Faith

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Originally posted on 01/16/05

From My Tomb

Blood mingled with Water poured from Your side. Each drop soaked into the ground, only to be raised up again, mixed with dust -- the new man, Christ’s brothers and sisters, even His Wife.

One drop fell on a grain of dust that, one day, holy Breath breathed into it would form and fashion the golden vessel I now call “me” -- Not exactly a new creation, just a new creature, for creation was wholly completed in the first six days; Instead, creation the way You intended him to be in the Garden.

Though seemingly alive, I lay buried beneath the sands, sands of time and sands of shame, and still, the layers of sand couldn't keep out the rain, the snow, the heat that turned the sands into an inferno waiting to explode, and even more rain-- hidden in a tomb enclosed, sealed, by mountains versus a stone, yet wide open to the sun and the rain -- a golden vessel, unnoticed, tossed aside like a worthless piece of tin.

One breath, a divine breath, breathed and took the treasure up in arms of purity, Agape Love I never knew, not until then. But layers and layers, and still more stubborn layers of rust remained.

The initial layers were easily sanded away; Ancient Sandpaper -- the hide of the Scapegoat -- was rough, relentless on the rust -- iniquities I'd tried in vain, for so long, to wipe away myself. They fell away quickly, easily, but, oh, so painfully, like fairy-tale fairy-dust disappearing with the wind, dissolving in the sea.

Then, after minutes, hours, years present and years past, and even time forgotten, rusted layers of stubbornness and ignorant misconceptions about ownership fell, oh, so slowly away. One would have thought Your hands would have been tired from continuous cleaning that seemed to get nowhere fast, that You’d have lost patience. But Mercy endures because He knows what’s buried beneath the rust.

You stopped there, at the last layer, just long enough to change the grade of paper to one not so rough on the delicate surface of what was soon to be exposed. One slow, prolonged day at a time, that seemed to just keep coming, a too-long in coming end (or was it just the beginning?) to a True-Love story that You were more patient for than I ever could have been, and there was a gleam, a ray, a glorified eye-catcher, a glimpse of gold.

The Light raised You up in three days. But the treasure isn't that Firstborn Son of God. It's just a vessel unworthy to carry Your Name, chosen to do so regardless. It's been a long, slow process because You knew: Gold just can't quite handle that much glory all in one strong dose.

You worked, ever so patiently, taking away the last layer of will and self-fulfilling lusts, so that crucifixion could take place. And finally... Look:

Only small discolorations remain. So, you change from paper to cloth, the softest cloth of all, that of the finest fibers of wool, a Lamb's coat dipped in Sacred Blood. It works in slow circles with determined intent -- more painful than sands of time, to buff away the remains -- tarnished religion, so I can fight the fight of fights, battle the battle of battles, the giving up life... to live.

The ground trembles beneath my feet in fear of what NOW transpires, much the way I tremble in the holiness of Your presence. My own personal heavenly hosts stand at the opened gates of heaven and rejoice over the work of Your holy hands. They watch the birthing of a queen, their queen in waiting -- in the making. And they wait excitedly, not to roll away the stone, but to hear my own cry: "MOVE, MOUNTAINS!"

Those are the mountains, the ones that have enclosed and sealed my tomb, that (I finally understand!) have waited, knowingly, on my command. I'm not going to wait for what man calls "the rapture" to come out my tomb. No, because "The time is NOW at hand":

Eternal life in a realm of Truth, Life on a cloud that Death never could comprehend, (and still doesn't because it leans on its own understanding) started the day a Gentle Whisper spoke through the clutches of the tomb, the grave: "Wake from your sleep, oh sleep-drunken man, and look UP", while the world was waiting for a voice in the wind -- Elijah has already come, but the world knew him not. Neither did they know that the Son of Man was also the Son of God.
© Joyce Pool

Philippians 3:8-11 (NIV)
What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them rubbish, that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ—the righteousness that comes from God and is by faith. I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead.

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