When Kafka met Jesus.....

The other day I pick up a worn volume by Kafka. I felt like my spirit was drinking down a Davinci as I read meditations about Trees and Trains and Passers-By. I work myself through Metamorphasis and feel the weight of its saddnes. The Penal Colony is wanting my attention but I can't seem to work myself up to it. The stories softly bruise me and make me more aware of the world that I'm traveling through, though his short peices are like honey. A writer with such talent driven to write the twisted anguish of every man's soul. And I think to myself why couldn't he have written stories so beautiful that it makes you linger and cry and rest, instead of ones that bears down on you like heavy, laden bricks? And Jesus whispers in my ear "I loved Kafka too". Men are stumbling in the dark fearing the thing they need the most while God shines. We choose our fates. And in my own heart with the nature of sin there are parts that I have to willingly hold up to the light and say "God come into all the sharp corners and closets." I find there are times I'm becoming a slave to things that I don't want to be. It's the clash of flesh and groaning of beautiful spirit. Even nature longs for the turning of the world, while the rooted trees and stars await their newness. We'll always be at war til are eyes fall on those twelve pearled gates. And Jesus is so happy to forgive us and make us whole and make us new. To my surprise Kafka once renounced his broken stories. I hope it was becuase he found some manner of deep joy.