Feeling like I need to do something. Something. Something.
Feeling like I need to write. Something. Anything. But I don’t know what.
I need to write a sermon. Need to preach God’s word. Need to get out of the way, let God talk to the people in front of me on Sunday.
Beat. Beat. Beat. What do I have to say?
Living water. Water water water water water. Source of life. Essential Ingredient. Key to life. All life. Water water water.
One source. Only one source.
What sorts of dams are we building? Dams not to store, but to prevent flooding. And even the storing part. We store it, it stops being living. It has some movement in it, but mostly, still. Grows moss. Grows gunk.
Living, moving, healthy water. Water water water.
I want that water. I want that water. I need that water.
And it’s there. And it’s free. And it’s abundant. And it’s there.
But I can’t keep building up piles of junk in front of it. I can’t keep building dams. Dams neither to prevent flooding nor to store. The water that comes into me must flow out to be healthy, living water.
Junk. Junk junk. Unintentional dam-building. Piling up my junk in front of the water source and losing out on the water that’s there. Satisfying myself with the scum that eeks out from the bottom of my pile of junk.
Break down the junk. Tear down the pile. Tear down the dam. Tear down that which stands in my way of being caught in the rush of the living water.
What is my junk?
My sin. My pride. My “I can do this!” My spite. My disobedience. My impatience. My lack of love. My utter lack of love. Not that I have no love, but I have these great big gaps of emptiness. Empty of love. Empty. Holes. Without love, breeding junk and death and destruction and mayhem . . . my junk piled in front of the water. The water. The water. That revives. That sustains. That is life. You simply cannot have life without water. Nothing. Even a desert has water.
Other junk? Distractions. Stuff. Stuff. Stuff. Good stuff even, but stuff nonetheless. Stuff I suck dry, when it was never wet. Stuff with no water. No life. Yet stuff nonetheless. Piled up.
Tear down the walls. Tear down the junk. Root it out, dig it out, tear it down.
Let the flood come rushing through. Until there is nothing but water. Save that which is cleansed by water. And that which grows, born of the water.
Rush into every crevice. Fill the empty places. Bring life where there is death. Bring life where there is decay. Bring water where there is muck and mud and even Kool-Aid. Bring life. Living water. The real stuff, the good stuff, the stuff of life.