“One good word is bread for a thousand,” says the poet.
But the Gospel says, “Man cannot live on bread alone.”
The words that come from the mouth of God are what nourish and sustain. My words are just squishy white bread. Cheap energy. An over-processed starch that gives rise to short-lived thrills followed by sleepy entropy. They’re full of empty space; squish them together, and the pages they fill shrink to a sticky ball of pulp. My words are only good for serving baloney.
This is true.
To confess is to simply say what’s true. I confess my words are jet-puffed seplechures with a deceptively browned crust.
But the fields of whole grain are ripe for harvest. For them, a body was broken to become the bread of life.
I, too, need to be kneaded.
I confess; the master baker knows the whole story. I confess, I want to word for Him.