Saturday, August 20, 2011
"There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. For the law of the Spirit of life has set you free in Christ Jesus from the law of sin and death. For God has done what the law, weakened by the flesh, could not do. By sending his own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh and for sin, he condemned sin in the flesh, in order that the righteous requirement of the law might be fulfilled in us, who walk not according to the flesh but according to the Spirit." **
Can't quite make that register in your brain and heart? Here's a secret--you don't have to do one better than the Pharisees. No, really. It's ok. Our Brother and Father said so. You're free.
"Oh but nothing's free," you hear over and over, "SOMEBODY had to pay, your freedom cost SOMEBODY a great deal, so you'd better toe the line, or the best you'll get is scant acknowledgment that He saved you from sin and an obligatory corner shanty in Heaven."
Yes. Our Brother, Father, and Comforter paid. The price was high. But They did it because they wanted to. Not out of obligation. What's dearly bought is dearly cherished.
So no more cringing in the dust, crawling along on your belly, and feeling like you need to pay Him back for paying your debt.
Arise, and breathe the free air.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
I Laid Me Down
I laid me down to sleep,
Not knowing that the wolf walked near.
I laid me down and sleep
Came no more. Hellfire in the wolf’s
eye is too bright and sleeps
not and forbids me sleep.
I laid me down and slept—
One Shepherd sees through night and
He sees the wolf who does not
And will not understand this light and will not—
Cannot draw one step closer.
It was in vain for me to wake, to
Rise early and run, empty to try staying
The wolf with darting wakeful eye,
To eat my bread in snatching fear.
I lay me down
Because He gave
His beloved sleep.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
I’m from a tobacco barn,
from a long line of March lilies
and cockle-burrs. I hail from
the oak and maple trees and
the wrong side of the law.
From that box filled with tapes
of Beethoven and Chopin,
from battlements of Legos, a wall of mud graffiti.
I’m from that flit of Zorro’s cape,
the tightrope of railroad ties,
Prince Edward Island,
And behind the back
of a northern wind
From at least two acres of chamomile,
half a shelf of Philips commentaries,
and a collection of teacups—
there beside the pink one
my brother gave me.
I came from the snap and crack
of a thunderstorm,
a rivulet of rose quartz
veining through the heart of a black hill,
and a safe-hold for
the treasures of the snow.