Sunday, December 9, 2012

The one thing God couldn't speak...

I need words.

I need The Word.

Few understand how comforting it is to know that He is The Word. Words, for me, are what make sense of the world.

The Word makes sense of the world.

My heart spills in ink what my lips can't say, and His heart spilled in blood words we would never understand even if they were shouted at us.

He spoke the world into existence. Light years of space sprinkled with the dust of a million fire balls, and the smallest ant among the queen's busy workers, and yet He didn't have words to say, I love you.

He had to write it. 

And He wrote in law on our hearts and in blood on His hands, and the Word of God who spoke the world into existence became the Word made flesh and blood written love. 

And the world makes sense when we see it, read it, there in the thorns and the nails and the full-empty tomb. And for me the world makes the most sense when the words flow in a river back to their source.

The Word is the source of all words, of language. And it's meant to point to Him. 

I want these words, written with love for Him, just like He was written in love all over His redeemed, I want them to point to Him, even when I don't understand His ways.

Sometimes I read Him, but I don't comprehend Him. He's rolled over and over in this aching heart, but so much of the time He's more like gall stones and less like healing salve. The challenging and trusting is never comfortable. But somehow rough makes smooth.

The Word is like sandpaper, and somehow this ink pouring is a way of rubbing, irritating, scratching until the smooth comes.

I like it better when He babbles laughter over pebbles, the gall already sanded away. There have been those days, when the words just come like music, because The Word is rocking this heart with lullabies, taking a break from sanding dust.

But those days are few and far between, glimpses of glory glowing through the cracks of a crooked world. Yet just those momentary glances tune my ears to the music in all The Word is writing in life. Because if He never changes then it's all music. Rolling over gall stones and sandpaper scratching just as much as babbling over pebbles and rocking lullabies.

And just like ink soaking the page is the way I process living off the page, The Word written in blood ink doesn't stay on Calvary's page, but breaks off into every generation, and tribe and tongue and nation, to teach us the song of angels.

"Worthy is the Lamb who was slain to receive blessing and honour and glory and wisdom and power and might!"

He is our Word.

We need words. We need The Word.

It's the only way to learn our song.

1 comment:

  1. Lovely :) Reminded me of a bit from T.S. Eliot's poem Ash-Wendesday:

    If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
    If the unheard, unspoken
    Word is unspoken, unheard;
    Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
    The Word without a word, the Word within
    The world and for the world;
    And the light shone in darkness and
    Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
    About the centre of the silent Word.