Masks, Veils, and Walls

There He is! . . . do you see Him? . . . He is beautiful. You asked me how I see Him so well for you wished to see Him also, and I told you to lift that silly veil. You thought to hide your flaws from Him, and how you thought such a thing I do not know. Nothing can be hid from Him. Not our thoughts or frailties or even dreams we hold onto secretly. With Him there is no such thing as “secretly”. Masks, veils, and walls can never hide you from Him but they will hide Him from you.

And now you've done it and you've not been disappointed. Did I not say that He was fairer than all the sons of men? Do you hear me? . . . Hello? . . . I knew that this would happen. It happens to everyone who sees Him clearly for the first time. I'll just leave you to gaze in wonder for awhile. I told you so.

Killed by One Man

Two wrongs do not make a right. George Tiller should not have been murdered; but neither should 60,000 babies have been murdered by George Tiller. Some applauded him for the most peculiar things:

“We honor the compassionate care he provided to so many,” said Planned Parenthood. (He ripped the arms and legs off 7 month old unborn babies who could feel the tormenting pain. I wonder if they thought he was compassionate.)

“Tiller was a brave man,” said Daniel Maquire, professor at Marquette University. (How much courage does it take to kill a baby who is only 17” long and cannot fight back?)

“I consider him a hero,” said Joan Walsh, editor of Salon.com. (A hero is one who fights to protect the weak. Tiller fought to kill the weakest among us. How is that heroic?)

“He never wavered . . . he had incredible strength,” said Susie Gilligan of the Feminist Majority Foundation. (I agree. It takes incredible strength to kill one’s conscience and continue doing what goes against the laws of nature, the laws of love, and the laws of God.)

Why is it they care that one man was killed, yet care nothing for the 60,000 babies that were killed by one man?

Tendency to Ice

It is not cold any longer. It was – but now it is not. Warmth has entered in and this heart now beats most fervently. Love grown cold is a miserable condition.

And it took a fire to remove this heart’s tendency to ice; it took a searing love, far stronger than the bare flame that sputtered, nearly dead, within. I’m so glad for a loving Father who made my heart sing warm notes that do not shatter thinly on the ground like icicles. Now I can sing over others' hearts and bring a thaw. I can't wait for the flood that will come from such a melting!

Artwork: Reflections and Hoarfrost © David Wall

http://www.davidwallphoto.com/index.asp

A Tiny Wing-ed Faith

More than you can think or ask, more than your mind can possibly imagine. God can do far more than that, where is your faith?

Set it free! Ungrasp that little faith and let it take to wing. It longs to fly. You would be surprised at what even a tiny wing-ed faith could do if given half a chance. The more it flies the stronger it will get and the larger it will grow until its wings fill up the sky and pull heaven down into our midst. But it starts out very small, very tiny, hardly consequential some would think: a prayer here; a word there; a step into an unknown place.

Yes, "more than you can possibly imagine" is waiting for you . . . but first you must set free that little faith.

Artwork: The Storm © 2002 Terje Adler Mork

http://terjeadlermork.com/

A Book Like This

Oh, this is such a book, such a lovely book! Upon its opening hope springs out like light bursting through a cloud. Joyful songs have been written with its words and the soul of man finds solace in its truth.

Yet, I do not worship this book; no, I worship Him alone who wrote it. But I’ve loved its pages, bent and soiled from its many readings. Its words are dear companions to me now. I sleep with them. I eat with them. I go about my day with them.

It is a book of living words breathed on by the Holy Spirit . . . have you ever read a book like this before?

No Longer Irish

So, Ireland, you’ve crumpled. You have lost your courage and Brussels stands to win against you. Money has yet once again trumped the character of nobility. The grand green land is no more, for the grand free people of Ireland have willingly enslaved themselves to a foreign power.

You are going to vote for the Lisbon Treaty and finally bury your Irish hearts in the grave dug by Brussels. Dear fair folk what are you about to do? Your fishing waters stolen. Your dignity pushed under. Your lands sold away to the EU masses until your Ireland is no longer Irish.

Sad-a-day for Ireland . . . I think the angels weep.

It Is Yours

It is yours. It is all yours, though you knew it always was. The world has no hold on it – though it has tried. Again and again I turn it back to you. Again and again you fill it to overflowing till I have something I may give to others.

My heart is yours and gladly so! And now you take this heart to deeper places. I will go. I willingly go where you wish to take me. Less of me and more of you is not an easy place to get to. But I will go . . . it is the place where life is found.

Set Upon a Hill

Sometimes we stand alone. Sometimes it is necessary. A lone light in the dark, a lone voice in the wilderness; but a bright light and a clear voice nonetheless.

One against a thousand, we stand before that multitude of tribes and tongues who rage against Him – as they have always raged. But we are not a light hidden under a bushel or a voice that can be silenced. We are a light set upon a hill for all to see. We are a voice crying out across the wilderness, "Prepare the way; He is returning!"

Stand, dear ones, stand. Do not fear if none stand with you – you are a forerunner after all and must get used to standing all alone. Though not alone, for He stands with you.

Image: Snow Angel © James Christensen

http://www.greenwichworkshop.com/christensen/

Keep Me Watching

Father, keep me watching. Keep me wide-eyed and awake though darkness deepens in this world and others sleep. Time is passing far too quickly for slumber now. The end is coming with Christ’s return at hand, and still too many do not know, have not seen His depth of love or the power of His name.

Father, keep me watching. Keep that elixir of complacency far from my lips that I might remain alert and sober in these days. Someone must be a watchman on the walls; someone must cry the warning in the night. Let my voice join all the other watchers that you have.

Father, keep me watching!

Fear of Messes

It's messy . . . sometimes . . . but it's fun. The gifts of the Holy Spirit, especially the prophetic ones, require practice – like burgeoning young artists need. Sometimes there will be a mess. Who are the brave leaders who will allow a place for it, who will accept the messiness that comes in the learning process?

Those who are young in the gifts need encouragement to grow and not be afraid of mistakes. Holy Spirit whispers, “Go on . . . speak it out! . . . you can do it!” Is that my own thoughts? Is that Jesus? Can I be certain? So many questions. So much fear piled on their hearts from others who demand perfection.

The fear of man and the fear of messes is a plague to the church. Milk and messes all belong to babes . . . and it's okay.

Image: The Painter © 2008 Nancy Guzik

http://www.nancyguzik.com/

Such a Thing as Chains

Some know not how to break the chains that hold them. They only wish they could. Freedom is a sweet thing, especially to those who are not free.

We were not created for such a thing as chains. We were created in the image of a perfect God – but then sin came in and from that moment on we were born with chains. We do the very things that we dislike, and cannot seem to stop.

God! God glorious! God mighty! We are tired of these chains and long to break them! Come into our hearts and shine Christ’s light ‘til all darkness is dispersed and our bonds are broke asunder.

House of Cards

And now that the house of cards that you built so carefully has fallen . . . what now? It was such a pretty house. Almost perfect. All pieces in their place, or so it seemed. But a wind came and blew it down, a wind you weren’t expecting.

Poof! . . . It’s gone.

There is a different way to build, you know. There is a way to build a house to make it stand against the strongest wind, the fiercest storm. I know of a rock which you can build your house upon. Not a pretty, fragile house of cards, but a solid, safe, enduring kind of house; the kind of house that children grow healthy in; the kind of house that keeps you through to old age; the kind of house that others long to be in. If you ever wish to know, I’ll show you the rock.

Nor Fight Long Nights in Prayer

God gave me a dream one night . . .

A woman, very ill and crippled, was sitting in a wheelchair. A great compassion for her filled my heart. I saw her as a dear child. I approached her, took her face into my hands, and said, “Precious woman, you are healed.” Then I embraced her and she was instantly healed.

Here is what the dream meant. A time is coming when God will release healing through compassion in such a magnitude that we will not need to pray for hours over someone, nor fight long nights in prayer to send sickness fleeing. Jesus will heal through a love-soaked people and it will be simple: no long prayers, no systematic procession of words, no digging into their pasts to find out what happened. We shall weep and they shall be healed; we shall embrace them and they shall be healed; we shall touch them and they shall be healed. If faith can heal, and Jesus said love is greater than faith, then just think what love will do!

Ten Thousand Crowns

When we see Him, when we stand before His glorious self, our crowns will be the first to go. Whether given to us by men or by God himself, they will be cast down before Christ’s feet as we marvel at His splendor.

Yes, the battle’s won. Yes, we have received our crowns of righteousness and life and glory. We have heroes of the faith who battled hard to have them. But there He stands and we are suddenly undone. Suddenly the accolades mean nothing. Suddenly we lift the crowns from off our heads and one by one they are thrown like victory laurels at His burnished feet. “Glory! Glory to the Lamb!” the cries go up and ten thousand times ten thousand crowns are cast before Him.

And everything in heaven, on the earth and under it, shall bow their knee.

I was Dark

I limped in half-hearted steps and found it hard to be upon my knees. When I did, I cried. That is all that came out of me. I cried until I was weary of my crying. A dark night of the soul was visiting. Discouragement had all but overshadowed the joys of following you. My heart was not in my prayers and rote words fell from my mouth like stale pieces of bread.

But then I heard a comforting thing. I heard it stirring in my heart, a quiet note at first, and I lifted up my head to better hear it. You were singing over me! A song of deliverance in the night! What kind of love would trouble itself to embrace a heart that had little love to give in return; a heart that had nothing within it but a faded glory, a shadow of what it once was? . . . I was dark (in my heart), but lovely (in your eyes). Song 1:5

Teach Them they Can Hear

Let the children go. They can see into the wide unknown. They can speak the words that make the heavens move. So many churches keep their children from actually following Jesus. They hold them back when their pure hearts wish to soar and hear the things of God. Let them go forth! Teach them they can hear, probably far better than you yourself, and signs and wonders will follow them quite naturally. Holy Spirit will rest upon them and they will walk on water. No longer put your unbelief into their sweet hearts – it is an encumbrance that they are quite unused to bearing.

The wind is changing quickly and they are ready to step out. Go on . . . let them . . . there are angels who will guard their step. Tell them to obey whatever they are told and let them go.

Artwork: Almost an Angel © David Knowles

http://realart.homestead.com/

A Light Shall Come

The mountains above my valley are the seat of witchcraft for the entire west coast. There are many covens roosted here. Though the hills look lovely, the glens and shadowy places hide wicked goings-on. So up to the mountains I often climb to stand in the fields at the very top, and I shout as I look across the wide expanse of forest and the peaks to the sea beyond. “Jesus reigns over the Santa Cruz mountains!” I shout again until the darkness trembles at that glorious name. I shout once more, knowing that many hear my cry behind their shuttered windows.

God is here! God walks with me in these hills! His light shall penetrate the darkest hovel in these woods and there are witches who'll be saved. A light shall come into their gloom and lead them out; no more shall shadows hold them . . . and it all started with a shout.

Artwork: These Woods are Cursed © Linda Bergkvist
http://www.furiae.com/

Whooshed Away

God’s wind is blowing and I am caught up like a leaf that’s whooshed away far over trees to who knows where. Can you not feel the joy of riding on such a thing? Riding upon God’s wind? There is no better way of being blown about than in the middle of heaven’s own whirling gale.

I am not afraid. In fact, laughter wants to tumble out of me at times as I realize I have absolutely nothing to hold onto. And there’s the fun of it! – head over heels I go, not knowing exactly why or exactly where I shall eventually end up. Religiousness was blown off me long ago; fear has tried to cling but keeps getting pulled away by this forceful flurry; all the dust of yesteryears has been cleanly shaken from my clothes and I am happily lighter for it.

The wind is blowing me to Kansas City to Mike Bickle's IHOP for three months and in two short weeks I leave. Why? . . . I am not certain. Then where? . . . Only God knows. But I'm ready for a God adventure.

The Only Road

There is only one road that leads to heaven - it is narrow and not very crowded. It is the only way that the Creator of the universe allowed us, and try as we might, we mere humans cannot enter heaven any other way. Some don’t like that thought. Some get quite angry at it. How strange that those who do not wish to have a relationship with Jesus, in fact do not even believe in Him, would yet believe that there could be a heaven and they are angry that they might not be allowed in by some other route.

Some other route, do you say? . . . there is but one small problem with that – Jesus is the only road that leads through the gates. Humanity may rage and stomp and be as incensed as they wish, but any other road they take does not lead to heaven. It may lead them to a more self-fulfilled life (though I am not convinced that fulfilling “self” is actually very satisfying) but when their life is over their fulfilled-self will be cut off forever from the One whose presence on this earth is what gave it any kind of beauty.

There is only one way, only one road, because there is only one Jesus.

Just an Ordinary Babe?

Was he just an ordinary babe who happened to change the history of the world? How is it that a tender little thing born in a scrubby manger two thousand years ago still stirs up so much angst today? Have you ever thought that perhaps he was more than just an ordinary babe?

God’s Holy Spirit hovered over him even then as he cooed and crawled and cried when his mother set him down. This little one was destined to rule the world, but not in the way that men thought. He brought no army with him but he cast down empires by the light that emanated from him.

What a merry Christmas it is this year to remember the child swaddled up in rags who changed the world. Truly, what a merry Christ-mas!

He Fell Hard

He fell. He was most beautiful; the loveliest one amongst angels. He was the keeper of the song, chief musician extraordinaire with gemstones on his brow. He commanded legions of the heavenly powers and they did his bidding well . . . so well, that they followed him in the fall.

Charmer, deceiver, attempted usurper of the heavenly crown – his name once was Lucifer, once was a fair name. No more. Now he wages war against all creation and a bloody battlefield it is for he has lost his sting and it enrages him.

“I saw satan fall like lightning from heaven!” so said Christ. And he fell hard.

Once-orphaned One

I am an orphan no longer. I know my Father now. I know the One who made me and the reason for which I was made. There is so much more than this dusty world which we inhabit; there is so much more than eye can see and mind can fathom, but it is there.

I longed for one to hold me and now He does, so tightly that none can snatch me from his hand. I hungered for a bit of bread and was invited to a banquet with tables full of feast. I huddled in the cold till someone covered me with a love that warmed my being with an unearthly warmth. It is a love that none can comprehend excepting that once-orphaned one who finally found a home in Him.

I have a home! Those are words that all men wish to speak.

Because of Love

She was sixteen, a gentle thing. She came to know the One who loved her more than life. From that moment on she chose to follow Him, this one name Christ. But there was a problem. She had to tell her parents of this love. They were Muslims living in the Middle East and Islam does not allow for such a love, has never known such love and cannot comprehend it.

Her parents thought that they could beat it out of her, this love that gripped her soul. They tried. They kept her in her room for days, starving her between the beatings. But she would not recant – for she knew a love far greater than the temporary pain. And then she died.

Why did they kill her? Because of hate. Why did she not succumb and renounce her Christ? Because of love. Scream, abuse, deride, condemn – it is all for naught if Christ’s love has firmly gripped a heart. Love is the great combater and the tyrants of this world well know it . . . Christ is their greatest fear.

Storms Piled Against You

You never thought it would be like this, did you. You thought once you followed Christ it would be calm sailing here on in, gentle waves carrying you softly along, sweet birds singing and all that. But then all hell broke loose – yes, say it like it is; that is exactly what happened. Hell broke loose against you because you suddenly became one of its greatest enemies: A Christ-lover, a Jesus-follower, a cleansed-one. And hell doesn’t much like that.

The storms piled against you with a violence you were not expecting. Nasty storms. Cruel storms. Uncomfortably wet and irritating storms. One right after the other. You thought for certain you would drown . . . but you didn’t! You’re getting your sea-legs after all and I think you will do just fine.

Welcome to the good side!

Artwork: The Great Mishap © 2008 Linda Bergkvist

http://www.furiae.com/

Let Everybody Watch

Presidents will come and go but they cannot change the grand scheme of things that God has planned. For God is in control not men. Men may think they are but the angels laugh at such a thought! Tiny, temporal humans made from dust, like molecules before the sun, think that they direct events? What a silly thought.

No, all things are moving forward just as planned by Him whom I call lovely. Darkness shall increase, but the glory of the One who died and resurrected shall shine brighter than the sun – and we who are the molecules that stand before this sun? We can each choose to bow our knee to Him or not. So let the play continue on this stage we call "the world" and let everybody watch. God shall have the last applause.

Are We Animals or Are We Humans?

Do you remember Silo and Roy, the supposedly gay penguins in the zoo? Well, Silo has left Roy and is now mating with a female penguin named Scrappy. Didn’t Silo know that he was supposed to be gay and that a children’s book was written about him and Roy? Didn’t he know that he was a model for human behavior and that homosexuals were touting him as the perfect example of what’s natural and normal, what’s morally and ethically desirable for humans?

Infanticide is widespread in the animal kingdom. From bears to lions, there are many who kill their little ones. If we are to think as the gay community thinks, then we should believe that killing our toddlers is an ethical and quite natural thing to do – for the animals do it, do they not?

Animals don’t care for their elderly; in fact many of them kill the old and sickly of the group. Ahh, now that is where we find ourselves alike! Humans also euthanize their old and sickly. But is this phenomenon because animals have risen to our height or because we have lowered ourselves to that of animals and decided human life is not a sacred thing?

Are we animals or are we humans with a soul, a conscience, and an intellect? Seeing how some look toward the animal kingdom for their moral values and their identity leaves one to wonder.

Flowers Growing where they Shouldn't

They cannot resist, you know. When they pass by your garden the fragrance beckons them – for He dwells there and a wild loveliness has taken over. They cannot resist stopping for a moment, those in the rushing world who have no garden of their own. And every time they pass your garden they will breathe in deep and yearn for what is growing there.

It is not an orderly, neat and tidy, all-things-in-a-row type of garden that Jesus has cultivated. Oh, no, that will not do for Him! It is a boisterous, flowers-growing-where-they-shouldn’t type of garden; it is an unpredictable, never-knowing-what-will-pop-up-next type of garden; it is an audacious, blooming-even-in-the-winter type of garden.

How sad that all in the church do not possess such a plot of land. Perhaps they should invite Him in to cultivate their garden.

Mercy On Our Babes

It is a good scene. It is right and sits well in the heart to see it. A man and woman make a family as it has always been – a man and woman become one flesh quite naturally within the sanctity of marriage. God is amazing in how He created family, how He created man and woman to love each other and beget their little ones!

California has the chance to vote for truth or to reject it. What will it be? Will Prop 8 be passed? When an innocent babe looks up will she gaze upon her mother and father or will she see two broken women or two broken men who, in their rebellion and in the darkness of their understanding, have exchanged the natural relation for an unnatural one? Do we want our little ones to be subjected to such strange, dark fruit as this? God have mercy on our babes who need the gentle touch of mother and the strong protection of father both.

God created marriage to be between a man and a woman and since the dawn of man it has been so – are men truly so wise that they know better than God? I think not.

Inalienable Right

Our Declaration of Independence states: “We have been endowed by our Creator with certain inalienable rights . . . the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” Yet some would disqualify that statement. Not only do they reject the idea of a “Creator”, they reject the belief of the “inalienable right to life”. Gladly they embrace liberty and the pursuit of happiness, but the right to life they vehemently oppose. They believe that if one human’s life puts a difficulty upon another human’s life then that person who supposedly brings the burden should not be allowed to live. So playing both judge and jury they condemn that human to death.

Every day thousands upon thousands are violently robbed of their inalienable right to life by those who believe that it is their right to do so. And strangely enough they who do it are called the “gentler sex”.

My dictionary defines it as murder when one person takes the inalienable right to life away from another. What does your dictionary say?

She Waits Beside the Water

Dia is a dream now. In another place she dwells, fully alive yet gone from my sight, gone from her seven blonde, bright-eyed children. I picture her smiling in a garden somewhere. She is a ghostly girl in my memories, a slender vapor barely there and a quiet, bluish, hush shadows over all. Not sad. Not anymore. But a soft shade that makes my thoughts fall deep and quiet.

I miss my dearest friend and wish that heaven hadn’t called her home – and it has only been three years. But there she is, smiling in a garden. And I know her garden has a waterfall for she always wanted one. She waits beside the water for the ones she loves and she waits for but a moment for time has no place in heaven. Shall I ever find another kindred friend? Perhaps not; but one day I shall walk up to a waterfall and find her again.

Drops of Purest Glory

Something is happening in the heavens. Something is happening in that realm that is invisible. The heavens are opening. I see the color of the sky even now begin to change. It is glory that I see, His glory, fierce and fiery spreading out across the skies. There is a rumbling and awakening of the deep things of God - and some can hear it. It calls unto the deep places in our souls.

Open heaven, God, and bring that glory down that will rip into our hardened hearts and awaken us to God. It is spreading across this nation even now, drops of it falling from the sky, drops of purest glory. Open heaven, God, and let it rain. We need the soaking.

. . . . it has begun.

Artwork: Storm Over Tenaya © 2000 Stephen Lyman

http://www.greenwichworkshop.com/studio/studio_artist.asp?artistid=39

Wars

We live in a strange time, a dark and hurried time when wars and rumors of wars cross this earth. In many places the sound of battle wakens little ones and fills the night time skies. Men have never done it well: this thing called “peace”. Our nature does not allow for such a thing. Without a greater power in our souls to slay the pride within, peace is quite impossible and the earth shall never know it.

Yet the darkest war of all is yet to come. God loves this nation and will intervene to help. George Washington was visited by an angel who showed him a vision of the things to come. Here is a link to George Washington's prophecy. It was published in the military's newpaper. It describes the prophecy as he described it to his comrade at the time.

http://www.civil-liberties.com/pages/prophesy.html

The God of Calvinists

The God of Calvinists is very angry. But I suppose I would be too if I despised the race of men as much as he (according to Calvinists that is). The God of Calvinists would sooner strike a sinner with a lightning bolt than show him love (especially if the unlucky chap was created just for hell). The God of Calvinists did not gift men with a free-will. We are puppets in a puppet master’s hand and if we dare to speak that “f” word (then heretics we most certainly will be). The God of Calvinists does not listen to the heart-felt prayers for loved ones that we offer up with tears. If he created them for doom then all the prayers in all the world will do no good (tsk-tsk. And you foolishly believed that he'd be moved by love. Whatever were you thinking?).

I thank God that I am not a Calvinist!

Artwork: Allegory of Power © 1985 Virgil Elliott

http://www.virgilelliott.com/

Mozambique is Hearing It

God has taught your hands to war, dear Georgian Banov. God has surely taught your fingers how to fight. Only your weapon is not a sword but something more destructive to that insidious enemy of man - worship, Georgian, worship with all your heart! When prophetic song breaks forth, it brings healing in our midst.

The devil and his hordes of hell cannot stand before the worship of our Christ. Laugh loud and play for all you’re worth! That great cloud of witnesses is watching and the angels are joining in your song. You have the sound of glory on your strings. And Mozambique is hearing it. And the Gypsies in Romania are hearing it. And all heaven is hearing it. Play on, dear son, play on!

Photograph: Georgian Banov in Mozambique with Heidi and Rolland Baker © 2008 Iris Ministries

http://www.irismin.org/

Not So Very Strong

I am not so very strong. You who knows me best of all knows well this truth. Lord, I fall upon my knees. I fall upon them hard and confess that I am weary. Not one more step shall I attempt to take until I see you here before me. The battle can wait another day (for always there are battles) – right here is where I’ll wait until I see that lovely face and in seeing it I’m strengthened.

The armor of God I will duly wear . . . but the presence of God I dearly need.

Where are the Shepherds?

There they are; the whole motley group of them. Some bleeding, some sickly, some tangled in the briar, some just about to fall from off the cliff! Who would have thought way back when that they’d end up such a ragamuffin group as this?

Where are the shepherds? That’s what I would like to know. Where are the ones responsible to feed and shelter them? They don’t mind making money from the ragged things: their meat and wool bring a tidy sum. But where are they when the wounded need patient bandaging or the stragglers need someone to brooke the wind and cold to bring them home?

I know One who will do the job, who loves the sheep, every muddy, thorn-filled one of them; I know One who would leave all behind to find just one lost lamb. Bad shepherds always get fired, you know . . . it just might be time for a new round of hiring.

No Human Comforter

The night was dark when He wept tears of blood. Angels saw Him there. Heaven looked upon Him and trembled at the sight - dearest One, who had no human comforter.

Buddha never gave his life to save another nor did the Dalai Lama or Muhammad. Allah and the Hindu gods never showed such love toward those counted as their enemies. But Jesus did. Jesus knelt that night and freely gave His life that the world of men might be reconciled to God.

Are there many ways to heaven? Just look at each of them and tell me – which one gave his life to save a broken world? Which one bled and hung and wept for you? Which one resurrected from the dead that we might know eternal life? It is an easy answer.

The Sound of His Return

I am listening for him, listening for the sound of his return. His voice, his step outside my chamber, I eagerly await. “Come, Lord, come!” my heart cries out as breath is bated and I strain to hear the faintest sound.

I hear so many things as the time of his return approaches. I hear the groaning of the earth beneath the weight of sin that bears upon it. I hear all creation singing praises, quietly, persistently; a sound that even night has not the power to stop. Astounding are the things that can be heard when one takes the time to listen. Let the world rush by but I shall wait with lamp full lit, eyes wide awake, listening for the footfalls of him whose face I’ve waited long to see. Come, Lord, come!

A Stronger, Truer Folk

Stand tall and true you Irish folk. God gave you the gift of song, the gift of strength through trials hard that would have broken any other. Stand true you noble Irish and do not allow the EU to force you to comply to their tyrannical constitution. Cast out the elite of Brussels from your midst and do not allow your leadership to bend. Speak up for all the people and never sign the Lisbon Treaty.

Dear Ireland, for so you are to many round the world who are watching the current struggle. In these end of days a people shall come forth from you who have the sound of glory in their song, the sound of heaven that shall break the back of darkness and cause hell to flee before you. You have been made for such a time as this. The centuries of pain have been your crucible. You are a stronger, truer folk because of it and God will have your ear. The thin places of Ireland are God’s own visitation . . . yes, God will have your ear not the European Union. Be faithful to the God of your once youth!

Celtic King © 2008 Dean Morrissey

http://www.greenwichworkshop.com/studio/studio_artist.asp?artistid=222

It Must Be Killed!

Do not attempt to tame the beast. Many have tried and lost their souls because of it. Its thirst is deep and its hunger quite insatiable, so do not sidle up to it and think that you can tempt it to obey you. Feeding it will only make it larger.

You think the strength of youth will save you from its teeth and it will not rend you into pieces as it has so many other youth? You are wrong and your mistake will cost you dearly. Run it through, I say, run it through before it is too late! It must be killed! This is not a time for pity, not a time for kindnesses and gentleness.

Call the creature what it is – sin! A black and deadly thing that is buried in your soul at birth, the very nature of your own dead self that must be crucified. And Christ alone can do it. Kill the thing ere it swallows up yourself and all that’s left . . . is a dragon.

Prisoner of Hope

“Prisoner of hope,” I hear the words whispered through the grated window, “prisoner of hope, remain in your fortress chained to hope until that thing hoped for finds its right season and comes forth.”

I am such a prisoner of hope. The things long dreamed for I cannot make happen, yet to stop hoping is beyond my power also. Hope blossoms in my arms while feet are chained and movement left or right is quite impossible. Though hope deferred has sometimes struck my heart with a grievous sickness, I find myself holding on to tender hope with a stubbornness that defies all logic. Why does this hope not die, I wonder. But, no . . . it will not. And I have not the power to break the chains that hold me to it.

Shall I remain in this fortress? Of course I shall. Where else would I go but where hope keeps me?

A Realm that God Created

Who is counterfeiting whom? That is the question of the day. Is not the spirit realm a realm that God created? Some believe that satan rules it, so fearfully they shut down the things of God when they do not understand what is going on.

“Ooh, an angel spoke to him!” some gasp with fear. Yet angels have spoken to man for as long as man has walked the earth. “Right, she said that she saw heaven!” they mock. Uneducated Christian, you must read more! God has been revealing heaven to people for thousands of years – He even has a book that shows such revelation being given.

If Christianity holds any resemblance to New Age it is because the New Age movement has 'borrowed' from Christianity, not the other way around. Dreams, visions, ecstasies, tongues, angels, miracles, signs and wonders, all belong to Christ. And He will use any which one He pleases to communicate with His children who desire to hear from Him. Has no one taught you this? Ahh, now I understand. The fault lay with your teachers.

Wild on the Branch

That is the one I want. That is the bloom I need to have: tender, wild on the branch, pure and scented sweet. I shall reach across this fence which men have built to keep me out, for none shall keep me from my heart’s desire, the bloom whose fragrance reaches up to God. Even the sun bows to its loveliness and the snow’s sharp frost can wither not its beauty. Under deepest night it glows brighter than the noonday’s light, and some call it fair Morning Star.

That is the one that I must have, the one that I have journeyed far and long to find. Can a fence now keep me out? While the flower blooms outside the boundaries of this field then that is where my heart is ever drawn and where my eyes shall ever glance – outside where the flower lies. I shall drink its scent till lungs are filled and its fragrance covers me . . . oh, such a bloom is worth all of life! . . . such a bloom is Christ.

Toy Swords

Foolish Christians. You who fight against the things of God have taken on a bigger battle than you know. With toy swords you thrash and rant against His holy wind. Will your umbrella keep off the beating rain when it becomes a flood? For I have noticed you do not want God’s rain to touch you.

Fight against it as you may the fire that began at Lakeland shall yet spread (to your dismay), holy laughter shall continue to be gifted by our joyful God (to your dislike), and Father shall continue to use strange earthen vessels in whom to show His glory.

But beware, if you do not learn to swim in the river soon you may yet drown and be swept away in the rising tide for the rain is falling harder.

Artwork: Battle of the Storm by John Armstrong

A Book

It’s done. It is in my hand and where it goes from here is now in His. A book - I wrote a book and now sit back and look at what I've done with mild surprise.

You see, it is good to not give up. I could have. Even did a time or two, fell asleep a bit along the way, but listened to the stern rebuke given me by one looking at me in the mirror. “Wake up, you foolish thing! Do not let your life drift by or keep your talents buried in the ground where they do little good!”

You have it, too. Not just me. You have the gift that can create – for in God’s image you were made, even if you do not believe in Him. You can invent and dream . . . so go ahead. There is something out there waiting for you to finish. Mine was a book.

Artwork: Books © 2008 Catherine Brown

Healing on the Froth

It’s happening again - another birth pang, another wave of glory. Lakeland, Florida is being touched by God. “Revival,” it is whispered. Blind eyes are being opened, deaf ears newly hearken, and great wonders are being told.

Break forth the waters in the wilderness! The wasteland shall rejoice and the crocus blossom greatly where once a desert was . . . while barren shall become the lives of those who speak against it. A revival fount may yet flow across our land and like the sea that overcomes its banks its flood shall wash o'er all the nations of this end time earth. And angels call, “Break forth!” as they stir the waters to rise and swirl with healing on the froth.

So The Cup is Offered

And so the cup is offered. Oprah offers it so kindly to friend and foe alike. “Come one and all to drink! I have found the truth,” she smiles. Does it taste sweet? Of course. Poisons always taste sweet that those who drink would think they swallow fair things.

But you shall not find yourself awakened as A New Earth by Eckart Tolle will claim. No, no - awakened it cannot be called. It is the drink of sleep, of death and shady things that shall creep over your mind . . . for what fills this cup is nightshade to your souls.

My fairest Christ is not in this cup. The lamb of God cannot be found in Oprah’s new discovered book. If she truly knew Him, loved Him, she could not help but raise His name above every other name. Me thinks she is a child lost. Ever on the dear woman searches for the truth but not in Him where truth alone is found. For sake of life, for sake of truth. . . please do not drink of such a cup.

Proclamatory Feet

I feel electricity course through me at His touch. Fear flees and little do I care what men think. Do I dance? Yes, with all my heart and soul till those of timid nature find the boldness to step out.

Come, all who wish to join in the dance, who wish to plunge into the river, stand beneath the rain and soak in heaven's glory. And darkness will tremble beneath your feet . . . and walls will crash beneath your feet . . . and demons will flee beneath your stomping, twirling, proclamatory feet!

Leap over those safe little fences round your field that men have built and venture into the wild unknown . . . I know you want to.

Artwork: Spiritual Renewal © 2008 Angela Branigan

An Endless Stretch

Where leads this road? I know not. But I walk on it, and this road seems an endless stretch of wandering.

I am nervous today. My mind broods, restless, anxious as the wind. I do not particularly like this path. I would rather have an ending point clearly on a map, for as it is I could be walking interminably. But this? This gives no end in sight and He is silent to my plight. “Where leadeth thou?” I have heard that cry before; those of stronger fortitude than I have cried the same.

I wish to curl up beside the bottom of a tree and lean against its strength to shield myself from wind and wanderings . . . but I shall not. I shall brooke the wind and press ever on to who knows where and who knows what awaits. And though I feel alone on this long path, I must remember I am not.

Little god-box

So that is where you keep him. I have always wondered where your little god is kept – it is in your little god-box. And now and then you let him out. Now and then you allow him to do what he desires as long as he promises to be good. If not, away with him back into the box!

But I do not know this little god of yours . . . Who is he? He is not the God I serve. My God is furiously noble, wildly powerful and glorious in all His brilliance. He could never be contained in a god-box, bible-box, or any kind of box for that matter. My God is the great and mighty One who is beyond all imagination.

Tut-tut now, close the box. Tuck him quietly away until another day when it pleases you to pull him out. After all your little god is there to keep you comfortable, isn’t he? Take comfort then that your god-box safely holds your little god.

Jewels In the Stream

God gave me a dream the other night . . .

Men were working in a quarry, digging for something of little worth. From out of the quarry there flowed a stream. As they dug, a sapphire now and then would fall into the stream amidst the loosened dirt and float by me. Yet the men had no interest in the gems and kept to their sweaty labor.

An angel came up beside me. I asked him if I may have the jewel and he smiled and replied, “You may have whatever you see.” So by the stream I quietly sat, waiting. I plucked up the blue jewels in the stream as they floated by and the longer I sat their numbers increased and the larger some of them became. I scooped them up and smiled at how easy it was.

When I awoke God told me what the dream meant . . . Blue is the color of the prophetic. As we sit quietly in God’s presence He will give us revelation and it will be as easy as scooping up what we see. The longer we spend in His presence the more understanding we will receive. And what the angel said also held the meaning that whatever we can see in our spirit in faith is ours - If you see it, you can have it.

The men were those in the church who labor hard for things that are not worth very much, for the most precious things are the truths and mysteries that God wishes to give to us we sit in His presence, things we cannot labor for.

Artwork: River Girl © 2008 Miles Williams Mathis

http://www.mileswmathis.com

Away Gloom!

Shhh! Quiet in the room please. Do you not know that God is here? God demands quiet you know, or didn’t you? He cannot bear His children to be a noisy bunch; it disturbs Him terribly.

If they laugh too loud, too hard, or far too long, He simply will not allow such brevity in His presence. Oh, no, not God the terrible, God the mighty and God the one who views humanity as little worms.

But what God is this that some swear to bow their knee to? I do not recognize my sweet Father in such a one. My papa in the heavens invites me to dance and twirl with sweet abandon in His presence. Like sunshine, like spring rain, He cheers my heart with joy that does good like a medicine. And the room is made brighter in His company.

Away gloom! Away grim, somber faces! How say you know my God when fear is what you know and joy is far removed? I would say differently.

Beware of the Wolves

Beware of the wolves. Wolves scatter sheep. Breeding fear and suspicion, they bring division, and are cunningly good at twisting things.

Beware of the wolves. Wolves hunt in packs. You’ll see them, four, five, and six together. They feel stronger in numbers and will unitedly pounce against one lone sheep.

Beware of the wolves. Wolves love to howl, mocking howls aimed at those who hold a different opinion. They do not know that love does not mock.

Beware of the wolves. Wolves kill the innocent. In their self-righteous jaws, chests puffed up with knowledge, they’ll quickly devour innocent faith.

Beware of the wolves . . . in the Christian forums.

Artwork: Bustin Through © 2008 Greg Beecham

http://www.gbeecham.com/

And Angels Watch

I heard the sound. I heard a piece of it, a glimmer of its notes. “The sound of glory,” angels whisper, “the sound of glory soon to be released on earth.”

We were meant for supernatural things for in His image we were formed. Can you not feel it? “Oh, blinded humans,” say the angels looking on who wait and watch that they may join in the song. “There's more! There’s so much more than this tired world of which you are a part. Who shall hear the song of Him whose name is beloved in the heavens above all? Who now hears that sound of glory and has the courage to sing it out?”

The end of days is here and with it comes a brighter glory than the world has ever seen. And angels watch . . . to join as one voice with those who hear the sound.

Sweet Inebriation

Such sweet inebriation cannot be found through wine. The hand of joy has touched my heart and makes me laugh. Sweet laughter, kin to your sorrowful brother grief, why are some afraid of you?

Tears are good they would say stoically, but laughter? “Oh no, not us! We would never be found laughing in such a way!” And they sternly rebuke those who’ve drank the cup of joy divine.

Let me be drunk on such love for then I’m closest to His own dear heart. To be drunk in the Spirit is a moment of sublime interaction between my spirit and His. Inebriate me more, dear Spirit, till love is overflowing me and dryness gone . . . and like a child I’ll laugh this Holy laughter for He laughs with me!

Artwork: Jesus Laughing © 2001 Ralph Kozak

http://www.jesuslaughing.com/

I Saw The Shadows

Oh, what fragrant scents rise up from this green earth, this earth so ready to explode with life! But I almost did not notice. I saw the shadows that the mountains make and nearly lost the view of that which lies beyond – the sweeter things that wait.

What hill is this that threatens to be a mountain in my way? Not even a mountain can stand against the One who guides me upon a path that I have never walked before. God turns the shadows into light and even tramples down the hills to make the way both smooth and wide.

It is a lovely day, a right day, a hobbit-in-the-garden day! . . . And to think I almost missed it.

Photograph: Vineyard © 2008 David Wall
http://www.davidwallphoto.com/index.asp

Wild One

Freedom - I hear the cry unspoken from your lips. I see the yearning for it in your eyes.

Wild one, do you not know how very much He loves the heart in you, that brave, fearless heart in you that makes you different from the rest? Does not that heart sometimes burst with cries for something more? Have you not searched this wide world for that something that you cannot name, yet search for still?

If only all had such a heart as you! Trampled down yet fighting still, not easily bending to any will of man. It is ones like you that He has called throughout the ages to make them into something new, something brighter, truer, than man has ever seen.

But it's a hopeless search if it's in the world you look, for there you shall not find what you most need – only in the heart of Him who is wilder than youself can it be found. HE started a revolution . . . I warrant you cannot say the same . . . are you brave enough to look into His fearful loving gaze?

For Those Who Call You Stranger

You gave up your life just to be with us.

Love would give up its life for a friend; but you gave up your life for those who call you stranger, those who call you enemy, those who ignore you and call you nothing at all. What extraordinary love! Faithful is such love though abused by those of little faith. And when it alteration finds, it is a love that never alters.

Wake up! you souls of the walking dead. Wake up to love that died to give you life! Look upon him who so longs to be with you that he dared to walk the path of death. A raging, bloody battle he fought against the prince of darkness, against evil incarnate, our freedom to secure.

He fought the battle . . . and he won. Love was the victor so we could wear a crown. Extraordinary, isn’t it?

Your Ship Will Come!

The sun returns . . . and I am waiting. The seasons change . . . and I am waiting. I’ve not yet left this place but know that I soon will. I sense the time approach, yet my time and His time are slightly on a different line. Patience is difficult when other boats are casting off. I wish to not drink slowly from this cup called patience, but would rather drink the cup of haste and dash out into the world that waits.

England, are you still there?! Yes, England still awaits. Ireland, have you yet changed?! No, Ireland is keeping green for me. Oh, soul, hold on, though you tremble with the joy and trepidation of what may be. Your ship will come! The fog of future still stubbornly hides the steps ahead . . . and I must wait.

The Great Ones

Such light! Brighter than a flame it burns upon his brow. The child has been with Him, for glory rests upon his face. Could a child see more of God than what is given to adults? Yes. There are those who hear God’s voice and hear it well though youth still clothes them in its innocence.

Akiane is one, a prophetic child who has walked with God in places most cannot yet follow. She has seen the waterfalls beneath the stairs of glass that God walks on. And the children of Mozambique who talk to angels and heal the sick, the children Heidi Baker mothers, they also know His voice.

Children? – yes. Faith-filled ones not yet grown up into adulthood’s unbelief. For these end-of-days they have been saved and the wisest of us all shall be perplexed.

Little do they know of doctrine – but they know Him. They know love . . . and we do not recognize the great ones in our midst.

Blood Soaked Ground

Fight, my friends, fight on! Though you are to represent His love to this lost world of souls, it matters not – fight on! Strike the other down for His name’s sake and call yourself Defender of the Faith! Who cares if the wide world looks on or bends their ears and hears your violent squabblings. For sake of pride you thrust the other through, but at least your point was made, at least you protected the image of the faith . . . or did you?

And if you, out in the watching world, happen to pass by and see her, the church in all her glory, the one who calls herself the bride of Christ, if you pass by and see the blood soaked ground beneath her feet, know that it is not His bride you look upon. For His bride is on her knees in the dirt, seeking Him whom her heart desires. His bride is so busy loving this sad, broken world that she has no time to fight. His bride in meekness walks and would not defend herself, though religion come against her.

Her eyes would have a gentle light and her sword's edge would be reserved for him who hates the world of men - not for men themselves.

Visions In The Night

Visions in the night you’ve given me, and now that I have seen your face I am ruined for it. The night shall never be the same to me, not since I have met you there. Dearest One, who wakes me in the night for sake of love to have a chat; to speak to such a one as me, whom compared to your eternal age is just a babe.

In my blood your love runs, flowing from your Spirit into mine. I am devoured by desire for your Glory. And so I wait. Patiently? . . . not always. Pensively? . . . sometimes. With a yearning that no earthly thing can fill and with a heart that cries, “This is but a glimmer of who you are – there must be more!”

And visions in the night is where this started, where this love was poured into my soul. Your light has changed the night for me forever.

Do Not Listen To The "Hiss"

Do not listen to them. Let not their voice steal your sweet devotion. If those of a religious bent should gain your ear, then tender faith is doomed. They’ll convince you God is powerless. They’ll whisper lies into your ears, “there are no prophets, there are no miracles,” until heart is poisoned by their unbelief.

So close your ears and keep your faith! Keep your wide-eyed wonder and amazement! Keep God as huge and wild and wonderful as He truly is! Keep far away from those whose minds are filled with knowledge, yet are fools still, else your childlike faith gets gobbled up by that meaner, harsher beast called unbelief.

You will know them by their fear-soaked words and pointed fingers that often mimic the Grand Inquisitor himself. Hold close the truth that God still moves and speaks in supernatural ways, for there is only one who would try dissuading differently. Do not listen to the “hiss” that comes from out their mouths . . . it is an ancient hiss.

Wrap Myself In Gray

It is one of those days. I wish to wrap myself in gray and hide. Let no one see my soul, my inner heart, for I fear they would not see a light glowing from within. Not today . . . perhaps another day . . . but not today.

The wind is irritating as it tugs upon my veil, tries to pull it clean away from face and eyes so I am seen for what I am – a fragile creature who does not feel very strong. I think no one needs to know that bit of truth, but someone seems to think so. Someone sent the wind to pester me. Some persistent, stubborn, gentle hand has set this thing against me . . . this pestering wind!

And I find that I am not yet so weary that I yield. With all the little strength I have I clench the cloth and wrap it round me tighter and with trembling voice I speak, "You cannot see me yet! I am not ready to be undone!"

I have an inkling that this wind shall in the end prevail.

Glowing Faces in the Gloaming

Ooo, here we are again. Halloween is creeping up upon us. I love Jack O’Lanterns – those glowing faces in the gloaming, and children racing up to doors in silly costume.

And yet again the oft debated topic is flung among the forums: can we celebrate or must we turn off our lights and hide? Are we frightened of traditions that pagans once acknowledged or do we walk in Christ’s liberating power?

I for one shall not be bound by the elemental spirits of the earth. On the cross those demons were dethroned! No longer do they hold reign over the night, or over pumpkins, black cats or candy. Why let the enemy of our souls keep us chained to fear and superstition?

In all I do I bless the One who gave me the life to do it, the heart to love Him in it, and the liberty which no date upon a calendar can ever take away . . . three cheers for Jack O’Lanterns!

Artwork: Ghostly Gourds © Norman Rockwell
http://www.normanrockwell.com

The Autumn Dance

It’s here again – Autumn! The brave storm clouds are gathering together, threatening to beat rain down upon our heads. I hope the wind returns as in so many other autumns and whips the rustling leaves into that feverish swirling dance of gold.

Can you not look around and see how it all works so orderly together – clouds, storm, wind, leaves – all meant to join in the autumn dance that was choreographed just for them. This is no accident, no accumulation of a billion tiny accidents that just happen to fit together as some scientists wish to think. I must laugh at the thought – accidents? All of it?? Scientists know so very, very little and are bound by such limited vision.

A hand created this, a voice spoke it into existence . . . And now I hear that voice in the thunder!

Thin Ropes of Mercy

So there you are. Poor tired soul. Been adrift at sea for quite awhile now, haven’t you. If not for those thin ropes of mercy tethering you to that fragmented bit of salvage. . . you’d be drowned.

Now what? How does a shipwrecked life find healing anyway? Where is deliverance from the merciless wind that tears at your skin and the unkind water that grabs at you with its cruel, icy fingers. And that gray sky, that sorrowful gray sky that stretches infinitely on, that threatens to banish the sun forever from your gaze – who can call back the blue and bright above and drive away the gray forever?

I know who . . . and I know how . . . I know His name well. He is a brash lover of souls and a fearless one who is not intimidated by violent winds or cold waters that run perilously deep. He’s calling you – no, no, it’s not the wind you hear. It’s Him! Open up your eyes, dear soul, your deliverance is at hand!

Burned By Such A Flame

The days are darkening. Twilight has fallen lightly, but it is soon to pass and darkness deep and troublesome will take its place. And that is when His Glory rises best and shines the brightest – in the deep of darkness!

I feel the fire stirred within me, a thing that blazes in my eyes, a passion for the lovely One who’s faithful even when I have wearily lost my faith. It is this love that causes hardened hearts to soften as melted butter in a flame.

I do not mind being burned by such a flame, for I am softer for it, and I glow the brighter soaking in such Glory. Religion carries with it no heat of any kind – cold and dreary are its halls, and hearts wane weak and thin when nourished on its food. Christ does not live in such a place . . . and nor shall I.

I Closed My Eyes

I closed my eyes on the journey for just a moment – or so it felt! Where flew the time and for how long were my eyes closed in sleep? I meant to rest, to refresh myself and rise again to journey; but months have passed and my limbs have barely moved.

This will never do! The day is new and bright and shiny like a copper penny. It’s time to rise . . . rise and finish the task, pursue the journey’s end. This is not the time to sleep or to fall into forgetfulness. If there is none to bring encouragement, then self encourage thyself.

The path is yet before you . . . go on . . . pick it up . . . start again where you left off!

Soaked Clean Through

I shall soak it up until I’m filled with it - Your presence, dear one - tender, fiery, till I am soaked clean through and that glory divine glows from me as it does You.

Here I am, a vessel of dust, and yet, Christ, You choose to dwell in me. What wonder is this! What astounding love that chooses to love broken ones like me; and not just love, but transform into something incredible and new.

Transfixed I stand, as Glory falls upon me and soaks me through.

A Relic?

Has church become a relic? Is it a tired building ready to collapse? Do cold gray skies still shadow it with the iron cast of religion? That is changing. God is building something new in a people that know Him well and love Him intimately.

The system, regulations, and dress codes have to go . . . and Jesus is dismantling it all. Yes, He is. It is He who raised up Brennan Manning, and the book Velvet Elvis He inspired. Jesus has been laboring to save His followers from the burdens and deceptions of religion.

I know, for I am one He saved. When I began to shed my pharisaical garments, I met with opposition. Those who were still bound accused me of rebellion. Why? Because I would no longer bow to the spirit of religion. I would not obey the regulations forcing conformity upon me - their clothing, their worship style - the list went on and on.

The religious spirt is thousands of years old and liberty it does not like. It hates it when it cannot control a person. But when Christ has set you free - you are free indeed! I learned the lesson well and to Him alone I'll bow.

Mother-dear Has Lost Her Way

There he is. Safe - he thinks. Inside that warm place, learning his song, his song that he alone is meant to sing. The One who made him, loves him more than any other, hears his song. It rises up to Him with ebb and flow of breath.

But tomorrow is a different day. Tomorrow is the scheduled date when she who was meant to be protector of this little life will bring it to a silent end. The song that he was meant to sing will not be heard by us who dwell in the lighted world.

Mother-dear has lost her way. She ends this little life not knowing of the song. Unaware that creation is missing a voice that it was meant to hear. But there he is today learning his song. Safe - he thinks.

Door To The Unknown

It awaits you on the other side. As easy as pushing open a door, so it is that easy to step into. But you must walk through the door. You must brave it, dear soul. Your destiny lies on the other side - are you afraid to find it? Are you frightened of the unknown? Do you wish to calculate your chances of success before you dare? That will never do. If you think too much you will think yourself right out of it!

Perhaps a wide, strange land lies on the other side; a place that will demand your courage; a place that will require every bit of faith you own - and then some. That is a good thing. That is exactly where you need to be. And all that is holding you back is that little door, that door to the unknown. The “unknown” is a very good thing.

Over the Waters

England, I am coming! Most certainly the way is being made. Him who is beloved decided it is time, so now I must prepare. I do not know how, that has not yet been given to me; but I know that it is time for change - now I must step out in faith.

So I have rid myself of all the things I own . . . yes, sold them all away . . . and I shall live with friends until the door that I’m to walk through opens up. Already there are shiftings and introductions being made for places I might stay. How amazing! I know no one there in England, but God, through His divine intervention, shall open up a place for me. God is good and I need not fear what lies ahead. I only need to wait and watch and be amazed at what shall happen in the year to come.

I look out over the waters and say, "England, I am coming!" It is time to live the dream.

Brave the Wind

Climb in and let it take you where it may. Climb in - don’t be afraid. You know a child wouldn’t be afraid. A child would brave the wind and thrill at the prospect of being carried who knows where. Be a child again . . . be brave!

It could take you past the rock; it could pull you round the cape; or it could lead you far into the deep and blue beyond. What are you waiting for?

God guides the wind, as He controls the ebb and flow of tide and moon and makes the waves to carry you where He pleases. The wind of change is strong today - such a fine day for an adventure, don’t you think?

A Garden Awaiting

It is right there. Can you not see it? Can you not see the flowers that returned for yet another year? Can you not feel the sun that silently crept into the garden without you noticing? Ahh, but your eyes are downcast. The flat, gray stone is all you see; the cold mud and hard brick beneath your feet is all you feel.

Look up for it is coming . . . look up for change is near. So close that you can touch it if you just stretch forth your weary fingers. The world is alive with sweet color - do not keep your vision in the gray and rain and dismal days of old.

There is a garden awaiting!

Fair-a-day

Fair-a-day, Fair-a-day, is this a fair weather day? I see the choice is mine. My magnifying glass is in my hand; but what shall I turn it to? Shall I tilt it down upon the roots beneath my feet, make them ever larger, till they appear like giant snakes from which I cannot get untangled? Shall I direct it round me till my eye is full of the duties that abound and the stuff of earth that tries to cling and cloy?

Or better, I believe, I should swing this glass above me and gaze upon the heavens where He abides, make Him ever larger, ever mightier, ever dearer in my eye, till soul is filled with the hugeness of Himself and I, though small, am certain that He holds me. That would make for a better day, a fair day, a day which I would like to walk through . . . so there is my answer.

A Breaking Sound!

Restoration! A trumpet sounds it from the heavens. Restoration is coming down to meet you, and all the years the locust ate, the worm destroyed, shall be restored. What joy to watch those who have long awaited God’s changing wind finally see it come.

This is the year, the season, when desires long held shall be fulfilled. I heard it announced from heaven - but not in a whisper, not in a still small voice - not this time. I heard it in a trumpet blast! A raucous trumpet blast . . . a thundering sound, a breaking sound, a crashing through the walls sound!

And you know who trembled when they heard it. You know whose little pinched faces paled with fear at the mighty blast . . . the darkness is in turmoil.

Let the restoration begin!

I Will Never Make You Carry That

It is simple. If it were not, my back would have broken long ago beneath the weight. I simply followed Him. Regulations were not heaped upon my back by Him who is the kindest of them all. Men have tried to do that - but never Him! He has always gently removed those nefarious back-breaking religious burdens that men have tried to lay on me and said, “No, my child, that is not for you. I will never make you carry that.” And suddenly I feel light on my feet again. Suddenly I walk with a lilt in my step, as I realize the only thing I need to do is love Him.

It is that simple. Too simple some would say. But, no, that is how it is. He did all the work and by faith in Him we reap all the life . . . simple!

Artwork: He That is Without Sin © 2008 Liz Lemon Swindle
http://www.greenwichworkshop.com/swindle/

The Blind Ones

Will we not ever learn that God is far beyond what our paltry knowledge can grasp? Can we constrain the wind? Can the ocean be tied up neat and tidy in a box? God touches people in ways we cannot always understand. But some have a problem with that. There is a great league of Christians who are frightened of the supernatural; thus in their fear they deny the power of God.

Oh, they have faith. Yes, indeed. Great is their faith in Satan’s ability to deceive and lead astray, greater even than their faith in Christ's ability to keep them in the truth. And because their trust in Satan’s power outweighs their trust in God's, they're fearful of the supernatural deeds the Holy Spirit is doing in the church today; and so they disown those brethren who would dare to speak of visions, dreams, and prophecy.

What a sad lot that refuse the very riches that Christ holds out to us . . . are they not really the blind ones?

The Flowers Return

Blessings suddenly come - falling out of heaven into our laps. Such a week I have known, such a week of blessings. I have laughed much this week at the goodness of God and have been astounded at how the heavens can open with a burst and suddenly the dry land is turned into a garden. God sends his mercies down and in a moment everything is turned around. The sun rises, the waters flow, the flowers return, the obstacles fall away, and suddenly God shows himself mighty to save and answers the cries of His children.

I am privileged to know such a tender Father and honored to be called His own. And today my heart bursts with the blessings that have fallen!

Gnarled Roots

This is my life - at the moment. A tangled and difficult path. We are not always placed upon an easy way. Gnarled roots make the going slow. I do not wish to be here, but here I am.

I have oft been patient and I have occasionally not. I have worshipped my Savior in the midst of raging winds and on otherwise quiet, sunny days I have complained. I have lain down and closed my eyes sometimes for far too long when it was easier than walking. Joy has met me in frequent bursts whilst peace has sometimes been allusive.

But I know a loving God. I know I am not forgotten by Him. My voice is heard! . . . and there lies the greatest comfort. To be remembered is a wonderful thing.

An Angel With One Wing

An angel with one wing - that would be me if I were an angel. Crippled, sometimes failing, never perfect, but always trying to fly straight . . . yes, that is me. I admit to it. I am one of Jesus’ imperfect followers. He is my crutch. I am not ashamed to say it. I could not walk, let alone run, without Him holding me up. I’ve not the wisdom to plan my life out and to actually go in the right direction without His hand guiding me.

I drink wine (Legalists beware of me!). I dance when worshipping Him (Protestants close your eyes!). I do not believe I need a priest to confess my sins (Catholics, I am sorry).

I am me. An ally of liberty, staunchly opposed to pointless rules that some think prove my righteousness, a lover of the Beloved One, and a flawed earthen vessel that surprisingly doesn’t explode when filled with His Glory.

Yes, that about sums it up . . . I’m an angel with only one wing.

Artwork: Sleeper Lost in Dreams © 2008 James Christensen
http://www.greenwichworkshop.com/christensen/

A Thousand Tons of Water

I was angry, angry at God just yesterday. It had been building up, but I pressed it down and tried to act like a good little girl; it didn’t work; it never does. In a stormy meltdown of tears and angry questions it broke loose from me. I held it in thinking I could not be honest with Him, but He urged me on. He told me He wants nothing less than honesty. In fact, only an honest person can ever find healing, salvation, or release from that which chains him.

So out it came—my pain at being left in a wilderness for far too long, my anger at His seeming lack of concern for it, and my confusion at how unjust God can seem to be. Out it poured like a thousand tons of water plummeting off a cliff . . . and then came peace.

When all was done He told me that He loved me, and I realized afresh that I could trust Him . . . I could be real even with the ugly things. He's big enough to handle it.

Gods In Their Own Right

Wiccans worship nature. To the elemental spirits of the universe they bow, the lower demons inhabiting the realm of earth. But the Creator they ignore. They lust for the power to become gods in their own right.

Wiccans practice witchcraft . . . and they call it good. They cast their spells . . . and think that they are powerful. They study ancient Druid rights . . . and call it their enlightment. While darkness cloaks their minds and deeper still it grows with every passing day.

The craft has always been among us. Every culture has its demon worship from Druids to the voodoo doctors of today. If only they would lift their eyes and look up higher they would see the One whose Glory outshines a thousand suns, and never again could they worship the meager moon, the lowly trees, or the ridiculous demons who flee at the name of Christ.

Glory Warms My Limbs

He delights in me! I have a God in heaven whose thoughts toward me are too numerous to count. He says I’m the apple of His eye. He loves my company and only wishes I would spend more time with Him. Even when I sin, a sometimes faithless one, He loves me. The Beloved One, my truest friend, my advocate, my steadfast ally, looks down upon me and His Glory warms my limbs as the midday sun and makes me smile.

And this brash love, this outrageous passion that He has for me, He extends to all. I wish the world to know that the only life worth living is found in Christ . . . can you imagine being loved like this? It is beyond imagination.

Now Comes The Time

And now comes the time for women. Yes, God created men and women to co-rule this earth. The fall of man perverted rulership and so caused men to rule over women. It was never meant to be. Both were created equal in His image. And now finally we see God bringing us full circle, back to what He originally intended. It took 2000 years since Christ to get us here, but we are here.

Arise women, gentle souls, mighty warriors, anointed for such a time as this. Neither male or female are found in Christ - all are free, all are redeemed and given the power to have co-dominion over the earth again. Rise up you women leaders, evangelists and teachers, and take your rightful place beside your brothers in this day.

Walk in liberty in the gifting that He’s given you. And if they throw you out? If they attempt to stone you with their words, do not dismay . . . they did the same to Christ. You are in good company!

Artwork: Anna of the Celts © 2008 Dean Morrissey
http://www.greenwichworkshop.com/studio/studio_artist.asp?artistid=222

Try To Take Over the World

Pinky and the Brain had it right. The goal today is like every day: TRY TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD! For the sake of Christ we go forth with love and humility. Our goal? To take over the world for the one who suffered and died for it.

No half-way commitment will do. No frightened, shriveling soldiers will suffice. No water-downed belief system will carry through. No hard-edged, merciless religion will work. It is His grace, His love, and His power that we must have.

Try to take over the world! Have you ever thought about it? One heart at a time they use to say, but it shall be thousands of hearts at a time now. They shall come pouring into the Kingdom like a flood and we will lay the world at His holy feet.

Dream-giver

Dream away, dear one, for dreams are the language that He loves to use. And He will tell you what they mean if you seek. The Holy Spirit reveals to us hidden things we do not know. In your sleep He speaks. God: Dream-giver and Dream-guider. 25% of the bible is stories based around dreams. It’s nothing new to Him.

Is it so strange that a supernatural God would choose to speak to us in signs and symbols? Our brains are busy all day long. Busy, tired, distracted in the day; but in the night hours, quiet. What a perfect time to speak. What a perfect time to reach down to us fragmented individuals and whisper in our ears. A tender Papa touching us on the cheek as we lay deep in nighttime reverie. Listen to what He says. Write it down; ask Him of its meaning. Christ is the one who gave the dream, He will most certainly answer.

Artwork: Dreams in Gold © 2008 Morgan Weistling
http://www.morganweistling.com

Like A Bird to the Wing

And so you think He is domesticated, do you? You think that because the formal church has reined in His followers, hampered, quieted, and weighed them down with every imaginable rule, that somehow He is domesticated? Impossible! Wild and beautiful is Christ and none can hold Him. He will offend even Christians who embrace their rules more than they embrace Him.

And He has been breaking His followers out of this man-made prison for several years now. When He comes for you, go . . . like a bird to the wing. He will help you. The wild man from Nazareth will lead you into astounding places. Grab hold of his hand and go. The religious have fallen in love with their decaying structure. But you must fall in love with Him.

Artwork: Garden Rendezvous © 2008 James Christensen
http://www.greenwichworkshop.com/christensen

South Dakota, Listen!

3000 years ago they did the same as us. South Dakota, listen! It has fallen in your hands to rise above the common practice. Will you be more “civilized” than those 3000 years ago? Will you vote in these elections to save the lives of children yet unknown?

3000 years ago ancient tribes worshipped Molech, a pagan god, and upon his altar did they sacrifice their children. This demon god demanded pregnant women be laid upon the table and their unborn children ripped from out their bellies for his appeasement.

And here we are 3000 years later doing exactly as did they. Yet we live in the age of science; we have left behind barbaric practices—haven't we? Yet upon the very same table are our mothers laying, and into their wombs we reach and rip out their precious unborn ones . . . how different are we? The only difference is we medicate our mothers so they cannot feel the cruel sacrifice . . . and, of course, we do not say we worship Molech—we call it “a woman’s choice”.

Not much has changed in 3000 years.

Trousers Pulled Up Too Tight

Autumn is in the air and quite alive! I love its cold smell and how its breath crunches up the leaves. Autumn is welcome here. It feels like laughter, that’s what hurly-burly days are like. Like laughter bouncing through the air, knocking the prim and properness out of the elegant trees, til they are shaking with laughter themselves.

I know some who could use a little of that. Stuffy, proper “christians” who have their trousers pulled up too tight. There’s no room to laugh! Not a good, strong belly laugh, that is. They need the prim and properness shaken out of them. They need to loosen up their belts a bit and take a few deep gulps of the wine that God has offered—it’s called His Spirit! He’d bust them open in a minute and clean out all the serious sighs and self-righteous groans and religious hoity-toity-ness that has stiffened up their collars . . . Blow, wind, blow!

Stamped Upon Our Soul

Conscience is a gift from God. Carefully did He plan it out before imprinting on us such a thing. In love He gave it, a memory of God’s image stamped upon our soul. Father God knew we’d need the help to choose the right.

But will we listen to this small voice? We sin-prone souls tend to lay the blame on others when we choose wrong, and so say they make us to feel guilt. But perhaps there is another cause for shame and guilt? Does conscience oft times speak too loudly of the truth God planted in it? Do we silence that knowing voice and ignore its insistent remonstrations until it all but dies and falls silent in the grave? But it does not die without a fight. Conscience can be a terrible thing when not heeded to. A deadlier foe man has never known. Strong men have lost their sanity from ignoring it. Some have committed suicide to escape its voice.

God did not make it easy for us to ignore His moral laws . . . conscience makes us pay the price.

The Absence of God

It is my choice. I push it not on anyone. I refuse to force feed, manipulate, or pressure any to believe. His gentleness never forces any to receive him. Jesus is the kindest person I have ever met, and if you wish to not believe in Him, you are free to do so.

Christ does not send people to hell, they choose it—freely, of their own accord. Because they desire to live their entire earthly lives without Him, then He gives them what they want. He gives them eternal life without Him. It’s what they’ve insisted on all along, how could He not give them what they have insisted on?

Hell is simply the absence of God. God is love, so hell will harbor no trace of it. Every soul will swim in a festering pool of hate. God is forgiveness, so that will not be found in hell, either. Only anger, regret and bitterness will be companions to the souls who can no longer forgive. God is mercy, so only meanness shall beat upon the souls in hell each day. God is joy, but of course without Him there shall be only weeping and the deepest sorrows to weigh souls down. God is life and beauty so hell is a waste place of death, without trees and growing things, for He’s the one who gives that life.

You see, everything that can be called “good” upon this earth is only here because God still dwells on earth among men. Any kind or loving acts that men do are only done because the Spirit of God still roams this earth and men are under its influence. Jesus is the foundation of this earth and all goodness depends upon Him.

And you are free to believe and follow Him . . . or not. He is Just and gentle and will allow you to do the choosing.

The Song is Rising

At this moment the song is rising. Across this earth different tongues lift up their voice to Him. A remnant knows Him, loves Him, and their knees they bow in loving worship. It is not to nature that they bow; it is not to the spirits of the earth they sing; it is to Him alone. From many nations they arise: First Nation, Native American, African, Chinese; in their native tongues they lift their humble praise.

Christianity is not a white-man’s faith, and yet in the past some Christians have thought it so. They stripped the precious peoples of their costumes, language, and identity in their attempt to Christianize them. I am saddened and ashamed of such a thing. Jesus would never have done it, for He calls us as we are.

But now is different. Now they rise from every corner, true to their selves and unique cultures and they worship Him. Sing on, dear ones! Only you have your sound and we are in need of it. Sing on in the hidden rooms in China, sing on in the mountains of Canada, sing on in the bush of Africa. We are in need of you to play the song.

Artwork: Prayer © 2008 Don Crowley
http://www.doncrowley.com

A Sword By My Side

I do not want just dialogue. Experience alone is not enough. I want the truth imbedded in my soul, the truth that is absolute and unwavering.

Endless debates and conversations that refuse to answer direct questions cannot feed hungry souls. But truth does.

I want Jesus. I want His word, simple and strong, like a sword by my side. There is rest in the hush of evening, there is rest when His truth lays beside me, and in His presence there is peace.

A necessary post

This is a boring, but necessary post. I must list words that search engines might find. So look on the other days if you want my real blog.

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Out Into the Invisible

Dearest Father, for so you are to me, a father like no earthly one. A God who’s bigger than the universe, whose love is deeper than the ocean’s depth, whose knowledge reaches to the stars in the heavens. My soul overflows with you. You!

It is a comforting thing to know a God immortal, eternal, when we live in a world of such transience. You are rooted down and anchored strong and nothing shakes you. And I know you! How blessed I am to be able to say such a thing. I know the living God, the One who uses the earth as His footstool. He is my friend, my dear Beloved. I wish everyone could boast on such a thing. Intimately I have heard your voice and desperately I pursue your Presence.

I am a God chaser. My spirit strains to see out into the invisible where you are. Surround me more with you, for I'll not be content unless you do.

A Curse Word on the Tongues of Men

I will speak the truth. I’ll not be afraid to continue speaking of the only name that men can call upon—Jesus. The only name that heals, that saves, that wraps round our hearts and holds us tightly as a loving father does his child.

The world cares not to hear that name. They never have. They close their ears and harden hearts to his gentle call. That lovely, powerful name brings fear. That name beloved in the heavens, that angels love to speak, is a curse word on the tongues of men.

There is a reason that particular name was chosen for such a degrading thing. There is a reason they feel a need to close their ears and run from it. Because He is the truth and they cannot get away from it. Their conscience does not allow them this, for it nags them that He is real . . . He is God . . . there is more to life than what we see . . . Oh, yes, they cannot get away from it. No matter how far they run.

A Phenomenal Imaginer

What a truly wonderful thing imagination is. God was kind to give us such a gift, a gift like His. He imagined the world into being. He imagined the colors of the flowers and the height of the trees. What a phenomenal imaginer is God. From His thoughts sprang the concept of water and earth and seeds that grow from them. And in His kindness He allowed us to share in this gift of imagination, so that we could imagine works of art and technical wonders, cures for diseases and inspired symphonies.

But man has digressed from the path of creativity. He now creates ugliness not beauty. And it is foul, perverse things that he often sets his imagination upon. Imagination was never meant for such use. Beauty was supposed to be born from man’s mind. Grace-filled, lovely and useful things were meant to come from his imagination. For that is how we were created. Oh, woe to us who have fallen! We are a sad race that has forgotten the wondrous beauty for which we were made.

Slogging Through the Mire

Sin is real. We are born with it rooted in our soul. We carry it through our lives and, without Christ, we die with it dragging us down into the depths. Our lives are colored by it, tempered by it, destroyed by it, falsely exalted by it, and in every shape and form deceived by it.

Our very natures create a fresh, new wave of sin each and every day. What ridiculous beings we are to slop around through the thick of sin and insist that we are good, clean, decent people who deserve to go to heaven because of our seeming “goodness”; all the while we ignore the mud dripping from our guilty faces.

But God looks down and sees through the mud. He sees what we can become through the cleansing of His own Son’s blood. He sees what we were meant to be and longs for us to see the same. Wipe the dirt from your eyes and see the truth of it! If only we would get tired of slogging through the mire. There is hope yet.

A Dirty Dealing Way

He’s very smart, you know. But not in a good way. In a cunning, sly, and underhanded way. In a dirty dealing way.

He steals the innocence of children and fills their little heads with witchcraft. He twists the purity of love and morphs it into something unrecognizable by God, where the hearts of wounded ones are deceived into homosexual acts that degrade their own humanity.

Oh, Satan’s very smart indeed. His black heart loves to wound the Father, and what better way to do it than destroy the children God created for Himself.

And he does his job supremely well.

More Undignified Than This

I shall dance, though many in the church do not. I shall dance, though there are denominations who frown upon such things. When worshipping Him who His best above all, I cannot help but spin and stomp and lift my hands in dear devotion.

I shall yet become even more undignified than this. I shall dance upon the heads of demons. I shall dance beside the angels. I shall dance beneath His wings where His shadow falls upon me.

Into the streets I’ll dance without a care of who looks on. I’ve been in churches where they are serious and pious-minded, where hands stay close to sides and voices barely whisper out His praise. But that is not for me. I shall roar out His name . . . and I shall dance!

Wide-eyed Wonder

Even angels stand amazed. Overpowering and daunting is the beauty of His glory—terrifying most would say. This God of love, of mercies deep, makes men’s hearts tremble. You could not stand before Him if you tried. Your knees would buckle beneath and down you would fall in a humbled heap.

With wide-eyed wonder angels are constantly amazed; for even they do not know all there is to know of God. Each time He turns they see a different facet of His wondrous self and they are filled with awe.

Look! The heavens are stirring. The prophets are speaking through the earth and showing us the things that only angels see. Look! . . . it is a thrilling time, a hard time, a glorious time to be alive.

We're Small

God watches all. He sees the wars and rumblings through the earth. He’s not surprised at how low men can crawl or at how high they try to set themselves above the rest. He’s ever had to look down upon the strife of men, for so our natures are given to it.

But what love He shows through all of this. Because of love His plans for this upheaved world will not be hindered. Regardless of the plans of men, be them good or evil, His plans shall prevail over all. No one can snatch the world from His hands, not terrorists, not Allah, or any other. In His hands this world rests—and His hands are strong!

We’re small compared to Him: a grain of sand that washes off a rock and disappears. But He remembers us. Each of us He knows by name and for each of us Christ died. I’m glad that He’s the one who holds the world. He's the only one wise enough.

Against My Back It Blows

The wind has changed. It was upon my face and I struggled hard against it. But now against my back it blows and I am helped along. It is Him. His Spirit blows upon me and makes the walking easier.

This has been a difficult month, an exceedingly difficult month. My mind has not wanted to be bright and cheery. I have wrestled with dark thoughts and hopeless attitudes. Yet, in honesty, I think I have given in, given up, more than wrestled. “Fight” has not been in me much. “Fight” has eluded me, and I’ve had no motivation to wrestle through. I fear this month is wasted, slipped by like a fish through my fingers—an oily fish.

But now the wind has changed. A sweet fragrance blows upon me and I can smell the scent of Christ. I know His scent. To some it smells like death or bondage, but to me it is hope and life and the freshest freedom that any man can know . . . I love the changing wind!

White-hot Metal

Innocence is precious. We think of it as soft and pure—little lambs and babies. But there is a purity that is like white-hot metal; that burns in our souls; that purges all the dross. It is my Beloved One that grants me such a touch as this, a burning touch that cleans my soul and restores my innocence.

Christ, the sinless one, the violently loving One, the One whose heart is ever longing for the lost ones He died for; it is His touch that restores, refreshes and makes clean. Such a feeling to be clean! Soaking for a thousand days in water would not let me feel as clean as one touch from His gentle hand.

Who would not want the feeling of a clean soul? . . . if only they knew. Burning can be a very good thing.

Though the Inquisition Take Your Head

Part 2
The Grand Inquisitor knows religion very well. Yet even toward him I cannot help but feel compassion, sad soul that he is. Religion has been his bed-fellow for so long he cannot help but love her. So practiced is he in her defense that he no longer sees her as the enemy of Christ and the enemy of love. She is his friend and he will die defending her, or strike others down in the name of God to keep her institution well alive.

Alas, he shall be held accountable for all the denouncing he has done, the slander he has brewed and caused the church to drink. Poor blind man. Religion has her coils round him and he drinks deeply of her stupor.

The chat rooms are roiling with the slanders he has birthed. Arguments are growing as to which side each shall stand. The church always kills its reformers, but reform shall come. And the Grand Inquisitor shall not be able to stop it!

So love on, dear reformers. Follow Christ to the end, though the Inquisition take your head, your life, your reputation. Jesus suffered so, it is our honor to share in it.

Heretic!

Part 1
The Grand Inquisitor is alive and well today. And he has birthed a worm that is poisoning the church, as it did 600 years ago. He has spent the past two decades denouncing Christians right and left behind his rigid pulpit. “Heretic!” he cried about John Wimber. “False teaching!” he screamed about the Vineyard. And now his long finger is pointed at the dear brethren of today, Brennan Manning, Erwin McManus, and many others. Brethren who love our Lord and passionately pursue him.

Reformation is always painful. The established church is never happy with it. Limbs moldy with gangrene must sometimes be removed—and there is always screaming protestations from the body that must suffer this. But woe to him who denounces the reformers God has sent.

Beware the Grand Inquisitor. Do not let the worm that he has birthed burrow in your heart, else you find yourself denouncing our brave fellow Christians along with him. Do not listen faithful ones, follow in the footsteps of those who went before even though they cast you out for your great love.

The Fog of Future

There is a place for each of us. There is a path laid out that we can call “our own”. Rarely is it easily discerned. The fog of future covers it. It’s a bit frightening to look out into that fog. But that’s where we belong—that path which feet will tramp and things yet to be discovered lie.

There it is! And here God demands my faith. Either I am in His hands or I am not. Which will I believe? He promises to fulfill the purpose that He has for us. Tender hand of His will not be feared by me.

Step off the cliff into that great unknown, for therein hope lies. And hope is such a sweet taste to the soul. Adventure waits, and trouble, and joy and heartache both . . . but that is life!

The Song Never Ends

All creation is constantly speaking about God. It's actually groaning in wait for His return. What love this is! That even creation longs to be reconciled to God is proof of His furious love.

We hear no words. We hear no voice. Yet creation’s voice sings out through days and nights a lovely song of glory, a song of praise to the One who made all things. The song never ends. Crickets sing it, whales sing it, and even the trees sway to its sound. The voice of creation is everywhere. Its hidden voice rises up to the heavens where God’s heart is filled with its praises. And He laughs with the joy of it, the sound of it!

God loves to sing. He loves to laugh. He is a more joyful being than all men put together. And creation echoes his joy in waterfalls shouting and vivid colors springing from the earth. He is a most winsome God and His creation loves Him.

Artwork: Rainbow Pond © 2008 Kent Wallis
http://www.txartgallery.com/wallis.htm

The Yoke of Slavery

Amazed! I'm ever amazed at the depth of legalism buried in the heart of the church. It is not Christ’s heart, to be sure. “Sin!” they cry. “Do not taste this, do not touch that!” What fol-de-rah! What nonsense. The religious spirit has become their close companion. And they so love to entangle others in its grasp.

But I am free, and shall remain so. Yet the religious spirit tramps on, ever spitting out its accusations and instilling false fear into the hearts of man. It so hates to see dissenters to its view.

But do not come again under the yoke of slavery. Once Christ has set you free—stay free! Resist all temptation to crumble beneath the stern gaze of the legalists. They would yet chain you if they could . . . and then your heart would wither. But they would say, “There, our job is done, and you are so much more pleasing to God this way.”

A Falling Star

Angels are a funny thing. We mere mortals know not how to treat them. They are appalled if we exalt them, for God is whom they glorify. They ever point the way to Jesus and are dismayed that all the TV shows about them never speak that precious name, as it is always on their tongue.

They are infinitely below God, as are we. Jesus created them, along with every power in the universe; without Him, their glory would fail quicker than a falling star. Christ is their Master, and in obedience to Him they are far beyond us.

I am perplexed. So many people, while ignoring the Creator, are mesmerized by the beings He created. I think humans are a funnier thing than angels.

Watcher in The Night

I wish to be a watcher in the night. While many cannot find their course and rocks loom dangerously before them, I wish to be a voice that guides and calls “Fear not!” I shall hold a light that others might land safely. It may seem a small light, but still the wind carries it along. Still its flame cannot be smothered by the cloak of night. It burns too bright!

The waves may break violently against the rocks—but still I’ll stand. It matters little if I am soaked till bones are freezing. All matters little but the burning love of Him for those souls lost. It is the fire that keeps the torch alight: His burning heart. So do your worst frightful sea, I shall not back down from my spot! My feet are rooted to the rock and there I’ll stand to guide the others home to safety.

Psychics and Their Crystal Balls

Psychics and their crystal balls - they have always been around: those who believe they are connected to another realm. And so they are - the realm of darkness that masks itself in light. All men are given gifts by God, some more spiritual in nature. Some have been born with sensitivity to what is called the “spirit realm”. But without the Holy Spirit, without connection to the Christ, the only information that their antennas can receive is from the lower demons of the air around us.

The difference between God’s prophets and the psychics of this age is their information source. One hears from Jesus and the other from the fiends of hell. They whisper in her ears and give her bits of knowledge about the ones she’s speaking to. Witchcraft! Sorcery! It is all the same and from the same den its snakey head is raised.

The familiar spirit of a psychic is her personal demon that she calls upon . . . though she will not admit to such a thing. Mankind hungers for the invisible. He will find it; he always does—but from which side will it come?

A Revolutionary

Jesus was a revolutionary. He was wild and raw and too extreme for the leaders of his day. They were afraid of him, as they are today. There is a reason that controversy surrounds His person. There is a reason that the media today cannot stop themselves from stirring up the controversy. There is something about Jesus that breeds it. There is something about Jesus that instigates it in the hearts of men.

We are stirred to love Him or hate Him; we are stirred to discredit Him or bow to Him; we are stirred to believe in Him or harden our hearts in unbelief and ignore Him. This is what Jesus does! And isn’t it fantastic? That 2 thousand years after His death this man still affects our dialogue as much as He does. Did He not die? Should He not be long forgotten and just a faded page in history as all the other great leaders of the past?

You cannot ignore Him. Either He is the Son of God or He was a madman. Or perhaps He was just a great deceiver. Then why the controversy still?

Hide!

We always try to hide. Instead of running to our place of freedom, we cower in the shadows, lowering our heads, our gaze fixed to the ground. Will we never learn? Will we never understand that He who is love incarnate knows our frail selves better than do we?

He reaches down to give us help, but with eyes fixed down so many times we do not see it. He looks upon us with the deepest love, ready to embrace our broken selves, but we believe that punishment awaits us—so we hide!

And here He is, ever-patient, ever-kind, awaiting our arms to grow weary in their protective stance. When they fall, perhaps then we will be ready to come clean with it. When we have no strength to cower, no place more to hide, perhaps then we’ll realize our place of freedom has always been with Him.

He is not called “Savior” for no reason.

Wreck Me

Dear and beautiful Savior, I love you, yet do not always show it well. I do not do what I ought and find myself doing the very things I shouldn’t. I know how difficult it is to always love, and feel love, and to always show outwardly what inwardly the heart struggles with.

I wish to love people the way you do. How do I learn such a thing? I need you to wreck me with your love, that love would be the only thing I bleed when I am wounded. I no longer want to be afraid of the most biting tongue or the most bitter of persons, though they rip me apart with their words, their scorn, or their anger. I want to give only love in return.

Change me, Lord, so that I am not afraid of the homeless in the park or the teenager hanging out in the parking lot. Fill me with such love that all fear is driven out of me and I am compelled to reach out and share Christ, though I be wearied, used up, and stretched so thin that I am like butter scraped over bread (as a hobbit once said). I want the worst of sinners to be drawn to such a love, the kind of love you showed the world.

Persistent Love

Why does God bother with us when He is so lofty and high up in the heavens? For the sake of love—that is all.

We are from the earth, made from its very dirt; yet He wills to make us creatures of heaven and sever our earthliness—sever the chains that keep us weighted down to earthly things. To be His children we must be like Him; and that is not an easy thing. Our natures have fallen so far down in the dregs that He must radically change us from within. I am so very glad He did not choose to leave us where we are: drowning in the muck of our own sins, grasping for a foothold where there is none.

Through His son, Jesus, He reached down to earth to rescue us. It’s surprising how many people refuse the help, refuse to grab the line and be pulled out of the mire of their sin-filled lives. Such persistent love amazes me. I would have given up on us long ago.

Beware the Innocent

There is a generation of youth that walk this earth today, and some are yet unborn, who shall be stubborn for the things of God. Holiness is the banner that they walk beneath and purity is their joyful call. Who are these youth that dare to tread a path their peers know not, who fearlessly remove themselves from the empty hell of drunkenness and casual sex? They are the nameless thousands of the Lord. Can you not see the fire in their eyes? Straight they walk, turning neither left nor right, staying to their task: to bring Christ’s Kingdom to this world of men.

They shall shake the earth and route evil from out of every corner that it hides. Beware the innocent! More powerful are they than the men who think they rule this earth.

When you see them coming--let them pass!

Of Martyrs and Murderers

There is a difference, a brutal difference between those who die for love and those who die for hate. It is the chasm that separates the martyr from the murderer. Islamic terrorists are of the second kind. Their hatred spurs them on to die, to bomb in splintering pieces another’s home, another’s life.—What shame! Poison fills their soul and death is their companion every waking day.

But those who die for love are of a different breed. Love binds their hands so they refuse to fight their persecutors. And deeper yet, love sacrifices its own life that another may enter paradise. The love of Christ was such, and so His followers have ever done.—What joy! Glory fills their souls and life is poured upon them in abundance.

There is a difference. Islam has not yet met the Christ of love.

Christian Martyr on the Cross by Gabriel Cornelius von Max

Empty Houses

I do not like empty houses. There should be noise in a place called home; otherwise it is not a home. It is simply a roof over the head without loved ones filling it—a shell, of sorts. Silence can be very loud. At least it seems to echo in the ears, like pressing a shell to your ear and hearing the air blow within. A house can be a shell like that: full of nothing sounds. Nothing sounds are the saddest type of sounds. Devoid of chattering voices, bereft of little giggles, lacking the squabbles and conversations that make a house a home. I also do not like nothing sounds.

In the Psalms God said He puts the lonely into families. What a wise God He is who not only created humans, but created a place to grow them. Thank you Father for thinking of everything!

The Sound of War

It’s coming from Africa—the sound of crutches falling to the ground, the sound of shouts of joy as dead men rise. It’s happening in Africa—places here and there awakening beneath the touch of Jesus. Falsely called the Dark Continent—No more! There are places brighter there than we have ever known.

There are orphan children who regularly see angels, who have visited with Jesus up in heaven and have been taught by heavenly Beings songs that they have never heard before. There are hospitals that have literally been emptied out of all their sick by little children who marched confidently through the doors and prayed. What wonders!

The worship of these little ones is like the sound of war! Demons flee before it and disease cannot withstand its sound. Such praise shall bring God down among us . . . the horn is blown and glory's rising.

Artwork: Maasai Calabash © 2008 Terry Wilson

Play On!

Hope springs eternal on our heads; for those who know the love of Christ it flows like honey. Hope! Though battered, bruised, and nearly blinded, hope still! The hope that comes from God presses us to sing when though a weary whisper is all our voices own. Our very selves are instruments of worship and made to play for Him, and though we may be broken there is still a string or two that can be played. Play on! Worship still, even when our strength is at its ebb. Lift up that weary hand to praise the only One whose name is Holy, for it is such a hope that stubbornly holds on.

Down like great drops of rain hope falls and soaks the soul when we turn our eyes toward Him . . . play on, even when it hurts, play on!

Babies Down the Drain

Babies down the drain, flushed away as thoughtlessly as sewage. Rivers of babies have been lost. 43 million little lives in America alone. God said He sees us in our mother’s womb when we are yet unformed. That would be an embryo just 2 weeks old—unformed and quietly unknown by its mother. Yet Father knows that tiny life and He says that in His book are written all the days that He had planned for it, before it's ever born and awakened to the world. Think of all His plans that never came to pass, all the pages of His book that were torn out. Poor mothers. Their hearts are left with pain and shame after this violent act against their womb. Abortion is a grief.

This is proof of how civilized we've become . . . it is rivers of precious babies flowing down the drain.

Are We Not Gods?

God is so creative! It is an incredible, immense imagination that He has. From out His mind sprang the entire order of the universe; such an astounding thing that mere mortals find it difficult to grasp. We are boxed in by our little minds and refuse to believe in feats to which we ourselves cannot attain. We sit before our Creator with our chests puffed out and insist with presumed intelligence, “God did not do that! There is no god in fact!”

We sit resolute, determined to not heed anything of a kind that might say that we are wrong. Wrong? Us? Are we not the smartest of all creatures? Are we not gods ourselves? Do we not have the power of the divine hidden down within only waiting to come out? What tragic, silly beings we’ve become.

And Christ looks down upon those He made and sees the rebellious little children that we are.

A Cold Fog

Grief. I must surrender this to God. I must write until the grief and anger has disappeared—dissipated like a cold fog; evaporated like a muddy puddle that leaves only a splotch of dust upon the pavement. Then the next rain can come and wash that spot of dust away.

It has been awhile since Dia passed away. Passed away—that is such a strange phrase. It sounds so oddly peaceful; as if a quiet breath of wind just brushed the face, or a shadow drifted over nearby hills and on. It sounds like darkling shades of blue and muted song. Passed away. Perhaps it is such a gentle thing for those who leave; but for those who stay behind it is a violent rending of the heart that bleeds for months . . . and months.

Now she’s gone and her babies’ miss their mama, and I have lost a kindred friend.

Kneeling in the Dirt

God is as great and terrible and beautiful today as He has ever been. I love Father! I am so glad that He revealed His precious self to me when I was lost. I love Holy Spirit, tender guide and counselor. I love my Lord Jesus, Savior of my soul and constant friend. I am blessed to be allowed to know Him. My soul magnifies the Lord and glories in His name! There is none other like Him, no god before Him; for He reigns above the heavens and sits on His eternal throne.

I am a little lump of clay kneeling in the dirt, yet He knows my name; He sees my heart. How wondrous a thing that such a God of majesty knows His children and loves them as He does.

Glimpses into the Spirit Realm

The night is fading quickly and I am falling weary. In a quiet corner of the library I am hovelled. I do so like the library. It would be wonderful to find an ancient library full of dusty books where a lost manuscript might be discovered. I would love to decipher ancient texts that no one else can understand.

I know that there is more than what we see around us. My mind stretches out to understand things far beyond my grasp. I yearn to go beyond! I long to see the things invisible, the things that God can see; I have called to God and He has answered me and shown me great and unsearchable things, which I did not know. I love these glimpses into the spirit realm.

Holy Spirit, give me a mind that grasps eternity! I want to see it all . . .

Monster of the Mundane

The youth of our culture crave extreme, dangerous things to do. They are quick to car-surf or fly off a rooftop on their skateboards. They are bored, to put it simply. Bored out of their minds! Literally. They are sick of the monotony of modern life: the structure, endless regulations, and the strangling system with which our culture shackles them. I understand the dislike for an institutionalized society.

And sadly "church" is little different. It is an institution of formidable proportions. It is a monster of the mundane which men have faultily created. It looks little like the living organism which Christ intended. I must confess I gravely dislike "church" right now. I find them frightfully unfriendly with a dullish-gray prosaic-ness that hangs on them like lichen on crumbling stone.

The unfriendly part is the hardest part for me, or perhaps it's the prosaic. Both are unbearable and unacceptable for neither show the gleaming heart of the One I Iove or welcome lonely souls into their camp.

Stone Them Dead

There are Pharisees in our midst. They do not believe the prophets of this day have been raised up by God, and if they could—they would stone them dead. Those who own that call step in a dangerous place. In Old Testament times they killed their prophets and throughout all of history it has been the same. Those sent by God were burned, and drowned, and torn in two; every kind of misery they met.

But we are more civilized today. Neither rocks, nor raging flame, nor darkened pits are used to silence God’s dear prophets . . . not today! It has been found that words are much the stronger. Words will stone God’s sent ones just as well as rocks. Religious voices are well-learned in how to strip away a reputation. The unbelief of these modern Pharisees is pandemic in the church and doubt is spread like poison in the ranks.

What a sad, strange thing that those who profess the loudest to know God best of all are the very ones who always kill His prophets.

Glory Rising

So many in the faith do not recognize the times that we are in. They only see destruction, and gloom is in their visage. End Times, apostacy and death! They do not see the Glory that is rising. It rises yet! Brighter than the darkness, this Glory even now transcends above all else. The name of Christ is rumbling through the heavens and the darkness trembles at the sound.

Such Glory fills these earthen vessels that we are, a fragile broken-hearted people that have been saved by love. Such Glory shall yet raise the dead and in the western nations we shall hear the shouts of blind-men given sight and lame-men given back their legs. In third world nations such things are common. In this faith they are far richer, for unbelief does not grip their hearts as it does ours. But God's Glory cannot be bound and there are a hidden people who even now can call this Glory down and soon they will come forth!

Give Me Thunderstorms

I am an autumn person, in season, weather, clothes, and temperament. I do much better mentally in autumn than in summer. The brisk weather and turning leaf color lifts my spirits. The air vibrates with more energy than summer. Summer is lazy. Brain and muscles wish to sleep in the warm clime. I am not a summer person or sun-worshipper or beach lover. Give me mountains, forests, and thunderstorms. I feel cheered just thinking about it! Give me winds that bend the trees and make them speak! Give me rain that pummels down upon the stones and clatters on our rooftops!

God's voice thunders like a waterfall, like a mighty wind His Spirit blows, and His glory rips across the heavens like the lightening. He made all creation to reflect his attributes. It is why I love the wildness of nature: it shows the wildness of God.

Aliens

We are not permanent creatures here on earth. We are as transient as the dew that disappears by noon. And we are aliens in a world that does not quite fit right. All humans are the same in this. We are born into this world with an innate longing for that something that is invisible, that is just outside our grasp. Our entire lives are spent looking for that "thing" that we know we've lost, if only somehow we can remember what it was. And those who finally find it are looked upon with suspicion by those who are still searching. Our lives are short and fade quickly into twilight like smoke rising from a chimney. Search on! Find the One who put the longing in you . . . that is where the answer lies.

We were born for something more than this lowly life, destined to be earthen vessels filled with glory. Supernatural beings created by a supernatural God. Visionary creatures we were meant to be. Dig further in and higher up and let not those who are content with simply reading the words in the Book hold you back. They will try! God gave a book to teach us more about Him, but we are not to worship it and it cannot contain all of who God is.

If we are aliens to this world anyway, let us be as wildly different from this earthly place as we were meant to be.

I Know Too Much

This is not an easy journey that we who follow Christ are on. The way is often gritty and filled with stones. I have tripped before . . . I have fallen smack! on my face and been bruised from head to toe. But now that I have come to know He who is beloved above all others, I could not choose another path. I know too much. I have felt His heart beat next to mine. I have felt the anguish in His heart for the lost ones that stumble in the dark.

He knows all my secrets and my quiet thoughts. He knows the words I speak before they fall across my lips. I can hide nothing from Him, as there is no darkness dark enough to blind His eyes. He grips my soul and a great yearning fills me that I cannot contain. Is it madness that takes away my sleep as I spend my nights seeking You?

Gray thoughts

Today is a new day, though it does not feel very new. I did not sleep well last night. I have little energy and a “new day” should feel like a freshly minted penny or a fresh-washed car. Sort of spiffy. I do not feel “spiffy”. “Clunky” would be a better word, or “raggedy”, or perhaps just plain “old”. This is what happens when one is sleep deprived. The mind is full of gray thoughts, not colorful happy things. I need to read the bible today. It may cheer my spirit, it may not; but good, honorable subject matter to contemplate is better than gray thoughts. God! I need your help. Without your help I can do nothing today, or tomorrow, or even during eternity. I cannot love you as you deserve without your love in me. How strange, that you must love us first for us to love you properly. Even our loving you is hinged on you. So, help! I am empty and dried out. Fill me with new things, for old stale things hang on me.

Shine

Truly I want my heart to be filled with your presence and I need the pursuit of you to be what fills my hours. How do I come to that place? I am not certain; but you know. You know everything. Change me to be a true replication of Jesus, my precious Savior. I wish to be as beautiful as He is. I wish to shine with the Glory of Father as He does. Shine . . . shine . . . shine! That certain something that glows from His eyes must shine from mine.

The First Words

Christ is all there is. Fairer than ten thousand is He, fairer than all the sons of men. There is no joy in life to be had without Him. He, himself, is joy! He is love and all things pure. What a wonder that I find myself in relationship with Him. God so tender and so good has seen to it that we have a way to Him. He has made a way possible for us lowly things to be exalted. What a mystery this is, to be loved by One so high and lifted up! Man could never have imagined such goodness or such righteousness. It is proof that God, the true God, is not a fabrication of man's imagination. Time and again, throughout all of history, man has proven what manner of god his imagination can conjure up. Always it is a god as low and petty and unrighteous as himself. The gods of myth and pagan followings are beings of unbounded lusts and selfish bickerings; they are gods who hold grudges against us lowly beings and who demand hard service and unending tribute be brought to them to secure their favor. How wondrous to have a God who is so far above us and in perfection reigns.