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- Written by: Don Goulding
For the wise man, like the fool, will not be long remembered; in days to come both will be forgotten. Like the fool, the wise man too must die! (Ecclesiastes 2:16)
My great-grandfather came west in a covered wagon to develop the raw the California desert. When I was a boy, his barn was knocked down and apartments were put up. Great-granddad is gone—a whole life is as though it never was. I don’t remember his name.
There are currently more than eight billion people on earth, and at least another fifty billion have come and gone. That’s fifty-eight billion sets of life experience all forgotten or marginally remembered. I don’t despair, however, because I possess an indestructible treasure that will outlive even the end of time.
I own the hope diamond. Not the one in the Smithsonian in Washington D.C., but the real hope diamond. The one in the museum should be called the Hopeless Diamond. Discovered in India, it was fashioned into the eye of a Hindu idol. When it was later stolen, a curse supposedly brought grief to everyone who owned it, including the beheaded Marie Antoinette. That Hope Diamond has a bitter past and a bleak future in the final blaze.
The hope diamond I own is the bright, translucent love of Christ. It sits atop the dark pile of human endeavors and shines indigo rays of beauty. I will live my brief span with enthusiasm, not because of some evaporative legacy, but because my name will never be forgotten in heaven. My hope is my one legitimate reason for joy.
Prayer: Resplendent Lord Jesus, your love is my bright reason for living.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
Sinners are afraid in Zion; panic grips the godless. They say, ‘Who among us can coexist with destructive fire? Who among us can coexist with unquenchable fire.’ (Isaiah 33:14)
To die to self and live for Christ is like jumping into a volcano. Nevertheless, I was so disillusioned with the world’s alternatives that I volunteered for the plunge. This is my report from inside the volcano.
My knees flexed, ready to spring out, but fear made me indecisive. I got scuffed as I slid down on my rear, and it wasn’t pretty. When you make your leap, don’t hesitate, it only makes the descent painful. Jump into the middle.
Now I’m falling and alive more than ever before. The heat intensifies as one plummets, and holy fire chars my impurities at each temperature gradient. Once I accept the tolerable loss, I realize the joy of cleansing outweighs what I suffer. It feels beautiful to soar free of those encumbrances.
Another observable phenomenon is that the deeper I fall, the more transparent the world appears, while the things of the Spirit are increasingly real. Those questions we used to discuss on the rim—is God in our details, does the Spirit still do miracles—in here, all that’s obvious.
I’m not there yet, but I can see down to the core of molten love. By the time I fall into its radiant heart, hopefully there won’t be so much of the old me left that I explode. My goal is immunity to heat as the love lava passes through my spirit in absolute completion. I can’t wait to get there.
Prayer: Holy Creator, let me fall into white-hot love with you.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
But you, Daniel, close up and seal the words of the scroll until the time of the end. Many will go here and there to increase knowledge. (Daniel 12:4) (NIV)
One day a fountain pen decided he would write a letter, or perhaps even a thesis. He wanted the world to know he was important. The pen searched for facts that would be impressive on paper. He consulted a globe, a ruler, and books. Everyone was helpful in providing data. He learned a range of details about life and even the circumference of the world.
The pen couldn’t write without a hand gripping him and so he longed for someone to pick him up, that he might astonish readers with his knowledge.
When the master finally set out paper, the pen tried to think of something eloquent. Blips of information ran through his mind—two plus six equals eight and Magellan sailed around the world—but he had nothing truly significant to say. When he began to express himself, streaks and blotches appeared on the stationery.
The master stared at the pen, shook it and said, “What’s the matter with you?”
“I wanted to write brilliant phrases but I’m confused by the information I gathered.”
“Silly pen. Pens don’t write. That’s the master’s job. If you want to be valuable, stop exhausting yourself acquiring facts and know my heart. I need a pen that anticipates my loops and strokes until the words flow effortlessly onto the page. You and I can create breathtaking paragraphs, but only if you accept being a pen and let me be the author.”
Prayer: Holy Master, take my life in hand and write freely.