Ummmm, is this some kind of ceased gospel? Of lavish gift grace shunned and eternal life discarded, thrown away for a much preferred option of ‘doing ok thanks’ and consumer comfort?
How could, it, can it should it? When conversations about Jesus seem to be gobligook, from a mental state of la la land, When my heart cries “please, please get it” and they don’t. When talk of goodness and fatherly care falls on hurting ears, so will this gospel just kind of stop. Yes, I know it’s growing, bubbling, like champagne, ready, ripe to pop with life and fruit, yet yet, yet… won’t you just crack open a bottle or two, like now?
I long for the power that matches the words of life, The presence, not absence of the One who is always everywhere, and here and there, but is somehow missing when I engage and secretly plead in my kneeled being, desperate. Then I watch agog, step a’back, out a’way as He scoops His damaged good offspring and a symphony of corks start to fly in heaven as on earth as rescued children embrace the party and great news tenderly whispered to hearts, that respond, ‘yes, I get it…’ __________________________________________________ Post script: Sometimes the gospel just seems broken. People don’t get it and doing what I do just seems a waste and nothing seems to happen. In short, this poem reflects and hopefully captures some of the frustrations I feel as an evangelist… yet, I hold on to the words of Jesus… ‘ open your eyes and look at the fields! They are ripe for harvest.’