It’s morning before a late day at work. The TV is on.
Click. Someone is trying to sell me zircons. Click. There’s a preacher telling me God wants me to be rich but before that I have to send him an “offering”. Click. Re-runs of shows so old that everybody on them is dead. I guess that’s what they mean by eternal life. Click. Some football star is busted for sexual assault, again. Click.
The electronic soul of the world is wasted, dry, a desert, and not the kind where saints are formed in the heat and prayer. At the heart of things is a wasteland of our own making. We’ve not only left our first garden but we’ve pulled up and consumed every green thing that remained and now our horizon is sand.
Our mouths are dry. Our skin is parched and red. Every oasis is a mirage as our blistered feet stumble from empty place to place. We are destined to be skeletons bleached by a cruel sun.
Except O Lord, for you. How would I wander if you were not my destiny? How would I pass through a world of lies if you were not my truth? How would I perish from hunger if you were not my bread? How would I die of thirst if you were not my living water?
Do not forget me, Lord, walk with me and guide me until I am safely home.
The Beautiful Path 