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In the reign of Oliver Cromwell, the UK government started to run low on silver for coins. Lord Cromwell sent his men on an enquiry of the local cathedral to determine if they could find any valuable metal there. The sole silver we could find is the statues of the saints standing in the corners. To that the radical infantryman and statesman of Britain responded. Not bad religion for a correct, puritanical Lord Protector of the Isles.

In some words, Cromwell’s command stated the essence. The practical objective of authentic Christianity. Not rows of silver saints, highly shined, frequently dusted, crammed into the corners of classy churches. Not plaster folks cloaked in thin layers of pristine silver and crowned with a metallic radiance. Liquified saints circulating thru the main line of humanity.

Bringing worth and worth down where life transpires in the raw. Without the faint aura of stained glass, the electrical modulation of the organ, and the familiar comforts of padded pews and dimmed lights. Out where bottom-line religion is top-shelf concern. We are able to start to consider ourselves martyrs as we are in church twice on Sunday—really sacrificing by investing a couple of hours on the “day of rest.” Listen, my friend, being among the saints is no sacrifice. The price tag factor happens on Mon. or Tues. . That is when we are “melted down and put into circulation.” That is when they’re going for the jugular.

And it is outstanding how that boring workweek test discolors many a silver saint. “Sunday religion” may appear adequate, but that is a long way from the truth. Perhaps that is the reason why words of the venerable soothsayer touch a nerve:. How are you going to manage in the thickets by the Jordan? Doing battle in the steaming jungle calls for shock troops in super shape. No rhinestone cowboys can cut it among the swamps and insects of the gross world system. Sunday-go-to-meetin’ silver saints in shining armor are simply out of circulation if that is the limit to their religion.

Refusal to surrender, even with the elephants tromping on your air hose. It’s all part of being “in circulation.” people who successfully wage war with silent heroism under relentless mundane pressure—ah, they’re the saints who know what it suggests to be softened.

You can keep your own record and come out smelling like a rose. Till the Lord calls for an inquiry of the local cathedral.