THE WALKING STICK

One does not discover the power of God in the swelling of the Jordan. One does not discover the power of God in the thundering feet of Pharaoh's army. And one does not discover the power of God in the parting of the sea near so much . . . as one discovers the power of God in the broken and exhausted human spirit.

It is there, failure after failure, battered and bleeding with confusion, disillusionment and despair that you will hear the quiet, gentle voice of God.

Speaking so softly sometimes that it cannot be heard above the din of unpaid bills, the anguish of shattered relationships or the thudding kicks in the groin of unrequited prayer.

With each lash of the whip on the back of an Israelite, you could hear the distant rumble of omnipotence.

With each roar of a lion in a Roman amphitheater you could hear the shout of an Archangel.

With the mournful wail of "Eli, Eli, lamasabachtani?," you may hear the crash of lightning and the thunder of holiness and redemption.

With each whimpering cry of "Dear God please," in your heart and mine, you can hear the soft whisper "I am here," from the lips of God Almighty.

As the waters close over our heads and our breathing stops, we feel the gentle lifting of our arms and we emerge blinking with amazement and wonder and resume our attack on the fire ants of life.

Knowing this, knowing this, the weathered old apostle cried . . .