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

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

The First Words

Christ is all there is, fairer than ten thousand, fairer than all the sons of men. There is no joy in life to be had without Him. He, himself, is joy! What a wonder that I find myself in relationship with Him. 

God so good has made a way to Him. 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 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.

Artwork: Jeanne Darc (c) Miles Mathis
http://mileswmathis.com/