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/