The Color & The Shape

Waiting On, Hanging On Hope

2011-10-28T09:51:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week I had a conversation with a friend experiencing frustration with his job situation and work life, something I'm all too familiar with. Below is an e-mail I sent him about working out my own faith in this situation. If you find yourself in a similar place, maybe this will offer some encouragement.

I'm having one of those days at work like you talked about Monday. My job makes my life feel worthless. Its not only unfulfilling, its counter productive. Surely we were made for something more, though its hard not to feel defined by the lacking. But I hear the Lord saying the value of our lives is beyond our sight. We don't have the scope or vision to see or understand. We seem stuck, trapped even, by the situation. Circumstances appear more powerful than they are because they're difficult to see past. Circumstances live in the immediate and situations apply pressure. On days like this I cling to the Lord in scripture. Romans 5:3-5 comes to mind. We know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hopes doesn't disappoint because we've been given God's love through the Holy Spirit.

Most days I just want God to give me an out and instantaneously change everything for the better. Give me a new job, a better job, a better paying job, etc. I want this because I don't have much hope. I can't see a way out of here, can't get no relief (I'm channeling Bob Dylan). I believe God when He says He has big plans for us and that He wants us to prosper. I believe He wants us to toil and work for something valuable, something meaningful. And I believe that one day we will find what that is and walk in it. BUT, in the meantime I'm looking for hope, because hope is what I need to get me through until the seasons change. And hope starts with perseverance. Stick-with-it-ness. Perseverance means being vigilant and staying tuned in to the Lord so that when the time comes we don't miss Him. It means building the character necessary to proceed into what the next season brings.

Admittedly, I haven't persevered much. I've just complained and therefore missed the point of the current season. The Lord gives us a way for our sight to pierce our surrounding circumstances and situations, a ray of hope about the future. Persevere, build character, gain hope. Paul said hope doesn't shame us, that it will not let us down because the Lord loves us. He wouldn't do that to us. But we have to risk having hope in order for Him to prove it. How awesome is that? Its like hope is a requirement. So today, in the midst of a lot of confusion about personal value and worth with my job, I'm choosing to persevere with the Lord (not just endure) in this dead-end, crap chute, hell hole of a job in hopes that the Lord will not leave me here and that one day I'll do something more fulfilling that what I am now.

-Matthew

Broken Bones and Mangled Hearts

2010-02-28T09:33:00.000-08:00

This morning I held my niece. I rocked her gently to sleep while I waited for her mom, my sister, to return home. I listened to her breath, at first anxious and staggered through cries for "mamuh". But the tears quickly relented as a held her tight and rocked. Savannah held a fist's grip around my index finger, a simple act of comfort she's formed with me in her first two years. I was half asleep myself but somehow managed a quiet observation in that peaceful state; how fragile is this tiny hand that squeezes my finger. I thought about how easy it would be for each precious finger to be broken. I can wrap my hand around her entire arm with room to spare. It's amazing how weak young bodies are, how fragile. And yet somehow they grow and strengthen. And even when bones break they can be healed with such ease and will be even stronger than before. It's an amazing thing God has made, the human body.

What stood out to me in my near sleep state this morning is how similar our spiritual bodies are to our physical ones. In our young state we are so fragile, so impressionable, so vulnerable. And yet somehow they grow and strengthen as we follow Christ. And even when our hearts break with the trials of life, God heals them with such easy and makes them even stronger than before.

I had a lot of spiritual broken bones when I was younger. So many I often wondered if they'd ever heal. With time the Lord has mended and set straight what had been undone. I can't help but wonder if He ever looked at me they way I did holding my niece this morning, with such understanding of how fragile I am and how easy it would be for my heart to be broken. I bet He held a compassion in His heart to want to secure, protect and defend me, even more than I did Savannah. And that's a great feeling, especially at 6:30 AM in a half slumber.

Selah.

Morning Shower

2007-11-02T20:00:00.000-07:00

I got up this morning and promptly took a shower. I stood in the shower naked and shivering, the water not you turned warm and tried to recall my dreams from the night before.

But they were fleeting.

So instead I diverted my attention to a spot of green mold in the corner where the rolling door meets the tub. “I really should clean this shower,” I thought to myself.

I pondered a moment longer, not yet fully alive, when the mold, quite to my astonishment, jumped! For it wasn’t a mold at all, but rather a chummy little green frog that looked at me with what I sensed was a smile. It was as if he had spent the night in the lonely underworld of plumbing beneath my house and was eagerly waiting to greet someone, anyone.

It took me a moment to regain composure, after all, I was naked and shivering and, until that moment, still half asleep.

Not wanting to be rude, but definitely not in the mood to make friends, I splashed some water his way. I thought he might like that.

He didn’t.

He took a couple quick hops up the shower wall and rested just below the faucet.

I thought about turning the shower head off and letting the water shoot out the mouth of the faucet. Not that it would have bothered the frog on the wall. However, with the faucet on, water leaks out of a small gap between where the fixture meets the wall, right above the frog. I thought this gentle but steady flow might be more to his liking, but when I bent down to turn off the shower head the water temp suddenly shot up and I had no use for boiled frog.

So instead I just finished my shower, carefully eyeing the frog for any sudden movements.

Only one false alarm.

I left the shower and the frog, got dressed and headed to Waffle House for a late breakfast.

The end.

Saving Trees = Killing Babies ???

2007-07-10T17:19:00.000-07:00

I have long been a critic of the pop culture of American Christianity. It is too often nothing more than a revamped, God-flavored version of the very culture they preach against and seek to counter. Same pop tunes. Same entertaining gimmicks. Same mindless/artless productions that are marketed by the secular media. Many of these artists may have meaningful and Godly motivations behind their songs and books and what-have-you, but its a market just like any other and it exists in no small part to make money. Once in a blue moon will a true gem surface in this market, just like the secular market.

But today I came across something even more revolting than these thieves and salesman in the temple courts found in a song by the band Casting Crowns. Having experienced first hand how this band falls into the category of my previously mention grievance (that’s for another rant) I never expected much from the group in the first place. But now I'm more disillusioned by them than I am indifferent.

The song in question is called, "While You Were Sleeping," which begins as a nice, if not cliché, commentary on the birth of Christ, but quickly degrades into political propaganda that the conservative community is all to savvy for.

Here's the verse:

United States of America
Looks like another silent night
As we’re sung to sleep by philosophies
That save the trees and kill the children
And while we’re lying in the dark
There’s a shout heard ‘cross the eastern sky
For the Bridegroom has returned
And has carried His bride away in the night, in the night

This is ridiculous. I'll start by saying that I am not a fan of abortion (I'm also not a fan of killing those who have them). There are major problems with legislative law over this issue and the fact that it is happening at all shows a major point of degradation in our society. But what in the world does caring about the planet GOD made for us have to do with being blind to tragedy of human death? Are you kidding me? This is clearly an attempt to label those who care about the environment as liberal idiots who cannot possibly know Christ. This is non-sense. God created this planet. We had better dang well respect that and take care of it. It was a gift to us. We are called to be good stewards of ALL that He has provided, not just money (which I think would be better used helping needy people than fueling political lobbyist groups) and not just babies (though babies are VERY important). It is funny how short sighted we can be. What good is saving the children when the place we're leaving behind for them is wasted?

Ironically, Casting Crowns speak of awakening Christians to the importance of our roles in communities. Sadly, this shows that (in this case) they are still very much asleep. We need to stop letting our politics inform our faith and start letting our faith inform our politics. If that was the case we would be saving babies and saving trees.

The first time I knew I was in the presence of God I was three, maybe four years old. And I remember the experience clearly. My family was driving through the California Redwood forest. I remember telling my parents that I could "feel Jesus everywhere." I think that is my parents' favorite story of me as a child. I want my children to be able to feel God everywhere too. And what would be better than them feeling His presence in the center of His creation and the center of their heart?

There's A Fly In My Grits

2007-01-20T09:10:00.000-08:00

So it has been a while since my fingers have tickled the plastic on my keyboard. To the few who have actually read my blog in the past, please forgive my negligence. 2007 has been a very interesting year thus far. I’m currently sitting in Waffle House waiting on my eggs and grits. While I wait I’ll regale you with a brief summary of the year so far.

Let me begin with the conclusion of 2006, namely, Christmas Day. Mom, Dad, Sarah and I loaded up Beatrice, my 1990 Buick LeSabre, early in the morning and headed up to Blue Ridge, GA to spend the day with my Granny and family. I honestly wasn’t looking forward to the trip. My Dad’s side of the family leans more towards the back woods, country Mountain Baptist side of the cultural spectrum. Largely uneducated and proud of it. The newest uproar amongst them is how the ‘govment’ is trying to take Christ out of Christmas, something I’ve known about for years (spring time, when the annual reunion rolls around and is held at the Patterson family farm, is my least favorite time of year). Anyway, we reached Granny’s around 10:30 and were the first ones there, per usual. Granny was in her usual spot of the sofa puffin’ on oxygen and Earnest, my step-Grandpa but the only one I’ve ever known, was in his recliner watching TBN, which was running a marathon of clay-mation Christmas programs. I’ve never prayed for the rapture so hard in my life. Time ached by but Jesus didn’t come, not yet anyway. The rest of the family arrived, which included too many of my Dad’s sisters to count, one of his brothers, and the only family member I actually choose to claim, my cousin Alicia and her fiancé (who I’m not related to, I hope). An hour into our lackluster celebration of our Lord and Savior’s birth my Aunt Karen arrives on the verge of tears. To make a very long and complicated story short, she just divorced her husband and is having parental problems with her fifteen year old daughter. Earlier that morning my rebellious cousin took a butter knife to my aunt’s neck and basically threatened her life. Merry Christmas Mommy. Karen is the youngest of my aunts and has an especially close bond with my father. When she came in he hugged her for a very long time and tried to console her. She quietly slipped into my Granny’s bedroom to try and pull her self together when the other sisters stepped in to intervene. What resulted can only be called a Holy Ghost visitation. Before I knew it the whole family was in the living room holding hands and crying out to Jesus for grace and forgiveness. And when Mountain Baptist folks get to prayin’, it isn’t a sight for the leery. Howls were let out that would put a hound to flight. I though for sure a demon had done manifested. Martha, the hippy aunt, is crying a river. Aunt Dorothy is pleading with the Lord. Poor Aunt Karen is wailing at the top of her lungs. My Mom’s in silent tears and Dad is completely beside himself. I just soaked it all in. My sister looked at me, scared for her life. To me this was just another Saturday night at First Love Ministries. Then a funny thing happened. Granny broke out in tongues. Now I’ve always known that Granny had the goods. I remember being a little kid and getting growing pains. She’d lay hands on my legs and they’d instantly feel better. Stomach aches were her moments to shine and when I was sixteen, the day before I was diagnosed with diabetes she called my Dad and informed him of my medical condition. So I shouldn’t have been surprised with she popped into her personal prayer language with God, and I wasn’t. Here’s the funny thing though. Granny is on oxygen. She breaths it in the O2 mist through a long inhaler. So periodically throughout her pray she would pause to take a puff of oxygen. So her prayer with something like this. Heshelabat heshadoniah (pause for puff) acodonishetahay creaynashadalayta (pause for puff). It was almost more than I could handle. It was all I could do to keep a straight face and if the moment had not been so God induced I would have killed over laughing. To top it off, Earnest broke out in the prophetic with a “thus sayith the Lord.”

One holy anointed prayer cloth from Robert Tilton: a love offering of $19.99

One portrait of a starving, dying African child from the pink haired lady on TBN: $24.99

One Christmas Day with the Pattersons: priceless

I’ll never look at family reunions the same again.

New Years Eve was quite uneventful. As a matter of fact, I can’t even remember what I did New Years Eve. New Years Day, on the other hand, is quite a different story. I was working at the Galleria Mall when around lunch time Mall Security and a Centerville Police officer walked into GNC and asked it I drove a maroon colored Buick. “Why yes I do officer. Why do you ask?” “Well, a vehicle of that description was just reported stolen. Would you mind coming with us to verify if it was your vehicle?” We booked it to the employee parking lot and sure enough, the spot where I had part Beatrice that morning was empty, a pile of glass rather than my precious Buick. Happy New Year to me. I filled a report with little hope of recovering my car. A week later I called the police department to see what they were doing about finding my vehicle, “Well, sir. We have it listed in the National Registry of Stolen Vehicles.” Hell-of-a-lot-a good that does me. Honestly though, I was more upset about the loss of all my CD’s rather than the car itself. Some people have a habit of smoking cigarettes. I have a habit of listening to music. And I had a lot of it. Over $600 worth in that car I’m sure. Plus some books, including my Bible. But instead of getting overly upset about the whole situation, I just counted my losses and moved on. God had a plan I was sure.

That weekend I went on a retreat with First Love Ministries to St. Simon’s Island. We stayed at this Methodist camp called Epworth By The Sea. We go down there every summer for a weekend, but decided to go down this winter also. It was one of the most enjoyable weekends I’ve had in a while. The weather was beautiful and it was a smaller, more intimate group than usual. The meetings were very inspired and the presence of God’s spirit was sweet and strong. Saturday night was especially powerful to me. Towards the end of the worship session a very quiet lady in the ministry who I’ve known for about 6 years and said about as many words to walked up front and began to dance. Now I’m not a fan of anything hokey and I sure as heck have no patience for much of the nonsense I see in worship sessions today, but this pure and honest act of worship by this shy child of God so deeply moved me that before she had finished I was on the ground in heaving sobs before the Lord. The whole service I had been asking God to show me His love for His children in hopes that if I could see how much He cherishes them, I could love them the same way. This woman’s dance washed the scales from my eyes. Her heart was ablaze with her love for Him and His heart for her was too much for me to bear. I later found out that many others had experiences similar to mine. A canon could have blown through my heart, but her affects much longer last.

That same weekend I received a check covering the remaining payment I owed on my car (which only had liability insurance) and then some.

God does work in mysterious ways.

I spent the ride home Sunday afternoon in awe of God and how he defies even simple expectations.

Monday, the very next day, I was working again. This time here in Perry. Around lunch time I got a call from the woman who sold me Beatrice, my Buick.

“Matt! They found your car!”
“What?!”
“It’s in the Wal-Green’s parking lot in Warner Robins.”
“What?!”

Her friend had driven past it and recognized the car. Immediately the police had been called and the car recovered. A $65 towing fee and she was mine again. Besides a broken window and a busted steering column, everything was okay.

Oh, and my CD’s, books and Bible were all where I had left them. Every single one.

My waitress just brought my food. It has taken a little while, but I don’t mind. My eggs look a bit runny and there is a foreign black something in my grits. “Ma’m,” I call to the waitress. She finishes her flurting with the toothless fellow behind me and comes to my aide.

“There’s a fly in my grits.”
“Really? Where?”
“That’s what that black thing is.”“Sure it ain’t burnt grits?”
“Yep.”“You want some fresh grits?”
“Yep.”
“Okay. It’ll be a few minutes. I just put an order in.”
“That’s fine.”

She goes back to the toothless guy and I eat my eggs, runny side up.

The following Wednesday morning I took a trip down to Andersonville with my friend Karen who was visiting from Connecticut with her boyfriend. Andersonville is a National Historic site from the Civil War. It was a Confederate Prison Camp that saw the deaths of thousands of Union POWs due to poor living conditions and lack of nutrition. We watched a mildly informative documentary, one of those with the cheesy reenactment monologues of letters from long dead soldiers, in a make shift bookstore (the museum was closed from improvements). The site itself is a very hallowing place that always stirs something deep within me. It’s a place I feel a strong connection with though I don’t know why. And every time I leave there I can’t help but be moved by the sheer awesomeness of its history. We walked to grounds reading monuments and markers. My favorite spot is a spring that supposedly sprung from a bolt of lightning back when Union soldiers were in dire need of fresh water and had cried out to God for His providence. It is now enclosed in a beautiful memorial and flows down through a few reflecting pools before feeding into the creek the soldiers used for water. It is on the grassy banks of this little stream that I am most profoundly impacted by the magnitude of what happened in this place. The death, the disease, and the suffering become real to me and the dead cry out to me from their grave. The blood on the earth lets their suffering linger.

On the way home I got a call from my mother. My granddad in New Jersey had suffered another heart attach, his seventh, and wasn’t expected to make it. My mother flew up that night, thanks to the help of my Church and pastor, to be with him and my Nanny. Until now, the joke the family had been that he was just too stubborn to die, or to weak. One or the other. He is eighty three years old and has also had two strokes. His heart works at 10% and kept alive basically by a pace maker, which he was due to have surgery to replace the battery later that same week. I didn’t sleep well that night. The house was empty, and lonely. My Dad was out on the road and my sister was staying with a friend. I called my mom first thing that morning and, to my amazement, my granddad was doing fine. At the last minute he had made a turn around and looking to make a recovery. Go figure, he just won’t die. They kept him a few more nights, even did the surgery for the pace maker, and sent him home. My mom is coming home tomorrow.

My fresh grits are here, but I’m not very hungry. I’ve been staring at the fly this whole time. Plus it is almost two o’clock in the morning. They are already fishing in Japan. Fish. I think I’m going to be sick.
The next few weeks are going to be busy. Between work and school I’m not going to have a free day for three weeks, including weekends. I’m supposed to be in my church’s Easter play. I got the role of Judas, surprise. I get to wear leather pants and play a guitar, but I don’t know if I’m going to be able to make the practices.

I miss writing though. Whether or not I’m good at it, and whether or not anyone reads what I have to say, I think I’m going to try and stay regular with it. It’s therapeutic, for me anyway. Good night.

I had to pay for two things of grits…

A Staring Match With God

2006-12-08T20:29:00.000-08:00

God has a sense of humor, and sometimes it is at my expense. I’m goofy by design. Things come out of my mouth before I have the time to realize how silly they sound. I worked in construction a while back and discovered how uncoordinated I truly am. I’d be off day dreaming about standing on mountains and running through valleys, then realize I’d installed a cabinet door up-side down or mis-measured the lengths for a door frame, after building the frame. Not only did God let out a little laugh, my work crew did too.

There is a darker side to God’s humor though. One I am all too familiar with. It comes out in the form of discipline towards my hardened heart when He is calling me back to intimacy after I’ve wondered off to pursue less passionate lovers and less satisfying pleasures.

God is constantly working on the hearts of his people. Sometimes breaking, sometimes mending. Sometimes molding and sometimes holding. Personally, He’s breaking me… again. Pride has slipped in, bitterness has taken root and the pain that has caused these things has led to numbness. God’s work in me is repetitious and comes in cycles. I cannot count the number of spiritual heart surgeries I’ve had, but its been a few. I’m not really a fan of them, but every time He’s finished I’m thankful. Its like an extension on life. We sometimes call it grace and it is very sufficient, even if it is painful.

I think it is cool that God is jealous after me like this. It is intimidating though, and I resist it. Yet somehow I find myself in a boxing ring. I’m all alone, sitting in a folding chair in the center of the ring. All the lights are out, save one dim yellow bulb hanging overhead that casts a pale glow all around. There is an empty chair across from me. I hear footsteps in the dark as a silent God approaches. I am anything but calm. My insides tremble violently, but I don’t show it. I just breathe slowly and smoothly. God steps into the ring, but I look away, as if I don’t notice Him. He sits in the chair facing me and waits. And waits. And waits.

Then it begins. I turn my head slowly and catch His eyes. I stare at Him, unflinchingly, as He stares into me. Cold and calculating, I have prepared for this, to resist to the death. Unmoved by the piercing gaze of heaven. Surely He cannot love me, will not love me this much.

Unmeasured time passes while an invisible, unnoticed audience of heaven holds their breath in anticipation, though they already know the outcome. They’ve seen it all before. The watching and the waiting are only penance to witness this glorious struggle.

They are as not to me, however. I’m focused on fortifying my wall of will against the battering ram of God’s gaze, tender and patient though it is. He speaks to me in His silence, softly and firmly, “You are mine.” I remain stoic and steadfast. “You’re more than you think, you are mine.” Tired of His approach I lean back from being hunched over, elbows on my knees. I cross my arms but never lose His unbreakable stare. How long will he continue on with this.

Then something happens. Maybe because of my shift in position, something gets caught in my throat. I clear it out and remain resolute in my aim, to out-will the love of God. More time passes, though I barely blink at the breaking of the Lord. Again His silence speaks, “You are more because of me and you are mine.” I sigh a little, breathing out an air of indigence into the face of undeterred grace.

Yet God presses on. Now He leans forward, elbows to His knees, with an increased intensity and startling boldness. Unsettled by His move I waver a little, unsure of how not to respond. The mounting tension begins to affect me and it is harder to hold on to my futile resistance. He speaks again, only this time audibly with ferocious veracity and fierce determination, “You are my child whom I have made, I have crafted, I have called. Unmoved is my resolve and ever will it be, my boundless and endless love for the one I have called my own.” He stands to His feet with his exploding words ringing in my ears, “You, son of God, are mine and I love you.” Shattered are my defenses and broken is my heart. I fall uncontrollably to the floor of the ring, pushing my chair back, out of the light. Tears pour from my eyes that can no longer gaze into His, but I undoubtedly see His heart and am completely undone by its gaze. I’m moved to utter collapse by the powerful love of a gracious God, who picks me up and restores my contrite soul.

This is the God I know, the God I serve, the God I love. I’m often shocked by His majesty and even more dismayed by His unending love for me and concern for the condition of my heart even in the face of my rejection and blasphemy. If I had one prayer tonight it would be the words of a poet, John Donne:

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town to'another due,
Labor to'admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly'I love you, and would be lov'd fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;
Divorce me,'untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you'enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

Who Is God, Actually?

2006-12-07T01:33:00.000-08:00

A.K.A... the most insightful thing I've ever written, ever.

Note: I have to thank my buddy Chad for helping me find scripture that has lead to these conclusions and his father Chip for posing the question to me in the first place.

“Is the Holy Spirit a person,” I was asked tonight. It is an interesting question if you think about it. Go past your immediate response and consider the options. First we must define what it means to be a person. To me, in context with being a human being, a person is defined by a three-fold combination of body (our physical selves), soul (our mind, will, and emotions), and spirit (that metaphysical quality that is beyond the mind’s full comprehension because it is not a part of it). My faith obviously dictates this belief. Our being made in God’s image (see Gen 1:26) is reflected, in part, by our three part identity. Just as God himself is a combination of three entities (the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit), he made us to function as a whole composed three separate, yet dependant members.

Of course this philosophy of humanness raises many questions, some of which I don’t have answers for. Such as, “is an individual handicapped by mental retardation or comatose not considered a human person?” A legitimate concern for another time, as my purpose is to discuss the character of God, not of man.

If our three-part being is a reflection of our Creator, then mustn’t our Creator also be of three parts? Scripture is clear in its explanation of God as a three-part being. And it is no more evident and beautifully revealed than in Matt. 3:16-17:

When He had been baptized, Jesus came up immediately from the water; and behold, the heavens were opened to Him, and He saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting upon Him. And suddenly a voice came from heaven, saying, “This is My beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.

Return to Genesis 1:26. God is hinting at this truth from the very beginning. Notice how, when Moses writes about us being created in God’s image, the Lord declares, “Let Us make man in Our image.” The first time I ever read that verse my mind went racing. What is this Us about?! Who is this Our? I thought Christianity was monotheistic. There is only one God, right?

This is why the question of the Holy Spirit as a person becomes so important. If the Holy Spirit is a person, then Jesus is a person and so then the Heavenly Father. That’s three persons, not one. And that is not how the Bible describes God. The concept of God as 3-in-1 is essential to our faith, possibly its most fundamental concept. If this were not true, the whole concept (that’s a bad term here) of Christianity would unravel.

In the early days of the Church, in order to reverently present the image of God, painters used icons and symbols to express the concept of the trinity. An angel from heaven (representative of the Father) would be looking down upon the Christ-child Jesus who is reaching for a dove (the Holy Spirit). We’ve all seen the image of the three equal-sized circles interlocking with each other. Early disciples understood the relevance of this concept of a triune God, and we would fare well to do likewise.

Let’s talk about this triune God. We associate different aspects of our God with each part of God, and that is because each part serves a different function. Often we view the Father in Heaven as a mighty disciplinarian. He is who we think of when we hear, “Fear the Lord your God!” This part of God is active throughout the Old Testament; leading, judging, and guiding the people of Israel. We encounter this part of God with Moses at the burning bush and, in the new testament, Paul on the road to Damascus. Then there is the Holy Spirit. Its grand entrance (literally) can be found in Acts 2:1-4. The disciples are empowered by the Holy Spirit to do with work of the Lord. Christ referred to the Holy Spirit as the great comforter and empowerer. Then there is Jesus Christ himself, existing before the dawn of time (Prov. 8:22-31), coming to Earth as a baby, living, dieing, then raising again. But they are all a part of one ultimate supreme being, the 3-in-1, as it were.

I remember being a kid and thinking how dangerously silly God was for coming to earth as a baby. I pictured Him jumping down from heaven, into Mary’s womb, and then popping out as close to Christmas as He could, all the while leaving the great heavenly war against the Devil practically unattended, save Michael and Gabriel, who could hardly be expected to handle everything on their own (especially since I ordered them to watch over me as I slept every night). I was always afraid that things were going to run amuck in the heavenlies while Jesus was waiting to grow up in human form for He only knows what reason. It didn’t make since to me and now I understand why. When Mom told me Jesus, the Holy Spirit and Big Papa were all the same person my little kid brain couldn’t processes the whole idea if the 3-in-1.

Next to consider is the fact that each part of God is equally important. This creates a balance to God that allows righteousness, forgiveness and freedom to become the central qualities in the lives of believers. The righteousness of the Father is upheld by the forgiveness afforded by the Son to pave the way for freedom and power in the Holy Spirit. Think again of the three interlocking circles to better make my point. Scripture is full of Jesus exalting His Father. And He is endlessly explaining to the disciples that He must leave so the Spirit can come. The Father’s heart for his Son is sung throughout scripture and the Holy Spirit is the great glorifier of the Lord. This is beautiful to me. Not just as a concept but as an actuality. It is the greatest expression of unity imaginable (if you can even wrap your mind around it) and reveals the origin of God’s love. The unity among His members is its source, which is why that unity can never be broken and most always be remembered.

And here is where the trouble starts. Just like me as a little kid, a lot of folks’ brains haven’t grown up to where they can understand this essential quality of who God is. Whenever we hear the terms Holy Spirit, Jesus Christ, or Heavenly Father, we separate these parts of who God is into individual identities. We conceptualize the different parts of our God without bearing in mind the other two. This is a dangerous game to play. We focus on Christ too often with out considering the Father. We teach about the Spirit while forgetting Christ. And, worst yet, we consider the Father without the Son or the Spirit! Why is this a problem? Anytime we take a part of God out of context with the whole we run the risk of drifting too far to the right or to the left theologically and practically with the way we live out or faith day-to-day. We fall guilty of overemphasizing one aspect of God and over looking another. Instead of a holistic faith we end up with shabby religion and TBN, prosperity gospels and bigitrous attitudes towards those that are different from us. Apply the thought throughout history and it becomes all too clear. The Catholic church just seems corrupt from the every beginning so they don’t count. But think about the Puritans. They focused on the righteousness of God and forgot about the love of Jesus. Conversely, hippy-Christians forgot about His righteousness. Then there are the Charismatics that are so obsessed with the Holy Spirit they are sometimes like, “Jesus Who?” Scariest of all are the Baptist (or we could even say “the moral majority”), who slightly resemble the Puritans, enacting the judgment of God upon heathen persons themselves only more oblivious to what they profess to believe in. Disbanding the trinity in our thinking neuters the gospel because it makes it impossible for the full purpose and work of God to flow through our lives.

I see this in my life everyday. I claim to understand what Jesus was all about and how we should be loving everybody and forgivin’ folks and all that kind of stuff. But sometimes I forget the place of the Father’s discipline and the need for righteousness. Thus, I end up screwing the whole thing up because I get mad at other Christians for not shifting their focus to centralize on Christ like I do. The Holy Spirit I just don’t get so I leave Him out of the picture completely. So I walk around most of the time powerless and without freedom. See how this works (err… doesn’t work)?

My senior quote was Isaiah 6:8, “And I heard the voice of the Lord, saying: ‘Whom shall I send, And who will go for US.'” God knows Isaiah is listening, isn’t it funny that in calling His servant He reminds him that God is a trinity? There is another truth to be uncovered here also; to do God’s work effectively we must do it while considering the Father, the Son, and the Spirit because you’re going to need all three of them to chip in if you want to be successful. The next time some starts to spout off about one of the parts (I wish I knew a better word) of God, ask them how it relates to the other two. It will be revolutionizing at best, eye opening at worst.

But back to the original question, “is the Holy Spirit a person?” Good question…

Midnight Star Gazing & Being on Oprah

2006-12-03T01:48:00.000-08:00

I have a creak in my neck. That’s because I just spent the past 45 minutes staring up into the clear night sky looking at that big bright harvest ball and the tiny holes in the floor of heaven. It’s a funny thing, the moon, just hanging up there chillin’, so oblivious to all of us down here running around like chickens at the slaughter. I bet it is really cold on the moon, no gases to trap in the heat from the sun. I bet it’s a bit lonely too. I tried really hard to find the man on the moon, but he’s an elusive little sucker. If I was the man on the moon (lets call him MOM for short) I would have jumped off and out into space a long time ago, and hoped to be lucky enough to find someone else mucking about in outer space.

But the creak in my neck reminds me that I am stuck on planet Earth, along with the rest of humanity (save maybe a few Russians, our boys over at NASA and, of course, MOM). It’s not too bad most of the time. We have things like movie theaters and 24 hr fast food drive thrus to keep me occupied (and don’t forget Wal-Mart!).

There are times I get tired of the monotony though, the mundane. That is why I’d like to be rich. The rich have no excuse for being bored. They have the money to do whatever they want! I’m poor, sort of. Not in the “I’m dieing of malnutrition and lack of water” sort of way, but more in the “I fall into the lower middle class” sort of way. That’s why I can spend forty five minutes staring up into space when its 45 degrees outside. We poor people have to find ways to entertain ourselves, and the rich sure as heck aren’t going to do it for us. They are too busy not being bored with their fancy dinner parties and romantic get-a-ways. I’m going to be rich some day, for writing nonsensical crap like this. But I’ll be fine with that because I won’t be bored anymore.

If I become rich enough, I might even make a trip into space to meet MOM. I’m sure he’ll want a change in scenery and want to come back to Earth with me, and I’ll probably let him. It’d be the polite thing to do. He’d probably be really popular here on Earth, being the man on the moon and all. Everybody is always talking about him anyway, whenever the moon is brought into conversation. And plus, I’d become really famous for bringing MOM back with me. I’d be on the five o’clock news and Oprah. The reporters would ask me about how I found him and ask MOM about how exciting it is to be on Earth after all those years on the moon. Oprah would sit me and MOM down on her comfy couch and laugh as we shared our stories. Near the end of the show, after MOM shows Oprah how to make really good cheese and Oprah gives it to the audience as that shows gift give-a-way, she’d make some really profound comment on our whole experience together, MOM and I. Viewers at home would cry a little and say things like, “Oh! Isn’t that wonderful,” and “Can you believe that actually happened?!”

Yes, that is what I’d do if I were rich. That is what I would do so that I wouldn’t get bored.

There is one other thing I do when I get bored… sleep. I’m slightly bored right now (can you tell?), so I think that is what I am going to do.

God says, “You Don’t Have To Lie Anymore,” but in not so many words

2006-11-21T18:01:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid I thought some lies were worth telling. One time, during recess in the third grade, a guy paid me seventy-five cents to tell the ugliest girl in class she was pretty and say, "syke!". Then I used the change to buy a Flintstones push-up ice cream. I slurped up the orange sherbet goodness while the teacher explained to Sally about how insides count and how her insides were beautiful. Then there was this time I broke one of Mama’s Precious Moments figurines and blamed it on my little sister. I sat in front of the TV watching Batman while my sister bawled her eyes out and screamed bloody murder as my mom dealt out death and judgment in the other room. Talk about your precious moments.

I’ve told a lot of lies to get out of trouble in life. There was not an incident in my childhood I couldn’t lie or cheat my way through. That’s how I made my decisions on whether or not to misbehave. I’d ask myself, “If I get caught, can I lie my way out of this?” If the answer was no, then I didn’t do it. I became more skilled in my craft as I got older and began to judge my accomplishments based on how complex and successful the lies I told were. Often my lies were so elaborate and convoluted I wouldn’t remember what the truth was in the first place, and keeping track of who I had told what lie was a juggling feat for the pros.

I try not to lie anymore. I’m pretty good at it, most of the time. Now I do it mostly for little things like, “Yes Dad, I remembered to pick up the milk,” as I make a U-turn at the next intersection or, “Sure Mom, that dress looks great,” on the way to church on Sunday morning.

I guess eventually the shame got to me. People thought I was such a trustworthy young fella. The truth is I was ruthlessly cunning. I could have taught the Devil a thing or two about being deceitful. But the shame got so bad that I couldn't bear it anymore, so I decided to give up my lying ways, for the most part. I remember feeling so bad one night that I ran into my mom and dad’s room long after bed time, woke them up in a frightful frenzy and confessed all the lies I could think of. The whole time tears rolled off my cheeks as I divulged in trembling sobs who truthfully broke Mama’s pretty thing, where the remote control actually was and what really happened to Tony the Turtle. I laid in the bed between Mom and Dad and cried myself to sleep. That was probably the best night’s rest I’ve ever had. Now that I think about it, Mom and Dad never punished me for the lies I confessed that night. They never condemned my shameful action. They just held me and hugged me and told me they loved me. The next morning they didn’t mention the night before. Somehow I go the feeling that they didn’t want me to tell lies again, but they didn’t have to say it. I just knew. Deep down inside I knew.

Last night I had a similar experience with God. For so long I’ve lied to Him about why I do the things I do, why I am the person that I am. I’ve made excuse for why I’m so judgmental towards people and why I can’t seem to keep my mind off how pretty He made Suzie Q. and Jane D. (those aren’t actual ladies). I’ve explained away my wicked nature in twisted justifications and inaccurate truths. And some of my lies were pretty convincing. I bet you know the kind I’m talking about. I bet your’s are no less convincing to you.

But there is a problem with our lies to God. Unlike our parents, God always knows the truth. We cannot and are not fooling Him. The only person we’re deceiving with our lies are ourselves. And just like when I was a little kid, the shame of the lies I’ve told God have overwhelmed me. So heavy was the guilt that I couldn’t even bear to face Him. It hurt me to talk to Him, to ask Him questions, to pretend that the exchanges we were having were open and honest. So last night I came running to Him (in the figurative sort of way) and confessed all the lies I could think of, the whole time tears pouring off my cheeks (literally). God just held me and hugged me and told me He loved me, and I just laid there in bed until I had cried myself to sleep. It was the best night’s rest I’ve had in a while. This morning, when I got up and talked with God, all my guilt was gone. I didn’t feel like I was hiding anything anymore, all my shame was gone. And God didn’t bring up the night before. Somehow I’ve got the feeling He doesn’t want me to make excuses for my sins any longer, but He didn’t have to say it. I just knew. Deep down inside I knew.

Are We There Yet?

2006-11-15T09:15:00.000-08:00

Note: A conversation with a friend last night got me to thinking about how fast time goes by the older you get. We discussed how, as kids, family road trips took forever and how long a year seemed to be. It has been a year since my friend and I have seen each other on a daily basis, but it seems like mere days ago. There are similarities between a child's view of the passage of time and our relationships with God. This post is dedicated to Casey Jones for helping me understand those similarities.

I remember when I was a kid and my family still took vacations and road trips together. I would sit in the back seat of our big Dodge van and ask my parents, “Are we there yet?!” A day is forever when you’re five, and that’s how long it usually felt it took to get wherever it was we were going. My Mom would always buy coloring books, Gold Fish crackers and other road trip goodies to keep me and my sister, Sarah, occupied. Sometimes Mom’s entertainments where the most exciting and anticipated parts of the trip. She always had a way of catching my imaginative eye with a quick $10 stop by Wal-Mart on the way out of town. Inevitably though, no matter how interesting Mom’s gifts may have initially seemed, my sister and I would become restless and start the endless questioning, “Are we there yet,” and, “how much longer Daddy,” because Daddy always drove. In hindsight I see these were the times Dad didn’t mind stopping for a rest break because Mom would pull out the Dimetapp® and drug me and Sarah out of our misery. One quick cherry sip and off to dream world we would slip. I also remember when I realized that Dimetapp® wasn’t just a sweet treat and what it was actually for and how horrified I was that my parents would do something like that to me. Honestly, those were probably the best naps of my life. I would wake up feeling so refreshed and so alive. The scenery changed while I slept and the sun moved to the opposite side of the sky to cast different hues on the horizon. And usually, the wait was almost over. Grandma’s house, the Grand Canyon, or the Smokey Mountains would be just around the corner or just up ahead and I could sense the journey’s end.

I’m now twenty two years old and I often find myself asking God the same questions I asked my parents when I was younger. How much farther? Are we almost there? The adventures of faith from my younger years now seem like simple activities to keep me occupied on the journey and now I’m so restless I’m practically begging God to knock me out until the end is near. But God doesn’t work like that. He doesn’t dispense spiritual Dimetapp® to make the trip easier or go by faster. Now is when the rubber meets the road, so to speak. This is where it really counts. I want so desperately to arrive in life. I’m ready to be fully engaged in what the Lord has for me, to be actively fulfilling my purpose for being here and not just preparing for it.

I’m beginning to understand who it is the Lord created me to be. I see how my passions are connected to my giftings and why I’ve experienced the things in life I have experienced, both pleasurable and sorrowful. A vision of purpose is being birthed in me that is beautifully painful. Someone once told me that visions and dreams are like seeds and have to die before they can truly come alive. I’m starting to understand what this means. My heart held such exciting visions in the innocence of my youth, but somewhere along the road those dreams where smothered, sometimes even murdered. But that was not the journey’s end. The exciting part is just beginning. I guess I’m sort of glad God doesn’t drug me like my parents use to do. Experiencing the journey and understanding how I’ll reach my destined destination will make the arrival that much better.

As a kid I’d wake up from those drug-induced naps on road trips and wonder how did the scenery changed so dramatically while I was asleep. God wants me to experience Him on the journey He is taking me on. And I guess that’s okay with me, because I know that someday, just as I did when I was a little boy, I will get to wherever it is that I am going and God will be there with me, even though I pester Him with questions, “How much farther? Are we there yet?”

Silver Strokes

2006-11-06T08:31:00.000-08:00

There are strokes of silver on the horizon that brush against an azure veil, pulling back to reveal a glorious dawn. The grass is damp with diamond dew. The wind is slow and gentle. Lingering fingers of a bitter cold tickle my body and I hug myself for warmth. I am all alone. Not even the birds are stirring, but it is a comforting loneliness. It is moments like these that souls are born. The ground I am standing on must be holy, because I’ve been taken to mighty Eden to be charmed by her maker. These rare moments have me wondering at the irony of God’s art. Nature doesn’t know the power of her seduction; beautiful and magnificent, but also innocent and humble. My heart surrenders to such splendor and my tongue is useless in expressing words. I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing here, but my legs are numb, and not from the cold. Something within my chest is stirring, pounding. It’s a swirling tension, like I’m holding my breath as not to disturb this glorious orchestra. God is conducting a pastoral symphony for me, His twenty-first century Adam. I listen as the first rays of the sun stroke the sleeping earth and gently whisper, “Wake up. A new day has come.”

If I could capture this moment in time
I’d display it for all the world to see
This endless melody of God's beauty
Sung by nature in harmony

If I could capture this moment in time
The depth of man would stir
And awaken a yearning for the pure
Awesomeness of God’s earthly picture

If I could capture this moment in time
The world of power would fail to be
Bowing down to God’s unimaginable majesty
That strokes across the morning’s tapestry

God captured for me a moment in time
To renew my heart for what draws nigh
A day of reckoning with one who sits on high
Painting silver strokes across a morning sky

Family Fun or False Festival?

2006-10-31T18:47:00.000-08:00

Why is it Christians feel the need to offer Halloween alternatives? My little town was wrought with Fall Festivals tonight and I must ask myself, “Why?” We don’t like hunted houses so we offer ‘Judgment Houses’ instead, where we try and scare kids into committed relationships with Jesus. God does not need us to soften Satan’s holiday with God-coated versions of demonic activities. We are not to mix Pagan rituals (the origin of Halloween is All-Souls Eve) with the things of Christ because the truth is all it does is mutter the truth and neuter the Gospel. I say we leave well enough alone with this Pagan holiday and spend the evening in the presence of God rather than some cheap imitation that is, at it’s core, evil.

Candy seductions of chocolate and spice
Arising from places anything but nice
Ghosts and goblins and gremlins alike
Witches with brews and heads on a spike
Where did it come from and why is it here
Masquerading in cuteness, but clouded in fear
Pumpkins and scarecrows and candles ablaze
Running through corn fields cut into a maze
Lightly it comes but heavy it goes
For anyone righteous and careful who knows
The truth that lies there: dangerous and dark
Fully revealed, it is startling and stark
Nothing of innocence, demonic by birth
The devil incumbent is here on this earth!
Worship it, why? For, oh, don’t you know
Its origin is evil, fraught by the foe
Searching and lurking for ignorant fools
Who let churches of God be Satan’s great tools
‘Come one and come all
To our festival of fall”
Slyly He comes taking residence, you see
Laughing dark cackles while binding you and me
This holiday of Saints is for sinners alone
No need entertain it with; heart, flesh or bone
"Turn away from dark places," our Savior would call
Let Satan alone! Candy, festival, and all.

Somewhere North of Here

2006-10-26T01:20:00.000-07:00

It’s a muggy night in Perry.
All the street lamps are like spotlights
On this stageless little town.
No one’s playing for this patronless audience of none.
I’m a lonely little boy in a lowly sort of place,
Nothing showy, all is sacred,
Except for the dark secret places of the heart
Where all is raw, all is rare, all is real
Like a candid photograph of the simple and honest
I’m finding my way home.
I may never get there but everyone sure does try.
Home is somewhere north of here.

Suicidal Savior?

2006-10-25T12:05:00.000-07:00

You know how people say, “perspective is everything.”? I say that a lot. It’s almost cliché until applied to a context that flips an idea on its head.

I was sitting in my ethics class yesterday, listening to the professor discuss whether or not suicide was a morally wrong act under different ethical philosophies, when I was struck by a very odd thought. Some guy in his Air Force BDUs blurted out that suicide is always a sin; book closed, case shut. No excuses, no exceptions. Then someone challenged his comment, “what about if it is to save someone else’s life, like in a battle where a soldier throws his body on top of a grenade to save the lives of his comrades?” The room got silent as everyone looked at the guy, waiting for his response. He didn’t say anything.

The discussion went on, but I zoned out. I was mulling about inside this sick, twisted head of mine when I had the thought: Jesus committed suicide. At first I couldn’t believe I’d actually thought that. I mean, how horrible is that! I wonder where these dark thoughts in my head come from sometimes. But the thought persisted and I couldn’t make it go away. I spent the rest of the class delving in to what that could mean. What would be the repercussions to my faith if Jesus committed suicide?

Before you hang me for heresy, here me out. The Jews didn’t kill Jesus. They may have been responsible, in part, for the events leading to his crucifixion, but they did not kill him. Neither did the cross, the literal crucifixion, kill him. He gave his life up. He had a choice. At any moment He could have called upon the angels of Heaven to deliver him, or, as one man suggested, He could have called to Elijah to come save Him, to free Him from this humiliating death. But He didn’t. Instead He choose to die so that we could live. In Luke 23:46, Jesus cried out to God, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

Now think about this, the very foundation of our faith hinges on the fact that Christ conquered death. Death did not conquer Him. Some may argue that He conquered death on the third day, when He actually arose from death. But I disagree. I believe the power of Christ over death was in His having control over whether or not He died, or more accurately, when he died. Christ’s command over whether or not He died was only the first step in His conquering death. I think it culminated and Satan’s ultimate defeat occurred the moment Jesus let go of life, which was a moment of His choosing. Notice how the scriptures clearly point out that it was immediately after He committed his spirit to the Father that he died, “Having said this, He breathed His last,” Luke tells us. The Gospel of Matthew says He cried out with a loud voice and “yielded up His spirit.”

Set the scene. It was around the sixth hour, which I believe was sometime in the morning (we tend to picture it in the evening). “There was a darkness over all the earth.” The way Luke writes it seems that this was an unnatural darkness, like approaching death, because directly after he says this he writes, “Then sun was darkened, and the veil in the temple was torn,” (emphasis mine). Matthew tells us that there were earthquakes so violent rocks split (Matt. 27:51). This seems like a battle in the supernatural to me, and it sounds like someone was getting a beat down, and I don’t think it was Jesus. The reverberations of this cosmic spiritual battle broke forth into the natural world the moment Jesus Christ took his own life and handed it over to death, saving me from eternal damnation.

I think that’s the beauty of it all. How awesome is it that death was conquered and Satan defeated by my Suicidal Savior?

Call me a heretic if you wish, but I believe my God is just that awesome, just that powerful.

Like it is said, perspective is everything. I like finding new perspectives on old thoughts because usually they end up validating what I supposedly believed in the first place. That’s why I like asking questions. I wonder what other seemingly paradoxical perspectives are out there, waiting to be discovered, to lead someone to deeper truth. Like, for instance, is communion cannibalism? That’s for another night.

Putting the Good in Goodies!

2006-10-24T13:33:00.000-07:00

These ministry-oriented Halloween treats are sure to start a revival as your neighborhood children ring your doorbell in their Freddy Krueger costumes.

You can't make this stuff up people...

Public Library: Center of Learning or Center of Lust

2006-10-24T13:11:00.000-07:00

I went to the Houston County Public Library in Perry today to do some research for an essay that’s due in my English class this Saturday. I was researching the Elizabethan poet, John Donne. He was a famous sixteenth and seventeen century poet turned preacher known for his somewhat scandalous poems on love prior conversion.

I wanted to use the internet, hoping to find some articles relevant to my topic through the Galileo search engine, an academic resource that catalogues articles and essays on a variety of topics from literature to science. When I entered the library I saw that the internet computers where in use by the usual riffraff surfing the web for objectionable material not caught by the systems outdated filtering programs.

I decided to wait for an available computer and in the mean time looked over a few other reference sources available. I didn’t really find anything. Perry’s library is stocked with an abundance of fiction novels and children’s literature, but it’s not really suited for academic research.

Finally a computer became available. I sat down next to two young black guys in over sized jackets and what I like to call head muffs (which are akin to toboggans, only for African Americans. They look a lot like pantyhose stretched over a thigh with too much cellulite. ). One looked a bit older than me, maybe 25. The other looked to be about 17 or 18. Both where listening to rap tunes boasting of overtly unrealistic female conquests of a most graphic nature (I mean honestly, who would even…).

After fooling around a few minutes with my e-mail, I got on to Galileo in search of the articles I needed. I couldn’t find any. Dang. So I did the stereotypical GMC student thing to do, I went to Yahoo! I typed in John Donne and got more than 6 million hits. Jackpot. I read a few of the preview feeds until I found one relevant to my assignment. I clicked on the link. “ACCESS DENIED: FORBIDDEN MATERIAL,” flashed across the screen. I hit the back button about ten times in half a second out of fear that someone might see my iniquitous act. I couldn’t believe it. Had I accidental hit the link to an “adult” site with “mature” content? I couldn’t remember. I scrolled back through the list of links on the Yahoo site searching for the link I clicked on. I found the familiar purple text that let me know it was the one I selected. It was the link I though I’d clicked. There was nothing standing out as a warning of inappropriate material, just some general information about John Donne. Perfectly innocent.

I tried another link. Same message. Another. Again, the same thing. I thought something was wrong with the computer. I know John Donne’s poetry was slightly erotic, and therefore quite scandalous, but that was in 1607! Slightly agitated, I was going to ask one of the black guys next to me to see if they were having a similar problem with their computer. I leaned over to the guy on my left and was shocked by what I saw: a large, round, giggling butt spread across the screen. The camera pulled back and I saw a whole line of video girls doing video girl type things (this is a G rated blog). That’s when I realized the music he was listening too was actually a music video he was watching. I quickly looked to see where his hands were, hidden within the baggy jacket. The guy on my right was doing the same thing. Both were streaming raunchy hip-hop videos from BET.com. Furious, I left the library in awe.

How could it be that they were allowed to watch such filth and garbage, yet I was denied access to the literature of one of the most famous poets in English history! In a library! Heaven forbid a public service be politically incorrect and deny African Americans their “culture,” but what about my culture? What is the world coming to? Before long we won’t be watching Charlie Brown’s Pumpkin Patch on Halloween or singing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer at Christmas time. Instead will be watching Chucky Brawlins’ Pimpin’ Place and singing Ralphy the Red Hosed… like I said, this is a G rated blog.

But Until That Day Comes

2006-10-23T15:07:00.000-07:00

I’m sitting at my desk, drinking ice tea and listening to Howard Shore’s score for Lord of the Rings - The Fellowship of the Ring. Last year about this time I spend $50 on the special edition soundtrack that contained the complete recordings for the extended edition of first film in Peter Jackson’s now legendary trilogy. I know some of you are thinking, “Fifty bucks! Are you crazy?!” I guess that depends. If you mean am I one of those completely obsessed fans who went to the movie’s premiere wearing pointy ears and a cape, no, I am not. I did enjoy the movies though.

Anyway, this is what I spend most of my days doing, nothing. I sit around all day listening to music, reading and watching film and television that engages the mind. I have no job and am too lazy to put any real effort into doing school work. Sometimes I stare out of my bedroom window and wish I could just fly off into the distance and circle the sky until time unwound and I’d exist not more.

I like being outside. I use to take my dog, Spark, for walks in the woods behind my house before they were cleared for more pre-fab houses and stick homes like my own. We’d go out for hours at a time. Sparky is a half lab – half cocker spaniel mix so he’s really frisky. When he was a puppy he was solid black, save his white chest and paws that made it look like he threw sparks when he ran, hints the name Sparky. He comes when I call, so I never used a leash. I’d take him deep in the woods until we’d come across this expanse of open rolling hills. He’d run as fast as his short legs would take him chasing rabbits and birds and other petrified woodland forest creatures who dared the open fields. I wouldn’t see him for hours. Sometimes I’d lie down amid the wildflowers and sleep. I remember having this dream one time that I was playing paintball with some friends out there. The hills crossed in and out of each other making it a perfect sight for paint ball. Most of the time I went out there carring my CD player with me. I’d listen to movie scores mostly. Braveheart, Gladiator and The Legend of Bagger Vance were some of my favorites around that time. Sometimes I’d bring along some Jars of Clay or Caedmon’s Call, just to make it a religious experience. After a while I’d call out for Spark (I can’t whistle. I know, what a shame). A few minutes later I’d see a black blob lunge from the tall grass just to disappear again. I’d head back towards the house and eventually Spark would catch up with me. I’d glance down at him as if to say, “Where have you been?” He’d give me a knowing look. My guess is Sparky had a lady friend somewhere beyond the horizon. Like I said, he’s a little frisky.

The other day an older friend and mentor told me I act like I’m retired and that sooner than later I’m going to have to get off my rear and figure out what to do with my life. He’s right, but until that day comes I’m going to enjoy this pre-retirement hiatus from the real world and wonder around inside my head, among my thoughts of the peaceful outdoors and contemplative musical adventures.

Inside TV's Next Great Cult Hit...

2006-10-20T20:22:00.000-07:00

Note: I have debated for sometime now whether or not to write a blog about the following subject. I felt I could never do it justice, never describe how truly amazing it is or how much I love it. And since the whole point of writing in the first place is to express thought in a complete way, why venture to do so when you know before hand that it cannot be done.

Normally I wouldn't do this, but here is the one exception. The following is an article in a recent edition of Entertainment Weekly. If you enjoy smart, relevant television read this article. It is lengthy, but it may very well change your television experience forever...

In English, the word ''frak'' means...absolutely nothing. But in the not-so-faraway fantasyverse of Battlestar Galactica — Sci Fi Channel's critically exalted reboot of the 1978–79 TV series about space-faring humans fleeing genocidal robots known as Cylons — ''frak'' is similar to a certain FCC-unfriendly epithet that also begins with f and ends with k. Judging from a recent visit to the show's Vancouver set, the multipurpose word will be heard frequently when Galactica returns for its third season on Oct. 6 at 9 p.m. It will be used to express angst when married military man Lee ''Apollo'' Adama (Jamie Bamber) finds himself yearning for married fighter pilot Kara ''Starbuck'' Thrace (Katee Sackhoff) and mutters ''Frak me.'' It will be used to express awe once chief mechanic Gaelin Tyrol (Aaron Douglas) discovers a secret saloon inside the titular battleship and marvels, ''Holy frak!'' And it will be used to express rage after a high-ranking officer (nope, we ain't tellin') drives a pen into the neck of tortured traitor Gaius Baltar (James Callis) and screams ''MOTHERFRAKKER!''

Yep: There sure is a lot of frakkin' human drama on this sci-fi show. Sometimes there's more of it than there is actual science fiction — and that's exactly how they like it in Galactica's little corner of the cosmos. To be certain, the show has its fair share of far-out bits, like visually stunning F/X, trippy concepts (a half-Cylon/half-human baby whose blood has cancer-curing powers), and, of course, Number Six (Tricia Helfer), an immortal platinum blond Cylon partial to wearing crimson red dresses and high heels. But more than that, the show has distinguished itself as one of television's very best dramas — on a par with 24, The Wire, and Lost — because it so utterly transcends both its genre and its source material.

The original ABC series was a one-season wonder of Star Wars-era escapism that over time has attracted a nostalgic, multigenerational cult following. But this gritty new version has taken the same bleak conceit of its predecessor — the unceremonious obliteration of humanity on the peaceful planet of Caprica by cybernetic invaders — and rewired it with prickly, challenging post-9/11 relevance. No longer are the Cylons chrome-plated toasters with oscillating LED eyes — they've evolved into flesh and blood, which allows them to hide in plain sight, like, say, as a muckraking journalist (D'Anna, played by Lucy Lawless). Moreover, they're now motivated by their radical belief in one God to wipe out their creators from existence. Fortunately, the Capricans are as resilient as cockroaches.

Rest In Peace, I Will Miss You

2006-10-19T23:58:00.000-07:00

On Monday my Auntie Joan died. She was my Nanny’s older sister. Nanny is British for grandmother, in case you are wondering. I know very little about my Auntie Joan. I know she lived in England her whole life and grew up during the Second Great War with my Nanny. I met her in person two or three times in my childhood, when she came to visit, but it has been many years since I last saw her or talk to her. Her only real presence in my life came in the form of birthday cards with quaint British country-sides pictured on the front that I received faithfully on my birthday every year for twenty one years. On my birthday this year, which was less than two weeks ago, I didn’t receive a card. I guess due to her failing health she just wasn’t able to send one, a cruel and stealthy foreshadowing of what was to come.

I have dampened images of her in my memory from what I’d imagine when my Nanny told me her childhood stories about how they’d run from the Gestapo or fight to greet their Dad when he came home from work; more a figment of my imagination than a real, living, breathing person. In a sense, I knew her no more than a stranger in the park you always see walking a dog, or that person you pass on the elevator everyday at work. You know they are there, but there is nothing beyond that and you would never think you’d notice if they were not there tomorrow.

In the early waking hours before dawn Monday morning, my Mom came in my room in frantic tears calling my name. Usually I sleep through her calls, but the alarm in her tone shocked me to life. For a few fleeting moments dread coursed through my veins, until I heard her cries, “She’s gone! She’s gone. My Aunt Joanie is gone.” She sat on the edge of my bed in tears for I don’t know how long until her sobs faded to silent tears. I didn’t know what to say, words are no comfort in moments like this, so I just sat awake with her to let her know I loved her and that everything was going to be alright.

I struggled to fall back asleep. I barely knew this woman, and yet, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of loss. It was like a small part of me, a part yet discovered, died. My dreams raced with thoughts of what it would have been like to visit her and the rest of my British family, something I’ve always wanted to do. I thought about how, for twenty one years, this kind lady sent me birthday cards and how I had never sent her one back. I never called her, never wrote her, never thanked her. And I remember complaining to my Mom that the only card I got in the mail on my birthday this year was from my Nanny.

Later that day I called my Nanny to see how she was doing. She lives in New Jersey with my ailing grandfather, unable to leave him to attend the funeral. Her visa is long past expired so it wouldn’t be possible for her to be there anyway. I didn’t say much, just listened to her as she cried and told me of all the wonderful things she and, “my Joanie” as she called her, did as children and my imagined Auntie Joan reappeared. Nanny told me that when my Granddad found out about Joanie’s death, he grabbed her arm and with a forgotten boldness cried, “Don’t you leave me!” His sister died only weeks before.

By Wednesday the whole experience was gone and forgotten. My Mom would make comments every so often about how Nanny was doing or how the family was tying up lose ends in England, but I had already moved on and distanced myself from the loss. Honestly, it felt strange that I should mourn over the death of someone I barely knew, like I didn’t have a right to grieve her death when I had no concern during her life. And to have remorse would have been a selfish act.

It is now Thursday and I’m getting home very late from school. I came in my room and my mail was on my desk. Underneath some billing statements and advertisements lay an envelope with that all too familiar air-mail stamp and frail hand-writing. On the front of the card is a painting of an English cottage and a stream in front with a stone bridge crossing over its still waters. I opened it with tears in eyes and read what she wrote, “Happy Birthday, Matthew. With love and best wishes, A. Joan.”

Rest in Peace, Auntie Joan. I will miss you.

Arrhh! A Digression...

2006-10-18T09:05:00.000-07:00

Note: I'm not really this cynical towards humanity, contrary to what some might think, but sometimes if you have hate in your heart, you have to let it out...

Today was my first day back at Georgia Military College. I had class from 4:30pm until 10:15pm and I hated every minute of it. I hated it not because I necessarily dislike school and learning, but because of the pathetic quality of education offered at this less than fine institution. To say GMC is your stereotypical community college is an understatement. If I was an overly prideful person I wouldn’t even admit I go to school here, especially after the previous educational institute I attended.

My first class was a three hour long lecture in Biology taught by a short little Indian woman. I have no problem with having an Indian professor, other than the fact I spent more time interpreting the words that came out of her mouth than I did trying to understand the concepts she was teaching. Beyond that, she was simply a horrible teacher. It was like listening to a rocket scientist talk to another rocket scientist about rocket science. Good thing I paid attention in the 10th grade… oh… wait…

To make the experience even more enlightening, there was an “African-American” woman sitting behind and to the right of me who spend the majority of the class in heavy breathing, “humph”. I hate to stereotype, but you know the kind, big bootied, big lipped, and painfully ghetto. She sat there slouched with that attitude so rich in ignorance it makes you want to hit somebody. And, in-between her humphing, she would make these overt sucking noises that I guess resulted from the parting of her behemoth lips and the suction of air into the vacuum in her mouth. I was tempted to go to the store during our ten minute break and buy her a bag of cotton balls to stuff her mouth with so she wouldn’t be embarrassed by the noise she kept making, but the one time she did it and I looked back at her, she gave me a look like she meant to make that stupid noise and when I turned around I heard it again. At the same time I felt the breeze on my neck from when she rolled her eyes at me. She pushed me out of the way when class was over so she could get to the door quicker. I bet she would have voted for Cynthia McKinney if she voted at all, but she’s too ignorant for that. It felt like high school all over again. And the thing is, I’m not even racist, everybody knows I love black women!

After Biology I went into the lobby to pull myself together. On the wall there was a huge banner that stated, "Successful Learning Starts at GMC!" I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

My next class was Ethics. Oh ya, that was entertaining. Listening to these wanna be high school drop outs attempt to sound intelligent when debating matters of moral weight was like watching Pat Robertson on CBN talk about Jesus. They were clueless. Their arguments were so stupid they would have made Paris Hilton sound smart. And not only were the students obviously lacking in I.Q. points, but the professor sounded more like a washed up hippy than an educator. The blind leading the blind, and for this I paid nearly $1000! What a shame. I have an English class Saturday morning from 8:30am to 1:30pm with the same professor… can’t wait.

I’ll Still Worship You

2006-10-14T12:11:00.000-07:00

Note: Below are lyrics to a song a wrote a very long time ago. It's a little cliche, nothing to special, but it means something to me. It comes from a God given moment of inspiration. I have a cool little melody that goes with it, but you'll have to do without it of course.

When my knees hit the ground / The dust from which I came
I’ll still worship you Lord / I’ll still praise your holy name

‘Cause then the sun meets the horizon / And it falls upon my skin
You breathe your breath of life / Into me once again

Your mercy of Lord / Flows from the mountains to the sea
In your presence dear God / That’s where I want to be

Your compassion rains down / On my dry and weary soul
You refresh me and you nourish me / For its in you the I grow

When my knees hit the ground / The dust from which I came
I’ll still worship you Lord / I’ll still praise your holy name

Because your blood flows down from the cross / Like a river to my soul
It refines me and reminds me / That its in you I’m made whole

When my knees hit the ground / The dust from which I came
I’ll still worship you Lord / I’ll still praise your holy name

Beautiful Mystery

2006-10-13T09:01:00.000-07:00

Have you ever stopped to think that there must be more to Jesus Christ than what people are telling you, that maybe there is more going on in scripture than your preacher and Sunday school teacher are letting you in on?

I think about this a lot. There must be more to this whole religion thing than what most of us young southerners have been conditioned to believe. There must be something of more substance and relevance than simple tales of how to be morally righteous and formulaic expressions of how to solve life’s problems. I hesitate to say it, but more often than not I can take only about five minutes of that stuff before I head off to la-la land or start thumbing through scripture desperately praying that there is something more to be found.

Christianity has been around for a very long time and I just can’t believe that what little depth I too often find in “church” is what has sustained this faith for so long. And the more and more I look into what Jesus was all about, the more I actually read the Bible, the more I am amazed at how intriguing it all is. Did you know that, in 1 Samuel, God actually commands a demon to possess Saul? God ordered demon possession! Or, that in one of the Psalms, the author talks about rejoicing over having bashed babies heads against rocks? I bet you haven’t heard that in Sunday School!

Sometimes I think churches are so boring these days because the people in them don’t actually read the Bible (this is an exaggeration), and if they do, they read it out of context. To me it seems like people have this indoctrinated idea of what they think the Bible should say, because of their up-bringing and religious traditions, and they try and connect parts of the Bible to fit their preconceived notions of what it should say. I know I'm guilty of this. The problem with reading the Bible like that is that it leaves out all the good stuff.

I like it when, in the Old Testament, God orders people to kill children, or when He commands demons into people. I like it because I don’t understand it. It doesn’t line up with how God is suppose to act. That is my problem with Sunday School Christianity. God fits to perfectly into the mold we’ve created for Him. Its like we’ve got Him all figured out. But I think it is a bit presumptuous to tell God how He must behave, how He must follow the doctrines and theologies we’ve set up for Him.

Truth be told, I like the mystery. I don’t like being comfortable with what I believe about God because then I get apathetic. This doesn’t mean I don’t find security in my faith, quite the opposite. There are so many questions to ask, and each time one is answered, it raises up ten more. The roots of faith grow deep when mystery is explored.

Paul, in Colossians 2:2 (The Message) says, “I want you woven into a tapestry of love, in touch with everything there is to know of God. Then you will have minds confident and at rest, focused on Christ, God’s great mystery.” (emphasis mine). No wonder so many Christians are without peace, they refuse to embrace the mystery of Jesus! They’d rather have Him mapped out and analyzed to perfection.

When we do that to Christ, box Him up in theologies and wrap Him in formulas with a nice little bow on top, we suffocate something essential to our faith, mystery. And it is this very mystery that Paul tells us we should proclaim to the world (see Colossians 4:3)!

For some reason we have been led to believe that mystery and truth are diametrically opposed to one another, that they present a paradox when partnered together. But the truth is that they coexist in a harmony that tells of the Glory of God. I’d even go a step further and say that the one couldn’t exist without the other, that they are codependent.

Its beautiful really, a beautiful mystery. I find freedom in not having answers, in not having to have answers. I feel like God explains to me just enough of what I need to know to do what it is He would have me to do, be who He would have me to be. This doesn’t mean I don’t explore the mysteries of faith. I think that is what Christianity is all about! I think Rob Bell said it best in his book, Velvet Elvis, "Christianity is about embracing the mystery, not dispelling it." This is a part of drawing closer to God.

Mystery has become the defining component of my relationship with God. I’ve stopped trying to figure Him out, and instead I’ve let Him figure me out. He starts to show you who you are when you stop telling Him who He is. I mean, He already knows both me and Him better than I even know me. I think this is where the rest and peace Paul talks about comes from. The burden of figuring it all out is gone. God’s carrying it for me now. It’s better that way too. He doesn’t drop it as much. It’s much less messy. You should give it a try.

Tea, Crumpets, and Starving Kids in Africa

2006-10-12T13:16:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week I was in downtown Perry. I spent some time walking up and down Carol St. soaking in the comforting early fall weather that has recently fallen upon the town. The leaves haven’t turned their seductive reds, yellows and oranges yet, and it is still warm enough to wear flip-flops and a shirt during early morning and mid-day, which I was.

I went in the Go-Fish store to visit a friend who works there. Go-Fish is an interesting little store full of different art pieces made by starving persons in Africa. They sell everything from little carved frogs to five foot tall creations of animal combinations such as camonkeys (camel/monkey) and eleraffes (elephant/giraffe). Plus they have African made jewelry and some of those braided bracelet things kids call friendship bracelets among other stuff (the obligatory ‘Christian’ t-shirts, sandals/flip-flops, shell necklaces…). I guess the philosophy of the company is to employ poor little Africans to make this stuff that they sell at a ridiculous mark-up and then they give a percentage of the profits back to the starving African village that made it. I think Go-Fish may even work under a fair-trade policy. If nothing else they keep a few Africans preoccupied until the next meal time roles around when they’ll still probably go hungry or keep little kids from wondering why Mommy and Daddy haven’t come back from the bush yet, and it gives Africans an alternative to do something other than contracting AIDS, so I guess it’s a worthy effort. Evangelical Christianity at it again.

Anyway, my friend wasn’t working so I left.

I walked to the other end of Carol and sat on a bench under a shade tree. I watched a bee buzz around a flower bed as it got something to eat and wondered why God made it so difficult for the African’s to do the same.

Not long after that two elderly women walked out of the Tearoom across the street, a little place they like to gather for tea and crumpets. I imagined them sitting there together, slowly sipping tea and munching on assorted pastries, crumbs falling from the cracks on their wrinkled lips, oblivious to the starving children in Africa. After they came out into the early morning, I watched them make their way down the strip dipping into stores and emerging again a few minutes later with one more shopping bag in their hands than they went in with. Eventually they made their way into the Go-Fish.

I sat there a while long with my bee, fascinated with his seemingly random selection of flowers. I wish I could have had a conversation with him. I would have asked him about his buzzing about and why he chose the red flowers over the purple ones, because they were just as pretty. But the only thing I clearly heard him say was, “buzzzz buzzz buzz.” I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but I didn’t ask; he looked like really busy.

The two elderly women I saw earlier were making there way back towards their car, back towards me. I just sat there. They had crossed the street on the other end and were now on the same side of the street as me. They didn’t go into anymore stores. My bet is that their credit cards maxed out on one of the over priced camonkeys that the African children made. It was funny to watch this sixty something year old woman try to carry four shopping bags and a five foot nothing camonkey down Carol St. It is an image I won’t soon forget.

I sat slouching, legs crossed and arms flung over the back of the bench. When they came within ear shot I hollered, “need a hand?”

I don’t think they heard me, so I waited until they got a bit closer and tried again. This time they heard me. “Oh, yes, please. This is very heavy.” I took the woman’s camonkey from her and followed her and her friend to their pearl white Oldsmobile. I thought about grabbing the camonkey and making a run for it, but figured I’d better not; Perry is a small town. She tried to pop the trunk with her keyless entry, but set off the alarm instead. I thought she was going to have a heart attack. It took her a good minute and a half to turn off the alarm, then she opened the trunk with the key. She moved a folded wheel chair out of the way and showed me where to put her newly acquired, odd-looking piece of art.

“You ladies look like you’ve been busy today,” I offered.

“Oh, yes. We don’t get out very often so when we do we make a day of it. I’m not as young as I use to be, but don’t tell my husband.”

I laughed lightly, trying to figure out what that meant. “Well, ya’ll have a good day and don’t over do it.”

The woman with the camonkey took out her wallet and tried to offer me some money for helping her, which I refused; though I did wonder if she had ever been a customer I served when I worked at the Swanson. She had a familiar smell about her, like talcum powder. I bet she was a red-hatter or a member of the bridge club. I walked back to my bench and watched her reverse and pull forward several times as she tried to get her behemoth Oldsmobile out of the tight parking space (I think old people should drive small cars, like a Corolla or something, not the bulkiest most awkward maneuvering machines money can buy. But what do I know). I smiled to myself and told the bee to be careful, that she might run-over his lunch. He flew away and eventually the two old ladies made it safely onto the street.

I sat there baffled for a few minutes before I got up to leave. I watched as the women drove off into oblivion. I couldn’t stop wondering at the absurdity of it all. The whole thing really had me confused. I just couldn’t reconcile the connection between these old women and the starving kids in Africa who made the camonkey that lay in their trunk.

God's Gate Keepers

2006-10-03T08:58:00.000-07:00

Note: Some random thoughts I had one night on spiritual manifestations. May or may not be accurate...

The spiritual is manifested in the physical through man. As children of God, it is our responsibility to act as gatekeepers, allowing the things of God to pour out in the natural through the working of the Holy Spirit. We are to fight against the attempts of Satan to exercise power in the physical world, block his attempt to use man to bring glory to himself in the spiritual. Satan tries to glorify himself in the spiritual through sinful acts of man in the physical. As gatekeepers we allow the Holy Spirit to lead us to physical acts that glorify Him in the spiritual. The power the Holy Spirit has given us is to hold sway over what passes between this world and the spiritual plane. The more our soul (mind, will and emotions), which is the physical half of our current two-part being, is under the alignment of our justified spirit, the better gate keepers we are.

Prayer is our most efficient tool in fulfilling our earthly purpose, and therefore the most effective. Audibly speaking prayers especially yield us command over attempts of Satan to pass into physical manifestation and brings forth greater workings of God because it is our physical expression of the spiritual power the Holy Spirit has granted us. There is life and death in the power of the tongue.

Arthur Alligood: Awkwardly Amazing Artist

2006-10-02T09:29:00.000-07:00

Today’s Christian bookstores and radio stations are littered with a wide variety of music. Sadly, a large percentage of that music comes across as heartless, mindless, even pointless. Shallow and thoughtless pop songs with regurgitated secular melodies play more like sugar coated nuggets of Sunday School dogma rather than art with substance and real life relevancy. Supposed praise and worship music is often without depth in its attempt to glorify the greatest artist of us all. Perhaps most saddening of all is that in this relatively new money making machine called the ‘Christian’ music industry, there is little room for true artists with prophetic voices and honest craftsmanship, those who truly seek to make responsible music for their listener and for the Lord. They remain largely unknown and are resigned to the label ‘underground artists,’ because they are often without the promotional backing and marketing of a powerful record company. Instead, they rely on promotion by word of mouth and a handful of dedicated websites that honor their artwork (see: www.grassrootsmusic.com). They minister through their music mostly at colleges, small churches and other small venues.

This past weekend I was privileged to attend one such concert at a tiny church in Warner Robins, Georgia. Located in an older part of town, the church building was hardly in her prime, left over from decades prior, a time long since past and now in her waning years. She was small, made of brick painted white with a red door at the front facing the road. The marquee out front had half its lights blown and looked like it had been that way for some time. The sanctuary itself was a dull off-white with nondescript ceiling tiles and florescent lights. There was no air-conditioning, though that was hardly noticed with the cool early fall climate. Two rows of pews covered with faded carpet led to a slightly raised platform at the front, which was flanked by a few small candles. There may have been an area for a small choir behind the pulpit. The only substantial features of the whole room were a few stained-glass windows that flanked both walls of the sanctuary, but it was late evening and the stories in the windows had lost their light, their storyteller hidden behind the horizon.

The doors to the tiny church were open that night for a visiting story teller. The windows dim and the normal pastor aside, a tall lanky fella stood with his guitar under a single florescent light. The audience before him sat in silence under the gray. And so he began to play, to tell his story.

I sat there listening, thinking, watching. Arthur Alligood was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans and wore wide-rimmed glasses. He looked like a red headed David Crowder (for those of you who know who he is). He strummed his guitar with more of a nervous tick than the graceful movements of other more well-known artists. But somehow this quick jerking motion birthed a worthy rhythmic melody to his story, which he sung with awkward facial expressions and painful grimaces.

Had I passed him on the street I would have barely noticed him, just a regular Joe. But Friday night, he had my attention though. I think it was because I realized he wasn’t trying to entertain me, to show me how cool he was or how he had everything together and what it looked like to be the perfect little Christian. Instead he sung songs on the struggles of everyday life, told stories about the difficulties that often accompany following Christ. About temptation and doubt, pain and confusion. It was an hour of confession and of fellowship as this brother shared his heart and admitted he didn’t have the answers, but proclaimed to know the one who does. His voice rang with truth and his story was real, made up of things from the dark places that don’t look good up in lights or sell well in markets of perfection.

Ironically, this collection of songs, this storybook Arthur choose to share with us, called Under the Gray, offered something the best-selling albums of pop-Christianity all to often don’t. Heart. This album, full of reluctant truths, speaks to brothers and sisters on the same journey as Alligood himself and offers comfort to those who also struggle by simply confessing that he struggles too. He had nothing fancy, nothing showy. Just his honesty that the candles seemed to acknowledge with their flickering. When he was through there was no standing ovation and loud cheering. Just a handful of thankful claps and a room full of pondering people (with just a few that were completely oblivious).

I bet God was smiling though, at Arthur’s offering to Him, thankful that someone used music for a reason other than glorifying man and make a profit.

I was smiling too. I bought his album. And I’ve listened to it a couple of times. It is for the more serious listener who wants to be challenged in their faith instead of having their shallow understanding of what this life is about exalted and their ego stroked by an emotional high. It a heavy album, some may even call it depressing. And granted the meat of the album, the songs of great substance, often take you deep into dark places. But its there you meet the great mystery of Christ, the one Paul speaks of in Colossians 4, the hope that there is something more than this messed up, sick and twisted world that we live in. Arthur is an awkwardly amazing artist who makes you comfortable with your uncomfortableness and tells you its okay that everything is not okay, that Jesus Christ will sustain you through what you don’t understand and are afraid to admit.

His album probably won’t make him rich or famous; gain him publicity or great notoriety. But it is pleasing to the One who matters and it’s pleasing to people not afraid to search for God in their struggles and find Him in their searching. If you’re searching, here is someone searching with you. Maybe he can help you find.

Places You Should Go (on the internet)...

2006-09-21T12:09:00.000-07:00

You Should Go Here:

Wailings of a Waiter

2006-09-19T14:02:00.000-07:00

I use to be a waiter at a local restaurant. I wasn’t very good at it though. It takes a special person to wait tables. And I’m not that kind of special. I’m too impatient and don’t respond well to being treated like a lesser person simply because my job for the next 30 minutes is to be your server. In all other instances I’m a people person, but not this one. And especially at the restaurant where I worked.

It’s sort of a fancy place, “fine southern dinning” is how they put it. The wait staff walks around in black pants and white shirts and I half expect to be asked for some grey poupon when I walk across the dinning room. Basically we get a lot of old women who come in and think the world revolves around them and a buck fifty is a good tip no-matter the price of the meal (it isn’t). I really don’t like them. They make me angry and they have the old woman funk. That’s a near toxic, if not lethal, combination of talcum powder, 1940’s perfume and moth balls (no wonder they are all dieing of cancer). When the stench hits your nostrils its sensory overload to your nervous system. What makes it worse is that they come in herds, so you don’t get it in staggered, mitigated intervals. No, they all come in at once. The moment the door opens its like being hit over the head with a two-by-four. Then, when you are taking their orders after repeating the specials to them fifty eleven hundred times you have to lean down real close so you can hear their old weathered voice and smell their rank denture adhesive as they ask you what the specials are. But then, when they want to ask for some decaf coffee you offered five minutes earlier, you can hear them holler half way across the restaurant. I shouldn’t be bothered by this ‘cause they’ll all be dead soon (because of the funk), but it still upsets me.

And if it isn’t the rotting flesh version of women you have to deal with it is their pretentious plastic contemporaries (who will also die of cancer but for different reasons). They are the ones that look like their jaws are wired into an awkward smile, their skin’s an off shade of melanin and the only part of their faces that can really move are their eyelids. They are all far less attractive than they think they are and far more demanding than even Jesus Christ has a right to be. They also believe that a dollar fifty is the appropriate tip amount, again no matter what. Their mothers have taught them well. Sometimes they bring along their businessman husbands who gladly wear them on their arm like a cherished prize; which is all most of the plastics really are (banker Bob is usually far more interested in lawyer Larry than he is in housewife Holly). The plastics have a different type of smell about them but it is no less poignant. It is the reek of arrogance mixed with the stench of Este Lauder. They are known to say grace before they begin their chatter about housewife Holly’s misfortune and other important social goings-ons (oh! the things I know about people in this town). They might even put Holly on the prayer list.

Off and on for three years now I have endured with often agonizing torture the routine of being the equivalent of a 16th century British wipping boy. Last week, I struck back. I could no longer withhold my tongue from the oppressive rule of the Talcum Tyrants and the Silicon Sorceresses who weld their power and cast their spells as nonchalantly as they attend Sunday School. Last week, I had enough.

This is what happened. It was Wednesday evening. This itself needs elaboration. In the restaurant business of the South, Wednesday evenings are notoriously slow. The aforementioned women are all at Baptist churches keeping up appearances. So I was braced for even more fruitless efforts and time wasted at the Deodera House (the name of the restaurant has been changed to protect myself). I had one table that evening. It was a party of four; three women and a man, all over fifty years of age. I should have known better, but I told myself to have faith. I’m not sure what I was putting my faith in at this point, but whatever it was I was wrong because I was about to have the most horrible experience in waiter history.

They seemed nice, at first, your typical southerners from Cordele, Georgia. They greeted me with a smile as they entered the door and I politely greeted them, though in my mind I was saying, “Welcome to The Deodera. How may I kiss your collective @$$es.” Anyway, the cordiality quickly ended. I think the chairs at The Deodera have special powers and can magically suck any kindness, love, and humanity right out of a customer the moment their rear lands in the seat (maybe if I had kissed it when they came in the door things would be different). Before I could tell them my name I was told exactly what each one wanted to drink: a half sweet half unsweet tea w/no lemon, a decaf coffee w/water, a diet coke w/ a glass of ice on the side and a water with extra lemons. This was followed by a volley of questions about serving portions of appetizers. They ordered one of each. I went to the kitchen and got their drinks, put in their appetizers and took a deep breath. This was the pattern for the rest of the evening. I waited on them hand and foot. I ran around that restaurant more that night than the previous three years combined. But, I got them everything they wanted, how they wanted it, when they wanted it. I was the epitome of a quality waiter. I would have made any conseur blush. After all, they were my only table. Their bill, after a round of appetizers, steaks, desserts and coffee was around $150. Like I said, “fine southern dinning.”

Now before I go on, I must explain that the minimum expected tip anywhere, be it Waffle House or the Sun Dial, is 15%, 18% is more courteous and 20% is generous. 12% of their $150 bill would have been $18, but they didn’t even leave that. Nope, after all my work I was left with $10. Let my clarify this. That is not even a 7% tip. Even if they were not feeling generous, which would have been okay, they should have left me $27. I got barely a third of the tip I earned (I was never any good at math until I became a waiter, now I can look at numbers and figure things out). This was beyond being impolite. This was down right disrespectful and rude.

So I had to let them know.

“Ma’m, I apologize if my service to you was below your standards or if I in any way offended you and prompted you to leave such a sorry tip, but if $10 is all you can leave, you need it a heck of a lot more than I do.”

And with that I turned and walked away (walk is a lose term here really, it was more like I bounded towards the back with a rage that even God would fear). They hadn’t just crushed my hope in humanity, they opened a sort of Pandora’s Box. They awoke my wrath and unleashed my rage upon that place. I could have spit fire (and I guess in a way I did).

I took care of my closing work for the evening and left feeling more than just disrespected and angry. I felt betrayed. There is far more at work here than just the snooty actions of a few aging tight-wads. It’s a statement of larger implications on the status of our society, but I’m not writing this to teach a lesson in sociology.

Now granted, my reaction was a bit overboard, and so I am no longer an employee of the Deodera House Restaurant (that’s a whole other story for another time). But, if you are reading this, please, please, please take a single point away from this: Its one thing to leave a bad tip if you’ve had poor service, but if your waiter (or waitress) has done a stellar job serving you, do not leave them a 7% tip. If you don’t have the money to leave a decent tip, you don’t have the money to eat out in the first place. There is no excuse. I don’t care about how it was in the 1950’s. It’s now the twenty-first century and it takes more than a buck fifty to pay for your groceries and college isn’t free, no matter what the government says. And please, “Christians,” never mistake a track for a good tip, as if your 50 cent comic book was equivalent to God’s gift of eternal life. It is not. And I already know Jesus.

Waffle House Blues: Deconstructing the Box / Restructuring My Faith

2006-09-18T12:22:00.000-07:00

Note: This post is a continuation of the post, "Losing My Faith, The Problem With God in a Box." I would suggest reading it before continuing...

I went to see a friend and mentor about my problem of God in a box. His name is Charlie Walker. He talks real slow so people think that he thinks real slow too. Not true. We agreed to meet at the Waffle House when he called me back after I left a somewhat panicked and tear wrought message on his answering machine. I got there early to prepare myself for what was to come, whatever it was going to be. I don’t know what I expected, but I felt more like I was going to the principle’s office than meeting a friend for advice. I sat uncomfortably in my booth surrounded with eighties décor, though the building isn’t even ten years old. I imagined myself being reprimanded for what I was about to confess, my doubt in God. I folded my arms on the table and laid my head down. I would have cried, but I was too tired for that.

A few minutes later Charlie came in with his signature waddle and lighthearted smile. He is a short man in his early fifties, a little less wide than he is tall. His eyes shine with the depth wisdom affords. His presence is so disarming that my fears immediately faded. After ordering dinner and some small talk with the WaHo manager (Charlie knows everyone in this town) we got down to business.

“Tell me about your problems, Matthew,” he said slowly, slouching in the booth across from me in his typical way. He made me laugh. My walls came down and I explained to Charlie that I felt I was losing faith in God, or at least how I’ve thought of Him until this point. I told him of my frustration of wanting more, but not finding it and how seeing all these others who have found something more just furthered my frustration. I told him about the horrible day I’d had, how I’d wigged out at work and just had to leave. I felt my whole world was unwinding in a matter of hours, all because I think too much. It was like having a mid-life crisis at age twenty-one and I felt like God’s ugly step-child. He listened patiently and intently until I was finished and then he just sat there for a minute, letting the words come to him.

When the words finally came they came with the same calmness with which he’d acknowledged mine. He explained that what I was experiencing was completely natural, which I agreed, that doubt is often Satan’s tool of choice for those who choose to make thinking a habit. He told me that God is doing something in my life, that this is part of the process. I could actually see what he was talking about too, though to a lesser extent (perspective is everything). He also told me something that he has told me many times before (I guess I haven’t gotten the point yet), “you cannot base your faith on how you feel or what your mind tells you.” The truth in those words is so obvious that they almost don’t need explanation. The soul (mind, will, and emotions) is fleshly in nature, opposed to the heart of God. It’s what Satan uses to lie to God’s children. I guess this is partly why sanctification is so important; it reigns in the soul under the authority of God so that Satan cannot hold sway.

The conversation lulled a few moments as our waitress interrupted for the umpteenth time to ask us if we needed anything. She was a young girl who had obviously been hurt in her past, but was still so innocent. She was meek, almost cowerly, but sweet also. I bet she had a huge propensity to love, though it was stifled by hurt and pain. She made me sad with her tender smile and soft voice. I hadn’t said anything to Charlie about the girl, but he echoed my thoughts with a soft comment.

We sat there a while. I ate my hash browns; scattered, covered and chunked. Charlie ate his toast and eggs. This was his second meal that night. He made some comment on his jovial belly and asked if I had been exercising regularly. I hadn’t been (and it’s starting to show).

Then Charlie got serious again. What was about to come out of his mouth was probably the most significant thing I’ve ever heard him say, “Matthew,” he says your name a lot when you’re talking to him, I like that, “the biggest problem with you and your generation is you are looking for experiences with God instead of relationships with Him.” He had nailed me and he knew it. This was a truth far more profound that what I realized. God had been dropping hints at me for sometime now, but waited for this moment to come out blazing. I sat there stunted at how obvious this all was. It was like all my big God revelations until now led to this one huge truth.

I think about my relationship with God in completely wrong terms. I think about it in terms of experiences with Him instead of focusing on the day-in and day-out relationship I’m suppose to be having with Him. I get frustrated, even angry when my quiet times don’t spawn some huge life defining moment everyday. If the preacher’s sermon doesn’t act like Miracle Grow to my soul then he’s a lousy preacher. And heaven forbid that everyday life doesn’t go my way: that I’ll get cheap tips from work or my cell will get washed, that I won’t have the car when I need it or gas will jump eight cents. It must mean God’s abandoned me! What foolishness!

Grandiose experiences with the Lord are more like mile markers on the road of relationships. They are not the relationships themselves. There is nothing wrong with these experiences, its just that they are not the essence of what knowing God is really about. Relationship with God is about trusting in Him when there seems no reason to do so; to praise Him by loving Him in spite of difficult circumstances; to say to yourself, “I am God’s child and He loves me,” when everything around you is trying to say otherwise. I, of all people, should have learned this by now. I have suffered far more than I admit to those around me, and God has seen me through every bit of it.

“God is far more concerned with your character than he is with fixing all your problems instantly,” Charlie added. I want a quick fix to all life’s little and big difficulties, who doesn’t! But He has allowed these sufferings. In Romans Paul tell us that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope and that hope does not disappoint because God has poured out His love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit (Romans 5). This is one of my favorite promises in scripture. It’s a threefold chord not easily broken when you think you’re hanging on by a thread.

This led me to think about how selfish my view of God has been until now. It has all been about what God can do for me, what I can get out of God. Granted, this is what initially draws many to the faith, and that’s okay. As a matter of fact I believe God designed it that way. But there comes a point when the hearts desire changes, when it is no longer all about me, but about what I can do for the Lord. What can I do for the Lord? Nothing. He doesn’t need me. He can do anything and everything without my input or help. He doesn’t rely on me for anything (and thank God he doesn’t because if He did, nothing would ever get done). This ‘what to do for God’ could better be described as a yearning to please Him, to make Him smile as a Father would his child. There is a stark contrast between striving to do stuff for God, as if our actions could win or lose His favor, and yearning for the smile of Heaven. The evangelist/author John Piper wrote an excellent book on desiring God and how finding joy in Him is the foundation of pleasing Him and fulfilling our purpose.

But to please God we must have faith. The Bible says that without faith, it is impossible to please God. So, God is restructuring my faith so that it better pleases Him, so that I find more joy in Him, which is exactly what I wanted in the first place! How ironic is it that the frustration resulting from being unable to go deeper with God will be the very thing that God uses to draw me closer to Him?

I left Waffle House that night very exhausted and still somewhat frustrated, but I knew that God was with me, that He hadn’t abandoned me and that He loved me, even if I didn’t feel it or think it or experience it in a tangible, explainable way. And I believe that’s the way God wanted it to be, to put principle into practice.

Charlie kindly paid for dinner even after I argued with him, classic Charlie. I left our waitress a hefty tip, but felt it lacked any real substance in comparison to what God could offer her, or what she could offer Him. Once outside I hugged Charlie good night and drove home.

As chance would have it, I ended up at Charlie’s house later on the night and spent some time in prayer before God with a friend, something I haven’t done in a long time. Again God reminded me that He wasn’t finished with me, that He has hardly begun. I told my friend a little of my evening with Charlie and he confessed to me the same longing to please God in his heart. There was a sweet presence at Charlie’s house as we prayed to our Father and even if there hadn’t been it would have been alright. When I finally went home that night I felt satisfied, like I had honestly pleased my heavenly Daddy in my yearning, in my suffering to find joy in Him. I fell asleep ready to meet with Him the next day, ready for the everyday adventure of having a relationship with Him.

Losing My Faith: The Problem with God in a Box

2006-09-13T11:19:00.000-07:00

I have a headache, the kind you get from thinking too much. The past few days I’ve been battling doubt about my faith in God. I guess I’ve been dealing with it for a while now. I’ve just been able to push it to the back of my mind and pretend it isn’t there, until now. I’m afraid to admit it to myself, let alone anyone else. I guess the general consensus is that people who struggle with doubt have a weak faith, and therefore cannot possibly have a strong relationship with God (and with my group of people, this means everything). It makes sense too. A most basic principle in building relationships is an acknowledgment that there is someone there to have a relationship with. If I’m not even fully convinced that there is a God, how could I possibly have any semblance of a relationship with Him?

This is new for me. I can honestly say I’ve never doubted my faith in God, or should I say my faith in a God. Now I may have doubted some aspects of Christianity, whether or not this God actually loved me or cared about me, but I’ve always had an intrinsic knowing that there is at least a God. This is a different doubt, one that scares me far more than any in the past.

For so long I’ve had an intellectual understanding of what I believe, or what I think I believe (is that an oxymoron?). I have a very clear perception of truth within my framework of faith. Now that same intellect is causing me to question the very foundation that framework is built upon. Does God even exist?

I guess my biggest hang-up is this: could everything that I have experienced so far in my faith walk, from the simple experiences of fellowship to the more complex issues of operating under the influence of the Spirit of God, all be fabrications of the human mind? And have we corporately constructed a communal explanation for what we have experienced? Sometimes the Church (or maybe Christianity) feels like a huge machine that feeds on itself, pumping out relatively complex yet seemingly logical nuggets of belief that help it grow strong and become sturdy, tangible and real. Then there is the verse that says we walk by faith and not by sight. Is that a copout, a guilt-trip to keep us within an established framework and keep us from doubting? What about testing the Lord, to see if He is not faithful to those who follow Him? Those that follow Him always find that He is faithful to them, eventually.

And I guess that is the part that gets me, the ‘eventually’. “God came through for me, eventually.” “Even though it had to get worse first, eventually, He worked everything out to my good and His glory.” Anything can happen given enough time. Then there is this line, “well, I may never know His purposes, but He is so much bigger than me… I don’t need to know why that happened to me.”

I don’t mean to sound disrespectful and I’m definitely not trying to mock people of faith. After all, I am one. Its just that I’m frustrated with the system. I’ve never been a fan of programs, processes, or formulas. Even within the framework of my faith I have vehemently opposed the structured approach to knowing and experiencing God. That said, there are some elements to the way I believe God works that require order. Within that order I have reached a new threshold in my faith, in my relationship with God.

Up until know I’ve pretty much been your stereotypical guy as far as faith goes. Yes, I’ve bucked the system (organized church) more often than not, and in comparison with my parents faith I’m a bit revolutionary, if not liberal. But I am still, on the surface (and maybe that’s the problem), your typical follower of Christ. I go to church, even if it is a new model of church. I read my bible, even if it isn’t the KJV. I sing praise and worship songs, even if they tend to be on the bit more artistic side. I pray, even though it sounds a lot different from how my parents pray. And in all this I found Christ. I experience God and knew that He was real. But it is no longer enough. It is not satisfying to go through these obligatory motions day in and day out. My faith, literally, is no longer sustainable by mere routine and what I am beginning to see as somewhat trivial practices. I need something more, much more.

If there is a God, I feel like He is teasing me. You see, the more frustrated I become with my current position, the more I seem to meet people who have that something more that I so desperately want. My framework tells me that what they have is the Holy Spirit. Now, supposedly I have that too and I guess I do, but it is in a different way. These people seem alive in their faith. To them it is more than just a system of belief, it is more than a lifestyle. To them it is more than daily rituals or social activities. To them it is their essence, their life source. You could say they have been “baptized by the Holy Spirit,” if we wanted to give it a technical explanation, but I’m trying to get away from the technicality of it all. Sometimes these folks pray in what sounds like gibberish. When they talk to God they are so passionate they are at a loss for words, literally, and it comes out in incomprehensible syllables. I call this speaking in tongues. And while some of my more boring and fruitless compadres in faith don’t believe this to be “of God” or “valid to the faith,” I do. I have never experienced this, but understand its use and meaning within my framework of faith often better than those who have experienced it. Often these individuals who have been baptized in the Holy Spirit also experience other interesting facets of faith. These are people who experience the miraculous, who have such an interaction with the Lord on a level beyond the mind that words cannot describe and logic cannot explain (nor need too) what it is that they’ve experienced. Their spirit has been witness to that which the mind cannot comprehend.

Here in lies my problem: I want a faith that defies explanation. I don’t want to be able to rationalize what I experience in my faith, which so far is one that is, both personally and corporately, reducible to explanations of the human mind. I don’t want that. As odd as it sounds (especially to someone like me), I don’t want to understand what I believe. After all, isn’t that what faith really is, the belief in the unexplainable? I want to be so overcome by Him in whom I believe that I cannot explain Him. I’m not suggesting an emotional experience in and of itself either. Emotions have their basis in the mind, and that’s what I’m trying to avoid. I want a deeper reality than what the mind affords. The mind is a part of physical reality, and my framework of belief tells me that spiritual reality is even more real and more important than the physical word. So why then should I be satisfied with a faith that exists solely in cognitive reasoning, on a plane of lesser importance?

I want to realize God in a different way than what I currently do because how I know and experience Him now is limited to the confines of my mind. Never put God in a box, right? I think it works both ways. Never put yourself in a box either, because if you do the only way to see God is to put Him in there with you.

This is my prayer: God, take me out of this box. I don’t know how I got in here and I really don’t care. I just want out. I want to see you and know you and feel you in ways that these words seem inadequate to describe. Will you let your Spirit flood my box and break down its flimsy walls and wash me away from what I know? Break apart my framework so you can paint picture and take me on an adventure into the unknown where you are revealed for who you truly are. Take away my doubt by taking away my mind. Amen.

If You Love Me, You Will Love The Church

2006-09-05T09:18:00.000-07:00

Note: The other day got into an argument of sorts with a friend of mine. It was about why Christians with deeper faith walks stay at spiritually dead churchs. The argument kind of faded out, but was never resolved. So, I wrote him a letter not only to apologize, but to explain what I really felt. When I was done I had written a three page thesis on my heart for the church. I would have reworked it into a better format for a blog, but I think it would have lost part of its poigancy. So, I left it as it was in hopes that it might speak to someone else in the same way it has my friend (I have changed his name for his privacy).

Jonathan,

It is a quarter past 12 on Tuesday night as I write this. I just got your text message about our conversation on the drive back from Fort Valley and felt it was too late to call and I have too much to say to send in a text message. I feel the Lord is laying this on my heart, so I choose to write it down and send it in a letter because I don’t know when I’ll see you next and I don’t want to forget this.

First of all I want to tell you how special I think you are. Not just to me, but to the Lord. You are someone who exemplifies what it means to be Christlike. Yes, you are a little rough around the edges, and God made you that way on purpose, but your heart and love for the Lord is undeniable. I see you as one who has rejected the world’s false notions of what it means to be a man, and has discovered and personified what it means to be a man of God. Your integrity inspires me and your character challenge’s me to be Christlike also. What I sometimes see as stubbornness is really a testimony of how determined you are to follow God no matter what the cost. And while you are solidly rooted in Christ, your childlike faith reveals how God is sanctifying you, making you holy and completing the great good work that He started in you. The Bible says we (as brothers in Christ) should spur each other towards whatever is good and Godly. You challenge me to go deeper in my walk with the Lord. Proverbs says it best, “as iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.” So I thank God for our friendship and I love you with the love of the Lord. God has used you to minister to me in more ways than you know (and I know you know some particular instances).

Now that I’ve covered all the sappy (but true) stuff, I want to talk about tonight. I apologize for placing you in a position that made you feel like we were arguing. That was never my intention. I have a bad habit of doing that, making people think I’m arguing with them. Which, even though I don’t feel like I am, is exactly what I’m probably doing. Please forgive me.

So let me try and clear that up…

Here is what I felt like you were really asking: Why do people who know of the deeper things of the Lord go to church where they are not fed. Why do they settle for and be content with shallow doctrine. If this is not what you were asking I guess I jumped the gun and missed your whole point in the first place (which isn’t that unlikely knowing me). If so, I guess you can just disregard all this.

I think this is a very important question (kind of like the ‘once saved always saved’ debate) that has many answers. First, I think many of these people started their faith walks in churches that don’t teach the deeper things of the Lord in the first place. They, like you, probably became dissatisfied with the level of teaching they were receiving. Sadly, when this happens many give up on church altogether. Others, like you and I, find places that better meet our needs. We go to places like First Love or another church where we are fed the deeper things of the Lord.

So then, why not spend our time in fellowship with other believers discovering these more complex parts of our faith? Shouldn’t we desire to go deeper than the simple Sunday school lessons of our youth? Of course. BUT, I believe we have an obligation, a calling, to show our more simple-minded brothers and sisters the depth and height and glory of the God they claim to worship.

Think of it this way: one of the goals of evangelism to the lost is to show them that they are sinners and need God’s redeeming grace. So, we go to where they are at, “the highways and the byways,” as you would say. We go to their turf and share with them the gospel of Christ. I know we’ve had a conversation before about effective evangelism techniques and how so many times our church programs fail to reach the lost because we force them into our churchy environment and force them to play by our churchy rules. We leave them feeling like outsiders and like we condemn them because they are different. We push them away and they don’t want to come back. Instead, we should go to where they are, be that a pool hall or a night club or a party. Or even just their homes. We go to them on their turf and share with them the love of God by our actions in their environment. That way they can see something different about us and be drawn to Christ in us. Remember this conversation?

Anyway, I feel like the same idea applies to the dead church (lets be honest, that’s what it really is). I believe these people have relationships with God and I know they believe in Him and His glorious work on the cross. I have too. I would die of a broken heart if they didn’t. But I also recognize that their understanding of Him is very limited and sometimes down right wrong. This is the place that I come from, Jonathan. I grew up in this environment of powerless faith. By the grace of God I’ve been blessed to have found that a relationship with God can be more than worship services that drone on for hours and programs that have no lasting affect on my life. And I am humbled by it. I am unworthy of this. Nothing I did made me deserving to have this amazing thing we call a relationship with God. I was just as pious and self-righteous and clueless as those we look at now with all too judgmental eyes. These people have been given the gift of Christ just like we have. And they have accepted this gift just as we have too. They are a part of the bride of Christ. A line to one of my favorite songs says, “you cannot care for me (Jesus) with no regard for her (the Church), if you love me you will love the church.”

I feel that we, as Christians, have an obligation not only to the lost, but to our fellow believers as well. It was these kinds of Christians that led me to Christ in the first place. I cannot abandon them now. I cannot leave them behind when I’ve tasted what they could have in the Lord. I have to help show them the way! After all, iron sharpens iron, right? And what’s more is God wants them to know Him on this more intimate level that we have tasted. It is God’s will that not one should perish, yes. But how much more would it grieve our Father if those who took His gift ran off with it and never bothered to get to know Him deeper. Think about the group of lepers who went off dancing after Jesus healed them… only one came back to thank Him. Doesn’t that make you want to cry? How will they ever know God deeper if no one is there to tell them?

I think I’ve told you before that I feel my calling is to awake the apostate church (the dead church) to a life of power in the Lord. Tears are in my eyes now just thinking about all this. There is a passion in my soul to reach out to our family and show them just how great this Jesus guy really is. Maybe that is why I came across as argumentative tonight. My love for God’s church, His bride, is so strong I feel the need to defend her and fight for her no matter what. All to well I see her faults. But I long for her wedding day when Jesus sees her in all her beauty, when she has been purified and made clean. Made whole. I feel God plans to use me to do just that.

And they are listening, Jonathan. They do want more. The spirit of the Lord is in them if they have received Christ and He will draw them to Him. Their desire for Him may be covered up by years of hurt and bitterness or may be dampened by sin in their lives or a demon of religion, but it is there. I know it. I’ve seen it.

I use to be so critical of the modern church, the dead church. It frustrated me to no end, much in the same way I’m sure it does you. But the Lord has convicted me of being so critical towards His beloved. And when I allowed Him to take out my condemning eyes and see things the way He sees them, He gave me discernment into the hearts of His people. I see past the many veils they wear into their hearts where they do truly long to know their savior. It takes patients, often more than I have, but the Lord is disciplining me, showing me how to love. And that’s where it all starts, love. Just like in reaching the lost, we must show them God’s love.

That’s why I, personally, still attend what could be considered such a church. Because I do see life there, I do see Jesus awakening his bride. I really cannot speak for others, but that is my explanation. Please know that I in no way think that you condemn these people, or have given up on them. I know you love them, it’s obvious. I think maybe this is just a matter of different callings, your’s is to the lost; mine is to the not so lost… to the confused. And really, they are not that different of callings. They just lead us to slightly different places is ministry. Neither is more important to the other. If nothing else I hope to have shared my heart with you, what I feel the Lord has called me to. This is not ‘my side of the argument’. There really wasn’t an argument in the first place because we really don’t have conflicting opinions here. At least I don’t see any. This is just my response to your question. I guess I took your question in the wrong way at first. I see now that you weren’t condemning those who still attend certain churches, that you were really just curious as to why. You are a seeker just like me. Thank you for sharpening my iron. I only hope I’ve done the same for you.

Top Nine

2006-08-26T11:26:00.000-07:00

I was talking with some friends tonight and we were discussing some of the simpler pleasures in life, the little things that go unnoticed most of the time, but really make life more enjoyable than it would otherwise be. So, I have decided to make a list of the top nine (ten is too cliché) most enjoyable activities in this life.

1. Sunday afternoon naps – This hardly needs explaining. What could be more comforting and relaxing that a few leisurely hours on a couch or, better yet, in a hammock (Hammocks are by far one of the greatest inventions of mankind. As a kid I had one in a corner of my room, stretched from a wall to the one adjacent. It was used to hold my collection of random stuffed bears, rabbits, and other fuzzy creatures either won at the fair or bought from Toys-R-Us. I remember being jealous that they got to sleep all day while I had to go to school.) When I grow up, get old and retire, I am going to have a couch (for the winter) and a hammock (for the summer) dedicated solely to Sunday afternoon napping.

2. Shane and Shane – This is a Christian worship band that I have completely connected with, musically and lyrically. There is no other band that is more effective in provoking me to worship God than these guys. Their hearts are set on the Lord and it shows in their music. They have a song for every one of my meandering moods. Their concerts, which are more like worship sessions than performances, are even better than their albums (how many groups can say that?). And yes, to the right is an actual picture of Shane, myself, and Shane. Don't we look tight, like we're bro's? That's cause we are. I've been to more concerts of their's than I can count or remember.

3. Early evening jogs in the fall – Its purifying. Nothing disconnects me more from the false reality I live in day-in and day-out. The autumn season provides a spectacular spectrum of color and as I try to catch my breath its as if I suck in the actuality of God’s creation. Roads I drive down multiple times a day suddenly take on a foreign form as plants that line them come alive with beauty and vibrancy. Houses become more that fleeting facades with real families living and breathing inside. While the running temporarily weakens the body, the mind is tunneled into simple thinking. It becomes one tracked and allows you to contemplate on specific thoughts with more depth. Then, when the running is done and you return home, you feel tired, but more alive than you’ve ever been.

4. Television Shows – a lot of people will probably have something to same about this one, but I honestly don’t care. I love finding a great show to totally obsess about. There is a lot of enjoyment to be found in being completely caught up in the action and drama of television. Some shows that have done it for me: 24, Lost, Alias, Friends and (most recently) Battlestar Galactica (don’t judge it unless you’ve seen it).

5. Sleeping under stars – I think Donald Miller took words out of my mouth when he wrote Through Painted Deserts, "I gaze up at the night sky, this love letter from God to creation, this reminder that somewhere there is peace, somewhere there is order, and I think about how great His kingdom is, and is going to be, and I wonder, in this rare and beautiful moment, how could I ever want to walk away from it all. There are so many stars I will dream of them. I open my eyes and see stars, then close them and see stars… I am finally seeing how good life is, how beautiful it is".

6. Reading a book – Hopefully this one will win back favor lost favor from the television bit. Reading is a relatively new habit for me. I’ve read books in the past, and enjoyed them. But they have been few and far between. Recent events in life have allowed me time and opportunity to read far more than I ever have. I’ve lost count of how many books I’ve read in the past year, but it’s been at least thirty. There is now not a single book that I own that has not been read cover to cover. To give a few of my favorites would require a list all its own. But take it from me, a former none reader, its one of the best things you can do for yourself. I’ve learned more on my own in the past year from reading than I ever have in some school or university. Be smart, self educate, READ!

7. Road trips – Long car rides with friends (the more the merrier). Some of the defining moments in friendships are forged during road trips. Inside jokes no one else could possibly understand, inevitable once in a lifetime situations (man I could tell some stories), contemplations on the perfect woman, serious conversations on the meaning of life – all fine qualities of a good ole fashioned road trip.

8. Mission trips – not to be confused with the aforementioned road trips (though sometimes they coincide). This is a broad category that could be constituted by a number of different things. They can be long or short-termed, and are marked by the expressed purpose of helping others. The ironic thing is most often mission trips reveal and minister more to those on the trips than those being ‘ministered’ too. A very smart man once told me the best way to help your self is to help others. I think he was right. I went to a college for a while where the motto was, “not to be ministered unto, but to minister,” which was the life dedication of this college’s founder. While that college failed to live up to the motto (which is why it will remain unnamed), there is still much to be said about such a bold statement when put to action. Though it is somewhat of a narcissistic pleasure, mission work also aides others. So its double to pleasure, double the fun (much of like Wrigle’s double-mint gum which leads my to the next pleasure, sort-of).

9. Food – Granny’s biscuits and gravy. ‘nough said.

Fun With A Camera (Pt. 1)

2006-08-09T13:26:00.000-07:00

Taken on a road trip... where I got bored... and found a camera...

There are no special effects... just me... and my face...

The hand is really a foot from her face... It's all in the perspective...

Ya...

Preaching Protest or Protesting Preaching... Just How Important is Israel?

2006-07-29T14:05:00.000-07:00

Friday, July 28, 2006…

Today I attended a March for Israel rally in downtown Macon. Nearly seven hundred activists gathered to march from historic City Hall to the Centreplex in support of Israel. I went with two Messianic Jewish friends of mine. I was greeted by a nice Filipino woman who handed me a pin (with what I guessed were Hebrew letters) that spelled the word shka, which she informed me meant life. I thanked her kindly and put the pin in my pocket. My two Messianic friends left to fulfill the roles of flag-waver and banner bearer. Another mutual friend of ours, Solomon, was accompanying us so I just kind of stood next to him for security.

After about thirty minutes of mulling around in attempt to fit in and seem like I belonged, the opening statements began. My attention was immediately lost as the initial speaker was a politician with a clear agenda (even if it was one I agreed with). I found myself eyeing two protestors across the street from where we were gathered; the only two protestors. I noticed one woman there earlier; the other must have joined her while I wasn’t looking. They both held plain white poster boards; the kind you use for your kids science project or history presentation. In simple bold black letters the posters read, “Who Would Jesus Bomb?” They stood quietly and let their signs do the talking. About this time there was a haphazard round of applause as the politician left the podium and gave the preacher a pulpit. Looking at them I couldn’t tell who was who and listening to them I couldn’t either. Granted, I wasn’t paying very close attention. It was over ninety degrees outside not including the weighty humidity. Sweat dripped from every pore on my body and poured from my brow. I was drenched and stood in a puddle of my own making. I’m sure I reeked, kind of like Pigpen in the Peanut Comic Strip, but only with sweat. I mentioned something about going to speak with the protestors to Solomon. I told him I was really interested to find out their opinion on the crisis in the Middle East and why they felt the need to protest our demonstration. He told me they were just a distraction from why he was there; which was clearly understandable, though I couldn’t help but think the exact opposite. Those two middle-aged white women made me really think about why I was there in the first place. I didn’t say anything to my friend though; it wouldn’t have made much difference. I watched as the overweight Baptist preacher pounded the podium and hashed out all too familiar and vague phrases about the importance of, “standing with God’s chosen!” and “fighting the good fight!”

Honestly, I probably agreed with everything he said. But it was too shrouded with good ole’ boy politics and old fashioned rabble rousing and I’m just too cynical for that. Preacher went for his handkerchief and I went for the protestors. I watched the local law enforcement eye me as I made my way across the street. As I approached the two women I extended my hand to show that I wasn’t hostile and they accepted it with a smile. I introduced myself, and they likewise, though I fail to remember either of their names. We exchanged simple pleasantries and then I did something that surprised me and much as I think it did them; I thanked them. I thanked them for protesting in such a polite manner. They could have been like those foul people you sometimes see on Fox News who hurl insults at funerals or proclaim supposed damnations from God on issues they obviously know nothing about. But instead they acted on their right to protest our demonstration by respecting our right to demonstrate in the first place. Still, I was curious as to what their thoughts were, so I asked them. One lady, the one who was there first, did all the talking. She admitted that her sign wasn’t really adequate, that she had no religious issue with what we were doing (which was part of why she was wrong) and that she really just wanted to see some political dialogue take place before the guns started blazing. I didn’t argue with her, but not because I was afraid. Not because I was afraid of matching wit against wit, or even for fear of pushing them farther away from the truth with sharp responses and cutting logic. For once in my life I felt the need to remain silent and not open my mouth as if to prove I was so much smarter than someone else (I was thinking it though). I felt the need to listen. Truthfully, if it had been a different situation, one in which both sides (Israel and Hezbollah) had the same end goal in mind (mutual peaceful existence), I probably would have agreed with her. But how can you place hope in negotiations with an enemy bent on the very destruction of those you want them to negotiate with! There are parts of the Islamic world that are violently obsessed with the destruction of Israel and the annihilation of the Jewish people and you cannot reason with such people. Osama Bin Laden, The Iranian president, Hamas, Hezbollah, Al Qaeda, and countless others hate Israel. The PLO still calls for the destruction of Israel in its charter! I told the woman I wished peace could be reached through diplomacy, but I felt that history and circumstance proved it was beyond table talk. I thanked them once again for being respectful and they thanked me for my politeness and that of the others who had curiously visited them. I turned to face the crowd and stood there for a second. Then I pulled my pin out of my pocket, pinned it on my shirt and walked back across the street as preacher-man was firing down and finishing up. I remember thinking it odd that he had made it through his fiery monologue without stroke or heart attack. The Lord really does bless those who bless Israel.

Now it was time for the march! I must admit I enjoyed the feeling of being apart of something much bigger than myself. Some over-dressed and over-painted woman confusingly described how the procession would take place. She seemed nice and sincere though, despite the heat that was melting her face, so I listened to her; something about banner holders in the front and flag wavers in the back. I had a small Israeli flag that was made in China and thought for a minute she might be talking about me so I started towards the back. Then I realized she meant some other guys with the really big flags on heavy metal poles.

I caught sight of a friend I hadn’t seen in many years, Reuel. I made my way through the crowd of excited chattering people until I can behind him. I laid my hand on his much taller shoulder and he turned around with a smile. It was like I had seen him yesterday. We played the obligatory game of catch up and he introduced me to his friend Salem. I though he had an interesting name and might be an interesting person, so I talked with him pretty much the whole march (Reuel found some other long lost friend whom he was catching up with. I would see him later.) Turns out I was right about Salem. He was pretty interesting. I wondered if the opposite is true about people with boring names. Like mine for example. I wonder if there are other Matthews out there in the world who are just as boring and uninteresting as the name suggests (after some personal examination I conclude that while I am sure there are some, on the whole this is not true).

The march itself lasted a little under thirty minutes. Reuel, Salem and I walked behind a couple of Native American Messianic Jewish converts who banged on some kind of drum I’m going to call a tom-tom and shouted something I couldn’t understand in either Yiddish or their native tongue. The glory and excitement of the march wore off rather quickly, though walking seemed to release some of the oppressive heat. Either that or I became fixated on my aching feet (for some reason I wore flip-flops).

Eventually we came to the Centreplex and everybody funneled down into the lower level of the building. We filed into a rather large meeting room. Still, after everyone came in there was standing room only. I found Solomon and sat with him. Reuel and Salem joined us. There were thirty minutes or so of some really cool Jewish praise and worship music. The lyrical content was heavy with Hebrew phrases and equally Jewish-natured themes in English that I still found personally relevant and biblically accurate (after all, Christianity was just supposed to be a continuation of Judaism). The music itself was pretty much your typical rock chords and patterns on guitar with some interesting melodic content here and there just to remind you, once again, that this was a Jewish thing. I really enjoyed it though. I would later be taught that as a gentile Christian I was grafted into the olive branch that is Israel (I already knew this but it was cool to hear it explained in a detailed manner). Some quick recognitions were made for those who organized the event and then Greg Hirschberg, a Rabbinical leader from the local Messianic Jewish congregation my friends were from, gave the address. I sat there uncomfortably in my chair pinned between Salem and Solomon, but I quickly became engrossed with what the Rabbi had to say despite having my sweaty rear stuck to the chair.

This guy was different. He wasn’t like the babbling politician or the pontificating preacher. Maybe it wasn’t what he said so much that grabbed my attention at first, but how he spoke and from where. Physically he was an intimidating man, a former bouncer or security guard from NYC. His voice had a thick layer of Yankee on it. He was passionate with a sincerity that words cannot describe. It was odd, almost paradoxical at times. Often he was moved to tears and had to pause before continuing. He spoke from the heart and he spoke at length of the importance of the Jewish people and the state of Israel as it pertains to Biblical prophecy (Evidently twenty-five percent of scripture is prophetic in nature. Eighty percent of that twenty-five has been fulfilled. The remaining twenty percent all pertains to the return of Yeshua, Jesus in Hebrew, and the covenants God established with His people, of whom I am now included.) I’m no expert so I won’t get technical, but basically the Jewish people must occupy the territory God promised them before the Messiah returns. Some seven hundred verses in the Bible center on the Jewish people’s uniting in the name of Yeshua and their return to this part of the world. So basically, as Christians, we should be concerned about Israel and her people because God is concerned for her. After all, if it wasn’t for her we would not be able to lay claim on His promises (this is an interesting study as it was her rejection of Him that led the Lord to offer salvation to all.)

I have always embraced a Jewish heritage in my Christian faith, even if I haven’t understood it and I’ve always felt a kinship with Israel, even though I’ve never been there. But tonight I cannot help but feel I’ve been missing a connection, something that is significant and maybe even essential. After all, if Jesus was a Jew, isn’t he still? He didn’t convert did he? And if God’s promises can never be broken, why do we as Christians in the Western world think that what happens to the Jewish people and the state of Israel is of little consequence. Make no mistake, the fate of the Jewish people, of Israe,l is one that we will share in; and though it be a glorious fate, those who bless Her shall be blessed and those who curse her shall be cursed. She is Christ’s bride. She is the church of which we are a part. And as Derek Webb somewhat prophetically wrote, “You cannot care for me with no regard for her. If you love me [Jesus Christ] you will love the church [Israel].”

To what degree this experience will inform my faith, I am not yet sure. I do know one thing however, I rode home tonight thinking about the two lady protestors and it made me sad. Not because of their naivety of obvious political and historical truths, but because of their ignorance of spiritual things. And I can’t help but wonder how many others are out there just like those two ladies, just like I was; those that may be Christians but have no spiritual understanding of the importance our Jewish counterparts have here at the end of all things. In John 4, Christ himself even claimed that, “salvation is of the Jews.”

Sadly, I think too often we are not truly concerned with the return of Christ, rather whether we are right or wrong doctrinally. Much less are we truly concerned with the world experiencing the love of God, but whether or not our church has more members and money than the one down the road with whom our doctrine is opposed. Then again, maybe I’m being unfair. Honestly, if I peel away the sour layer of the Baptist’s rhetoric and ignore the coat-tailing agenda of the politician, I find that on the simplest level these men had something within them that hinted at a necessity to support Israel. Maybe I have more in common with them than I at first realized. So I’ll join with them in the call of Rabbi Hirschberg; I’ll, “pray for the peace of Jerusalem and pray for the return of the Messiah.”

Discipline!

2006-07-13T12:29:00.000-07:00

I have come to believe the greatest lack in my spiritual life is a concept including ideas of discipline and restraint. It is my equivalent of Paul’s thorn in the flesh. Charlie adequately described it this way, “it’s like you’re an ADD Christian.” I cannot stay fixed on one concept God is teaching me long enough for it to internalize and become a practice in my everyday life. I skim the surface just long enough to enjoy the notion of personal growth, but never allow myself deep enough to be truly affected by it. To be clear, it is not a self-discipline I am concerned with, not a psychological concept of will-power. Rather, I am missing (or refusing) an element of God’s discipline in my life. I deny Him His corrective authority.

When the Lord’s discipline is present in my life, I often do not recognize it (or I don’t allow myself to recognize it). I call it Satan’s attack, when often God is correcting me for my own good. This failure to recognize God’s hand scares me because unrecognized discipline might-as-well be Satan’s attack. Nothing is gained from it because the error, mistake, the sin warranting the discipline is not recognized as such and is thus likely to be repeated. This is an effective strategy of Satan’s I (and God for that matter) aim to destroy.

I am not sure where it crept in, probably has something to do with a spoiled childhood or maybe it has roots in a defense-mechanism I use to keep from being hurt by something or someone that really matters. After all, how harmful can simple, carnal pleasures really be? How much can a funny movie or a good book really hurt me at a core level? How unhealthy can a card game or tennis match be? You’d be surprised. Wise King Solomon had all the earthly pleasures man could dream of (and them some). Yet he called it all meaningless (Eccl 2:1-16). Earthly pleasures are fleeting at best, deceptive at worst.

But back to God’s discipline. I long to believe in a way that informs my everyday judgment, that God’s correction, which ultimately leads to a confident security in Him, provides greater fulfillment, peace, joy, contentment and all those abstract emotions we as humans long for. I long to believe God provides those needs more than strip-mall seductions and callous entertainment. In truth, I far too often rather spend $7.50 on a few hours of shallow escapism in Hollywood (and then only if I’m lucky) than spend that same amount of time in God’s Word, engaged in abundant eternal truth which delivers endless peace. And you know what the thing is? Scripture isn’t just free, its almost like it pays you!

In Hebrews 12, Paul says, “In your struggles against sin, you have not yet resisted to the point of shedding blood. And thus you have forgotten the word of encouragement that calls you God’s child: My son, do not make light of the Lord’s discipline, and do not lose heart when he rebukes you. For the Lord disciplines those He loves and He punishes everyone he accepts as His own.” I think that sometimes we have to hit rock bottom before we realize the purpose and usefulness of God’s discipline. Many never hit rock bottom and therefore never discover this truth. Some, like me, hit the bottom and bounce back before the realization hits them (again, the ADD). It is only in hind-sight that I recognize God’s hand in my life, but at least I recognize it. It is never too late to accept the discipline and the love of God.

Epworth is very quickly approaching and many warn of the inevitable attacks on God’s people. While I do not contest this idea, I challenge each of you to examine your life with the guidance of the Holy Spirit. Is Satan really attacking you, or is our loving Father spurring you towards righteousness? Is He disciplining you? How you answer that question may define your experience at Epworth. Maybe Satan isn’t attacking us as much as we may think. Don’t give him too much credit. Maybe the Lord is preparing us to meet with Him in powerful ways and needs sanctified worshippers. And why not embrace it when the latter is so much better than the former? What this world offers doesn’t compare with what He offers. This is a decision each of us will make, leadership just as well as everyone else (and in a sense probably more importantly). We will make a choice in receiving the correcting of the Lord or rejecting it, even if we don’t realize that’s what we’ve done.

I think back to what Paul said in Hebrews, about God disciplining those He loves. To make His point, Paul prefaces the explanation of God’s discipline with this: “Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily ensnares, and let us run with perseverance that race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus the author and perfecter of our faith, who endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God”. We already know the endgame… we win. He has already done everything for us. All we have to do is accept it, embrace it and live it. Let Epworth be a celebration of that. And let’s prepare for that celebration by accepting His discipline which shows us how to run that race in a way that is honoring and glorifying to Him.

Justification, Sanctification, Glorification

2006-06-21T08:49:00.000-07:00

Justification, sanctification and glorification are terms used to describe three basic workings of God in the lives of His children. But in today’s world of semantic apologetics, their meanings are often misunderstood and tend to melt together into incomprehensible babble (and we all know God doesn’t like babble… see Gen. 11:8-9).

The first two words are relatively easy to understand. Justification, in its religious context, is the simple act of accepting Christ’s gift of eternal life. One of God’s qualities is that he is a just God. His righteousness requires Him to be. Our sin offended God’s righteousness, and thus a price had to be paid to appease God’s wrath. That price was death (for the wage of sin is death). Because of sin in our lives, we are condemned to hell. God sent His son, Jesus Christ (who lived a sinless life), to pay the cost of our sin so that we would not have to. The sacrifice of Jesus Christ was ample payment (because he led a sin-free life) to cover our sins or justify God granting us freedom from our debt. Thus, when you accept Christ’s payment for your sin, you are justified in the eyes of the Lord and given the gift of eternal life. Justification is an instantaneous action. It occurs in a mark-able spot in time and affects your spirit. Your spirit is the real you that lives on eternally after the death or your physical body and sanctification (I’ll get to that in a second) of your soul (which is your mind, will, and emotions).

After your spirit is justified, your soul is sanctified by the working of the Holy Spirit in your life. When you are “saved” (justified) you do not miraculously become a perfect human being with no struggles or weaknesses. You are still prone to sin. We are told to “die daily” to the flesh (the soul). When we allow the Holy Spirit to work in our lives, the Lord teaches our souls to submit to the authority of our spirit, which has been given to God at justification. Sanctification is a process by which sin is weeded out of our lives day-by-day. It is a process that occurs until the day we die. It is this process that places us all at different points in our walk with the Lord. In God’s eyes we are all justified by the blood of Jesus Christ, but we are at different places along the process of sanctification. Sanctification can also be viewed as a way to measure spiritual maturity.

Okay, so that was the easy stuff. The concepts of justification and sanctification are pretty much commonly accepted within the Protestant Christian community. But what is our glorification? This is a bit more difficult to define and slightly controversial. People get really cautious when we start talking about the glorification of man. But I think it is something the Lord has promised us. I want to be careful in my explanation, however, and clear that all glory goes to God in all things. His glory can pass through us, however, and that is our glorification. Well that’s all fine and dandy, but it’s a bit vague. What does it mean? How does it work?

Recall a time in your life when the Lord has shared some bit of revelation to you, has shown you truth about who He is. It may have been in a quite time with the Lord, or during a conversation with a fellow brother or sister in Christ. When God shares with you truth about Himself, He is giving you a small glimpse of His glory, a little insight into who He is. This is usually a very humbling experience. A greater revelation of who God is only naturally reaffirms our meekness in His grand design. The comparison is unreal. Now, think about what it would be like if the Lord revealed all of Himself to you at one time. Imagine that He gave you all the answers to all the questions, explained all of His ways, and revealed all of His glory to you. Scary thought! The only person lucky enough to get a slight glimpse was Moses and remember how God had to stick him in a cave for his own protection!

Exodus 33:19-23
19 And the LORD said, “I will cause all my goodness to pass in front of you, and I will proclaim my name, the LORD, in your presence. I will have mercy on whom I will have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I will have compassion. 20 But,” he said, “you cannot see my face, for no one may see me and live.” 21 Then the LORD said, “There is a place near me where you may stand on a rock. 22 When my glory passes by, I will put you in a cleft in the rock and cover you with my hand until I have passed by. 23 Then I will remove my hand and you will see my back; but my face must not be seen.”

Even then Moses only saw the Lord’s lower back side. The fella barely lived to tell about it! Pay attention to how he had changed after his encounter with the Lord:

Exodus 34: 29-30
29 When Moses came down from Mount Sinai with the two tablets of the Testimony in his hands, he was not aware that his face was radiant because he had spoken with the LORD. 30 When Aaron and all the Israelites saw Moses, his face was radiant, and they were afraid to come near him.

The reality is that in our incomplete process of sanctification, could not withstand full revelation of God. We would not survive, could not live, if God was to fully reveal Himself to us. So what does all this have to do with glorification? Well, glorification, like justification, can be marked at a specific point in time. It occurs upon our physical death. When our bodies die and our spirits ascend into heaven, our soul finally comes into complete and full alignment with our spirit. We “die to the flesh” once and for all. The Lord has “been faithful to complete the good work He started in us.” The sanctification process is made complete. Basically, you go to heaven to “be with the Lord.” When you get there, however, the Lord is not hidden from you. You will see the fullness of His glory. You will understand all the things of the Lord. That is our reward. We will spend eternity in the full revelation of the Lord. Not only will we be able to bare witness to the fullness of His greatness, because of the completion of His work in us, we will be a reflection of His glory. That is our glorification. The glorification of man is our being made in the image of God, and being a full reflection of all His glory. We can only be seen as truly and completely made in the image of God when we are fully stripped of all unrighteousness. Only then are we truly a mirror image of Christ and the honor of reflecting His righteousness is our glorification.

Skinny Dipping... Why You should Always Wear A Bathing Suit

2006-06-14T11:56:00.000-07:00

I went running the other day. I put on some running clothes, which included boxer briefs as to avoid the imminent chafing that comes from running in boxers. I loaded some good running music into my CD player (ya, I’m old school like that) and off I went. I ran a long way, a long way for me anyway. It was really hot. I ran down a little used road until I almost reached the interstate a few miles behind my house. They are putting in this huge new subdivision back there, the Wooden Nickel Plantation. There are no houses yet, just empty lots patiently awaiting development. I decided to run down the lonely roads of the virgin development. The land was beautiful. There was wheat grass and clear skies. The slight breeze made the grass sway as if it were dancing. I almost felt guilty, like I had slipped unnoticed into a very intimate dwelling of nature, an uninvited stranger watching a very private affair. Maybe it was the music. I don’t know.

After a few aimless turns I pasted a tree line. I bet at one time that place was dense with cherished wood: oak, birch, maybe a few maples. Now it looked as if it had been strategically cleared to pave way to roads and houses, to modern suburbia.

That day seemed far off, however, and when I reached the crest of a hill I was revealed three shimmering lakes. They weren’t very big, more like ponds that had the glory that comes from being a lake. The first one called to me, “come closer.” The little lake was a good distance from the road on which I was running. I had to walk down a long slopping green hill before I reached it’s edge. It was a hundred yards at least. “Hi,” the lake seemed to say to me. It was very friendly. I stood there for a moment thinking. Man this place was beautiful. I was in the open now, out from under the veil of the trees and the sun beat down hard. “It sure is hot out here,” I thought. “I bet that water is nice and cool.” It had rained the previous day. I glanced around considering my options. I knew that if I got in the water I would have to walk all the way back home soaking wet. And wet boxer briefs don’t do as good of a job fighting against the evil chafing as dry boxer briefs do.

I resisted the urge to do it at first, but the inevitable is too strong an opponent to conquer. Before I knew it my clothes were off, folded in a nice pile sitting on top of my running shoes and I was waist deep in the refreshing water. After all, I was practically in the middle of nowhere. I hadn’t even seen a single vehicle on the road during my run to the future subdivision. Nobody would ever know. Even still, my guard was up. I surveyed the lake’s contours, marking areas that would make good hiding spots if the event arose.

After about fifteen minutes I gained a bit more confidence and ventured out further from the bank. I felt wonderful. I let the fresh water flow over me in one long gentle caress from nature. I swam around for a while, spooked a few of the local ducks and then just floated on my back, on my own personal sea of tranquility, in all my glory. I never thought I would find such endless freedom in such intense vulnerability.

My complicated life seemed to fade away as I was willingly seduced by my new found freedom. It was intoxicating. How could I have never done anything like this before? I could feel the stress of life’s difficulties leave through my finger tips. I’ve got to tell my friends about this, I though. They have got to try it, but not together of course. That would be awkward and defeat the purpose. As time stood still I just lay there, floating, naked.

Then it happened, like glass shattering in the dead of night. I heard the rumbling of impending doom and turned to see a white truck drive past the lake. I immediately, instinctively headed for the nearest cover the lake could provide, a hollowed edge over which a small tree, no more than a few feet high, grew. I couldn’t see the road. Had the driver seen me? What if he or she had? I was scared.

A moment later I heard the truck coming again, this time in the opposite direction. There were still ripples in the water from the excitement of my quick effort to hide. Even then, I was a hundred or so yards from the road, maybe they wouldn’t give me away.

Much to my dismay the sound slowed to a stop and the engine cut off. I heard the door slam shut. It had such finality to it, as if the driver meant to send me a message. I didn’t move. A few of the ducks I had taunted earlier oddly seemed to be moving toward me, even after the commotion I made a few seconds earlier. They were teasing me with their quacking, “haha, quack, haha.” The little beasts were going to give me away! They seemed to swim straight towards me in an arrow marking their target.

Time slowed down with a drudging halt. I don’t know how long it was in real time, but it felt like forever between the door slam and when the truck driver finally made his was down the grassy knoll to the waters edge. I might have even had time to escape had I acted quicker. “Boy!” It was a man’s voice, and not a happy man. I remained silent. He hadn’t seen me in my hiding place. Maybe he would just go away. He didn’t. “Come out here now.” He had a thick accent of stupidity in his voice. Something inside me clicked. This is ridiculous I thought. I’m an adult. I have nothing to be ashamed off. I haven’t done anything wrong. I swam out into the open, the dark water concealing the truth, or so I thought. Then I saw him: a beard, long sleeved plaid and overalls. Oh God, this is gonna be a scene from deliverance! I just looked at him, “can I help you, sir.”

“You know this is private property don’t you,” he said matter-of-factly.

“No sir, I didn’t see any signs.” I hadn’t really looked for them either.

“Its just understood.” He had no compassion.

“Oh.”

“Get out of that water,” he sternly commanded. I hesitated, trying to find an out. Then I noticed my clothes nicely piled on top of my shoes where I left them. He was standing a few inches from them. There was only one way out of this situation. Here goes nothing, I thought and in a final act of contrition I proceeded to emerge from the water in all my glory. His expression didn’t change in the slightest.

“You know I could get you for public indecency.”

“You just told me this was private property,” I retorted. He didn’t see the irony.

“Get out of here.”

And then, as if he had achieved his indented result, as if his mission was accomplished, he turned and walked up the long grassy hill, got into his white truck, and drove off into the distance. I stood there for a moment and listened to the sound fade away and wondered if there wasn’t some greater purpose or deeper meaning I was to gain from the whole experience. There wasn’t, so I walked home. I put my clothes back on first though.

No More Playin' Games

2006-03-10T11:59:00.000-08:00

I spent this evening over at the Shelton’s. Nothing unusual about that. As a matter of fact, its about the only "normal" or "routine" thing I do. Anyway, I’m over there a lot. Tonight we watched an end-time prophecy video by Perry Stone. The basic thought I drove home with was, "the time is later than you think." To tell the truth, the whole thing kinda frightened me. I am a firm believer that Christ will return during my life-time. I believe our generation will witness the last days of this earth. I claimed that belief long ago, and tonight only reaffirmed and rooted me deeper in that belief. Call me a religious fanatic if you wish, but if you’re a Christian, you should be living as if Christ could return any moment anyway. So I don’t have a problem with something that urges me on to live such a life, especially when that something is solid Bible based truth.

I mentioned Christ’s returning in my life-time to a fellow Christian friend the other day. She told me just to remember that every generation before us has thought the same thing, and that the decisions I made about my life shouldn’t be based on so unfirm a foundation. My heart sank. She is right though. There have always been those in preceding generations that have embraced such a claim. I can clearly understand why European Christians believed that during WWII. The difference is they did not have the insight to prophecy that we have now. Never before has prophecy been so clear. The Bible even says that prophecy will not be understood until the end of days (if I knew the Bible better I would show you, but trust me, its in there). That’s because the fulfillment of prophecy reveals meaning. There is very little Biblical prophecy left to be fulfilled, and the ground work is being laid to lead to that fulfillment. Even the political activities of the Middle East in the past two months have paved a road for the end of all things. And the Church still sleeps. I guess that is why God says He will call a remnant. My friend made her comments out of sincere care and concern for me, and I appreciate that tremendously. I just wish more people would pay attention to God’s word, all of God’s word. End-time prophecy wasn’t included in the Bible just to be ignored or shrugged off as fanatical. God is trying to talk to His people. He is warning us to prepare for the spiritual battle that lies ahead. Eric Thigpen puts it best, "awake you sleeper / arise from the dead / we are the army of God."

Now don’t get me wrong, and hear me out. I’m not gettin’ all radical and fanatical, and neither should you. I’m not saying get all crazy and obsessed with the impending doom of mankind. I’m not saying you should stock up on water or buy a generator. What I am saying is stop playing games with God. Or at least, that is what He is saying to me. I want to know my creator. I want to hear His voice, know His love and experience His presence regardless of what comes in the future. Because whether or not I face nuclear fallout of WWIII or the wrath of a mother-in-law, taxes and old age, I’m still gonna need God to get through it. And that isn’t, or at least shouldn’t be, radical.

Quote it up! (A Little Bit of Truth...)

2006-03-04T12:05:00.000-08:00

Note: These are a few qoute worthy quotes that I happen to like.

"I’ve found that often success looks more like failure, riches more than like poverty and real life oftens feels more like death… the Christian life is very literally the process by which we are killed." - Derek Webb

"If faith is the gaze of the heart at God, and if this gaze is but the raising of the inward eyes to meet the all-seeing eyes of God, then it follows that it is one of the easiest things possible to do." - A. W. Tozer

"If we are to accept the teaching of Jesus at all, then the only test of the reality of a man’s religion is his attitude to his fellow men. The only possible proof that a man loves God is the demonstrated fact that he loves his fellow men." - William Barclay

"Some there are who presume so far on their wits that they think themselves capable of measuring the whole nature of things by their intellect, in that they esteem all things true which they see, and false which they see not. Accordingly, in order that man’s mind might be freed from this presumption, and seek the truth humbly, it was necessary that certain things far surpassing his intellect should be proposed to man by God." - Thomas Aquinas

"I have held many things in my hands, and have lost them all; but whatever I have placed in God’s hands, that I still possess." - Martin Luther

"The vice I am talking about is Pride or Self-Conceit: and the virtue opposite to it, in Christian morals, is called Humility. You may remember, when I was talking about sexual morality, I warned you that the centre of Christian morals did not lie there. Well, now we have come to the centre. According to Christian teachers, the essential vice, the utmost evil, is Pride. Unchastity, greed, drunkenness, and all that, are mere flea-bites in comparison: it was through Pride that the devil became the devil: Pride leads to every other vice: it is the complete anti-God state of mind." - C. S. Lewis