Two kinds of Christians: grassy and asphalty.
On a sunny day, grassy Christians bathe in the sunlight. The sun reactivates and reinvigorates their cells, and they let it warm them, change them, and grow them. While they maintain a portion of their own color, their translucence allows the influence of the true light to shimmer through.
Asphalty Christians remain black and rigid. They obstinately absorb the heat and sear any conscience that touches them. Instead of being pliable and flexible and open to new ideas, they stay like they are. Such quality of strength and integrity is admirable to a certain extent but not to the point of being so calcified that they can only be broken by a jackhammer.
It was the kind of night you could look up and see two different skies.
The first sky – the real sky – the far away sky – was at the top. It was the deep velvet violet everyone thinks about when they think about night skies between a fading warm spring and an impending hot summer. No diamond stars, just soft and deep rumination.
The other sky – the clouds, really – the closer sky – laid at the bottom. Just as soft but more overbearing, looming than the first sky. Spectral gray palates singed with halogen orange from suburban streetlights.
The wind was warm, too; hearty branches on lurching trees leaned back and forth anxiously. Leaves’ pale undersides carry the second sky – turning over, they carry the dark of the first sky, and they can’t decide for themselves, and the wind has better things to do.
To feel angry like heat lightning flicker with no rain for relief. To be too inadequate to rest and too apathetic to try.
To know God’s presence and not believe. To know his love and not obey.
To know His love and not obey.