tbc0's posterous

I am standing across from my church. I turn past the U.S. Post Office to face the Antlers hotel to the west, rebuilt yet retaining the General's vision, focusing one's attention on God's solid mountain behind. I hear the carillon of First Pres' echoing behind the multi-generational architecture of the city government. There's the steeple of the First Baptist Church, and the microwave array of the old phone company. Now I've made a circle and face my church again. The autumn sun is still warm today, but the snow on Pikes Peak warns that the season is changing.

I write standing in the sun on the edge of the wide avenue behind my car, typing with my thumbs, adjusting words and phrases effortlessly with a tool smaller than Captain Kirk's communicator so I can polish this text for quick publication. Sundays in Palmertown are quiet compared with other urban streets. That quiet suggests peace. Restfulness to prepare for the work ahead. Shalom.

Our pastor is sixty-two. He knows his work is far from done. Who alive can say what God intends? We have no thus-saith-the-Lord prophets to guide us. But we pray, we interpret the signs, we test our interpretations against the standard of Scripture, and we follow.

This is work we all must do. This is praxis - expressing our beliefs through our actions. If we say we hold a certain belief but we have no work to show for it, then our belief is of little value. The value it has is in its power to move us to action. But not so much today, our day of the week set aside for resurrection celebration, worship, communion and rest. Shalom.