The Church - Silence - The Bible

WE ARE MEANT to be a symphony. Like Creation, where the Father breathed, the Father spoke, the Father moved. Elohim, gods, in unity flowing from note to note to put into order what was unseen. Not even separate notes, nor chords, played with different fingers, but one hand, one voice, one beautiful motion. We have divided ourselves by thought, making roles to fill in by stature and place. We have defined ourselves, separating the flow of love from Father to son, to daughter, to child, into words and syllables. What should be breathing, an inhale, an exhale, has become a system, an outline. Part A. Part B. We think, not about breathing. We consider, not love, nor plan for it, nor design it. We react to it instead. Our heart aches, so we reach out, one hand extended to clasp the one held out to us. We are a symphony played on a hand of expertise, a cellist bent over his bow, his thoughts not on the notes as written, but on the sound as heard in his ears. And the beat of his heart and the sweat on his brow, all of it instant and instinctive, lifting and folding, resting, rushing. | THE CHURCH

“And whether one member suffer, all the members suffer with it; or one member be honoured, all the members rejoice with it.” (1 Corinthians 12:26)

CRITICISM IS PUTRID, a waste of air, a gut rush upward expelled in an effort to douse the soil. We are built for poetry, for words without ending, adjectives, nouns, which tie us together in the stroke of a pen, in the surge of a voice practiced at speaking. We are the laughter of a parent at the giggles of a child, our heart full to bursting, our wonder that from us came this beauty. Yet, instead, we pelt rocks at the image, angry ripples in a pond whose surface was calm, just moments ago, and the ugliness spreads to the shoreline, stripping foliage and grains from their placement, creating cracks, muck. We see not how our hatred affects the overall but only how it sails us outward, where the bottom sinks into crevasses unseen on the surface. We create current where there is none and cause flotsam to swirl, cause animal life to spin, and the trees though steady seem to lift and fall with our motions. Words seem harmless, seem innocent, but have the power to destroy. Thoughts create them, what we dwell on, what we think like, growing wings in our head until what is small and inconsequential or large and unsustainable becomes upside-down within. We should fight this way, we’re thinking. But no, we should not fight at all. That is the point. We should strive not to fight. We should walk away and turn to God, speak His name instead. For Cain killed Abel after dwelling on offense. And Saul sought for David with the devil in his head. Religious men, well-read in Scriptures, saw the miracles of their Messiah and sought His death. Hatred is fungus beneath the nailbed, a rash that grows and spreads until there’s no rest to be found. Love is an ointment, costly acquired, mixed from the blood of Jehovah, crushed from the flesh of Adonai. Spread on the palms it ate holes in them and dripped down His side, His only words those of His Father, whose SO LOVE was the price of it that now speaks unending. What we should not say, He has never said. The stones we should not cast, He never lifted but fell upon them and left beneath His weight, only dust. | SILENCE

“And he beheld them, and said, What is this then that is written, The stone which the builders rejected, the same is become the head of the corner? Whosoever shall fall upon that stone shall be broken; but on whomsoever it shall fall, it will grind him to powder.” (Luke 20:17-18)

MY HARD DRIVE DIED and with it went a lot of work. I didn’t cry. I rejoiced. I have no regrets on where I’ve been nor what I’ve written, but seasons come and there’s a change, a flush of leaves either green or red, a shift of currents, temperatures. I have a saying I repeat often. I state today’s date then tell myself it is not the years before, calling them out by number, and then add I cannot and will not go back there, either in behavior or in time or in any other manner. Memories are just that, memories. I have both good and bad. The good I cling onto, grandparents, childhood, beloved pets. The bad I roll over onto God’s broad shoulders. God is too generic a word. Many people refer to God, believe in God, but to know Him requires details. Just as I know my books and the characters in them, can tell you what I was thinking when they were written, and why the plot went the way it did, I can see God in His naming, as the Father, large and patient, gentle, as the Son, the Words which speak and speak into eternity, and the Spirit, the glory of them, raising from the dust, walking miracles who, like me, head in a direction, making footsteps to follow after. The hard drive gone, I could start anew without any excuse for being stuck in the past. Except it was harder than that. Habits form from repetitive use, both good and bad. What to do now with the words that crowd me, how to extend them, and where will they fall. Thy Word, O God, is truth, and you knew this when it was written. You knew that men, lost in their imagination, prey to deceptive argument and theological discussion, would dance astray and get lost in their shuffling. And you designed these documents, these pages, to hold the fullness of you. Chapter and verse enumerates, not opinions formed through education or rumor, but states in black-and-white what holds the universe together. Where men have added their own taste to it, your power breathes out your truth. Only that which is divine, these sixty-six books, speak the depth of you. What is added is not more pages but our proclaiming what has been saved in them, an eternity of motion, stretching from the whispered past into an ear who listened to the Spirit, to the bold future, envisioned by the most beloved disciple on the Lord’s Day when God spoke to him. We get not the miracle of it, that like the gospel it retells, the plan born before-before, which came into being in the days of Jesus Christ, every detail specific and precise, all of it fulfilled, through men, though men, despite men, this book lives. | THE BIBLE

“(For the life was manifested, and we have seen it, and bear witness, and shew unto you that eternal life, which was with the Father, and was manifested unto us;)” (1 John 1:2)

Daisy Floral Image by Kaylin Art from Pixabay
Wavy Line Image by Noopur from Pixabay
Leaves Image by Karen from Pixabay


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Suzanne D. Williams, Author
www.suzannedwilliams.com
www.feelgoodromance.com