Appearance doesn’t matter. Are the naked actions eating people or feeding them? Does the wake display real people standing on their own and stronger? Or have temples been robbed and left weaker instead?
letting the impotence remain
trusting a promise of life.
I can’t bear it.
But I don’t need to.
The love that bears me
bears all things.
I can’t think of a story in which Jesus did what individual people expected. In every case, he didn’t precisely line up. True living will exceed the expectation of some and defy the expectations of others. Not by trying to, but simply by the power of the life.
He who has the Son, has the life.
We have life out of Jesus or not at all. It really is black and white in this way of life and death. A sinful heart is simply an unconnected one. Belief is not adherence. Not a grabbling hold by any act of the will. So, it really doesn’t matter what we sound like or look like. What our words say or our mind tries to adhere to and line ourselves up with. None of that matters. Our “convictions” don’t really matter. What matters is having life. The great temptation is to “believe” for or against a particular creed or way of thinking, but that is not real belief because reality is always found in the power of an indestructible life. And it is only with our connection to that life that any good can come. The life does affect the behavior because His fullness fills everything, but it changes outcomes because we are truly living, not because we are trying to.
In Him was life and that life was the light of men.
He who has the Son has the life.
I have come that you may have life.
That by believing you may have life in His name.
For me to live, is Christ.
the life I now live…
Listening is not a bait and switch.
It is not a means to an end
of speaking our own mind.
It is worshipping
It is allowing someone else
watching with wonder
as that being unfolds
and becomes unhidden
The listening ear reaches out to touch and unravel the remnants of death. Quietly seeing and knowing and letting words fall all the way to the ground of having been said and heard. Slowly round they go – those remains, again and again in the unraveling and as they do a sacred soul comes unbound by the ear willing to touch death rags.
It came and went, my moment of inspiration.
I can’t go back and grab a past experience as fully as it was known the first time. It has to reach out and grab a hold of me. Or rather, the trap door beneath my feet must open by secret codes only the experience itself knows – and I drop down into a re-live. Often, unexpectedly. Many times, when I wish I wouldn’t. Once there, I go through whatever it is. If I try to climb out and close that trap door back by my own efforts to un-feel it – that door will only open again down the road with a vacuum of force made stronger because I tried to pin it shut.
Thank you. For letting me ride your coattails.