Tag Archives: sacred surrealism

The Edge of Creation ©️

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It’s easy to miss it—the way God hides not in thunder or in prophecy, but in the quiet precision of a hand, in the trembling beauty of devotion, in the unspoken rhythm of duty. We look for Him in the clouds, but He is here, always, in the motions we call ordinary. A mother bends to tie her child’s shoe; a soldier holds his post through fear; a surgeon steadies his fingers over a fragile heart. These are not just actions—they are revelations.

Because what are we, if not the nerves and sinews of the Divine will? We are not separate from God, not merely created by Him, but created through Him—extensions of His movement, expressions of His character. Every moment of love, loyalty, sacrifice, concentration, mercy—these are the pulses of God moving through flesh. We are not the architects of greatness, but the tools by which greatness touches the world.

A mother’s love that endures, even when tired and thankless—that is not just biology. That is God’s tenderness made visible. A soldier’s loyalty that does not falter, even when death draws near—that is not just training. That is God’s courage, wearing boots. A heart surgeon leaning into the stillness of the moment, holding life between his hands—that is not just skill. That is God’s own breath passing through fingers.

We are not all-powerful. We are not omniscient. But we are connected—living filaments of the vast and holy current. God moves through us the way wind moves through fields, never seen directly, but evident in every rustling stalk. To walk in grace, to serve with honor, to love without end—these are not just choices. These are sacred functions. These are God’s fingers working in the world.

And so the next time your heart breaks in love or burns with purpose—remember, that’s not weakness. That’s divinity, coursing through you. You’re not reaching toward God. You’re reaching as Him.

The Church with No Knees ©

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In a land full of pews and of bells and of smoke,
There once stood a Church — but it started to choke.
It choked on its incense, it choked on its pride,
It painted its altars and let Truth slide.

There once was a time it was sturdy and bold,
With statues and silence and chalices gold.
But now it’s all tambourines, handshakes and lights,
With priests who wear sneakers and bishops in tights.

They used to teach sin — now they just say “mistake.”
They used to say “fast” — now they say “take a break!”
They used to preach Christ — now it’s all “let’s be nice.”
No more Ten Commandments, just lukewarm advice.

The dogma? Diluted. The Latin? All gone.
The silence? Replaced with a sing-along song.
They preach Mother Earth and the climate and pride,
But won’t speak of Hell — now that they just hide.

The Pope tweets of migrants and melting ice caps,
While cardinals lounge in theological naps.
The shepherds wear mitres but speak like the mob,
And Peter, poor Peter — he’s out of a job.

The candles are plastic, the homilies canned,
The Mass is a pageant — not sacred, but bland.
And back in the choir, where angels once wept,
Now “On Eagles’ Wings” is sung while folks slept.

But somewhere out there, past the smoke and the spin,
A remnant remembers what burned deep within.
A fire that won’t flicker, a flame that won’t die,
A truth that won’t change when the winds of men lie.

So yes — let them dance, let them prance, let them clown,
Let them spin up their Church till it all tumbles down.
Because when it falls — and fall it shall do —
The Bride will stand up. Not painted. But true.

She’ll rise from the rubble with incense and steel,
With silence that cuts and a sword that can heal.
And Peter will weep, and the Rock will grow warm —
When fire returns
in its
righteous
form.