A Bridge Too Far

 

A Bridge Too Far

Mirage: illusion or delusion depending on one’s state of mind.

Ephesians 2:8 “For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God:”

     “There is no such thing as a free lunch.”  I heard that phrase somewhere and it keeps coming back.  Someone always foots the bill.  Blessings here come only here through sacrifice.  Riding on the backs of ones letting the blood, a dinner tray makes its way to our mouths.  Take from the rich and give to poor?  A simple shifting of goods.  Substance gathers feet and runs to the pump.  Concentration driven by pressure sees to it an even spread.  In other words, osmosis through a semipermeable membrane is not the mechanism as higher moves naturally to lower.

     Playdough’s levered extrusion machine neatly forms a line of compressed dough emanating from a selected die.  A once unintelligible lump telling no description about its ends now, thanks to process, is something to behold.  And we, like dough, suffer the same.

     Is it too much to deny Our Maker the satisfaction?  Do we harden ourselves to clog the thing set to clamp us into a greater expression?  And we have the opportunity to be conformed to the image of the Son through the Father’s workings.  Keeping our rights, do we set in rigidity our members such to resist even a careful pressure?

     A bridge too far.  We are not saved by works.  We are not carved from the Lump claiming our glory is from ourselves. As if the creature could be greater.  Little shall not boast above Him who is posed to raise to a greater state if we would cooperate.  We look upon our limbs and claim, “Look what we have done!” as if weighted shaping in the gym wins the race of acceptance.

      Cain killed Abel.  Blood in the field of his vocation.  Soil worked with the red tears of God did not yield a produce of righteousness Cain hoped for.  Stained attire clothed his frame as he was driven far away.  Guilt threatened to drive his head, but God had mercy in a mark.

     Are we not like our brother?  Our sacrifice He will not honor if given by calloused hands of self-glory.  Only in the emptying of ourselves do we see the fire of God to our purification.  He will meet us there in humility if we confess our inability to fully scrub our palms of wrong.

     Blood squeezed from a cross drips the acidic cleanser.  Rolled over knuckles stiffened by arthritic apathy, we once again extend joints in coupling grace offered by Him continually.  As if to gather goodness to our mouths, we lap up what we can for the day’s journey.

     He does not find satisfaction in our dependence upon Him.  He does not smile to see us readily kneeling before His throne.  A sick King not preying upon His subjects.  A course of ingestion, we see no tableware set in glamorous arrangement before the heavenlies to dissect the corpse of Man.  Jesus’ nature forbids this manner.

     A forever Bridge brought near.  At one time we had no opportunity to step afoot.  Crossing the chasm of Holy distance was inexact to our corrupt consciences.  Stand before God?  Not dressed like this!  The Tailor fixed our measurements then fashioned one size to fit all.  Righteousness fabricated from light.  Our hands could never stitch such.

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