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