The Stone Rolled

The stone is rolling. Teetering on the edge. Where once it was secure, placed by the fingers and hands of the Almighty Creator, fixed in its place. Where it once was separated from the waters, the sky, and the soft earth. Where it once was part of majestic mountains that hovered, that threatened. Where it once had a purpose and meaning in the ordered creation. Yet, the boulder now vibrates with chaos. 

Man began digging, carving out his bold strength in towers and graven image. Moving the dust forming the bricks, making the stones that once threatened him from above. Now he was the one who controlled the stones, the boulders. With his imagination with his hands with his intentions and purpose. Moving the earth. Placing it in a more convenient place. 

But the stone is now rolling.

Too much freedom, God’s hand of restraint had been released from the rock, tree, and sky. The pit of humanity gradually sinks. Handful by handful, from generation to generation, deeper and deeper. The grave that was barely a depression has aged into a bottomless cave. By the sweat of man, by the hunger of woman.

The fruit buried, sewn, and harvested since the first illicit bite, tasted like disobedience. In every way in every place, in every hole that a new seed was planted. We now dig and choose to ignore. Our destinations of the clawing. At the earth, at the time, at the fruit desired. We choose to forget the hollow hole we have made. For ourselves. 

Yet the stone is rolling. Unbalanced by the curse of his perpetual dig. The stone is now rolling. Loosed by her pain which has softened resolve.

Falling. Dark beneath. Slide on the gravel. Shrill of the crumble. We hear it coming. We can’t help but dig.

Whoever digs a pit will fall into it, and a stone will come back on him who starts it rolling. For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men who by their unrighteousness suppress the truth. (Romans 1:18, Proverbs 26:27)

The stone is rolled. The earth is moved. The ground is dug. The hole has been made. There is no going back from the hollow existence that they have now found themselves in. There is no going back to clean hands that do not stink with dirt and blood under his fingernails. The creation is evolved. A new world has been built, mud and bread, tower and conspiracy. No hand nor heart has survived without blemish. All bear the mark of a people who can’t help. Themselves.

The curse laid upon the hands of man is the virtue of perpetual digging. The curse laid upon the passion of woman is her endless tasting to fill up the empty. And both lay down in the evening.

Beyond both, teetering on the edge, the stone is rolling. Moving back and forth, unpredictable. By the wind and the breath of the nations. Of the crowds. Of the man. Of the woman. By the rumbling and the burrowing into the earth, escaping into the ground. And so he falls. Under. The work of his own hands. Deep.

Some would call it a grave, some would see it as death. Yet, here he slumbers, she sleeps, in un-peaceful discontent. Shadowed freedom. Bottom of the pit. He doesn’t know there is any other way to lay his head. Ever-anxious staring at the fire brimmed sky. Although he can’t see it, he knows something is out there. Watching. Looming. Thundering. Rolling. Returning.

The judgement of God is not the immediate screams or the inescapable collapse of the abyss above. The judgment of God is not a loud corrective spirit from beyond time and space. Although it could be. Rather, the judgment of God is the slow, gradual, inevitable return of the stone. Turning back to where it had always belonged.

Rolled into place. Here it was set. Lithos of death. The head of the grave. Finally sealing the One who quietly boasted to be the Word of Life. Now rolled in the way, obstructing the path, arresting the route of One who had to walk among the stones of the dust.

All excavation. Ceased.

At the bottom.

Of the pit.

On the third day, she returned to the tomb. Where the stone was unsettled. Where have you taken the stone? Where have you taken the Lord? Where have you taken the promised judgment? Three days ago, that stone righteously captured Life in a hole of death. The stone that was meant to keep death in a tomb. No one knew. That the stone was still rolling. When it trapped the unrighteous. When it anointed the head of the One in the pit. When it only bruised the heel of Him who laid in his pit.

Paused. For a moment.

Open the grave. Open the tomb. The stone is fixed open, just as it should be. As it was in the beginning. As it was placed by the Creator.

We imagine. Our digging, our working, our worrying, our faithfulness will press back the stone into its proper place. We imagine. Always. Because the stone has already been set. Crushing the seekers, the creators, the productive fantasy. Returning to the head who made it roll. Returning to the tomb, that grasped control. Now returned to its proper place.