I don't consider myself to have a beautiful singing voice, I don't think too many people do. Today at Nassau Presbyterian the Keystone State Boychoir preformed and all too well brought me back to the realization of my decrepit vocal range and virtual lack of rhythm. Their harmonization of the beautiful Tallis' Canon swiftly transported me to fond memories of dinners around Dale Cooper's table surrounded by brilliant minds, boisterous spirits, and sparkling Christian fellowship. They were good; they were darn good.
After a well-earned, spirit-filled applause the pastor happened to mention, among other phrases of laud, that the Keystone State Boychoir had the unique distinction of being the only choir to ever preform on the continent of Antarctica. Antarctica? Really?!? My inner, fiscal utilitarian derived from my Dutch ancestry immediately kicked in. I immediately began mentally calculating the sheer quantity of cash it would cost to transport 30, hungry teenagers across the ocean to the most remote place on our planet under the harsh chill in order to preform a concert for a handful of researchers and a congregation of penguins. What did their director think when he was informed to pack his bags for a concert in the frigid emptiness that is the Arctic? It reminded me of when I was 8 and my great-grandma bought my brother and I a collection of crossword puzzles for Christmas; nice but completely useless and superfluous for a pair of brothers who would rather do about a million other things before a hearty crossword puzzle.
What a waste of music. What a waste of money. What a waste of the time, effort, and talent of these boys. What a waste. Period.
Then again, we live in a culture of excess. The norm standard for living is a brand new house, two cars in the driveway, 2.5 kids, weekends at the lake and enough extra to fund yearly winter vacations, a vast tangle of electronics, and purchase of knick-knacks which are anything but necessary. This isn't anything new; the invisible hand of capitalism has been at play ever since the American religion of individual freedom and self was put into motion. Yet, today we see the current results which yield a culture which can seem hallow, purposeless, and self-destructing. We get and get and get to the point that we end up having more than we could ever want at the expense of the composure of our homes. We waste our paychecks and labor on silly trinkets in order to keep up with a standard very few can keep up with and find ourselves struggling to get by and left behind on the super-highway that is 21st century consumerism. From the over-the-top birthday parties of 8 year old girls to the social insistence of "the new" we find ourselves constantly disinterested with the old, the aging, the "last year's" model, and the outdated and perpetually find ourselves throwing out the treasures of yesterday for the brilliant glow of tomorrow. A doctrine of consumerism is only able to exist if it is accompanied by a doctrine of waste. If anything, we are not the products of modern capitalism but the result of society's continual cycle of waste.
This includes choirs singing for penguins.
In a culture where so much is unnecessary how strange is Grace? Grace is the polar opposite of waste. Grace does not waste anything; there are no empty, meaningless moments for God's Grace for every moment and event touched by Grace is of the most dire importance. Christ calls out to us and says "My grace is sufficient for you" (II Cor. 12:9) and doing so calls us to put aside our societal weaknesses and vulnerabilities which arise from our surroundings and calls us to find meaning in the old, the unattractive, and the unpopular. The Greek word for sufficiency is the verb arkeo, which actually starts the phrase in the Greek New Testament. According to the word order, a more proper translation might just be "Sufficient for you is my grace." The word arkeo originally meant "to ward off, to keep off, or defend" in the context of fighting off enemies or even death as found in Homer. As time went on, the word's meaning changed in that warding off the enemy is, essential, to have sufficient resources and power to do so.
If Grace is "sufficient" this doesn't mean that there's just enough Grace to go around and get us through the moment. Rather, "sufficiency" goes beyond that. "Sufficiency" means that Grace has power; actual power. Grace is not meanly a vague, theological concept but the sustenance of a loving Father (Phil. 4:19) such that we have hope in our future, not because of the coming of the new, but because we treasure the Grace of our God who has ever been and ever will be (John 1:14). Such Grace reaches out not just to big moments but to little moments as well. Being "sufficient" means that the work of God reaches out to every sphere of our world. In turn, Grace is never wasted, for Grace always has a purpose, a plan, and the anticipation of the coming kingdom. Grace might be given to wasters but it truly is never wasted.
Unlike concerts for penguins.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Food and Family
I heard a story about a friend of a friend who, during a charity barb-i-que, spent the good part of an entire morning and afternoon monitoring, marinading, and flipping a vast amalgamation of burgers, steaks, and wings for an astonishing crowd (talk about a feeding of the 5,000). What was funny was that, when all was said and done and all the hot dogs and cuts were served, that he never even got as chance to eat himself. The tragedy! To be so preoccupied cooking a delicious meal for hundreds that you'd forget to feed yourself.
That's what it's like to study God's Word at time: you get so preoccupied you forget to eat it. Not LITERALLY of course, but it seems that sometimes our study and dedication blinds us to the gaping need for Christ that still persists; with or without our acknowledgment. How ironic that we prepare such a banquet to the finest detail only to forget to nourish ourselves in what God has provided.
This morning, I went, for the first time, to a Syriac Orthodox service. The Syriac Orthodox tradition is Eastern in origin, deriving from the first Antiochian Christian communities established by St. Peter, and maintain one of the oldest liturgies surviving today. This was not your usual Reformed service consisting of a couple praise songs, a three point sermon, and a dose of Midwest simplicity all compressed together in an hour and ten minutes in order to get everyone home in time to watch the Lions stumble through another Sunday. It was beautiful, regal, and poignant. The smell of incense lofted throughout the sanctuary and the voices of priest, deacons, and monk alike sang the liturgy in Syriac, calling us to sing along at certain moments in praise to God. The phrase Kurie Eleison is used frequently, Greek for "Lord have mercy" as the entire congregation engages in meaningful prayer. The bread and the wine are blessed by beautiful melodies and are the central focus of the entire service: Christ's compassionate sacrifice always in the forefront. The message was short, ten minutes at most, which called for us to, by the grace of God, to stand and praise without fear or self-regard.
It was then the monk came and spoke, telling of the horrific slaughter and persecution of Syriac Christians only days prior in Baghdad (http://www.persecutionblog.com/2010/11/iraq-muslims-attack-church.html) leaving 59 Christian brothers slain; murdered for their faith during the worship of Christ. These people were not simply innocent statistics or a handful of words printed on page 7 of a New York City newspaper; they were family. They were fellow Syriac Christians; people whose tradition bears many memories to persecution through every century. This act of violence was nothing new for these people, but it was still heavy and burdensome. How often we ignore such events in our comfortable, American-Christian atmosphere? How often we, as comfortable middle-class citizens fail to realize that those who share our deepest life blood are dying for the very same God we believe in, for the very same Savior we hold our hopes in, and by the very same Spirit which works in us? How often have I become disjointed, displace, and dishumanized not only to my fellow man in general, but my fellow Christian brothers and sisters?
Christianity is a family. We are not a building or a composite of members. We are not conjoined through common activity and liturgical preference. We are not individuals drifting in through their own existence through ritual which holds no meaning. We, as Christians, should be bound not through our culture, our ethnicity, our preferences, our individuality, or the factors of our entertainment. We are bound through who we are and who we are becoming in Christ Jesus our Lord, who died for us.
He died for us! God died for me! As the communion was passed and the bread and wine touched our lips through the hands of the priest in the midst of our crossing I realized I had let myself starve lately; that in the midst of such abundance of spiritual food I had disassociated myself with my fellow Christians and my need for Christ and instead indulged on the fickle matter that is my individual. As I rose and was blessed with the Eucharist, I pondered my Syriac brothers and sisters; those here and those far away, those living and those having moved on, and realized that I was starving for my Lord, starving for salvation, starving for the hope of the coming kingdom.
So I tasted. I ate. I was filled.
How good is our God? Even in the shedding of our family's blood, He always provides new life, new hope, and new compassion. He prepares a broad place for us, He tends to our wounds and heal us, makes us whole, and yet leaves us the scars in order to suffer with those who suffer; to be truly human. In our true humanity, it has been far too long that we've, that I've, sat comfortably by as I see my brothers and sisters die at gunpoint for the very Lord and Savior whom I worship safely and repetitively without worry. God is never safe. He is good, but never safe. To be full implies a danger, implies a stepping-out, implies going against the grain.
And it implies we take a moment to truly fill our spirits.
Qadishat Aloho
Qadishat hayelthono
Qadishat lo moyutho
destlebte hlofayn
ethrahama layn
Amen - The Qadishat Aloho in Syriac
Holy God
Holy Almighty
Holy Immortal
Who was crucified for us
have mercy upon us
Amen
That's what it's like to study God's Word at time: you get so preoccupied you forget to eat it. Not LITERALLY of course, but it seems that sometimes our study and dedication blinds us to the gaping need for Christ that still persists; with or without our acknowledgment. How ironic that we prepare such a banquet to the finest detail only to forget to nourish ourselves in what God has provided.
This morning, I went, for the first time, to a Syriac Orthodox service. The Syriac Orthodox tradition is Eastern in origin, deriving from the first Antiochian Christian communities established by St. Peter, and maintain one of the oldest liturgies surviving today. This was not your usual Reformed service consisting of a couple praise songs, a three point sermon, and a dose of Midwest simplicity all compressed together in an hour and ten minutes in order to get everyone home in time to watch the Lions stumble through another Sunday. It was beautiful, regal, and poignant. The smell of incense lofted throughout the sanctuary and the voices of priest, deacons, and monk alike sang the liturgy in Syriac, calling us to sing along at certain moments in praise to God. The phrase Kurie Eleison is used frequently, Greek for "Lord have mercy" as the entire congregation engages in meaningful prayer. The bread and the wine are blessed by beautiful melodies and are the central focus of the entire service: Christ's compassionate sacrifice always in the forefront. The message was short, ten minutes at most, which called for us to, by the grace of God, to stand and praise without fear or self-regard.
It was then the monk came and spoke, telling of the horrific slaughter and persecution of Syriac Christians only days prior in Baghdad (http://www.persecutionblog.com/2010/11/iraq-muslims-attack-church.html) leaving 59 Christian brothers slain; murdered for their faith during the worship of Christ. These people were not simply innocent statistics or a handful of words printed on page 7 of a New York City newspaper; they were family. They were fellow Syriac Christians; people whose tradition bears many memories to persecution through every century. This act of violence was nothing new for these people, but it was still heavy and burdensome. How often we ignore such events in our comfortable, American-Christian atmosphere? How often we, as comfortable middle-class citizens fail to realize that those who share our deepest life blood are dying for the very same God we believe in, for the very same Savior we hold our hopes in, and by the very same Spirit which works in us? How often have I become disjointed, displace, and dishumanized not only to my fellow man in general, but my fellow Christian brothers and sisters?
Christianity is a family. We are not a building or a composite of members. We are not conjoined through common activity and liturgical preference. We are not individuals drifting in through their own existence through ritual which holds no meaning. We, as Christians, should be bound not through our culture, our ethnicity, our preferences, our individuality, or the factors of our entertainment. We are bound through who we are and who we are becoming in Christ Jesus our Lord, who died for us.
He died for us! God died for me! As the communion was passed and the bread and wine touched our lips through the hands of the priest in the midst of our crossing I realized I had let myself starve lately; that in the midst of such abundance of spiritual food I had disassociated myself with my fellow Christians and my need for Christ and instead indulged on the fickle matter that is my individual. As I rose and was blessed with the Eucharist, I pondered my Syriac brothers and sisters; those here and those far away, those living and those having moved on, and realized that I was starving for my Lord, starving for salvation, starving for the hope of the coming kingdom.
So I tasted. I ate. I was filled.
How good is our God? Even in the shedding of our family's blood, He always provides new life, new hope, and new compassion. He prepares a broad place for us, He tends to our wounds and heal us, makes us whole, and yet leaves us the scars in order to suffer with those who suffer; to be truly human. In our true humanity, it has been far too long that we've, that I've, sat comfortably by as I see my brothers and sisters die at gunpoint for the very Lord and Savior whom I worship safely and repetitively without worry. God is never safe. He is good, but never safe. To be full implies a danger, implies a stepping-out, implies going against the grain.
And it implies we take a moment to truly fill our spirits.
Qadishat Aloho
Qadishat hayelthono
Qadishat lo moyutho
destlebte hlofayn
ethrahama layn
Amen - The Qadishat Aloho in Syriac
Holy God
Holy Almighty
Holy Immortal
Who was crucified for us
have mercy upon us
Amen
Friday, October 22, 2010
Hope Beyond Words
Words are funny things. They hold so much weight, yet sometimes seem so flimsy, empty, devoid of meaning or not wide enough to contain the moment. A few syllables, a pair of diphthongs, or even a single sigh can express the entire gravity of a moment, and yet an entire novel cannot begin to cover the expanse of the millisecond. It's been said that the works of Christ are so numerous that the world could not contain the scrolls to tell of such wonders (John 21:25). Yet, for all those words, such a simple phrase like "get up and walk" or "come" or even the uttering of a name carry just as much clout and meaning.
We use words, abuse words, make words and break words down. We write words, type words, highlight words and often times find ourselves at a loss for words. Words are inclusive and exclusive, elusive and intrusive. Gadamer knew words, he saw that words created our world, embodied it into our own structure. In saying the we want a certain bike, car, book, or sandwich we are simultaneously, by the exclusiveness of language, denying all other possibilities. When we say "THAT bike" we mean "the red bike with orange trim and 14 gears with rusted tires and a black horn", and in that very phrase we deny any wanting of a purple bike, a tricycle, or anything else besides THAT bike. Yet, whenever language is exclusive, it is also inclusive insofar that whoever speaks a language is only truly speaking a language if those words and phrases are heard and understood by someone. Language is communal. In fact, the way we see the world is shaped by how we say it. Without language, humanity would have no medium for interpretation, no mode of explanation, and method of proclamation.
Yet how often language fails us. How often we are empty of words.
God empties us of words. How are we to describe one some much wiser than us, more benevolent than us, and beyond all grasps of time and space? How are we to speak of one whose openness to love is simultaneously a mystery of the most epic of proportions? How are we to use words to describe the utter dismay of our sorrows, the brokenness of our spirits, and our frequent inability to trust when words of encouragement and humanity are just not enough.
We so often put it into words. We put Christianity into words. We define Christ-following by words. But in the end, such tools are insufficient to state what these things mean. A trinitarian God whose love for human, in mirroring God's love for God's self, extends beyond space and time to the very moment where God walks among us, speaks to us, and dies for us. Tertullian, an early church theologian, invented hundreds of terms to more specifically describe such things, and in the end humanity ended where it started; no closer to the truth. Our words cannot contain the breadth and the width of God, our hearts cannot hold the glory of God's glory, and our minds cannot comprehend the hope of God's kingdom.
It's so easy to get discouraged when all we have is words; simple words. It's when words fail that God begins. It's when our trust in humanities attempts to describe and contemplate our Savior fails that God kicks in. It is then that the bleakness of the moment gives way to prayer, not without doubts, but prayer and hope in the future nonetheless.
God's kingdom is coming. A kingdom where words cannot describe, where phrases cannot contain the glory of God.
When hope is meager, faith is hard to come by, and the future seems unstable and quaggy, there is always hope beyond words.
We use words, abuse words, make words and break words down. We write words, type words, highlight words and often times find ourselves at a loss for words. Words are inclusive and exclusive, elusive and intrusive. Gadamer knew words, he saw that words created our world, embodied it into our own structure. In saying the we want a certain bike, car, book, or sandwich we are simultaneously, by the exclusiveness of language, denying all other possibilities. When we say "THAT bike" we mean "the red bike with orange trim and 14 gears with rusted tires and a black horn", and in that very phrase we deny any wanting of a purple bike, a tricycle, or anything else besides THAT bike. Yet, whenever language is exclusive, it is also inclusive insofar that whoever speaks a language is only truly speaking a language if those words and phrases are heard and understood by someone. Language is communal. In fact, the way we see the world is shaped by how we say it. Without language, humanity would have no medium for interpretation, no mode of explanation, and method of proclamation.
Yet how often language fails us. How often we are empty of words.
God empties us of words. How are we to describe one some much wiser than us, more benevolent than us, and beyond all grasps of time and space? How are we to speak of one whose openness to love is simultaneously a mystery of the most epic of proportions? How are we to use words to describe the utter dismay of our sorrows, the brokenness of our spirits, and our frequent inability to trust when words of encouragement and humanity are just not enough.
We so often put it into words. We put Christianity into words. We define Christ-following by words. But in the end, such tools are insufficient to state what these things mean. A trinitarian God whose love for human, in mirroring God's love for God's self, extends beyond space and time to the very moment where God walks among us, speaks to us, and dies for us. Tertullian, an early church theologian, invented hundreds of terms to more specifically describe such things, and in the end humanity ended where it started; no closer to the truth. Our words cannot contain the breadth and the width of God, our hearts cannot hold the glory of God's glory, and our minds cannot comprehend the hope of God's kingdom.
It's so easy to get discouraged when all we have is words; simple words. It's when words fail that God begins. It's when our trust in humanities attempts to describe and contemplate our Savior fails that God kicks in. It is then that the bleakness of the moment gives way to prayer, not without doubts, but prayer and hope in the future nonetheless.
God's kingdom is coming. A kingdom where words cannot describe, where phrases cannot contain the glory of God.
When hope is meager, faith is hard to come by, and the future seems unstable and quaggy, there is always hope beyond words.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Where Have All The Philosophers Gone?
This afternoon I noticed a story posted in the Wall Street Journal and nearly fell out of my chair, reaching to the floor to pick my jaw off the ground where it hastily fell in bewilderment. A recent survey was conducted asking people from various disciplines of higher education to state their level of satisfaction with their degree in accordance to their welfare in the last half-decade. The results stated that those who were most likely to be disappointing with their didactic investment were those in the field of Psychology, African-American studies, and (gasp!) Philosophy.
God forbid the day!
What happened to the day when Philosophy was the Hegemon of the Humanities, the Dictator of Disciplines, and the Mother of all thoughts. Why didn't they survey me? I would have given a valiant defense of my good lady! Nothing barred! The nerve of some people! Where would we be without Plato and Aristotle, Kant and Hegel, Augustine and Aquinas and so on and so forth? As I put my laptop into hibernate I mentally rolled my sleeves up in case in the near future epistemic fisticuffs would be thrown down for the sake of wisdom herself.
After a few minutes to ponder (and a good meal of split-pea soup and fresh rye bread) I nestled down in my seat, turned on The Mimicking Birds, and re-assessed the assumed audacity of the writer. Maybe she wasn't so wrong to make such an assumption, I thought as I gingerly sipped a spicy cup of coffee. Burning one's tongue is, in my opinion, always adding injury to insult, since you always know the beverage of choice is smoldering hot and the inside of your mouth is temperature sensitive. When you burn your tongue, more often than not, patience falls victim to eager anticipation and your body will proclaim "i told you so" throughout the rest of the evening through morning.
Philosophy is, at it's root, a love of wisdom. It is a pursuit of knowledge, a quest for understanding, and voyage to comprehend the Brobdingnagian mysteries of the depths of our universe. It analyzes big questions, asks bigger questions, and, if its good philosophy, leaves more questions than answers. However, my experiences included, hours of hypothetical conceptual engineering is like riding a Tilt-O-Whirl while reading Jacques Derrida: complete disorientation from reality (not to mention an upset stomach).
In the ancient world there's an anecdote about the Greek thinker, Thales. According to the source, Thales, completely preoccupied with his studious observation of the heavens, walked straight into a well to the bemusement of a passing slave girl. In some sense, Philosophy can be like our distracted ancient: all the contemplation and conceptualizing does little good when we've lost sight of the world (and wells) around us. Indeed, it merely becomes a skandelon, a stumbling block, when our dogged pursuit of wisdom blinds us to the application, the praxis, surround our daily interactions with society, with culture, and with our walk with Christ.
There's the saying a mind is a terrible thing to waste, so is a day, an hour, a minute in this beautiful world. Wisdom for the sake of wisdom is no different than a car that's never drove, a book that is never read, or a song never enjoyed. To be embodied and existent in this world is to be intimately connected with people, places, and things: all of which hold an especial place in God's grand masterpiece. As He has freely give us such wisdom and knowledge to understand and discern this world (James 1:5) may we never be hesitant to freely give as we have been given.
A tongue is a terrible thing to waste too. A lesson in patience is in order for yours truly. Yeouch!
God forbid the day!
What happened to the day when Philosophy was the Hegemon of the Humanities, the Dictator of Disciplines, and the Mother of all thoughts. Why didn't they survey me? I would have given a valiant defense of my good lady! Nothing barred! The nerve of some people! Where would we be without Plato and Aristotle, Kant and Hegel, Augustine and Aquinas and so on and so forth? As I put my laptop into hibernate I mentally rolled my sleeves up in case in the near future epistemic fisticuffs would be thrown down for the sake of wisdom herself.
After a few minutes to ponder (and a good meal of split-pea soup and fresh rye bread) I nestled down in my seat, turned on The Mimicking Birds, and re-assessed the assumed audacity of the writer. Maybe she wasn't so wrong to make such an assumption, I thought as I gingerly sipped a spicy cup of coffee. Burning one's tongue is, in my opinion, always adding injury to insult, since you always know the beverage of choice is smoldering hot and the inside of your mouth is temperature sensitive. When you burn your tongue, more often than not, patience falls victim to eager anticipation and your body will proclaim "i told you so" throughout the rest of the evening through morning.
Philosophy is, at it's root, a love of wisdom. It is a pursuit of knowledge, a quest for understanding, and voyage to comprehend the Brobdingnagian mysteries of the depths of our universe. It analyzes big questions, asks bigger questions, and, if its good philosophy, leaves more questions than answers. However, my experiences included, hours of hypothetical conceptual engineering is like riding a Tilt-O-Whirl while reading Jacques Derrida: complete disorientation from reality (not to mention an upset stomach).
In the ancient world there's an anecdote about the Greek thinker, Thales. According to the source, Thales, completely preoccupied with his studious observation of the heavens, walked straight into a well to the bemusement of a passing slave girl. In some sense, Philosophy can be like our distracted ancient: all the contemplation and conceptualizing does little good when we've lost sight of the world (and wells) around us. Indeed, it merely becomes a skandelon, a stumbling block, when our dogged pursuit of wisdom blinds us to the application, the praxis, surround our daily interactions with society, with culture, and with our walk with Christ.
There's the saying a mind is a terrible thing to waste, so is a day, an hour, a minute in this beautiful world. Wisdom for the sake of wisdom is no different than a car that's never drove, a book that is never read, or a song never enjoyed. To be embodied and existent in this world is to be intimately connected with people, places, and things: all of which hold an especial place in God's grand masterpiece. As He has freely give us such wisdom and knowledge to understand and discern this world (James 1:5) may we never be hesitant to freely give as we have been given.
A tongue is a terrible thing to waste too. A lesson in patience is in order for yours truly. Yeouch!
Monday, October 11, 2010
Fate, Future, and The Great Bambino
I'm not someone who is superstitious. I don't take chances, a mantra I've sadly learned from experience (by way of one too many dog-eared Euchre hands). The blind squirrel occasionally may find a nut, the dog a bone, and even the fool now and again can toss up a kernel of wisdom (perhaps you're reading one right now). In short, when it comes to predicting the future, it's easier said than done.
There have been those few, lucky individuals who have proved that assumption wrong. Take Leonardo Da Vinci, a Renaissance man, a visionary, whose brilliant ideas far preceded the technology and prowess of his day; designing canons, tanks, and flying machines whose articulation wouldn't reach fruition for centuries. Back then he had his naysayers, but genius is often said to walk hand-in-hand with lunacy, though for how long is another story.
Babe Ruth once predicted the future in game 3 of the 1932 World Series. Pointing towards center field, according to legend, he motioned confidently the intended destination of his swing, and sure enough The Great Bambino called his shot, thumbing his nose at the opposing team's dugout as he galloped pass first. Personally, I prefer Mark Messier's guarantee of a Game 6 victory in the 1994 Stanley Cup playoffs, but to each his own.
Most of the time, however, such guarantees and predictions often fall flat, if they even get up at all in the first place. Take H.M. Warner, co-founder of Warner Bros, who in 1927 wondered with fervor following the emergence of audio in motion pictures "who the hell wants to hear actors talk?" Another person who didn't like obtrusive noise was the head of Decca Recording Company, who told an upstart band from Liverpool after kicking them to the curb that "we don't like your sound, and guitar music is on the way out." (That band happened to become mildly successful across the pond, you know them today as The Beatles.) In fact, all you have to do is watch the evening drawing of the winning Daily 4 lotto numbers to realize that many across your viewing area are probably realizing their failed predictions on their own sofas at that moment.
Calvin didn't play the cards of chance. He went as far to say that God's providence leaves no room for fortune or fate, no matter how trivial or trite the circumstances. He went as far to say that "every year, month, and day is governed by a new, a special, providence of God." (Institutes I.XVI.2) After all, if our Heavenly Father tends to the fragilest jasmine, the most whimsical snowflake, and the tiniest sparrow then surely how much greater His concern for His human creatures whom He created imago Dei? (Matt. 10:29-31)
Such details often elude our sights, escape our notice, and fail to capture our immediate attention, especially in a day where at any particular moment an individual is bombarded with a hefty half-dozen forms of advertising, all of them obsoleting the past and presenting the present for purchase or obtainment in the immediate future. When all is said and done it's no wonder that more and more youths these days, between Television and Twitter, Film and Facebook, Microsoft and music, are being diagnosed with some form of attention-deficit disorders. By now, perhaps you yourself have stopped paying attention to the ramblings of this author, who's fairly distracted himself by the drone of an iPod at this moment.
Jake Eppinga, long-time pastor now past, in his last entry in The Banner wrote of the future in the waning hours of the final days of his long and eventful life. He was 90 years old, his body cancerous and decrepit, his wife distant and forgetful, and most of all, the future certainly uncertain. A man of God, over 60 years of life a pastor, fully admitting his fear of the future.
I fear dying.
Yet, in the face of the future there is always hope. There is always faith. There is always the intimate and imminent plan of a loving God whose grace is sufficient for each and every one of us. As the old children's song goes "He has the whole world in His hands"; He did yesterday, He does today, and He will have it tomorrow and all the days to come. Feast or famine, sun or rain, 7-2 split or pocket rockets, God is always, without fail, a good bet.
That's a chance even I'm willing to take.
There have been those few, lucky individuals who have proved that assumption wrong. Take Leonardo Da Vinci, a Renaissance man, a visionary, whose brilliant ideas far preceded the technology and prowess of his day; designing canons, tanks, and flying machines whose articulation wouldn't reach fruition for centuries. Back then he had his naysayers, but genius is often said to walk hand-in-hand with lunacy, though for how long is another story.
Babe Ruth once predicted the future in game 3 of the 1932 World Series. Pointing towards center field, according to legend, he motioned confidently the intended destination of his swing, and sure enough The Great Bambino called his shot, thumbing his nose at the opposing team's dugout as he galloped pass first. Personally, I prefer Mark Messier's guarantee of a Game 6 victory in the 1994 Stanley Cup playoffs, but to each his own.
Most of the time, however, such guarantees and predictions often fall flat, if they even get up at all in the first place. Take H.M. Warner, co-founder of Warner Bros, who in 1927 wondered with fervor following the emergence of audio in motion pictures "who the hell wants to hear actors talk?" Another person who didn't like obtrusive noise was the head of Decca Recording Company, who told an upstart band from Liverpool after kicking them to the curb that "we don't like your sound, and guitar music is on the way out." (That band happened to become mildly successful across the pond, you know them today as The Beatles.) In fact, all you have to do is watch the evening drawing of the winning Daily 4 lotto numbers to realize that many across your viewing area are probably realizing their failed predictions on their own sofas at that moment.
Calvin didn't play the cards of chance. He went as far to say that God's providence leaves no room for fortune or fate, no matter how trivial or trite the circumstances. He went as far to say that "every year, month, and day is governed by a new, a special, providence of God." (Institutes I.XVI.2) After all, if our Heavenly Father tends to the fragilest jasmine, the most whimsical snowflake, and the tiniest sparrow then surely how much greater His concern for His human creatures whom He created imago Dei? (Matt. 10:29-31)
Such details often elude our sights, escape our notice, and fail to capture our immediate attention, especially in a day where at any particular moment an individual is bombarded with a hefty half-dozen forms of advertising, all of them obsoleting the past and presenting the present for purchase or obtainment in the immediate future. When all is said and done it's no wonder that more and more youths these days, between Television and Twitter, Film and Facebook, Microsoft and music, are being diagnosed with some form of attention-deficit disorders. By now, perhaps you yourself have stopped paying attention to the ramblings of this author, who's fairly distracted himself by the drone of an iPod at this moment.
Jake Eppinga, long-time pastor now past, in his last entry in The Banner wrote of the future in the waning hours of the final days of his long and eventful life. He was 90 years old, his body cancerous and decrepit, his wife distant and forgetful, and most of all, the future certainly uncertain. A man of God, over 60 years of life a pastor, fully admitting his fear of the future.
I fear dying.
Yet, in the face of the future there is always hope. There is always faith. There is always the intimate and imminent plan of a loving God whose grace is sufficient for each and every one of us. As the old children's song goes "He has the whole world in His hands"; He did yesterday, He does today, and He will have it tomorrow and all the days to come. Feast or famine, sun or rain, 7-2 split or pocket rockets, God is always, without fail, a good bet.
That's a chance even I'm willing to take.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Sinkholes and White Clothes
When I was in kindergarten, Matt Levering and I discovered what was, and still is in my memory, the most epic, mud-splattered, dirt-cluttered, filth-clustered sink hole to end all sink holes (which just so happened to be conveniently located in my very own backyard.) That afternoon, we adventured, we explorers we, into the great pit: our own sooty version of sheol I guess you could say. The events that occurred in the two hours after our discovery are somewhat blurred, but I do remember at one point loosing one of my shoes after sloshing through the amorphous gunk, engaging on a rescue mission (with the assistance of my Radio Flyer red wagon), and eventually sludging our way to the front door, covered from foot to waist in pure, 100 percent, unadulterated, mud. Mud caked in every crevice unclothed by our now sierra brown jeans. Needless to say, a bath was out of the question, but the outdoor hose was certainly a certainty.
Gotta love the good ol' days.
Adults don't get dirty. When I was around Princeton, I see very few mud-caked university professors. I think such a phenomena is not uncommon in most urban areas. More often than not, we are encouraged to clean up for our meals, for our dates, for social luncheons and private dinner parties and for every event in between. Dirtiness is a sign of disorganization, uncouthness, and a total lack of urbanity which separates man from beast. We are dirty only by utility: if the telos is worth its weight in mud, then so be it. Otherwise, we avoid jumping through the puddles, wadding in the swamps, shoveling through the compost, or changing any soiled diapers, if possible. We attempt to clean up our messes so we carry around sanitizer, we shower constantly, we cover our odor with perfume, cover our skin with lotions, bathe our clothing in Tide, and scrub every inch of skin we can to become the epitome of spotlessness. This is perfectly fine with me, as I personally have no qualms about those around me NOT being covering in the gunk and grime from their daily grind. However, that which is worth something, often of impertinent value, often comes at the price of our cleanliness.
Last Sunday, Nassau Presbyterian had Brain Blount speak; a former Princeton Theological Seminary Professor of New Testament studies who is now president of Union Presbyterian Seminary down in Virginia. In his sermon, he reflected on Revelation 7:9-17, which reads:
After these things I looked and beheld a massive crowd, of which no one would be able to count, from every nation and culture and from every people and language standing in the presence of the throne and the lamb, having been adorned in white clothing with palm branches in their hands, and they announced in a great chorus saying:
"Salvation belongs to our God, who sits upon the throne, and to the lamb."
And all the angels encircled the throne as well as both the elders and the four living creatures and they fell upon their faces in the presence of the throne and they worshiped God saying:
"Truly, Blessing and Glory, Wisdom and Thanksgiving,
Honor and Power and Strength,
be to our God forever and ever, Amen."
And one of the elders asked saying to me. "These people adorned in white clothing, who are they and from where have they come?" And I answered him "My lord, surely you know." And he said to me:
"These are the who come out of the great struggle, and have washed their clothes and whitened them in the blood of the lamb.
Because of this, they are in the presence of the throne of God
and they praise him day and night in his cathedral,
and he who sits upon the throne will prepare shelter for them.
They shall not pine or be parched any longer,
nor shall the sun or the heat strike them,
For the lamb at the middle of the throne shall tend to them and will lead them to bubbling streams of water.
And God will wipe every tear from their eyes." Revelation 7:9-17 (my translation)
What an ironic statement! To be cleaned we wash not in Tide or Snuggle...we wash in the blood of the lamb. To truly become white, we first must become dirty. Moreover, to be washing in the blood of the lamb, one must first arrive dirty.
Christians are dirty people. In fact, all people are dirty people. Two types of dirty though.
First, we are caked in the dirt of sin. Every inch of our lives is, in some way or another, pervaded and clouded by that dreadful gunk. Life is not simply a cruise, a ride to sit back and enjoy. To be brutally honest, we live each day in a terribly terrifying struggle (thlipsis in the Greek). We constantly see the horrors of famine, genocide, injustice, war, and disease each and every day. Thousands of children die of malnutrition, tens of thousands killed by preventable sicknesses and millions go to bed having endured a day filled with more sorrows than we could ever imagine as slaves of the body, figures of abuse, or products of broken homes. Moreover, we find ourselves heavily leaning towards the wrong. We seem to have a constant calibration which pushes us in a direction of disobedience, pride, and hate. We indulge in our gluttony, play servant to our stomachs, and deny our birthright as children of God by turning our face in the midst of our daily actions.
Me included. Life is dirty.
But, there's another kind of dirtiness. Dr. Blount spoke about this using a story from his childhood. As a kid, Blount played football, well, actually he sat on the bench for the football team. But each game day, he, along with the rest of the team, would (nonetheless) proudly wear their school colors around their torso as a badge of honor. However, Blount soon noticed a difference between his jersey and the others. The guys who played had jerseys discoloured and torn from use, pieces of grass still stuck in the tiny perforations, whereas Blount's was washed, dried, and even ironed for his daily wear (not to hard to keep a clean jersey clean). In short, Blount always hoped that he could, at least once, get out on the field and get dirty. Roll around in the muck. Proudly wear the badge of masculinity which said "I fought the fight".
Christians, Blount said, need to get dirty. We cannot simply sit around, hiding from the devastating depravity of our world and our own human natures. Rather, we must go and, through our faith, let the dirtiness of our actions glisten through the blood of the lamb. This may mean going to dirty places, being with dirty people, and mucking through the sinkholes and swamps of our society. We may get hurt, heck, we may even become so entrenched in the dirt that our own community may question our motivation. However, regardless of the dirt caked upon our spirits, let us never forget that in tribulation and trial that those who come to their heavenly Father will have their clothes...
...washed in the blood of the Lamb
Love to you all
B.
Gotta love the good ol' days.
Adults don't get dirty. When I was around Princeton, I see very few mud-caked university professors. I think such a phenomena is not uncommon in most urban areas. More often than not, we are encouraged to clean up for our meals, for our dates, for social luncheons and private dinner parties and for every event in between. Dirtiness is a sign of disorganization, uncouthness, and a total lack of urbanity which separates man from beast. We are dirty only by utility: if the telos is worth its weight in mud, then so be it. Otherwise, we avoid jumping through the puddles, wadding in the swamps, shoveling through the compost, or changing any soiled diapers, if possible. We attempt to clean up our messes so we carry around sanitizer, we shower constantly, we cover our odor with perfume, cover our skin with lotions, bathe our clothing in Tide, and scrub every inch of skin we can to become the epitome of spotlessness. This is perfectly fine with me, as I personally have no qualms about those around me NOT being covering in the gunk and grime from their daily grind. However, that which is worth something, often of impertinent value, often comes at the price of our cleanliness.
Last Sunday, Nassau Presbyterian had Brain Blount speak; a former Princeton Theological Seminary Professor of New Testament studies who is now president of Union Presbyterian Seminary down in Virginia. In his sermon, he reflected on Revelation 7:9-17, which reads:
After these things I looked and beheld a massive crowd, of which no one would be able to count, from every nation and culture and from every people and language standing in the presence of the throne and the lamb, having been adorned in white clothing with palm branches in their hands, and they announced in a great chorus saying:
"Salvation belongs to our God, who sits upon the throne, and to the lamb."
And all the angels encircled the throne as well as both the elders and the four living creatures and they fell upon their faces in the presence of the throne and they worshiped God saying:
"Truly, Blessing and Glory, Wisdom and Thanksgiving,
Honor and Power and Strength,
be to our God forever and ever, Amen."
And one of the elders asked saying to me. "These people adorned in white clothing, who are they and from where have they come?" And I answered him "My lord, surely you know." And he said to me:
"These are the who come out of the great struggle, and have washed their clothes and whitened them in the blood of the lamb.
Because of this, they are in the presence of the throne of God
and they praise him day and night in his cathedral,
and he who sits upon the throne will prepare shelter for them.
They shall not pine or be parched any longer,
nor shall the sun or the heat strike them,
For the lamb at the middle of the throne shall tend to them and will lead them to bubbling streams of water.
And God will wipe every tear from their eyes." Revelation 7:9-17 (my translation)
What an ironic statement! To be cleaned we wash not in Tide or Snuggle...we wash in the blood of the lamb. To truly become white, we first must become dirty. Moreover, to be washing in the blood of the lamb, one must first arrive dirty.
Christians are dirty people. In fact, all people are dirty people. Two types of dirty though.
First, we are caked in the dirt of sin. Every inch of our lives is, in some way or another, pervaded and clouded by that dreadful gunk. Life is not simply a cruise, a ride to sit back and enjoy. To be brutally honest, we live each day in a terribly terrifying struggle (thlipsis in the Greek). We constantly see the horrors of famine, genocide, injustice, war, and disease each and every day. Thousands of children die of malnutrition, tens of thousands killed by preventable sicknesses and millions go to bed having endured a day filled with more sorrows than we could ever imagine as slaves of the body, figures of abuse, or products of broken homes. Moreover, we find ourselves heavily leaning towards the wrong. We seem to have a constant calibration which pushes us in a direction of disobedience, pride, and hate. We indulge in our gluttony, play servant to our stomachs, and deny our birthright as children of God by turning our face in the midst of our daily actions.
Me included. Life is dirty.
But, there's another kind of dirtiness. Dr. Blount spoke about this using a story from his childhood. As a kid, Blount played football, well, actually he sat on the bench for the football team. But each game day, he, along with the rest of the team, would (nonetheless) proudly wear their school colors around their torso as a badge of honor. However, Blount soon noticed a difference between his jersey and the others. The guys who played had jerseys discoloured and torn from use, pieces of grass still stuck in the tiny perforations, whereas Blount's was washed, dried, and even ironed for his daily wear (not to hard to keep a clean jersey clean). In short, Blount always hoped that he could, at least once, get out on the field and get dirty. Roll around in the muck. Proudly wear the badge of masculinity which said "I fought the fight".
Christians, Blount said, need to get dirty. We cannot simply sit around, hiding from the devastating depravity of our world and our own human natures. Rather, we must go and, through our faith, let the dirtiness of our actions glisten through the blood of the lamb. This may mean going to dirty places, being with dirty people, and mucking through the sinkholes and swamps of our society. We may get hurt, heck, we may even become so entrenched in the dirt that our own community may question our motivation. However, regardless of the dirt caked upon our spirits, let us never forget that in tribulation and trial that those who come to their heavenly Father will have their clothes...
...washed in the blood of the Lamb
Love to you all
B.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Dance Music
The Mountain Goats captivate me...no, not actual mountain goats. The Mountain Goats is the ontologically misleading moniker of John Darnielle, a folk-rock lyricist whose songs touch on everything from the deepest spiritual skandelon to the confusing days of youth. One of his songs off the album "The Sunset Tree" has really grasped me lately, the title?...
Dance Music.
It's an upbeat, two minute diddy where Darnielle reflects back to his childhood and the abuse he witnessed and received from his stepfather, escaping to his room to his headphones to engulf himself in the volume knob, listening to...you got it, dance music.
Normally, we consider dance music to be music which occasions the moments of life which require jubilation and rejoicing. Dance is, more often than not, something we usually avoid in our sorrow or frustration. Usually, at the end of a rough and tumultuous week the last thing we want to do is dance. When life doesn't go our way, when we bask in our self-remorse and bitterness, when a dark cloud of misfortune shadows us, it is then we avoid dance.
Not Dance Music though. After all, as Darnielle writes, Dance Music was his escape, the volume his separation, and the tones and chords his sanctuary from the shattered world beneath his bedroom floor. Such an irony that such exuberant and cheerful music is merely the droning barrier from the misfortune of our unsettled lives.
Dance Music...dangerous stuff. After all, in a world where we can't do it on our own, we surely cannot depend on our self-ignoring frustration buffer. We need to depend on something, or someone, much stronger than the volume meter on our iPods, the hustle and bustle of a busy schedule, or even the company of others. In the midst of pain we must offer them up to someone who heals brokenness, eases anxiety, and says "brother, sister, have peace"
Here people do something interesting. Instead of greeting during service, they say "peace, may the peace of the Lord be with you". Maybe we should do the same. Maybe peace is something we've long ignored. Maybe we need to trade our Dance Music for the joy of the Lord; His peace.
Peace, shalom, and love
B.
Dance Music.
It's an upbeat, two minute diddy where Darnielle reflects back to his childhood and the abuse he witnessed and received from his stepfather, escaping to his room to his headphones to engulf himself in the volume knob, listening to...you got it, dance music.
Normally, we consider dance music to be music which occasions the moments of life which require jubilation and rejoicing. Dance is, more often than not, something we usually avoid in our sorrow or frustration. Usually, at the end of a rough and tumultuous week the last thing we want to do is dance. When life doesn't go our way, when we bask in our self-remorse and bitterness, when a dark cloud of misfortune shadows us, it is then we avoid dance.
Not Dance Music though. After all, as Darnielle writes, Dance Music was his escape, the volume his separation, and the tones and chords his sanctuary from the shattered world beneath his bedroom floor. Such an irony that such exuberant and cheerful music is merely the droning barrier from the misfortune of our unsettled lives.
Dance Music...dangerous stuff. After all, in a world where we can't do it on our own, we surely cannot depend on our self-ignoring frustration buffer. We need to depend on something, or someone, much stronger than the volume meter on our iPods, the hustle and bustle of a busy schedule, or even the company of others. In the midst of pain we must offer them up to someone who heals brokenness, eases anxiety, and says "brother, sister, have peace"
Here people do something interesting. Instead of greeting during service, they say "peace, may the peace of the Lord be with you". Maybe we should do the same. Maybe peace is something we've long ignored. Maybe we need to trade our Dance Music for the joy of the Lord; His peace.
Peace, shalom, and love
B.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Where I Belong
I've been in Princeton a week now. It beautiful. Lavish. It's a town covering in spacious parks, secluded shops and a collection of the most gorgeous buildings I have ever seen. It has this feel about it: an almost mystical feeling as you walk down each and every street and inhale the history and grandeur of such a place. Towers and arches whose detail could captivate the imagination for hours with courtyards dotted with copper-green statues memorializing figures that one read about in their textbooks. Two hours ago I stood in the front lawn of the last residence of Albert Einstein, the wizard of Princeton who for years walked the campus and honored the grounds which he wended upon with his sheer brilliance. Princeton is the most captivating and engaging place I have ever lived.
But am I home? No. Not even close. In fact, it's lonely.
I'm not one who tries to be needy, and in fact, more often than not I try to avoid such labels. I'm usually a pretty independent person who trusts that God's plan is surely much more sufficient than my own, so following Him is the path I must go, for His good and thus my own. However, though I feel like I'm supposed to be here, there's a part of me which longs for something nothing here can satisfy.
I miss her.
I miss her so much. I know I'm normally more philosophical when I write but right now I can't help but miss and miss heavily. Princeton is great: I fit right in here well with new acquaintances, brilliant minds always equipped for deep discussion,and the most beautiful surroundings I could ever ask for. But it's not home. It's not her.
I miss her. I miss her arms. I miss her smell. I sit alone in my room and wonder what she's doing. I slouch during long, mandatory orientation lectures and wish I could pick up my phone and call her. I stare at her picture and wish it was her I was staring at. I pause at the smell of every cup of hot chocolate and smile sadly whenever i see the beauties of this place because every time I see them, I know she'd love it too.
In fact, I can barely enjoy this place without her. I've realized that she's different. Why? Because I have never felt so empty without someone. So unfulfilled without someone to share the little things with. I ache to speak with her without a cloud of loneliness drudging overhead. I'd do anything to hear her laugh right next to me.
She's my home. She's where i belong. I've been brought to Princeton for a reason, and I know this is where I'm supposed to be. But I know she's supposed to be here too, and until that moment is fulfilled, I feel like all of this will seem shallow, empty, whimsically light compared to the gravity of my longing to be with her.
How love changes everything. Yet, for how much I miss her and wish I was in her arms, I wouldn't wish not to miss her because for how much it hurts for how lonely every night and every day can be, the pain makes me realize how blessed I am to have her at all. How blessed I am to anticipate the day when everything is fulfilled, when her presence is felt morning by morning, and when her kiss can be what I wake and sleep too; forever.
Isn't this what our anticipation for God's coming kingdom should look like? An ache for the future hope of Christ coming to have communion and relationship with us? In the midst of a world of pain and suffering we work, we play, and we mourn. And we loath the painful times. We loath the death, destruction, and emptiness and long for a moment of healing in a dark world. But we have hope, for a day is coming when Christ shall come like a bridegroom (Matthew 25:1-13) and we wait, sometimes heavy-hearted, for Him. The question becomes are we ready for His return? Have we prepared ourselves for His coming?
Our anticipation leads to action which may lead to pain, suffering, and anxiety. However, in the midst of our suffering and in our loneliness we further realize how beautiful the day when Christ comes to heal our broken world.
And how beautiful she'll be when I can see her again, face to face. Until now, I'll long for Christ's kingdom and long for her presence in this place.
Love.
I miss you Hana
B.
But am I home? No. Not even close. In fact, it's lonely.
I'm not one who tries to be needy, and in fact, more often than not I try to avoid such labels. I'm usually a pretty independent person who trusts that God's plan is surely much more sufficient than my own, so following Him is the path I must go, for His good and thus my own. However, though I feel like I'm supposed to be here, there's a part of me which longs for something nothing here can satisfy.
I miss her.
I miss her so much. I know I'm normally more philosophical when I write but right now I can't help but miss and miss heavily. Princeton is great: I fit right in here well with new acquaintances, brilliant minds always equipped for deep discussion,and the most beautiful surroundings I could ever ask for. But it's not home. It's not her.
I miss her. I miss her arms. I miss her smell. I sit alone in my room and wonder what she's doing. I slouch during long, mandatory orientation lectures and wish I could pick up my phone and call her. I stare at her picture and wish it was her I was staring at. I pause at the smell of every cup of hot chocolate and smile sadly whenever i see the beauties of this place because every time I see them, I know she'd love it too.
In fact, I can barely enjoy this place without her. I've realized that she's different. Why? Because I have never felt so empty without someone. So unfulfilled without someone to share the little things with. I ache to speak with her without a cloud of loneliness drudging overhead. I'd do anything to hear her laugh right next to me.
She's my home. She's where i belong. I've been brought to Princeton for a reason, and I know this is where I'm supposed to be. But I know she's supposed to be here too, and until that moment is fulfilled, I feel like all of this will seem shallow, empty, whimsically light compared to the gravity of my longing to be with her.
How love changes everything. Yet, for how much I miss her and wish I was in her arms, I wouldn't wish not to miss her because for how much it hurts for how lonely every night and every day can be, the pain makes me realize how blessed I am to have her at all. How blessed I am to anticipate the day when everything is fulfilled, when her presence is felt morning by morning, and when her kiss can be what I wake and sleep too; forever.
Isn't this what our anticipation for God's coming kingdom should look like? An ache for the future hope of Christ coming to have communion and relationship with us? In the midst of a world of pain and suffering we work, we play, and we mourn. And we loath the painful times. We loath the death, destruction, and emptiness and long for a moment of healing in a dark world. But we have hope, for a day is coming when Christ shall come like a bridegroom (Matthew 25:1-13) and we wait, sometimes heavy-hearted, for Him. The question becomes are we ready for His return? Have we prepared ourselves for His coming?
Our anticipation leads to action which may lead to pain, suffering, and anxiety. However, in the midst of our suffering and in our loneliness we further realize how beautiful the day when Christ comes to heal our broken world.
And how beautiful she'll be when I can see her again, face to face. Until now, I'll long for Christ's kingdom and long for her presence in this place.
Love.
I miss you Hana
B.
Friday, September 17, 2010
"All The World Is Green"
"I fell into the ocean
When you became my wife
I risked it all aganist the sea
To have a better life
Marie you're the wild blue sky
And men do foolish things
You turn kings into beggars
beggars into kings"
-"All The World is Green"
Tom Waits - Off the Album Blood Money
Life is a risky business. Some days are country strolls and others face the onslaught of the headlights and piercing honks of the oncoming traffic. One minute we've struck a spiritual epitome and within seconds a crack in our proverbial dam releases a rush of fears, concerns and outright dreads which strike us upon the very edge of our sanity. The tidal pools of tranquil sunsets suddenly torment with the insurmountable rage of Scylla and the gluttonous appetite of Charybdis.
Our lives are never truly safe. Safe means stagnant. Safe means comfortable. Safe means that we've reached a satisfying place, a peaceful valley where we lie down upon the cool grass and drink our iced teas. However, that which is truly lasting always takes time, always takes effort, and takes a determination and commitment which truly "risks the sea" and truly does "foolish things". But are such actions truly fool-hearty when one cannot risk not to act? The passions we hold, the relationships we treasures, the love of our very life and soul, and the Savior who risked it all of those who don't truly deserve such an audacious risk.
The gifts of God are miraculous. They reach us at the most intimate chasms of our souls. They build us, break us, and journey us to a place where we never could have before reached.
As Chambers says "The greatest spiritual crisis comes when a person has to move a little farther in their faith than the beliefs they have already accepted." In the same, to truly move from being a beggar, we must accept a king who became a beggar. If God "became man so that man might become truly human" then we must accepted both a Christ who descended in love and respond, with his strength, towards His purpose for us. We must risk again the rough seas, the terrific winds, and the scolding attitudes surrounding us if we are to voyage towards Him coming kingdom.
Until the day of that arrival, we must risk. We must live a life dangerous in order to prepare for the true king.
Nice to be back. I miss you all.
I love you Punky.
Blake.
When you became my wife
I risked it all aganist the sea
To have a better life
Marie you're the wild blue sky
And men do foolish things
You turn kings into beggars
beggars into kings"
-"All The World is Green"
Tom Waits - Off the Album Blood Money
Life is a risky business. Some days are country strolls and others face the onslaught of the headlights and piercing honks of the oncoming traffic. One minute we've struck a spiritual epitome and within seconds a crack in our proverbial dam releases a rush of fears, concerns and outright dreads which strike us upon the very edge of our sanity. The tidal pools of tranquil sunsets suddenly torment with the insurmountable rage of Scylla and the gluttonous appetite of Charybdis.
Our lives are never truly safe. Safe means stagnant. Safe means comfortable. Safe means that we've reached a satisfying place, a peaceful valley where we lie down upon the cool grass and drink our iced teas. However, that which is truly lasting always takes time, always takes effort, and takes a determination and commitment which truly "risks the sea" and truly does "foolish things". But are such actions truly fool-hearty when one cannot risk not to act? The passions we hold, the relationships we treasures, the love of our very life and soul, and the Savior who risked it all of those who don't truly deserve such an audacious risk.
The gifts of God are miraculous. They reach us at the most intimate chasms of our souls. They build us, break us, and journey us to a place where we never could have before reached.
As Chambers says "The greatest spiritual crisis comes when a person has to move a little farther in their faith than the beliefs they have already accepted." In the same, to truly move from being a beggar, we must accept a king who became a beggar. If God "became man so that man might become truly human" then we must accepted both a Christ who descended in love and respond, with his strength, towards His purpose for us. We must risk again the rough seas, the terrific winds, and the scolding attitudes surrounding us if we are to voyage towards Him coming kingdom.
Until the day of that arrival, we must risk. We must live a life dangerous in order to prepare for the true king.
Nice to be back. I miss you all.
I love you Punky.
Blake.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)