Luke 12:21 reads, "This is the way it will be for those who hoard things for themselves and aren't rich toward God."
Although he gave the abundance in his life to the poor, eventually it gained him nothing, not even a meal of beans and some rice. In the end, that beauty added nothing to his poured-out life, to his rugged ol' cross. Nothing added, not to the poor. Not to the richer.
Nothing gains us a place to condemn, nothing gains us a bit of modest storage even. We simply do not gain for ourselves, well, anything. We are victims, if that's the correct usage of the word, of our own storage systems. We have built into our lives large containers of -- for lack of a better word -- storage, vats if you will of (for lack of a better description), well, of come on and help me out here, of, of, STORAGE. We have built into our homeland, into our home areas, into our homes in some strange instances, 10 feet by 10 feet areas of, uh, uh, STORAGE.
Come on, people now, smile on your brother, everybody get together now. WE have areas of STORAGE. THAT IS WHAT WE HAVE COME DOWN TO.
THIS IS AN AREA OF, OF AN AREA OF STORE-AGE. We store in this area. As we get older, We use this area not to reconstruct, not to change the way that area is viewed, not to design or paint or inhabit. No, we use this area to store. Nothing more. Nothing less. We, the poor trying to help the poor, build for ourselves, an area of STORAGE. Nothing more. Nothing less. Can you wrap your intellect around that notion. We STORE STORE-AGE. We gain nothing; yet, we store. STORE-AGE.
We hoard things for ourselves in this area. Ten feet by ten feet of US. It is a space for US. That is what it exists for. It is not an area of expertise or an area of joy. It exists for no other reason other than things go in, and they do not come out. STORAGE it is so amazingly, correctly called. An area of storage. Storage of self, as if we had no other place to put self. A Vat. Inhabitation. No electricity, even. No air, conditioning or otherwise. JUST PLAIN OL' STORE-AGE.
We put our stuff in an area exclusively designed to put stuff. That being the case, shouldn't it be called SELF AGE or perhaps most appropriately, SORE AGE?
We've cleaned our clocks, so to speak, and we've placed our stuff in this storage area, this DEPENDABLE STORAGE area. And we've walked away with a feeling of satisfaction that could only possibility be labeled CALMING. We did it. We loaded it. It's so wonderfully named STORE-AGE. It is a store-age unit. Eventually for reasons no one could explain nor would they try, we call it STORE-AGE. We amazingly succeeded in our loading and unloading of this material into a vast, vast moment, and here before God and neighbor we've settled our accounts and there is this tranquillity that has come over us.
It has been DONE. It is OVER. We've done it.
It is over. It is done.
Did I mention it is done and over? Marbling of beaten flesh. Clotting of thick blood. And eventually our glorious gladiator, our suffering servant passed. We were left by the one who loved us most.
And there was none of this left behind feeling sitting on our shoulders as if we somehow messed up the whole thing. It is D-O-N-E. And yet it is not. Parts of this moment linger on us as if ultimately we had no idea in the first place. Two-thousand or so years, and yet it is as if mere days had passed, cluttered as as if casual clothing thrown here and there. Rags to leaches.
We have/think/are and these ruddy moments last past lingering, right on into rainbow connections, and they simply won't go away no matter how much we scrape, no matter how much we wipe, and the joy that is our strength won't wash them away no matter how much we want them/it/I want them/it/I to.
Have you any idea what I'm writing about? Probably not. I probably don't, either. The running blood in our Spirit system is not just ours. It is His. It is a grateful world's. It is our blood, and it is His blood, and it blood we can't face, though we absolutely must. WE MUST. Today we will be with Him in paradise, if we but face up to a system that murders its Messiah's.
Let's just write this as if our theology allows it: God forgives. God forgets.
We, on the other hand, are left with juicy remnants and bitter and morbidly sour memories that are well past their expiration date, memories that won't be forgotten nor forgiven no matter what the amount of clumsy life-dancing might come.
Forgive me/us, Lord, we cry. He does. But the sin, though cleansed away as if by the deepest passion we can muster even on cloudy endless days, lasts and lasts like hot gettys of pain. Oh, the sin/flash card is gone, buried, tossed from some cliff side. Believe me, friends, the sin/flash card exists or it did, like a negative from an old Kodak. It existed/exists on some strange plain of existence. It won't/can't disappear. It won't/can't exit stage right.
No, on this humid hip-hugging evening or this sweet spring morning, the Platters dance gently into that cool morning/livid night, and words hug and caress our own existence like notable playthings: Heavenly shades of night are falling, it's Twilight Time. Out of the mist your voice is calling, it's Twilight Time; purple colored curtains, mark the end of day; I hear you, my dear at Twilight time. Deepening shadows gather splendor as day is done, fingers of night will soon surrender the setting sun. I count the moments darling till you're here with me together at last at twilight time.
I see Jesus one last memorable time, blood sprinkled and blood running and he smiles so gently I can almost feel the tension being cut. I see the passion of this Christ, and I feel his tension, his agony and I know, I really, really know. He is hurting. Oh, how He hurts. He senses we are near. The time is so very close now. Will we feel this moment that is extending past his precious, precious own?
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