The Root
If it is true that loving money makes man evil and that it infectiously entangles the heart. Then this must have been what was wrong with Judas. But when did it start; when the widow in faith gave her last two mites or was it when he envious gawked at the woman bathing Jesus’ feet with the oil from her alabaster’s box?
However it began, it became an evil root that never was plucked out--becoming like the weeds that annoyingly grow in one’s garden. One would have to ponder did they grow accidentally or were they deliberately planted? If intentional, then who is the gardener that plants this seed--the seed of the root that produces such manner of fruit? The fruits of impiety that will cause a man to deny a part of his flesh or make a woman sell hers—only later to be ashamed.
Exactly how does this gardener choose his ground and what does he use to cultivate it? How does he know if the soil is pliable to yield the kind of fruit derivative from this infectious root?
Perhaps we should use Judas as our template. His last words not recorded--evidently only ungodly repentance. But what we could garner is that these roots do not grow over night. It takes time for this infection to blossom, secretly festering after while leaving no room for an antibiotic cure. And by the time it’s noticed, it is like the mold found on stale bread—it shows up at the corner but it’s spread all the way through. And the disguised foliage of this evil is covered with canker worms eating away at the heart it has now suffocated.
This strange fruit hanging from these vines—rotten—rotten like the gushed out bile of Judas.
If it is true that loving money makes man evil and that it infectiously entangles the heart. Then this must have been what was wrong with Judas. But when did it start; when the widow in faith gave her last two mites or was it when he envious gawked at the woman bathing Jesus’ feet with the oil from her alabaster’s box?
However it began, it became an evil root that never was plucked out--becoming like the weeds that annoyingly grow in one’s garden. One would have to ponder did they grow accidentally or were they deliberately planted? If intentional, then who is the gardener that plants this seed--the seed of the root that produces such manner of fruit? The fruits of impiety that will cause a man to deny a part of his flesh or make a woman sell hers—only later to be ashamed.
Exactly how does this gardener choose his ground and what does he use to cultivate it? How does he know if the soil is pliable to yield the kind of fruit derivative from this infectious root?
Perhaps we should use Judas as our template. His last words not recorded--evidently only ungodly repentance. But what we could garner is that these roots do not grow over night. It takes time for this infection to blossom, secretly festering after while leaving no room for an antibiotic cure. And by the time it’s noticed, it is like the mold found on stale bread—it shows up at the corner but it’s spread all the way through. And the disguised foliage of this evil is covered with canker worms eating away at the heart it has now suffocated.
This strange fruit hanging from these vines—rotten—rotten like the gushed out bile of Judas.
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