The Golden Calf Effect
The foul stench of your offering is an offense to me, pungent and unpleasant. I despise your offering. What choice do you leave me when you offer up sacrifices for selfish gain? My desire has always been for you to know me, but even in the beginning the thing that caught your eye was the thing that satisfied your own will. Consumed by your flesh, you lost sight of my heart.
It was from dust that I crafted the intricate details of your being and yet, it’s dust that gets the sweetest praise. I welded the bones of your rib cage. It was I who pulled from one to create another, but it’s the creation you glorify. It’s empty and vain without my spirit. It’s worthless without my breath yet your entire lives have been devoted to the service of a created thing. I stand aside and listen to you shout my name but your hearts are singing a different tune. Again you stray. You keep missing the point.
All I have given you was meant for my glory but how would you know that? My voice is ignored, you skim through my book like a child reading Cinderella, who only chooses to focus on the “Happy Ever After” when the story went beyond that. I’ve sent out my word but all you heard was sweet nothings. Like a picky eater you took what you wanted and discarded the rest, forgetting the purpose of the food. Again your flesh fools you, making you believe the meal was only to serve and please you when it was intended to nourish the whole body.
My prophets speak and you call them false. Oh how my heart breaks, for my children do not know their father. All you know is the created thing. You burn offerings to win wars and through victories you exalt yourselves. You’ve taken the sacred things I intended for relationship and created rituals. How can I be pleased in this? The fire was sent to refine your soul instead you used it to refine your gold. You make it sparkle for the world to see and give you praise, praise that does not belong to you. “Praises go up and blessings come down”; that is the only time you remember it belongs to me. From my hand to your mouth is the only relationship we have had.
Well no more! It stops here and it stops now. "Ye who have ears let him hear"; the cry of my people have fallen on deaf ears long enough. It was the blood that cried loudest, the blood of the sheep slaughtered with weapons of neglect. I have asked that you feed my sheep but you’ve left them to starve. Starved of love and grace, because not even my basic command you could follow. My heart aches as I search for those who will intercede. The harvest is coming. Some may have forgotten what was sown but all shall reap.
By T. A. Wright
