White Tree by Makoto Fujimura

(This is part six of a series of posts: onetwothreefour, five.)

I want a peaceful soul.

And in the already/not yet of the world I find myself in, this is no mean feat. When Jesus was facing a cross-faced dawn and confessed, “Now my soul is troubled” it was the cathartic echo of every soul on both sides of golgotha. I think he mumbled it.

The forces in this existence which scheme to construct a life without a peaceful soul are legion. And the spheres where the battle is fought are four. For I need a soul at peace with God, with others, with my own self and with the Universe.

With.

Already, I enjoy the peace that passes all understanding in a sense. The wrath of God has been turned back. The Prince of Peace, himself has turned it away and taken it on himself. It is a real peace. God is no longer angry with me. Peace. And despite the systematic theologies we have written and now fillour libraries, it is beyond understanding. I don’t get it.  All the horror for the sake of me and the beauty resulting. Is it Ok to be so blown away by not fathoming this peace we throw our hands up in confusion? Surely.

But I do not enjoy it fully. If I did I would not want a peaceful soul. It would be fully realized. This is part of the ‘not yet.’ Because I still have this frame which is so prone to sin, I still strive against the God who has already declared ‘peace’ by meeting all the demands himself.

Imagine that.

A soldier who once fought tooth and nail, war upon war, against the king is now an enemy no more. The King has met all his own demands of punishment for the insurrection. The soldier owes nothing. Peace is had. Real peace, not imagined peace that is defined by space, time and mass. This peace breaks those bonds completely. But the soldier forgets and strives against the King. In fits of rage he unsheathes his sword. In lust he grabs what is not his. And in impatience he demands.

But it’s peace he wants most. He wants to experience what is really his. He feels this peace he has with the king is a inheritance in foreign land he cannot yet get to. But he hears of its beauty and pastoral scenes. He gets word of the yield of fruit from the fields he will one day behold. Face to face.

The longing of his very soul.

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