Direction of Grace

Disembodied grace

2011-06-25T15:34:00.000-07:00

is no grace at all. Apart from the person and work of Jesus Christ, we have no hope. So often I find myself and others speaking about grace as is if it some ethereal goo that we cash in on. Otherwise men speak of God's graciousness while denying the historical Christ. No! Grace is the propitiation for our sins payed in Christ's death and his ongoing work through the holy spirit to keep us and make us holy. To Christ alone we look for sure hope--for ourselves, our families, the church, and the world.

Our move to the city

2011-06-24T08:29:00.000-07:00

frightens me. Transplantation. My roots have grown deep in this place, conforming precisely around each rock, seeking out water. Now a new place; new rocks, new soil. We might find shallow, rocky soil. Will our leaves whither; will our fruit rot?

"I am with you always, to the end of the age. (Matthew 28:20)" Honestly, though, I don't always desire the kind of provision he promises:

Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age. (Matthew 28:19,20)

He promises to give us what we need to fulfill his mission--not simply to make us happy. He asks us to sacrifice our whole lives for his glory. I can understand why outsiders might not like the idea of that. We must understand, however, that he created us with capacity for great joy, and the fulfillment of that capacity for joy coincides with the fulfillment of our purpose as his creatures; namely, seeking his glory, spreading the kingdom.

And Peter said, "See, we have left our homes and followed you."

And he said to them, "Truly, I say to you, there is no one who has left house or wife or brothers or parents or children, for the sake of the kingdom of God, who will not receive many times more in this time, and in the age to come eternal life. (Luke 18:28-30)

I love the words "in this time". So many Christians speak as if our inheritance as believers awaits us only in heaven, but Christ said, "many times more in this time". We may not have homes, and we may be hungry, but in Christ and in fulfilling his mission we have a joy that is worth "many times more" than these things.

Grace through marriage

2011-06-22T17:06:00.000-07:00

The Catholics list marriage among the seven sacraments. I understand. "Husbands, love you wives, as Christ loved the Church and gave himself up for her (Ephesians 5:25)". Don't just read over this. Go back. Read it again. It's hard to love like Christ. Each faltering attempt to love my wife in this way impresses me more deeply with the grandeur of Christ's love for his people. I love him more because of it. That's grace. Marriage works holiness--a sacrament of sorts.

Physics often transforms

2009-08-19T08:36:00.001-07:00

me into this guy:

You've studied hard; you think you've learned something; the question shifts (ever-so-slightly) and WHAM!--you know nothing.

With the help of my physics prof, Dr. Schelp, I've struggled to answer an unasked question centered around a Griffith's Electricity and Magnetism problem. They (who?) call this research. So far, I've failed to answer the question. I have learned some physics, however, and some abstractly philosophical lessons. I share one:

Physics curricula never attempt to thoroughly connect the studied physical principles with the phenomenological world. In physics class, you study laws, theorems, etc. Then, you study the mathematics necessary to apply those laws in idealized circumstances. Well, it turns out that no small gap lies between this physics-happy-land math and the math necessary to apply physical principles in more realistic (i.e. less ideal) circumstances.

I'm OK with that. I don't need to know everything right away. In fact, this revelation of the obvious instructs my understanding of physics (philosophically). Physics doesn't exist primarily as a tool for describing individual phenomenon (indeed, physics does this), but as a framework upon which to build an understanding of the material universe.

I like that. Pictures of the universe interest me more than the non-uniform distribution of surface-bound charge in a dielectric cupcake.

Writing Process

2009-08-05T17:38:00.000-07:00

I found this note at Yeah Yeah OK Read Petty. It well describes my writing process. Excuse the French.

Book Review: Joseph Conrad's Nostromo

2009-08-02T20:22:00.000-07:00

Obscure verbiage and enigmatic syntax cover the world of Conrad's Nostromo like a thick, bristly undergrowth. This speaks about myself and our times, not Conrad; so, I thwacked away at the undergrowth, carving a makeshift path from start to finish. I understood some part of what was there. I present to you a portion of that some part (You're getting very little, all in all. Go read the book).

The story takes place in Sulaco--a coastal town in the fictional South American country of Costaguana. As usual, Conrad paints his setting with beauty, all the while molding the tone of the story. Here's a little taste from part 1, chapter 1:

Amongst them the white head of Higuerota rises majestically upon the blue. Bare clusters of enormous rocks sprinkle with tiny black dots the smooth dome of snow. Then, as the midday sun withdraws from the gulf the shadow of the mountains, the clouds begin to roll out of the lower valleys. They swathe in sombre tatters the naked crags of precipices above the wooded slopes, hide the peaks, smoke in stormy trails across the snows of Higuerota. The Cordillera is gone from you as if it had dissolved itself into great piles of grey and black vapours that travel out slowly to seaward and vanish into thin air all along the front before the blazing heat of the day.

This rich, vibrant texture continues throughout the novel, making Nostromo a slow, but beautiful read.

Conrad also wrote astounding vibrancy into the characters of Nostromo, more so, in fact, than any other Conrad work I've read. The thematic force of "Nostromo" rests upon these diverse personalities, and, as usual, Conrad skillfully injects them with life and complexity, reflecting his profound psychological and philosophical insights. Another taste, this time about Dr. Monygham:

The doctor flung up his arms, exclaiming, 'Decoud! Decoud!' He hobbled about the room with slight, angry laughs. Many years ago both his ankles had been seriously damaged in the course of a certain investigation conducted in the castle of Sta Marta by a commission composed of military men. Their nomination had been signified to them unexpectedly at the dead of night, with scowling brow, flashing eyes, and in a tempestuous voice, by Guzman Bento. The old tyrant, maddened by one of his sudden accesses of suspicion, mingled spluttering appeals to their fidelity with imprecations and horrible menaces. The cells and casements of the castle on the hill had been already filled with prisoners. The commission was charged now with the task of discovering the iniquitous conspiracy against the Citizen-Saviour of his country.

The story often delivers through the expounded opinions of the main characters, frequently dipping into their individual histories for context. The effect: profound believability. I marvel at the novelist's art in crafting this array of personalities, complete with histories!

The world of Nostromo, depicted and populated as above, sums to the single word "corrupt". No single character escapes the reach of this corruption, no single personality triumphs over it. The most moral character lives in abject loneliness. The sentimentalist commits suicide when faced with impossibility. The materialist is hopelessly enslaved to his wealth. Even the cynic (with whom you might expect Conrad to sympathize) lives a miserable existence, hated and fearful. The "incorruptible Capitaz de Cargadores", Nostromo, the title's namesake,and, for many pages, the only hope for a happy ending, corrupts and becomes enslaved to materialism and grotesque love, a slavery ransomed by death.

Each of these characters holds a different worldview, and each worldview ultimately leads to despair. Thus, this novel casts a skeptical eye on the notion of truth, a skepticism that, I believe, arises in the faults of Conrad's own modernist worldview. In Conrad's view, an understanding of life begins with particular facts about the world. From these facts and guided by rationality the modernist builds a comprehensive look at everything that is. Conrad saw the impossibility of this endeavor. You can't create value systems, bases for good and evil, from particular facts. Conrad needed something greater than the particular facts to give meaning to them. Unfortunately, his modernist presuppositions excluded the possibility of a relevant God.

The Sacrifice of Language: Evaluation and Challenge

2009-07-29T08:11:00.000-07:00

I said that my next post would be "The Sacrifice of Language: Implications of Deconstruction". In trying to squeeze this one out, I discovered mentions of implication in all my previous posts on the topic! So, I'll skip ahead to a brief evaluation and challenge of this philosophical/linguistic system.

I see deconstruction coming about (vaguely) like this: the caustic rational principle, homo mensura (man as measure), begins to dissolve the credibility of ideas that challenge it. Religion then becomes relegated to the realm of mysticism (at best), increasingly divorced from the sphere of intellectual life. Without the dogmas of religion breathing life into the organization of particulars, previously objective categories like morality and social ethics break down into individually and culturally relative entities.

Philosophers then noticed (appropriately, I think) that language finds its meaning in connection to complex structures and that these structures vary from culture to culture and individual to individual. The lobotomy of the spiritual from the intellectual blinded men to the possibility of some nature-external reason guiding the mechanisms of language. Without this reason to give credence to language faculties and language itself, why should we accept the possibility of real communication? How can we believe that our speaking meets any common terms in the listener? The listener may answer our sounds or letters with, "I understand." But how do we know that by "I understand" they mean what we think they mean?

Nobody takes the system this far, so here begins my critique:

In some limited sense, deconstruction must be true. Certainly, our individual experiences shape our perceptions.
Limitless deconstruction hinges upon the belief that no naturally or historically relevant God exists. By limitless deconstruction I mean the application of deconstruction to the exclusion of real communication. A theological explanation for the existence of language easily undermines limitless deconstruction.
Limitless deconstruction fundamentally deconstructs itself, thereby revealing a false premise. It would be impossible to assert the objective validity of limitless deconstruction (more directly the know-ability of limitless deconstruction), because limitless deconstruction excludes the possibility of (accessing) objective validity. The three primary premises (of which one, two, or all are false) are 1. Linguistic frameworks vary from culture to culture, individual to individual. 2. Linguistic frameworks determine the outcome of communicative effort. 3. No extra-natural reason guides linguistic mechanisms. Of these three, which should we toss? I can hardly argue with 1. and 2.

***

I call these posts "The Sacrifice of Language", because writing exhausts me. To write, I must believe the effort worthwhile. I could not write if I believed Derrida. That said, I would still like to argue a positive reason for the effort. I have ideas about this--slow and coming. But here ends, for a while, "The Sacrifice of Language" posts.

The Sacrifice of Language: Destruction and Assembly

2009-07-21T19:22:00.000-07:00

Recall: We don't have access to absolute truth, because our thought processes depend wholesale on language, an arbitrary structure.

The Derridean syllogism:
1. Logic structures arise out of and find their application in language structures.
2. Language structures possess no intrinsic connection to absolute reality.
.: 3. Logic structures have no necessary connection to absolute reality.

No doubt, Derrida would balk at confining his ideas to logical form, so feel free to criticize me on principle (or form). This argument, as far as I can see, forms the kernel from which the whole deconstructive jungle springs.

The Derridean, having abandoned the throes of absolute truth, turns to the subjective significance of language and the systems built around it. Derrida didn't want to destroy meaning per se. He wanted to disprove the possibility of accessing absolute meaning. In this process, meaning becomes an activity, not an abstract idea. Language finds meaning in the delivery and reception. When you read a poem or hear a speaker, the meaning conveyed to your mind depends upon your subjective understanding of the individual words along with your subjective understanding of the context and implication of the words together as a whole. No interpretation can claim validity over another, because standards of validity are subjective to the individual. Cultural norms may form upon which to find some common ground for communication, but each individual retains a unique and valid "reality" from which to evaluate everything that is. If this seems strange or over-abstractual, read this perplexing definition of deconstruction, formulated by Nicholas Royle from Derrida's own words:

deconstruction n. not what you think: the experience of the impossible: what remains to be thought: a logic of destabilization always already on the move in ‘things themselves’: what makes every identity at once itself an different from itself: a logic of spectrality: a theoretical and practical parasitism or virology: what is happening today in what is called society, politics, diplomacy, economics, historical reality, and so on: the opening of the future itself. (Royle, p11)

Assembly finds place in the title of this post for reasons already mentioned: the deconstructionist, having disassembled the possibility of communicating absolute truth, assembles spectral meanings within an individual or cultural framework. This cleverly obtuse shift in philosophical paradigm has far-reaching implications for all of life.

Royle, Nicholas. "What is Deconstruction?" Deconstruction. Ed. Nicholas Royle. New York: Palgrave, 2000

Next Post: The Sacrifice of Language: Implications of Deconstruction

The Sacrifice of Language: Disassembly

2009-07-16T11:31:00.000-07:00

And so the logic goes. If language unavoidably entangles with thought, then the outcomes of reasoning depend to some degree upon the language structures which facilitate reasoning. This is an old story, so I'm sure you know how it goes. I point out (along with Derrida) that language boasts no fundamental connection to the object signified. E.g., the link between the symbols (or sounds) "pond" and the soggy patch behind my house is arbitrary. From this observation the Derridean concludes that all of thought must also be arbitrary with respect to reality. We cannot derive facts about reality from our logic because our logic depends upon an arbitrary system, i.e., language.

The string doesn't necessitate this conclusion. In fact, there's a much better way.

More to come, hopefully.

The Sacrifice of Language Cont'd

2009-07-14T06:00:00.000-07:00

People write many words. Some write about their jobs, some their churches, their children, cooking, etc. No one just writes. Language exists to serve us in the expression and exploration of ideas, ideas greater than language itself. The pasty, pale earth delivered by drought to the pond behind my house stands taller than the words which describe it. The dying empire of frogs banded around that dying pond exists whether I put it into words or no.

But a funny thing has happened. Language has penetrated and fused itself with the thought process. I cannot contemplate the significance of my dying pond apart from language in my head. So, language exists for the "exploration of ideas". Language gives us the categories for making sense of what we see and hear. Without it, we'd be sunk. This deserves more convincing. I leave it to the reader to attempt an a-lingual thought.

More to come, hopefully.

The Neverheard Confession of an Unrighteous Man

2009-01-25T17:29:00.000-08:00

Our dark display

bends minds away

from solid things

to the land of melting clocks

and happy children--

all bedecked in strangling wires.

We are not man

or even beast

but fog or shuttered windows--

futile things whose

foolish hearts are darkened.

The Sacrifice of Language

2008-12-18T16:48:00.000-08:00

Communication taxes me. The first words never line up, and by the time I sort those out, I never remember what I wanted to say or how to go about it--assuming I ever knew. I usually set out to say something inparticular; you usually receive some unrelated topic. It only came to me in the process of squeezing out a few words along the lines of my original thought. The flow of the sentence brings me to some accidental meaning. I didn't intend it, but the words worked well. These spurious little lines mature--nudging out any vestages of my original purpose.

I labor over each line and word. Is that how it should be?

Arrogance slows me, I think. If I can't say this in such-and-such a way, then I simply can't say it. Thus if I'm to write anything, I must plunge myself into the hours of heating, casting, hammering, reheating, hammering, cooling. I wish I were free of it.

No; I do not. Rather, I would escape my shallow arrogance. A different Master would give me something solid to set my pen to. I could endure the toil. Though I must confess, I do not know that way.

A thought on writing

2008-12-14T14:50:00.000-08:00

I long to penetrate the layers of language, to weild the razor edge, to fill, to balance, to reveal. But if I could subdue this unruly people and establish my throne, what then? The problem isn't in saying, but knowing. And I know so little. Well-used words convey not only the sense but the fact of the matter. Why sweat through so many empty words? Eloquence arms the phrase for battle. But, Eloquence never justifies the sacrifice of language.

I need something solid to set my pen to.

A Duck's Perspective (or that of other various water fowl)

2008-08-07T15:16:00.000-07:00

Perhaps I could knot some sticks together
and float out to the middle of the lake.
A duck's perspective
(or that of other various water fowl)--
that's what I'm after.
But alas, I'm no good with rope,
and the water's awfully chilly.
Still, I must wonder,
as I perch here on the bank,
how this all looks
from a duck's perspective
(or that of other various water fowl).

Letters to the Editor

2008-07-31T19:48:00.000-07:00

My previous post cited C.S. Lewis' discussion of "a desire which no natural happiness will satisfy". He claims that all men suffer this longing, a longing which nothing in life can satiate. He looks beyond himself for evidence, I'm sure. And it's not difficult to do. Anyone with a keen eye might find this strain running undaunted throughout the history of civilization. Dissatisfaction of one sort or another has driven men to do all sorts of things. These things are written in books. Those who come after attribute their current state of existence to the chain of actions that preceded them, actions fueled by this dissatisfaction. And so it continues until we are the ones reading the books, and I, for one, cannot help but question the trajectory they suggest.

War, the deftest instrument of civil metamorphosis, thrives upon this longing. Even ideological feuds have, at their root, dissatisfaction. Our immense libraries monument this immense human condition, a condition that has driven us across the millennia and across the oceans in search for that piece of knowledge or plot of land which might, perhaps, satisfy us. The vast complexity of religious forms powerfully suggests that men from all cultures, during the entirety of recorded history, have longed for something that they do not, in themselves, possess. This simplification might be extrapolated: The Hindu prays to Vishnu because he cannot control the coming or going of the rain. If the rain doesn't come, or (as in India) if the rain comes too much, the harvest will fail. If the harvest fails, the people will starve. And, to be ridiculously obvious, in starving, they cease to be living.

But I cannot escape the next question: why is living the better route? Any arguments made by the living of themselves are questionable, if not inherently circular. Man's desire to survive cannot explain why he should desire to survive. The fruits of our exploits fail to rationalize themselves. And now for something of my point...hopefully.

Ah, letters. A dying art-form:

Dear Mankind,

I am among your ranks. So this is, if you will excuse me, of a somewhat personal interest.

We've been trudging along for quite some time now. Our plans, actions, ideas, successes, failures, reasons, idiosyncrasies, and--foremost--our desires all sum together into what we label humanity--or so you say. However, it seems you've left out something--something, I might add, that I'd rather like to know. You see; our desires, our reasons, and therefore actions are solely based, it seems, on what we find ourselves to be. That is to say, we measure the rod against itself, then, finding a match, proceed to measure out the foundations, walls, and windows. In part, I can understand. My nature suggest that I should build. Naturally, in looking around for some standard of measure, one will first notice himself. For the other part, perhaps I simply misunderstand the finer details. It seems, however, that you act upon the assumption of fixed things, while your presuppositions about the way of things excludes the possibility of objectivity. You claim to value life, freedom, etc. But how as these things perch upon that which tosses about like the sea, namely humanity, can these "values" represent any sort of fixed morality? And who's to tell you, with any more authority than the next objecting voice, that life, freedom, or whatever is valuable. Moreover, to whom will you look for a definition of what "value" actually is. If man is your measure, then to have any sort of objectivity, all men in all times must agree on each particular. Furthermore, you must possess some universal way of communicating this assent with utter clarity and freedom from doubt. You can hardly presume this unanimity. You've taken this great bowl of spaghetti noodles, that is mankind, called it a coordinate system, then proceeded to measure out meatball displacements with the confidence that only a god should possess.

In short, your method of testing the rod against itself is unsatisfactory. It seems that you should all be asking, along with that great sage of yours, "What is 'is'?" Absurd, the question may be. But your system of measure demands it! So I must question that system.

These considerations drive me to the conclusion that either something external, something greater than ourselves, injects meaning into life (that would explain our desire to preserve it), or meaning at all points fails to exist and our desires are nothing more than great flukes. If no such external being exists, we've trudged about on false pretenses. That must be very unfortunate and silly of us.

I await your rebuke, may it be immediate and deft.

Sincerely,
a man; one of many

Excuse the utter strangeness, ambiguity, and length of this post.

Thoughts give rise to

2008-07-30T13:09:00.000-07:00

thoughts.

C.S. Lewis writes: "Do what they will, then, we remain conscious of a desire which no natural happiness will satisfy."

He attributes this desire to the creator's intention: "Creatures are not born with desires unless satisfaction for those desires exists. A baby feels hunger: well, there is such a thing as food. A duckling wants to swim: well, there is such a thing as water. Men feel sexual desire: well, there is such a thing as sex. If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world. If none of my earthly pleasures satisfy it, that does not prove that the universe is a fraud. Probably earthly pleasures were never meant to satisfy it, but only to arouse it, to suggest the real thing."

A belief in God presupposes Lewis' claim. Purpose only exists for the purposed. Without the creator, Lewis, and all men, are left with objectless longing. If the universe exists by necessity of itself, and if we may only look to physical laws (necessities of themselves) for our origin, then why should this "desire which no natural happiness can satisfy" imply an object of fulfillment beyond this world? This desire might as well be an unintended evolutionary by-product (or, intended only by the laws of physics; "intended" doesn't quite seem to fit).

One might believe that matter/energy and the physical laws are eternal. Theism also requires a belief in a self-necessitating eternal. What other choices do we have? I don't think it possible for sane men to believe nothing.

Both choices carry a presupposition. Based solely on the existence and nature of these presuppositions, the mind will never find rational grounds for preferring one belief system to the other. At this natal stage, the choices are nearly identical. We must base our decisions on what comes after. What are the ramifications of our fundamental beliefs? If this argument is flawed, tell me.

Switching from fourth into reverse, Lewis' words conjured in my mind an image of an island with cliffs facing out to sea. This became my Western Isle (a direct influence of all the Celtic music, I suspect). The poem led to a (bad) drawing, which led to this vignette jotted beneath the picture, ringing of a captains log:

Star-date 621.73: Just kidding...

this vignette:

Our journey took us westward. With the wind blew fables of an island with tall cliffs facing out to sea, a place where a sailor might be happy to rest, a place where a sailor could be happy for stillness. They say that calm hills rest above the cliffs, hills planted already with grain. Of course, they cannot say how such a place could be. I suspect one of the deckhands picked it up at port; such far-fetched rumors are common. Yet, the picture hasn't left me. Before the men, I show a stern disinterest in their tales. "A product of your wishful imaginations", I say. But I cannot help but long for that place. I fear I burn worse than the the others. There's no balm for this!

I've decided to take a crewman's watch to earn their respect. Last night in the nest and under the stars I battled my fool's desire. The Sea is my home. She brings me freedom, the land takes. But then I considered: perhaps my soul drove me to the sea for this purpose; for only in my sea-wanderings might I find this Western Isle.

Deconstruction

2008-07-25T08:30:00.000-07:00

After the model of poets like E.E. Cummings and Pablo Neruda, I've tried to visually substantiate the theme of my poem. To be honest, such visual poetry is often trite. If this poem is trite, forgive me (and I'll forgive myself).

If we subject our words to
this jumble and tumble
they will all start
to crumble

soon we'll be
left with
nothing
at
all

Forever to Sleep

2008-07-23T10:09:00.000-07:00

And if that Western Isle
Is swallowed by the sea,
I'll seek another
Beneath some distant sky.

There I shall master time,
who yet has mastered me
in search for cliffs against the sea
and wind-swept wheat.

There beneath oak's golden shade
and salt breeze
might I lay this ancient longing
forever to sleep.

I haven't abandoned

2008-07-18T11:00:00.000-07:00

this foxhole. I focus on a different front. The things written there don't fit here and vice versa. I apologize to my readers. I won't flatter myself by assuming you'll follow me there,

but if on a whim
(or something more)
you'd like a glance,
here's the door.

This is my dilemma: with only so much time and intellectual energy to fill it, where should I direct my words? For now, the answer is behind that door.

Broken Cistern #3,945 (But whose counting? Well...God)

2008-06-24T17:31:00.000-07:00

This day seems empty. My words die the moment they leave my lips. My motions are a mime's pretense. Even a simple task--filling a glass from the faucet--seems empty and strange. The more complex tasks like reading or playing the guitar are almost impossible. Automation permits me to read a few pages or play a few bars, but I soon see how empty it is and must stop.

***

Well, the day is over, more or less. I needed to do something, but all action seemed pointless. I walked around the house, hoping that something might catch my eye. Then I walked to the back yard and laid in the grass. It was hot; the sun hurt my eyes. I checked my email, ate something, tried to read again, and so on. The emptiness never left.

Somehow (perhaps this was the first grace) I managed to get pen and journal together, walked again to the back yard (this time in the shade of our plum tree), and began to write. Of course my writing started badly. I began by sketching some nauseating thing about how all the books I've read run together into an unintelligible chatter. This sort of rumination always comforts me at first. But it leads to nothing. And today, for the first time, I understood that. No mound of verbiage piled atop my pain will ever free me therefrom. I have dug a broken cistern.

I attribute to mercy my spirit's rejection of the void. I cannot be content (for long) with my cisterns. The pain of emptiness drives me away, drives me to God.

1.5 I succumbed to the

2008-06-12T18:22:00.000-07:00

rhythmic sweeping of the grass, the night on my face, and the distant rumble of the storm. In that half-dream, my striding feet, resting on the night's breath, left the grass. I watched as she wove together all my knowings and doings on the loom of distant earth--as if the night wished to tell me that in my wanderings, I had not marred her course; I cannot make her less or more.

But with a clap, I woke to the night in its blackness and at the edge of a storm. The before distant loci of light tailed absently by low rumblings had heightened, as if at once, into a blinding, deafening flood of light and crash. The lightening lit the earth and sky, and I saw the coming rain. The night's breath drove it against me.

1st, an error of the understanding

2008-06-09T10:41:00.000-07:00

A parasite, the Lie breeds with my actions, my words, my gestures, even my thoughts. These nauseating syllables catch in my throat. But I write the words; because, like vomit, they must escape--though no one appreciates their coming out-- especially not the man with his horror face jerking in agony over the trash can.

Oh, I exaggerated just then about the vomit! It’s not really all that dramatic. Actually, I lied. It’s not like that at all. There! You see, the Parasite! I open my mouth and out come its babies, wrapped up in every word, every thought. A man like me can’t speak the truth!

Even so, a body must try. The retching metaphor having been canned, these words are more like the slow drippings of an old, infected wound. Someday maybe they will flow from a purer spring.

In vain, I might attempt to offer some excuse for my protracted cyber-silence. I will save myself and you, my readers (if I still have any), from that exercise in insincerity.

Grendel

2008-05-12T16:29:00.000-07:00

As that foul monster devoured the bravest knights of Hrothgar's hall, so do exams devour my time. Beowulf is scheduled to arrive on Wednesday evening, so look for me later this week.

1.4 The churchyard ended

2008-04-26T09:51:00.000-07:00

in a line of trees, their dark branches jaggedly separating sky and earth. Beyond them, a bolt lit the night for an instant then vanished to leave a deeper dark. Then again, a flash, and the light receded. I climbed over the steel gate at the end of the yard. It groaned beneath my weight. The woods were thin, and soon the thick damp grass of an open field coursed against my feet and ankles. As the cold wetness of the grass crept into my shoes, the storm continued to stir ahead of me. Splinters of light and color exploded then ebbed into the dark. Still, the night was cool and sweet as it rushed around and through me.

Deconstruction

2008-04-24T15:32:00.000-07:00

After seemingly endless months of grueling labor, the deconstruction project lies coldly in a wooden box six feet beneath the ground. And boy am I happy.

I learned some things:

Like every spud of post-modernism, deconstruction grew out of and against modernism. The deconstructors, beginning with Jacques Derrida wanted to point out and amend the insufficiencies of structuralism. And who can blame them? Structuralism, like modernism, presupposes linguistic finitude. More fundamentally (and more troublesome), structuralism presupposes that humans can, through their reason alone, discover absolute truth. They view the natural sciences as absolute in and of themselves. The modernists views the novel as closed and complete. The text contains certain codes that deliver certain meanings. The reader can learn the code and decipher the meaning.

Derrida and many after him could not accept this notion. Particularly, Derrida believed that language is inherently incapable of delivering truth. To understand something, one must know its relationship to everything else that exists. Go to dictionary.com. Look up the word "spandex". Now look up every word that is used in the definition for spandex. Now look up all the words in those definitions. Continue until you arrive at the platonic form (I don't actually expect you to do this...). Because humans understand (if that word can be used) everything linguistically, no objective (God, platonic form, etc.) exists, for all practical purposes, to give meaning to this never-ending referential chain. The substance of meaning is always postponed.

After reading this you can hardly claim to understand deconstruction. But that's OK. Deconstruction is not meant to be understood... [Editorial sequel is coming].

Annoyers

2008-04-24T10:36:00.000-07:00

Feel sorry for all the annoying people, and give them a break. It sucks to be them. Have you tried? There's no easy way out of it once you're in. You apologize; you're fishing for sympathy. You alter your ways, in an attempt to appease; you're desperate and insincere. You abandon society, hide in a hole; you're alone.

Be kind to these people. You may be one someday. You may be one already.

Unity Baptist Church

2008-04-22T15:18:00.000-07:00

Honea Path, SC

Across the oily street, number six stares out indifferently at the passing cars. Two guards, indigo and chipped, painted to match the sign fastened above them, carry out their ceaseless, pointless watch, the flat nose of a burnt-out old man. Like cataracts the grease of countless fingers and noses streaks the large windows. A sparse display of dusty white curtains and plastic flowers shows dimly through one clouded pane. "God is Spirit...", says the poster mounted at the center of the eye. What do the countless other eyes, noses pressed against the glass, see in those words?

Churchyard

2008-04-20T20:16:00.000-07:00

Moon's glare
lights the street
and the click, clack, scratching
of feet
against the pavement.

But not the feet
of the boy in the back
reading names
beneath the magnolia:
beneath his feet,
the owners.

The Assassin

2008-04-16T20:38:00.000-07:00

I stalk.
So skilled am I,
Oh! pathetic prey.
No hope!
For you I have
A hidden knife,
Or--
Arsenic!
A mace,
A missile.
Nuclear War!
Be sure of this
When I am through,
You'll scatter like--
Pigeons.

Some of you
Might even die,
At least you'll wince,
Maybe you'll cry,
When I unveil
My evil craft:

A killer of conversations,
I stalk you where you speak!
Cower from my awkward clause,
The awkward pause,
And flee.

1.3 The ghostly marble

2008-04-16T12:59:00.000-07:00

of the night's churchyard surrounded me. The corner of my eye caught the dark brick of a wall spreading upward, fusing into the dark. On the far end of the yard, a thick oak, stood staring into the dead-markers. His black fingers swayed solemnly against the dark. We read from the stones. I can't remember any names.

1.2 But the night

2008-04-12T15:34:00.000-07:00

swept against me and carried on her tide the night's world. Caravaning by, dark giants strained their sinewy necks and whispered me deeper into the black folds. Rancid leaves, spurred by her breath, clicked and scratched about my ankles. Whisper, whisper, click and scratch. Nothing chills me like that breath. The breath of a Queen. Beautiful, horrible. It sung softly in the dewy grass, and I cried out for beauty. Then it shifted, like a bolt of light, through the arms of the swaying giants, and I shook. Then She leapt, panther like, dark and sleek, graceful, fearful.

***

1.1 The hot flush of my face

2008-04-09T14:00:00.000-07:00

and the clock-steady rhythm of my feet against the damp earth cling to memory as night's dew clings to the grass. The dark folds draw me inward. They are cool and soft. I feel no pain. I remember how it used to be: the tight pounding in my chest, starving lungs. My body would scream out against me. I don't remember when things changed. But now there is no pain. Only the hot flush and steady rhythm.

The night was cool and peaceful flowing past. She parted easily before me and danced through graceful swirls at my back. Beneath the corner of the lumber house, I saw two men, grimy and bent from the day's labors. The dim, steady glow of a gas lamp lit their faces as they contentedly exchanged the last weary smiles of the day. They spoke softly with the settled faces of brothers or trusted friends. They could not see me. The light would not allow it. I smiled when I saw their faces. And they were past, folded into the elegant night.

Dante's Prayer

2008-04-04T16:17:00.000-07:00

Though never so eloquent, my prayers often trace this pattern...

When the dark wood fell before me
And all the paths were overgrown
When the priests of pride say there is no other way
I tilled the sorrows of stone

I did not believe because I could not see
Though you came to me in the night
When the dawn seemed forever lost
You showed me your love in the light of the stars

Chorus:
Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me

Then the mountain rose before me
By the deep well of desire
From the fountain of forgiveness
Beyond the ice and the fire

Chorus

Though we share this humble path, alone
How fragile is the heart
Oh give these clay feet wings to fly
To touch the face of the stars

Breathe life into this feeble heart
Lift this mortal veil of fear
Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears
We'll rise above these earthly cares

Chorus

Please remember me
Please remember me, ...

--Words by Loreena McKennitt

I am a rock/ I am a bee-e-e-ver...

2008-04-03T19:12:00.000-07:00

You will understand me easily,
If you read me deviously.

Ooph! goes the beaver,
that smiling, winking beaver,
who smiled for the strength of his dam.

"Card castles never weather well,
but my dam will last the swell."

Then, trickle trickle,
Rising water
Washed him straight to hell!

Neuroplasticity

2008-04-02T20:48:00.000-07:00

Charles Darwin wrote these words at the age of seventy-two:

"Up to the age of thirty, or beyond it, poetry of many kinds, such as the works of Milton, Gray, Byron, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Shelley, gave me great pleasure, and even as a schoolboy I took intense delight in Shakespeare....I have also said that formerly pictures gave me considerable, and music very great delight. But now for many years I cannot endure to read a line of poetry: I have tried lately to read Shakespeare, and found it so intolerably dull that it nauseated me.I have also almost lost my taste for pictures or music. Music generally sets me thinking too energetically on what I have been at work on, instead of giving me pleasure. I retain some taste for fine scenery, but it does not cause me the exquisite delight which it formerly did...

My mind seems to have become a kind of machine for grinding general laws out of large collections of facts, but why this should have caused the atrophy of that part of the brain alone, on which the higher tastes depend, I cannot conceive."

Many things could and, perhaps, should be said about these, Darwin's words. Yet, here, I only conjecture that the mind, detached from an understanding of the Absolute and invested in the effects of that Cause, cannot live. The brilliance and beauty fade out of all things. This is common among men. The young, devilish brutes they may be, have a curious reverence for reality--a fascination that the unanchored mind cannot accept indefinitely . As men grow old, they are forced to accept the natural conclusions to their unnatural perspective of reality. And everything turns to ash. Darwin laments this loss in himself: "the loss of these tastes is a loss of happiness, and may possibly be injurious to the intellect, and more probably to the moral character, by enfeebling the emotional part of our nature."

I, like Darwin, have a dim and perhaps faded view of beauty. Sometimes I fear that time will force me to watch the colors drain from the canvas. Yet I can hope, for my mind is anchored in the Absolute, the Cause. And I can hope for more than preservation of sight. Joy of joys, I hope for the expansion of that sight. I celebrate the knowledge that my understanding of everything weaves together in an understanding of God. As I know him more fully, I know all things more fully. The colors deepen and brighten. He gives understanding; my mind will not die.

2008-03-17T21:06:00.000-07:00

We met there often. The forgotten eaves shadowed our business. Chipped paint crunched beneath our feet, and we glanced nervously over our shoulders. Nobody there. No one was ever there. The exchange of goods then commenced in a most professional manner. A manner, I might add, completely tucked away in that shadowed alley, beyond which, I might add, one could hear the ocean lapping, sucking away the grist and spitting it back--so peaceful. Quick hands were ours. And I suppose we formed a sort of bond. Not friends, but something. The peeling walls resonated the quick whispers, the locking latches, zipping zippers. Of course, by this time, all these nervous sounds found remembering familiarity in our brains. Nervous we were. But we didn't know that. The business proceeded in a most professional manner.

2008-02-19T22:13:00.000-08:00

The pine siding of the barn was darkened by the night's rain. I say the night's, but it also rained throughout the previous day, and the day before, and before. For weeks, or months, or years it fell, in unnatural persistence; sheets and sheets of gray rain. It pounded the trees, and grass, and bare earth violently--a great, watery siege on this earthen city. Little by little, the world, the barn, the fields and trees, began to starve. The deep green of life faded into the dull gray of the rain, everyday a little more. The trees hunched over, seemed to twist and darken, shedding their lively leaves. Naked, they jutted cruelly into the sky like tangled barbed-wire. Shamefacedly, the young flowers bent and kissed the gray-black earth.
The two humans, boy and girl, brother and sister, had watched the siege from the barn loft. Through sheltered eyes they had observed the sky's dealing of death upon their grass and earth. They saw the contortions, the gray-fading scape. They saw all that they loved (excluding one another) stripped of it's beauty. Or perhaps they only thought they saw. It was always dark while it rained, and the rain never stopped. Perhaps they had only feared that they should see, and their eyes gave life to nonexistent terror. Or, perhaps it was worse. Perhaps that same gray acted upon them—the life already half-drawn from their pale cheeks, like the young flowers. She happened to keep a picture of before. To her, the ever-still mixture of red-ploughed clay and rolling green, the proud, un-painted barn, and the majestic trees looked like an artist's rendition of some alien world. She knew it must be her own. Or at least, she knew that it had been. But that world was gone, lost in the torrent. "The world altogether gone, and we, only a dream. Why should we be more real than those shadows outside, beneath the heavy rain." The boy and girl began to twist their thoughts to the blinding presence of the rain. Jagged, tangled thoughts entered, darkened their minds.
"Can you still see the trees outside?" She asked, her head very still, looking into the empty dark rain.
He walked lazily to the opening, he didn't seem to care very much. "I think so...Well, I don't know."
"What did they look like?"
"They looked cruel...before that, I...can't remember." He began to cry, quickly stopped, and again turned his gray eyes to the emptiness. She didn't notice, she couldn't. It didn't matter anyway.
"I never saw them before."
"No, I don't suppose I did either. I don't suppose we can see anything. I can't see you...I can't hear you."
"No, it's gone. Goodbye."
"Why 'goodbye'?"
After a pause, "I don't know."

The next morning, however, they leaned against the damp planks of the barn wall, smiling, talking, shielding their eyes from the sun.

2007-12-08T13:33:00.000-08:00

In one great wave of lust

(I pronounce it "passion"),

I took all blessing and formed a curse.

How sanctimonious these passions,

my delusions of correction, are.

Are they not like dust?

Are they not a violent and sickening dust?

Yet, I pursue them with fixed avidity.

Shelf upon shelf,

yard upon yard,

binding upon binding.

Silence.

Nothing more horrible have I enjoyed.

Savages treading through the rough,

unaware of what we long.

Objectless longing.

Such passion leads to—

silence.

2007-09-06T21:14:00.000-07:00

do I always reside in the awkward--
do I long yet stop at obtaining,
search and stop at finding?

do I live in fear of having, knowing--
full of desire,
mastered by restraint?

or am I only incapable of knowing?

do I live in the realm of incompletes--
the book, almost read
the poem, almost written
the question almost answered?

my own questions, it seems,
find no words for other minds.
they only twist and swirl--anxious
never given the privilege of resolution.

yet all of times in all exist
so I cannot say
whether in past or future
my answer waits
to breach the now.
coursing up, against the current of time
or on some static rock awaiting my arrival

some have said the answer with me resides
but I have searched all my pockets
and all I found were three pennies
and a stirring straw.

Revolving Doors and Escalators

2007-08-25T21:36:00.000-07:00

Here I am at last. This blog marks my first 12:36Am at college. Throughout my high-school career the transition to college was always spoken of as extreme and bizarre and brilliant, yet, now that I am here the transition seems only natural and peaceful. The circumstances are unmistakably hectic, and yet an understanding contentment undergirds the veneer of tension. I suppose this is a proper emotional response to something truthfully good--natural and peaceful. Because by the grace of God I believe that this is where I am supposed to be now, I am content.

This God--his way is perfect; the word of the LORD proves true; he is a shield for all those who take refuge in him. -- Psalms 18:30

2007-08-05T19:41:00.000-07:00

I so often wish that I were strong where I am weak. I am something of a coward; I have not overmastered that human thrill to run from danger and confrontation. I am something of a fool; as much as I would have others believe me wise, I frequently act to the contrary. How I would to be charming or clever, honorable like so many revered men of history or strong--a refuge for those who need shelter. Yet, I am none of these noble things. These things I worship.

Yet, amongst all my failures, I long for peace. As the blackened frame of my idolatry smolders in my midst, I am forced to turn my swollen eyes toward a focus beyond those blinding walls now burnt. I have stood here in this rubble before today--different ashes, different idols; the lesson is the same: The furnace of God burns too hot for shelters of grass.

2007-07-25T14:16:00.000-07:00

Hudson: Hey Asa, what do you think the meaning of life is?

Asa: I don't know...to have freedom?

Hudson: What do you mean by "freedom"?

Asa: Um...to do whatever you want.

I find it tragic that my eight year old brother (Asa) holds such a bleak perspective on the purpose of life. Not simply because the answer was wrong and he my brother (though that is terrifying), bust also because I know that Asa represents the vast number of people submerged in contemporary culture (whether they would express their world-view so clearly or not). Now, I realize that he is only eight and probably didn't even realize what he spoke, but the truth remains that since the day he was first able to reason, he has been bombarded with a lie, a lie which he is already able to reproduce in speech.

Establishing a correct perspective of this world amidst a culture of inch-thick lies is a task nigh impossible, and the failure to succeed earns eternal damnation. When Jesus came to earth as a man, He came to lead people to the truth--to himself, and, in believing that truth, men are saved. Our culture wittingly and unwittingly wills to deceive every individual within it--wills to lead men away from the truth--wills to lead men to hell. If we, as the church, are to stand we must battle these lies. If we wield the truth of God, the lies will burn before us like stubble. The truth is the power of God. When we wield the truth, we battle with all the power of the Almighty. Who can then stand before the Almighty. Could Sennacherib and his men. Could Babylon with their great wealth? Could Egypt with their many chariots? If our children, our neighbors, our brothers, and our parents are to be saved, God must save them, and He has given us the power to accomplish this: the Truth, the living and active Word of God.

2007-07-05T09:36:00.000-07:00

Upon sight of an older couple, arm in arm, an automatic smile ascended to my face. This was strange to me, for I was not in a disposition to smile at strangers. Actually, I was in a rather sour mood that day (much like today). Nevertheless, I smiled. When I say the smile was "automatic", I do not intend to deliver the idea that my smile was anything less than completely sincere. No, my smile was genuine; however, I also do not want to give the reader the idea that this incident had any lasting impact upon that sour mood I held. I was as despondent after the incident as I was before it. I suppose I smiled because that smiling older couple, arm in arm, expressed a peace and a joy that I long to have, and that if they could attain it, perhaps there was such a thing. Perhaps I just caught them at a good time. I don't even know if those two were Christians. They were different.

If anyone wishes to reason with me on my ravings, you may, but I know all the things you would say. I can't hear them. More than that would I appreciate your fervent and righteous prayers--that I would believe the wise things of hope you would speak if I were not deaf.
And straightway the father of the child cried out, and said with tears, Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief. Mark 9:34

Unearthing Answers

2007-06-19T06:25:00.000-07:00

So many things I once had a passion for have turned to ash and been carried off by the wind. I have often wondered why this must be. Why must the pinnacle joys of my life turn out to be mere fixes in one great existential addiction? Such realization leave me...well...depressed. It's as if the carpet has been pulled from beneath my feet. Having no foundations, the towers of my life crumble and fall.

Through the mire of self-pity and pain I am beginning to see the beautifully simple answer to my question--an answer that I have been shown again and again. The answer is this: Any passion that I can hold other than and apart from Christ is a passion of utter distaste to Him who must be the sole source of my identity as a Christian, as a human being. You see, when everything in life loses it's flavor, one has but to see the Value of Christ as it truly is...infinite. Only then can true joy be experienced. Only then can one truly find existence.

Coming to this conclusion is worth a far deeper and longer depression than I have had to bear, and I pray that God would make miserable any course in my life taken apart from Him. "Spare the rod, spoil the child." In this case, if He did spare the rod, I would certainly prove to be no child.

It is a sad thing to be sad and not know why.

2007-06-03T12:44:00.000-07:00

Often, without any obvious cause, the colors of the world melt and ooze into a grey-brown pool on the ground before me and then disappear into some invisible hole. My mind then hammers into thought dozens of possible causes to this melancholy--none of which are definitive. Is my philosophical framework too weak to bear life; do I feel unaccepted by my piers or family; is it right that I should so highly value their acceptance; did I fail to get enough sleep last night; was that English muffin with creme-cheese a bad choice for breakfast? I consider all these (there are many more) to be plausible, but never can I know (Oh, to know beyond doubt the cause of these effects!). And, because of that impenetrable degree of uncertainty inherit in all of life's seasons, I am certain that we are not expected to know everything. And so, I make treaty with this melancholy--not surrender; treaty. I seek God (for all true peace is found in His way), go to bed earlier, try a different breakfast entree, and if God so chooses I will feel better by tommorow. If not, His will is good; He is worthy of praise.

Make peace with your melancholy. It will not destroy you. It only pretends to be dangerous.

I Am in Need of Rescue

2007-05-16T06:28:00.000-07:00

The enemy always attacks that which threatens his cause; therefore, I am grateful for the onslaught. The Word of the Lord will not be silent. The power of the gospel will certainly prevail over the powers of this world--those powers which torment me now.

They isolate and attack me.
They stuff my ears with clanging lies
So loud those clanging, clanging lies
I cannot hear the Truth
That only whispers now
Amongst a hoard of lies.
They swarm around me
They swarm like flies
Stuffing me with clanging lies
So loud those clanging, clanging lies
I cannot hear the Truth
That only whispers now
Amongst this hoard of flies.
Scream and scatter, o Truth,
Evil tormentors away
With your whispers,
Whisper piercing soft,
And make these flies
To meet their fears.
With the gospel's power,
Make these flies
To meet their fears,
And batter them away.

The Rain

2007-05-03T21:17:00.000-07:00

Sorrow is best enjoyed with rain, for what other wonder of nature so empathetically reflects the soul of man in grief. Grief for what? That, the rain cannot tell. But, the rain does teach, or, better, the Creator, in forming his wat'ry armies, teaches.

"When it rains, men scurry about looking for shelter. So it is with sorrow. Yet, if there is no shelter to be found, then what is the purpose of scurrying?" so I asked the rain.

"None", He promptly replied.

Realizing I had gained audience with my tormentor I asked, "Other men found shelter from your beating, why not I?".

So He replied, "When it rains, proud trees bend and drip under the weight of water. Sorrow bends any proud man. Yes, I can fell the thickest trees. Yet, the trees are wiser than you, O man; for though my weight bends and strains their thick fibers, they are grateful for it. Trees long for the rain; they know what I bring. They can see past the groaning and the pain to the stretching and expanding--the growth. Learn from the trees. I give them their beauty. They know this, and so they call me beauty. Learn from the trees."

"What of those who found shelter."

"Some found it well, some ill. A tree with no rain will die. To escape me is death. Yet their is more to life than water and salt. When the sun comes, know that I gave you your beauty. Learn from the trees. Though I am grey, I am beauty."

Small Prints

2007-05-01T13:11:00.000-07:00

The idea of beauty is humbling. How is it that man can look with wonder and consider things nobler than himself? Can those things noble to one man be ignoble to another? To what degree can we or must we define beauty? To what degree is beauty absolute? If the trappings of beauty are all trimmed away and one looks at the root of the universal, what does he see?

Below is an image of a high-energy particle collision as recorded by a bubble chamber. The blue lines represent the paths of the constituent particles after the collision. This is beautiful to me, and the beauty is not arbitrary; it is absolute. This image reflects the majestic design of a Creator--my Lord. As seen in this picture, the reduction of nature to its constituents does not (as a rule) eliminate nature's marvelous beauty; rather, reductionism unearths vast worlds of beauty never before seen by man.

The Indiscriminate End of Autonomy

2007-04-29T07:59:00.000-07:00

If empirical forms of perception
Stand alone in existence and motive,
Then may my senses meet a happy death:
For why by grace of hearing would I will
To lose all graces in the void’s despair.
There, in my unaided sense, lies chaos:
Spreading plague of indiscriminate death.
Oh dream, Mankind! Equality Achieved:
Not only the dead are dead in this world.
All are equal; all are dead.

Spaghetti

2007-04-26T19:10:00.000-07:00

Were I to attempt a visualization of my current mental state, I think it would look something like a big ball of spaghetti--this, not because spaghetti actually looks like my brain (though it perhaps does), but for other, more abstract, reasons. First, let me restate the image: "big ball of spaghetti". My state of mind is "big" because I am heavily engaged in mental activity (big=heavy?...bad physics. bear with me). My state of mind is a "ball" because... it has to assume some shape; otherwise, its just big spaghetti--not the case; ball seem'd most natural. Let's not waste any bad jokes on "of". Now,"spaghetti". My state of mind resembles this Italian cuisine in that the individual strands of my thoughts are woven and twisted amongst the rest in a largely incomprehensible mass. I can see the end or beginning of many ideas, but very few of my metaphorical starch chains are completely in view.

I can recall times when my ideas were not so confused. By introspection, I could trace thoughts throughout my mind until I understood them. Now, I just see lots and lots of hints at thoughts--fragmented glimpses of something whole, like seeing a face through the window of a southbound car while driving on northbound I-85. You see a split-second image of something vastly complex. Had you the time to understand the face, your perception would still be but a glimpse, for that face is attached to a body, a mind, a life. My thoughts seem to be equally elusive.

2007-04-16T12:32:00.000-07:00

Contemptuous, Swirling Sea of Solitude:

No ripples are raised as evidence to these:
my desperate thrusts and jerks of attempted survival.
Trying against hope and expectation to stay above
your surface inky-black.
:This irrational shoreless sea
is not wholly framed by me:

My cries fail to disturb this musty medium of death.
The air is dead. Why have I come here?
How am I so foolish to feed myself on hunger?
:Never to rest in halls of dust,
never to flame the good parts thrust:

Why need I squabble and scathe in this flood of sorrow--
and that, little more than self-pity.
:To trust again in That I knew
for ever He is ever true:

These chains, crafted by these hands
are too thick for these hands to tear.
How could I have strength to forge
that which I have not strength to bear?

:How I would that I be free
from self-imposed agony:

In solitude,
Man

Yay, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I shall fear no evil.
For thou art with me;
Thy rod and thy staff--
they comfort me.

Bede's Death Song

2007-04-09T09:43:00.000-07:00

The Venerable Bede was a brilliant man. He was fluent in Hebrew, Latin, and Greek. Traditionally, Bede is considered a historian because of his work Ecclesiastical History of the English People. Though this is true, this song shows that his study of history, cultures, and language was not disconnected. These studies reinforced and built upon his understanding that the supreme wisdom man can attain is an understanding of God's righteous requirements. This song does not begin to offer a complete picture of salvation. Rather, it asks men to consider their need for salvation. Only when man understands his need will he accept the physicians care.

Bede's Death Song

Before the unavoidable journey there, no one becomes
wiser in thought than him who, by need,
ponders, before his going hence,
what good and evil within his soul,
after his day of death, will be judged.

This is, of course, a translation of the original Latin text. Though poetic beauty is certainly present in the translation, the original nature of the beauty is probably lost. I don't read Latin so I am unsure but looking at the text, I see some marks of alliteration and meter. I am confident that the content was preserved in the translation (?).

Questions of Design

2007-03-29T12:55:00.000-07:00

How can he whose frame was painted
with such gentle, guided strokes,
pour death upon his chaos canvas
with no reproach of self
or fear of the Artist's scorn?

What exterior will could counterpoise
that hot Fire's great intent
upon the wondrous forgery
of beauty unmatched and purposed
with admirable send?

Could the Mason of self-governed all
be overcome by His crafted stone,
or could some exterior intruder
better the scope of the Infinite--
He, Creator of all things encompassed therein?

Could the stone letter of the omnipotent will
be crossed by lesser power,
his engines being formed and flamed
by Him he hated and countered:
forcing opposed ill on unopposed might?

With infinite understanding
matched by power to perform such depth,
what raw fracture can remain
upon the defining Form of whole
Whose hands did make His foe?

What claim of power could deliver
upon deceived ears
a triumph over limitless hight,
but by the unabated will
of Him whose pen composed eternity?

Why should He suffer seeming loss
but that in unbreached fullness
should He gain the utmost joy
from all that He did form:
those for eternal glory and for shame?

Is not that infinite majesty yet maintained
and magnified with each rise and fall
(the threads of His beauty,
woven to suit His good will)
laying to rest all these questions of design?

Weary

2007-03-16T12:35:00.000-07:00

First I must express my gratitude to God for giving me pursuits by which to be wearied. Perhaps this doesn't sound like something to be desired, but it is. Idleness, though it wears a smiling face, is a wretchedly destructive disease. As Christians, we are called to seize every moment of every day for the furtherance of God's mighty kingdom, yet we all (myself most included) waste so much time.

Though in concept it is abstract, time is perhaps the most concrete medium of our lives. Each life has a certain amount of time which cannot be halted, reversed, skipped, or replayed. Whatever time is, once it is traversed, it is, from our perspective, annihilated (did I really need all those commas?). Every thought we have and every action we take is bounded within time. It is inescapable. We, as humans, are forced to exist in now. We cannot go back to correct the errors or fill in the gaps of waste that we can so easily recall--and therein lies the point and end of my ramblings.

In truth, I'm not writing this to talk about waste. I only wished to establish that, despite my weariness, I am, with good reason, grateful that God is teaching me to use time more effectively for His purpose. I say "more effectively" because I am by no stretch of the imagination completed in this good. I misuse (=waste) a shameful amount of that precious time which I rambled over in the paragraph above.

It seems as if there is not enough time in the day to do all the things I need or want to do. The things that I wish to do are not bad. On the contrary, most of these tasks are very profitable; I simply cannot cram them all into my day. Why should I have to pick and choose between worthy activities? I am trying to get up an hour earlier every day to help fit things in, but such a schedule leaves me exhausted to the point of limited functionality. I would go to bed earlier but the time I would lose is now filled with other worthy tasks. Its a ridiculous fix.

I have concluded that, because God set the limits of both time and the human body, he must not expect me to accomplish everything worth accomplishing. Though we are bound by time, God is not. I would even suggest that what we call time is rather unlike any perception we have of it. I believe that when we speak of time, we are speaking not so much of an actual entity but, rather, a symptom as part and parcel of God's logic and consistency in creating the universe (and I continue to ramble). And as he has, in his mind, affectively chosen to reveal himself to me in "time", He indeed, according to His logic, will sustain me throughout the rest of my days--until that wondrous glorification. The point of this is to say that I have no great need to fret over time. Perhaps I sin in overtaxing my body and mind for these "worthy activities". Perhaps, in stretching myself so, I am forgetting to exercise contentment in my great Sustainer. Perhaps I just need to chill out. Word.

If you made it through this whole post, you are a noble friend and I thank you.

Old and Lost by the Sea (Part 1)

2007-03-13T15:05:00.000-07:00

I am not sure how many parts this will be. In truth, I am only breaking it into parts to make the poem more "blogger-friendly". Perhaps this is not such a good idea. Just be sure to read parts 2,3,etc... as a continuation of the previous parts.

Man:

Cast me o’er these waters wide,
To that land unknown.
There I shall find a place to hide
My cold and weary bones.

It matters not who find I there,
Within that other place.
So long as they have room to spare
For a wild, wand'ring face.

I demand no certain scape or soil,
To rest my back upon.
I only wish to end the toil
Of many years bygone.

So quest I here to you, salt wind,
Would thou my toil cease?
Or landing would I wake to find
More misery unleash'd?

Reply, O playful breeze to me!
For time goes marching on.
Have you no wisdom for my plea?
Quick is the setting sun.

Wind:

Listen now, gray’d man, to me.
Oft have I carried men,
That cried to me there by the sea,
Across this wat’ry den.

They too, like you, long’d for release,
From ev’ry worldly scorn.
And having here no gentle peace,
To the depths were bourn.

No rest you’ll find, though you be old
And warp’d with pressing loss.
Though if desp’rately you choose t' leave
These waters we shall cross.

Vanity

2007-03-08T19:20:00.000-08:00

O, devouring beast within,
When will your hunger cease?
For you have feasted far too long,
And you have drunk too deep.
As locusts to a field in spring,
You strip away the budding joy.

O, vanity of vanities,
When will your cold snares cease?
For you but swear by lies,
And deliver not the offered peace.
As Sirens singing over the sea,
You gather men to death.

O, damned blight, whose day is marked,
Why need men tremble here?
For your death is overcome,
And to hell rushes your wicked fear.
As one shadowed by that dark Angel's blade,
Your death is surely come.

beauty

2007-03-04T18:38:00.000-08:00

O, to read, write, see, feel, and know beauty.
That warm and fresh beauty which flows rich and thick,
once tasted, can be naught but furiously craved.
Upon what virtue is it so passionately loved?
What untamed quality does the golden, rising sun posses
to light afire the soul of man?
What unseen parts distinguish the rotten and dead
from the full and vibrant?

What hot flame forged that hidden clasp
binding trail-traced valleys, the sun through mist,
owls, and the seas rocky cliffs?
Who are You, great and noble smith?
Where is Your mighty workshop?
For you grant all beauties ever known,
for the painter's brush but mimics Thee
with hands fashioned by Thy will.

blessed are those who mourn...

2007-03-04T11:49:00.000-08:00

When all beautiful is lifted, sorrow, by necessity, descends
To press, crush, and shatter the heart of men.
Yet notice, how those forced and grievous tears—
Though they be in pain—
Descend in a strange and curious beauty?
Is it a joy in darkness?
Should we feel shame in loving that curious beauty?
Nay, I think not.
We need never weep for mourning.
Rather, we should rejoice.
We weep for death and for loss.
And the tears we cry are both sad and wondrous.

Tears perceived above the shadow of that dampened grave
Sting the swollen, reddened eyes.
Yet see, those same tears when viewed from the law of my heart
Cast sparkled beauty upon your pale face.
And that joyful pain, gifted from some gracious Fountain,
Is more beautiful than any painless joy.

“Blessed are those who mourn,
for they shall be comforted.”

A New Humanity

2007-03-03T14:46:00.000-08:00

How can I so easily overlook the greatest truth ever formed?

For, the one sin of Adam merited death for all of mankind.
And this same mark of death falls upon me as unto any man.
The single sin--the great multitude of death.
Yet more than this, I claim a multitude of sin.
Then even more deserving am I of the greatest multitude of death.
For if one sin could condemn all of mankind to hell, then how much more furiously should I, with many sins, be trust there?

Yet here am I rejoicing! For the death of Christ established a new humanity.

For just as the one sin brought a great multitude of death, so does that one act of righteous obedience pay for the greatest multitude of sins.
The single death--a marvelous gift of life to many.
Yet more than this, I am granted to be a son of Almighty God.
Would He but free me from flame, still would I gratefully cry.
But much more than escape has he granted this undeserving child.
He bids me to call Him Father.

Disorganized

2007-02-26T18:55:00.000-08:00

I approach these keys with a million thoughts and feelings raging through me. How can I possibly transform all of this cognition into small black characters against a white screen? How can I make the reader understand when I don't even understand myself? Suppose I could sort through all of this data and categorize it--like organizing a filing cabinet or a desktop. Then I could trace each thought and emotion to its parent cause. Oh, how I long to be able to do that!

Trying to understand my thoughts is like trying to watch a parade through a translucent window. The thoughts keep on marching by, one after another. I can see their shapes but only as incomprehensible smears against the light. I hear the music of the parade; I hear it clearly. It makes me happy or sad; angry or pleased. If only the glass were clear; then, I could see the cause of each effect. Oh, how I long to do that!

There is one particular shape of smear in this thought parade that I have grown familiar with. Call it a trend or, better, a weakness. This smear is everything that I would base my hopes upon other than my Creator and Redeemer. I hate to watch that float go by, for when it leaves, my vain hopes go with it. At least it leaves. If it didn't, I would never learn that only the LORD merits my hope.

A Righteous Zeal

2007-02-22T12:27:00.000-08:00

There are two main errors concerning Christian zeal. The first and most common is the lack thereof, while the second is an improper basis upon which this zeal is built.

The "be nice" attitude seems to reign supreme in most of today's "Christian" circles. In fact, this view is so deeply rooted that "Christian" people are willing to compromise on absolute biblical doctrine "for the sake of unity". I do not know how many times I have heard that line thrown at me, and it makes me very sad. Do not misunderstand, I believe we, as Christians, are to seek to be unified--unified beneath God's truth. We are not connected in accepting the god of our particular opinions; we are connected in how God truly is as He revealed Himself in the Scriptures; therefore, how can we arrive at a true and proper unity but by seeking to wholly align ourselves beneath the intended understanding of the Holy Scriptures. This is the role of controversy. Why does that word ring negatively in our ears? Without controversy you have heresy. Lies go unquestioned. Everything goes. We become unified, yes, but only insomuch as we are worldly-- as we are dead. Are we so bold as to say that it is Biblical to allow contradicting interpretations of Scripture to stand at odds without controversy or separation? We do God and ourselves a disservice. In an attempt to be loving and accepting we are, in fact, becoming the opposite. We should learn to love the amending controversy.

The second mistake in Christian zeal, though less common, is equally evil. This sin may not concern the actual practice of zeal (though it often does), but, rather, it concerns the inner motive of that zeal. Why should we as Christians vehemently fight against incorrect doctrine? To simply say that we hate heresy is not enough, for this does not speak to the cause of why heresy should be hated. So, why do we hate heresy? Well, by its very definition, heresy is contrary to the Word--the Word of God. It is for love of God that we must hate heresy. If our zealousness is not wholly matched by love for Him whom we would defend, we sin. For, in such zeal, our motive is itself heretical.

Martin Luther is a beautiful example of this balance. There was man bold to speak the only Truth, no matter the cost. Yet his boldness stemmed not from pride or selfish anger, but from a deep and passionate love for his Creator and Redeemer.

The Great Tutor (Part V of V)

2007-02-21T14:10:00.000-08:00

The last part, whew. If you wish to view them all together, click the "The Great Tutor" label below the post.

Then halted there the foam and mist,
And shifted toward the clear of sky.
Yet, not forgetting rod or glass,
A new beauty did these waters frame.
The great lecturer combined with its end—
Together with their mane and wool—
Painted a flaming tapestry
Before the weary boy.

And as the bodies weaved upon that celestial loom,
Between the sun and blue-ringed black,
The great Cause of justice was then revealed,
Within his quickening soul.
So burst he out in joyous song,
For all that lacked was paid.
The glorious, scarlet-stained tapestry
Shrouded all his darkened stains.

Oh, crash! Fell heavy hammer,
To break that deadened flesh.
Such quick and dreaded brokenness
Planted a wondrous, matchless joy.
That still’d the heart through wind and foam
Through fire, ice, and storm.
For when he looked upon that glass,
He knew both golden mane and scarlet wool.

Would you like your receipt? Yes/No

2007-02-20T19:15:00.000-08:00

If you had stopped by the local gas station on this fine February evening at approximately 10:07Pm, you would have found me numbly gazing at the now primitive LCD screen located near the top left corner of gas pump number one (or was it 10?). I was confronted by a simple question. The petrol-pumping, mechanical inquisitor asked me this, "Would you like your receipt? Yes/No".

A hundred other puke-green LCD screens had questioned of me thus, but never before had I undergone such deep mental anguish over the question. Perhaps I "over-exaggerate" in using such a strong word as anguish. Rather, it was more of a curious discomfort. You see, when I saw the options "Yes/No", it was as if two distinct and contrary paths lay before me. There was more on the line than a 6 inch sheet of pasty-white and processed tree pulp. The very tapestry of my life seemed to pivot on this decision. For some reason (I think I have an idea, but I wont go into that here), I felt that "no" was the right and proper answer to the question, while "yes" was what I, in some sort of sinful fashion, wanted to choose. But why, in such a context, should "yes" be wrong and "no" be right? I do not know! Hmm... that was the case anyhow.

My musings turned out to be of no benefit to me, however, for as I was about to arrive at my decision, the question vanished. The two roads merged into one mandatory highway. Apparently there is a timer for "the question" and my thought process had outlived it. The screen then defaulted to the rather rude statement, "Press Payment Key". What had I done!! Actually, I was glad for this untimely disappearance. I no longer had to choose, but I cannot help but have a tinge of curiosity about those two mysterious paths that laid before me, asking to be journeyed upon.

I wonder if the path I was forced to travel is more like the "no" path or the "yes" path. I tend to think that it is more like the "no" path, for I do not, indeed, have a receipt. But then again, "the question" asked whether or not I would like one, not have one. Still, my money is on "no", but one can never be sure about these things. I do not care much either way, actually, for my God is sovereign and whatever path He leads me to will be the path for which I was meant.

The Great Tutor (Part IV of V)

2007-02-20T11:12:00.000-08:00

Then from the crest arose a sound.
Then glass crossed o’er the bloodstained ground
Gliding to the North unknown,
Guiding to the sacred throne.
So climbed he there against his pains,
Lashed in behind mysterious reins,
For knew he then his dreaded fate,
For tempered metal reflects morbid state.

The patient glass, uncompromised,
Led the child o’er arid sand,
Through the sundry drapes of ruin,
Toward that distant, unknown land.
Yet the watered wall did ever show
Such stains as he could do naught but hate.
So weeping pressed he after
That beauteous, horrid slate.

“No more! No more.
My last has come!”
Cried he beneath the taunting pain.
“Through Your lens, I truly see my good,
And be it that I had naught,
My frailty and lack withstood.
So leave me now and seek aloft,
For another, more strong in pursuit.”

Pride...again

2007-02-19T18:45:00.000-08:00

As mentioned in a previous blog, I hate my pride. This is true; however, to simply say that I hate it is deceiving. The truth is, I don't hate it. I love it. I hate that I love it! That statement is more true. And, in that sense, I do hate my pride (if your confused, so am I).

Recently, I have seen much pride in myself, and I wonder whether I am growing increasingly prideful, or whether I am simply becoming more aware of my ever-present arrogance. Sometimes, I cry out to God asking that I could just do one thing, one solitary thing, untainted by pride. It seems like I am consumed by it. I am encouraged though, for the very consideration of my pride as wrong is an act of Grace. Yet I must be wary, lest I boast even in the fact that I am "so keenly aware" of my horrible pride. You kinda see the cycle this puts me through? I'm not the only one am I?

Today I auditioned to act in "Much Ado About Nothing" by William Shakespeare. After the audition, some approving spectators wished to don me with praises and "mock bows?". They were pretending to bow before me. Just pretending--I don't see any idolatry there. But, I--In my heart-- wasn't pretending. Oh no. I was bowing low in adoration for myself. If your reading this you are probably thinking something like, "What a pompous ass!", and your right. I am. I don't want to be any longer. I don't presume that all of my pride will vaporize into nothingness all at once, but, by the ever-flowing grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, I need not be a slave to this evil pride. I can not logically boast in anything but the cross of Christ.

The Great Tutor (III of V)

2007-02-19T07:17:00.000-08:00

Horror stricken in dismay,
Thrust he himself through the spray.
Through the wet, white, salty foam,
To the ice, glass, metal, stone.
Anvil’s spray fell to the ground.
Life’s red sparks came fleeting down.
Then glancing once again therein,
More flaming burned his immortal sin.

Yet stood the rod as ere before,
Tall, sure, true, and bare.
For in the war of flesh and stone,
The child did unwell fair.
Yet, that panic eased to pacify,
Beneath the dreary, cutting pain.
And murderous cries heard but by One,
Quieted in shame.

“Unclean”, he whispered as he hid
beneath the brightened Star.
“You show me all that I have been,
Or can ever be.
Blinded by the sun turned glass,
In the white, my black I see.
Now I know that no spot can hide,
For your vision burns the thick with ease.”

Pride

2007-02-18T09:58:00.000-08:00

I'm not entirely sure that all vices can be broken down into a principle part, but if such classification were possible, pride would most certainly hold the title. Pride is infectious. It spreads into all of my systems like a lethal virus, threatening to corrupt all forms of godliness. It pulls me down and makes me weary. Coupled to legalism, it causes me to consider all of my acts of worship as frail and shortcoming, considering my own lack of sufficiency as preeminent to the utter sufficiency of Christ. Once this disease matures, it is humanly impossible to uproot. It is the humanist's creed, and I am constantly at battle lest it become mine.

On what grounds does a Christian practice pride--self-worship? The very system under which we classify ourselves (Christians) denounces the goodness of man altogether, placing all merit and all value upon Christ. The apostle Paul had such a sweet and natural grasp of this doctrine:

Gal 6:14 ... far be it from me to boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, by which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world.

I love the first few words there: far be it from me to boast.... The KJV translates this phrase as "God forbid that I should glory...". To Paul it was a ridiculous proposition to boast in anything but the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ! Would it be that we understood such glad subjection. Certainly, we would stand armed to endure the pains of this life with joy (exemplified in the life of Paul). Certainly, we could face this life as more than conquerers for the glory of our Savior.

The Great Tutor (Part II of V)

2007-02-18T07:36:00.000-08:00

This is continuation of the previous post (as implied by Part II of V). Though it contains five parts, it is one story; therefore, in order to maintain continuity, it may help to reread the last stanza of the previous part.

Framed by breath and foam,
This glass stood staring long.
Spots black and dead unseen before,
Then revealed, forgotten nevermore.
So run did he away, away,
Far from ice and salty spray.
Yet, as quick as he—did he choose to see—
The glass was always nigh.

So flew he harder ‘till he cried,
Until his salt feet burned.
Until the sweat dripped in his eyes,
Until his stomach turned.
Then down fell the child there alone,
Or so he thought was true,
For the glass then chose not to show
All that the Guardian knew.

“Cursed am I”, the dead boy spoke
as he looked into the glass.
“To be forever dead.
Oh, that I would not know!
Oh Glass, why form you out of mist and air,
to follow my vile soul?
In secret better left is this.
Much better was my semblance of whole!”

The Great Tutor (Part I of V)

2007-02-17T20:23:00.000-08:00

Happy tide of foam that crashes down
Then flees beneath the feet.
A smiling, splashing, laughing child
Knew not the origin of this joyous wind
That blows the hair and cools the skin,
Then vanishes beneath the golden screen.
A smiling, spinning, laughing child
Knew not the guardian of that northern cave.

Such mirth as ne’er was ever seen,
Yet no root had it to claim its own.
No nutrient to spur the smile
Ever framed upon that young face.
But pressed he on in joyous song
About a formless glee.
Should he have question posed,
Most assuredly would all crack and crumble.

Then crash! Fell heavy hammer
Upon that vibrant frame.
Salt Sea water enters the lungs,
And icy, grey wind
Bites, chills, and tears
Beneath the darkened skies.
And the water, held by wind,
Slowly lifts a quiet, haunting glass.

Fighting for Joy

2007-02-16T10:25:00.000-08:00

In our culture, everything comes and goes quickly. It is a place of instant gratification, flaming emotions, and plunging despair. This unpredictable, quicksilver mentality often overflows into our expectations of Christianity. We hear people speak on the joy found in Christ or the peace of knowing that life is in the hands of a sovereign God, and we assume that these treasures should fall upon us instantaneously and in their full measure. This idea, however, is unrealistic. The Great I AM is not a God bounded by formulas or mechanism, rather His ways are dynamic and organically formed upon Himself in eternity. Therefore, God is dynamic and realistic in the delivery of His promises to His children. Why should we expect a huge heap of lasting joy and peace to fall on us in an instant? This idea is absurd. Our bodies do not grow old in an instant. A tree doesn't mature, bud, and flower in a day. Rather, the Provider grants us these gifts by degrees over the span of our lives. Knowing this, we--as Christians--can bear all things in life, for the pain becomes an instrument of joy. The sorrow is peace. The tears only serve to give us that Joy which is, through all things, unshakable. A Joy carved within the eternal Rock.

This, we should fight for--that by trusting in the absolute greatness of our Creator and Redeemer, we come to perceive the crests and troughs of our lives as allied together beneath the great cause of morphing us to the will and likeness of our Savior. Such perspective must reveal the great joy and the great peace. Take courage Saints.

Idols

2007-02-14T19:15:00.000-08:00

My nature turns every sprig of existence into sin. Once planted, these brambles grow, creeping their way into being--unseen and unchecked, choking my joy and usefulness. Sometimes I fear that this ivy has so infiltrated me that I will be overcome. And doubled is my fear when I consider that I see but a minute fraction of my great evil.

As Calvin said, we men are great idol factories. So greatly diverse in form are these secret idols that they sneak past our best filters. Our tightest defenses prove unable to contain. Even now, I fear that I worship the very words that I am writing. Is my placing of each character an act of worship to my god of words? Lord, there is no strength in me to fight this foe.

Once again, we find that, in all things, we are dependent upon the grace given to us. We would be wise to accept it. Why can't I? Is that peace like a passing bird? Must I snatch as it goes by, or wait until it comes again? Can it not be as simple as a hungry, homeless man accepting food and shelter? Well, I suppose not, but even if I had the heart of such a man, I would be better off. But my heart isn't even so grateful as that, even though my gift is greater--much greater. My idols swarm around me and drag me away from that joy. Even the very guilt over those secret idols becomes, in itself, an idol. Only sovereign grace can save me from this hellish cycle.

I cannot please you God. On my face I beg that you do your work!

Recieving Grace

2007-02-12T16:47:00.000-08:00

Gal. 3:3-6.
3. Are you so foolish? Having begun by the Spirit, are you now being perfected by the flesh?
4. Did you suffer so many things in vain--if indeed it was in vain?
5. Does he who supplies the Spirit to you and works miracles among you do so by works of the law, or by hearing with faith--
6. just as Abraham "believed God, and it was counted to him as righteousness"?

I call myself a protestant. I cry out the doctrines of the reformation; sola gratia and sola fide are my creed. But, do I have a little Roman Catholic within me? I can't help but think so. For some reason, my mind often refuses to accept the complete atoning death of Christ. I confess that I--like the Galatians-- try to follow God upon my own works. What a depressing business!! Was there ever a man as wretched as me? I find that when I lose sight of the mercy of God through Christ, all the peace and joy of my life shatters like glass beneath the hammer of God's ever-present law. Cursed is he who sees his sins full blown but sees not the cross. Only the cross can free me from my filth, yet I refuse to see it. I refuse to believe. In these moments of depression, I have a tendency to bind my dependence upon things of such little eternal purpose. Such a foolish act only deepens my pain and shame. For these frail things upon which I lash my life are often ripped out from beneath me leaving me broken and cruel. I find myself in this state at this very moment. I see my wrong. I often wonder how I can see the error of my ways (legalism here), see the solution to the problem (Christ always), and yet fail to be freed from my sin. Oh, Holy Spirit, free me from these chains!

Elevator Syndrome

2007-02-11T12:22:00.000-08:00

When the two brushed aluminum doors quietly clunk together, my short and gratifying vacation begins. There is something mystically liberating about being all alone, suspended in a metal box effortlessly transversing floor after floor of eerily-symmetrical residential hall. I cherish those moments. I love to fill them with heart-felt, full-lunged, joyous singing. You see, my voice isn't very good but there, in that moment, no-one can hear me; no-one can see me...

Or can they? Today, as I stepped off the Hampton-Inn elevator after screaming out 15 wonderful seconds of wretchedly-sung Cat Stevens, vivid images of black and white surveillance screens flashed through my brain. Could they see me? Well yes, perhaps they could. In that case, its reasonable to imagine that they have microphones as well! Woe is me (woe is them). I don't think that I will ever know for sure whether or not I was watched. My only clue was the expression on the clerks face as I walked by the reception desk.

Is the joy of my altitude adjusting vacations henceforth lost? I hope not. Why do I care what the clerk thinks anyway? Now there is the real question.

The Word of God / HTML

2007-02-09T20:07:00.000-08:00

Currently, I am attempting to learn how to read/write HTML code for this blog. I think it will be a useful skill, and it has immediate application to this site. As part of my endeavor to gain an understanding of this obscure code language, I read HTML tutorials online. I find that I make myself understand what I am reading. I read through, and, if I don't understand, I reread and reread until I get it. I strive with my intellect. I do this because I have a goal--to better manage my website.

For some reason, I began to think about this in reference to my study of the scriptures. Many times, when I approach the Scriptures, I do not strive with my mind to understand the things I read. I will read through and continue on, even if I don't understand. Why do I not read and reread the Scriptures like I read and reread a HTML tutorial! Could I be more passionate about web design than about my eternal God--Who, in my sin, saved me; Who, in the depths of my depraved nature sought after me and caused me to believe in Him? It could be so. I believe that if I, in those moments of sin, truly saw the purpose of studying from the Word of God, then I would strive earnestly to understand each and every Word. I would desperately burn to know the Words of the Great I AM. I would battle my flesh to the death--If I truly understood.

O Holy God, show us stumbling, sinful children the value of Your truth. Have mercy upon us in our ignorance, and incline our hearts to desire You. We do not have any power to seek after you lest you enable us; rather, we are a perverse and sinful people. But by your grace, we would seek to bring shame to your Holy name. Forgive us for our coldness in pursuing You. Tear down the barriers that separate us from you. We are, in all things, unworthy of your mercy; we are, in all things, dependent upon your Grace. Amen.

My Heart

2007-02-08T15:16:00.000-08:00

How wicked my natural heart is. It takes good things--any good thing--and twists it. Such that I am always at the brink of a precipice. With my heart, I can take a flowering plant and make it into compost. I can take an unfinished work of art and turn it into scribble. I have no good within me with which to plead anyones friendship or love. Actually, my capacity for evil horrifies me--what I could do with my own two hands to those I love! To be my friend is to be at risk. Consider that...

Oh, I do care for my friends, yes. I care for them most dearly. If you are my friend, I love you. By God's grace, I have the capacity to care deeply for my friends. I love them. Otherwise, I wouldn't be writing this. I just don't want anyone to have a false sense of security concerning me. It is the silent demon of my heart that terrifies me. I have always hurt people--never have I intended to. I readily recognize my foolishness, but I refuse to confess maliciousness. Who is better? The foolish man or the malicious man. It doesn't matter.

Because by grace I love them so, I desire that my friends guard themselves from my evil. I wish that they would subject themselves solely and completely under the love of God. He will not abandon or forsake! So if you are my friend, you are not such based upon any goodness within me, but simply because of the Christ that is within me. So I don't ask that you trust me. I only ask that you trust Christ, and If in trusting Christ you trust me, I am most deeply grateful to God for enabling you to do so and for enabling me to not forsake you. Any Godly loyalty I express is only that of Christ; any Godly love I show is only that of Christ; any Godly encouragement you receive of me, is only that of Christ. I have nothing more to offer.

I am afraid I may regret posting this, but it is honest, so I will.

Blogging:// Dangerous for Christians?

2007-02-08T12:31:00.000-08:00

Is blogging a dangerous endeavor for Christians? Yes. Of course is it. Though I am but a baby in the world of blogging, I have already faced much temptation. I am assuming that I am not the only Christian to encounter this trial (you know what happens when you assume).

There are more blogs than any one person could read; however, there are two basic types of people writing these blogs--Christians and non-Christians; moreover, there are only two basic reasons why these two "blogger groups" choose to blog--to honor self or to honor God. Now, I would like to think that all Christian bloggers write for the latter cause, but I know from my own nature that this is not the case.

This is a simple prospect with vastly complicated application. How does a God-honoring Christian write His blog? The better question is how would Christ write his blog (excuse me) --which brings us to my main point. Truth. Christ would have His people to share the truth about who He is and who man is in relation to Him. This is the truth that the desperate and dying in our world need, and, to those who have been saved by it, this truth is the news of salvation to which they must cling. The people of this world are desperate for propositions to base their existence upon. Only the Word of the Creator contains such propositions.

Apart from having a pure evangelistic power, truth has the power to edify the body of Christ. All Christians need Scriptural teaching, exhortation, and encouragement. Christians tend to read Christian blogs. Build up the body.

Just as sanctification is complete in no man, no blog will be a perfect model for Christ; however, to see some blogs that seek to honor God, click on the links beneath "Wonderful Friends" in my sidebar. They truly are my wonderful friends. I love them all, and I know that they wish to honor God through their blogs.

Spirituality Test

2007-02-06T13:54:00.000-08:00

I wrote "Spirituality Test" as the name of this blog in hopes of grabbing some skepticism. The title certainly would appeal to my sense of cynicism. In actuality, however, it was a "Spiritual Gift Test" (still skeptical?). I took one at school today. It would seem that my two strongest gifts are Mercy and Exhortation followed closely by Leadership and Administration. Very interesting...

Actually, I think that there is an error in this line of thought. How can we mechanically describe an organic entity. The gifts that Christians are endowed with by the Holy Spirit cannot be broken down into raw chemical reaction and put in cubby-holes. It's not "You have it or you don't". These gifts are always living, growing, and shifting. They are subject to circumstance and are manifested in an infinite array of shades. I can imagine being led astray by the idea that God has gifted me in one area of service therefore I should only pursue to be strong in that area. I do believe that God gifts us in particular areas, but we should seek to exemplify every form of Godliness.

My evaluation: Perhaps these tests do have some value in understanding our specific roles in the Body of Christ; just take them for what they are worth. Don't pigeonhole yourself according to the results of a "Spirituality Test".

I Long for Thee

2007-02-05T15:43:00.000-08:00

Tis’ beautiful beyond the glass,
With auburn shadows thrown.
But it is cold, I’m sure, beyond these walls.

The dwindled sun’s light upon the green,
Through my eyes, doth warm my soul.
Yet cold, I feel, when I wander there.

Fleeting like frightened birds.
The light I cannot grasp.
O, I have reached within the brightest of the woodland towers--only cold.

"The beauty seen yet misperceived", I thought loudly to myself.
Reflection must bear its weight!
Those stones, that grove—they grow cold to sight and touch at nightfall.
I know! I have felt them then—only cold.

Then...from where doth that flame descend?
That flame upon the green! I long to be there!
For that source must bring death to cold.

Often have I searched for that light,
Within the woven bough.
Yet never have I found it there—only cold!

As I searched therein, my sorrow like the noon-tide swelled.
I could not see that flaming lamp!
I looked amongst all the walking, laying, standing things—only cold.

Laid I there despairing for my loss, amongst the auburn cast.
Then saw I shining through the crest of some tall, dark, oak tree
The burning Flame which cast the gold upon this knoll!
I know. I can see it now!

Creator of the night and day,
My soul doth long for thee.
In the sight of every created thing
My soul doth long for thee.
Behind this glass,
I long for thee.

Expectations

2007-02-04T19:35:00.000-08:00

Why must I always place unobtainable expectations upon myself and others! Why can I not simply trust in Christ as my sole sufficiency...

A foolish heart you have, O man.
To what purpose must you put stake in air?
Why do you attempt to bind your hope to dust?
Do you relish in your misery!

Prefer you dust to stone?
Prefer you broken to whole?
Prefer you shame to honour?
Cold to warm?
Death to life?
HATE TO LOVE!

A wicked heart you have, O man.

"O Lord, Forgive me! for I have sinned."

SCSTA (a cultural review)

2007-02-03T19:38:00.000-08:00

The title "SCSTA" will make about as much sense as a gas-powered belt buckle to the average reader. Let's suffice to say that this over-lettered acronym is the shorthand title of a drama competition that the Siloam Christian School drama team (of which I happen to be a part) participated in this Saturday. This competition invites schools from all over upstate South Carolina to compete in a number of different venues of theatrical performance.

Competitively, we did quite well, but that is not what I wish to comment on herein. Rather, I wish to comment upon the decline of our culture as I observed it in the competition. Without the Word of God as the foundation for theatrical performance, there is no basis upon which to produce meaningful art, and as the corpse of the Christian consensus grows colder and colder, this decline deepens. The first example of this degradation that I witnessed at SCSTA is in the pieces of literature that schools chose to bring to the competition. One would imagine (at least I would) that drama teams would try to bring literature of depth and scope--pieces with some relevance to our lives. This, however, is not the case. I find it terribly sad that a drama team would act out a scene from How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days in a theatrical performance. Such a performance delivers no content; therefore, the only purpose such a performance serves is to distract the listener (and performer) from the logical conclusion that everything is arbitrary without a biblical base. Without God, their is no basis upon which to make absolute ethical, moral, social, political, or spiritual evaluations; so, I guess that I should not be surprised at the irrelevance of these "works of art".

The denial of a biblical world view also brings a decline in the performance of the theatre arts. I only saw one attempt to make a moral statement while at the competition. It was a piece on abortion. The young female performer began and, one minutes into her performance, she stopped. She had forgotten the rest. She began and was unable to finish. You see, performance can be defined as the delivery of an idea. She had no idea to deliver, so the performance failed. If that young girl truly had something to say, I am confident she would have said it.

A Puritan Prayer

2007-02-02T13:22:00.000-08:00

Many people—Christians included—bash the Puritans pretty hard. The modern Christian-American tends to view the Puritans as they are presented in Arthur Miller’s The Crucible—cold, self-righteous, and terrified of witches! However, this view stems from a general ignorance combined with a hint of false teaching. I hope that this puritan prayer, taken from The Valley of Vision, will rectify these misconceptions:

THE GREAT GOD

O fountain of all good,
Destroy in me every lofty thought,
Break pride to pieces and scatter it to the winds,
Annihilate each clinging shred of self-righteousness,
Implant in me true lowliness of spirit,
Abase me to self-loathing and self-abhorrence,
Open me, then bind me up;
Thus will my heart be a prepared dwelling for my God;
Then can the Father take up his abode in me,
Then can the blessed Jesus come with healing in his touch,
Then can the Holy Spirit descend in sanctifying grace;
O Holy Trinity, three Persons and one God,
Inhabit me, a temple consecrated to thy glory.
When thou art present, evil cannot abide;
In thy fellowship is fullness of joy,
Beneath thy smile is peace of conscience,
By thy side no fears disturb,
No apprehensions banish rest of mind,
With thee my heart shall bloom with fragrance;
Make me meet, through repentance, for thine indwelling.
Nothing exceeds they power,
Nothing is too great for thee to do,
Nothing too good for thee to give.
Infinite is they might, boundless thy love,
Limitless they grace, glorious thy saving name.
Let angels sing for sinners repenting, prodigals restored,
Backsliders reclaimed, Satan’s captives released,
Blind eyes opened, broken hearts bound up,
The despondent cheered, the self-righteous stripped,
The formalist driven from a refuge of lies,
The ignorant enlightened,
And saints built up in their holy faith.

I ask great things of a great God.

It Snowed Today

2007-02-02T06:08:00.000-08:00

Winter’s cold, moving south

To smooth the wrinkled ground.

The legions of the icy white

Charge down without a sound.

The sprawling white beneath the foot

Of every standing oak,

Covering blade, leaf, and stone-

The season’s wintry cloak.

Not often has God chosen,

To loose his storehouse here,

But the shade of His design,

Is reflected in the cold, white clear.