We begin in emptiness. We walk a tattered ancient trail, led by our pride. We seek an answer and settle on one that seems to fit our yearning. We worship gods made by our own hands, cut to our desires. God of wealth. gods of passion. gods who look and sound like us.
Our freedom. Our choice. Our way.
But something happens. A job is lost. The grave claims someone we love. A child wanders into violence or drugs. A spouse finds someone else to answer a need we never understood. The face of our freedom suddenly becomes a death mask. Our liberty tastes like ashes. Our money buys only a second's peace. Poverty beckons.
It's not our god laughing.
It's the true God calling.
"Who then condemns you? Then neither do I."
A hand that once lifted an adulteress from the ground that was almost the site of her execution.
A voice amidst the violent storm saying, "Don't be afraid. I'm not a ghost."
Laughing with a small child.
A shout of victory from the last moment on the cross.
A call into the darkness of our dead lives, into the tombs we've built, painted in whitewash and hidden in: "Come forth! For the sake of your soul, come out into the light!"
Waiting for those sinking and hurting to cry: "Save me!"
The hand reaching for one who's rushed onto the water and been distracted by the winds of living. The voice behind the hand: "Oh, ye of little faith. Take hold and live."
