There are many kinds of sunsets. In fact, if you think about it, there’s one happening every second of every day somewhere in the world. Old Man Sun eases his body down on jungles, plains, and mountains. He sinks, hissing into rivers, and casts his fading gold over the summer children who laugh and splash in the shallows. He bounces off sheets of ice and sets oceans on fire. The sun dies a hundred, a thousand, a million deaths a day—yet remains a grand and eternally optimistic Romeo, offering his dying breath to lovers and poets around the globe.
What kind of God puts a thing like this into motion? What kind of God imagines a star and it is—it becomes? Who can speak universes into existence? Fill the skies with wonder simply for His good pleasure?
He is wild and holy. Painting unending sunsets with His fingertips and soaring far above the pumping tiny fists of men who demand He request their permission to exist.
No, God is free. Free from my will—and your will.
He is the unshackled Great I Am.
And so we gather, those of us who call ourselves Christians. We discuss and bat around spiritual ideas and concepts. We listen to long diatribes from men in the know as they explain to us the detailed thought, will, and character of the One who gives us breath. We stuff these ideas comfortably into boxes and get on with life. We’re ants in a hole beneath a Nebraska barn confidently describing to each other the details of New York City.
I love the holy and free God. He takes me to my knees. I don’t understand Him.
He commands the heavens and He helps me find my car keys.
He’s spilling His colors across the Idaho sky at the moment--the second most beautiful thing.
Right behind the Artist.
Fair winds,
Buck
What kind of God puts a thing like this into motion? What kind of God imagines a star and it is—it becomes? Who can speak universes into existence? Fill the skies with wonder simply for His good pleasure?
He is wild and holy. Painting unending sunsets with His fingertips and soaring far above the pumping tiny fists of men who demand He request their permission to exist.
No, God is free. Free from my will—and your will.
He is the unshackled Great I Am.
And so we gather, those of us who call ourselves Christians. We discuss and bat around spiritual ideas and concepts. We listen to long diatribes from men in the know as they explain to us the detailed thought, will, and character of the One who gives us breath. We stuff these ideas comfortably into boxes and get on with life. We’re ants in a hole beneath a Nebraska barn confidently describing to each other the details of New York City.
I love the holy and free God. He takes me to my knees. I don’t understand Him.
He commands the heavens and He helps me find my car keys.
He’s spilling His colors across the Idaho sky at the moment--the second most beautiful thing.
Right behind the Artist.
Fair winds,
Buck