“Young man…” croaked the old man, pausing for breath.
“I have dreamed my dreams.” I leaned closer to hear my old patriarch’s rasp. “I have finished the race, I have fought the fight.”
“What are your dreams?” He closed his eyes.
“I long…” I began. I stopped.
“We are too safe.”
I long to live life with no idea what the next six months will bring.
I long to belong to a church where I don’t know everybody.
A church built by a vision of what could be, not a blueprint assuming that what has been-
Is what should be.
A church that considers ‘foundations’ as defining but not definitive.
Set but not complete.
A church with a future assured but not paved, paid for in full by those who are walking the path as well as those who’ve passed.
But we are too safe.
I long to see second mile servants, not lenders of bicycles.
Lovers of other lives, haters of self sufficiency.
I long for a church so in love with it’s neighbours it’s control systems break.
Poverty born of generosity.
All at once a sound sanctuary and a bustling humanity, a lounge around the holy altar.
A church where Jesus is,
A church on fire.
But oh, we are too safe.
We don’t need fire.
We are rich, or so we say.
Mothers, brothers, sisters
Houses, lands, plans
Left for the hundredfold
Sold to buy a pearl that we planted in our foundation,
Taught and treasured in mind, heart and hand.
But not handed on.
Loyal stewards of luxury,
Lulled to sleep by Laodicean laziness.
And I am guilty.
A son of my generation I have become.
Born into unbelief.
Born out of the bloom of our forefather’s fire,
Those faithful to the wire
Those risk taking rebels
Revolutionary in zeal
They lived a love painfully hot,
And painfully real.
They say yesterday’s revolutionaries are today’s Pharisees
And have I become one?
More concerned with behavioural dictum than fruitful outcome
We become undone
Not so much in our words but more in our actions-
Saying “It’s what’s outside that matters, son.”
While inside we’ve grown cold
More willing to mold others to our own image
Than let our hearts melt in the painful warmth of His.
So God help us.
His thoughts are not our thoughts
His ways are higher than ours.
So Lord, mold me.
Here I AM! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me. Whoever has ears, let them hear. Revelation 3