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The dusk of my contemplations blends into the dawn of action as I stand before the red door, the stoop beneath me a silent witness to the countless times I’ve arrived at this juncture. The door, a sentinel of vibrant crimson, stands as a barrier and a promise—a gateway to a world where the divine and the mundane intertwine.
In my hand, the key feels heavy with potential, its cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth of the wood it’s about to turn within. I pause, my breath a mist in the chill air, and I think of Nehemiah, cupbearer to the king, who stood before a different kind of threshold—the ruins of a once-great city, its glory crumbled to dust, its people scattered.
Like Nehemiah, I too have heard the call to rebuild, not walls of stone, but the very concept of what it means to encounter the Divine. The reports of the exile survivors echo in my mind, their plight a mirror to the spiritual desolation I see around me. The church, much like Jerusalem’s walls, lies in rubble, its gates—its access to the true experience of Jesus—reduced to cinders by years of tradition and misinterpretation.
With a prayer whispered into the growing light, I reach out, the key’s teeth finding their home with a satisfying click. The door swings open, not with the creak of disuse, but with the silent grace of a path long intended to be taken. The interior beckons, each room a chapter yet to be written, each space a testament to the journey of faith that awaits.
I step over the threshold, the red door now behind me, a symbol of what I leave outside—disbelief, fear, the constraints of a life lived in the shadows of others’ expectations. The house before me is vast, its rooms many, and I know that each one holds a piece of the revelation I seek.
The tabernacle’s creation, commanded by the Lord and executed with precise care, resonates with my purpose here. I am to build, to create, to shape this space into a sanctuary where the lost and the seeking can find refuge, where the creative and the outcast can find a home.
As I move through the house, the weight of my calling settles upon me, not as a burden, but as an armor—fortifying, empowering. The attic awaits, its door ajar, the hinges already loosened by the revelations that have shaken my world to its core.
And so, I begin, one room at a time, to uncover the truths long hidden, to gather the scattered pieces of faith and fit them into a mosaic of understanding. For I am a cupbearer to the King of Kings, and my task is to serve not wine, but a vision—a vision of a church unhinged from the past, open to the winds of change, and ready to embrace the whirlwind of God’s presence.