See the hordes as they go, planning ever more savage exploits, though they esteem themselves civilized. They heed not spiritual words because they are mere flesh and bone.
The masses are comfortable in their wandering, lost by preference, delightfully trapped in their skin. They accept every new idea so long as it leads them back to their familiar, hopeless ends.
They suppose their minds are free to roam, but they venture only so far as their stomachs will allow. They wander not freely, but from one meal to the next.
From the dust and mire dead people stumble forth. And what more can dead people do than stumble along?
Between now and the end of their presumptuous lives lies a single great fall. And this fall is not just inevitable, it is upon them now.
Holding them apart from this devastating collision, which will reunite every fleshly man with Mother Dust, is a pitiful, boney pair of legs. One little slip will pulverize their flimsy little frames. One slip, that is, if their brief time ration doesn’t wear them out first.
Mind you, not all reunions are happy, least of all the eternal, miry end that awaits each one of these fragile wanderers.
If they went to the trouble of opening their mouths, they might say, “Give us something new, but make sure it tastes familiar to our stubborn old palates. Intrigue us with a new invention, only be sure to mix and match this new flavor with the old ingredients we deem acceptable.”
They desire the same old imitation only with different packaging. They want the same old gravel to chew except now with more zesty seasonings than ever.
That “do not disturb,” sign is posted for every herald of reality, along with an obvious “keep out” sign, so they can go about their grimy business in imaginary peace.
They may have run across imperishable Truth at some point, either by their pesky consciences or by some other means, but they have set their minds on this perishing world instead. This dust bowl makes better sense to them, and they’re not about to change something that seems to work.
Secular cavemen have their familiar fleas, their fire dances and their blunt weapons, and these things are enough for them. If Truth or any otherworldly Thing comes near them, they can only do whatever their primitive instincts know of to do, which is either run away or else try to club this new, disagreeable Thing to death. If they do succeed in killing whatever this Thing was that made them uncomfortable, then they’ll either bury it or burn it. Out of sight out of mind.
With their actions secular cavemen say “Please, don’t bother us now. Can’t you see that we’ve finally convinced ourselves that we’re comfortable?” Having lain in the mud so long, they feel at home in it. “Go away from us, Truth, You have nothing we want. Go away from us, Light, You aren’t predictable like our suns and moons, nor can we manipulate You like our beloved, little, sparking flints.”
There are others, the religious cavemen, who don’t run away from or bludgeon Truth right away. They prefer instead to make some likeness of this new Thing out of wood, stone or metal. Their consciences may hint at an otherworldly, enlivening Wealth, but they are dead-set on figuring these things out on their own. They would rather have some kind of guarantee than wait for anything. And their guarantees are wood, stone and metal.
Their Neanderthal minds are fascinated by every shiny object they concoct along with their colleagues. They encourage each other to reproduce these objects in mass number and figure out new ways of making these things more and more shiny. Religious cavemen also love to sniff at and handle and taste the things they worship.
Both secular and religious cavemen worship their respective gods of Control. Or maybe their gods are Distraction, Self-centeredness and Self-justification. In any case, they will stick to whatever makes the most sense or else whatever requires as little as possible from them. They love their clubs, their shiny objects and their fire because they suppose that they’re in control over them. Such is the caveman way.
The Godless masses would choose a permanent loss of all hearing, or even death, rather than listen to such nonsense as God in Christ or Christ crucified. Cavemen, using themselves as their point of reference, can’t help but esteem themselves enlightened. Therefore, because they are already enlightened, this Truth must be fit only for simpletons.
And there is something fundamentally disturbing to cavemen about this Christ. It’s either His direct truthfulness or it’s the unassuming way He lives for a higher Cause than Himself. It is bothersome to regular people that Christ functions by some untraceable heavenly Power who continually supports His actions and words. In any case, He is certainly offensive to every kind of caveman. The choice is clear for them in regards to the Son of God: Total rejection, and right quick. On at least this much all cavemen can agree, regardless of what kind of club they carry, or what kind of cave-dwelling they prefer. However, even after they seem to have snuffed out this Truth, their mind’s eye remains squinting and their little bodies squirm under the Light of even the faintest memory of Him.
How troublesome it is for Godless people to get accustomed to the Light when they have for so long preferred darkness! Really, darkness is much more convenient for anyone who has unshakable habits, which require covering-up.
The briefest moment of illumination makes happy shadow-dwellers yearn for their shadows again. The poor creatures long to be left alone, happy as far as they can tell, wrapped up in their familiar shadows and all their comfy dust and mire.
by Patrick Roberts
This is an excerpt from Patrick's book, To the Church of the West, Scattered Throughout the World, find this book as well as other resources at www.BooksByPatrick.com
Patrick is an average Christ-seeker. His goal is to turn people to Jesus Christ.