10:00 a.m. - 2006-02-15
Metanoia Rant
A pillar of cloud by day. Smouldering embers by night. This is what led the children of Israel through their wilderness years. So tangible. So sure. Reprisals, so quick, so efficient. And blessings, tumbling from the skies at every turn. Today is more ambiguous. The law, now written on our reluctant hearts, is heard only in the still, small voice. The voice so soon quenched by the cares of this world. Easily startled out of reverie by the noises within and without, I strain to hear the imperceptible whisper above the din. The pleasant racket that comfortably tethers me to the beguiling one, disguised as an angel of light. It is only when I attempt to commune with my Father that I notice the silence. Petitioning the empty sky, I feel, suddenly, unspeakably alone. Where is your God? Where is your God? The voice of the taunter resonating my despair. It is not Yahweh who has turned, for He is immovabele, no shadow of turning. It is I. As David, my sin is ever before me, occluding my Redeemer. The Beloved who pines for my return. It is easy to be sorry. Sorry for my own loss. For the feel of His steady platform beneath me, His right hand. As the trembling sheep wanders farther from His voice, it is easy to be sorry. As the night closes and the storm brews, sorry is the easy part. It is repentence that is hard. True repentence. Metanoia, in Greek. The turning from. One hundred and eighty degrees and not a degree less. No cowardly bargaining, but a true and heartfelt promise. The turning point. One foot in front of the next, seeking His face. The way back. Just as suddenly, He is there. Drawing me with a force I cannot resist. The road back, so forgettably smooth. Strewn with unearthly blossoms. Guided by the Shepherd. His sheep hear His voice and the voice of a stranger they will not follow. I am my Beloved's and He is mine. Nothing compares. Nothing. To borrow from Doc, I am once again running to the Sayer. Falling into His arms like a trusting child. All is well. As trust increases, I lean on Him. Allowing my weight to fall against His translucent glory. The finite touching the Infinite. Trusting that the chair will hold. Sinking into it's familiar embrace. Finally, abiding. Resting in Him. The cleft in the Rock. The home I carry throughout this wilderness, so barren, so full. Doc called it "faithing". The ABC of faith. Action based upon belief sustained by confidence. My Shepherd has promised that nothing can snatch me out of His hand. Nothing. That nothing can separate me from His love. Nothing. Be not afraid. Only believe. I am His. He is mine. Like paradise.
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