We see God in the shape he shows to us. For some, fire. For others, holy smoke, oil, a running river, sheep’s crook, muscular right arm that holds against the dark, the dread.
It is the oddity of poets to not see the world straight on but at some slant, under the skin, behind the scrim—a scurry of leaves, clouds. God speaks his presence in the wind.
I sensed him even in the ink warming within the pen before these words arrived.
Marriage is a means by which God draws a couple close by turning their limits to their good. And no conservative I know has seriously argued that same-sex couples need sanctification any less than opposite-sex couples do.
The Christians in Jerusalem’s early church were in crisis. Should they admit gentiles into their fellowship? Could gentiles be believers? Resolution of these questions did not come easily, but finally the Jews swallowed their pride and begrudgingly allowed the gentile outsiders to come into the fold.
When I was a child I spoke as a child, understood as a child, reasoned as a child. I knew my parents loved me best. I mistook abundant love for especial favor and blessings for entitlements. I mistook good fortune for God’s approval and worldly outcomes for the will of God. Kennedy won because God was on our side. When my grandfather died, I assumed it was me—something I’d done or failed to do. Maybe the first time I ate meat on a Friday, at Bobby Bacon’s house. It was baloney.
