Minor Prophets Are For Getting Kicked Around

The living words of dead Malachi echo through my mind, and sentences I would never say aloud, I scream in my black, mad heart. God levels His accusations and my soundless questions echo back, hollow and dismal before divine logic.

The people had not given their best. They had promised it, but held it back.
They say, "You get my best lamb, God", and then they switch to give Him the blind gimp sheep.
The priests had defiled the temple. The priests, the hallowed and consecrated protectors of the temple's purity had let the filth in. And God brings the fury of the whirlwind down.
"Where is my honor?" He bellows at them and me.

Lord, I have not give you honor. At least, not the honor I promised. And wrath is restrained by mercy again.
"For I the LORD do not change; therefore you, O children of Jacob, are not consumed."
I want to dedicate again, but it will be the same old story. It will be the same worshipful frenzy as the last time I promised my best.

I think many are with me. Many are the empty promise-makers. Many are the lamb-switchers. Many are we who live the half-hearted, unremarkable lives of the lukewarm. Are you with me? Will you fight to give the radical best of your flock, of your life to Him? Would you live homeless for Him? He does not promise a mansion on earth (but heaven, oh yeah).
Would you walk worthy?

Or will we face His displeasure?

The Medicinal Effects.Of Grape Juice

Communion for me is like taking castor oil. Good for the innards but there are definitely aspects I don't like. It's a love-hate thing.

The parts that I love should be well-known to any consistent church-goer. The effect of forgiveness on a burdened soul is unspeakable. The joy of closeness to God is a river in the savaged wasteland of a post-Fall humanity. The reminder of why Jesus had to die is painful, but necessary so that the gratitude and love may correspond accordingly. The often unmentioned eschatological side to communion offers hope to the sin-weary spirit.

But the parts I hate are more nefarious. It's easy to look holy during communion - imitating the closed, tearful eyes of the truly penitent. It's easy to grab the bread and the cup when you should have let them pass. Drinking judgment on yourself is a scary thing, but not as scary as others knowing you're in sin.

I need to die to the image I try to portray.

This Blog Is Not Cancerous

The death of a blog is a slow thing. A drawn-out hospitalization where the patient continually makes attempts at getting better, yet again and again regresses into disuse. How many blogs do you know (how many have you written) that begin with "I know I haven't written in a while?"

I offer no apologies for the silence. It is my writing and I dispense it as I please. I would have written more though, had there been more words. Sometimes the words go and you fear they are gone forever. You substitute them with the flat, yeast-less sentences of witless uninspiration. And in those word-droughts it is easy to forget that the words do not come from you. That the Incarnate was called the Word, and upholds all by His word. The Word's word upholds you and gives you spark. You do not make fire - you are man, and Prometheus gives you fire.

And so my flame words were not given to me. Or maybe I didn't ask for them. "You do not have because you do not ask." Feeble, arrogant me. I am no lexicon, I am no titan.

But sentences smolder in me now.

Odd that they rekindle at the new year. Rebeginnings. How very coincidental of Him to have orchestrated.
I have resolutions. But not for the new year. New year's resolutions seem to be doomed to one month lifespans. We are a people of new year's resolutions, and so I resolve differently.
I continue my resolve for joy. It is everywhere, and I see it more and more. I see it in the tear on the cheek and the laughter in the sunshine. Joy falls with the California drizzles and rises with the unfailing steadiness of the sun. It is all around, I resolve to see more of it.
I resolve against stagnation. Of living in the conservative, evangelical rut of subtle idolatry. Maybe you don't know what I'm talking about, but I won't be more specific.
I resolve to obey that pesky commandment in Matthew 5:42.
But I mostly resolve to live better. This American dream(land) is not what I want, but it can haze the thoughts and crowd the desires with materialism. To live well is to live for God, and not for Mammon, or self, or looks, or the house or the "one day I'm gonna have this" dream.
To live well is to die.

I want to explore that.