honors Him.

I close my eyes on Sunday and I quiet my heart, drown out five hundred voices, guitars, drums, and my head. I drop my head and my shoulders and admit that I am tired of giving. I admit that giving feels empty. I admit that giving feels joyless. And I hear Him say: but that is to them, what are you giving to Me?

I drive home slowly, my mouth forming words of thanksgiving. It is not what I give to Him, I am realizing, it it the acknowledgment of what He has given to me. This is the sacrifice of praise, the sacrifice of thanksgiving. This is what honors Him.