It is appropriate
that Sundays bring rain
A chilly gray mist
loosed by hovering clouds
Releases a mandated
rest
Saturdays are for
passion and fluff, arrogance and I
But Sundays bring
the rain, a kind rain
The cold droplets
kiss our skin
Sink through and
water our soul
Rain is a chance
for God to remind us He’s still here
We do not look for
him on Saturdays
But He hugs us
close on Sundays, slipping off the leaves
Clasping the earth,
silently springing forth from the ground
“It’s ok,” the rain
speaks. “It’s ok;
My tears heal and
wash away.”
A cool cleansing
Sunday rain falls upon the earth
It comforts my soul
as the pain washes away.
That is the full reality of the
Great Story.
We cannot see him anymore as
Father without seeing him also as God. Perhaps for a time our filler dulled the pain. But the pain will return. It is who we are.
Marx’s comments were incredibly accurate,
“Religion is simply the opiate for the masses.” It can be, yes, even
Christianity, especially Christianity! Because the drug always wears off. The
relationship simmers and becomes difficult. The ambition slows and I realize I
have been wasting my life chasing money that will never be enough. I sin again
in whatever particular vice grips me and I realize that no matter how hard I
try I will never overcome this. I serve the poor but people only get poorer and
I grow despondent with the earth and bitter toward the rich.
You may rightly ask, well then are
you against Christianity?
If it is all the action of God,
then is Christianity a fool’s religion? I answer—I am dead with Jesus…and therefore I live with him too.
Christianity is a religion. But Jesus, the Great Story is an entirely
different thing. If one be a disciple of Jesus, rather than an adherent to
Christianity, the wintry regulations have been fulfilled in the springtime of
fellowship. Jesus, not the historical figure, but the risen and living Son of
God, transforms us.
Like the difference between a
picture of a hillside and actually standing upon the hill is believing
Christianity compared to dying and rising with Jesus. The picture demonstrates
the deep green of the grass, the yellow of the sun and attempts to convey a
gentle breeze beneath a blue sky by slanting certain shrubs in a tugged
direction. But the picture is nothing when standing upon the hillside. To see
the emerald grass sway in the wind like knights of the noblest chivalry, feel
the warmth of the sunlight kiss your cheek, the dancing clouds in the royal
blue sky and the butterflies flutter in whimsical fashion, smelling the
lushness of the earth, getting lost in this glory, this is a disciple of Jesus.
The picture tells you that you
are alive and you have to squint to believe it.
Standing on the hill says
nothing, and your soul leaps with songs of praise.
Christianity deadens, Jesus
resurrects. But when Jesus resurrects, then one can be a part of Christianity
in the right way, and to be a part of Christianity in the right way is to be in
his Spirit-infused Church. When men and women are brought back to life, they
concern themselves not with the divisive absurdities which hindered them
before; wealth, race, religion, disagreements over sights not yet seen. For the
miracle of life places each person squarely and evenly upon the same level
ground. And that ground just so happens to be beneath a bloodied cross under a
gray sky with a cave absent its boulder in the barren background.
Jesus acknowledged the black
reality, but he would not accept it.
Someone in the Great Story sung into
our soul’s bottomless cavern and it moved, even though we were supposed to be
in control. It started jumping and betrayed our self-pity and despair. It
started tingling and whispering to us, ‘Yes, I know that voice. I know the One
speaking. He is my Maker!’
And then something even more
miraculous happened.
But we cannot jump there yet. For we
cannot appreciate light unless we understand how absolute darkness is. And we
are all naked in the darkness. Thoroughly and completely naked, we stumble in
the darkness together.
And as this chapter ends, the tender
mercy of this God our Father, and the Great Story’s Author, is seen sewing
garments of skin for his beloved children. Intensely stitching through clouded
eyes of falling tears, he weeps for his children who now feel the constricting
and visceral reality of the war. And clothing their nakedness, he withdraws
himself from the earth cursing the ground that Adam would have to toil for the
next unspoken amount of time. Our Father could not curse us, his love was too
great. So he cursed his earth and withdrew his presence.
The mountains watch as Light pulls
itself from their slopes. The animals moan as their Maker waves goodbye but
promises to return. We, the humans, full of shame at our nakedness, cannot even
look at him. And with backs to his tears we make our way into the dark
paradise, the newly barbaric earth. Our Father weeps, for love makes him
withdraw lest he destroy us in his perfect righteousness.
This was not how it was to have
been. But we have chosen…we have chosen. And as Light hides himself from our
notice, as Sin slowly creeps into our souls like a toxic virus spreading and
our virginity seems a distant, long-abandoned dream, a sheet of pure blackness stretches
over the surface of the earth like a dead finger. The green trees shudder, the
waters stop laughing, the animals become angry, an icy and heartless wind fills
our lungs.
And
for the very first time, no longer with
God, we are filled…with fear.
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