Moonlight fills the living room, light dull and bright all at once, a mystical hue of heavenly inspiration. From the couch I can see the shadows of crevice and crater. Bats are busy closer, darting around, sudden turns, quick dives and then back into the darkness. The evening is cooler, a wonderful thing. Only the drooping cedars, lower branches all brown from drought, dropping on the ground, gives pause to a delightful evening.
God is in the business of saving us. That is what he does. We don’t often think of it this way. Even if our theology says otherwise, our hearts and minds and lived out reality indicates we think it is our business, it is our duty or goal, ourselves and others. We participate, we are not passive, but it is not our work.
Christ came to save us, and he will do it, unless we actively protest.
I say this because it is one of the most difficult lessons to learn at the beginning of the trail along the Way. Letting go not only our passions, letting go also our ambitions towards God, changing our mind so that we don’t insist on the fact we are in trouble if we don’t do all the right things as we see them.
That is the freedom of Christ. It is not just an issue of salvation, or even just an issue of sanctification. The freedom is real freedom of thought, letting us release all those things which consume unspiritual humanity, so that we can join in on the dance. Learning to release that which we even consider as virtue, those drives which enslave us by their noble endeavors is a wonderful thing.
In doing that we learn obedience and the restfulness of understanding of God’s light yoke.
Release and patience. Those, I think, are the two prerequisites to maturity. When one can taste of these, a person is starting on the right road that will lead to even more wonderful light.
I’m still at the beginning, so I can’t even begin to say what the rest of the road may look like. Hearsay only. But, I think I’m on my way.
I also realized this morning that this present writing is reflecting a common pattern in my soul. Neither high nor low, neither answers nor new problems, drifting along in the ‘alright’. Common, but little commented on, for these are the times in which I never write, not having anything bursting out of my soul for attention.
The doldrums of seasons and of my soul. Whither the wind blows? I don’t know. So steady on until something reveals itself more fully or, more likely, I enter a height once more, and the writing takes off once again.