I like knowing where I’m headed.
And what’s more, I prefer to know how to get there.
That’s not always a reality though. And when it isn’t, I wonder why…
“The children gather wood, and the fathers kindle the fire, and the women knead their dough, to make cakes to the queen of heaven, and to pour out drink offerings unto other gods, that they may provoke me to anger.
Do they provoke me to anger? saith the Lord: do they not provoke themselves to the confusion of their own faces?”
One possible (Biblical) cause for confusion and indirection? Self-service.
The service of Christ directs, clarifies, confirms, and comforts.
Whose servants ye are.
She stumbles in again, after the night of wandering. (Yet another.)
Like always, He’s been sitting up, waiting. She’s defiled the ground under the last tree on on the mountain, with another relationship that only lasted an hour. He’s been waiting outside His front door, staring into the starlight. She’s not the kind of person any of us would want to spend our lives with, but He is not like us…
She returns with a torn soul,
He awaits with strong arms.
And His words aren’t what she deserves.
“I am married unto you.
…and I will bring you to Zion”
For God, fidelity is not a response. It is an identity.
They wander as though blind, hands out front to meet the future. They go down to Egypt to drink; leave full of fluid, but thirsty still, have to try Assyria. Their pursuits are without profit. They feel the dread throb of guilt, but they stubbornly claim innocence.
Shall these live? Are these even alive?
“My people have committed two evils; they have forsaken Me, the fountain of living waters, and hewed them out cisterns, broken cisterns, that can hold no water.” Jeremiah 2:13
They have forsaken the Way, the Truth, and the Life.
And built themselves a counterfeit.
We who would consult contemporary culture when interpreting an Ancient Script? Is this the Way?
We who would bend truth (if we accept the concept of truth at all) to the hearer, instead of bending the hearer to Truth?
We who think to pursue meaning and fulfillment on our own terms, instead of recognizing that defining purpose is a Designer’s prerogative. Can this wandering really be called life?
Or is Christendom chasing a dream?
We are warned.
Before you were formed, you were known.
Before you were born, you were sanctified.
You were ordained a prophet to the nations.
Say not, I am a child.
What you are is an ambassador.
And when you are distressed, you are delivered.
Be. not. afraid.
I’m setting you over nations. Over kings.
You’ll root out, pull down, build up, plant…
– – –
So, this is how the Almighty handles destinies.
He doesn’t wait for evidence to determine who you can become.
He already knows.
He stubbornly loves.
And He calls you His own.
Against the truth, the world can do nothing. Nor the flesh, nor the devil.
Though all the confederacy of evil cause flailing humanity to follow, yet a remnant will remain.
There is a reason that love for Christ has outlasted every empire that has sought to smother it.
There is a reason it always will.
That kingdom cannot stand which purchases it’s followers with threats and fear.
I have every reason in the universe to be a Christian.
You’ve probably heard that the eyes are the “windows of the soul.” That a look into them will reveal, at least in part, what the inner man is made of.
It occurs to me that windows are more than that however…
They’re for looking in, and looking out.
And of course, that the soul looks out on the world through the eyes has all manner of familiar implications. (Oh be careful little eyes…) But that’s not my point at present either.
You’ve heard that the preaching of the gospel “is to them that perish, foolishness…”* and that the invisible things of God are seen by some, missed by others?
It’s this way– the eyes inform the heart; the heart reforms the eyes.
The soul will love what the eyes seek. Until the eyes can only see what the soul loves.
Sometimes it’s the things I’ve known longest, the things most taken for granted, that break me widest open…
Like there, opening arms as if to a long-lost friend, pausing with abandon-joy to savor the song that is the sea– the crashing sound of surf, the salt on the breeze, the endless blue.
His words come out of nowhere, His tone utterly casual. But His eyes twinkle.
So, you know how much I love you?
No, how much?
Standing on the edge of this expanse as endless the circumference of a circle, my heart gives way, before a truth I already know.
He loves me, this much.
And the salt in my eyes then doesn’t come from the sea.
Or does it?