All Things Made New

The flesh I live in is beginning to show its age; I am reminded constantly of the fate of the meat I inhabit – connective tissue disconnects, circulatory systems choke, respiratory systems expire. Everything dims, fades. We are indeed 'not now that strength which in old days moved earth and heaven'.

But I realise that my duty is not to this flesh, or to the pattern of this world, but to what the flesh can do in this short span of time. Man, since the Fall, has always had to work; it has become the means by which he lives out his redemption and the means by which salvation can be glimpsed (though not attained, since that is by the grace of God). And that is why there is nothing better than to work with one's hands and lead a quiet life.

I remember the days in which power burned bright and attracted us, as moths to a flame. But the power doesn't last, the glory does not glow, the only things left are the strong metals left after the refiner has done his job. It is the fate of men to strive for the useless and worthless, only to realise that they grieved the God they claimed to serve. It is a hard thing, that.

And yet, there is the promise of a newer time, not necessarily a better age, but a time for peace and the breaking of spears. Rain and tears, blood and fire, ethanol and poetry, tea, coffee, chocolate, mercury, ruthenium, stone and glass, steel and pain. All these things run together and are one. One day we shall sit in the Eternal City, wondering why we thought of Rome as such. One day we might be elevated to a state besides which our current state is mephitic.

I look out of the window and see the rain that has not come and the fire that is yet to come alive. The exultation of angels is in the air, and the exaltation of the lowly things is on its way. I am happy, glad, makarios. The best is yet to be.