Saturday, April 8, 2006

hands, water, garden, blood

I've been thinking about the garden tomb. Remembering what it was like, visiting Jerusalem, and the way everything everything was different when I came out of that space. Was it the historical spot? I don't know. I don't care. The city is right, and the fact of its reality is true: He died, He poured out His blood, and it didn't end there.

So, I have His hands in the middle of the tree-like space, and the green is branching off to the edges. I'm filling in blues and wondering about the other colors I will pick, and thinking about the great flood of love from those hands to our amazing would it be if the Body of Christ loved the way He did, does? How much more healing would we see happening in the world if we allowed our own many fractures and fears to be healed, if we allowed the touch of the Lord on broken friendships and baseless prejudices? There was a flood of supernatural healing released at the cross-- forever healing, theology-defying, death defeating, and we walk around hogging it all, I think. There's so much more grace that the Lord would pour out on His creation, and we (the body of Christ) hold onto it in the walls of our churches, in our cliques, families, to the attractive or the smart, but where are the odd birds? My dad says that the Kingdom of God should be full of the whackos, weirdos and outcasts of the world-- I agree. It's easier said than done. I'm in, though, so there's at least one.

There are some amazing conversations that happen in the studio. You're already operating on a different plane than your normal, driving/writing papers/doing spanish homework mode-- this altered state is a good place to think about the Lord. And I like to think about the fact that that's where He was at when He threw all this together, and I can only imagine the joy He felt at deciding how to make water, and how to make radio waves, and engineering the brain...

This is where my thoughts go when I'm making stuff. Especially when those things have to do with His hands. My favorite hands. So real, so good, so misrepresented to the lost who have been only pushed out by our hands. I want my hands to be like His. But I can't forget the piercings.

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