Although, for the most part, the clouds without water are a danger only to themselves, they tend to try and influence other clouds without water once the winds shift and they are carried about.
They’re the ones that always start a conversation with, ‘Did
you hear about what’s happening in such and such a place? Did you hear about
the new move, the new outpouring, the new thing God is doing, having replaced
the old thing that worked perfectly well for two thousand years?’
That’s the thing about the new thing; it’s never better than
the old thing. It’s never as Scriptural as the old thing, and it doesn’t have
the staying power of the old thing. Why would I want the new thing again? Just
because it’s new? So was Myspace once upon a time. Just because something is
new, it doesn’t make it better. It just makes it new.
Granted, most people today have the maturity level of a
teething toddler, so shiny new things are akin to catnip, but the argument is
valid, and it stands the test of objective logic.
A lot of new things have come and gone while the old thing
has remained. The one difference between the old thing and the new things is
that the old thing is anchored in the truth. It is anchored in the Word and remains
steadfast throughout the shifting winds, the roiling seas, and the battering
storms.
The late autumn trees without fruit are more nefarious than
the clouds without water because they pretend to be something they are not.
They’re hoping no one notices they haven’t produced any fruit, that they’ll get
a pass due to their leafy branches or flowery words, but alas, no fruit means
no fruit, or worse still, bad fruit means bad fruit.
You can mask the taste of bad fruit only for so long. No
matter how often you insist it’s a strawberry, a lemon is still a lemon. A lie
is still a lie, no matter how often they insist it’s the truth.
The tragedy is that many who don’t know any better look at
the late autumn trees without fruit and attempt to mimic them, thinking that’s
what a fruitful tree should look like. It’s a self-perpetuating cycle, wherein
one fruitless tree convinces another that being fruitless is the natural way of
things, and so they go about their existence contentedly and without the desire
to be fruitful.
The raging waves of the sea foaming up their own shame are
the immoral among God’s people who have no desire to shed their immorality but
attempt to convince everyone else that their fallen state is acceptable unto
God.
You may be able to fool some of the people some of the time,
but you can’t fool God any of the time. God knows what He said, how He said it,
and when He said it, and for anyone to insist otherwise is foolishness itself.
God isn’t some aging politician that barely remembers his own name. He’s not
suffering from dementia, Alzheimer’s, short-term memory loss, long-term memory
loss, or any other malady.
The sad reality is that the raging waves Jude speaks of, who
foam up their own shame, love their sin more than they love God and, because of
this, will not repent of it. They would rather pretend at loving God and
indulging in their sin than break ties with their sin so that they might truly
know the love of God.
For the most part, these are very angry people because of
their unending inner struggles. They know they should leave sin behind. They
know they should deny themselves and pick up their crosses, but their flesh
will not allow it, for to allow such a thing would be to lose control, and
that’s something the flesh is very keen on not doing.
The last thing the flesh wants is for you to know life, to
know freedom, to know light, and joy and peace and fulfillment outside of its
purview. This is why Jesus must set us free, for whom the Son sets free is free
indeed, and once He steps into the frame, the flesh can no longer exert
control.
One cry for help, one hand raised out of the muck and mire is
all it takes, and He will pull you to shore, clean you up, make you new, make
you whole, give you purpose and meaning and hope beyond this life into the next
for all eternity.
Last on the list are the wandering stars, for whom the
blackness of darkness is reserved forever. The danger of the wandering stars is
that most expect them to be in fixed positions, in perpetuity. During the time
Jude penned his letter, men throughout used the stars to navigate and make
their way through the world, whether by land or sea. If the stars by which you
set your course wander to and fro, if you are perpetually uncertain of your
path, then you can never be surefooted or confident about where you’re headed.
It is because these wandering stars provoke uncertainty that
leads to doubt that their judgment is so final and absolute. There’s no nice
way of interpreting having the blackness of darkness reserved for you forever;
there just isn’t.
As John Newton once wrote, through many dangers, toils, and
snares, I have already come; ‘Tis grace that brought me safe thus far, and
grace will lead me home.
Jude wrote of the dangers not to scare or terrify us but to make us aware of their existence and compel us to be watchful. We know that He will lead us home. All we need to do is humbly follow after Him.
With love in Christ,
Michael Boldea, Jr.
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