thegreatknock...

The Waiting

2010-07-21T10:16:00.001-04:00

Sitting with a half-hour spare
When suddenly a moment rare
Steals upon me unaware
Its very boldness to declare
That such a moment cannot bear
To see Time giv’n such little care
As to be labeled something “spare”

And still I sit and silent wait
Beginning now to meditate
On how we fools do separate
A day in pieces small and great
So that we might discriminate
Which ones to waste, or designate
As small enough to simply “wait”

Ps107

2010-07-02T16:31:00.000-04:00

Last night, as Brooke visited rooms to check on the girls at Boot Camp, I spent a little while worshiping out in the darkened field. It was a lovely time to raise hands and spin around and just place my whole self beneath my Maker. I opened up the Word to Psalm 107, and was so encouraged by it - just seeing the different people whom God delivers throughout the Psalm. I think we all can identify with the people we see there - the wilderness wandering, the darkness dwellers, the rebellious fools, the works watchers. Have we not been all of these at some point or another? But the beauty of the psalm is in how God delivers them each, in His own way.

I think of times when my soul has felt like one wandering in the wilderness, hungry and thirsty. Indeed, even this afternoon I have felt so! So too I have felt as one down in the depth of darkness, the shadow of death, like a prisoner, unable to break the chains of wickedness which seem always to plague me. I have even been a fool, rebellious in my way, and afflicted. But what do all of these do in their trouble? They cry out to the Lord, and He delivers them out of their distresses! How beautiful! And then each is given what they truly need from Him —

The wandering soul finds God’s guidance, and He leads the lonely one to His people, into His family, and satisfies the hunger and thirst!

The dark-dweller is brought out into the light, and the chains are utterly broken; the gates of bronze are shattered, the iron bars cut asunder!

The fool is healed by God’s Word, and delivered from destructions so that he might give thanks to the Lord!

And in all of these they are to give thanks for His lovingkindness and for His wonders among men. Such a wonderful encouragement to read and place one’s hope in, that God should deliver you as you cry out to Him. Do not hesitate today to call out to Him in your distress, O soul; and believe His arm will flex on your behalf!

The Story of the Stars of Marsden Hill

2010-06-11T23:18:00.001-04:00

There were seven stars which kept company with one another over Marsden Hill. Each night they hung low early in the evening, whispering together the secret matters of stars. They spoke low words in confidence, with absolute trust between them, and as the night progressed their thoughts and deliberations would unfold, becoming more and more evident to the occupants of the Hill and culminating at the darkest dark of night in one brilliant figure bold in the frozen firmament. This great figure was their Truth, hidden to none. It held fast for but a moment; the stars held it so. Then, blushing at their own transparency of revelation, the bareness of their thought, they would shift once more into their downward, dawnward repose. For they knew that the Hill was properly possessed by the Great Star, which tread across it during those hours known as “Day.”

For centuries and long ages of men, the Truth of these seven stars lay hidden, unnoticed by the men of Marsden Hill. The men strove and laboured upon the mighty hill, working the earth (the stuff of which they themselves were made) for shelter, food, and clothing. They toiled each day by the light of the Great Star, for, as they believed, by its Light they saw all things. And when the Great Star would retire, withdrawing into his resting room, pulling his rose-coloured bedcurtains closed, the men, too, would retire, believing they had seen the fulness of that Day. They did not realise the Truth which hung above them every night…

Zp7 Proverbs

2010-06-04T10:48:00.001-04:00

Reject typicality.

The world has not yet seen all that you are capable of. Humbly inform them. Be no more a mystery.

Do everything with as much excellence as you can muster.

Invest your time and energy in those activities or bits of knowledge which are reproductive - that is, which you can pass along to others. Be a consumer-reproducer.

Feel passion for many things. Do no stifle any pure ones.

Be unreasonable about your passions; divine gifts and purposes are not often reasonable.

Enjoy the sharp, sporadic memories as if they were a momentary Now - the smells, the songs which carry you Elsewhere. Memory is its own Continent.

Allow your passions to carry you into difficult and hard labours; they will surely carry you through them as well. Difficult work fuels a passion. Learn this by practise.

Do not be satisfied by lectures, sermons, commentaries, critical essays, or translations - these are all veils between you and the Source. Know them, but do not be satisfied by them.

Make excuses out of everyday situations, meetings, or happenings for learning something new.

You do not need to master all areas of knowledge, but you must master the most important ones. A God-driven passion will show you which these are.

Faces

2009-09-09T10:21:00.002-04:00

This is a new song I wrote over the weekend, to play at a concert at the barking Legs Theater. If you'd like to listen to the song, click on this post's title and it'll take you to where you can hear it (smile). If I were computer-savvy, I'm sure I could have posted it here somehow...

Faces

Have you seen the face of Suffering
A common face, ordinary, plain
Yet somehow familiar to the human race

Moving through the crowd Humanity
He stops one man walking dully by
All the other faces turn away and smile
Careless of their brother, they move on awhile

But as faces come and faces go
Turn around a moment, ask him what he knows
Make him tell you why it must be so
There has to be a reason—hold onto him, don’t let go till he tells you so…

Have you seen the face of perfect Peace
Disfigured face, brutalised and maimed
Difficult to look on, lovely just the same

His beauty spoils the following:
Loneliness, despair, and heavy shame
But like a treasure hidden—hidden in a field of pain
The guilty go on looking, desperate for his face

And as faces come and faces go
Turn around a moment, ask him what he knows
Make him tell you why it must be so
There has to be a reason—hold onto him, don’t let go till he tells you so…

He’ll tell you that you have to see him to believe
That his face of suffering is the face of peace
Only eyes open wide see the loveliness inside
But you have to be near—so near—for the beauty to appear
Through the painful tears…

So as faces come and faces go
Turn around a moment, ask him what he knows
Make him tell you why it must be so
There has to be a reason—hold onto him—

And as faces come and faces go
Turn around a moment, ask him what he knows
And he’ll tell you why it must be so
He has to give a reason to hold onto him, not let go…he won’t let you go…

Six Billion

2009-08-28T11:39:00.001-04:00

Six billion hearts in a moment murmuring--
six billion lung-fulls taken in and out--
six billion wonderings what the day will bring--
six billion statements of what it's all about--

What Leadership Is Not

2009-06-30T11:52:00.000-04:00

Loudness.

Disregard.

Charisma.

Passion.

Position.

Fame.

Ignorance.

Cowardice.

Cleverness.

Pleasantry.

Assumed superiority.

Standing at the front of a room.

Sitting at the head of a conference table.

Writing in the blank space of a blog or a comment field.

Scoffing.

Intimidating.

Power.

Internet

2009-06-25T12:14:00.001-04:00

I think the internet is too much for me.

Too much news. I can read the headlines everyday, with new ones popping up moment by moment. I can click on links to related articles. I can learn all kinds of things about all kinds of people in all kinds of situations. But then I do nothing about it. There is no outlet for so much information except mere opinion. So I can leave comments, or click thumbs up and down, or post the item framed with my own view. And then do nothing. Do nothing but wait until the next item rolls around. Do nothing but grow cynical, frustrated, or feel cheap, empty victories for "having my voice be heard."

Too much entertainment. I can drop by Hulu and laugh at Conan's monologues and general silliness, or check out the latest YouTube clip for a chuckle. I can forget that there are very important things happening which ought not happen. I can forget there is evil.

Too much photography. I can log in to Facebook and scan through the photos of my friends, see countless self-portraits at odd angles with faces frozen in rock star screams or Zoolander pouts or eyebrow arches. I can see beautiful face and beautiful face, curvy figure after curvy figure, and skin skin skin on "innocent" sites. And then there are too many faces in my mind and I forget the faces that really matter to me. I forget the innocence of a flesh-and-blood smile. I forget the good, good hardship of a living person and grow more comfortable with the static flat image. Or I grow angry that people think so little of their smiles, their eyes, their bodies, that they would paint them and alter them into meaningless charms.

Too much text. Words, werds, wurds. Too many words sitting open-faced, as if every one of those words and ideas were as important as every other. One man's blog is another man's comment. I can look from page to page, blog to blog, listening to the voices speak through their words--and at the end of the day, I can believe that someone's words matter more because their well-designed website looks much cooler than the other. I can disregard a friend and read an enemy. I can lie. But I cannot pronounce truth in so much text. All is opinion. All is equal.

Too much music. Too much video. Too much sound. Too much fury.

And not enough of the things that really matter.

Am I alone in this?

Sometimes I See New, Sometimes I Cry (or, For the Love)

2009-04-16T09:11:00.003-04:00

Sometimes, while driving around town, I listen to music and it makes me see with new eyes. Take this morning, for example. I locked away Daphne and Gracie, hopped into the Jeep after stashing all the work necessities in the back (and a few non-essentials, such as the disc golf discs), and pulled away to go to the office. As I reached the highway, I realised a song my heart wanted to hear, and clicked the wheel round til it reached Rich Mullins. One button-push later, "Calling Out Your Name" begins to hammer out the speakers...

Well, the moon moved past Nebraska
And spilled laughter on them cold Dakota hills
Angels danced on Jacob's stairs--
Yeah, they danced on Jacob's stairs

There is this silence in the Badlands
And over Kansas the whole universe is stilled
With the whisper of a prayer
The whisper of a prayer

And I see the hawk burst into flight
And in the east all the horizon
Is in flames
I hear the thunder in the sky--
See the sky about to rain--
And I hear the prairies calling out Your name

Listening to this as I flew past familiar hillocks and grass leant on by the old Tennessee wind, knowing they were not the prairies described, yet they felt new. And it made my heart breathe deep.

Sometimes, too, the music makes me cry. When the first song ended, I paused the music to revel for a few minutes before starting another song by this, probably the greatest poetic lyricist I've ever heard...

Aidan, you're young
But, Aidan, you're growing
Fast
Me and your mom and all the love we have
We can only take you so far--
As far as we can--
But you'll need something more
To guide your heart
As you grow into a man--

Let mercy lead
let love be the strength in your legs
And in every footprint that you leave
There'll be a drop of grace
If we can reach beyond the wisdom of this age
Into the foolishness of God
That foolishness will save those who believe
Although their foolish hearts may break
They'll find peace
And I'll meet you
In that place where mercy leads

Oh, this song made me cry! Only a few small tears, but cry I did. Cry for the beauty of a foolishness which saves by the awesome power of God. Cry for the mercy which ought to lead us, step by step, to overcome the world. Cry for the church which contents itself with the wisdom of this age--with its tactics of complaint and resistance and advertisement, rather than sacrificing, enduring, overcoming, winning. Tears for the peace of Christ, which He gives, so unlike the peace of this present, dark world; for less activism and more grace-persistent, loving activity; for foolish hearts to break, for my foolish heart to break.

They were but a few tears, but they were enough to move me. Add a cup of hope, stir, and such moments can move many, many more, I do believe.

The Recreation (An Easter Story)

2009-04-12T13:57:00.002-04:00

(reprinted from Easter 2006, by the author)

The echo still resounded, "Let there be Light!" This Light beyond all light which transports the soul from the black of evil to the bright shine of goodly glory had come, had spilled all over the earth and over the hearts of men, exposing all, radiating all, loving all, burning all. Some seared souls arose against that Light and resolved themselves that this Light would have no part of them! They shook angry fists to the heavens from which that great Light shone; they spewed blasphemous rage. They sought to destroy the Light.

With a sigh, the Light absorbed their derision and rejection. The Light faded with the weight of infinite sorrow shrouding its glory moment by moment. At last, the very Daylight died. There was morning and there was evening: the first day.

Rage. The earth itself did tremble and rupture, and the dead began to crawl from their graves. Look! Look to the heavy curtain of the universe, veiling all things from the unapproachable Light which would consume them! The glorious Light, the Holy of holiest Light, which men could not enter lest they die--the marvelous Light did not kill the foolish trespassing Man, but true to the nature of Light, it only exposed the reality: that the trespassing Man was already dead! The curtain sways as all things slip into tumultuous darkness, heaving groaning despairing dark. The curtain sways, and suddenly is torn! Men avert their eyes, lest they too die...fall to their knees, grieving that they should stand so close to the Holy Room...and then they raise their eyes. They look, in faith, they look and can see as the Light wills them to see!

Silence elsewhere. Men strike hands in sinful pledges, women seduce, children revolt, parents despise, fathers abuse, mothers tantrum, sons lust, daughters envy. It is as any other day. There was morning and there was evening: the second day.

Night passes and begins to ebb away. A slow blue burns the edge of the horizon, burning itself into a watery light which creeps farther and farther heavenward, ascending as only the Light can ascend! At the same moment, watery tears yet fall from the cheeks of those precious few who loved the Light which left them two days hence. Will they be left alone in darkness? Darkness still within them, darkness all around--O, will the Sun also rise?

Unknown to them, the earth again moved--this time, but a single great boulder, a stone which stood before the shadowy cave. A hundred men who doubted the Light (but also doubted Death enough to stand as guards against the imperishable Light) look in awe for a moment and are struck down. They lie as though dead.

It is the breaking of the Dawn! Light passes among them, and among many more, thousands upon thousands more, Light passes among you and I...the Light burns on, loves on, restores on, proclaims on, satisfies on, sears on, frightens on, rages on! The Light remains and darkness cannot overwhelm Him! O God! What Light!

It was morning and it is forever morning: the Third Day.

On Point

2009-04-03T14:12:00.003-04:00

Click the title above to check out our new website. Why Know is no mo', our new name is On Point. Not bad (smile).

Last night, we held our annual banquet here at the Chattanooga Trade Center, with this year's speaker, Dr. Benjamin Carson. Dr. Carson did a wonderful job--he communicated much wisdom learned both from his childhood struggles and from more modern trials in the operating room. A very nice man, he.

While he shared much I could reflect upon (and probably will), I was musing over one tidbit just now: Dr. Carson's mother, in case you do not know, decided to kill their TV and require her two sons to read books (2 per week) and write reports on each book. Little Ben hated this at first (he joked last night that he and his brother called it "child abuse"), but within a few months he loved reading. And he said his morale was boosted greatly as he began to earn things that none of his classmates knew. He said he realised this impact from his reading, even as a young boy.

I loved to hear the simplicity of that, that kind of honest pride in knowing things. While it can lead to gross pride, the simple desire to learn and know more can be simple, pure, and sweet--it's something we are made to do (John 10:10). But I think about our culture today, with its countless media sources and outlets from televisions to theaters to cell phones and computers, and I wonder if we haven't grown into a culture where young people don't care about knowing more (or even just other) things than the next person--to them, it's more important to know exactly what everyone else knows. How many conversations are begun, "Hey, did you hear..." How many times I have observed young people hear the first few seconds of a popular song, and turn to look at one another for that glance of recognition: "You know this song, too? Oh, I know this song--in fact, I can sing all the words, watch this." They are content only to know the same gossip, rumors, speculations, and useless superficial knowledge that their peers possess.

But do they love learning? Do they dig deep into knowledge? Most importantly, do they know, do they press on to know the Lord? For in the light of Him, knowledge knows its limitations and is humbled. But who will show this generation how?

Holy Ground

2009-03-23T14:33:00.002-04:00

listening to music that makes me want to go out hiking
in the heat of the day
along dry streams where flies buzz and spiders dangle,
feeling the occasional cool pocket
of breath
along the stream bed--
feeling the sun slant through still, still branches,
going sometimes blind
studying the rocks to find the surest footing
along an uncertain path,
steadying
myself
by holding onto trees who've known every one of these rocks
for much longer than i have--
steering my course up along this empty waterway
with no destination in mind,
glad to have
a plain direction--

feeling in the roughness of the wilderness,
the holiness of the ground

Stories

2009-01-29T15:41:00.002-05:00

I love stories. Telling them, hearing them, reading them, discussing them, polishing them, turning them, painting them, singing them...really, is there anything which cannot be done with Story? It's a marvelous invention.

Has Story always been? since man begun,
His thoughts and deeds, hopes, fears, have all been sung
In poetry and prophecy, and told
Through novels new and ancient plays of old.
Perhaps the only thing as old as God
Is Story...

I write stories from time to time. In days past, I would write them in pieces or over instant messages, just making them up as I went along (which I'm sure genuine authors would chide me for, saying I ought to govern my creations more strictly than such wandering accounts). I wrote one a few weeks ago about the noise in my office wall--when the wind blows hard, a strange metallic creak goes through the wall, and this inspired my story:

A story written over IM… January 7, 2009

Something metallic rattles over my head, like the wind is in the ceiling or wall. I could probably write a good story about it, but the truth of it is far more amazing than even I could imagine. And if I had time, I would surely tell it.

You see, it isn't the wind that is causing such a ruckus. In fact, it is a story locked up within the wall.

You know how this building was purchased some months ago by Yerbey Construction? Well, during the second week of September, a work crew came to begin the process of gutting the old place. They walked in and found a mess of old two-by-fours, wiring hanging from a sunken ceiling, lights broken, small standing pools of water from the recent rains.

So they rolled up their sleeves and started throwing all the old useless things in the dumpster out front.

Well, one such worker--a lean, scratchy fellow named Carl--moved to a little-used corner of the space: the corner just outside my office, in fact. And pushing soggy warped boards aside, he uncovered there something unexpected.

It was small, rather old, and it showed its age. Still, he could tell it wasn't useless, and this caused him some dilemma. 'Should I throw this away, too?' he asked himself. 'I mean, surely I can't leave it here.'

He called the foreman over: 'Um, sir? Can you give me a hand with this?' The foreman, who was large with a large head and nose, and who was not the nicest sort of fellow, growled a little and came round from another part of the building.

Carl showed him the Story, trying very hard to pretend like he knew what he was supposed to do. But no need--the foreman himself had never seen such a thing before. He grunted in surprise, then grunted again to call for their electrician to come check it out. The electrician came and murmured to himself a bit before concluding he had no idea what the Story was, either. So they called the plumber, considering how the Story yet sat in a small puddle of water. The plumber came. And simply shrugged.

The carpenter, not wanting to be left out of the free break time everyone seemed to be getting, came over, too. He was always left out of the bigger decisions of the crew, but wouldn't be left out this time--so when he saw the Story sitting there, he saw his opportunity to prove himself.

'Why, that's a load-bearing chisel slack-joint,' he said to them all with all confidence. 'Sure, it's important. We need to tack that puppy up here out of the way, between the joists, like so,' and taking a pencil to mark a ridiculous X on the beam, he nailed the Story to the joist.

All the workers shrugged a little at this, but as the unknown Story was someone else's problem now, and not theirs, they were content to move on to other habitual tasks of gutting a building. So they turned and did not see the Story move slightly.

They laboured here a few weeks, feeding wiring, mounting sheetrock, applying paint, and so on. And the little story, still affixed to the joists, was locked up inside.

So now whenever the Story moves, the joists creak and the metal supports groan. I figure the Story needs to be heard, and I guess it will keep groaning until someone listens to It.

I stopped there--what do you all suppose happened to the Story?

Brother Augustine

2008-10-20T16:15:00.003-04:00

A man I admire very much, as much for the coolness of his name as for the patient humility of his faith, is visiting this week in nearby Dayton. His name is Brother Augustine Asir and he lives in Chennai, India. I count him a distant friend even though I've spent a scant few weeks with him, first in the summer of '99 and then again in 2005.

One of the kindest words of encouragement I've ever heard came from this man. In 2005, I was so blessed to have the opportunity to preach twice to groups of believers there, first to a small crowd of elderly folks in a home and then to group of believers in our borrowed flat. Both times, I spent many hours preparing some thoughts from passages of Scripture only to be led to change plans in the hour before I was to speak...but when the speaking came, I had such confidence, power and peace when I opened my mouth that not a word fell to the ground. And I felt joy. Joy like I feel when I read the prophet's echo, "Is not My Word like a fire, like a hammer which breaks stones to pieces?!" or when I read Paul's words to Timothy, "But the Word is not imprisoned!" Joy solid like stone.

It was after the second occasion, the one in the small flat (incidentally, after a long night and day of throwing up and general illness), that Brother Augustine came and encouraged me. He came and spoke to me as a sort of spiritual grandfather, eyes peaceful and glad, face lined with dark wrinkles, crowned with his white curly fuzz. He told me then that I had served well, that the Spirit works mightily in my speaking, that He is strong within me.

My father has encouraged me much over the years, and my wife encourages me wonderfully as well. But along with their good words, I remember his. They've stayed with me, as a kind of spiritual blessing...these words from a grandfather in the faith.

Thanks, Brother!

Some Missionary Thoughts

2008-10-17T10:35:00.003-04:00

I am studying the Gospel of Matthew, and this morning began working through chapter 3 and a bit about John the Baptist. A little later, I saw a Piper sermon in my Inbox about John the Baptist--called John the Witness in one of the other gospels. In Piper's sermon, he speaks of how God is going to use us to share the Light...

The Word and the Life and the Light are coming into the world. But they are not going to conquer this darkness the way a bolt of lightning brightens the night. They are going to conquer it by lighting millions of cold, dead human torches with the oxygen of the gospel and the mysteriously spontaneous combustion of the new birth. And that gospel will come through human witnesses.

Such a beautiful way to put it! Another reference to John the Witness came up earlier this week in Oswald Chambers:

The key to the missionary message is the propitiation of Christ Jesus. Take any phase of Christ's work—the healing phase, the saving and sanctifying phase; there is nothing limitless about those. 'The Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world!'—that is limitless. The missionary message is the limitless significance of Jesus Christ as the propitiation for our sins, and a missionary is one who is soaked in that revelation.

The key to the missionary message is the remissionary aspect of Christ's life, not His kindness and His goodness, and His revealing of the Fatherhood of God; the great limitless significance is that He is the propitiation for our sins. The missionary message is not patriotic, it is irrespective of nations and of individuals, it is for the whole world. When the Holy Ghost comes in He does not consider my predilections, He brings me into union with the Lord Jesus.

A missionary is one who is wedded to the charter of his Lord and Master; he has not to proclaim his own point of view, but to proclaim the Lamb of God. It is easier to belong to a coterie which tells what Jesus Christ has done for me, easier to become a devotee to Divine healing, or to a special type of sanctification, or to the baptism of the Holy Ghost. Paul did not say 'Woe is unto me, if I do not preach what Christ has done for me,' but 'Woe is unto me, if I preach not the gospel!' This is the Gospel—'The Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world!'

O be encouraged, you who are the Light! Take the Word of God to the world, regardless of darkness; for we are captives set free, even in this world of chains, and we know that "the Word of God is not imprisoned!"

Obama on Abortion: A Few Thoughts

2008-08-19T15:50:00.004-04:00

See video of Obama's interview here.

Obama addresses abortion in Part 3 of the video, starting around the 3:00 mark...

First, let me review the question. "At what point does a baby get human rights in your view?" Certainly this is a big question, one which in some ways strikes upon the very core of a person's worldview, while at the same time it can be the easiest of questions. I first saw this portion of the Obama interview with Rick Warren last night on CNN, in which Warren posed that very question to Sen. Obama.

I listed a few problems with Sen. Obama's answer on the posted item here, but I wished to share a few other thoughts. For one thing, I must note how many times the reporters and commentators last night remarked on how McCain's position "is just much easier" for handling a question like this, so that the question was practically a bit unfair. Which caused me to wonder: could it not be that in some cases a particular stance is easier because it is the right one? I can appreciate Sen. Obama's difficulty with such a question--if you do not say it begins at conception, then you have to very carefully consider what qualities of tissue and spark you calculate and tally until the sum equals a genuine human being worthy of human rights. God's answer is simple, per the Scriptures I have cited here recently; Obama's answer, however, is very complicated. And ultimately, in this interview at least, left unsaid.

As he declined to succinctly or specifically answer the question, let's consider Obama's possible beliefs.

1. He might believe that human rights are in fact the product of human government, so that the government defines when such rights begin--and may change its standard at any time, as the governors come and go. Therefore, there is no absolute answer to the question. PROBLEM: Obama states in this interview that there is a moral and ethical element to the issue of abortion. He does not state what that morality is, but his statement is enough to show that he believes there is some fundamental, absolute reality and truth which should govern the issue of human life and human rights.

2. He might believe that human rights are conferred upon a baby when it is physically independent of its mother. This is one typical defence for the abortion practise, claiming that the mother has absolute power over her own body at all times. (Of course, no one has absolute control over their entire body at all times, but well.) PROBLEM: A baby who has been born and is therefore bodily independent of its mother is yet physically dependent on her for food and care. If a mother were to set her baby in a room and leave it there for days on end until the baby expired, we would send her to prison for murder. Physically, a born baby needs only that which a prenatal baby needs: sustenance (food, water) and a safe place to grow. SOLUTION: Remove any laws which would penalise a mother for setting her baby in a room and leaving it there to die as it cannot help itself. Obama, in fact, has voted along such reasoning; he is, at least, consistent. ANOTHER PROBLEM: Many states have laws which count the murder of a pregnant woman with her unborn child as double homicide. SOLUTION: Revoke such laws. A THIRD PROBLEM: Sen. Obama acknowledges that he does not believe it morally good for abortions to occur in "late-term." At this point, the child is still in the womb but, Obama believes, has been trespassing in the womb too long and so cannot be evicted. One would think he would prefer late-term abortions, since this would demonstrate that the mother has thought longer and harder about the decision to abort than the one who aborts within weeks of pregnancy (see Obama's interview: he explains he is pro-choice because he thinks women do not make the decision to abort casually).

3. He might believe that human rights are granted when the child can experience pain. I have never heard this actually argued, but it was a possibility occurred to me, and I wanted to give a third option because I like the number three. PROBLEM: Apart from the impossibility of measuring this for each child prior to abortion, such a belief would not adhere to the moral element Sen. Obama expressly contends is part of this issue. I have never heard Obama voice such a belief.

We know this: Obama believes that human rights are granted not merely by human government, but by something higher than human government--something on a morally superior level. We might safely assume that Obama believes that God is involved in the equation, as Obama has plainly expressed his belief in God. So then, Obama must believe that God approves abortion and agrees that abortion is right in some circumstances. And for some reason, God disapproves of abortions which are "late-term" according to our current definition of the terms of pregnancy. So you have a narrow window of time--say, 20-something weeks--in which it is morally acceptable.

I can see why the commentators called John McCain's position "much easier."

But this morning as I was driving in to work thinking about these things, I realised that eventually abortion will be illegal in this country. I know it deep within me. It is so like the issue of slavery, needing only a bit of hard work and individuals committed to the moral good--just a few thousand William Wilberforces would be sufficient, I am convinced. Throw in some cleverness which exposes the lie of it all. Some bright lawyer who realises that if we can use DNA samples in courts of law to determine victims and assailants in a crime, why can we not consider DNA that significant factor distinguishing a child from its mother from the moment of conception? Some churches faithful to the truth that pure, undefiled religion which God accepts includes caring for orphans (James 1:27)--so that they turn their oversized church buildings into orphanages instead. That's not so much to hope or pray for. In time, these things, I pray, will rise and converge, and we will have a culture which loves life again, loves children again--even the silent and helpless.

A Statistical World

2008-08-06T15:09:00.003-04:00

Let’s pretend, for a moment, that there were no Truth.

I know, you think that’s hard to do, but let’s be honest, there are millions of people doing that every day. So put yourself in their shoes and pretend for a moment.

No Truth. No thing, belief, bit of knowledge or scrap of wisdom which is…simply is. No reality which is true whether it is known or unknown, mysterious or plain as day.

Now, how would a people respond to such a crisis?

A few thoughts: for one thing, they would begin taking measurements of everything in every possible way, hoping through extensive studying, sampling, statisticizing, logging, blogging, surveying, polling, scrutinizing, investigating, and otherwise calculating—hoping through all of this that they might come to some conclusions about how reality is. They have nowhere else to turn, so naturally they try to place everything around them in some kind of framework defined by their own terms.

Having taken proper measurement of all things, they next would begin to form “norms”—the standards for every item which define what a proper example of each item would be, or how it should act, speak, behave, think, grow, look, etc. You may insert any object you wish as the given item: pencil, potato chip, song, person, vegetable, and so on. These all must be compared to the new “ideal,” which is in fact no more ideal than any other such item—but the statistics make it so.

Of course, the scientists, psychologists, sociologists, statisticians, and other learned men who establish all of these norms are desperate for the comparisons to occur—not only because they themselves devote their lives to nothing better than comparison (such a sad imprisonment that must be!), but also because every comparison can be used as evidence for their “norm” by either justifying the created standard or violating it. Every comparison validates the standard.

All of these mathematical men would be far too blind to realize that their given, created standards are empty and vain. They have the length of the “perfect” banana set down in millimeters. They know the exact birth-weight for a “healthy” baby sycamore. They can tell you the “ideal” conditions in which to grow poppies, puppies, acorns and humans. Even if those conditions have never been seen anywhere on planet earth.

Thus we see that, in the absence of Truth, people will take measurements enough to establish ideals of their own, even a heaven of ideals which this physical realm can never touch.

The world does this; the Church does this just as well.

One Degree of Separation

2008-06-12T10:35:00.003-04:00

My coworker Tracy just asked fearfully if she might turn the thermostat down "one teensy degree" here in the office. I suppose she thought our friendship would be over if she did so without permission. But of course, we all agreed that would be fine.

Now I'm a little cold.

An Irony

2008-01-16T10:12:00.000-05:00

I still hope to give ample time and thought to the ideas of Church and State, as begun below. But in rereading those thoughts this morning, I am very struck with this irony: the American churches, by and large, have adopted a very American form of church government, and one not so driven by the example of Scripture. Consider: the President (Senior Pastor), Vice President (Associate Pastor), etc. The picture provided us in the Book of Acts is much more organic, operating in team-leadership by several elders and even several (teaching) pastors within each local church body.

I wanted to here make note of this, for later meditation.

Church and State

2007-10-17T13:50:00.000-04:00

I have decided to jot down some notes pertaining to each of these institutions, in accordance with the vision of these given by the Word of God as best I see it. While I admit that my vision may change or fade over time, I wish to set down my thoughts honestly so that, at the very least, I may see the development of the ideas over the years. But my higher hope is that through writing them, I may share both visions and call men and women around me to something higher, greater, and truer than we yet may have seen.

It amazes me how American culture has today grasped this ideal of “the separation between Church and State,” and I cannot help but wonder if the cause of this desperate plaint is that we have failed our fathers in understanding either Thing. The State now is so much larger and undefined than it once was, while the Church is so much weaker and unspiritual, leaving us little choice but to wish them separate. In reality, however, they now may be impossibly merged—-yes, now more than ever, though most do not realise it, for is it not true that the State has sequestered certain functions which, until the latest generations, had been the sole duty of a charitable Church? I think here of welfare aspects, chiefly: money and assistance to the poor, weak, weary, injured, addicted and unfortunate. At one time these duties belonged to the Church, as a matter of grace extended through faith, but now they have been apprehended by an obtrusive State. Were they rightly taken? The next few pages will argue this out, using both Scriptures and the American foundational decrees (including the U.S. Constitution, Declaration of Independence, and Bill of Rights).

This is no small undertaking, if I am to do it well. But I am thankful for the encouragement of my girl Brooklyn, who has almost since we net urged me toward writing down my thoughts of the Church. Add to this the influence of the life of William Wilberforce, which God has used much in my life this year, and it seems good to me in this season of my life to adjoin these speculations upon the role of Government, or the State. May God be pleased to enlighten me toward both these institutions.

But I will start with the utmost thanks and praise that both of these institutions are, and ever have been, under God. Truly, though neither Church nor State is walking presently in accordance with His purer designs, still naught has happened which was outside His sway or permission. And for this I am very grateful! I pray He would guide me, and guide us, as we raise our thoughts toward a better Day and better Future than the present state of things would offer us. I suspect we shall find these as we hearken unto His Words. Thus I again entreat Him to move me by His counsel, that these words would fall along the lines of Truth.

Sola Gloria Deo.

Arabi

2007-05-12T01:18:00.000-04:00

I finally began my attempt at learning Arabic, as much as possible without living in a foreign land (just yet). The other day I sent about 45 minutes using the Rosetta Stone program for Arabic, and found it extremely difficult as it gave no transliteration for the Arabic words. Left to learn as I could, I was amazed at how well I was beginning to pick out certain symbols in the Arabic words and connecting them to repeated sounds between them. Still, in the end I found a small book at Barnes and Noble to teach me the Arabic alphabet--all 29 letters, including 26 consonants and three vowels, two of which vowels also sometimes act as consonants (smile). The book explained how Arabic uses the consonantal roots to build its words, which has me very excited about learning more...between my analytical side, my love for sounds and words and meanings, and my joy in drawing, this should be a fun adventure...

2007-02-11T09:49:00.000-05:00

It's a pretty day again outside, though still on the cold side. Yet I'm thinking of taking a short walk before church anyhow, and musing on the Psalm I read this morning; 77, I think it was. As I read how the psalmist's voice rose to God in the day of his trouble, and how his soul refused to be comforted, I was struck afresh with how profound it truly is, that even the writers of the Holy Word of God, moved as they were by the Holy Spirit to sing and to pen their words, did not always have their feet set in the concrete of doctrine. They moved, they kicked and screamed (it seems), they fought to understand why God is the way He is, and sometimes they mistook Him.

But the important thing is the Search. I began a new book last night by an author whom I've read before, and whom I respect quite a lot: Walker Percy. He was a Southern writer of a deeply philosophical and spiritual persuasion--not in the Flannery O'Connor vein of spirituality, rather, I would say, more profound and less mystical. I began his first novel, "The Moviegoer," in which the main character early on observes the random times in which he felt "the search." One day he woke up, dressed for work, and began to grab all his usual traveling companions--wallet, watch, pens, etc.--but was struck with a new strangeness as if all these things were not his own. He adopts the methods of a detective, peering at all these objects as if they were clues to a greater, deeper meaning.

Of course, the narrator in the story realises that he may be searching for God, but refuses to say for certain--he says, because everyone else has already answered that question for themselves, and he's afraid of showing his own ignorance in the matter. He remarks (fictitiously, but the point is sound) that they have taken surveys in which 98% of Americans claim that they believe in God, and the remaining 2% are agnostics or atheists--thus leaving not even 1% of us engaging in the search! Rather good point, if you ask me. What is wrong with the search?

What is wrong with the search, when even the psalmists of the Bible itself were searching for this God of promises? Sometimes even for us, it will require a search to discover Him beneath the trappings of a wounding friend, a natural devastation, an ordinary flower or a candle burning low. Sometimes we must have a hard look to discern Him within the wrath and the grace and the peace and the trouble in which He is often wrapped. "To have found Him and still be looking for Him is the soul's paradox of love."

But the enemy of the search may just be the ordinary everyday. So what will you do with that?

Abortion as Racism?

2007-01-29T15:13:00.000-05:00

In my current employment, I deal frequently with issues concerning sexual activity and its consequences, including teenage pregnancy. Hence, John Piper's recent sermon entitled "When Is Abortion Racism?" caught my eye especially. A few of the statistics raised in the article include the following:

1. Since 1973, black mothers have undergone approximately 13 million abortions.
2. Black women comprise 13% of the female population of the United States, but account for nearly 36% of abortions. Latino-Hispanic women make up another 13% of the femal population, and account for another 20% of all aboritons received in the United States.
3. Planned Parenthood is the leading provider of abortions in the United States, and nearly 80% of Planned parenthood clinics have been located (or relocated) to minority communities.

Piper's sermon clearly presents the Gospel of Jesus Christ, that forgiveness and love are God's way extended unto all people, for which I am very thankful. But I appreciate Piper's clear statement:

My aim is that those who abhor racism will abhor abortion—“Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good” (Romans 12:9). My aim is that abortion would be as culturally taboo as racism is. My aim is to hasten the day when being publicly pro-choice will be as reprehensible as being publicly racist. My aim is to hasten the day when declaring yourself pro-choice would be like declaring yourself a white supremacist.

My aim is that just as once even though the Supreme Court in the Dred Scott case of 1857 held that Black slaves were property without rights as free persons, yet today we view that as unthinkable; so also even though the Supreme Court in the Roe v. Wade case of 1973 did not give the unborn the rights of free persons, nevertheless the day may come when that too is viewed as unthinkable. Racism might—and often did—result in the killing of innocent humans; in our history, it often did. But abortion always results in the killing of innocent humans. Between 1882 and 1968, 3,446 Black people were lynched in America. Today more Black babies are killed by white abortionists every three days than all who were lynched in those years (Life Education and Resource Network).

In talking with my co-worker Linda, who has worked for many years with the local crisis pregnancy center, I understand that the situation has been very similar locally as well. What shall we do, brothers, to stem this and end this awful way? And sisters, how shall we love people to the truth in this?

A Tiny Friend or Foe

2007-01-29T14:08:00.000-05:00

I know, I still haven't written of Colombia. Well, I could share much...but for right now, all I'll mention is that we made a new friend in Colombia. He came back with us, and probably liked the airline food better than we did (no offense, Delta). He's one of those guests who overstays his welcome, sadly, and is always with you like a shadow on your day. Still, we try to be hospitable. His name is Phil, and here is his photo, so you can be sure to give him a big smile of welcome if you should happen to run into him.

p.s. Ten bonus points for anyone who can come up with Phil's more scientific name...

There, and Back Again

2007-01-22T22:18:00.000-05:00

Well, I'm back. The illnesses and joyful meetings of my Colombian experience I will not yet share with you. But I still have a card in my passport wallet which reads "Be sure to drink the water"...I think it was given me by you, Kristen, wasn't it? Maybe before my trip to Mexico senior year?

But as to my query from before, I think you both are right--there is a balance, and that balance must be the fullest reality of both. I have been reading Lewis' "Pilgrim's Regress" recently, which I'd never read before, and on the plane today came upon young John's discussion with Old Man History. Really good though not perfect, but in the allegory there are Shepherds who know the Landlord's Rules, and there are Pagans who only know these Images which the Landlord has given them--Images enough to drive them toward desire of Him and His goodness, it seems. In the story, both are part of the same reality, and History tells how the Shepherds (who are not necessarily Christian pastors, only virtue-loving men who know the right actions their Maker demands) and Pagans are both half-men of a whole: the whole man has both desire and intensity in his experiences and also the full knowledge of His ways and commands. I thought it interesting.

I sleep now. (I hope.)

Query

2007-01-12T16:53:00.000-05:00

Is the American Church too dependent upon experiences and too ignorant in orthodoxy? And are these two elements where a balance must be enjoyed? I wonder sometimes...

Oh, by the way--next week I'm traveling to Bogota, Colombia. Pray for me! And having just received an email from a friend of mine in Malaysia, I thought I'd share his photo of the two towers at night:

Some Late-Night Thinking

2006-12-21T13:37:00.000-05:00

Last night at midnight I stretched out upon a sofa and turned the television on, flipping through stations until I landed on a PBS special which sounded interesting. They were examining Einstein's equation "e=mc2" by breaking down each element in the equation and giving a history of the most important scientists to develop those parts. For example, first they turned to Michael Faraday, the British scientist whose research gave rise to the notion that magnetism and electricity and other such forces are not entirely separate forces but are instead all related in the one concept of "energy." Then they turned to an 18th century Frenchman whose name I can't pronounce, who through intense exactness and calculation recognised that all mass is fixed--when something decays, its matter changes form, but if one were to add up all of the consequential substances, the total mass would exactly match the original amount (the example given--burn wood, and the mass of the smoke molecules, ashes, and so on, when added together, would equal exactly the mass of the original piece of wood). Here they talked about the universe as a "closed system" from which nothing truly enters or exits...and here I started falling asleep.

Don't get me wrong, I found the material fascinating, and I heard snatches of what followed in the next few minutes: the fact the "C" is used to represent the speed of light due to the Latin word "celeritas," meaning quickness or swift. Thought that was interesting.

But after I woke up half an hour later, to move to my bed, my head was in full turning, processing and analising several things at once. It was now early morning of the 21st, both in date and century, and so I wrote my thoughts down in the darkness of my bedroom. Some thoughts stemmed from my evening with friends playing cards and talking, other thoughts from the study of Hebrews I am undertaking, and still others regarding capillary attraction/capillarity, which is "the action by which the surface of a liquid where it is in contact with a solid is elevated or depressed depending upon the relative attraction of the molecules of the liquid for each other and for those of the solid" (how does that work?).

But I began to wonder too about the notion of the universe as a closed system. Is the universe truly a closed system? How would this correspond to a slowly expanding universe, if indeed it is expanding? But of course, I think of the fact that while seeds are planted and water is poured, it is God Who makes it grow, and it is God Who knits all men and women together in our mothers' wombs--does this not defy the "closed system"? Since I began working out again, I have gained fifteen pounds, seemingly of muscle--how would one compute the source of this mass gain? It seems as if Life defies the closed system...

P.S. Last week, during colder weather, I wrote the beginnings of a poem concerning wintertime, and now as the air has turned cool again (with rain, not snow--alas) I thought I would share the stanza with you...

O Winter, Thou silent memento mori
With breath as cold as Death doth breathe
To unmask trees both grim and hoary
'Til they with frozen fury seethe,
Now unmasketh me.

What do you think--should I keep working on it or let it fall?

All We Need

2006-12-12T11:17:00.000-05:00

I woke up this morning and lay in bed thinking for awhile, then eventually got up and shuffled off to the shower. While in the shower I started to sing, just one line coming out as a prayer: "You are all, all I need." And I realised that the repitition of the word "all" was not for effect, but instead the truth that I need more than just one person in this world.

This is where I began to wonder at how, often, we sing or speak of how so-and-so is the only person we need...and we do this in order to express "love." The dramatic man signs of how he needs his beloved, and only her, in order to live in this world. The love-stricken woman writes a note of romance to her lover, claiming she thinks or desires him and only him. Thus, by our singling out of this one creature or person against all others, we are making them "special" and this specialness we consider "love."

But that's not what love is. And that is not the truth of our need. We never need only one person, whetehr they be the sweetest, fairest, most lovely person in the world or not. Two cannot satisfy each other. You need more. Even spiritually this rings true, for God is three and all three my humanity has desperate need of. Need needs more than one...

Dream

2006-11-03T14:11:00.000-05:00

(In my dream from this morning, we had traveled long through many rooms and spaces, running from a vicious Enemy who had several times attacked us. At times I had fought the wicked one, and at times simply run on, thinking, Now I know how Frodo must have felt. I was very small and weak compared with the loathsome Thing which hounded us, but thankfully I was accompanied by a tall and mighty Guide and Friend. At last in our journey we came upon a great torrential river...the river looked like enormous sheets of hard paper torn and jagged, as if the water itself were coarse enough to cut a man to pieces and carry him far away in death to the Shadowy lands...yet there was nowhere else to go but forward...)

Standing beside the great rushing river in which many souls, I knew, had been lost, and with the great and evil Enemy close behind us, I stood now petrified with fear. How long I stood transfixed by the fierce water before us, I cannot say, but my Friend broke the silence.

"Simple one," said my Companion, "do you not know that it was I Who carried Abraham and your fathers through the Great River to safety beyond?"

His words were meant to give me courage and faith. I looked up at Him, then looked again at the raging torrent. Still fearful but trying to make a show of bravery, I gasped to Him in a small voice, "I go with You. Where is Your boat?"

He smiled that smile which is only His.

"Boat?" He asked.

(And I awoke.)

A Sick Day

2006-11-01T13:39:00.000-05:00

What does one write on a bleary-eyed day
when the wet sky is falling in pieces of grey
to efface the still-beautiful golden of Fall
and remind who it was
made green leaves turn away?

How does one smile when all Time must appall
so that hours are minutes and minutes are years
in which everything laughing as well makes you cry
till your eyes are both bleary
with undeclared tears?

Why must the blood in these mad veins run dry,
the liquid turn powder, the dust become air,
the Life become Death, in a moment made stale,
and Who makes it "Life"
and Who calls it "fair"?

O, Life, the first product bound never to fail,
invention of Promise, perpetuate Light--
Who can resist you, detain you, undo you,
But Who did invent you,
Ex nihilo, bright?

I'm not terribly pleased with that last stanza, but as I wasn't intending to write any verse at all, it shows some promise. I really only sat down to ponder what one might write when sitting home alone all day with a cold? I have had chicken noodle soup aplenty to cheer my soul, and have read a good deal today, but to be stuck at home is not fun today. Sadly, yesterday afternoon as this cold began its stealthy stalking within me, my car Sherrie also went out of commission. Unknown mechanical issues, and I was forced to have her towed to a garage in Collegedale which has yet to call me with the diagnosis. So I truly am stuck in the old apartment, with an old quilt and some old books and movies, and a very old dilemma: how to spend the sick day at home.

I'm not sure why I'm comforted even by the simple act of writing just now, but it certainly is true. I haven't really got anything to say, and probably shouldn't prevail upon your time by asking you to read aimless thoughts...wasteful, really. But the Lord bless you for wasting your time in sympathy for a sick friend (smile).

I know! Since I'm writing, I might as well be writing some thoughts for the Precept study...

'Tis the Season to be Hiking...

2006-10-11T00:43:00.000-04:00

A Little Music

2006-10-10T13:54:00.001-04:00

Okay, so I'm playing around with this blog to try putting music on it. I don't understand HTML very well, so when I visit my template I am forced to experiment until it seems to do something close to what I'd like. For example, below to the right I have added a small box which allows you to play a song I wrote and recorded with a simple microphone in my living room (I hope you enjoy!). I rather wanted to put more space between it and the sidebar above it, but I couldn't figure out how to do this without making blogger freak out and cast the song-box disdainfully to the floor of the webpage. Any hints from a more knowledgeable person?

Also, if you'll notice, I added a link in the sidebar labeled "My Music"--this link should take you to my xanga page, where I have uploaded three songs altogether. I would have put all three in song-boxes below, but when I tried this, it crammed them all together in unappealing fashion. So I gave up that idea.

Hope you all like the musical sampling. I'm thinking more and more about the idea of making a CD and selling it with Music for Missions...

**Edit** Just today I downloaded the beta version of Blogger, and my oh my, how easy it is now to add things! Thanks, Blogger! I added all three songs below. Good times.

1 Samuel 14:6

2006-08-24T12:54:00.000-04:00

"Then Jonathan said to the young man who bore his armor, 'Come, let us go over to the garrison of these uncircumcised; it may be that the Lord will work for us. For nothing restrains the Lord from saving by many or by few.' So his armorbearer said to him, 'Do all that is in your heart. Go then; here I am with you, according to your heart.'"

Are you so afraid of failure because you believe God only directs men into "successful" situations? Do you fear stepping out to ask the bold question, to dare the words of love, because you are unsure of winning the other heart? Is it the other person or yourself that you fear? Do you fear even your own desires, O saint? And are you using half-hearted prayers seeking "guidance" as a mask for your lack of faith in doing?

How many failures we have seen among the lives of biblical men and women, and yet God maintains His glory, His throne, His love. Is this a license for foolishness among God's people? Surely not! But we must have a greater, grander view of God's grace, and even of the grace among His people! Do other believers demand all answers and perfection from you? They should not, lest they forget the grace which also purchased them. The same honesty which requires that we sometimes speak the difficult things or confess the hard hurts and loves, is that honesty which compels every man in this prayer: "God, have mercy on me, a poor sinner." The poor in spirit are most honest. The poor in spirit may, in this life, lose out for the sake of that honesty, or may be damaged by their own truth-telling. But grace and deep affection are not lost or injured for the losing--neither the love of God in Christ Jesus nor the love of the fellow faithful are diminished!

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?...No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us!"

Have you become convinced that moving forward into an unknown will separate you from His love? The doubt which may accompany many great steps of faith is not sinful; faith itself both includes and overwhelms doubt. But we have promises beyond the small steps and assurances which no small doubtful, daring venture can drown. Therefore, walk bold, Christian! Who knows? It may be that the Lord will work for you, for He is not hindered by many or by few...

The Voice a Woman Needs to Hear

2006-08-19T23:38:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I notice the young women around me and I wonder, almost aloud: "What person is it in your life that, when this person tells you that you are a beautiful and lovely woman, you will really truly believe it and walk in that reality all the rest of your days?"

I know who, but I wonder if the women do.

The Sea Wolf

2006-08-14T21:56:00.000-04:00

I'm nearly finished with my first reading of Jack London's The Sea Wolf, and have found it quite a terrific find! I have long had an old copy of it on my shelves, a hand-me-down (of which I have many) from my parents, but had never read it. I confess, I'd never given much stock to London as a novelist, always believing him little more than a bitter naturalist and only a fair writer to boot. How wrong was I in my estimation! Much talent revealed in this novel, and philosophical pickings as well--Captain Larsen is perhaps the most complete and consistent atheist I've yet read in literature. Apparently, London's aim was to decry the Nietzschean Superman in Larsen, though he does not give full confidence either to the moralistic musings of the narrator of the tale. This narrator falls flat because his moralism gives no reckoning to a true God, and therefore has no absolute Author(ity) above it, behind it, or in it. Still, the debates between Van Weyden and Larsen are capital...

Above, a photograph of young London--mostly because I have yet to try putting a picture on this blog, and must prove that I can. Does this look like the face of a young man who played the parts of oyster pirate, national hobo, Yukon explorer, and frequent library patron in his young life?

June Journaling

2006-07-27T00:21:00.000-04:00

In our study of Ephesians during the Precept Boot Camps, we investigated the several passages speaking of the Stone, the Living Stone, the Chief Cornerstone--the Christ! The primary passages for these are found in Psalm 118:22, Isaiah 8:13-15, Isaiah 28:16, Matthew 21:42-44, and Romans 9:30-33. Reading these, I composed this verse...

O Christ, our Chief Stone
both tested and precious--
Be Thou our standard
of Life and of Love!
Break us to pieces--
then, Spirit, come seal us:
Make us Your Dwelling-place,
ne'er to remove!

If you will allow me, I'll share also a piece of my journal with you all. I pray it is not too personal! This is my journal entry from June 11, a Sunday morning in which long prayer led me to this heartfelt plea before the Lord:

6/11/06

In Your sanctuary sitting--
What, Lord, has my heart here brought?
Dread when joy is more befitting?
Fear when peace was dearly bought?

Might this poem become a hymn? Lord, in my spirit the words are true--You Who see my heart, know my attitude: I am relishing my discontent, I am longing to run away to search for You elsewhere, to find You in faces, eyes, hearts now unknown. Where would I go? Lord, You are everywhere! I would go, I am ever going to You. I would not, for Your Life, stand still for the sake of ease. May I run, Lord, and find You where I run?

Lord, the greatest passion I have ever felt in the Spirit rose within me when I was ministering to the believers both elderly and young in India--teaching from the Word. Now, Lord, I ask You--shall I always be looking back to those days and never pursue that passion more? I know that I am far fro ma perfect teacher, minister, or man...but, Jesus, I long like Spurgeon that You would light me on fire for the preaching and teaching of the Gospel! Burn me for it, even when I doubt! Mark me, seal me, release me...

And so I reach a boundary--for I cannot perceive how all You have given me in talents, passions, gifts or loves shall be fulfilled, employed, exercised and stretched-to-breaking in this place, this church. Imagination rings like a church-bell bellowing in a locked room, needing all the walls blasted away to ring loud in spacious places--and I fear that while the door remains locked and the walls stout, then I shall only see a piece of You as through a window, and in my life You shall be boxed, contained, having walls when You ought to explode in boundless glory! I want to know You boundless; I want to run and never find Your end! May I, Lord, run and find You unending and almighty, wherever my feet may go?

I feel tense like a dart fitted to the bow-string, awaiting release...but as I wait, these two things I will do: I will be devoted to You in obedience through prayer and reading the Word, that I might be near You, and I will reject comforts, deny myself ease and comfort while I live here, that I would know clearly that I do not remain for the sake of ease (for I know my casual temperament is tempted by such). These seem fitting resolutions--may it please You, Lord, to honour these by pointing where I will run!

This journal entry from June 11, the Lord is answering in ways strange but solid. Many praises to the living God...be eager, O my soul, and hunger and thirst for Him.

Speech After Long Silence...

2006-07-14T11:34:00.000-04:00

It has been, what, a month and days since last I wrote on here? Much has happened in this time, and I've been busied beyond the ability to chronicle here. And, in fact, much of my writing effort has gone into the final throes of the Why Know curriculum, which now is done. And so I write to you.

Where am I now, and who? What face do I
Observe within the glass, which was not there
Before? And who the Artists which apply
The paint and chisel, this face to appear?
I scrutinise the hurt, confusion, doubt,
And see a little boy where yesterday
A man had been, a man who was about
His father's happy business, come what may--
But now, some figure formed of human hands
Presents himself to me, uncertain of
The goodness and the grace by which men stand
Whose lives are typified by honest love--
I cannot comprehend him, nor he me,
This face I wish I were too blind to see...

I probably ought to have written on here a few days ago, when my mood was lighter, but today I come with doubt and confusion. My chief fear is that I am not connected with the Body well right now, as I haven't spent deep time with faithful friends for perhaps the past month. But this alongside so many changing things in my circumstances and life right now make me feel doubt.

And even as I write this--I know that I will allow my doubt to make me only more desperate for the power of the Holy Spirit within me. I am desperate for Christ, to see Him in His body and in me. May the strength of my confusion today be that strength which drives me toward Him.

Perhaps I will explain all these things more later, but for now this hope will do.

...and Good Luck.

2006-06-08T21:40:00.000-04:00

This evening I watched "Good Night, and Good Luck"--for those of you unfamiliar or out of country, this is a film treating the topics of McCarthyism and news ethics in the person of Edward R. Murrow, primarily. I cannot claim any awesome skill as a film critic (and I often marvel at how our nation seems peopled with simply millions upon millions of self-proclaimed media experts), so I shall only say that I very much enjoyed this movie and felt somewhat stirred by it.

Allow me to preface with the fact that I have spent the past several days researching and composing an essay on the pernicious influence of pornography, and the research alone left me quite frustrated (no pun intended). To hear the makers of pornographic media describe their liberty and their pure motivation of pleasing the demands of a hungry public, made me sick and angry together. Callous. Vile. Aberrant. Pitiful. Such are these men and (somehow this seems even more abhorrent) women. So much about this $57 billion per annum industry grieves my soul that I probably have not lines nor heart enough to type it here. I fear for the men and women involved in these videos or photographs, knowing how they abuse their Maker's image in it, and how there shall be accountability for us all. None shall be judged more harshly for this wickedness or that; it is enough to be judged, and that should make a hearty man tremble. I think too of Jesus' words regarding the person who causes a child of God to sin, and I think how right Edwards was--it is indeed a terrible thing.

It is right to attack wickedness with true words and the authority God gives to men who speak truth. So I shall simply say that the film this evening encouraged me of the power in strong words, ideas, and morality. We ought still be an effrontery to wicked men. We ought not shy away from terms such as "good" or "evil," exchanging them for shallow, bland ideas. Speak clearly, demand justice and honor, be bold. And let us prove ourselves good men and women.

A Poem from the Pool-Side

2006-06-03T18:22:00.000-04:00

(untitled)

cigarette stubs twisted, broken
all purpose burned away
lying in a box of sand
on display
eight and twenty
scalded and worn
kissed a dozen times
before being cast aside
every kiss drawing more away
dragging out
the breath of life
until
exhausted
one lies dead and half-buried

--dd

A note on the poem: Sitting out by the community waters in a chaise lounge, I noticed beside me a small sand-box within which many wasted fags (in the British sense) lay mangled, broken, and abused. I began versing my observations of these victims of addiction (as you see the notes above), then came across the idea of their being kissed to death partway through the verse and concluded with that thought. There is more in this: I realised that as I am now 28 years old, perhaps I had written about myself and not that number of spent cigarettes, perhaps my heart through kisses is now spent, half-buried, both dead and alive...or perhaps this is not truly me, but is someone reading this. God, teach our hearts to love.

Further note: The structure of this poem involved more staggering of the lines (to a purpose), which I tried to accomplish using tabs while typing--but apparently Blogspot didn't like that idea and pushed everything to one side...ah well...

I Talk of Dreams...

2006-06-02T07:55:00.000-04:00

I awoke from some interesting dreams this morning--strange, too, since I had thought with a purpose last night about the fact that the human brain does much of its concrete learning while the person sleeps, taking knowledge gained right before bedtime and converting it into lasting memories while you and I slumber peacefully away (smile). So right before bed I thought on a number of interesting things PBS and the news had discovered for me.

My dreams weren't about any of those subjects, however. Instead, in my dream I was walking about what I knew to be a small Christian middle school where I was considering teaching eighth grade language arts. Apparently, I was playing hooky from wherever I had been assigned to teach with WhyKnow so that I might check out this possible alternate job. I spent some time with students in one classroom, and then, as they all went into a very deep auditorium (almost like a great well), I stepped outside the building debating whether I should take this job, whether I should call WhyKnow, and so on. I remember taking out my cell phone. I also remember thinking how, in visiting the students at this school (although they were very nice, as were the teachers I'd met), I would prefer to stick to my guns with the abstinence program rather than get back into teaching literature. In my dream decision-making, I debated the drop in salary such a move might mean, but also considered the fact that there may be fewer people able and equipped to teach literature than those able to teach the abstinence stuff, and how I might not squander any talents by going back to it...

In all, I awoke with clarity and sobriety. I hadn't received any confirmation about staying with the abstinence program this year, but this seems closer to it than anything else I've had (smile).

P.S. Oh, and in the dream the Lord also reminded me to fill out my mileage reports this afternoon, for the many schools I drove to in the past few months. Will it be too late for reimbursement? Who knows. Only it seemed something God gave me to do, so I shall.

Musicality

2006-05-27T00:29:00.000-04:00

For a very long time now I have toyed with the notion of writing a musical. I hadn't any theme or storyline, really, I simply thought it would be enjoyable to compose some pretty songs for people to sing. It probably grew first from my aspiration to try my hand at composing some sweet orchestral music--I have always enjoyed classical music, listening to records of the "1812 Overture" since I was a little boy, and my grandfather composed a number of pieces for the organ (which he played), so I supposed the composing gene must run in the family. I think fuel was added to this fire a few years back when I attended my first opera: Madame Butterfly. So beautiful. I was stunned that humans could create such a thing.

Well, yesternight while driving home from something I began singing to myself the words of a questioning love-song, and it was then my mind fastened upon a potential story for my musical attempt. I thought of Psyche and Cupid, and especially the retelling in Lewis' Faces. Tell me, would that not open all kinds of beautiful, wondrous doors for exploration in song? I began playing with some of the questions and the dramatics involved, and jotted down a few lines toward a song (though by no means complete or certain):

(the woman lies next to her lover, a god who is shrouded in darkness...she has never been allowed to look on him, yet she longs to see him...she is holding a shaded lamp, debating whether she ought to break his command in order that she might see him...)

And how shall I adore a beauty I shall never see?
O, though my lover be a god, yet not enough for me...
I long to love him and in pledge to give my body free
But shall a heart be given where no loving gaze can be?
O light! Possess my love
O eyes, now make him mine
And may his beauty cast away all doubt within my mind!

(she breaks the lamp and light bursts across her sleeping husband and lover)

O god! My heart! My love! I cry--
I cannot look the more!
Such beauty here would dim the light which flows from heaven's door!
What wondrous locks curl at thy crown,
What fair and noble brow--
My mortal heart collapses, my breathing quickens now--
O god! Possess thy love
O master, make me thine
I am yours...

This part, of course, where Psyche breaks open her lamp to reveal the god sleeping beside her--the god she is about to lose. The story is marvelous and deeply dramatic, and I think would make a beautiful tragedy in song, not to mention some powerful spiritual meaning in it. Any thoughts from you all?

A Friendly Warning

2006-05-24T15:40:00.000-04:00

To the driver of the car I observed on the highway last night:

Let me guess--you have a wife, maybe a couple of children, but when you went shopping for a new family vehicle and you contemplated purchasing a minivan, something within you screamed, "No! That's way too domestic!" You're a rebel, right? You were born to be wild, or something like that. You felt the primal voice within rage against something so bulky and common and uncool as a minivan. And so, to silence that voice, you looked elsewhere.

I know, you still wanted to be hip, to be young, to drive something gruff and manly which recalled wilderness days of the hunter-gatherer lives of men. I understand completely. You're a stallion, man, and not even a family can tame you down. If you can't ride a motorcycle, you want everyone to know you would ride one.

But, my friend--and I hate to break this to you, truly I do--I have to say that no amount of Vols, Harley-Davidson, or "Fear This!" stickers, and no, not even the flames painted along her panels, will ever bestow upon your PT Cruiser the title of "cool."

A Quick Story

2006-05-19T18:23:00.000-04:00

I have to leave for singles' group in about an hour, but before I go, I feel an urge to tell a story. Here goes, from the top of my head...

The Mathematician and the Artist

In a room full of people he stands silent without mirth or grief in his eyes. He looks this way and that, calculating the faces of those around him, as if they were mathematical figures and not forms of flesh, he's adding up this flirtacious blonde with that brawny fellow in the corner, dividing by the curly-haired girl who sits nearby with a soured jealous expression on her face. He watches others move in circles around the room until striking upon some conversational common denominator, into which they add their two cents, and then comes the art behind the math: will the semi-circle already present expand to allow the newcomer? and should they do so, will they now form a pleasant, healthy circle of talk, or will they create an oblong oval, complete with pregnant distance to express the mere politeness of their welcoming? He waits and calculates. The oval forms. He smiles.

Ah! Here's a new one, just come into the room, a young man, around 20, smiling at several other young ones and occasionally coughing into his sleeve. The Mathematician watches and counts his steps--the young man of 20 sees an acquaintance and gives the manly nod in that direction, his friend is standing amid four or five pretty young ladies, shortest distance between two points, but the young man instead takes a rounded arc before joining the group--a subtle deception to hide his immediate and apparent interest in Girl #3. They're talking now. You could keep time by the mild, amused laughter of Girl #3...one two three four--laughter--one two three four--giggle. Ridiculous.

The Mathematician cringes and turns toward his drink instead. He gazes into the plastic cup as bubbles form along the roof of his soda. He begins counting bubbles to avoid counting the moments of his loneliness. Thirteen, fourteen, twelve, seven, ten...

On and on he counts. That is, until she enters the room.

She pauses at the threshold, the room is full of wondrous strangers to her. She has never seen anything like them, so beautiful as they laugh and shine, console and mourn, smile and flirt. They move with ease and freedom (how free!), power and grace, and for all her stone and oils and watercolours, she knows she never shall make such a thing so soft, so strong, so fluid as these strangers are! She sees burning brilliant in their eyes what her paintings and sculptures would dare to name with simple sounds like "love" or "peace" or "friendship" or simply "life," words too small to possess the divine light which blazes here! She is humbled as in the presence of Masterpieces. She longs to touch them as a child.

And so into the room she passes. Her movements are an art of their own, she carries her body with grace and breathy softness, simply adorned, swinging gently into the room of perfect unknowns. The lights of the room fall along her as if their glory were made for her, to bring her light. She walks in beauty, like the very first night, the only pure night of which all current nights are but an echo, the night in which stars became and released their glory, the moon grown as a newly birthed blossom in the sky. Oh yes, she walks in beauty.

The Mathematician sees her and Life escapes him a moment as she comes, he feels his heart skip a beat, one-TWO, one-TWO, everything's fine, on--... time...space...a collision between zero and infinity, between Nothing and Everything, meet in a person who defies figures or laws--she is pure Imagination expanding his heart! ...and then he remembers himself, and the beats resume.

But something is different. The silence in his heart has left--somehow this young woman has changed the regular clockwork beats from mere numbers into a song! He cannot conceive how it was done, he only knows it is. He moves and lives, he moves out of the lonely corner and to this piece of art, this Artist who has made music of his soul. He smiles again, now a sincere smile. The Mathematician meets the Artist.

Off to singles I go! (smile)

At Long Last...

2006-05-18T20:40:00.000-04:00

Today, at long last, I presented my new curriculum to the educators and staff at WhyKnow. Well, I presented most of it, anyway--I discovered while browsing through the printed pages that there were plenty of gaps and missing references mixed in, which I distinctly or fuzzily remember promising myself I would "eventually get to." Probably those all-nighters spent on it recently. Still, the work as a whole is looking pretty sharp, and now I get to turn my attention from composing text and activities, toward some of the practicals: fonts, graphics, etc. This should be fun. As to the intended font, I'm thinking Perpetua 13.

It suddenly strikes me as odd, this expression I have just used: "at long last." Such a strange collection of terms is this--"at" gives the sense of arriving, which I certainly have (almost) done with this project, "long" describes duration (or so I'd assume...physical length doesn't make much sense here)...but "last"? How does this apply? Did I manage to "last" or survive this long experience? Or does it imply finality?

Gosh, I sound boring (grin). It has been awhile since I let my imagination loose with creative writing, since this project has gobbled up most of my creativity in recent months, so I apologise for being so dry. In time, in time. It's a pity, though, that I can't scratch something fun out just now, for I have been reading Chesterton's Orthodoxy lately and thinking much about faerie tales and the grace of imagination...

Again, give me a few weeks and perhaps I'll be my clever self again (smile).

The Weblog Transfer

2006-05-15T22:40:00.000-04:00

Where to begin...

I'm wondering what I should do with this blog. I began a blog about eighteen months ago on a rival site (xanga.com), encouraged others to join, and by now have quite a happy little colony of friends floating together there. But I have become less enamoured with the xanga tendency toward provocative pics in their banner ads, and rather prefer the simplistic forms here at blogspot. But this leaves me with a number of dilemmas:

1. Do I try to juggle two blogs at once? This seems audacious and overkill, to say the least.

2. Suppose I remove to this blog permanently. Should I then try to lure friends away from xanga to join me here? I know, I know--if I really love them, I'll let them go, set them free...and if the love is real, they'll fly to my Blogger side, right? Not that there is much benefit to bringing them here. Thus far, I haven't discovered a way to create blogrings on this site, which would be rather helpful and communal in (one would hope) a positive way. Also, this site requires more ingenuity to manage, as one must dig into the lines of code oneself to make changes (xanga is far easier), and I fear most of my friends are almost as computer-inept as I. So.

3. If I try to maintain both, will I simply copy entries from one site to the other? Again, I cannot believe my words are so important to the world...and that sounds tedious for a guy like me. Even now, I can think back to some lovely entries on the other site and a happy sigh escapes me. I do so love to write...

Okay, it's settled, then. I'm going to add slowly and quietly to this blog and still keep the old one for the sake of my constant companions there. We'll see what ending comes of this...