Sin
Phil Barnes
One person did one forbidden thing one time - and began to die. In the briefest instant a strange phenomenon called shame, not previously known or imagined, overwhelmed the human soul, and the man could no longer even look at his own wife, flesh of his own flesh, with the untainted joy of pure love. Creation's pristine excellence passed into the same category as spilt milk or the burst balloon, now to be so much less than was ever intended, infinitely less than it had once been. This act which willingly, or at best carelessly, flung open the sluice gates of Hell, flash-flooded perfection, not only with death and shame, but with all of the devices that lead from the one to the other - fear, envy, pride, doubt - tossing and twisting with such disfiguring force that before he could find his feet again, Man found himself beset by his sin, blaming his God, betraying his wife, and soon, bereft of his home, his ease, his son.
The filthy discharge that gushed across the human soul that day soon settled to a knee-deep swamp that would become the constant gray gloom through which subsequent humanity must slog. There is no dry spot on which to sit, to stand, to sleep or to give birth. The corruption is not uniform in depth. Some seek the shallowest place and find a degree of comfort in the knee-deep pollution - others wade in to their waist, still frantically searching for new depths in which to plunge themselves. But there is no place free of the contamination. Except one.
The ROCK has risen through the filth. It stands clean and dry. It offers heights to which the flood can never swell. It offers life and health to all who set their feet upon It, protection to all who hide in Its cleft, rivers of purifying water to all who will be washed and refreshment to all who stoop to drink. It gives rest to all who dwell in Its shelter, peace and joy to any who will stretch themselves out upon It, to bask in the Light. The ROCK glistens with such majesty, declaring Itself to be more than a mere recreation of an earlier perfection, but rather, the perfection Itself, the first being the prototype.
Few choose it. The muck has its charms you see - an odour, unpleasant to most, but strangely over-stimulating in an artificial, addictive way, like smelling-salts. And then there is the suction - the unseen force which holds its residents' feet in place, and of course, the comforting pleasure of warm sewage oozing through the toes, which so many who now walk the planet have learned to love so much.
Occasionally someone - motivated by a sense that "the less covered in filth they are, the better" - will, with great effort and commendable determination, succeed in extracting a foot and, obtaining a self-help towel or some twelve-step rags, will manage to clean it up quite impressively. But the foot will again touch down. Maybe not right away. Maybe not for long. Not ever set down again so deeply or so firmly perhaps, but down it must go. Even if it never does, it was not really clean anyway, ... and then of course, there's always the other foot.
But what about those on the ROCK? Many who come, immediately begin to climb that majestic mountain, anxious to leave behind the wretched existence - scampering, fleeing higher as though the muck could grab them and suck them back in, which they know could not happen. They are moved instead by a passion to be as far from the filth as possible. And on those heights they find the Garden that was lost that day. They find fellowship with their God, they find themselves face to Face, they hear His voice, they walk together, they rest.
Many, however, congregate at the shoreline. Those in the swamp show their sanctimonious preference for the shallowest of slime, but also betray their most stubborn refusal to step onto that ROCK. From time to time a splashing breaks the silence and often with it the groaning of a soul in agony, and out of the distance charges one, fleeing from the deepest filth, flying past those wading in the shallows or lingering on the shore, and quickly disappears high up the mountain.
Those on the ROCK who reside at the shoreline are most pitiable. Here they easily befriend the waders, kept thoroughly up-to-date on the current conditions of the slime, and to any assessing the ROCK from further out, are virtually indistinguishable from the waders. These shore-dwellers gaze daily over the endless cesspool, hoping for a sudden gust to give them a good whiff of that stimulating stench. They rarely, if ever, talk amongst themselves about the great mountain rising behind them, but rather of the foul misery at which they constantly stare. Discussions arise as to where the shoreline really is, where the muck ends and the ROCK begins, never having understood the simple concepts of "wet" and "dry". They find they are constantly struggling with the temptation to dip a toe in "just to see" and indeed often do, though never leaving the ROCK completely. They come, in time, to believe a notion that great will-power and self-control is required to avoid dipping in. They bind together, and encourage one another, holding seminars and discussion groups to assist in living this difficult life at the shoreline, oblivious to the truth that the answers lie not in themselves but uphill on the sunlit plateau, far away from where the sewage laps relentlessly against the coast. They go from their seminars to a comfortable spot where they take great pleasure in observing for endless hours those diving and plunging in the depths. They don't feel revulsion at what they see nor do they feel joy or gratitude at having been rescued from such misery (oddly enough, those feelings do flow freely, further up the mountain). But they do feel something - a tingle of second-hand pleasure mixed with a twinge of envy. A very feeble, unsatisfying feeling, but the best they have ever discovered - the best there is, down there at the shore.
They also feel the earth tremble beneath them. The ROCK, though firm on its foundations and serene at the summit, quakes along the shoreline, not trembling in anger (wrath is reserved for those in the mire), but vibrated by the sobbing of Its breaking heart.
One person did one forbidden thing one time - and began to die. In the briefest instant a strange phenomenon called shame, not previously known or imagined, overwhelmed the human soul, and the man could no longer even look at his own wife, flesh of his own flesh, with the untainted joy of pure love. Creation's pristine excellence passed into the same category as spilt milk or the burst balloon, now to be so much less than was ever intended, infinitely less than it had once been. This act which willingly, or at best carelessly, flung open the sluice gates of Hell, flash-flooded perfection, not only with death and shame, but with all of the devices that lead from the one to the other - fear, envy, pride, doubt - tossing and twisting with such disfiguring force that before he could find his feet again, Man found himself beset by his sin, blaming his God, betraying his wife, and soon, bereft of his home, his ease, his son.
The filthy discharge that gushed across the human soul that day soon settled to a knee-deep swamp that would become the constant gray gloom through which subsequent humanity must slog. There is no dry spot on which to sit, to stand, to sleep or to give birth. The corruption is not uniform in depth. Some seek the shallowest place and find a degree of comfort in the knee-deep pollution - others wade in to their waist, still frantically searching for new depths in which to plunge themselves. But there is no place free of the contamination. Except one.
The ROCK has risen through the filth. It stands clean and dry. It offers heights to which the flood can never swell. It offers life and health to all who set their feet upon It, protection to all who hide in Its cleft, rivers of purifying water to all who will be washed and refreshment to all who stoop to drink. It gives rest to all who dwell in Its shelter, peace and joy to any who will stretch themselves out upon It, to bask in the Light. The ROCK glistens with such majesty, declaring Itself to be more than a mere recreation of an earlier perfection, but rather, the perfection Itself, the first being the prototype.
Few choose it. The muck has its charms you see - an odour, unpleasant to most, but strangely over-stimulating in an artificial, addictive way, like smelling-salts. And then there is the suction - the unseen force which holds its residents' feet in place, and of course, the comforting pleasure of warm sewage oozing through the toes, which so many who now walk the planet have learned to love so much.
Occasionally someone - motivated by a sense that "the less covered in filth they are, the better" - will, with great effort and commendable determination, succeed in extracting a foot and, obtaining a self-help towel or some twelve-step rags, will manage to clean it up quite impressively. But the foot will again touch down. Maybe not right away. Maybe not for long. Not ever set down again so deeply or so firmly perhaps, but down it must go. Even if it never does, it was not really clean anyway, ... and then of course, there's always the other foot.
But what about those on the ROCK? Many who come, immediately begin to climb that majestic mountain, anxious to leave behind the wretched existence - scampering, fleeing higher as though the muck could grab them and suck them back in, which they know could not happen. They are moved instead by a passion to be as far from the filth as possible. And on those heights they find the Garden that was lost that day. They find fellowship with their God, they find themselves face to Face, they hear His voice, they walk together, they rest.
Many, however, congregate at the shoreline. Those in the swamp show their sanctimonious preference for the shallowest of slime, but also betray their most stubborn refusal to step onto that ROCK. From time to time a splashing breaks the silence and often with it the groaning of a soul in agony, and out of the distance charges one, fleeing from the deepest filth, flying past those wading in the shallows or lingering on the shore, and quickly disappears high up the mountain.
Those on the ROCK who reside at the shoreline are most pitiable. Here they easily befriend the waders, kept thoroughly up-to-date on the current conditions of the slime, and to any assessing the ROCK from further out, are virtually indistinguishable from the waders. These shore-dwellers gaze daily over the endless cesspool, hoping for a sudden gust to give them a good whiff of that stimulating stench. They rarely, if ever, talk amongst themselves about the great mountain rising behind them, but rather of the foul misery at which they constantly stare. Discussions arise as to where the shoreline really is, where the muck ends and the ROCK begins, never having understood the simple concepts of "wet" and "dry". They find they are constantly struggling with the temptation to dip a toe in "just to see" and indeed often do, though never leaving the ROCK completely. They come, in time, to believe a notion that great will-power and self-control is required to avoid dipping in. They bind together, and encourage one another, holding seminars and discussion groups to assist in living this difficult life at the shoreline, oblivious to the truth that the answers lie not in themselves but uphill on the sunlit plateau, far away from where the sewage laps relentlessly against the coast. They go from their seminars to a comfortable spot where they take great pleasure in observing for endless hours those diving and plunging in the depths. They don't feel revulsion at what they see nor do they feel joy or gratitude at having been rescued from such misery (oddly enough, those feelings do flow freely, further up the mountain). But they do feel something - a tingle of second-hand pleasure mixed with a twinge of envy. A very feeble, unsatisfying feeling, but the best they have ever discovered - the best there is, down there at the shore.
They also feel the earth tremble beneath them. The ROCK, though firm on its foundations and serene at the summit, quakes along the shoreline, not trembling in anger (wrath is reserved for those in the mire), but vibrated by the sobbing of Its breaking heart.
