With his father’s tears still upon his hands and feet, the Author’s son stepped onto the canvas. Immediately he was questioned by the writers, “Who are you?”
“I am the Word,” the son replied.
“What do you mean, ‘I am the Word’?” the writers asked.
“I am the Word you have been writing,” the son answered.
Very few writers could understand what the son meant, so many ignored him. “He doesn’t even have a pen,” they declared. “How can he possibly help?” One by one, the writers went back to writing, but mostly arguing, and watching God’s ink being drawn away to darkness. Yet a few stayed. They hoped the son could show them something different. They asked him, “When you say that you are the ‘Word,’ do you mean that you are ‘LOVE‘?”
“I am,” the son replied.
“So teach us how to write it!” they demanded.
“You have been shown how to write by my father, the Author. You must learn how to live LOVE,” the son responded. “Then my father’s portrait will be complete.
“Your father is the Author?!” the writers asked in disbelief.
“I tell you the truth, he is,” the son responded. “He sent me with a solution to Lucifer’s ink. If you draw from me, you will be able to write as the Author desires. You will be able to live LOVE as my father instructed.”
The son’s declaration that the Author is his father caused even more writers to walk away. If the Author had a son, surely this could not be him. He was plain. Ordinary. And hadn’t he come from the corner of the L? No one of importance came from there. Some writers even believed that this writer had only come to deceive them. He had no pen. He claimed to be the Author’s son, yet no one had seen the Author in a very long time. And this man, this son – as he claimed – walked around taking the ink of writers in his hands and placing it on the canvas. Then he would step in it and leave his footprints all over. Clearly this man was from the darkness, sent to ruin the picture completely.
Once told to write LOVE, the writers did not live it. Trying to live LOVE, the writers did not give it. They conspired against the son. Several sharpened their pens into swords. These writers believed that the only way to save the picture now would be to get this man out of it. The writers believed that, if they worked together, they could send this man, the Author’s son, to his death. As with all the others before, they would then drag his body into the darkness.
What a chaotic scene. Remember the history. God, as Light, drove the darkness to the edges of the canvas. God, as Author, stored the darkness as ink. God, as Creator, began to write. Intending to create a portrait of LOVE, a portrait that was immediately marred by the Lucifer ink. The Lucifer ink then pulled God’s ink away from writer after writer. Streak after streak created not LOVE, but darkness.
And now, with the canvas full of maimed and wounded writers, there was a glorious mess. Some were writing. Some were arguing about how to write. Some were taking the ink given by God and using it to fill in the darkness. (After all, that seemed easier than all the rules created for writing LOVE.) And still more gave their pens over to swords, to no longer write but to self-preserve.
The Author’s decision to send his son seemed to only add to this confusion. A few followed the son, to listen for how they should write. To hear how to live LOVE, and to observe this man without a pen who left ink on the canvas with every step and every touch. Finally one of the writers had to ask the son, “How is it that you can take this ink and have it stay where you want? When we do what you are doing, the ink stains our hands. And why doesn’t the Lucifer ink pull your work away?”
The son simply smiled and said, “You’ll see.”
Questions to consider
*Why would it be so difficult to accept that the son was of the Author? Why is (or was) it for you?
*How are you doing at living LOVE?