Leap Ye Lame

Lack

2010-02-06T17:05:00.005-06:00

This blog touts itself as a place where this writer will share, now and again, her meditations on struggling through this temporal world with disability. It's not what you might think; it's really quite a life. But there are moments when I grow damn sick and tired of one-handedness, of limping- of lacking ability. I can hear the little voice in my head now that says " be grateful, you are not worse off and get over your sorry self-pity". That, I suppose, the theologians would say, is the voice of evil itself trying to assert that one's pain and suffering is of no matter, because the precept of meaninglessness stands for the proposition that nothing matters, not even or especially suffering. Thanks be to God that proposition fails miserably. As we've discussed before at this blog, a proposition of truth, even if its core is to assert that nothing matters, still asserts truth. That my friends is the wily answer for the father of lies. When your arch enemy attacks with the wind of relativism whispering "did God really say, or stop whining, you don't matter anyway", you must turn with the sword of truth which is the Word of God - stabbing falsehood well and good.

Saint Paul encouraged the Corinthian church by saying:

I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

2 Corinthians 12:10

Because my Saviour knows my every need and the excruciating minutiae of my weaknesses, I can rest in him. Do I always? Sadly, no. Thankfully, his grace is sufficient, even when I wrestle with lack.

Numbers

2010-02-06T16:32:00.005-06:00

I posted on facebook at the first of this year that I'd be calling the year by its proper name- "Twenty-Ten". I haven't the stamina to keep up with all the syllables it takes to say "Two-thousand and ten" It might sound like a trifling thing to you, dear reader, but heck, it's a shortcut with which I can, and will live. I hope you can. All this introduction and meandering to say that I wrote a poem a while back with numbers in the title. And I re-titled it today so it could go in this decade.

Twenty-Ten

Look how we’ve far we’ve come:

to see slaughter
of man in broad daylight,
while distracted experts
argue the temperature of earth.

There is no one righteous, not even one.

Watch the ascent of humanity:

Pharisees in Babylon order she has the right;
Science ordains the puncture of a helpless skull,
Does the pith in the verse stab your mind?

The More Loving One, by Auden

2010-01-17T10:32:00.003-06:00

Because every once in awhile, I will post another's poem, today I choose Auden. And in the doing of it, I ask you to ponder the true "more loving one" He who made the stars has endured every hatred and indifference, including the full wrath of his own father. It is beyond me just as the stars themselves are, to fathom the greatness of God. Today, there is the staggering reality of an earthquake. How can a loving God allow something so cruel to unfold?? To which I first respond: GREAT question! Then, if I've my wits about me, and am open to indwelling of his Holy Spirit, I can, and have responded: have you considered what this loving God allowed his own son to endure...for our sakes? How can I be indifferent to that kind of love?

The More Loving One
by W. H. Auden

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

"The More Loving One" by W.H. Auden, from Collected Poems. © The Modern Library — Random House, 2007. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

Sinking Sand

2010-01-03T09:14:00.005-06:00

The prior post about my dear sister and Flannery Making A Way stirred me to ponder where & in whom it is I place my trust. I love my sister. I admire Flannery. I am thankful for a home and a roof over my poor head. But were I to love my sister or the words of Flannery more than dear Jesus, I would be entertaining worshipping the made and not the Maker. The words of Edward Mote resound:

My hope is built on nothing less
than Jesus' blood and righteousness
I dare not trust the sweetest frame,
But wholly lean on Jesus' name
On Christ the solid rock I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand.

It might look as though life is rich and full where family is at the core, or where your keepsakes and possessions are dust free. A life of abounding order and streak-free windows is nice, but not trustworthy.

Making a Way

2010-01-01T11:28:00.005-06:00

When we get our spiritual house in order, we'll be dead. This goes on. You arrive at enough certainty to make your way, but it is making it in darkness. Don't expect faith to clear things up for you, it is trust, not certainty. - Flannery O'Connor

Her words have a seal of authenticity; Flannery O'Connor's short life remains vivid to me because she was a damn fine writer, and she suffered terrible pain. So she knew about suffering in a unique way, and therefore her voice is trusted, even to this day.

Over the last few days, I've been staggered by the kindness of my sister, her tending to my house with me, de-cluttering, cleaning and preparing it for sale. Now the house, is, as they say, on the market. I keep telling my sister, I could not have done it without you- and it's true. I would still be floundering and staring at all the stuff, wondering what to do next. She, armed with zeal like the north wind, buoyed me toward the finish line. Left to my own devices, I'd drift along, halfway content the rest of my days in dust and old daydreams. Maybe I could have finished this project of de-cluttering without her, but it would have been a lonelier job, and six months in the doing of it. With her help, I did it in almost one 14 hour day. We threw out a load of old stuff- things I did not need, things I would never use, that today could be smiling at someone from a pale Goodwill shelf.

And so we made our way. In the midst of it, when the piles of clutter were enormous, when my bones creaked and muscles ached, I did not think it possible. But as I watched my passionate sister carry on through the day and night, I was energized and inspired. Several times she would stop to clutch her back and sigh. I grew weary too and temperamental at times, biting my tongue on occasion, and letting it slip on others. Nevertheless, we muddled through. In making our way through that long day, I've been the one to reap the fruit of the labor. My home is a showplace.

My sister is the Flannery O'Connor of home fixer-uppers, she's a doer with stick-to-ittiveness. She calls it like she sees it. She loves the truth. And she inspires me. She is more like Flannery than any of you could ever know; her suffering has lasted a lifetime. And it has shaped her into a stunning woman with an authentic voice-for hers and Flannery's I am ever grateful.

For all the Saints

2009-11-01T17:33:00.000-06:00

Today is All Saints day. At worship this morning, we were invited to celebrate the saints who've gone before us by testifying to their witness in our lives-how they, the saints at peace in Christ, showed us the Gospel. Instead of a gospel sermon in the usual fashion, were were privy to the gospel via stories of redemption & remembrance. It was a sweet time of honoring the dead in Christ.
For me, many souls came to mind. Istill say, the woman appointed to speak the crux of the gospel of Jesus Christ to me, was Betty Williams. This morning I could have attested to her faithfulness. If I were to stand right there in front of you now, dear reader, I'd repeat what I've said before.
I'd say she taught the Word so as to send it out to the dark recesses of my dark heart for safe-keeping. That, when some thirty years hence, I went overboard drowning in sea of relativism and caverns of darkness, her sound exposition of the Word of God resonated. It still does.

She would be the first to tell you that she herself was not faithful, nay, God himself was perfectly faithful for her, in sending Christ. As it turns, because of God's great faithfulness to saints like Betty, the rippling continues. We too can join with those who have gone before and declare the righteousness of God as our salvation. He, seeing our great need, came to us, lived among our kin, lived a spotless life for us, then took our iniquity on himself. To beat all, he defeated the last enemy death by his bodily resurrection. Thanks be to God for that great gift, and for sending his earthly shepherds who urge us to consider the efficacy of the Christ's gospel.

Sola Deo Gloria

The End of Rest?

2009-11-01T16:00:00.000-06:00

Contemplating the end of convalescence, I decided to come back to blogging for awhile. It has been since late September that I last penned (tapped/typed) a thing. Work will be back on the docket tomorrow. So, it is with tad of sadness I bid adieu to this time of repairing. Perhaps I can take a slice of this time with me back to the 'work day' mentality; may I remember to rest, to take it slow at first, and to lean into the goodness of God when the insanity of the daily grind intensifies.

As you all ponder work days, whatever that means for each of you, be it the proverbial 9-5, the home-office freedom, the cold calls of sales, the government servant, or the soul looking for work, be mindful of what your body tells you. And foremost, be mindful of the fact you were created, not dreamed up or morphed. Take time to worship the God of creation. Be still, know that he (alone) is God.

Hysteria?

2009-09-19T08:48:00.000-05:00

There's much to do before I head out the door Monday, September 21 for the hospital. I'm headed there to part with my uterus, fallopian tubes, and one remaining ovary. I'm ready to leave now, but hospitals are not in the business of welcoming the premature these days unless you happen to be an infant.
I keep looking for that other shoe to drop, but no thing prolapses. Waiting has been more difficult than this, and, compared to other waiting done, this pales. The prior post on peace might have a thing or two to do with that, the Giver of the Peace the more, I'd say. So I'll wait for the difficulty with one eye open. My restless heart is restless like the Egyptian Bishop's, til it rests in Thee, O Lord.

And I got to thinking (this, my friends, is one of the dangers of being me, a two edged sword, is the act of thinking) what about the etymology of this word, hysterectomy? I recall seeing a photo in a psych textbook depicting a forlorn woman wailing in the confines of a mental institution whilst suffering with what was then called hysteria. Hysterectomy: hystera Greek for womb, and ektomia, for cutting out of. Those pictured women in that textbook were thought to be mad with hysteria, Hippocrates theorized, because of a lack of conjugal relations. His proposition: the uteri dried, was therefore light, migrating north in the body, pressing on other vital organs, creating an interior physical disturbance that would, therefore, lead to madness. Like much of what is 'theorized', by the scientific, I can only shake my head and mourn for those dear women who were misdiagnosed by those situated to do so from Hippocrates to the present day.

I can assure you that if a lack of sex were the cause of hysteria, I too would be featured in the pages of a textbook, swooning from the condition. Think me too forward? Perhaps.

I can steel myself from the misinterpretations of the word hysteria, the stigmas, the wrong-doing, because, it has not been done unto me. I've even joked that I'm submitting to a hysterical-ectomy. For those dear souls, men & women who suffer from mental illness, this is not the case. Their battles have nary a thing to do with floating uteruses. I'm no modern day crusading Dorthea Dix. I haven't the the fortitude to fight that cause, I'm a vain blogger who's getting ready to lie down to ether, reflecting on the etymology of a word. As I reflect, I wonder if we might, you and I, stop and ponder before uttering words like hysterical, hysteria, or any other word for that matter.

Peace

2009-09-19T08:26:00.000-05:00

For the troubled mind, for the weary, for the broken-hearted, there's but one solace. I submit to you it is the peace of Christ. Just as his supremacy is like light scattering darkness, so his perfect peace is. It is not because I believe it to be true, it is not mere existential truth. Nay, this peace of Christ has been from before the foundation of the world. This same peace reconciles us to the Father through Christ the son, by the Holy Spirit. He is the first, he is the last. No one comes to the Father but through Christ. I cling to the Gospel of peace for my life in the now, and for the life to come. Sola Deo Gloria.

Hope

2009-08-16T21:03:00.000-05:00

Witness this wonderful rendering of T.S. Eliot by Nashville artist, Dick Murphy.
Today has been a lovely day full of the prospect of hope, due in part to Dick's fine capture of the brooding poet. Also, life is sometimes difficult beyond imagining. There are griefs, sorrows, hurts, and sufferings too numerous to count. Sometimes we find ourselves situated between a rock and a hard place. Eliot knew these dire roads. Yet he used words to provoke hope:

I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope

For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,

For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith

But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.

Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:

So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.

from The Four Quartets East Coker

Thanks be to God for the gifts of T.S. Eliot and Dick Murphy.

Faces & Haiku

2009-08-08T17:30:00.000-05:00

I joined Facebook about the time the spinmasters say it is going out of vogue. That's about right. I dug in my heels and would not consider it for the longest. Fear motivated that choice. Tired of fear. So- here we go.

I took an old friend's advice and wrote a poem about it:

Paranoid fools fear
Kept her away from faces
Some of whom she loves.

What's Up Doc?

2009-07-26T09:32:00.000-05:00

I'll answer that question for you- my friend RoseAnne Coleman, er, Dr. RoseAnne Coleman, writer, speaker, & teacher is up and blogging, here. It would do you well to read her posts, and her book, The Stories I Keep. She has much to offer you, the reader. I know you'll appreciate her wit and wisdom, wrought by the caldron of God's mercies, new to her each day.

ENJOY!!!

Advice

2009-07-26T08:16:00.000-05:00

I think of the word advice as intrusive, for some reason; or, maybe it is the doing of it that seems so, not the word itself. Yet, its sound, advice has a sharp edge to it, like a sword's blade. Sometimes, advice is most disruptive when it is not sought. I must say I'm practiced at giving it prematurely, but that is the subject of another essay, for another time.

Last night, friend RoseAnne Coleman, asked fellow diners and celebrants if we might ponder and share what advice we'd impart up to this point of our lives lived. I thought for a moment, and offered this:

You can run, but you cannot hide.

Someone far wiser than I said it before me. For much of my life, off and on, I lived by the maxim that if one stays busy, attendant to the task at hand, or given to the destruction inherent in a life spent running without rest, one might succeed in hiding. Our good God has proved me wrong by his gentle mercy over and over. One of the best renderings of the idea is captured in
David's Psalm 139: 7-12:

Where can I go from your Spirit?
Or where shall I flee from your presence?
If ascend to heaven, you are there!
If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!
If I take the wings of the morning,
and dwell in the utter most parts of the sea,
even there, your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me.
If I say surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light about me be night,
even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is bright as the day
for darkness is as light with you.

The definition of advice (www.dictionary.com)
includes the word visage: the face of a person; countenance.

The sobering fact is plain: there is no place to hide from God. Because of his great love, in Christ's intercession, His face is toward you-always.

May I seek his advice, though it slay me, he is always and only good.

Peace and Dignity

2009-07-16T06:19:00.000-05:00

Over a year ago, Jerome Sidney Barrett was indicted for the murder of Marcia Trimble. Just last Saturday, a jury of his peers convicted him of the crime of second degree murder in two counts. He'll likely spend the rest of his life in prison. Oh there'll be appeals, there'll probably be petitions for post-conviction relief. The lawyers will wrangle about the issues and posture to the judges, as with every case. I listened to most of the trial, and relived a great portion of the winter of my 12th year. Much came undone. Anguish surfaced. Fear stirred. After the verdict was rendered, Marcia's mother spoke to the media. Standing in the wake of three decades of swirling horror and grief, she literally sighed relief. Much of the time, a sigh of relief is bland poetry. For Virginia Trimble Ritter, last Saturday, it was reality. A well-meaning reporter asked her if, now, at the conclusion of the trial, she might have closure. Her response was gracious. She said something like this:

I think I'll have to see what Mr. Webster says about closure, I don't think I know what that word means. But I can say this. Today, I'm on the other side of pain.

Waiting thirty-four years for a killer to be found and brought to justice will leave a woman wanting. It'll slice you up and spit you out. Mrs. Trimble-Ritter has lived to tell. She has endured the dark nights, the fierce days, and attacks of hopelessness. At the end of this leg of the journey, Marcia's death still looms, and I'm sure it does in a new way for Mrs. Trimble-Ritter.

One of the details I appreciate about indictments in Tennessee, is the verbiage that follows each allegation. At the conclusion of every count of every indictment, prior to the District Attorney General's signature is the phrase that prompted my writing today:

in violation of T.C.A. 39-13-.....and against the peace and dignity of the State of Tennessee.

At every trial the indictment is read into the record, and those words jangle in the mind of a jury; against the peace and dignity. In the Barrett trial, I was fortunate to hear colleague Katrin Miller read the indictment. I focused on those words through-out the trial and at the end felt a curious peace, not so much afforded by the State, or to the State, but rather that peace that passes understanding, the contentment that comes from a long journey's endurance.

May Virginia Trimble-Ritter have attained some peace & dignity. She has shared hers well. Even in the revisiting of great sadness, I pray she be sustained. One day, all of what was lost will be restored to her, to Marcia, to us.

Sola Deo Gloria.

School Days

2009-05-20T07:50:00.000-05:00

This post is for the parents and teachers. Kids can read it too. G-rated. I promise. But primarily I'm thinking of the adults who are either breathing a sigh of sweet and/or anxious relief that this leg of the journey is nearly over. It seems like just yesterday that little junior was born...how can this be that my eldest child is graduating from high school? Or, how is it that the first year of teaching at this new school is almost behind me..?
It is all in the blink of an eye, I suppose, because that is the nature of time, it is, at its core temporal. And, the good news for you is this, in eternity, there will be no tests, no hurdles of achievement or comparing one's child to another, no competition. As you pack up the things of your child, or your classroom, and you begin to ponder the stress of next year, take five. Stop a minute, if only in your mind and submit to the everlasting truth for which we wait, the very reason for which education was lauded in the first place: Jesus.

Christ has already won the prize, and there, in heaven with him, we will be about the business of worship. Always. Forever. Amen.

Confession

2009-05-06T08:04:00.000-05:00

Cowardice and pride are at the root of what stalls me from living out my salvation with fear and trembling. Ugly sin to be sure, but thanks be to God, I have an advocate of the utmost courage and true humility. Fall now at the feet of him who saves. God's peace be with you friends, [for that peace is the only peace which will do].

Go this rain-soaked day and do what it is you do: write, counsel, argue, serve, teach, instruct, rest, live, and die......well, with courage.

Back in the Swim

2009-05-04T07:23:00.000-05:00

Sigh.

It's hard to convey how deep that opening sigh is. Please use your imagination(s) This past Saturday, I planned to attend a writing workshop. As is usually the case, when I even stop to think about prattling on in writing, I get the jitters-picture multiple sighs as manifest in the muscles of your heart. I hemmed. I hawed. Thanks be to God, I went.

So, I decided to start posting here again. There's an awkwardness to the first plunge. Or should I say re-plunge? At the workshop, I wrote a verse about the swim class in which I was enrolled-as an infant. Yep. An infant. With apologies to Saint Paul and the Holy Spirit of God, when I was a child, I swam as a child, now that I am older, I still swim as a child.

In the interim- this long delay between posts, I waited on the side of the pool. I waited for the desire to stop writing. It never really took, but for a time, I had no words. There was the tradition of the Lenten season-how convenient for a law-keeper! So I waited longer.

For those of you waiting on God, keep waiting-listening. And when the time comes, jump in, the water's fine.

Sola Deo Gloria.

Mysterious

2009-02-22T16:22:00.000-06:00

William Cowper was a poet and a hymn writer who lived a desperate life, oft challenged by despair. In fact, so deep was his darkness that he attempted suicide many times. While a patient in a mental hospital, he was in the care of a compassionate soul who lead him to Christ.

It is said that even after his conversion, Cowper suffered greatly. Yet he clung to the one who saves and wrote many poems and hymns in testament to his Savior. Surely it must have occurred to Cowper that though he was a new creature in Christ, his life was, from time, to time, still a troubled one. Perhaps that what he pondered when he wrote this hymn:

God Moves in a Mysterious Way

1 God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.
2 Deep in unfathomable mines of never-failing skill
He treasures up his bright designs, and works His sovereign will.
3 Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take; The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break in blessings on your head.
4 Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, but trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.
5 His purposes will ripen fast, unfolding ev'ry hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste, but sweet will be the flow'r.
6 Blind unbelief is sure to err, and scan His work in vain.
God is his own interpreter, and He will make it plain.

This hymn was sung today at the church I visited. As we sang verse four, I literally laughed out loud. Not a guffaw laugh, but an epiphanous giggle. I have long judged the Lord by my feeble sense of reality. I've given him what for and railed at him because of my own circumstance. Perhaps it is the life-long issue with which I wrestle, and by which I grow into sweeter communion with the God who is mysterious, yet faithful. For though I struggle and strive with him and his purposes, he mercifully tends to me by his infinite grace.

Sola Deo Gloria!

Dad and Dylan

2009-02-04T00:13:00.000-06:00

It is no small wonder I am given to music. I grew up listening to my Dad sing a lot. He is not a trained or professional singer but he could have been. He loved then, and loves still, a good song. I mentioned Dad's penchant for song in this, the first post of this blog, May 22nd, 2008. Here's the relevant excerpt:

I remember my dad holding his hymnal out and lowering it a bit so I could see and sing along; my dad's deep baritone voice fully engaging the melody. Every so often, dad would start singing the harmony, and off I'd go, on the same trail, sometimes making the note, sometimes not, but seldom, if ever, staying on the melody. He'd gaze over his glasses, quizzical that I'd not harmonized. I wanted to sing with him, to go with him on that wild adventure of hymn singing!

Even though my dad's devotion to hymn singing is a big part of his repertoire, he is fond of popular tunes too. Cole Porter, Gershwin, Rodgers and Hart, all the greats. Vocalists like Frank Sinatra and Perry Como are two of his favorites. Being a rowdy "Deke"in college, he is prone to start wailing what I call bar tunes or drinking songs every now and again. Songs like Columbus Stockade Blues, for instance.

Originating in the 1920's the song immortalizes a Columbus Georgia jail that housed petty criminals of every stripe-drunks, thieves, and other 'ne'er do wells'.

If you listen close you can hear the plaintive lament of the narrator reverberating off brick walls of the jail :

Way way down, in Columbus Georgia,
Lord done turned his back on me,
Way way down in Columbus Stockade,
wanna be back in Tennessee..

Go and and leave me if you wish to,
never let me change your mind,
if in your heart, you love another,
leave me little darlin' I don't mind
leave me little darlin' I don't mind.

Imagine what delight I had to find that Bob Dylan has affinity for this particular tune too! In reading the first installment of Dylan's memoir, Chronicles, Columbus Stockade Blues is mentioned as a song he favored and sang early in his folk career.

But to really hear this song, you ought to hear my daddy sing it.

His a capella rendition is so blue it'll make you want to weep. Dylan is a poet and a king of story, but he could learn a thing or two from Dad.

Wallace Mercer R.I.P.

2009-02-01T09:26:00.000-06:00

I noticed the other day a fellow blogger described my blog penned under the name Wallace Mercer as pseudonymical serenity. That alone gives me pause for what I'm about to do. Many of you already know me by my real name. Humor me while I entertain the fantasy that the word 'many' could mean there are thousands of readers out there. Whether I have a few or many readers, I've reached a decision to begin prattling on under the name given me by my earthly father and mother: Karen Ann Fentress.

In taking this action, I put to rest this fine name, Wallace Mercer; One taken so I could speak under a cloak. It is with a profound sense of gratitude that I release this veil. His name, conjured some five years ago by me, is actually a very real person. Wallace Mercer was, according to Wikkipedia, the chairman of the Scottish football club, the Hearts of Edinburgh from 1981-1994. He is best remembered for the controversial merger he attempted of the two rival teams in Edinburgh, the Hearts and Hibs. One need not be an expert in football or business to know that pushing for a joinder of enemies, whether for simple financial gain, or for the purpose of eternal good can make for some nasty conflict. That was the case for the real Wallace Mercer. His death in 2006 was was just prior to a match between the Hearts and Hibs. Some fans, still angered by his audacious attempt to merge the clubs, shouted disrespectfully during a moment of silence held in Mercer's honor. Presumably, it was both teams' fans that yelled during the silence. It usually comes down to that.

I do not know this real man. I know nothing about his virtue or lack thereof. Because I think this story has meaning, I won't pretend the real Wallace Mercer was someone to esteem. What I do know, is the name I chose for my veil is one I'm glad to have used. I chose Wallace because of Wallace Stevens, the complicated insurance executive/lawyer turned poet. I chose Mercer because it hints at the word mercy-a quality of God's I scarcely apprehend, yet for which I am exceedingly grateful.

Wallace Stevens is not a poet I read with regularity, but I fancy myself as like him, a bit. I do practice law. I tend to be a bit verbose, as poets can be. And Mercer, or mercy. I hesitate to even speak on the topic. Mercy and grace are words that, from time to time, are used interchangeably. The distinction is not readily apparent. The words of Rolfe Barnard clarify the difference for me:

Mercy is God's favour that holds back from us what we deserve.

Grace is God's favour that gives us what we do not deserve.-Rolfe Barnard

Perhaps it can be said that mercy is the greatest of the qualities of God. I've said it before here, on this blog, because of God's just wrath, you and I deserve death, the punishment for sin is simple and clear. But Jesus took our place. In him alone can we experience the true grace of the Father. I said I hesitate to even speak of mercy- in doing so, it seems to me, mercy is me centered-concentrates on what I can receive of him. But the more I think on it, the more God avails himself to me, mercy is his and his alone, and he, in his infinite goodness, chooses to give it.

Wallace Mercer, the real man, dared attempt the unthinkable. He was, if only in my imagination, a sort of radical to believe two warring factions might be one. I think it a tad hopeful that in my old pseudonym there's more to cherish than I originally intended. As the old, new me, Karen, may I write with hope of reconcilation in mind as a testament to the real Wallace Mercer. Not recklessly or with impure heart, but ever aware of the cost my dear savior paid for my falleness; May I sit one day in heaven over a tall pint of beer with the real Wallace Mercer, but always give thanks to God for his dear mercy in making us both. Rest in Peace, Wallace.

Soli Deo Gloria

FINE & NICE Warning: Opining ahead

2009-02-01T08:20:00.000-06:00

In the last post, When words lie, would it make a difference to you if you later found out the speaker (attorney) was not talking to a client, but to her own son? Does it sound more or less egregious? Or is it what it is, an untruth? I wonder that. Of course this really happened, but I do not know whether the woman (whom I do know to be a practicing attorney) was chatting to a client or to her child.

The gravity of what she said shook me.

I do not care for the word fine to describe much, except hair, weather, the coat of an animal or human outerwear, a fountain pen, things of that nature... To describe the outcome of marital fracture, as fine, no matter how amicable, is simply lacking and perhaps a wrong-headed choice.
Well, you might say, she was only trying to be nice. Maybe so. Fact is, this attorney is one I would hire- she is professional, courteous, smart.

Nice is, as fine is, a word that ought be limited to describing weather, fountain pens, and jump shots-you get my drift.... I am of the less than humble opinion that describing a person or their conduct as nice is short of what one really intends-less than accurate. Nice and fine are words that can be over-used, with abandon, and with little thought for their impact upon hearing.

Of course, of course (off course is more like it) I digress. The original intent of this post was to ask you what you thought about the scenario changing in the last post-if the listener were not the client, but instead the attorney's child, would that change the impact of what she said...?

I do not think it makes a difference, in the end. Words matter, because the hearts and souls of speakers and listeners matter. Words are what we have to spend on one another to share truth by kindness. The words it's all going to be fine, no matter what the it's is, convey a certainty the speaker cannot know and move past the present grief with a there, there placation of disrespect.
I warned you this was an opinion piece. I hope it was fine. What's your opinion? I would like to hear from more of you. If you choose to reply or comment, dare to be respectful and kind, not nice. ( insert smiley face here ).

When words lie

2009-01-31T11:45:00.000-06:00

This past Friday morning I overheard one half of a cell phone conversation as I entered the office on 222 Second Avenue . The speaker was dressed as a quintessential divorce attorney; shod in Prada, clothed in Karan, wrapped in Burberry cashmere, she lugged a cart full of files. Chirping into her blackberry she offered this to the person on the other end:

I know it's awful, I know it's hard, people get divorced everyday, it's all going to be fine.

She had the truth until the latter phrase. Ask a dear one you know that has travelled the road of divorce. Ask em if it is all fine. See what they say.

God have mercy; heal our hearts.

On Death and Fury

2009-01-19T16:00:00.000-06:00

Weeks back, a friend was laboring over whether to attend a funeral; the reasons were complex, and my friend's heart was vexed. As he related his conflict, grief and dismay, I remembered a conversation I had with another friend on another day, several years ago.

This other friend and I had attended a funeral of a mutual friends' father. We'd come out of the chapel, reflecting on feelings and thoughts evoked for us by the pleasantries and superficiality during the visitation portion of the ritual. The phrases like well, he's in a better place now and don't he look good in that fine, navy blazer mock the fierce quality of death. On that hot summer day with my friend, the natural light was a true welcome, having been pent up under fluorescent lighting as celebrants of death, I longed for fresh air. We stood on the hot pavement and mused what it might be like if someone were to erupt in fury over the lunacy of this custom-the polite dance around the horror of death. I proposed the best time to do so would be right there, in the midst of gathered friends and loved ones; there it would have impact. I have such a tale in my life's history.

In 2002, a dear friend, my Protestant god-mother, I liked to call her, succumbed to the clutch of death. In life she had been vibrant, a mother of four boys, and friend to countless, and was my mother's closest friend for over forty years; she and her family were knit with ours, so much so that the offspring of each clan call the others' parents 'aunt' and 'uncle'; though we share no known bloodline, save for that family into which we are grafted by grace*. Simply put, her death devastated me. There is more of that story to be told, I digress.

On the eve of her burial, we all, family, friends, old business partners, acquaintances and neighbors assembled at Roesch-Patton funeral home to literally rub elbows and chatter ever so hopefully while a very dead friend lay in the adjoining room. (The words funeral home themselves are worth the energy of another post-what contrast!)

The crowd was overwhelming. Eventually, we adult children, my sister, and the three remaining boys of this woman now gone, collected ourselves to view the body-a strange pagan custom that smacks the vitality of the resurrection in the mouth, but, that's what this little narrative is about...so...

There we stood, shoulder to shoulder, dressed to the nines, in fine woolens and cottons. Peering into the fancy box of walnut or cherry that held her frame, I scanned what I could see of her neatly arranged corpse. How strange, how breathtaking, were thoughts I kept to myself. The longer we stood silent, we held onto one another for support, and for hope's sake. Tears welled up. We shook with sorrow.

I was praying this dreadful vigil would end when one of the boys spoke up, sniffling: She looks good, doesn't she? There was palpable silence. Rankled to near violence, the youngest brother fumed through clenched teeth: Good..??? She looks good?!?? Goddamn it, she's dead, she doesn't look good."

And so the prophet had spoken. Stabbed awake by the awfulness of death, we stared aghast at the speaker, and then back at her decaying body. There was nothing more to say on that strange night, so we departed in silence.

Be it an awkward attempt to comfort, or protective flight from sorrow, we all, at one time or another, speak when a sobbing silence might be good wisdom- painful, but good. On the other hand, this story exists because of precipitant words. And so there is, thank God, grace.

The family of grace* I mentioned earlier....the Church triumphant, can afford to scream in the face of death, as the younger brother in this story. Not by any merit we ourselves have won, or by irreverent fury for pain inflicted, no, only by the finished work of our Redeemer in both his blessed sacrifice and glorious defeat of death on the third day.

Soli Deo gloria.

Irony

2009-01-17T12:08:00.000-06:00

There are plentiful examples of irony out there, but I stumbled on a good one today. While watching some coverage of the Hudson River plane ditching and rescue, I was awed by the coordinated efforts, the stunning videos. I had exhausted pretty much all there was to see when I noticed an advertisement out of the corner of my eye on CNN. Apparently you can buy T-shirts with CNN headlines on them; you can 'sport' the news on your chest. One such T-shirt available for purchase says " Obama elected the 44th president ". For all the grousing the mainstream media does about big business greed, I think their creative genuis is rich irony.
On many levels, the election of a president is news. It's not just news anymore. You can buy it. It is for sale. Not just once, but many times over. Check this out, I kid you not.

The Walls Have Ears

2009-01-15T08:28:00.000-06:00

Maybe it is because I had little sleep last night- or maybe it is because I am genuinely paranoid; I took some comfort in this-

Knowing that, even if it is true, I can laugh.

borrowed from: http://xkcd.com/525/

Dire Need

2009-01-04T16:25:00.000-06:00

“As a race we are not even stray sheep or wandering prodigals, we are rebels with weapons in our hands. Our supreme need from God, therefore, is not the education of our conscience but our redemption.”

- Peter Taylor (P.T.) Forsyth

with acknowledgement to http://gospelreminders.com/ a site with daily reminders of the Gospel.

Zipporah leaning into winter

2009-01-02T11:45:00.000-06:00

We were made for Him

2009-01-01T17:08:00.000-06:00

Lest someone think me too fond of Joe Pa, (see previous post, The Lame Lion) I sure as heck do not want to elevate him to being worshipped. But at the risk of you thinking I do, watch this sweet montage with vocals by Brandi Carlile as she wails part of her hit song, The Story.

The Story

All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
.....It's true...I was made for you

Repeat.

God knows what kind of pain or joy, or both that made Brandi Carlile the outright perfect soul to sing this song that aptly suits this montage. I have no clue. Her voice, in itself, (like Paterno's face,) tells a story that makes one want to sit up and listen.

I did no research and just stumbled upon this video/song. One thing I know. The line: It's true, I was made for you would, for years, have meant to me that I was made for the soul of another. What I hear tonight is a hymn to God. I was made for him. And so were you.

And so was Joe Paterno.

The Lame Lion

2009-01-01T12:22:00.001-06:00

This afternoon, the Penn State Nittany Lions will meet the University of Southern California Trojans in the Rose Bowl. A glorious football event to be sure. There are two great teams in the contest, but I am here to talk about one fellow.

What of Joe Paterno? He's at least a living legend. The eighty something year old coach has been leading the Nittany Lions his entire career. He has been at the helm since the mid-sixties.

from USA Today: Penn State has had one football coach since 1966. The rest of major college football has made 837 coaching moves — and counting.

With all due respect to that good-looking fellow who coaches for USC. Wow.

Who'll win? Probably USC. I hope Penn State wins, I can't explain my affinity for Paterno, but he's the entire reason I cheer for the Nittany Lions. Just look at Joe Paterno. Watch him stand still, watch him holler,watch him grimace. He ain't pretty, and he's all banged up, but he is a god among earthly leaders. Check out this ESPN video from today.

I wouldn't be posting this if Paterno weren't a winning coach, but that is still beside my point. What draws me to this joyful curmudgeon of a man only intensifies as he ages. In October of 2007, he got tackled inadvertently on the sideline of the Wisconsin game, and suffered an injury that would've ushered retirement for a lesser man. He's still at it today.

"Joe Pa" as fans have come to call him is attractive for reasons that confound reason. He's old. He's wrinkled. He's lame.

Something I daresay Joe Paterno knows is that we were not made for this world. Our bodies do wear and tear. As fit as we can be, we are still lame and in great need. Let us look forward to aging, let us be in the midst of it with grace and vigor like Joe Paterno.

Go Lions.

The Old Story

2009-01-01T12:22:00.000-06:00

How many times have you Christians heard it? The gospel of Jesus Christ our Lord. The subject of many of the posts here. The old story is the one I long to hear, again and again. If you are reading this and have yet to confess Christ as Lord, ask now to receive him. Do not wait.

Whatever keeps you from it is the same thing that kept anyone who ever hesitated-a belief that being good enough will sustain you. A belief that other little gods are plenty. A belief there is no such thing as sin. A belief there is no such thing as truth. There's much more, yet all these beliefs point to at least two things: that one must believe to be, (whether or not one believes in God) and that there is truth. And from this, a standard of truth, an inference must be drawn that truth has a Teller.

A great American statesman, Daniel P. Moynihan said something on the order of:

"Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, not their own facts"

Thus begins the battle:

Who are you to say that this way is the truth? Good question. Who am I?

A sinner, saved by the grace and mercy of my Lord Jesus. There's more. The gospel's offense is that no one is spared. You, my friend, are a sinner in need of saving too. ( Romans 3:23).

You simply cannot wiggle around it. You cannot do it. Nor can the articulate teachers and politicians. No feel-good sermon is going to be adequate; it is not about felt boards in Sunday School. It is not about being an ethical person. It is not about being religious. The crux of it is that God so loved the world. So loved. that he gave his only son, that he gave. that he gave. he. gave so that whoever would believe on him, Jesus, the son, would inherit eternal life. (John 3:16)

We, mankind, fell in Eden. (Genesis 3:1-24) We mankind, are sin-soaked. In that state, we are condemned to hell. Strong language. Strong truth. God's holiness demands righteousness. Though we, mankind, have tried since near the beginning to get righteousness right on our own, God himself had to make a way.

John Piper says that God is the gospel. Not you. Not me. Not your gods, or mine. Not your righteousness, or mine. God. He did for us in Christ what we could not do. To think that our Triune God, the Creator of the universe has so loved us first by providing a way to him, is astonishing. (Genesis 3:21 & Paul's letter to the Romans 3:21-25)

A friend sent me this quote the other day, give it due consideration:

If we needed an education, God would have sent us a teacher. If we needed prosperity, God would have sent us an economist. If we needed therapy, God would have sent us a psychiatrist. If we needed healing, God would have sent us a physician. If we needed technology, God would have sent us a scientist. If we had needed knowledge, God would have sent us philosopher. But what we needed most was redemption, so God sent us a Savior!

My response to this quote is a good illustration of just how dire my need. I thought when I read it- how terribly simple! And my next thought, almost too terribly simple I also thought, God himself knows I've needed a mental health professional. And, in his great mercy has seen fit to orchestrate that good on my behalf. And he knows I've needed (and still do need) healing. And in his same great mercy that never wavers, he ordained some healing into his plan. The crux of this quote, just like the very simple gospel of Jesus, is that first we needed to be saved. Saved not from the edge of the precipice of doom. Doctors and psychiatrists can assist with that. Nor need we to be saved from economic despair. We, here, now, in this time, see the comedy and the tragedy in that. No educational plan or politician's motive can rescue. Not your favorite teacher, philosopher or entertainer. Socrates and Plato-they are fine purveyors of great truths and thought, but impotent to save you from your dark heart, and me, mine Not Martha Stewart. Not Oprah. Not Milton Friedman. Not William F. Buckley. Not Freud, Rogers, Maslow, et. al God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob may appoint who he deems fit to work out his sovereign plan, and will do so. Though all these folk have offered some good, none, not one, is equipped to redeem us from sin.

Jesus, the God-man speaking:

I am the Way, the Truth and the Life, and no one comes to the Father but through me.

- John 14:6

That old story. The gospel. I love to tell the story.

I Love to Tell the Story

2009-01-01T10:45:00.000-06:00

I love to tell the story of unseen things above,
Of Jesus and His glory, of Jesus and His love;
I love to tell the story, because I know ’tis true,
It satisfies my longings as nothing else would do.

I love to tell the story,
’Twill be my theme in glory,
To tell the old, old story
Of Jesus and His love.

I love to tell the story, more wonderful it seems
Than all the golden fancies of all our golden dreams;
I love to tell the story, it did so much for me,
And that is just the reason I tell it now to thee.
I love to tell the story, ’tis pleasant to repeat,
What seems each time I tell it more wonderfully sweet;
I love to tell the story, for some have never heard
The message of salvation from God’s own holy Word.
I love to tell the story, for those who know it best
Seem hungering and thirsting to hear it like the rest;
And when in scenes of glory I sing the new, new song,
’Twill be the old, old story that I have loved so long.

...Because of what you are not

2008-12-26T20:35:00.000-06:00

A Man may be of value to another man, not because he wishes to be important, not because he possesses some inner wealth of soul, not because of something he is, but because of what he is – not. His importance consists in his poverty, in his hopes and fears, in his waiting and hurrying, in the direction of his whole being towards what lies beyond his power. The importance of (a Christian) is negative rather than positive. In him a void becomes visible. And for this reason he is something to others: he is able to share grace with them, to focus their attention, and to establish them in waiting and in adoration.

- Karl Barth

The Birth of God

2008-12-24T10:20:00.000-06:00

I suspect the very words the birth of God are offensive to some. Isn't God self-existent, and therefore not subject to a beginning?

Perhaps this connundrum is part of the weight of the Gospel. God dared enter time by actually being born in the flesh, putting on our nature so to save us. (Philippians 2:5-11)

I rambled in my journal last year about the concept. This year, I was privileged to hear friend Tricia Walker sing an Andrew Peterson song on the birth of God at Daystar's Evening in December. The hearing of it startled me. I thought to my self-absorbed self: I wrote that song, that's mine. Quickened, I winced. Only one of countless examples of my dire need. Yes, God really did come in the flesh, to save me (and you). Here's what I what believed Andrew Peterson stole from me:

Birth of God

I’m wondering several things: if the birth of Jesus was on a damp Bethlehem night, as this one is here, in the Cumberland Basin of Tennessee. Did the rain fall cold? Were the gathered creatures in the stable disarmed by the intrusion of the lonely travelers?
The mother was a child herself; perhaps her labor prompted cries of such volume the sheep grew tired of their antiphonal wailing; maybe they stood by in silent contentment to watch what, for their kind, was not uncommon. Maybe other animals were not so quiet. Mournful cattle bellowed and doves perched atop the stable cooed as darkness enveloped them all.
Joseph gathered his tunic at his waist, knelt in the straw and fastened a calloused hand on the knee of the girl, now in full labor. Expectant, and alive, this earthly father must have been astonished at what was taking place, recalling what the Angel of the Lord said. (Matthew 1:19-25)
Mary gave one last cry of agonizing hope as Eternity thrust himself into time. Tears spilled from the girl as her opening stretched to accommodate the boisterous newborn; no pain had been as sharp, no pain would be until that Friday.
Exhausted, and exuberant, Mary received her son, as Joseph‘s bloody hands passed the tiny screaming lad to her. Was it coincidence the birth of God to have been awash in blood? Though they had been told, could they have apprehended that God himself was with them? (Matthew 1:23, Luke 1:26-33)

When God appoints the time, the time has come, and so it was, the ugly, glorious, birth of God.

"Lo How a Rose E'er Blooming"

2008-12-20T14:59:00.000-06:00

1 Lo, how a Rose e'er blooming from tender stem hath sprung! Of Jesse's lineage coming, as those of old have sung. It came, a floweret bright, amid the cold of winter, when half spent was the night.

2 Isaiah 'twas foretold it, the Rose I have in mind; with Mary we behold it, the Virgin Mother kind. To show God's love aright, she bore to men a Savior, when half spent was the night.

3 The shepherds heard the story, proclaimed by angels bright, how Christ,the Lord of glory, was born on earth this night. To Bethlehem they sped and in the manger found him, as angel heralds said.

4 This flow'r, whose fragrance tender with sweetness fills the air, dispels with glorious splendor the darkness ev'rywhere. True man yet very God, from sin and death he saves us, and lightens ev'ry load.

5 O Savior, child of Mary, who felt our human woe; O Savior, King of glory, who dost our weakness know, bring us at length, we pray, to the bright courst of heaven and to the endless day.

German, 15th c.
translated by Theodore Baker

Advent

2008-12-15T18:57:00.000-06:00

A prison cell, in which one waits, hopes ... and is completely dependent on the fact that the door of freedom has to be opened from the outside, is not a bad picture of Advent.

- Dietrich Bonhoeffer,German pastor and philosopher (1906-1945)

The Promise

2008-12-13T16:32:00.000-06:00

It was almost twenty years ago in in Mentone, Alabama where I learned, for the second time, how to tie my shoes. You know when the first way seems right to you, of course, until you learn a more efficient way? This is that story, and then some.

I had these god-awful cheap hiking boots of brown and green suede with gortex. The laces were nylon, and any friction they endured in the wearing process caused them to come untied quickly. There was no point in my asserting any level of stylishness on hikes, or to win over my companions, when I had to stop and re-tie my laces every fifty yards or so. I was non-plussed and feeling self conscious (though I did not know the extent to which at the time).
In my hour of dire need, John Walter Green came to my rescue. I sat fiddling with the good-for-nothing laces, cursing them when he walked across the cabin floor and asked if I’d like some help. He crouched in front of me to a chair and patted his knee-"put your foot here" he said.
He assessed the way I had tied them and said "that’s what I thought..." I interrupted- "I need a double knot, don’t I?"
"Nope" he said, "you need a simple knot that will not give way".
"Here, let me show you" he began as he untied his own giant shoe.
"You take the laces and wrap them like so, one over the other, to secure them. Ok, now, tie the knot like you learned in kindergarten; pull one side out, as if to untie it, loop it over and tie it again"-

"There," he said, satisfied.

He then looked me square in the eye. "I promise you, it will not budge."

Folks, I only have a couple pair of shoes that require lacing up; every time I gather the nylon or cloth laces, I can hear John’s confident guarantee; what joy it gives me to say it is to this very hour, a promise kept.

Truth is Truth

2008-12-13T14:54:00.000-06:00

I found this sign the other night in Madison Tennessee on the way to a "holiday" party. The words on it put the truth in perspective for me. I need a saviour all the time. Glory be to God he saw fit to come to earth as man to save his people from their sins.

December 7, 1941

2008-12-07T19:09:00.000-06:00

Sixty seven years ago today the world reeled after Japanese planes bombed Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, killing, maiming and terrorizing the U.S. military and civilians. Surviving soldiers and citizens alike were, for a time, traumatized-struck dumb and powerless. History books and teachers dramatized it and told the American story of how we gathered courage and fought the good fight. I do not dispute that conquering the Japanese and other Axis forces was a work of ultimate good, but I also submit that war is as close to hell as we can come on earth. It is a complicit pact made with evil to assert what man was not meant to accomplish. I give thanks to God in Christ this day for the supremacy of Christ over all things:

over sin, death, war, pestilence, famine, poverty, abuse, harm, brokenness, mediocrity, complacency, dispute, hatred, envy, strife, jealousy, molestation, violence, deceit, cynicism, and all other manner of shortcomings and abject evil. Indeed Christ is supreme over good, temporal beauty, over poetry, over the logic of thought, over the pursuit of freedom, over the determinism of capitalism, over every ideology. To Jesus I bow. Let me recall that vow as I submit my will daily, hourly and moment by moment to the sovereignty of God, even in the face of secular dissent.

Blue

2008-11-29T10:08:00.000-06:00

Today marks the first time I've included an original poem on this site. I chose this one since it is in keeping with the theme of the blog, as other posts seldom touch on the subject of lameness, I thought the verse here, and the introductory remarks following a good fit. See what you think.

Susie is an elderly woman who was a member of a poetry group I was invested in November 2006. She is a visual artist and a published poet. Her voice is distinctly refined and articulate-a southern drawl to die for. Something else makes Susie’s voice unique: she has Parkinson's disease. Her speech is slightly affected, but it’s her hands that shake like leaves.

Susie's manifest courage in group one night birthed the poem that follows, entitled Blue. Our instructor Victoria, gave us an in-class assignment. She asked us to take out a piece of paper and writing instrument. She said, clear off everything else from the table but the paper and the pen. Now, take the writing instrument in your non-dominant hand. My heart pinched and fell. As much as I looked forward to these assignments, I felt defeated in that minute like never before. Had it been an assignment we were to take home, I would have had the perfect cover and could have simply said I did not feel like participating (which, I suppose, I still could have said) but there and then, in that moment, I was challenged in a new way; in the presence of the others I was compelled to decide whether to get up and excuse myself or whether to give it a wobbly go.

Now, draw a picture with that non-dominant hand- yes, go ahead, you can do it. I watched Susie, the woman afflicted by this dreadful debilitating disease, awkwardly clasp her pen in her fist and strike the white paper with erratic blue lines.

After you've finished your drawing, I want you take your drawing home and collaborate with the drawing to write a poem. I was still stunned. But it was witnessing Susie persevere and the words collaborate with the drawing that spurred me to try it.

I patterned my steps toward clasping the pen as Susie had. I fixed the pen in my surprised left fist and began to draw the outline of a head and body. A first. Something I'd not ever given myself permission to try, I did because I watched Susie do what I did not think possible.

Two things struck me about Susie and prompted this short verse One: she can use neither of her hands the way in which she was once accustomed. And two: her husband died in early 2006. The loss nearly devastated her and she decided to grapple with grief by writing more and by coming to poetry group. Her courage lifted me. Her passion for writing, inspired me then and does to this day.

Blue

Shaking lines bleed blue
on fiber bleached, then sold,
so her words have a home-
yes, a home, and a place
to leap for joy.

Fire

2008-11-23T23:19:00.000-06:00

I thought of Elijah tonight-the prophet who wished to die. Fear not not dear readers, I am not wishing for death (mine or anyone else's). I built a fire because my poor privileged feet were cold and would not be consoled or warmed throughout the day. As I settled by the fire, I intentionally picked to be quiet; I did not turn on music, I did not put my laptop on the place for which it is named. I simply sat. As the fire grew in strength after considerable stoking, my feet thawed. Then something curious happened. It was not my sense of touch or sight that next stirred. The sound of flames captured my attention; I closed my eyes and tried to think of what they mimic. (It was the fire itself, not the popping sound of burning wood.) In my mind's eye, and heart's ear, I could sense the flapping of wings, yes, wings. A quiet fire made sound as a flock of mute geese...

Mine and Elijah's God was not in the wind, the earthquake or the fire (I Kings 19).

Instead, it was the still small voice that arrested the prophet and me. How many times have I talked over the voice of God with a yes, but or a not now, there's much to be done. Thankful that he bid me to sit and wait by the fire this night.

Good night's rest and only God's peace,

Untitled gratitude

2008-11-19T22:39:00.000-06:00

The holiday season is literally around the corner; the time of year we juggle schedules begins-all over again. I run out of steam often, but at the holiday season, raging guilt and self-contempt escalate. The very time of year in which I could take inventory of blessings is shawdowed by penumbra of winter; I stare into a cluttered room and stifle weeping. I. me. my.

It is this for which I give thanks: Thank you God, for my ineptitude, my inability to make life work. Let thanks be to him who made me desperate-who created me to long for him, without whose intervention I would have no hope. I need a savior-all the time.

All praise and honor to him: who made provision for my weaknesses, who, in his wisdom, grace and mercy, appointed his only son to step into time, put on flesh for his own glory and for our sakes; whose wrath was satisfied by the same one and only son who took our place. The gospel's everlasting resonance is that after all this- the giving up of heaven, the putting on flesh, the sinless life before the Father, the grueling death on a tree, the only son conquered the scourge of death by his resurrection, bodily, from a sealed tomb. Our God did for us what we could never, ever do for ourselves. My cup runs over indeed.

Soli Deo gloria.

"Think"

2008-11-12T21:31:00.000-06:00

Yesterday's post about my colleague in the Criminal Court Clerk's Office prompted some memories of my time there. I could write for days about the events that unfolded on the third floor of the courthouse from January 1985 through June 1997.

One of my supervisors was a man by the name of Joe Sbuttoni, or Joe "S- button-eye" as he used to say for those who had difficulty spelling his name. Joe was what one of my uncles would call a 'character'. Truly he was. A character that might appear in a Tolkein adventure, or a Chesterton story. He was white-headed; his hair curled in waves over his collar.
It was common for him to wear a beat up cardigan sweater, in the sagging pockets of which he carried fresh garlic-fresh garlic with a purpose outside the kitchen; on the shelf in his office he kept a mortar and pestle like an anciet pharmacist. He would mix the fresh garlic, with fresh onion and olive oil, until it was paste thick, and insert a plug of it between cheek and gum.

It'll keep the evil spirits away, I tell you! he'd say with conviction.
I never get sick, I have yet to have a fever in forty five years, and I never have a cold, he'd say repeatedly.
I grimaced. Joe, the reason you do not get sick, is that no soul around here can get close enough to you to give you their germs- your aroma precedes you. I argued.
Get back to work he would mutter, waving his hand at me.

Often when I was debating something with Joe, I'd go to his cluttered office. One day, I noticed a sign perched on his desk like one on which names are inscribed. The sign read: "THINK".
Where'd you get that? I inquired, pointing to the sign.
College, I got it from my philosophy professor.
Hmmm, I mused, chagrined I'd not seen Joe as the college type. In that afternoon, and many that would follow, we conversed about determinism, naturalism, existentialism, Descartes, Kant, Kierkegaard, Locke, and on and on.

In addition to his garlic, onion, and olive oil olfactory surprise, he smoked inexpensive cigars. I use "inexpensive" purposely, because to say the cigars were cheap would cheapen Joe, and Joe is priceless. He spoke in Italian on the phone with his infirmed mother, and flailed his hands as he spoke, sometimes cursing, but never at her. He was first generation Italian American. Both his parents were born near Bologna Italy. Joe and his brother were born and raised here, in Nashville, and helped in their parent's family business, a restaurant off the square, called, none other than "Sbuttoni's".

Every now and again, I would make a mistake on a document. Undone, Joe would grab his head with both hands, tucking the butt of a three day old cigar in his teeth, and holler: "THINK! THINK!". Though I knew Joe was for me, his words burned. He would restore calm by winking at me from across the room or conferring with me in a kinder voice.

Joe pushed me hard to excel in law school. I wish I could say our conversations on thought were the tipping point that put me at the head of my class, but I was not an academic stand out. - I struggled. I struggled, but am persuaded his shouts to THINK, THINK and our debates of philosophy, assisted me in ways only eternity may reveal-I've already had inklings, like enjoyment of writing down thoughts, here, on this blog, for instance.

Thank you, Eddie Joe

2008-11-11T12:24:00.000-06:00

I always think of Eddie Joe Williams on November 11. He and I worked together in the Criminal Court Clerk's office for a time. I was a restless college graduate, looking toward my uncertain future, and he was an elderly retired blue-collar soul who lived in the past. He would often remark kids like you think you know everything, and every other conversation stopper you can conjure. He was an off-putting compulsive smoker who worked hard at being a crank toward the public we served. Eddie Joe and I both "worked the counter",which amounted to waiting on customers, making copies of warrants and other documents to which the public had access. I made up my mind one day to pursue him in conversation about things in which he was interested. We talked about the American Legion Post of which he was a proud member, his son, from whom he was estranged, and what he perceived as his right to smoke, which was one of his all time favorite topics. He never asked me much about what interested me, though when I enrolled in law school a few years later, his words of encouragement given resonate to this day: you need to get out of this place-you will be a good lawyer.

Eddie Joe's reluctance to talk about World War II intrigued me. Other colleagues in the office cautioned me about pushing him to talk, so I gave him a wide berth-I respected his privacy and did not pursue the topic of war. One day something ruffled his feathers, I think it was in the early 1990's during the first Gulf War. We were in some downtime at the counter. No customers loomed, and there had recently been enacted an ordinance prohibiting smoking in the courthouse. The way I figure it, Eddie Joe was experiencing a little more change than he bargained for. He was angry he could no longer puff at will on the Salems he smoked like a fiend, and maybe he was fearful his grandson, whom he never saw, was going off to war. At any rate, he started to tell me the story of his life, and this is the reason I always remember him on November 11.

In the course of little over an hour I heard a condensed version of hell he lived for four years. His best buddy was shot in the neck in a forest in Germany and died in his arms. Two of his other buddies were annihilated right in front him on the same day before he could catch his breath. He gestured about the agony of war, his fingertips a jaundiced yellow-stained from decades of smoking. His lower lip quivered as he continued with more gruesome tales of death and destruction; he cursed and took a break for a cigarette. When he returned, he confessed he started drinking to excess in 1945, after returning home and could not abide life without the hope of his favorite pours of bourbon and water at the Legion. Yet, every day he proudly donned an American flag lapel pen on his suit coat, the same pin was fastened there on this day, the day he bore his soul. He told me he would fight all over again for his country. I believed him, and I'm in great debt to men and women like him in all generations whose willingness to put themselves in harm's way to preserve collective freedom cost them dearly- countless paid the ultimate price. Thank you Eddie Joe and company.

Armistice Day

2008-11-11T11:52:00.000-06:00

There might be a parade in the cold November air where you live. Old soldiers in old uniforms that are too snug, fabric frayed and perhaps retain the vestige of battle: dried blood never washed out, a tear from shrapnel, a stain of gunpowder. These realities of old wars seem less important in the age of information, and a culture so invested in Paris Hilton's night life and whether Amy Winehouse is going back to treatment.

Thankfully, not all of you think so. Neither do I. Let me be clear: War is hell. I am no "let's throw down the gauntlet and go after any one of our enemies at all costs American" war hawk. But American I am by birth, and it is my privilege to have been born under the flag of the United States of America. Therefore, when the threat to this country's welfare is grave, and when it is critical to preserve her liberty, it is a must that soldiers bear arms, and defend this 200+ year old gal. I'm not essaying here on the virtue of this current war. But I will not sit silently as veterans of any war are ignored 364 days a year. My admonition in this post is that we remember the forgotten, cherish freedom before it is too late, and thank God for his common grace in sustaining our liberty.

Change

2008-11-11T10:03:00.000-06:00

Change what and by what means? Both of the presidential candidates in this most historic election focused on the word 'change'. President Elect Obama used the single word to confer a hope we have yet to see realized. The truth of the matter is, save for his being voted into office, not much has changed-yet. Perhaps I'm a tired cranky cynic, but I see little change coming that will affect this nation for good. The good I do see is what has been realized already: a man of color, a man whose heritage is different from my own has risen to a place of leadership not seen in my lifetime-that, in itself, is good.

When I ponder change and change for the better, I think of laws enacted for the good of many. One such example is the passage of the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA). In a nutshell, it is broad federal legislation that prohibits, under certain circumstances, discrimination based on disability. Wikipedia gives a general description of what is covered, here. Its passage would not have been possible without the prior Civil Rights Act of 1964. And, following the same line of thinking, neither would the Civil Rights Act have been possible without the Emancipation Proclamation or the 13th amendment to the U.S. Constitution. There is a pattern, and a good one. Laws enacted that seek to do the right thing, are necessary. It's vital for us to consider then, what change is good, or right change?

I submit to you, passage of legislation does not effect change in itself. Not the type of change that has an impact for good. Let's revisit the ADA again. Joni Eareckson-Tada is a quadriplegic woman whose life was unalterably changed when, as an adolescent, she was paralyzed due to a diving 'accident'. Recently, she was interviewed by CNN's Larry King on his program, Larry King Live. King, obviously moved by Eareckson-Tada's committment to her faith and the helping of others like her who suffer physically, asked her about her involvement with the passage of the ADA.

KING: We're back with Joni Eareckson Tada, who was appointed by then President Reagan to the 15-member council instrumental in the design of the American with Disabilities Act.You were there it was -- the day it was signed, right?

EARECKSON TADA: Oh, it was a wonderful day. I was on the White House lawn and watched President Bush sign the Americans with Disabilities Act into law. It was a grand day for disabled people.And I'll never forget, our executive director at that time, Paul Hearne -- a man with brittle bone disease who was in a wheelchair -- he welcomed us all back to the hotel for a brief reception.And I'll never forget what he said. This bill had just become law, and he had helped champion it. And he[ HEARNE ]said,

"You know, this law will mean that we'll have more mechanical lifts on buses. It'll mean that there'll be more open doors of opportunity for people to be employed. It'll mean that there'll be better access in restaurants and public accommodations."And then he paused for a moment, looking at his drink and kind of fingering the lip of it, and he said, "But that's not going to change the heart of the bus driver. It's not going to change the heart of the employer or the maitre'd of the restaurant." And then, he lifted his drink and said, "Here's to changed hearts."

And when he said that, it struck me that state proclamations and declarations and even something like the Americans with Disabilities Act is not necessarily going to jerk people's attitudes here in America right side up.

KING: But at least you can get on a bus and at least there's a ramp.

EARECKSON TADA: At least there is a ramp. Now, sometimes the bus driver has been known to pass you by.

Now, that's the best illustration I can come up with to posit that the enactment of laws do not good men make. As we embark on four years under leadership of a man enamored by the prospect of change, I urge you to remember Paul Hearne's words. Change is coming....

Miles Davis, me, the poetry of hardwood, and pea gravel

2008-10-26T18:45:00.000-05:00

This past Sunday, I felt a poetry storm start to brew. It is the time of year when verses waft and rise; the words are steam floating; they evaporate on memory's breeze. So it's best to pay attention; it's best to write often, so the elusive words can be captured.

Miles Davis, the great jazz composer, disclosed a secret to the art of his jazz making: he would sit transfixed in a gymnasium during a basketball contest, perhaps during a New York Knicks game, close his eyes, and listen to the syncopated rhythm of rubber soled shoes as they squeaked and yowled on the hardwood. The marriage of synthetic soles, the certitude of wood, and the collision of leather with flesh and pine evoked a rift on the trumpet, he would convert the observations, auditory and visual to composition. Horns shriek and yawn; rhymes and crazy metres all borne from the aesthetic of basketball-amazing.

Last Sunday, as I left a baby shower, I marched on a thick carpet of a pea gravel; vowels and consonants showered my consciousness.....when my feet crunched into the gravel, my brain's filing cabinet sifted through years of data- there is a song of the pea gravel from the driveway of the home where I grew up. I could hear the thousands of steps I'd taken across the pepper brown path; running to get the newspaper on a foggy morning; the comforting crunch of the rocks under the weight of an automobile as it pulled in the drive. I was immediately thrust into the past, a song might not yet have formed, but the inspiration has arrived. My feet, their heaviness, and the pea gravel are the sneaker shod feet of Madison Square Garden and the roundball that woke Davis' soul.

Who knows what may come of the sound of pea gravel? Are there sounds that evoke poems and speeches in you? I would love to hear about them.

In Praise of Farms

2008-10-26T17:31:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I took my niece and nephew to the Gentry farm, in Franklin Tennessee, to fetch a pumpkin or two, (we bought four) walk the corn maze, and take a hay ride. The farm, in America, is a vanishing way of life. The Gentry family knows this all too well, as on every side of them, development encroaches. This is not an anti-development post, but, as the title suggests, a doxology to the farm.

If you've got food on your table, (which if you are able to read this post on a computer, you do) thank a farmer. Thank generations of them.

The man who drove the tractor that pulled a yuppie crowd of suburbanites through the Gentry property gave us some facts about farm life that were all but lost on the consumerists we all know ourselves to be. The Gentrys know it too- we paid $6.00 to get in the farm to wander, to play to buy. He told us all the homes on the property were built from material harvested from the land itself except for the glass in the windows. How many of us can say the land on which we live sustains our existence? Does the phrase Got milk indicate to you that it probably meant something entirely different to farmers just fifty years ago?

We had a great time, my niece, nephew and me. As we drove off the property, over the flattened grass, and onto the highway, we passed a sign erected for this, and all seasons; it read: Praise God from whom all blessings flow. It resounds and makes me thankful there are farmers who know to whom their praise is due.

Zippy in Canaan

2008-10-19T18:51:00.000-05:00

Here she is, planted, no longer adrift-

once a Wandering Jew, who

walked parched through

forty years of desert;

Here she is, grounded, no longer adrift.

Zippy and Me

2008-10-17T15:15:00.000-05:00

Wherefore I desire that you faint not at my tribulations for you, which is your glory. For this cause I bow my knees to the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ...That Christ may dwell in your your hearts by faith; that you, being rooted and grounded in love, May be able to comprehend with all saints, what is the breadth, and length, and depth and height, and to know the love of Christ, which passes knowledge, that you might be filled with all the fullness of God. - Ephesians 3:13-19

I'll take a new picture soon, but for now, let these words suffice: she has been rescued from the flowing Jordan, the angry Red Sea, the river Jabbok, and is now rooted and grounded in good soil. I put her in an honest to God planter, so her roots can truly thrive and not simply sway and swim. She's in Canaan now, in the land of the living. She and I wait, groaning for the new earth, for eternal life.

In deference to her past, the old photo of her in the water will be tough to beat. What does that say about the nature of our pasts? How does our gardener use those seasons of trial and wandering to transform us into the men and women he created us to be?

In the watery interim, (since my last Zippy post) Zippy's roots began to gather an algae-like covering. As I had at first, I ignored her well-being and merely hoped with scant hope her condition would change. Finally, I wished she would die so I would not have to see her suffering- so I would not have to change.

In the plant world, Zippy is a type of Joseph; her distant cousin Joseph was sold into slavery by his brothers. He endured excruciating hardship and trial at the hands of his captors to one day rule and reign in Egypt. That very path eventually led him back to his brothers, the same brothers who betrayed him. Joseph had the good grace to tell them what they, his own flesh and blood meant for ill, God used for his good. Joseph, like Zippy, was transplanted, and reformed into the man God called him to be. The attempted murder his brothers conspired to commit set in motion events that only God could redeem.

In the human world, I am mother Eve, succumbing to the temptation to be like God by ignoring God's injunction to obey; I am the brothers of Joseph scheming and self-absorbed; I am David willing to kill for pleasure; and I am Peter, petulant, argumentative; To my self, think me not too cruel. Who else are my fore bearers? Who are yours? The poor helpless drifting plant relied on me to care for her; my inaction coupled with overt desire to see her demise so I would not have to die to self, amounts to a heap of debt and wrong which I cannot right in myself or in Zippy.

Like Zippy, I need a rescue and a rescuer. Just as God saved Eve by covering her as he cast her from the garden, he saved Judah and his conniving brothers through Joseph's mercy; he saved David from his murderous lusts and created in him a new heart; in kind, he rescued Peter from his impetuousness and built the very Church he came to die for on Peter, the rock.

Zippy's a botanical icon, because the God of heaven quickened in me a call to do right by her. Planting her in soil does not, in itself, amount to righteousness; it, the act of planting, is instead a response to the righteousness of God wrought [ in me ] by and through Jesus the redeemer gardener.

As you have therefore received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk you in him, rooted and built up in him and established in the faith, as you have been taught, abounding with thanksgiving. -Colossians 2:6-7

So it is we are thankful- Zippy and me-for more than we can say. To God be the glory.

Belated Rant

2008-10-14T07:57:00.000-05:00

In the current political campaign for the office of the President of the United States, whatever your leanings, this much is true- it's getting dicey. Stuff is flying. Fact checkers are losing sleep. Junkies of information have had their fill, but still want more. I've got nothing to offer that I have not said already. Know your candidate. Research their record. Lastly, insist they stand for truth. I don't care what the naysayers and the cynic who lives in your (and my ) heart say about you 've got your truth and I've got mine. There is a bottom line. Truth does matter. There's no wiggling around it.

Which reminds me of a bumper sticker that really hacked me off a few years ago. It still makes me furious. It said: "Practice random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty." This declarative statement caves in on itself. To practice is a volitional act, one, which if practiced randomly would end in senselessness, but be void of beauty. Kindness and beauty are deserving of more than the hi-jacked adjectives on this bumper sticker.

There. Rant ended.

Ruminations

2008-10-11T13:20:00.000-05:00

Have had a chest cold for about a week now. I'm ready, no, past ready for it to be gone. Breathing as I ought, without coughing every two or three minutes is far preferable to the current state of being. Some things have come to mind as I cough and grumble:

My demand not to be suffering in the body. Period. I'm tired of navigating life as one who is physically challenged. As soon as those pixels form on the page, I am chastened to recall what gifts I have; not just in the abilities I retain, but the gift of impaired ability, the gift of suffering.

I went to the memorial service yesterday of a dear cousin whose body succumbed to cancer. The ravaging malignant tumors gradually took her life at least in part. But her true life is now complete, she enjoys the fullness for which she was made and is raucously celebrating with her siblings, family and friends as she worships her king.

Yesterday's service also prompted the memory of another death. Keith Searcy. He was the young adult son of a co-worker. Before I became aware of the work connection, I knew Keith from Easter Seal camp. Keith was, like me, deprived of oxygen at birth. Unlike me, cerebral palsy severely limited his mobility; but not his verve. He was a talker, an irreverent schemer and pranking young man when I met him nearly thirty years ago. He did walk, but he swaggered awkwardly, throwing himself from side to side-cerebral palsy had caused a rigor mortis like stiffness in his limbs. His hands and arms were affected too, as well as his speech. Keith was not handsome, nor someone to whom most would be drawn. He was, at times, loud, over-bearing and attention seeking. But he had this intense gusto for life even in the throes of severe disability. At summer camp, I found myself interacting with him often; his life had great impact on mine, yet it was his death that changed me for eternity. On the day before his burial, I went with some co-workers to be of comfort to his mother, our friend. I'd seen Keith every now and then since Easter Seal camp, but I was not prepared for what I saw as he lay in the open casket. His body, once fraught with tension, was now at rest. No sign of the constant fury evident in his living body remained. I stood with his mother beside the coffin, and held her hand. We never uttered a word. What was so plain to me must have been exponentially true for her. We were not looking at Keith, but a mere tent that had, for a time, housed his essence. Keith, like my cousin, laughed last because of Jesus' triumph over death.

Those are my ruminations as result of this blasted cough. St. Paul penned some letters on the topic of suffering. I encourage you to read 2 Corinthians 4: 7-18; 2 Corinthians 5: 1-4 and Romans 8:18-25.

Blessings on your day.

Every Page

2008-09-29T08:43:00.000-05:00

The gospel is on every page in the scriptures, Mrs. Betty Williams was fond of saying. Dan Allender is, like Betty Williams, a purveyor of the truth. Dan has said that if the gospel of Christ is not true now, in the tempest of your souls, in the darkest night, then it never could be true. Think of the time most bleak in your history; it may be the present day. It is that time in particular which Christ came to redeem. The terrible reality of an incurable disease, the sudden violent death of a parent or loved one, a wayward child, a cheating spouse, a friend's betrayal...and the converse: the incidences when you were the one to do violence-when, instead of being the wounded, you made the wound.
All this said, could there be a moment in time for which Christ's finished work is not sufficient? Any of the most heinous? Surely there was that time when X or Y happened? Would you want a gospel to be halfway or three-quarters true? I submit to you the gospel is true, and God is who he claims to be; the work of Christ has accomplished what we could not ever do-he has reconciled us to the Father. Let us rest assured in that truth, *disturbing though it may be.

*I say it is disturbing because there's always the temptation to say, yes, but...or, I appreciate that Jesus died for my sins and for the sins of the world, but isn't there something I must do to right the wrongs? Christ's perfect finished work is distinguished from the good works which are to flow from faith...more later

Sound of Silence

2008-09-25T14:41:00.000-05:00

Simon and Garfunkel, the folk troubadours of the last century sang a song I listened to over and over again as a youngster some forty years ago.

Hello darkness, my old friend,
Ive come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains-
Within the sound of silence.

The song continues and you can read the rest of the lyrics here. I can't say the song offered anything definitive to me, save for the assurance that melancholy was not unique to me. In Paul Simon, I had a friend who dared pen some of the substance of his interior life; at least I attributed Simon's words to his own experience...and surely they were-whose experience has he but his own, and me mine? I felt calmed by the song in a way I can scarcely describe with a few years of life gone by.

It has been an interesting week at the beach. Usually a good place to reflect and sit in silence; there's been more silence during the day than normal, as I am not tapping on keys to draft indictments, or chatting away on the phone to marshall evidence. Strangely, when I am away from the places where silence is a treasure, like work, I can still conjure the noise of contempt and worry in my head. I can hear voices of dread and terror. I long for the peace of silence and rest but they are fleeting. If I were to hope for this empty hope's sake and lean on my own doing this yearning for peace would always be elusive.

What if, like Elijah before me, I could sit still and wait? Trust in God when I'd rather not? Believe when I cannot see? Submit to the deafening roar of silence, and fall sorrowing? Then, even then, when there are no words of comfort, he is true to his word. He calls o'er the tumult of no sound and whispers his astonishing love.

I think it part of my gifting from him who brings all good things to write to you. No matter how long or how well I may do so, I will not be able to convey the utterness of God-that is for eternity to reveal, after we've shaken off the mortal coils that bind us here. This side of heaven cannot contain him. Giving up to silence is a discipline like speaking and writing. We know on some level there is a grandness to extol, a story of his majestic nature to tell. Charles Simic said it well:

"Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them. We are always at the beginning, eternal apprentices."

May the joy of this apprenticeship be profound, may he be glorified in my silence and my speech.

T.C.B.

2008-09-24T08:26:00.000-05:00

We were on the sand, sunning, relaxing, me and dad. He was reading the Money page of the newspaper. Like he almost always does, he shares what he reads. (Perhaps where I get the inclination to prattle on about current events myself...?) The topic of the current financial crisis prompted him to express his concern and worry. One of the things I appreciate about my dad- he does not confine his worry to things financial. He fidgets about it all. He has in him a trigger set in motion from birth; all things not right are an anathema to him; he has the curious male tendency to fix; repair; make right the wrong. Yet he is typically very conservative. Convicted conservative, I like to call him. We do not always agree. Sometimes we do.

I disagree with President Bush on this- I thought you'd like to know, he said Really? Inquisitive I was. He was speaking of the parachute clause Bush seeks to include in the bail-outs. My dad sees it as too far-reaching of the government to take care of business. We agree on this, but I had to laugh when remembering the King of Rock and Roll's mantra. T C B baby! I can see him, hear him and the spawn of him, Bachman Turner Over-Drive screaming their #1 hit Taking Care of Business. Think me not too naive. Elvis and the like were not referring to actual Wall-Street, but another business entirely-that of self gratification.

Perhaps our financial leadership's TCB is their lust for money. The grave truth is their insatiable want of money is motivated by the people who hire them, who invest for self-gratification. We have met the enemy and he is us.
The sad scheme of financiers has perpetuated itself to near implosion. The reality that our financial world is but an illusion calls me to ponder the investment made in me as I have been bought and kept by one worthy.

On Christ the Solid Rock I Stand All Other Ground is Sinking Sand, All Other Ground is Sinking Sand

May we take care to be wise in all matters, seeking the kingdom of God first so that all else will follow.

Longing for home

2008-09-24T08:12:00.000-05:00

It might sound like an American heresy. It would certainly surprise many of my friends and family. I'm at the beach and I miss home. I want to be back in Tennessee. I'm in a beautiful condo that faces both the river and the ocean; the views are spectacular. The food's been good, the visit with my parents, complex and lovely. I'm thirsty for Tennessee.

Home again, home again, jiggity jog.

Looking for words

2008-09-20T10:47:00.000-05:00

Earlier this week, I was looking for a particular Frederick Buechner quote that would have fit nicely in the previous post, The Whistling Physician. I searched high and low. I googled, I looked in BrainyQuote, and other sources on the web. I poured over Buechner's books, knowing it was there, but to no avail. I was left wanting. So, I published my remarks about Dr. Carpenter without the wise words of Frederick Buechner. You can probably tell where I'm going with this. You know by now, I found Buechner's words buried in an old journal this morning. In fact, it was years ago I'd cut the words out of a flyer sent to me by Daystar Counseling Ministries, and there they were in print:

I think of faith as a kind of whistling in the dark, because in much the same way it helps to give us courage and to hold the shadows at bay. To whistle in the dark isn't to pretend that the dark doesn't sometimes scare the living daylights out of us. Instead, I think, it is to demonstrate, if only to ourselves, that not even the dark can quite overcome our trust in the ultimate triumph of the Living Light.

- F. Buechner

Whether or not George Carpenter whistled "if only for himself" is hardly the point. His whistling did provoke in me a wonder. I did not know it as a child or even as an adolescent, but whistling is a signal of courage; a consideration of life and breath in the midst of melancholy and woe. My guess is, when we whistle, or do anything else for that matter, it is not for ourselves alone, no matter how much we'd like to think it so. Perhaps St. John inspired Buechner and Carpenter:

...And the light shineth in the darkness, and the darkness overcame it not.
- John 1:5

The Whistling Physician

2008-09-17T07:51:00.000-05:00

George K. Carpenter, my orthopaedist, died this last Saturday. He and my near eighty year old dad were contemporaries in college, in the same fraternity. When I was still an infant and it was clear I would need regular tending because of the effects of cerebral palsy, my parents chose Dr. Carpenter to manage my orthopaedic care.

Going to the doctor are four words common to me and to my family. I learned at an early age to grin and bear waiting rooms peopled with those who stared the stare of pity at a child wearing a corrective brace. In response, I steeled my child's heart from the get-go, and vowed not to let curiosity pierce the veneer of protection I thought well and good.

Music has long been employed to mercifully undo the lives of the willful. And so it goes.

Dr. Carpenter was not a man of many words, yet he whistled constantly. The linoleum floors and marble walls of his office on Hayes Street echoed melodies as if over a valley. Try as I might, I had little defense for his musical cheer. He would nearly always evoke a hesitant smile or grin from me; his tunes were odd originals married to old standards. I could not retreat into disassociation and be within hearing distance; his whistling was simply Provident design.

Now, as I observe his departure I wonder- did he reckon whistling eased the fear of patients? Reading his death notice today, I learned he experienced fear up close. Dr. Carpenter served in the Army as a surgeon during the Korean War. Surely he witnessed much carnage...and perhaps he honed that exquisite art form of a whistle in the barren hills of Korea where fire rained down, shrapnel decimated hope and blood flowed up to his elbows.

Though I recall little else about him, his kind pied piperness lured me from sullen indignation at my life's plight. I treasure the memory of him whistling away my fear, calling me forward, kicking, screaming, and limping- to hope.

Soli Deo gloria

Prayer of the Weary

2008-09-12T06:50:00.000-05:00

Oh God my Father, my hope, hear the cry of my soul,
the wait of the lonely is intolerable, there is no one at home!
Though the knees of your servant may buckle,
and circumstance looks grim, Your mercy is sure.
I confess as one weary to carving idols for my comfort;
forgive my sin against You and my neighbors.
Lead me in the way of your choosing, help me to submit,
Change my heart of rock to heart broken
Grant me grace in sorrow, fix my courage in fear.

In weeping and dancing, to God be the glory,

In the name of Christ, always, Amen.

Blow Up Your TV

2008-09-10T23:35:00.000-05:00

In light of Tony Woodlief's post today about the longing for us all to lose or turn off the TV you can read here, take a look at the song, not ever a top hit for Dylan, but nevertheless another anthem to truth; surely more evidence of Dylan's prophetic nature.

The best line of which is: "Sometimes you gotta do like Elvis did and shoot the damn thing out" ...read on and enjoy.......... I put some other priceless lines in bold....

T.V. Talkin' Song

One time in London I'd gone out for a walk,
Past a place called Hyde park where people talk
'Bout all kinds of different gods, they have their
point of view To anyone passing by, that's
who they're talking to.
There was someone on a platform talking to the folks
about the T.V. god and all the pain that it invokes.
"It's too bright a light", he said, "For anybody's eyes,
If you've never seen one it's a blessing in disguise."

I moved in closer, got up on my toes,
Two men in front of me were coming to blows
The man was saying something 'bout children when they're young
Being sacrificed to it while lullabies are being sung.
"The news of the day is on all the time,
All the latest gossip, all the latest rhyme,
Your mind is your temple, keep it beautiful and free,
Don't let an egg get laid in it by something you can't see."
"Pray for peace!". he said, you could feel it in the crowd.
My thoughts began to wander. His voice was ringing loud,"
It will destroy your family, your happy home is gone
No one can protect you from it once you turn it on."
"It will led you into some strange pursuits,
Lead you to the land of forbidden fruits.
It will scramble up your head and drag your brain about,
Sometimes you gotta do like Elvis did and shoot the damn thing out."
"It's all been designed", he said, "To make you lose your mind,
And when you go back to find it, there's nothing there to find."
"Everytime you look at it, your situation's worse,
If you feel it grabbing out for you, send for the nurse."
The crowd began to riot and they grabbed hold of the man,
There was pushing, there was shoving and everybody ran.
The T.V. crew was there to film it, they jumped right over me,
Later on that evening, I watched it on T.V..

Copyright ©1990 Special Rider Music

Stealing from the Times and Challies

2008-09-08T19:50:00.000-05:00

I was reading a blogger I respect and admire, though I do not always agree with him, Tim Challies, a generally conservative fellow; you can find his blog here. Today he posted a piece from the New York Times on the words the speakers at both the Democratic and Republican conventions used.

The piece is a visualizing of the numbers of words used, could be reduced to "buzz words" of the political sphere; I think it interesting.

God help us as we endeavor to choose our candidate for president; by November, I am usually so tired of the rhetoric and the media's slaughter of conservative thought that I get "fed-up" as my dear mother would say. I ain't using this blog to tell you who I am voting for or that you should vote like me. What you should do is think critically, ask questions of the candidates, and compare and contrast what they are saying versus their records on the issues they prattle on about. Whatever you do, don't succumb to the "they said" (meaning Fox or CNN or NPR or CBS said it ) mantra of justification for your position on something. Let your yes be yes, and your no be no. But please vote, no matter what.

The Agnostic, the Monk, and Sovereignty of God

2008-09-07T21:23:00.000-05:00

Maybe you know about my general distaste for Christian popular music, a.k.a. "contemporary Christian music". In college, I made quite a name for myself, vehemently objecting to the numerous Christian concerts at the Christian liberal arts school I attended. I was outnumbered, and let's face it, in the wrong environment to be decrying the play or performance of Christian rock, as it were; after all, it was the eighties. Notwithstanding my disdain, I did discover artists like Pat Terry, Mark Heard, and Bob Bennett, all wonderful tunesmiths who were musically gifted, and, had I ignored the landscape completely, I ne'er would have learned of these men. As you will see, there is a pattern.
I had posters of Dylan, Hendrix, and a half naked James Taylor photo from the cover of the Rolling Stone on my dorm room wall. My roommates had the ever-popular Argus posters on which were printed pithy Christian sayings, 11x 17 photographs of handsome David Meece, or a worshipping Keith Green. I was a fish out of water. If it were not for the tender mercy of God who ordained hall-mates with similar musical tastes to mine, and a suite-mate who introduced me to opera, I might well have punted God altogether. I was, and remain a stubborn soul. God has dealt mercifully with me, and with us all.

Years, decades later, I still maintain that much of contemporary Christian music is lacking in artistry, passion and excellence. About four years ago, I had privilege of meeting some insiders in the business of Christian music. They too bemoaned the 'image' their music sells as one of purity and uprightness, yet the marketing of their 'merch' is strictly secular in its execution; thematic colors are the paint of seductive photography and provocative presentation. No wonder that the 'world' of the lost does not know what to make of the mixed message inherent in the media of Christian product sales. In that same stretch of time, four years ago, I confronted critical mass- a crossroads if you will. My soul was divided- I was in a battle already won by Jesus the Christ, but I was sorely tempted to give up that which he had purchased with his own blood.
Now to the crux of this post: an old friend in the legal profession called me in the midst of the terrible flesh and spirit battle. She was completely ignorant of what was transpiring in the center of my heart. What's more, she's the endearing agnostic in this story. She knows and knew then of my faith in Christ. She called to ask me if I'd like to go to the local Nazarene University and hear a friend of hers- a former desert monk turned Christian singer perform. The phrase you could have knocked me over with a feather is about as accurate as it has ever been. I hedged. I stalled. I thought to myself, what are the odds? Here I am, about to turn my back on the only truth that ever mattered, and give it up for paltry lust, and who calls me out of the blue? A card-carrying member of the ACLU, who flatly refuses to accept that God is who he says he is, but who acknowledges and respects persons of faith, is ordained unwittingly to curtail my fast ride to the pit of despair.
We went to the Nazarene school, not once, but twice in one year to listen to this gifted tunesmith who just happens to be a Christian, and just happens to be a friend of my agnostic friend, whose time as an agnostic is short, because many of you are praying she relent and submit to the staggering truth of the Gospel.
What makes this narrative so compelling to me is my agnostic friend's faith. Yes, her faith in the faith that is a gift received by the monk turned singer and me- she is acutely aware that our relationship with God is meaningful, else she would not have invited me to hear him sing, or been drawn to him in the first place. I believe the same God who wooed me back to life through the strange vehicle of contemporary Christian music can and will pursue the heart of my agnostic friend til she surrenders. I wait, assured, and amused down to the well of my bones at the lengths to which our good God will go to get my (and your) attention.

Soli Deo gloria

Prayer from Valley of Vision*

2008-09-07T21:05:00.001-05:00

O God, Thou art very great,
My lot is to approach thee with godly fear and humble confidence,
for thy condescension equals thy grandeur,
and thy goodness is thy glory.

I am unworthy, but thou dost welcome;
guilty, but thou art merciful;
poor, but thy riches are unsearchable.

Thou hast shown boundless compassion towards me
by not sparing thy son,
and by giving me freely all things in him;
This is the foundation of my hope,
the refuge of my safety,
the new and living way to thee,
the means of that conviction of sin,
brokenness of heart, and self-despair,
which will endear me to the gospel.

Happy are they who are Christ’s
in him at peace with thee,
justified from all things,
delivered from coming wrath,
made heirs of future glory;

Give me such deadness to the world,
such love to the Saviour,
such attachment to his house,
such devotedness to his service,
as proves me a subject of his salvation.

May every part of my character and conduct
make a serious and amiable impression on others,
and impel them to ask the way to the Master.

Let no incident of life, pleasing or painful,
injure the prosperity of my soul,
but rather increase it.

Send me thy help,
for thine appointments are not meant
to make me independent of thee,
and the best means will be vain
without super-added blessings.

Puritan prayer* find the collection here

A thought about correspondence

2008-09-06T17:19:00.000-05:00

Ever get a letter or a card from a loved one with the date written on it, like "6 September 2008"? Unless you get electronic mail that automatically dates correspondences for you, and/or unless you are blessed to have a friend or loved one for whom the date something is penned is important, you are not likely to know when their letter or card is written. And years later when you pull out the old letter, when the date is there, it will assist you in remembering what was going on around you at the time. Chances are, older friends & relatives will always date a letter.
I've been richly blessed by three paternal aunts who dated every card or letter I ever received from them. I suspect since they grew up in a era when personal correspondence and diaries were commonplace, they dated things with the same regularity you and I sign our credit card receipts, or our checks, if we still write those. I appreciate the strange comfort of reviewing these old letters and notes, wherein some actually gave the day of the week. That thoughtfulness was modeled well for me; therefore, I strive to do the same and pass it on to the next generation.

Peter Kreeft

2008-09-01T09:18:00.000-05:00

Be egalitarian regarding persons. Be elitist regarding ideas. - Peter Kreeft

Clean Rivers and Sound Doctrine - Are they compatible?

2008-08-30T23:59:00.000-05:00

Weeks ago I read about Mike Jameson & other legislator's, state and local swim in the Cumberland River. I gotta tell you, I thought as I read it, what will those politicians think of next? The cynicism in my bones rattled . Then, I was convicted. Something about their hope for a better city, for a cleaner river rejuvenated me, at least from a civic standpoint. I've got to confess, my reluctance to live as a better green citizen, is based in my comfort, my pride and my clinging to the notion of independence and freedom from being told how to live. And I suspect, being told how to live is the rub for all of us. We simply resent, at one time or another, being told what to do and how to do it. My resistance has often been so intense, I've resorted to telling folks where to put it, so I know, it is true about me, I wonder if it's the same for you all...?

The worldview to which I am subject, Christian Theism, might seem counter to ecological responsibility. After all, we who would like to be called Orthodox Christians are in a new conflict of sorts with those we call the Emergent Church movement; the new rebels. Those needling Emergents have pointed out to us Ostrich Orthodoxers that we are mistreating the planet, that we have failed our fellow man, and that our failure to change our wasteful, neglectful lifestyle sends a conflicting message to the 'world' as it were. Admittedly, the retorts I've heard some Orthodoxers come up with in response to the Emergents are based in ignorance, fear, and stubbornness.

"We don't have to recycle, God is going to destroy the earth at the end of the age anyway- it's scriptural" or "Jesus said we will always have the poor", (and that he most unequivocally did)
but the Word to which we so dearly cling also says....the earth is the Lord's and everything in it....the implication therefore follows we ought be good stewards thereof
Jesus also said: "when you did it not to the least of these, you did it not unto me, which clearly says when you look the other way to those in need, you ignore Jesus. Conservatives and liberals get so attached their ideaologies that they abandon the truth of the gospel, refusing to be changed. I include my self, Wallace, in this admonition.

Tim Keller has said in the introduction to his book, "The Reason for God", that both the liberals and the conservatives are right. That is a paltry paraphrase, but I think his point is worth investigating. I suspect part of his point is we have something to learn as head in the sand conservative privileged North Americans from the pleading Emergents, who, more often than not tend to be liberally minded.

What, pray tell, have they to learn from us old codgers?

Keeping in mind that it has been said those Emergent Church folk are not likely to take hard and fast stands on the truth, I wonder if maybe, just maybe they might sit a spell and listen. Here's what I imagine they might hear:

Oh hell no, they won't listen, they are stubborn, young, brash whippersnappers that think they know everything....

Well, I'll tell you right now, if I was an Emergent Church goer and I overheard someone in the Orthodox camp say the foregoing, I would be inclined to dig in my heels too. Also, it is good to keep in mind the 12- step wisdom of: You spot it, you got it.

How about a response like: the truth of the Gospel levels us all. all. all. Are you getting the point that all includes us, too? If we claim to teach sound doctrine, to live lives shaped and influenced by the Gospel, we will be undergoing change by the grace of the Holy Spirit until Jesus returns or until he calls us home. The process of sanctification is no picnic, friends.

That being said, and with due gentleness and respect, I cannot sit idly by and watch, mouth agape, as the Emergent movement subjects the truth of the Gospel to its tired old standard of works righteousness. The Gospel will prevail, but I shudder for those unwary who could be caught up in a movement, and lose sight. The four pillars of orthodoxy, the substitutionary atonement of Jesus Christ; the authority of Scripture; the supremacy or exclusivity of Christ; and the doctrine of original sin are all things about which I cannot negotiate. I cannot budge on them; I am persuaded they are true. These ideas are not true because they work- they work because they are true. From my reading and listening to their theology, it is my understanding these are the very things Emergent Christians tend to discount, to diminish, and to, in some cases throw out altogether all in the name of conversation, intrigue, seeking. Their problem seems to be that the substitionary atonement of Jesus Christ does nothing for the starving disenfranchised in Darfur or in Nashville. The inerrancy of scripture is viewed as a club with which Reformed theologians brow-beat the world. It's funny that the Emergent claims there is no truth to which we must submit. According to their proposition, THAT IS the very truth to which they submit, that there is none.

It is plain the claim of truth of the Gospel rankles the Emergent Christian. That first and foremost, God is perfectly righteous. Second, we, mankind are helpless and fallen in our sinful state. Conversely, God loves us with an everlasting love by providing a way through Christ. It seems they would have me think I can scrub myself clean and worthy by my deeds. That by feeding and clothing the hungry, we are saving not only ourselves, but saving God's name as well. This error in thinking is leading to folks believing the lie that God is who we make him out to be. Here's my response: The truth of the gospel should, yes, should rankle. Does it somehow imply that I'm better or superior to claim I have truth, or that I've found or discovered truth in the Gospel? May it never be. In fact, it is quite the other way around. The Truth of the Gospel as revealed in Christ Jesus has found me/us. Neither Orthodox Christians or Emergents make the truth, the truth is making them. God's truth was, is, and is to come.
The Truth has provided me with the awful glimpse of my sinful nature and in what dire state of need I remain. Poor, wretched, yet beloved and treasured. Sort of like that Cumberland River. It was polluted, undesirable, and desperately in need of cleansing. But she, the river could do nothing to help herself. So, when we analyze these concepts, clean rivers and sound doctrine from the standpoint of Truth, then, yes, I'd say, they are compatible. May the Church do God's bidding in worship in the sanctuary and in worshipping the Lord of Lords in our daily lives.

Soli Deo gloria.

That Day

2008-08-30T23:00:00.000-05:00

Eschatology, the word, sounds like a study of some culinary delicacy; for some reason it reminds me of escargot. The dictionary tells us eschatology is .."any system of doctrines concerning last or final matters, as death, the Second Coming or the Last Judgment"* What I apprehend of both escargot and eschatology is scant. About one, with all due respect to the French and their offerings to the realm of food, I have little desire to know more. On the other hand, as it pertains to the end of the world, I would like to educate myself, at least, in so far as it is possible.

I had a Bible teacher about whom I've spoken here, Mrs. Betty Williams who was the first to instruct me on the rapture, the sweeping up of the Church from earth. The very thought of it as an adolescent was enough to strike in me terrible internal fear. Internal, and temporal, not eternal. She showed us a lot of the places in scripture where the writer or the translation says : ...and on that day.... No matter the reference, her teaching was clear. "That Day" meant a specific date and a specific time- the date and time of the Lord's return. She made no bones about it. She did not pretend to know the day or the hour and explicitly taught it was error to presume that one could know.

I'm no pole sitter either, thanks to Betty and the Holy Spirit's instruction I make no claim to know the date of the return of Christ for his beloved bride. What I do know is this: every man or woman, group, denomination, sect or cult who has made the prediction of Christ's imminent return, has, to date, been wrong 100% of the time.

So, what are we to do? Stare at our navel... pray and cling to the hope Jesus' return will be in the third watch of the night? Hardly, I submit. Nay, we are to be fully alive for the sake of the Gospel, so on that day, when Christ returns we will either be among the dead in Christ or part of the body of believers alive at the time of His glorious appearing. My admonition: let us not concern ourselves with the calendar of days, nor become attached too closely to the wiles of this old world, but instead, long for Jesus return with such zeal that many along the road will be drawn to him for whom we pine.

Saint Augustine

2008-08-30T21:55:00.000-05:00

"Men go forth to wonder at the heights of mountains, the huge waves of the sea, the broad flow of the rivers, the vast compass of the ocean, the courses of the stars; and they pass by themselves without wondering"
- Saint Augustine, Confessions, Book X chapter 8

Summer Reading assignments

2008-08-28T09:19:00.000-05:00

Remember the dreaded summer reading list? Marching into the bookstore under the thumbscrew of one's parent, wagging that mimeographed piece of paper with titles such as Huckeleberry Finn, Moby Dick, For Whom the Bell Tolls, To Kill a Mockingbird,? Those were the days. We groaned or we secretly coveted the time allotted for reading. For some of us, reading was a welcome bliss from the intrusion of melancholy. Isolating in an air-conditioned sanctuary at the public library and diving into classic literature was as close as we'd get to utopia, if there ever was such a thing; and, for others, the 'list' and its demands was a chore that interfered with other activity, like water-skiing until we were raisined, or watching the idiot box all afternoon. Time, when young, seems endless until the hours of summer have waned and there's but a week left before Miss Bradshaw's English class begins. That's when it seems there is no justice. One is confident the whole world does revolve around their doom and dismay.
In the interest of nostalgia and good, old fashioned sweat of the brow thinking for oneself, I've compiled a list for you. Consider this your end of summer reading assignment; and, you better get at it, because there is plenty to pour over. Yes, there will be a quiz. I want you to read the funny-bone tickling, yet somber article of P.J. O'Rourke on science and religion found here in Science and Spirit magazine. To get you started, it is short. Good stuff.
This lengthy essay from City Journal, posted at Wall Street Journal's Opinion Journal contemplates Obama's Shamanic nature. It strikes me as prophetic-What do you think? Try out R.R. Reno's essay on permanence as he ponders the tattoo. And, this one is for the skeptic: a piece from Sean Curyn's Right Wing Bob ( relax, it is no Bob Jones University manifesto) that explores what, and for whom Bob Dylan might really stand.
Ok, that's it for now. Turn off the tv. Get a glass of your favorite beverage. Start a load of wash. Put your feet up. Read. (for those of you with children, animals and other worthy time-consuming activities, please don't scoff or shoot me, the messenger.) Reading is a good thing, and so are most of the activities that prevent us from taking time/having time to read. The challenge is in deciding. Believe you me, reading and thinking on that reading has had a significant role in shaping me. If I read less, I'd probably have painted my bathroom by now. If I read less, I would have more new clothing. What I treasure about reading is not simply the doing of it, but the confrontation it most always offers; what happens in me, as a result.
I can still recall the smell the mimeograph machine left in the paper, the reading lists, and the yearning in my gut to get at it. I hope you have something for which you long like reading that hints at heaven.

I'll Fly Away Part 1

2008-08-10T08:13:00.000-05:00

Thomas MacKenzie's dad died on July 30th. Decades ago, Thomas' dad was paralyzed by a surgeon's error. This paralysis resulted in his dad having to spend the rest of his life shackled. He was either tethered to a wheelchair or the braces that he fashioned as a remedy. After his dad's death, Thomas took the brace(s) to a high bridge over a serious river and slung them over the rail. His choice to do so was motivated by his hatred for what they, the braces, represent: death, (Thomas used the word 'inability') destruction, maiming, suffering, loss, I could go on, ad infinitum.

My first instinct when watching Thomas' video blog on the subject, is this is cathartic, it is meaningful to him. Braces, wheelchairs, all tethering of the sort represents the enemy's impact on our bodies, our lives, our world. I've seldom come across a person limited by physical or mental handicap (errrr impairment, impairment I must be p.c. said the roboton) that I did not think on the scar of the fall. In Mr. MacKenzie's case, the fall of a fallen surgeon, apparently. Who knows what caused the surgeon's mistake. A bad night's sleep, the slip of scalpel, an ongoing stress yet to be named...? Who knows!?

I've asked those questions too. My birth's trauma sort of remains a mystery to me. I know what the condition is, but there's not a cause of which I'm aware. Even so, I spent the first quarter of my life with a brace on my left leg, though it was not required for me to stand, or walk. I think the fitting term was therapeutic brace. There was the awful irony. I could do without it, I could drag my weaker leg along without a brace and oh how I longed to do so. Much to my flesh's dismay, my mother faithfully had me fitted for it as I grew-(to the orthopaedist twice a year at least) and saw to it that I wore it every day. Today, without it, I try not to drag my leg, and the constancy of the therapy in my formative years made a difference. My leg was strengthened by the wearing of it- I was, as they say, changed. Changing is probably more accurate, or to use a theological term-being sanctified. So, my being bound in this life is both a dreadful signature of the enemy's destruction and a glorious intimation of that day yet to come, when, like Thomas' dad, I'll be changed on the other side, body and soul.

No more iron shackles on my feet....

There's more to this, and I'm going to post part 2 later.

Go well this Lord's day, worshipping Him whose glory is everlasting.

Rest in Peace

2008-08-03T21:22:00.000-05:00

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn died today at the age of 89. A man who endured torture in forced labor camps in his native country all for making remarks about "the man with the mustache", (Stalin) in a letter to a friend. I know little about him save that he has influenced countless writers in the west, and that he stood as a conscience of his nation against the raging evil of communism.

In the wake of his death, much will be covered about him, his stamina, his literary genius, and his far reaching effect on other writers. Solzhenitsyn's Christian faith may be overlooked by some media outlets, but it would be hard to miss if they did their research. Time magazine published a prayer of his recently. Read it and marvel that a man whose life included such dire events could exclaim how easy it is to believe in God. May we consider this the next time our American hang-nails of traffic jams, high oil prices, and our team losing the penant again send us into a frenzy.

Rest in peace dear Aleksandr.

How easy it is to live with You, O Lord.
How easy to believe in You.

When my spirit is overwhelmed
within me, When even the keenest see no
further than the night, And know not what to do —
tomorrow, You bestow on me the certitude that
You exist and are mindful of me.
That all the paths of righteousness
are not barred. As I ascend into
the hill of earthly glory, I turn back and gaze,
astonished, on the road that led me here beyond despair,
Where I too may reflect Your radiance upon mankind.

All that I may yet reflect, You shall
accord me, And appoint others where I shall fail.

–a prayer of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s;

* Translation © 1 972 by Patricia Blake

Legacy

2008-08-03T12:44:00.000-05:00

Practicing law leaves one with a healthy respect for history, for the former things, for the roots of the law. Whether the history is case law, statutory law, or executive order, and whether I agree with the premises of those laws or not, the canon is significant. Lay people know in peculiar ways that some laws are preposterous. On the other hand, whether we agree or not, we are all, lay and legal types, bound to live under them. In a free country such as this republic for which we wobble, we can speak out against laws, against persons, and ideas. This proposition is what lead to the two party political system we have today. It is why there are pro-life and pro-choice camps; it explains the pro-death penalty groups and anti-death penalty groups. We are free to choose, so far.

In considering history, and the choices we've made, we leave our pasts, our records. The intangible notion of our reputation will not be buried with us. They remain to speak of us. How then should we live? Dare we ask? Is that our place to question? Aren't we open-minded folk? Does how we live really count? Why should we care?

Save for the fact that truth matters, lives well lived matter, character counts, integrity is of utmost importance, there are no other reasons. But to whom do we turn when those platitudes fail us, when we have exchanged the truth for a lie, when we have failed miserably, when our character is tainted by our behavior, and when our integrity is marred by our gross misdeeds?

I submit we cannot turn to our selves, to our loved histories, our pride in territory, our collective patriotism, our flags, nation-states, ecological sensitivities, all of which compose our deeds. We must bow, and right well on our faces- submit to the one true God as revealed in the person of Jesus Christ. His legacy-his sinless life, his perfect substitutionary death and his glorious resurrection this is the only one through which there is lasting hope.

What type legacy the church leaves in this generation seems to be bound up in her work. Her work is not to love and minister for the sake of ministry's goodness and rightness, but for the sake of the Gospel- which is to cast a net and save the lost, with the awfulness of the truth- while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. (Romans 5:8)
The receipt of life eternal does not flow from accomplished works, but works flow from the life eternal freely given.

Zipporah the Wandrin' Jew

2008-07-31T21:44:00.000-05:00

Moses married a Midianite woman named Zipporah. I named my wandering Jew plant after Zipporah, because as she was a Midianite and not a Hebrew, neither am I of the twelve tribes. Zippy and I were grafted in by a covenant keeper.

I do not know if you can see it in the picture in the "Her name is Zippy" post, but there is new stalk actually growing under water!! I say this all the time to my friends, that life is metaphor. This plant surely manifests that truth. ( Don't freak out reformers- purveyors of propositional truth, metaphor is NOT a bad word)

I am the new stalk growing under water, being transformed from death to life. Baptized into death, I receive life eternal. Know this: the receipt of life eternal does not flow from works, but works flow from the life eternal given.

My new companion Zippy mirrors the work of God in me, in us all. Let me bow, submit, put down roots and grow as he calls me homeward. Do I hear an Amen?

Her name is Zippy

2008-07-31T21:34:00.000-05:00

Wandering

2008-07-28T07:18:00.000-05:00

I've a good friend who, a few weeks back conspired with me to take a cut of a Wandering Jew plant at Macaroni Grille. I was admiring the rich purple hued plant; a large flower bed outside the restaurant was covered in it, and I mentioned how I'd always wanted a plant Wandering Jew plant. (Who would not want one, with that fantastically apt name-aren't we all wandering Jews?) The next thing I knew, she took a pocket knife from deep in her pocket, and cut a stalk. Awed, I received it, tended to it carefully until I could get it in a vase, and since that day, over a month ago, I've been waiting for roots to sprout. The first few days, I looked every hour I was home to see whether roots were growing. Nothing. A week went by... nothing. Two weeks, no activity then either. I added water to the vase, and when I could endure with it no longer, I forsook the shoot, by putting the vase between the kitchen curtain and the window, out of sight, out of mind.

Two days ago, I pulled back the curtain to find the struggling plant had now grown a trail of roots suspended in water like hair. Glee is the word I find fits best to describe my reaction. It was a sort of forty year period this long month. Mine was the desert, I turned my back on the frail plant, and did not keep my charge. When I observed the wispy growth, my jaw dropped. I was simultaneously convicted of my forgetfulness, and sobered to realize the hearty plant, to this point, did not need my tending to grow. It seems it needed a time away, much like the watched pot begs me to leave before it will boil.

It was I who wandered off to the task of puttering, writing, preparing to leave for work, socializing, or easing into my arrival from a long work day. All that time, utterly abandoned by me, the Jew simply sat, treading water, simmering in the daytime sun, and brooding in the dark of night. Now that the roots have sprung forth, the real risk begins, where to plant this sapling, this young, vibrant life? How to care for her, what to feed, how much light, how much shade. You've probably already guessed this, but what I know about plant-life can be inscribed on the head of a tiny straight pin. So it will be an adventure, more so for the vulnerable plant, than me. We shall see. Wish us well.

Not Finished

2008-07-25T08:05:00.000-05:00

I'm not finished with two other books, but I'm close. I started Why We're Not Emergent, but Should Be, by Kevin DeYoung and Ted Kluck, and, I told you this already, the first installment of Bob Dylan's memoir, Chronicles, Volume I.

DeYoung and Kluck do an admirable job of asserting that truth matters, in fact, they do a fine job of it. So far, what I glean as the solid premise of their book: Absolute truth claims are what distinguish orthodox Christianity from the Emergent movement.

Dylan does a similar thing, asserts that truth matters. I'm still wading through his fine prose, chocked full of metaphor.

If you are a Christian and you don't think truth matters, you might want to re-think why you call yourself one.

Go listen to Dylan sing, it'll jump-start your day, he'll wake you as he cries in the wilderness.

Finished

2008-07-25T07:40:00.000-05:00

I finished Peter Kreeft's Making Sense out of Suffering. You might recall I posted a few weeks back that I'd begun the book and was quite taken with it. I can commend it to you wholeheartedly. It ranks as one of the best books on the topic, I've read. Kreeft is deliberate. His arguments for considering suffering as part and parcel of pointing one to the Eternal are persuasive. Perhaps the best tool he employs is a dialogue between the Author and the Reader. This was a risky choice that could have back-fired, instead, it drew me in and helped me concede the questions I have about suffering and to whom they are ultimately addressed.
For more on the book, you'll have to read it. I think you should. Yes, I said should.

Another book on suffering I appreciated, R.C Sproul's Surprised by Suffering. A book I cannot say I 'liked', but would recommend as a resource on the subject of suffering is Soren Kierkegaard's The Sickness Unto Death. Inviting title, isn't it??
A similar book worth exploring on death and dying- edited by Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, is The Eternal Pity. Essentially it is a collection of numerous essays, both contemporary and ancient on death.

So much for an uplifting post. Go well this day dear reader.

What's happening here?

2008-07-21T17:33:00.000-05:00

This accompanying photo is widely known throughout the internet. Were I to title it, I would name it "Squishing the Sun". The image is playful and fun, yet it carries a somber reminder. What I think of when I see it: "...And the light shineth in the darkness, and the darkness overcame it not..."
Folks there's a committed enemy, hellbent on darkness, but he will not win. The light of the Gospel is eternal, ever, true, lasting and faithful. Believe it.

G.K. Chesterton poem

2008-07-20T21:44:00.000-05:00

O God of earth and altar,
Bow down and hear our cry;
Our earthly leaders falter,
Our people drift and die;
The walls of gold entomb us,
The swords of scorn divide;
Take not Thy thunder from us,
But take away our pride.

…Tie in a living tether
The Prince and Priest and Thrall;
Bind all our lives together,
Smite us and save us all…

Midnight book review: The Stringbean Murders

2008-07-17T09:16:00.000-05:00

I could not sleep, I had no business reading either, because I had a headache from hell; the kind that makes you sure the top of your head could cave in or explode, any minute. With a headche like that one, one ought to read Pascal, the Bible, D.A. Carson, Tim Keller, Dostoyevsky, anything that might change your life. I chose a different road, and am glad I did.
In November of 1975 Warren Causey, a former Nashville Banner reporter, wrote a little book on the murders of David "Stringbean" Akeman and his wife, Estelle Akeman. Stringbean was known worldwide for his HEE-HAW comedy, and his banjo prowess, but to those closest to him for his simple lifestyle amid his success as an entertainer. The murders happened on November 10, 1973. The Akemans were downed by a ruthless gunman on their own property; Stringbean was shot inside his home and Estelle ran in a panic when she heard the gunfire, but to no avail, she was shot in the head as she begged for her life.
Why is a book like this worth reading, you ask? The sole reason it is important is this: so that man and womankind do not shirk from admitting that evil is. Period. It is not so we can delve into the personal life of one of country music's most beloved stars. It is not so we can learn the technical aspects of crime and law; especially that, because from Causey's account of events, the evidence was shaky, though the investigation seemed thorough. So, if you are looking for a Pulitzer winning crime drama, this ain't it.
I read it as a curious Nashvillian, aware that I was but 11 years of age when these killings took place. It happened on Bakers Station Road, then completely rural, and only miles from the home on East Cedar Street where my dad was born. Now Bakers Station Road has flourished or descended into mass development, depending on your views. It only retains vestiges of its rural roots, and has perhaps been permanently scarred by the murders of Estelle and David Akeman.
Causey's book was published the same year Marcia Trimble was murdered, 1975. I know this fact was in Causey's mind as he collected what earnings he did. I also learned in the reading of it, that Detective Tommy Jacobs, one of the lead investigators in the Stringbean murders, was mortally wounded himself in February of 1971 on Oriole Place, in the center of Green Hills. He was shot multiple times, inluding the face, arm and back as he conducted an investigation in a driveway on Oriole. I remember when I moved to Eden Avenue, but a block from there in the late eighties, my dad cautioned me about the neighborhood in a cryptic way, specifically pointing out Oriole Place as a street where hoodlums lived. Now, I suspect dad was referencing this shooting of Jacobs, but did not give details on the danger of the place. It was nothing of the sort then, in my mind, but the longer I reflect on it, the more I think my dad was on to something.
What I think Causey wanted to point out to locals that read the book: even here, in the bedroom communities of Nashville, both north and south of the urban area, crime and darkness lurk. It is something all of us in the trade know. There is no safe place. Combatting the evil of which I spoke earlier is a sticky thing; recalling Alexandr Solzhenitsyn's words on the subject startle me:

If it were only so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?

This pithy question has led sane men to drink themselves under tables, and mad ones to the altars of confession. I submit this question does not stand for the proposition that men or women who wreak havoc through crime are misguided and unloved creatures in need of treatment instead of punishment. On the contrary, I think it means we are all capable of, indeed all commit great evil. To combat evil is not as simple as it seems, it is not just about weeding out bad people from good. Specifically, fighting crime is about the laborious task of proof, of collecting evidence of giving up exculpatory proof that may exonerate the innocent, and presenting credible inculpatory proof that will damn the guilty. That said, it is vital to remember it is not a game, it is not easy and lives are held in the balance. It is why I go to work; may I ever keep in mind Solzhenitsyn's thoughts on the matter as I labor to do good, knowing I am shot through with capacity for evil.

Home, Sick

2008-07-17T08:38:00.000-05:00

That's where I've been, going on the second day, home, sick. It all started with that The Visitation post. My 'visitation' as it were, dehydrated me. Or, I, being less attentive to my frailty, dehydrated myself. Fact is, I do not take care of myself as I ought. I do get better sleep, I don't drink like a fish anymore, but I simply ignore the little things like hydration. My fever has dissipated, I feel more normal this morning, just ate two poached eggs and am drinking coffee. (I already downed a 12 oz Gatorade, for those of you who may be smirking that coffee is not hydrating.)
I've got a friend who suffers physically a lot. Come to think of it, I know many who contend with all kinds of suffering, physical and emotional. From migraines to arthritis, from sciatia to carpel tunnel, from endometriosis to pinniculitis, from fibromyalgia to clinical depression they're all there, slugging it out in the temporal. These conditions or diseases are not what make these folk, though. I know none of them to have succumbed to the clutches of despair, but by man's standards, they certainly would have reason to, and no one could judge them, or me for surrender to pain.
What's funny, is that days before I spiralled into this state of being, I mused on suffering and wondered aloud to someone, (I cannot recall now who it was,) if that is not why we are here in the first place- to suffer. Soren Kierkegaard put it like this:

Listen to the cry of a woman in labor at the hour of giving birth-look at the dying man's struggle at his last extremity, and then tell me whether something that begins and ends thus could be intended for enjoyment.

I imagine, as I nearly always do, that as you read this, you are saying to yourself, well Wallace has been feverish for one too many hours, and now just needs a little rest, that is a little extreme, of course our lives are intended for enjoyment, you say, they sure as hell ought to be.

I can't argue with you on the topic, because there does seem to be ample evidence in scripture that God intended for us to enjoy creation, to enjoy fellowship and to enjoy him. What I offer for pondering is that one dare to believe it is possible to enjoy life and live into the calling to suffer all at once. My premise for this paradox is based in part on homesickness. Not being home, sick, but real, honest to God homesick, the awareness, the inkling that this world is not our home, that there is something greater for which we were born. While I'm home today, I'll think on it if you will.

Tony Snow

2008-07-13T14:22:00.000-05:00

As some of you know, journalist and Bush press secretary, Tony Snow died of cancer this past week. Whatever your politics, or your views on the media, I bet you will get a tissue after or during reading this, his commencement speech over a year ago at Catholic University of America. I found it posted at www.rightwingbob.com today

The theme of was “Reason, Faith, Vocation.” Some of the advice and wisdom he shared with the graduates:

Socrates was right: Know thyself.
But see, there’s more. Once you’ve gotten past the mirror phase, then things begin to get really interesting. You begin to confront the truly overwhelming question: Why am I here? And that begins to open up the whole universe, because it impels you to think like the child staring out at the starry night: “Who put the lights in the sky? Who put me here? Why?” And pretty soon you are thinking about God. Don’t shrink from pondering God’s role in the universe or Christ’s. You see, it’s trendy to reject religious reflection as a grave offense against decency. That’s not only cowardly. That’s false. Faith and reason are knitted together in the human soul. So don’t leave home without either one.
[...]
When it comes to faith, I’ve taken my own journey. You will have to take your own. But here’s what I know. Faith is as natural as the air we breathe. Religion is not an opiate, just the opposite. It is the introduction to the ultimate extreme sport. There is nothing that you can imagine that God cannot trump. As Paul said “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” And once you realize that there is something greater than you out there, then you have to decide, “Do I acknowledge it and do I act upon it?” You have to at some point surrender yourself. And there is nothing worthwhile in your life that will not at some point require an act of submission. It’s true of faith and friendship.
[...]
Finally, love. How trite is that? But it’s everything. It separates happiness from misery. It separates the full life from the empty life. To love is to acknowledge that life is not about you. I want you to remember that: It’s not about you. It’s a hard lesson. A lot of people go through life and never learn it. It’s to submit willingly, heart and soul, to things that matter. Love is not melodrama. You don’t purchase it, you don’t manufacture it. You build it.
Every time I buy something gaudy for my wife she says, “Oh that’s nice,” and then it goes away someplace. The love letters she keeps; I don’t know where the jewelry is.
Love springs from small deeds, the gestures that say casually and naturally “I care.” That acknowledge what’s special about somebody else. If somebody’s smarter, quicker, better, prettier, wiser than you, tell them. Learn from them. Don’t be jealous. Glory in it.
[...]
Think not only of what it means to love but what it means to be loved. I have a lot of experience with that. Since the news that I have cancer again, I have heard from thousands and thousands of people and I have been the subject of untold prayers. I’m telling you right now: You’re young [and you feel] bullet-proof and invincible. [But] never underestimate the power of other people’s love and prayer. They have incredible power. It’s as if I’ve been carried on the shoulders of an entire army. And they had made me weightless.
[...]
When I was your age, I had long hair, a beard and thought of myself as a socialist. You are going to pinball all over the place, from experience to experience, job to job. And I want you to remember that you’ve got company. And that if you engage them with heart and mind, with faith and energy, you are going to find yourself on a cresting wave. It’ll carry you forward and it’ll push you under water from time to time. And some day in the dim and distant future, when you’re looking back at it, you’re not going to think about your car or your career or your gold watch. You’ll think about a chewed-up teddy bear you had as a baby or maybe your child’s smile on a special Christmas morning. The only things that are sure to endure are the artifacts of love. So go out and build as many as you can.
And finally this: Wherever you are and whatever you do, never forget at this moment, and every moment forward, you have a precious blessing. You’ve got the breath of life. No matter how lousy things may seem, you’ve got the breath of life. And while God doesn’t promise tomorrow, he does promise eternity.

The Visitation

2008-07-13T08:58:00.001-05:00

My web reading is somewhat limited, but one of my favorite sites (to which I've linked you all at http://www.tonywoodlief.com/ ) is Sand in the Gears, Tony Woodlief's earnest words on family, distress, melancholia, politics, faith, music, et cetera- all told with a wonderful dash of zeal and humor. One of his latest posts, "Whatchamacallits" is no exception. (I've been having difficulty lately with maintaining my blog - difficulty linking you to the correct posts of others, you can find this entry of Tony's on July 11, 2008)

"Whatchamacallits" is his wonderfully stark commentary on the naming of the male genitalia in the Woodlief household. He's a boy, who happens to be a dad, and his language is that of a boy- one of concern and sincerity juxtaposed by playfulness and irreverence. I'll not spoil it for you- go to his link posted above to read it.

Tony's speaking into the chaos of naming has inspired me. Just as his comments could be received by some as childish, over the top and sexist, so may the remainder of this post be for you, dear reader. However, I am coming at this from a different angle. I, a member of the female gender, am possessed of a uterus that rages in torrents for about eight days a month. I've decided to pen a few words on the bloody matter. I have seen portions of the stage play, The Vagina Monologues, and something about that production fits well into this theme- speaking of body parts is not gauche in itself.

Now, there are those, most of whom will be men, right this minute, who'll elect to go read CNN, ESPN or their local weather, all well and good-understood.. Or, given that it is the Lord's day within Christendom, some of you may be wincing and wanting to wash my mouth out with soap. For those of you who've the stomach (most will be women, and that is no mere coincidence) to continue, read on.

Girls become women, not by forfeiting or losing their virginity, but, I submit, by bleeding. You women may recall the day you had your first 'period' or 'menstrual flow'. And the event of going from a relatively carefree, "blood in the veins and arteries where it is contained life" to one where blood gushes from your insides is quite the shock. My mom did her best to educate me with one of those booklets with the black and white line drawings of the vagina, uterus, and ovaries, sat me down, looked me in the eye, and said, read this, but I do not remember if I read it before or after I started my period. I suspect that no matter how carefully and deliberately the subject is addressed, the trauma remains a vivid one for most girls. For those of you who cried tears of joy when you first 'got your period', I do not understand you. I may love you and cherish you, but I do not understand that strange joy.

Much is made of what to call this rite of passage, and heretofore the references of "flow", or "Flo", "my period", which to me sounds so grammarian, and allusive to the time that feels for me like one in which time stops; "the curse", while accurate, hardly seems the word you want to start using at age 12 or so and stick with through your entire life. "My time of the month" was ever popular with some, but so direct and without earnestness, it carried less weight than "my period".

I never did stick with one word. My mom used "the curse" "period", and I said as little about it as possible. If you want a name with shock value, and one in particular to describe that part of your menstruation that doubles you in two and prompts you to want to rip out the throat of the nearest bystander, try THE CRAMPS. "Have you got the cramps?"; or, "God, I've got the cramps, do you have any Midol?"

The previous two phrases are all but lost on the male species, that is, until they are fortunate by Providence or get old enough to have a cramp in their groin muscle; women can then have a strange empathy with them as they moan in dire pain, limp to the shower and stand under running water to alleviate the knot in their muscle tissue while clutching cold tile.

I'd like to delve deeper in theological issues surrounding a woman's menstrual flow, (e.g. blood covenant, blood offering, original sin, the curse, the fall, et cetera,) but I do not want to tread lightly on the topic of my dear Saviour's offering. I'll resort to a banal illustration instead. How many of you are familiar with the band called THE CRAMPS? Not many, I presume. Suffice it to say, their garish make-up, horrible sound, and provocative lyrics are as intense a contrast to the precious blood of Christ my God as is possible for me to convey. I thought I might insert a photo of them, or a poster, but after I looked at google images of them, I decided against it. One poster of theirs had the words Christian death inscribed on it; fitting, both to describe their monstrosity, and the actual thing taking place when we undergo this rite, this comi-tragic cycle.

Call it what you will, I have opted for the neutral words "The Visitation"- describe sort of a spiritual activity and intimates there is, thankfully, an end to the bloodshed. By God's great wisdom, mercy and timing alone, I rejoice that it is one day going to cease.

The Holiness of God

2008-07-05T09:03:00.000-05:00

I re-read the last post, Superseding Indictment. Some of you might be appalled. My inclination would have been to worry what you think of my post, what you think of me, but, for now, for today, and for truth, that is of no matter. Some of you might be asking questions I've asked myself after the re-read:

-Do you really think that about God, Wallace? Yes, at the risk of offending and/or alienating you,

dear reader, I do.

-It makes God sound so mean. Sound(s) mean- isn't that subjective?

- Poor Wallaces' self-esteem must be riding pretty dang low today. Yeah. maybe so. If my self

esteem stays in the dirt til Jesus returns and I can proclaim the truth of the gospel, so be it. God

alone is faithful, I am weak, He is strong.

-Death, I mean, right off the bat, for the tiniest infraction? His holiness requires it. What kind of

God would he be if his standard was not a standard, but mere whimsy?

-Well, Wallace, you can think that if you like, but I believe God is benevolent, loving and kind.

Here, we agree.

-So how can God be both benevolent and wrathful?

-Only one truly righteous, truly just and truly holy can be both at the same time.

-What are we to do with a God like this?

I thought you'd never ask, receive the Truth as revealed in the person of Jesus.

Superseding Indictment

2008-07-04T09:29:00.000-05:00

I'm sort of in a knot. Which should not be much of a surprise if you know me. On the about me page on this blog, I address what activities I spend time doing; one of which, to my dismay, is worry. I wring my hands, I fidget, and I get anxious... and why? My dreadful conclusion is that I am too invested in what you think of me.
Suffering from the miasmic 'me driven' sickness of the soul that I am the center of the universe is sobering. I can imagine some of you are thinking, you don't do that Wallace, you are the least me driven character I know. To which I say-poppycock. If you really knew me, if you could crawl inside my head, you'd be awake to the truth of it. There are others of you who may have said, and rightly so, it is about time you confessed this. If this was your response, then it is likely you know how great your own sins are-what chasm separates you from the holiness of God.

The original indictment reads: On a date certain in April, 19__, in the province of earth, and before the finding of this indictment, Wallace Mercer did intentionally, knowingly or recklessly offend the holiness and complete faithfulness of God Almighty by exercising his or her will in opposition to the holiness and faithfulness of God Almighty; to wit: {here the exhaustive list of errors, great and small are to be inserted} and against the peace and perfect righteousness of God.

The punishment: Death. Period. No quarter. End of Conversation.

The remedy: Is it a promise to do it better? To live with more integrity? To be an ethical person? A granting of a 'do over'. Nope. Don't even go there. It is as I said-the exacting punishment of death is required.

The only remedy, the only sufficient one is a superseding indictment that was drafted in the hall of heaven before the foundation of the world.

It reads: On a date before time was, in the province of heaven, before the finding of this indictment in earthly time, A Lamb was slain, said Lamb being the person of Jesus Christ, who did intentionally enter the kingdom of this world, as human man, while simultaneously retaining the fullness of God; born of a virgin, by the Holy Spirit, he Jesus, lived an utter sinless life, obedient even to death, he subjected himself to the wrath of his Father, by imputing the sins of all to himself; therefore he incurred the full and complete wrath of his father and died to win the bride of his choice, the Church, by pouring out his life's blood as an offering for her, so that those rightly indicted because of their great or small shortcomings might be reconciled to Almighty God the Father by the Holy Spirit; and subsequent to the atoning work of him, Jesus, he, God the Father, raised him, Jesus on the third day by the Holy Spirit's power, and he Jesus, now sits at the right hand of the God the Father, ever interceding for sinners in the hands of a holy and righteous God.

Here's what really rankles me. Christ died for me while I was yet his enemy. His work atoned for my fallen nature before I was ever born. To merit this work of his all I have to do is receive it. I cannot earn it, I cannot get good enough to receive it. I must receive it my badness or not at all. He took my guilt and made it his, yet in his perfection he is sufficient and God the Father smiled on him, reckoning his obedience, suffering and death enough. I have no other who is capable of interceding for me but Christ crucified and Christ risen. May my worry for what you think of me and yours for what I think of you become ash under my feet and yours for the cause of the Gospel.

Soli Deo Gloria, again and again.

Vanity

2008-07-01T21:16:00.001-05:00

All is vanity. When I write, I become more
of who I was made to be and simultaneously
tempted for the world to read and hear me,
to love and adore me. Let the latter fall away
and may I fall on my face daily before our gracious
God.

All is vanity.

Christ have mercy.

Possible

2008-06-28T16:39:00.000-05:00

I have a prophet friend. He does not wear sandals or a tunic. Nor does he carry a staff, or herd goats on a craggy mountainside. He does not live as a hermit, or wail in the streets of your town. Well, maybe he does wail in the streets of your town...the question is, are you listening? A week ago we were sharing an afternoon at the museum. He was grappling with his craft, with what he wants to do next, artistically.

I hear you saying, I thought you said your friend was a prophet..?

Yes, that is what I said. I'll get to that.

My friend paints, and sculpts. He draws and dreams. On this particular day we marvelled at the provocation of hope-what is unleashed when one views a made thing of beauty. We saw a juried art show, an eclectic gathering of paintings, 3-D found art objects, photographs, sculpture, and in the span of an hour were changed for the better, for eternity, I suspect.

I've heard it said before that hope is dangerous-that it, hope, evokes a well-spring of what might be, what could be. Over our post- museum refreshment, my wondering friend said:

Everything is still possible.

Everything. Is. Still. Possible.

My eyes must have twinkled with mischief. Did you hear what you said? I asked, giddy.

Caught, my friend knew he had uttered truth, a truth with astounding reverberation.

We laughed a laugh of surety, of what is to be, and repeated the maxim.

It echoed in the small cafe, I'm sure, long after we departed. It has stayed and stayed with me.

Let's take what my friend said and run with it.

Everything is Still Possible.

Let us believe. Let us submit.

Let us give thanks that possible is true and true is possible, and that artists do become prophets

when hope arrests them.

Soli Deo gloria.

The Weight of Truth

2008-06-28T14:54:00.000-05:00

C.S. Lewis' book of essays, The Weight of Glory is perhaps my favorite title of any written work, ever. It certainly eclipses the beauty of a phrase like The Weight of Truth. In fact, when I consider the sound of this latter grouping of words, I'm embarrassed to keep writing. There is not much that will join the two titles save for the prescient word, Truth.

When one stops to think on it, truth is a rather hard thing. It evokes a great bit of ugliness before it is realized to be a beautiful, saving thing.

Truth has hurt many a feeling; my own wounded pride and the borne scars of others on the receiving end of my Gatling gun tongue are evidence of its impact. What has been said, may not be true, and may be a lie straight from the pit of hell, but truth is bedrock. The effect of words, the washing of them over and in our auditory canals is a kind of truth. And, when we are imprisoned by deafness in a physical sense or deaf in the figurative, we still rely on truth as our frame of reference. Any argument presupposes there is truth. Why else would one ever open their mouth to state a position?

Relativism has spawned statements like:

there is no such thing as truth, or absolute truth is confining and judgmental.

Embedded in those very assertions is the truth itself, always hovering, and bleeding into the foreground. It cannot be shaken off and there is no place far enough to run from its reach.

Could that have something to do with the fact that truth has a giver? As I consider its import, it should be little surprise that God himself in Christ made exclusive claims of authority, buttressed by truth. When he said, for instance, I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life; no one comes to the Father, but by me. What do you make of that audaciousness?

What do you mean there is no other way? Why can't I do it MY way, like Frank, or Elvis? Or what about the other world religions? Can't they be good enough? Aren't they nice harmless people, and to some, far less violent or hateful than the smug, churched American?

When it finally, comes down to it, one must accept or reject the truth. And the truth is, no one is good enough. No country, no politics, no religion, no man, no woman. No one could do it right, no one has the truth to impart save for the one who came to be truth, to do truth and to live truth forever. This the weight of truth: there is only one way.

Got idols?

2008-06-25T23:09:00.000-05:00

Never seen American Idol, except for the British version where the Paul Potts fellow wows the judges and the audience with his rendition of Puccini's Nessun dorma. I've seen that about 20 times on youtube like the rest of you and if you have not, and you are reading this, chagrined that you've not yet seen it, you have my permission, no, an injunction to go, now, do not stop to put the clothes in the dryer or to pay the bills, go now to watch it, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1k08yxu57NA . Ok. Now you've been bowled over by that beauty, by the portly man with the bad teeth, whose voice slays you where you sit, I want to wonder something about jealousy and beauty.

Is he who made us righteous in his jealousy when we worship another? (This query, assumes that God did indeed make us; does it not follow that if he did indeed make us, his authorship gives him per se jealous authority? )

Are you like me when you experience beauty in any form, do you desire more of it, with increased exposure to the degree that it, the beautiful, whatever the form of it is ALL you want?

Is this craving for beauty our inheritance from Mother Eve whose eyes were saucers and whose ears were beguiled by the subtle serpent?

Do you want beauty itself to be enough of a god?

When you are transfixed, and it, the beautiful (thing, idea, man, woman, animal, created thing, otherwise or combination of any of the above) is the object of one's affection to the extent that God takes a back seat, would you consider that idolatry?

Can beauty be a true virtue if there's no acknowledgement of the allotter of the beauty?

I heard a sermon last week that touched on beauty and its submission to the truth, the verity of the Gospel. The speaker's point almost threw me. He was asserting that an object, a person, or a thing evoking desire, (fill in the blank, food, art, a lover) by itself in all its splendor is simply straw, grass, and in fact destructive if it is not subject to the Gospel.

I found myself posturing and defending. I know posts like this aren't popular and that to some readers, a concept like idolatry is outdated and irrelevant.
When I first heard his words, I bristled, knowing there are things, ideas, objects, persons, (you name it), that are, for lack of a better word, above God.

I repent. God have mercy.

Derek Webb, a new favorite writer has a song entitled "I repent" it's not so much about beauty, but it is a song soaked in beauty and rich in the gospel message. Derek seems to be repenting of the American gospel message. Check out his site: www.derekwebb.com

I hope my questions will unnerve you a little like they do me, and I hope you'll investigate the beauty giver, the one who spoke creation in to being- Jesus

we are all goners and without a prayer save for Christ's finished work.

here's Derek's song:
I Repent words and music by derek webb

i repent, i repent of my pursuit of america's dream
i repent, i repent of living like i deserve anything
of my house, my fence, my kids, my wife in
our suburb where we're safe and white

i am wrong and of these things i repent
i repent, i repent of parading my liberty
i repent. i repent of paying for what i get for free
and for the way i believe that i am living right
by trading sins for others that are easier to hide
i am wrong and of these things i repent

bridge

i repent judging by a law that even i can't keep
of wearing righteousness like a disguise
to see through the planks in my own eyes
i repent, i repent of trading truth for false unity
i repent, i repent of confusing peace and idolatry
by caring more of what they think
than what i know of what we need
by domesticating you until you look just like me
i am wrong and of these things i repent

There's Power in the Blood

2008-06-22T21:48:00.000-05:00

I saw I am Legend tonight.I do not do movie reviews well. Most contemporary films are not worth the trouble. This one is compelling in a haunting way. (***Spoilers ahead***)

A viral holocaust has left the city of New York and perhaps the world a virtual wasteland. The apparent cause is a successful cure for cancer; in that wake, mankind is vulnerable to deadly viral attacks. Just three years after the cure for cancer, no life, save for one human being, Dr Neville, a military scientist whose mission is to stand and fight the hosts of the virus - zombie like creatures whose mission is to seek, kill and destroy his life. The plausibility of the scenarios in this film are mostly lost on me, my scientific knowledge will fit on the head of a pin. Dr. Neville is committed to staying on the island of Manhattan, at his ground zero post to fix the problem, find a cure and make right what has gone wrong. Dr. Neville, played by Will Smith, stands for good, and the zombie, virus laden creatures represent evil. These creatures can only endure in the cover of darkness; once exposed to light their attacks are futile, their power gone. Neville is consumed by his zeal to make things right, his companion is a three year old female German Shepard, named Samantha, Sam, for short. The city itself is a huge character in the film, vast, hollowed out-the place on earth where man has had some success and control is now a desolate battleground. Neville's persistence to find an answer puts him at great risk, and were it not for timely intervention, he would most surely have perished. The virus hosts grow bolder and bolder-their evil exponentially more vehement and set on annihilation. Neville's awareness that the day will come when he must choose between life and death begins to intensify. An intersection he has with his own savior, prompts his catastrophic rage to ignite and declare there is no God. In so doing, he comes face to face with abject evil and acknowledges God by laying down his life. Curiously, the plot is engineered to factor in the presence of blood on several occasions, blood shed, blood drawn, and blood offered. The Christology may be doctrinally vague, but the viewer is left with no doubt that blood is the ultimate cure to appease both the wrath of the virus, and the keeper of the refugee city. In the end, it was not a chemical compound, or a scientific theorem that preserved mankind, but the blood of a volunteer.

Sola Deo Gloria

Betty and Exodus 4:11

2008-06-20T01:50:00.000-05:00

I've written about Betty Williams, the bible teacher whose teaching and life so influenced mine. I used to inquire in my skeptical mind, just who is God to be healing some people and leaving others bereft, lame, deaf, dumb and blind..?

She replied with questions. Karen if you were God, would you ask permission of your subjects before you acted in their lives?

This was an effective way of getting my attention, and, the longer I knew her, she spoke with authority as it concerned suffering. Her physical sufferings were, at least visibly, few. But she aged rapidly as my adolescence unfolded at the same pace. One hindrance I noticed was a violent cough to which she was subject. When she gathered herself after coughing, she would use a linen handkerchief of her husband's to wipe her leaking eyes and collect spittle. Her countenance was beet-red, she was internally agitated and, it seemed to me, outdone with God for bestowing upon her this trifling cough.
I think my incessant questions, or demands for answers were deeply troubling to her-she saw my limitations physically- she intuited the scope of my rage at God, long before I did, and subversively steered me toward the truth in the scripture about suffering. She offered no pat answers, or formula prayers to assist me in getting what I wanted. She doggedly persisted that God alone was faithful- she boldly reminded me of how desperate I was, how urgent was all our need for a God to come and rescue us, not so much physically, though physical deliverance was part of the biblical narrative. That was squarely where I fought her tooth and nail, and, it must have been, on my behalf, squarely the specific thing for which she prayed.

For my sake and edification, the two scriptures to which she referred again and again were the man born blind in John 9 which I mentioned in that prior post and the story of Moses' hard-headedness his unbelief, his feet-dragging, aw-shucks, why me dear Lord in Exodus 4:11. Even though I recall the hard sayings of Betty Williams, she never called me down in class and told me outright I was stubborn or overly doubtful. She did not have to- she used her own life, much akin to mine to illustrate her points over and over. She told us regularly to be circumspect about prayer for patience. In fact, she counselled against it.

If you ask for patience, rest assured, God will be kind to provide a way for you to exercise it.

She had earnest intention that we appreciate struggle with suffering. As the days waned in sitting under her teaching, it became apparent that she was going blind. She loathed, (in fact she used the word, loathe) the notion of losing her sight, of becoming more and more dependent; yet, and I mean yet, she introduced the vitality of paradox to a group of western thinking teenagers. We were spot on taught that while we lived, we were simultaneously dying. That in our wasting away, we were approaching eternity, and being at home with the Lord. Her longing for heaven increased exponentially, and mine with hers.

Moses was exasperated that God had the audacity to even consider appointing him for the task of leading the Israelites from captivity in Egypt. Moses whined what if they do not listen to me, what if what if what if. Then what do I do? God instructed Moses in a litany of things Moses could do to garner the attention of the unbelieving Israelites. At first God is not even asking Moses to speak, but to do. Even as I clenched my teeth with Moses and interrupted, eager to tell God that could not possibly work because I am slow [of speech] and have no [speaking] ability. Basically Moses was saying, I'm a low-down [verbal] cripple, you can't use me. And, like my friend Betty Williams, and many inquisitors who followed her, God asked more questions:

The Lord said to him, Who gave man his mouth, Who makes him deaf or mute, who gives him sight or makes him blind, is it not I, the Lord? Now go; I will help you speak and teach you what to say.

God had sweet mercy on stubborn brother Moses, because after all that assurance, Moses STILL asked for someone else to speak on his behalf. Moses did not believe, or could not believe, but God did not depart from him. It looked as though Moses was manipulating God, but, in fact, God orchestrated everything, from the calling of him at the bush, to Moses telling Aaron what to say, to Aaron saying it, to the people hearing Aaron and you know the rest...

It will be as if he were your mouth, and as if you were God to him.

God centered himself in the story, but creatively employed the work of his chosen to reveal his own glory through them. A small foreshadowing of the the greatest glory to come.

How grateful I am to recall the woman Betty Williams who invited me to ponder suffering at such a critical time. She, like Moses, would deliver the Word to a wandering crew. I've not been the same since; grappling with loss here but assured God enters into ALL things.

Sola Fide

Wind

2008-06-16T20:15:00.000-05:00

I regularly read an outstanding blog about Bob Dylan called Right Wing Bob which you can find here. Today, I was catching up on reading Sean Curyn, the writer's posts and and saw this remarkable comment by a priest extrapolating some of Dylan's lyrics. Please watch it- here's the link
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sF0JNwud9K0.

I think you'll be glad you did.

Fearless

2008-06-15T22:08:00.000-05:00

Isn't this photo screaming for a caption??

I never skated down a boat-dock hill but do remember the exhilaration of sledding down a similar icy hill in the dead of winter- I could not find that photo.

Would it be a good time for you to think about what is next on your list that has frightening potential, but that you know you must do?

Whether it is perfunctory as paying an overdue bill, or as huge as speaking your heart

May we have the faith of a child and the wisdom of sages as we encounter the 'boat-dock hills" in our future.

God keep you & protect you.

Chronicles

2008-06-14T16:51:00.000-05:00

You do not have to love Bob Dylan or even appreciate him to read this. What is helpful is that you love music, its history, the notion of a troubadour, and truth. I submit Dylan stands for the former and the latter. Today, I started reading the first installment of his personal history-his autobiography, for lack of a better term.; the title to which is Chronicles, Volume One. I am reticent to use the word memoir- it sounds too stuffy for him. On the other hand, his writing bests most of the memoirs I've bothered to read. Dylan's love of language is not limited to verse. I'm only on page 35 and his use of metaphor has lured me. I am looking forward to the next volume, and there's almost 270 pages left of this one. He's painted a picture of the folk scene in New York as it was when he arrived in the early sixties. He pulls no punches; his words are the hammer of John Henry, the urgency of Woody Guthrie, the passion of MLK, and the anger of Jesus. Truth mattered to Dylan before he knew it did. He burned with a white-hot zeal for it. He was a chameleon too, an enigma. Misunderstood, partially, by his own making, he lied regularly to those who inquired about his upbringing- he made an image of himself, behind which he could hide, but strangely, through which many would come to see themselves. By his penchant for falsehood, he covertly exposed his charade-my perception is he wanted to stay hidden so his words could do the talking. Let me be clear, I can't advocate for living behind a mask, save for when one is unsure of whose they are, of where they're headed. So far, it looks like he was trying to find his way in a rapidly changing world. Music saved him, protected him, and grew him up to the man he is today.

Like I said, I'm just getting started with this book. I'm expectant; I know his journey led him eventually to the cross. Stay tuned, I'll post more as I wander through his tale of hope & woe.

Styron's truth

2008-06-11T08:42:00.000-05:00

William Styron, the man whose novel, Sophie's Choice broke my heart, would celebrate his 83rd birthday today. He died in 2006 due to a battle with pneumonia. This post is not a cliff notes summary of Sophie's Choice. Rest Easy. It is my off the top of the head comment on a quote attributed to Styron today in Writer's Almanac:

Most books, like their authors, are born to die; of only a few books can it be said that death has no dominion over them; they live, and their influence lives forever.

This observation of Styron's is compelling to me. Generally, he is consumed with the inevitability of death and yet recognizes that life does endure, for those few. Perhaps his argument would be those few books and their authors have cheated death, or that they've earned the pass into eternal literary heaven by their merit. What if the Word is the model? And, what if he had to die, what if he succumbed to death. My guess is this- despite the earnestness in Styron's words, I think there is error in his thinking.
Even God, our faithful God in Christ Jesus, the Word, become flesh did die. He gave up the ghost completely, body, soul, and spirit. He shed his blood and suffered. Death did have complete dominion over him, for a time. But God the father, faithful to his promise did what he said he would do. On the third day, after it looked as if death would have the last word, the Word was raised to life, bodily. The victory inherent in the resurrection challenges the false promise of a well-meaning William Styron. God did die in the flesh so our deaths would be bearable. So that as we decay in the body, we are made alive to the full in Christ by the the sovereign hand of a merciful Father through the Holy Spirit.

John Hiatt's hymn to grief

2008-06-07T18:56:00.000-05:00

I know there is some permission you ask of the publisher of copyrighted material before you use without permission, but I am ignoring the rule. This probably won't be the last time. But I do give credit where credit is due. God gifted John Hiatt with a sorrowful heart. I do not know the sorrow that prompted him to pen these words. I know what made me think of them, though.

Thirty three years ago and then some, Marcia Trimble was murdered in my little neighborhood. Friday, June 7, her killer was indicted. Now new tears can flow.

Thirty Years of Tears

Is this a place I can rest my poor head
To gather my thoughts in sweet silence
Is this a place where the feelings aren't dead
From an overexposure to violence And is
this a place I can slowly face
The only one I truly can know
These are tears from a long time ago
I got these tears from a long time ago
I need to cry 30 years or so
These are tears from a long time ago
Oh Darling, oh darling, say unto me
Where have you been all my lifetime
Well I have been swimmin' the seven sad seas
Fair women have thrown me their lifelines
And I just pulled them on to the water's dark grin
I'd have warned 'em but I didn't know
These are tears from a long time ago
I've got these tears from a long time ago
I need to cry 30 years or so
These are tears from a long time ago

Well, I've cried me a river, I've cried me a lake
I've cried till the past nearly drowned me
Tears for sad consequences Tears for mistakes
But never these tears that surround me
Alone in this place with a lifetime to trace
And a heartbeat that tells me it's so
I've got these tears from a long time ago
These are tears from a long time ago
And I need to cry 30 years or so
These are tears from a long time ago
These are tears from a long time ago
I've got these tears from a long time ago

Faith and Teeth

2008-06-03T07:51:00.000-05:00

If we wish to be rational, not now and then, but constantly, we must pray for the gift of Faith, for the power to go on believing, not in the teeth of reason but in the teeth of lust and terror and jealousy and boredom and indifference, that which reason, authority or experience, or all three, have once delivered to us for truth.

-C.S. Lewis from Christian Reflections, Religion, Reality or Substitute 1941, para 12, pg 43

Can I Get A Witness?

2008-06-01T15:59:00.001-05:00

As per the rules of evidence, when a child witness testifies in court, it is mandatory to measure, due to their youth, and tenderness of mind, whether the child witness is competent. It is contrary to law to allow a child who does not appreciate the difference between the truth and a lie to be sworn as a witness; it might work an injustice, and imperils the search for truth. So prior to witnesses being sworn, when either party expects to call a child as a witness, the Court, or the attorneys conduct a preliminary hearing to determine the potential child witness's competency. The particular age when a child is per se deemed competent, can vary, but typically the age of seven is the standard. A host of factors are considered, but stories abound in court lore that are too rich not to share. I have one and what follows is the case of a chastened defense attorney and sobered onlookers when a little child, probably no more than five years of age, put us all in our place. It also aptly illustrates the point that one ought not to ask a question in court, at least, of any witness if one cannot reasonably anticipate the answer to such question. This particular child witness also happened to be the alleged victim of the crime and was to testify on the State's behalf against the accused. I asked her things like what color is the Judge's robe, black, or orange? Where do you go to school, Nashville or Mars? Intuiting that she had, I ended by asking her if she'd ever told her mother a story that was not true.

Yes, she said, and I got punished. Finished and satisfied she had passed the requisite test of competency, I sat down.

Now it was defense counsel's mission to delve further, hoping to expose her weakness, deceit and youth by wily cross examination. The defense attorney, a capable litigator, sweetened her voice, as is common when addressing a young child. A tall woman, she leaned over the lectern, feigning gentleness and inquired of the girl:

..now, you know my client, and you know you this lady, she pointed to me, has listened to your story and brought him here and accused him of hurting you, correct? The little girl looked at the accused and back at the defense attorney,

yes, I know that.

And you know that it is bad to make up stories and that when you do, people can get hurt?

Yes, I know that too.

And you told us a moment ago, you have lied before?

The little girl looked at her feet and steadied her gaze up to meet the eyes of the defense attorney,

yes, I have lied to my mother before.

The defense attorney looked at her client, the accused, and continued-

Ok, now tell us, who would be harmed in this room if you told a lie in here, today?

The little girl glanced around the courtroom, meeting all our eyes. She looked directly at her inquisitor and replied:

All of us.

Think of the times you've been present when the air gets sucked from a room-the times when someones wisdom precedes them. I assure you, this was one of those times. I did not hesitate to smile at the little sage, and blinked back tears. The girl sat, non-plussed by the lengthy silence.

The defense attorney pressed her hands together as she righted herself. Well, your Honor, I have no further questions. The Court smiled and pronounced her competent.

The trial commenced, and justice was served, the boy was held accountable for his misdeeds, for his harming the little girl. At the conclusion, after he was sentenced and as I gathered my things to exit with the girl and her family, the Judge interrupted. She addressed the girl by her first name and asked her to step forward.

I wish there was a way I knew to thank you properly. You have done us a great service here today by reminding us of truth, and how vital it is. Thank you.

The little girl looked at her beaming mother and me. She shrugged and said,

You are welcome, Judge, took her mother by the hand and vanished, leaving us wiser and better for her visit.

Making Sense out of Suffering

2008-05-30T18:13:00.000-05:00

Peter Kreeft's book, Making Sense out of Suffering is on my summer reading list 2008. I'm nearly finished with it, and am thankful to Ravi Zacharias folks at RZIM for recommending it. If you are breathing, suffering is a matter with which you struggle. Some souls have more opportunity to engage through suffering than others, no doubt, but it has affected all of us. Kreeft is a philosopher and professor in the discipline at Boston College.
I've always been a railer at God for the whys of sufferings. This exercise, in itself, is futile, but as Kreeft's book helps me see, my fury and questions are no hindrance or setback for God. He deals respectfully with detractors of the Christian faith, but clearly lays out an apologetic for the faith and for the 'good' of suffering.

One syllogism he shares:

If we do not suffer, we are not wise.
If we are not wise, we are not blessed.
Therefore, if we do not suffer, we are not blessed

May we seek the path which God has ordained for us, and not shrink from pains on the path, but enter into the fellowship of his suffering with grace afforded to us by his hand.

Bonfire

2008-05-30T17:15:00.000-05:00

Place, belonging, warmth, light abundant in darkness- these are part of what contribute to my enjoyment of bonfires; the human component is primary, the presence of others whose faces and souls add to the fire itself by joining in a circle-testifying to life by telling of tales, and by listening to the telling of them.

I've been invited to such an event this weekend. A friend whose property is spacious and a near perfect setting is hosting a group of friends to come sit and sup by the fire. There'll be no city lights interfering with the blackness of the night sky. Sparks can fly upward, free to be. As with the fire, I feel freer to be in that circle of belonging.

One of my truest longings is the notion of campfires in heaven. As with the gatherings here, on earth, it is not just the fire itself that is attractive, but characters in the play. Often, I ponder what it might be like to sit and sup in Eternity with the likes of Flannery O'Connor, Mrs. Betty Williams, the Good Thief, Johnny Cash, my Aunt Dot, and, say, William F. Buckley.

Given more time, I could come up with dozens of variables of dozens of groups. Saints whose only hope has always been Jesus. What we might discuss, bat around and laugh about often run across the screen in my mind's eye.

The hope of this soon to be bonfire, this earthly one, is a sweet foreshadowing of eternal meetings. It is indeed good to be warmed, to hear and tell a tale, and to belong. For these and countless other gifts, I give thanks to God, the giver.

The Mercy of Story

2008-05-29T21:21:00.000-05:00

"All sorrows can be borne if you put them into a story or tell a story about them." --Isak Dinesen

I like the authentic hope of Dinesen's words. Yet I hate the suggestion too. She refrains from lilting exhortation. Instead her encouragement is paradox; she challenges us to enter into griefs through telling of tales. Whatever your sorrow(s), may God give us the grace and courage to share them so they may be carried.