In the Beginning . . .

Was the Word. And I learned it. And I obeyed it.

And then I set myself to preaching it.

But eventually I stopped. And was silent. Too silent.

The last time I took the pulpit was in Cuero, Texas, in a small congregation hosting a week-long Bible camp. I had volunteered to work with the teenage boys whom -- I came to learn -- were attending as part of a probationary sentence received for whatever amounts to juvenile delinquency these days.

I am not a youth minister.

On the third night of the camp I was scheduled to give a 7-10 minute "devotional" on Joseph. But I grabbed on to a concept of storing up our devotion in times of abundance to anticipate the times of barrenness.

After all, most true believers are more than willing to turn to God during times of sorrow. It tends to be the good times when we feel independent and feel we do not need Him.

I was convicted of this. After nearly an hour of preaching, I believe the Holy Spirit had convicted most everyone else, as well.

When I returned home after that week I received a "thank you" card from the church's minister.

"[Preacher], you have a gift. And if you ever stop preaching, may God have mercy on your soul."

I haven't spoken before a crowd since.

Well, that isn't entirely true. But I haven't done so for the right reasons, or with the Spirit's guidance. And if done without those, it might as well remain undone.

What I intend to have follow with this blog is only an outlet for my ponderings. I have no congregation, I am surrounded by deaf ears. I exist in an environment that feels most of the time much like the world of Jeremiah.

I have taken my lamp and hidden it. Perhaps, in time, I will explore why. But for now this blog will exist, and my thoughts will ring . . .

Like echoes of faith in an empty room.