Picture this, if you can: The Lord God of Hosts stands at the church house door, at the pulpit, at the communion table, maybe even at the potluck dinner counter, hands perched on hips, lips pursed and brows furrowed, voice wavering with a parental mixture of broiling anger and urgent affection, saying:
What in heaven’s name has gotten into you dimwitted people of the Promise, you ninny-headed, shallow-hearted sucklings of the Most High God!
From the lofty perch of Creation’s spire, your presidents and parliaments, your bankers and barons—they all look pretty puny to me.
Do you think your sorrows languish, unheard; your groans muzzled, unheeded? Read more ›