I remember him, the guitar player from worship, his Revelation sermon five weeks ago. He described the great-big-deal that God is preparing for the last days – his final victory over the devil. And I remember understanding, remember nodding, remember seeing the whole glorious thing spread out somewhere in the future: the battlefield, the victory despite all our losses, and our savior’s glory.
The God who parted the Red Sea, who sends winds and earthquakes and fires and yet bodies himself in gentle whispers, has written to us in our own words.
Our own inky, limited words.
And this he wrote to us, and this we call to him: “Part your heavens, O LORD, and come down… Reach down your hand from on high.” (Psalm 114: 5a-7a)
I want to be there when he does.
But right now, I’m three floors up from the ground, the lamp is glowing yellow, there are books and paper piled everywhere, and the church next door is loud and wild and I’m not sure I belong. I’m not sure I belong here at all – I had my priorities all in a row, and this wasn’t on it. When I open my Bible in the morning, the words I read sound like strangers, and I say to God, “Where are you?“