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.

Photograph: fetus in womb, unknown

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.

Artwork: Psyche Opening the Door by John William Waterhouse

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.

Artwork: Muse at Sunrise by Alphonse Osbert

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?

Artwork: Child's Future by Arthur Rackham

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.

Photograph: Magnifying glass and world, unknown

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!

Artwork: St. Jerome (detail) by Ribera

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?

Artwork: Return of Tobias by Le Sueur

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.

Artwork: On the Banks of the River Bedelder © Annie Ovenden
http://annieovenden.com/

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.

Artwork: Medusa or the Angry Wave by Levy-Dhurmer

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.

Artwork: Sacred Wood by Arnold Bocklin

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

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.

Photograph: Fetus, unknown

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!

Artwork: Autumn by Lucien Levy-Dhurmer

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.

Artwork: Memory by Elihu Vedder

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.

Artwork: Inferno Canto by Gustave Dore

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.

Artwork: The Valkyrie's Vigil by Edward Robert Hughes

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.

Artwork: Yseult by Frank Dicksee

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.

Artwork: Hetty Sorrell by John Collier

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.

Artwork: Toillette de Nature by Pinckney Marcius-Simons

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.

Artwork: The Pool by Walter Crane

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.

Artwork: Lucifer by Von Stuck

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.

Artwork: Sense of Sight by Annie Louisa Swynnerton

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.

Artwork: All Pervading by Watts

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!

Artwork: Windflowers by John William Waterhouse

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.

Artwork: Execution of Lady Jane Grey by Delaroche

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.

Artwork: Joan of Arc in Prison by Delaroche

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!

Artwork: Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog by Friedrich

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.”

Artwork: Hope In the Prison of Despair by Morgan

A Falling Star

Angels are a strange thing. We mere mortals know not how to treat them. They're 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's 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 stranger thing than angels.

Artwork: Steveson Memorial by Thayer

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.

Artwork: Hero Holding the Beacon for Leander by De Morgan

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?

Artwork: Magic Crystal by Sir Frank Dicksee

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?

Artwork: Dead Christ by Champaigne

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.

Artwork: Deianira by Evelyn De Morgan

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.

Artwork: Christ Consoling the Wanderers by Tissot

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.

Artwork: Astraea by Baron Arild Rosenkrantz

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!

Artwork: A Virgin by Thayer

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