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The Playground
by guy miller Beauty in simplistic design The trick of life, religion is perspective. The playground is bright, sparkling in the fresh crisp sunlight, full of activities, toys and equipment for the use and abuse of the children's use or misuse. The playground is safe. Made secure by a loving father, with a fence constructed around the perimeter, complete and adequate with safeguards to ensure protection from the elements and dangers of the world beyond its borders. The playground encircled by roads, filled with so many, many cars, automobiles travelling at pace in a concrete rat race. Across the road lies the barren desert dry and lifeless , the dust blows revealing sand much of just the same colour. In the distance, a far of glint. An amusement park with lights blinking, flashing the sound of entertainment and intrigue traversing the dessert in a lure of tantalizing enthusiasm many are lured into the trappings of fleeting misgivings. We are all children of God. Born created as equal expressions of the creator himself. We have been blessed and given such a beautiful playground, the earth with so much potential for simple joy, peace, love, unity, hope and a complete holistic life. God in time before time set to place boundaries around the playground he created for us. As a loving father he saw the great potential for harm of the surrounding roads. So many roads around the playground with such a variety of moving vehicles constantly driving by. He placed railings around to help protect us. Yet like all children we have the choice to stay in the playground or climb the fence to go play chicken in the road. Many children choose to go play in the road and God still tried to help but the more bold we become in our arrogance of playing chicken with the cars, the chances of us being taken for a ride, In our pride and daring we become uncaring. Like love struck puppies we are continually chasing cars. Whilst many have simply sought to highlight the safety fence, the gates of the playground, specifying each bar, naming and confusing them adding to them and creating new ones of social implications. They draw the mind towards the edge and boundaries whilst not showing the playground we actually have been given. Many of the children are so consumed with staring at the bars they no longer, know how to play, simply love and share. Many children are clinging on to the bars and many have their favourite bars in the fence, which they childishly bend, twist, contort and break. Yet with one foot in and one foot out they feel they are still technically in the parameters of their daddy's instructions legality in front of the other children has become the main concern. As long as the other children don't see then they can't tell daddy. The bright lights fast paced adrenaline pumping risk of children playing chicken is too intriguing then the playground for many, too many children have been told how not to play, where not to play, they no longer play. It is like asking for directions to the local shops, majority of people know how not to get to the shops but never clarify the actual path and route. This is not the way yet still aren't showing, teaching and leading the actual true way. The toys in the playground are safe, tested and simple yet no one truly knows they are there or how to use them. We have the roundabout of love that once you get on, will spin you round and round bringing smiles to all that get on or stand close to feel the wind as you twirl by. The slides of trial that push you higher and cause you to step tentatively higher reaching out and up to enjoy the exhilaration of sliding by to the next trial. The simple joy of the swings where you get to push each other higher and higher yet the challenge is to go over the bar, the rumours of someone reaching the bar and swinging on over, a mere playground myths that we all aspire to achieve and do yet the playground talk is all the rage for those who simply see a cage. We are like little children pointing out how others have crossed the road without waiting for daddy. Simply pointing fingers to those in the road and holding the railings and bending the bars crying out how wrong they are and daddy and we see look, look at them everyone yet we have neglected to call them back to the playground because our perspective is also focussed to looking out the bars. We cannot tell people to look where we are looking and see what we see if we are simply seeing and looking where they are looking. Some, whilst trying to get out of the boundaries, get our head stuck in the fence, or parts of the body trapped between the fence posts some on the way out and many on the struggle in. Many children have a foot caught in the gaps, crying for help. Like spoilt children who simply feel their duty is legality, they stand and point; their favourite game is making sport of others. Many are so consumed with looking at the fence they fail to see the hands that placed the fence. We look at the bars of the fencing to see captivity to some and liberty to others yet fail to see all the designer and creator has designed and aligned. Oiling the wheels of our rides with ultimate pride for love is the lubrication of our supplication and the joy of life is doing and being not seeing and wanting. For the desert that lies across the road is simply the intellects concepts of pleasure in the desert. Flashing lights, a fast paced life but suffering a lifelong drought in self-styled coffins. The will of wants that develop into needs of financial greed. Entertainment is often the true confinement with pleasures of lights like a shining Christmas tree; we are enticed like moths to the troughs. Keeping up with Jones' has become the epic adventure of the masses. Conformity through corporate identity has become the consumers' ideology, philosophy to religious synchronicity. Kids love to dig in their childish ignorance they dug a river hoping to sail under the road and make the desert a grove. The river of religion flows away from the throne and past the playground created with painstaking blood stains. The boats kids make to float on the river are foolish paper boats of religious theology and idolatry. They pull each other into the flow hoping it will be their water that will help you grow, the defences they invent create mental boundaries that just frustrate. The river gets filled in by Christ clotting blood but with the onslaught of religion the blockage gives in to rationality and conformity. Many children in digging their trenches they dig so fast while holding on to a basic truth they develop moats in which to sail their boats. Creating islands in which they are king of the hill. Screaming at the top of their voices look at me, look at me, whilst the creator is whispering look at him. In the playground many kids are playing in the sand. Some who were told to play there many who aren't. Many building all manner of pyramids and castles, as many as the eyes can see it's as though someone had instituted an international sand castle competition. Many are sitting at the top of their castles shouting I'm king of the hill just look at my castle. Trying to build higher and higher to out shine and rise above. The competition has arisen to dirty under hand technicians, skilled in the art of sand division and organisational destroyers. They see their patch of sand more golden and significant than the rest of the beach or even the ocean and its motions that moulded it, shaped it, that created it. Too many children are laying in the road we can only thank the creator the road kill is still moving, whilst many just stand and point like rubber necking on the motor way. Our finger pointing is disappointing as is childish religious sporting. We can see you broke the fence and no one will stand in your defence for it is our religious duty to heap condemnation. Teacher, teacher as we call and whisper to the preacher. The ego is ever pointing out whilst more fingers are pointing within. The ego of the pointing finger; edging God out and demanding I step in. local evangelist in a local church. just testing the water. please enjoy Article Source: http://www.faithwriters.com |