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!

Artwork: Happy Family by Giovanni Batist Torriglia

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
http://www.thecollectionshop.com/xq/ASP/Terry_Wilson/ArtistName2.Terry_Wilson/qx/Artist_Profile.htm

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!

Artwork: Hope (detail) by Watts

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.

Artwork: Black Swan by Degouve de Nuncques

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.

Artwork: Clytie by Lord Leighton

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 . . .

Artwork: Astronomer by Candlelight by Dou

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.

Artwork: Abbey in an Oak Forest by Friedrich

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.

Artwork: Young Martyr by Paul Delaroche

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.

Artwork: Gust of Wind by Levy-Dhurmer

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.

Artwork: Vesper of the Evening Star by Burne-Jones

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?

Artwork: Border Widow (detail) by William Bell Scott