The Old Man Hates The New Thing

Two posts ago on this blog, I published an article entitled A Dialogue.

That writing contained the words of a man feeling very sorry for himself, the words of a man longing for old things: for torn garments, for worn-out footwear, for expired wine, and for moldy bread.

That man was I.

That man’s confession, though derived of truths and sprinkled with good exhortation, still served as little more than his excuse to remain wallowing in the infancy of yesterday. That man could neither outwit nor overpower God though he tried; and even the tears of his pleadings were often selfish.

That man looked with great endearment upon God’s former works; but that man made idols of those memorial stones, and could scarcely see past them across the Jordan. That man risked gaining no promised land by desiring only the gold he once plundered from Egypt.

That man was looking back after having set his hand to the plow – a wicked soul unfit for the kingdom of God. That man still longed to bury the dead with the dead rather than die to death and live.

That man gave himself credit in the miracles of yesterday; when truly it had always been the grace of God covering and working where he could not yet see his own shortcomings.

But this man sees his need to move on into the higher places, from where his Shepherd now beckons: always more aware of his own insufficiency; and thus his need not to fall behind in that wretched wilderness of self.

Die old man, die.

Thus says the Lord, who makes a way in the sea, a path in the mighty waters,
who brings forth chariot and horse, army and warrior; they lie down,
they cannot rise, they are extinguished, quenched like a wick:
“Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old.
Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?
I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”
Isaiah 43:16-19

“There Is A Door” – A Poem

There is a Door,

Whose thresholds are countless to cross
Whose Mystery dwells in my dross
Whose rooms I have yet to all see
Who by each new entrance makes free

This Door is the blest Son of Man
Forever unfolding His plan
With each day a whisper in ear
That crossing, I might be drawn near

There is no door other than He
Whose entrance by which one might see
His heavenly holiness shine
Here on earth as where all is divine

There is such a Door to be found
Every day His still voice does resound
Let us hear, for that Spirit does speak
To the lowly and unto the meek

Make your entrances while it is day
That at night you may not slip away
For He shuts and He closes at will
And the seats at His table do fill

O come to the Door and make haste
For His thresholds are just a foretaste
Of the glory which He shall make known
Through the ones within whom He’s now shown

Behold the Door, He is our sight
And an ark filled with children of Light
That the flood of His vengeance be passing
And renewed shall be Day everlasting

– Brendan