"We have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that this all surpassing power is from God, and not from us." (2 Corinthians 4:7) It is hard to admit, but I am horribly flawed. Made of ash, dust and debris.
The origins of decay are from old, inherited from our ancestor in the garden. Adam, red clay, dirt mingled with blood...from the animal slain...to hide his stain. I am my father's son. I'm stained too. As years melt into to decades, decades to thousands, and the shadows of generations grow long, the army of humanity forgets. We want to forget. Hiding behind brilliant lies, barriers built by the machinations of the geniuses. Slippery words written on bounded books and golden letters that deny our dirt. The consensus no longer adopts the origins; instead we try to bleach out the stain. It still soaks through. "It's not me, it's you, it's them, they did this to me!" Lies, thousands of years of lies. Adam has been twisted into myth, laughed to scorn. Now, the academy uses charts and graphs to determine blame. The sages who worship numbers cry out, "We are all victims, perfect vessels broken only by the cruel folly and greed of others. They did it, those seeking power. Running wild over the innocent, something must be done. Down with the system, lynch those in charge!" The crowd listens, the crowd demands. What drives their cries? Honest justice or jealousy? They claim to carry no malice...but they do. They are stained too. They are part of Adam's brood. They would love to drive if they were only given the chance. They would run wild too. We all would because Chesterton was right, "What's wrong? I am." So go ahead and speculate, in your bleached white throne. Point that finger and judge. Determine blame, demand for heads to roll. But be careful... Yours might be the next one under the guillotine's blade. You can't hide, Adam's red ash is smeared all across your face. Jars of clay.
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