What the “What About” is All About

Well. Thinking out loud. Sorting.

Because I’ve got some skin in some battles.

Because of this Exodus Angel.

Because I didn’t choose any of this. He did.

And He led me right straight into it. Into the Exodus “-ites” battles.

And He’s telling me how to fight the “-ites.” My Canaanites, Amorites, Hittites, Perizzites, and Jebusites.

The way is dangerous and He’s telling me the only way out is the way in.

But this Angel sent by the One Whose name is in Him knows what He’s doing. He’s clearing the land.

And He knows where He’s taking me. Good thing, because I couldn’t begin to get there myself.

And I wonder what it’s going to look like. Something beautiful somehow. I can’t imagine, really. Not the whole of it. But I’m seeing it little by little. The clearing. The beautiful. The silence and the song.

 

“Beware of Him, this Angel,” says the One Whose name is in Him.

I laugh out the incredulous “Whaaat? Beware of the Angel? What about the
“-ites” and earth shaking roar, “Devour!”

“What about that?” How like God to answer my question with His question. My incredulity with His credibility. His ability to believe. That is His credibility. Not mine.

I want a “real” answer. So I ask again, “What about that “-ite” battle cry? Do you hear them roar? My skin is shaking!” He knows what I really want to know “what about.”

“What about credulity? Trusting My credibility? Believing what I know? I am the faithful One.” And He’s speaking pisteuo to me. I recognize the words trust, believe, and faith. 

“Them’s fightin’ words!” comes unbidden to mind. Because trust, believe and faith are ammunition for the likes of me with trust issues.

And pisteuo means, “To entrust something to someone. The word can also include the notion of obeying.”

(Greek Word Study)

That “something” is everything to me and that “someone” is The One.

The “what about” is all about this.

 

About Him believing in what He’s saying. About me believing because there is nothing and no one more believable than God who speaks through Angel and believes every one of His own words.

 

And about doing what He says because He Himself does what He says.

 

“Beware to obey His voice.” It’s the first thing I’m told to do about this  Exodus twenty-three Angel. Yes, Exodus 23:21. Right after God says what this Angel is going to do about me.

Isn’t “beware” short for “be aware?” I think so.

This is centering. “Be aware of His voice.” Wary in battle, yes. Alert in danger, yes.

But…

Be aware.To obey. His voice.

Because what He’s saying is more earth shattering than “-ite” roar.

“Do not bow down to their gods or serve them,” The Voice says.

And I know some of their names. Self-righteousness. Bitterness. Unforgiveness. Fear. It’s choice not to bow. Not to serve. And I chose. And choose. And, yes, fear has thrown me down and seized me til I shake unconscious, but thrown down is not bowing down.

“Drink all Holy Spirit. Swallow it down sweet,” The Voice says. “I will set your bounds from sea to sea and from desert to River Euphrates.”

 

 

I like this part. It’s the part I’ve been praying for since before my knees begged for the yellow life preserver I store under bed and since before I began to see the clearing and the beautiful and the silence and the song.

And well, “Euphrates” means “Sweet Water.”

I’m swallowing. And, yeah, it’s sweet.

 

God has some skin in this, too. He clothed His Son in the same kind of skin I’m wearing. It’s epidermis. I look it up because why isn’t it just “dermis?” Dermis means skin. What is the “epi” part of the skin I wear? That the very Son of God Himself wore?

It’s “the outer nonvascular, non-sensitive layer of skin, covering the true skin” (Dictionary.com).

It’s skin on skin.

He wore the same “epi” skin that breathes in and sweats out and covers porous thin the dermis that feels and bleeds out blood and pours out water.

The Holy poured. Through holey pours.

The Holy poured.

The “It is finished!” shook earth to core and “-ites” to death and the battle was the war and won the war.

Still. There are battles. They have to be fought. But I’m not fighting for victory, but from victory. And I fight covered in Holy Skin on skin.

His skin changes everything.

 

I’m packing pisteuo pistol. Because pisteuo declares God’s faithfulness. Kaboom!  And pisteuo declares my trust, belief and hope in Him. Kaboom! Boom! Bang!

And I’m learning what it feels like in hand. And how to aim it. And how not shoot myself in the foot. Thankful for this pisteuo notion of obedience.

And guess what? I’m not waving it around like a mad woman! 

 

 

 

Yeah, I’m fighting like a girl. My camo is pink and I don’t like broken fingernails.

But I’m fighting all epi-dermis.

And epi-soul.

It’s a word. Epi-soul. It has to be. Because I’ve felt my soul sweat chill and hot fear. And because I’m in this and not just skin deep.

I’m in it believing the holy is the true when the “-ites” fake it.

In it because I’m not a deserter and don’t own a surrender flag.

In it because I’m kept in by this crazy Exodus Angel sent by the One Whose name is in Him and who isn’t afraid of anything and who says, “If you’re going to beware of anything here, beware of Me and if you’re going to listen to anything here, listen to Me.”

In it because I can be at peace. Not in pieces.

I can be whole. Not shot full of holes.

I can be at ease. Not un-eased by dis-ease.

I can drink Euphrates sweet. Not swallow salty.

And I will be. And am.

Because…

 

“I will cut them “-ites” off, hon.’” I can’t help smile at this crazy tough Angel.

“I’ll send My fear before you… and big ol’ hornets the size of Texas…and, hon’, they won’t know what hit ‘em when they high tail out-a-there and run scared ‘cross the border of Mexico.” Yeah, this Angel wears it right.

“And I’ll draw up the lines from this here sea to that there sea, and from the desert to the Rio Euphrates.” I laugh and raise pisteuo pistol overhead and fire off three freedom shots like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

“Pull!”  Truth shoots up red flare bursting open.

“Pull!” Faith shoots up pure white glare.

“Pull!” Hope breaks open sky wide and fire blue.

 

God is faithful and this Angel is awesome!

 

 

written by: Carolyn Roehrig

Held Tight

Its phrases. Segments. Just a verse here and a verse there. It’s my life ordinary. Common routine.

Except for this Exodus Angel. Sent by the One Whose name is in Him. Sent to lead me straight into battle fray.
(see Exodus 23:20-33)

And while smashing godless pillars to smithereens I’m living all routine.

Because meals still need making and laundry washed and errands run.

And are those pillar pieces on my kitchen floor? I get broom. And where’s the lemon scented Pledge? It’s all routine to me by now.

And I forget it’s uncommon. Because there is this Angel speaking to me. I hear the voice of He Whose name is in Him.

Call me crazy, but I’ve been hearing His voice for more years than I’d care to admit lest I be admitted. Institutionalized. And just to be clear, an institution is “a place where an organization takes care of people for a usually long period of time.” (Merriam-Webster)

Hmm. Well.

I have been instituted. It’s a three Person organization called The Trinity. Nice name. And They’ve been caring for me for ever.

 

So this Exodus Angel. I’ve been praying His own words scrawled convenient across a page that falls open permanent. The spine is bent here. And I am too.

Bent over here.

Praying. 

Verse by verse.

Little by little because that's how He said He'd do this.

Year by year. Because He said it would take more than a year to get there.

Praying to get to the “I will set your bounds from sea to sea…and from the desert to the River” part.

It happened. On Wednesday. And I'll have more on that next time. But do you know what never occurred to me through all the praying for this? Only that “I will set your bounds” means change.

Change.

Change happened on Wednesday.

And I’m praying, “Hold me and my German tight to You, Lord.”

Because the verses. The measures. That made twenty-four years rhyme familiar rhythm will be different now. Because change happened.

“Held Tight” is a twenty-four year long song that was. But the song is going to be different and I don’t know what the words are. What rhymes? What rhythm?

The Institution has been humming it all along. So maybe there will be a something kind of déjà-vu about it when I start hearing it more clear. And two-stepping to it? Yeah. I think so. Til I know it by feel and by heart.

So I sing “Held Tight” as a conclusion prayed for.

 

HELD TIGHT

vs. 1

Morning dawns
Time to wake
Breakfast on
Coffee made

Kiss you, “Good-bye”

Love you so
“Hold him tight
for me, Lord”

vs. 2

Much to do
First things first
Meet with You
Holy Word

“This day’s Yours

Ev’ry part so
Hold us tight
for You, Lord”

chorus-

Apron string

Ordinary things
My heart strings
Tie me to you

Hold us, Jesus

Morning, night and noon
Hold us crazy
tight to You

vs. 3

Household noise
Dinner’s made
His deep voice,
“On my way”

Wedding rings

Me and you
Hold us, Jesus
for You

chorus-

 

written by: Carolyn Roehrig

To listen, click on https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=739542546063804

Happy listening! :-)

The Outrageous Whisper

The whisper grates against a mouth full of the acceptable prayers. The  prayers we hope would still the great and strong wind that tears open mountains. That would weave our world seamless when earthquake shakes it down. The prayers that would storm fire with flood, would put it out, but it’s the whisper that takes breath right out of lung. (see 1 Kings 19:11-12)

It’s still whisper. And I know the voice.

Who’s whispering? The Ancient of Days. That’s who. The Light. The Redeemer of time. Of life.

And if I really believe that, then I must listen all still. To the whisper. Though it seems so unacceptable…outrageous, really… that I hardly dare admit it to anyone. I’d be accused of listening to the wrong voice. Accused of lacking faith.

But doesn’t it take faith to be still? Faith to trust the still? Trust to accept what lies still because it’s held still in God heart?

Isn’t this the crux of pisteuo? Of belief and trust and at the same time hope? The crux in crucifixion and cross?

 

The whisper is born in writing upon God breast and God hand and engraved in Son of God palm. The whisper was heard when sun stopped shining because world stopped spinning because God stopped breathing.

And then did Father heart leak pure tear and form River of Life that flows from His throne? From the holy of holies behind the veil?

Throne Room River

 

 

 

Does the River of Life whisper “Life” because Son was dying and Father heart was crying and Mary mother heart was all sword pierced?

Was it whisper when veil woven seamless tore in two after Son’s last words shattered rocks cacophonous and shook the earth wide open?

In loud, was the still. Bleeding stiller.

In mayhem, outrageous whisper, “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints” (Psalm 116:15).

And who hears it?

Those led silent as sheep, hear. Those whose hope is pierced and held steady by it, hear. Whose trust is nailed down and held still in the grip. Whose consolation is knowing God. They hear the whisper. The outrageous, ”Precious…is….”

Those who close eyes and hug themselves tight as if they might split right down the middle and those who believe all precious when life bleeds, hear.

And they slip into the quiet outrageous. Enter the Presence. Where scarred hands knit snagged soul unraveling.

Where spirit to Spirit is seamless weave because seamless veil was torn.

 

Precious. Son to His Father.

Precious. Sheep to the Shepherd.

Precious. Life. Always life. Mortal and eternal.

And there is the very hard precious. God knows it. The hard precious. The “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints” precious.

It goes against flesh. This precious outrageous is whispered out-rage, “No! Not precious!”

And maybe it’s heard most in the hang of life and death. When Christ-like nails leave heart in hang til breath is not full.

And precious names.

 

 

 



Names of the sons and daughters of the Father Lord.

Names engraved in palm of His hand.

Names of those dying in body and those saints dying while still breathing because their hearts are broken.

What is precious in this? Could it be our wooly weakness? Our sheepish fear of shadows? Our bleating?

Because doesn’t God find His own love for us precious? His pity on us precious? His strength and comfort for us precious?

Isn’t who He is…precious to Him…when we need who He is?

It’s all outrageous whisper.

 

There is a valley of the shadow of death. Shadowed over. But doesn’t the Light of Light overshadow with…light? And isn’t it true of His saints, and His sheep are saint, that when death consumes us dead or alive, life is consummated?

Even consecrated? In us through Life Himself?

Conceived? As He Himself the Begotten was conceived? In shadow holy? The whisper tells us so.

 

His precious saints whisper these things back to Him. Answer, ”If this hour is this kind of precious to You, may I not fall against You but into You. Press me into Your pierced palm. Because I can’t.”

“May I close My fingers over you?” His palm is womb.

“You knit me together in my mother’s womb.” And who gets through this life without soul snags and unraveling stitches?

His care is intense. He labors for life. He knits in the ICU and the maternity ward. He knits “precious is” whisper. He knits when hours fly and minutes crawl.

He knits precious.

And when soul runs long strand and tangled unravel, God whispers, “Precious…is….”

 

written by: Carolyn Roehrig