It slices. It tugs. It stings. It rakes against our flesh.
sometimes this pain finds a welcomed spot in our hearts.
We long for its correction – its healing cut.
We embrace it, even clench our hands to it as a friend; but at the same time, we butt our heads against it, pushing eye to eye as if to dare it to do what truth does so well.
The great exposer.
The great measure taker.
The great standard holder that asks us to bend to its light for our good.
Herod found himself in such a place.
He would not kill John.
John’s voice would disturb him…condemn his actions.
John’s words cut deeply exposing the inner rot of self-will…of uncurbed desire.
something in Herod was glad.
Glad of the diagnosis; glad of the pain.
Glad of the challenge to his life.
he pushed back as we are prone to do.
He succumbed to earthly matters rejecting the heavenly.
John’s head arrived on a platter.
The party continued.
The music sounded.
Herod sat alone under empty shouts of falsehood.
Worldly hands covered his ears to keep out what he needed to hear.
The rot inside grew…
for nothing was left to lance his heart.