Dusty bibles, brand new phones

They lie like silent witnesses—

on coffee tables, beneath rings of forgotten mugs, in the sun-bleached cradle of a dashboard, on nightstands cloaked by the glow of an iPad or Kindle.

Sacred words buried under screens that flicker with lesser stories.

Meanwhile, brand-new phones hum in eager hands, cradled like precious infants—fed by every swipe, every scroll, every dopamine drip of curated distraction.

Trendy tech becomes the new oracle,

whispering shallow revelations in neon hues,

while ancient, life-breathing truths sit waiting,

veiled in a fine cloak of dust.

Our eyes gleam with anticipation for the next episode, the next binge-worthy tale to devour our hours, yet grow heavy and dim at the thought of opening the only Book that can split soul from spirit, bone from marrow, exposing and healing in one breath.

Oh, what tragedy echoes through this generation—that we are rich in knowledge yet starved of wisdom, restless for novelty yet strangers to the voice

that spoke galaxies into existence.

Hear it:

the whisper of pages longing to be turned,

the ancient breath of God waiting to breathe upon your spirit, to awaken dry bones with truth that burns brighter than any screen.

Can you sense it?

This quiet grief that hangs in the air—

not the sorrow of paper and ink,

but the heartache of a Father whose letters go unread, whose love songs lie unopened beneath layers of dust.

Shake the dust from those sacred pages,

let them breathe again beneath your trembling hands. Turn down the noise; let eternity thunder in your chest. Taste words that do not simply entertain but transform,

that pierce, that cleanse, that resurrect.

Let the Bible no longer lie hidden beneath the weight of modern idols.

Let it be opened, read, wept over, clutched to your chest—that the living God might walk off its pages and set fire to the cold altars of your distracted heart.

For one day, technology will pass away, this is not eternal. But the Word of our God

shall stand forever.