Madness and Love Mixed: Part 1 — The Holy Fools
Madness and Love Mixed: Part 1 — The Holy Fools
Welcome, Beloveds, to my madness unleashed in a new searing series: Emmanuel Christ Amongst Us.
Here we will dive deep — seriously deep — into theological thought bent toward uncovering the Father’s holy absurdity in His chosen vessels, and His Love manifested in the only One who was not absurd: my darling Yeshua.
We’re talking Abraham — the original Wanderlust Nomad of Heaven.
We’re talking Job — the soul of suffering in pissed-off despair, standing on the ash heap daring the Father to show up and answer for the sores.
We’re talking Jonah — who literally went fishing with himself.
COME ON. Tell me the prophets weren’t holy fools.
Beloved, friends and family at once,
Welcome.
Enter and take a seat on the cushioned couch of my imagination and watch how the edge of madness, when mixed with undiluted adoration for the Father in the face of Yeshua my eternal Love, unfolds in the way only a savant of sorrow would dare fashion.
I invite you while I remain. While the medication holds, that is. Who can say when the straining thread of reality my mind clings to finally snaps like a balloon pricked by a strategic pin… POWP!
What follows is the expression that arrives in the silence after that pop, when everyone’s head turns at once, looking for the source of the disruption.
Main Thought: Madness and Love, Mixed
So I got to thinking about the ancient prophets, and I came to a stunning conclusion. They were, without a single exception, both lunatics and hopeless romantics.
Take Elijah. My guy openly mocked the prophets of Baal with increasing ridiculousness because he knew the Father delights in a little holy parody when it elevates truth. I imagine him yawning, saying, “Hey, I know y’all are having a moment over there with all the dancing and writhing, but I’ve got a schedule. Netflix. If your god is gonna light the fire, hurry it up,” while casually telling his helpers to keep dumping water on the wood he’s about to see immolated.
A grand fool. A holy clown. A man who knew how to set a stage.
And when he finally called on “Pops,” as I imagine him doing, the Father responded.
POOOF.
Fire from heaven consuming soaked wood, the altar, and the pride of every false prophet present.
Elijah must have shouted, “That’s what I’m talking about!” Not because anyone needed the commentary, but because the joy of others seeing the real God at last is sometimes too big for silence.
Then the zeal hits him and he slaughters the prophets of Baal. Afterward, he comes off the mountain, realizes what just happened, and starts running. Why? He just saw God incinerate a hillside.
Because every cell in his body knew something his mind hadn’t caught up to:
Union was nearing.
The chariot was on its way.
I imagine the Spirit whispering to him, “The chariot you outran is nothing compared to the one coming for you. Go to the mountain. There you will meet Me. No barriers. Just Us.”
Elijah wasn’t terrified. He was thrilled.
So thrilled he outran horses. Serious fitness. I smoke too much to try that. Respect.
I can write like this because I’ve lived these urges, these strange divine pulls. Not because I’m special, but because imagination lets me walk dusty roads with Peter across two millennia. It lets me sit with Yeshua now, here, over my shoulder, in my hands as I write. I choose to imagine Him present because He promised He would be.
Some might say this is delusion.
I say it’s devotion practiced with a sanctified imagination.
I embody every Word before I understand it.
Let yourself do the same. Dance in creativity. See Him with us.
He said He would not leave us as orphans.
Everything is here. Waiting to be rediscovered.
Think with me.
Join my directed madness.
Praise for the sheer joy of praising when no one sees but Him.
Here is a secret whispered before the foundation of the world:
God loves a cheerful giver. And the chefs-kiss moments are when our offering carries a hint of the absurd. He uses incongruity to get our attention and maybe, just maybe, to slip a divine joke through the veil.
Amen and amen.
My imagination feels strained now, so I’m going to rest.
Be well, Beloveds.
Eiri Waters
And if you wish to support me as I keep writing and stay on my meds, I launched my magnum opus The Seventh Trumpet: Soliloquy of Souls yesterday at 2 AM EST.
If you have Kindle Unlimited, reading it there helps more than you know.