I write these essays five nights a week. You read them occasionally.
Sometimes I’m not thinking about you as I write. I’m thinking about me. I’m looking into a mirror and describing what I see. The mirror is glass, sometimes, or the Bible. But I’m not even thinking about you.
But often, I am thinking about you.
I know. That’s scary, especially from a preacher.
We picture slipping into a crowded church room, trying to squeeze into the back row. We can’t. We end up having to walk all the way to the front, to an empty seat. And suddenly, the preacher points at us. “You!” the room echoes. “Sinner!” The spit hits us in the face. We resolve that if we ever get out of here, we will never come back.
So you are sitting there thinking maybe I look through the list of subscribers to this blog, the ones who get it by email or the ones in RSS or the ones who show up other ways (See? I do know how to find out who you are) and decide to pick on someone in particular.
I don’t. I don’t know how to do that. I get heavy-handed when I try that.
Instead, I ask, “what is it that maybe no one ever explained to you about God?” I wonder, “What can I illustrate that no one has shown you.” I think about conversations that you and I have had. I decide to take the conversation one step further.
Because I have talked with many of you face-to-face or comment-to-comment or tweet-to-tweet. And I listened.
By the way, sometimes I’m not the one thinking about you. Not to be spiritual or anything, but sometimes God’s thinking about you and what could help you.
Yes, even you. Especially you.
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