Jesus and I

I know that Jesus is real. I've never been able to shake that. That's always been something of a secular problem for me, and my spirit just loves that upper hand.

So this I know. I am a cynic and I can argue on both sides of the existence of God and Jesus as Lord. I could be an atheist's best friend in an argument.

But none of that matters. I know. I've tried to prove it untrue, but my mental eloquence makes no difference to the truth.

So I know that. So what?

Sometimes I lie awake at night and in my heart Jesus and I are in a deep wood. Out there in "all that dark and all that cold." And He is teaching me things and we just have some conversation and I ask Him questions and He recommends books and songs. And then I lie down to sleep and I remember that I've been a jerk to Him, but He doesn't. He just throws another heavy blanket over my shoulders and stirs the fire. That's just how it comes to mind.

And when I wake up by a smoking pile of sticks, He's gone. I don't mean gone as in I won't see Him again, I just mean He isn't right there. But I know that whenever I've hit the wire and there's nothing I can do He's there. And when life kicks the crap out of me He's there. He's a good man. People have a problem with that because it makes Him sound tame but He's not that. He's a warrior and a fighter and He's tougher than I. But He's still a good man.

The human race is pretty feminine. That's why we're the bride.

I don't know. God always shows up and I forget that sometimes. I tell people God never talks to me. I tell people I've never seen God. That's a fact. But when has He let me down? I don't know why He keeps stepping between me and my enemies, who I invite in my own home.

I think He must love the heck out of me.

Sometimes I sin. But sometimes I don't, and it's those times that I imagine God is beside me screaming and yelling "Don't quit! Don't quit! Don't quit! You can let that go! I believe you can do it! Look at me, look! We can take this! Say it to me! Say you won't let go!" And His eyelids are like white mud and they are circled by bruise colored fatigue because he's been staying up with me night after night after night begging me not to relent, reminding me how much He loves me and How much He is moved by me.

Sometimes I am sad. Often I am, but I'm a thespian with a cause. Still, sometimes it gets to be too much and in my mind I'm making a speech before a crowd and the burden is too much and I start to collapse but he catches me under my arms and whispers in my ears the words to my speech and I spit them out with passion and tears.

I walk outside sometimes and I can understand the proverb "a fool says in his heart 'there is no God,'" because I see glory and glory and glory everywhere. You would have to be stupid to think it all just happened right?

There are inexplicable feelings. Let's not blame them on chemicals.

I know that God loves me with the truest love. I know that the facts that "God loves you" and "Jesus Saves" are cliche. But I know that all cliches are great truths and that there is a reason they have been repeated and repeated and repeated. I know that God love me. I know that I can know Jesus. I know that "the same things win that always won." I know that God's love won't ever become antiquated or outdated.

I know that for whatever reason God is captivated by me. I know that He is stricken with emotion at each action I take. I know He is smitten with my journey towards Him. I know He is excited for my pilgrimage. I know He is devastated by my falls and hurt by my abandonment. My waste. I know every second is an ache when I am prodigal. I know He is angered by my sin. I know He is jealous for my attentions.

There are house fires everywhere you turn. I know people are burning to the ground. It's during these times that I imagine that I know a guy that can put it out. He's bigger and faster and stronger than I and He's the only man for the job. And I know He's on the other side of a forest and across plains in His home and all I have to do is run there and get Him, but sometimes I am too lazy to do that. But if I would just go and get Him, I know He'd take care of it.

Sometimes I lay in a a creek half-faced in cold water and he jerks me up and thuds His big hands across my face a time or two and He says to me, "Stop being stupid, I saved you're life." And that's why I get up and do his bidding. Carry out His mission. A knight loyal to my King. A son loyal to His Father.

Sometimes I hear a song and I tell Him it reminds me of Him.

He is the cause, citizens, that we fight for. He is something worth being passionate about. How sad that I can find time to be cynical about that.

I don't want to hide this fact, but neither do I want to present it in the wrong light.

Jesus and I are in something of a relationship. Because, we do things together. Generally it's me being a bad friend, son, subject, or whatever else you want to say. But when God is done raising His child I will be a warrior. Polished, but oh so rough around the edges. "I'm flawed, but I'm cleaning up so well, I am seeing in me now the things you swear you saw yourself." You've known what I was made of all along. You've always known what you were doing and you've always loved me. He's proud of me.

I'm just going to be frank with you, I love Jesus Christ.

May my life testify to that.

Faces to Statistics

At my campus at Lee University in Cleveland Tennessee, they showed a documentary about sex trafficking and prostitution. The documentary was titled Nefarious: Merchant of Souls and will be available in the way of DVD before long.

The film was really about slavery. A people in bondage. A portion of the synopsis of the film read as follows:

Regardless of nationality, victims are systematically stripped of their identity, battered into gruesome submission and made to perform humiliating sexual acts with up to 40 strangers every night. Held against their will, most are forced to take illegal drugs and are kept under constant surveillance. On average, victims are thrown into such ghastly oppression at age 13. Some are abducted outright, while others are lured out of poverty, romantically seduced, or sold by their families.

Here are some statistics on international slavery:

• A child is trafficked every 30 seconds.
• The average age of entry into commercial sex slavery in the United States is 13 years old.
• Human trafficking occurs in 161 out of 192 countries.
• Human trafficking is a 32 billion dollar per year industry.
• In some countries it is estimated that 70% of men purchase sex
• Over 27 million people are enslaved around the world.

Now try putting faces to these statistics. That's what the film does. Dirty men and helpless women. The average age for being thrust into the sex industry is 13 years. Parents literally sell their daughters into it. When they have a daughter it is said that they "hit the jackpot." They don't only sell their children to buy necessities (this still a terrible injustice) they sell them for luxuries, like television sets. Able fathers do nothing as their helpless daughters send checks home.

Even where prostitution is legal, organized crime is rampant. The reality is everyone in the sex industry is a slave.

As I watched the horrors unfold on the screen. I began thinking about giving money. Decidedly I would. I began to think about all the organizations as I listened to the women involved give testimony to the horrors of the life and even the trauma still faced afterwards. Some women even go back into the industry after being rescued from it.

A man who helps fight against these injustices spoke and he talked of how many people think if you educate the young women it will solve the problem. He said that this is disproved by the prostitution and traficking that goes on in America. He said that many of the young girls would have counseling but nothing would help.

It left me wondering what would.

The end moved me far beyond what I imagined it would. Of course, the answer was clear.

Jesus Christ is the only hope.

Each of the women interviewed (and even a former traifficker) spoke of what Jesus had done form them. Few of them did not weep when they spoke His name. Of course Christ is the only hope. It's like we are taking part of emancipation inflation. We have the tangible means of freedom but we don't have the assets to back it. If America prints money money money, then good, they have money, but if they don't have the assets to back it, then it's worthless. In the same way, we can counsel, educate, give money, rescue and do whatever we want to stop trafficking, but if we don't have Christ to back it then it is worthless.

Action is required. You can always turn a blind eye. That's okay. But abolitionist William Wilberforce spoke of a different sort of person. An incurable fanatic:

“If to be feelingly alive to the sufferings of my fellow-creatures is to be a fanatic, I am one of the most incurable fanatics ever permitted to be at large.”

—William Wilberforce

Wilberforce practised three methods of taking action. The first: prayer.

This is where the assets back the action. We need Christ to change lives. We can't do it. The team showing the film recommended that every time we, in our vehicles drive past a red light that we remember to pray for those in trafficking or red light districts. It's a brilliant reminder. Prayer is powerful.

The second is raising awareness. Blogs, twitter, facebook, youtube. We have everything we need to make a cause known. Just do it.

The third is to give. Money. Your money. Give it for something better than your coffee a day at starbucks. You can literally commit to giving 3 dollars per week. You can spare it I promise. Yes. Money.

Though it seems a hopeless cause with God there is hope. Take action. Be an incurable fanatic.

Here is the site to get you started.

http://nefariousdocumentary.com/

Music Therapy

Music, among other things, is a bridge between the past, present, and future. That is, nostalgia, contentment, and hope. It inspires, it lends spices and salt to the bland emotions. It escalates wildly from apathy to action. It speaks to the heart of matters. It does, of course, more than I can ever hope to explain in hundreds of books, much less a brief essay.

What I want to walk across in so many words, is the bridge that it makes. The one I just talked about between the parodoxical stations of time. Because it does that, I think, it is a "balm to the soul."

It's a relationship. The music can be our voice in anger, grief, envy, joy, or any number of feelings that we want to let loose into a conduit.

But music heals too.

Sometimes when I'm sad, I want to feed that sadness. It's like when your lips are chapped, you sort of pull them apart and make your way towards the apex of the sting, once there you can smile at ease, because you've felt as much pain as you can possibly feel towards the matter. When I am filled with sorrow, I let the music feel me up and pull apart the lips of my lament, cracking them and releasing the eager blood. Searing the thin skin.

Sometimes it doesn't really matter the message of a song. Haven't you ever been grieved by a song that has a happy tune and lively lyrics? It is guilty by association at times. The best way to ruin a song is to listen to it in a dark time, because forever after when it plays it will be a mournful piece. I could make a playlist from those dirges. And listen to it until the melancholy memory pats me on the back and repeats the locational and situationally nonsensical, "there, there."

But sometimes the music therapy playlist just says "Hey, I'm a million miles away under an equally dark sky penning out this song on old paper and running my cold, callous fingers down the guitar strings. Smelling the ink and the metallic blood in each resonance of the chords. And feeling the same aches and tasting the same bitterness and sitting outside lost 'in all that dark and all that cold.' So let's go find a fire together. Heck, let's go build one." And the fiddler follows as you trek and trip through the trauma.

Toy Story Theory

I guess my problem with science has just been that I am an alleged hopeless romantic. We just don't get along. Our relationship isn't hostile. We are merely two different sorts of people. I like looking at the world in one way and they like looking at it in another. There are ways of reconciling the two, but I as long as I like scientists I don't have a real need to like science. Some of it is fascinating, but I just don't like how much it explains. Water isn't as beautiful if you think of it as two hydrogens and one oxygen. I don't want to know what things are made of. I like to think that things have essence and aren't entirely material. I like to think that humans have souls. If you tell me that a rock is sedimentary I usually want to bust your chops. I am annoyed sometimes that we can see the bottom of the ocean and the inner works of the body and that we can logically go into space. All the wonder has been explained away hasn't it?

It's not all bad. I could talk on the other side if I were a scientist, but since I am on the philosophizing, romantic end (ironic I would call this post a theory) I am going to contest the scientific explanations of all time.

I suppose it is only fair I explain the title. If you have seen Toy Story, you know that the toys are very much animate and all living out these intense dramas in their own miniature world. That is until the humans come around. Then they drop whatever they are doing and become ordinary pieces of plastic only brought to life by the imaginations of children.

Now, let's take an example from science. The human eye will do just fine. Science tells us that eyes are organs that detect light and convert it to electro-chemical impulses in neurons. It is a pupil, a cornea, an iris, and a lens and an optic nerver among other tiny structures. If you take the eye out of the skull you will find a blood shot orb with a little flagellate tail that once sent signals to the brain. If you look what was behind that it is just a big compression of cerebral mush. There isn't anything inside that eye. You can disect it and you won't find other worlds. It's no portal. No Shakespeare, or Da Vinci or whoever said that it was the window the soul. No it's not because you see when we tear open a head we can look and see that there is nothing back their but organs and blood. So there you have it. That would seem to explain it.

But you can't ever be sure.

Because maybe, maybe, there are some things we humans aren't meant to see. Maybe it is only when we leave the room that the toys come to life. Maybe the moon's face turns to craters when we put a telescope to its lunar lips. Maybe the sea lays out a carpet of sand to hide the fact that it is bottomless as the divers get nosy. Maybe our eyes turn to limp lumps of light-lapping lenses when we try to pull back the curtains on the windows to the soul. I think eyes go much much deeper than that. I know when I look in someone's eyes that what we see behind the drapes cannot be what is actually going on inside there. Fire is not a chemical reaction, it is more of a miracle. It is an element. Trees are wise, photosynthesis is not how they dine. They are classier than that. The universe is a work of art. You can't explain these things. It's alive. I bet you really could journey to the center of the earth.

I think that the world has a heart of its own and the real stories are going on behind our back. Those that don't believe don't get an inside scoop. Much closer to the actual action is not the textbooks and dissertations or anything that you can see under a microscope. Much closer are the fairy tales and the madness of poetry. Much closer are the philosophers and the supernaturally inclined. Something is going on in another context, but we don't know it. We are like the children who can only make up the stories with our imagination. We play with the toys but never see them at play without us. They are in hiding. They don't want to be discovered.

Then where would the mystery be?

Bravery

The road takes you a lot of places. There isn't much of a science to it. You just get on it and get to moving. The destination, more often than not, has nothing to do with where it takes you and what it shows you and teaches you. Roads are escape artists and navigators and smugglers and homes and journeys. That's why bards still borrow from its books and young people will attend its lectures.

Deification is what I call the above paragraph. A derivative of personification, it involves giving qualities of God to other things. It is probably a nifty resource for atheists everywhere. But it is also appropriate for allegory. What I mean to say is that it wasn't the road that took me somewhere with certain people, it was God.

As fate would have it, I was riding down the freeway one day to attend an outdoor Christian rock concert with three of my brothers (not by blood) Daniel, Samuel, and Wesley. When we arrived at the extra small town we saw a classic cameraman and pretty young newscaster duo. We all got sorta happy as we slowed down and lowered the windows thinking it had something to do with the concert.

"Put us on the news?"

"You don't want to be in this story."

Curiosity thus piqued we drove on ahead postulating amongst ourselves about what happened. Postulating so much that, in the unfamiliarity of the town, I passed the filling station that my friends wanted to stop at, seeing it as a justifiable place to use a restroom as opposed to the portable lavatories available concert-wise. They yelled at me to turn around so I pulled into a dirt driveway (apparently the only kind of driveway in style around these parts ) in order to back out and continue on in the opposite direction.

Upon pulling in, that sound we so often shrug off as background noise peeled the soundpaper of our scene back to where it could command our full attention. By gosh I tasted, felt, smelled, and saw that siren before I realized I was only hearing it. There were at least three emergency vehicles wasting no time getting where ever they were going.

Completing our vehicular 180 we found the engines to already be out of sight if not sound. We carried on our way only find a freeway fricasseed with frenzy. The epicity seemed operatic. Determined not to get caught in the turbulent metal black reflectionary snake of cars I pulled off at the median.

Action.

We surveyed what we now obvioused to be a wreck. Significant was a little purse of people all squatting in the grass. We agreed that they were huddled around a victim. What degree of victim that person was we did not yet know. Daniel announced that he was going to pray for them and unfastened his safety belt.

I cannot explain to you what happened in my spirit except that I didn't want him too. Maybe because I knew he was doing what was right and I knew that I didn't want to step up and do what was right.

Heroes do what's right.

"I don't think we are supposed to do that. I don't think they'll let you"

"They'll just turn me back then."

"Do something!" went the conscience's coax And still I sat. I watched him walk over slowly. I wondered if he had hesitation and a tinge of fear in his heart. If he did I couldn't have admired him more or been angrier (as a scapegoat for my own cowardice).

I saw other officials approaching so I pulled to the other side and parked flipping the hazards on. I watched Daniel from afar.

My pocket buzzed. I pulled out my phone and who but Daniel was on the caller I.D. I picked answered.

"Yeah"

"Give Samuel the phone"

I did just that. Samuel threw the phone down and started running towards the scene. I deduced that they needed a Spanish speaker. I finally emerged from the vehicle taking hurried steps frustrated for my inactivity up until now.

I guess it was about a tenth of a mile away and when I got there Samuel was bent down holding a large woman's hand. Her eyes were shut tight and perspiration pickled her dark skin. Her foot was immediately noticable with blood and she complained about it most (in Spanish). She and her husband had been ejected from the car. Her husband had a white sheet over his face. Dead. I didn't find out that was her husband until later.

Sam was talking to her and I tried to pick up on what he was saying. I know he asked her how old her kids were. She said they were both twenty. Two men. Twins I suppose. I prayed and at length paramedics arrived with a stretcher. They asked questions through Samuel and we finally rolled her on to a sort of towel and lifted her onto a stretcher. Samuel kissed her brow and walked over to the ambulance with her talking to her all the way.

The four of us carried on back to the SUV. We were all sobered by the grit of the scene. It is hard to see. Samuel was sobered most. Across the highway I noticed the news reporter and cameraman we saw earlier. Samuel approached them and said a few things and we all went back to the car. We were quiet.

I could see Samuel was still upset. I told him he did good. I told him you could tell a difference between people who do good just to get a pat on the back and people who do good because they love people. Then it was quiet again and I prayed aloud.

Later at the concert as three of us sat under a tree, Samuel finally spoke on the matter.

"I lied to that woman"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I told her that everything was going to be okay and that her husband was going to be okay when I knew he was over there dead. I feel really bad about that."

...

"What did you tell those news people?"

"That is something you won't ever know Mitch" he smiled a little as he said this.

I think people like Daniel and Samuel are heroes because they take action and they get out of their comfort zone and they love people. I love people but I don't act on that. I know the two are destined for greatness in their own ways. They both have their own ambitions.

But I still feel guilty. For a little while now I have been shooting my mouth off about being brave and how Christianity requires it. It demands it. I am a critic of the hypo variety. I always say that I want to do ministry and I want to be involved in it. Several times I have said that I wanted to be a pastor. But I should know that pastors don't just stand in a pulpit and make good theological speeches. People in ministry are supposed to be brave. They are supposed to show love to the world. If they aren't doing that, they aren't doing their job.

I am not fully aware of the future plans of my friends. If they plan to be doctors or architects or movie producers or bankers they are still more of ministers than I. If they plan to be ministers then they have the right idea.

I need to be a Christian. I need to be brave.

Medlin!

For a very long time I have heard tell of the virtues of team sports. I have heard how they instill comraderie, selflessness, loyalty, courage, and a variety of other virtues. And I have never argued with that. It is something I always knew and agreed with. But I have never experienced it.

Until I came to Lee.

Out of the many dorms at Lee I was slid into the last minute, last choice, infamously ramshackle Medlin Hall. I had no complaints. It is pretty clean and comfortable. But it is, come to find out, a lot more than that. On the Leevitical island across the street from the rest of landlocked Leeland there exists a bond and a brotherhood not yet experienced by me.

The Hall is not a sports team, but sports play a huge role in the social lives of we Leevites. I, for one, have never been good at athletic activity. I have always loved it. Truly. But we just aren't all born with the required machinery. I don't know what it is in some guys that make them so sharp at everything.

My short time in Medlin has seen an immediate pride. The hall is divided into four floors which each have a west and an east side. I am on (and proudly so) 1st floor East. But we all are chanters of Medlin. Whenever it is mentioned hands go up with thumbs touching and upside down making and M and a manly "Medlin!" is let out. Everybody knows Medlin when they see them.

Last night. That is, the 24th of August, the Medlinites all marched to the arena for a dodgeball tournament amongst themselves. Each floor had it's own wardrobe. I was elated to find that ours was a black out. We walked across the campus to the arena, leading us was a caped lodger. There was all sorts of oddities in the uniform department. Facepaint notwithstanding.

We got there and my team caught those 3 zillion m.p.h. balls like they were butterflies and all I could do was dodge like the unathlete I am. I finally said to God that I needed to be brave and jumped up to the front lines and caught one and there is no way I can dictate the exhileration that accompanied that. Even though the catches were practically worthless to the victory it was like being part of a team, an army. And when 1st floor East won (which of course we did) that rally in the middle was something you have to experience.

I have always known that team sports were something great, but I had never realized it. That makes all the difference.

Medlin!

A Fairty Tale World

"You are about to enter a Fairy Tale World..."

These are the exact words of the nurse as a handful of Lee University freshmen and transfers prepared to enter the alzheimer's wing of the Bradley Healthcare & Rehabilitation Center. Amidst admonitions regarding giving them food or opening doors ("because they will ask you to let them out") she told us that they have created another world and she told how it was a blessing that they let us in even for a moment.

She punched in the pass code on the door and in we went. Through the wardrobe, down the rabbit hole, second star on the right and straight on till morning.

We waved our way down the aisles of invalids and wheelchairs. One dark lady with white permed hair wheeled around in the hallway, not saying much. The nurse was sunny and greeted her warmly as Louise.

In a sort of recreational room we smiled and waved and were cheery. It was somehow natural there. No one seemed to be overwhelmingly awkward. The nurse introduced us to Macy, clearly the most energetic of the bunch...and the most far gone. She bounced up and down in her chair joyously and gave the nurse a sloppy kiss. All smiles. She sang for us and hummed it was not very clear what she was singing but it sounded like pure childlike happiness. The nurse also brought a little light up spinner widget which she took too right away. I saw an old old man with his son sitting next to him. They were arguing with a gentleness that seemed playful, though it really was a valid argument. The old man was trying to grab his son's ear and the son, as if he were coaxing a child, told him he couldn't do that. The same went on with his glasses and with the buttons on his shirt. The old man kept arguing, "No, you know that I...let me...you know why...it's my..." I only heard snatches. It's not very funny how life switches around on us.

I held down the button on the light up toy and Macy just kept looking on at it and singing. I had to guard the cart for a second while the nurse stepped out and I kept pushing it behind me as she became interested in it. Finally I found the suitable distraction of a baby doll. I gave it to her and she took it and hugged it and mothered it.

Then a man that who was halfway cognitive grabbed my attention. I walked up to him and asked him how he was:

"Good good, I love it when you young people come in to visit," he placed his hand on my shoulder. I asked him his name.

"My name's Jimmy Brown." he knew that well.

Jimmy Brown had a son and a granddaughter. He didn't like to hunt because he didn't like to hurt things. He never played sports much. His son is a mechanic. He has lived in Cleveland, Tennessee all his life. He would have liked to have done more schooling but when he was fifteen his father left him and his mother and he had to do farmwork so they could get by. That day he had been watching Little House on the Prairie and when asked if it came on everyday he said "pert near everyday." On the front of his walker is a girraffe neck and head structure painted and made of wood that he calls Christy after his granddaughter. He loves gospel music and he likes Elvis, he has an Elvis CD but not one of his Gospel ones so I am going to buy him one when I get the chance. He also likes "hillbilly" music sometimes. He says he loves to dance and they have dances every week on his floor. He used to work for a group of people who cleaned houses. For fun on the weekends, he and his wife would go out to dinner. He couldn't remember the name, but told me it was right in front of the courthouse. I told him I might check it out. He also told me the name of his church. I might also visit there.

He began talking to Macy, "Is that your baby? That's a pretty baby! That's a pretty baby..."

I watched him as he ate the tomatoes they brought in. I told him my great-grandfather plants tomatoes and they are awful good. He said he didn't like the ones in the store as much because they were kind of hard. I agreed with him.

We both like John Wayne. He said that was one of his favourites. As we coloured a picture we talked of it. It was a picture of a deer. He had a hard time coloring because his hands were shaking. He said he liked to color but he wasn't the best at it. I told him he wasn't the worst at it either and he got a big kick out of that.

One of the things that impressed me the most about Jimmy Brown is that he never complained. I made it a point after so many optimistic answers to see if he ever would. Not once.

Another thing that impressed me most about Jimmy Brown is that he was learning how to read and write. Apparently he was working very hard at it. When I saw his room later there were word labels on everything and worksheets on his nightstand.

He said his family didn't come around but the very rare occasion but he only had good things to say about them.

Jimmy Brown had a Cocker Spaniel once, apparently it lived for fifteen years! He forgot it's name but it was "a real pet to him."

Another splotch local color on the alzheimer's front was Regina. She had yellow-shaded sunglasses on. She loved history. We always tried one way or the other to ask her what her favourite era in history was and she would always confusedly say "I like the history that happened in the past" or "I like the history you read about in lesson books." She said she hoped her father would let her go to school. I told her my brother might be teaching history. She told me she was seventeen. I told her she didn't look over sixteen.

Jule? That was what the named sounded like. She fell asleep a lot. Once holding one of the students hands.

Bedford? I think that was it, he kept trying to talk to the lady beside him with the headphones on. He didn't want to play ball.

And by ball I mean beachball. Several of them started tossing it around. They could catch and throw, every one of them.

After while another fellow and I went to Jimmy Brown's room to play checkers. He seemed to have a lot of fun with that. He kept trying to move the wrong piece. He hadn't played in so long. On his bed was a stuffed menagerie that he had won playing BINGO. I saw pictures of his family. The other fellow playing him in checkers said towards the end of the game that "I've only got two kings and a soldier" and Jimmy Brown got the biggest kick out of that.

Another woman named Boots (she actually had a long list of names, this was the consensus) was dancing with one of the girl students. They walked back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and sat down for a second and then back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. She would sing songs. They sounded really good to me. Really.

I think the nurses there are the true heroines in the world. Could these be "the least of these" Jesus talked about? They will not remember us, most cannot remember their names or the names of their family. We just had to do it because it was the right thing to do. To care for these people and to love them.

There is a Fairty Tale World in the Alzheimer's wing at Bradley Healthcare. All you have to do is walk in and if you can let go for a second and try to dip a toe in the pool of their postulations then you will get what they get. All the Wonders from Wonderland and all the Nevers from Neverland.

It's what we are supposed to do.

I can't forget any of that.

Secret Passage

I always imagined this hidden cave that went deep into nowhere. Like a portal. And at the end of this cave their was a room filled with cloth-bound books, tomes really, and the lettering was all in cursive and ink and the room was lit by wax candles. And all the posses of the past couldn't find this place nor could the falconer's of the future tame it's wild hope.

And in the books were memories so vivid and dreams long kept. And if I kept my eyes on those pages and kept a focus on those words I couldn't lose anything. I wouldn't feel sorrow, I wouldn't write laments, I couldn't miss anyone.

But that place isn't real.

And when I see an old friend, even old as in I haven't seen them in a few months, and I see the change in their face and hair and dress and manner. I become very sad. Because one day I will be in there life no more, and when they see me they won't run up and hug me or shake my hand, if they acknowledge me at all. Not because they are snobs or apathetic, because as time passes so does circumstance from one cache of allowances to the next.

Because people do eventually get a driver's liscence, and graduate, and get jobs and spouses and they move away and they die. These are the things that I fear because they require an all too often dull and lifeless exeunt of that character from my stage that I so loved sharing with them.

Part of me hates choosing favourites. I don't want a favourite. I want a community and I want to love every person in it and respect their oddities and their niche in the great social habitat. I don't want them to have favourites either, but I know they eventually will as this is part of life. And it isn't wrong I don't suppose.

The passage of time is a secret one. It does it's work and before we know it we are too deep in to retreat. We all make the same mistake.

I think it's funny how I hardly ever think of my sense of smell in the same way I register sights and sounds and tangible touch (perhaps the only sense less noticeable than scent is taste). But, whenever I remember I always have this overcoming sensation of what seems like a sort of smell. Memory has a pleasing aroma. Nostalgia is what is smells like.

When I think about Heaven, as I sometimes do, one of the biggest beauties I think of is the fact that we will all be together and I think we will all feel in love and we won't have any favourites, but we'll all enjoy each other and every moment will be better than the last and the Throne of God will be the reason.

And there won't be any real need for memory because it's all there and it's all going to stay there and we won't have to see all we've missed in a friend's face and we will never again have to say goodbye.

And that's all the hope I have.

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Our God

Our God is greater

Our God is stronger

God you are higher than any other

Our God is Healer

Awesome in power

Our God.

--Chris Tomlin, "Our God"

The latest religious trend in America right now is tolerance. Now I agree with tolerance, because I think a forced faith is a fake faith. I don't think we can terrorize people into believing what we do. But I don't agree with tolerance in the same way that most people do. To me, tolerance is not saying, "well I think I'm right, but then again you may be right." And it is certainly not, "everyone's religion is right" To me, that is a lack of faith.

I've talked to people on the lines of salvation before. They ask me if I believe that if someone doesn't accept Jesus as Lord they are going to Hell. I always say yes and they always become furious. "How arrogant do you have to be to believe that out of all the religions yours is correct?"

This is an arrogance I can be proud of.

As the song goes. Our God is greater. That is my response to every mythology, every false doctrine, every idol, every worldly pleasure. Our God is greater and higher than any other (yes that means yours Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, Atheists, Pantheists, etc...) He is awesome in power, He is love, He is Healer, He is Saviour, He is Merciful.

I ought never to brag on myself, yet I do. I don't know why. It's God I should be arrogant (though I believe arrogant is the wrong word) about. It's Him that I should brag on. It's a problem I've had for a while. We all want to be the hero of our own story. Jesus Christ was the greatest Hero of all time and if we submit to Him we become part of the body. We become heroes, but we become heroes in HIS story. It's the only story worth being heroic for. Worth risking everything and offering everything for. It requires bravery.

The world will try to tell us that we are adherents to only one possible solution in the great jigsaw puzzle of salvation. But they are wrong. They are wrong and we are right. If you know me, you've heard me say that before, "I'm wrong, you're right." This time, however, I am not trying to confirm my merely human stance on an argument, but I am defending the very sovereignty of God Almighty. The One, the Only.

We can be famous for any number of things, but as that pioneering Christian rock band Audio Adrenaline said, We're "never gonna be as big as Jesus." What are we doing to look out for His reputation? If you are a CHRISTian you are wearing His name. How are we truly proving that our God is greater? Are we proving it by looking like the rest of the world? I don't know about that. We can't really defend God, He needs no defense, but we are in many ways responsible for His reputation here on planet Earth. We are the body.

A Christian author I admire by the name of Philip Yancey wrote a book addressing the question, "Where's God when it hurts?" He summed it up extraordinarily well when he said, "the answer to that is another question, 'Where's the church when it hurts?'"

Our God is truly greater, but we aren't showing it. Other religions are. Mormons and Jehovah's Witness get evangelism, Muslims understand passion and being radically dedicated to their faith to the point of death, Hindus and Buddhists understand self-denial and leaving behind the love of this world. What do we understand?

I think there is much hope. That's understandably odd of me to say after a long string of critical responses to the American church and Christianity. I'm seeing more books and more pastors and more congregations becoming dedicated to the Gospel of the Bible. I'm in that backpedaling area also. Trying to brush off all the dust and debris of last decade's dumbed-down doctrine. I've never been Old Faithful. I'm no geyser I'm afraid. I've always kind of had to sputter and wheeze before I get any significant waterworks.

I just so believe in a body of believers that are not dipping their toes in the pool but diving in. With full-blooded heat or maniacal cold (whichever way you personify a sold-out Christianity just so long as it isn't lukewarm). We have to live like our God is the only God, greater than anything. We have to live courageous stories and know that if our God is for us, then who can be against us? Who can ever stop us?

Citizens, we have got to believe that.

Leaving

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We get one story, you and I, and one story alone. God has established the elements, the setting, and the climax and the resolution. It would be a crime not to venture out, wouldn't it? It might be time for you to go. It might be time to change. To shine out. I want to repeat one word for you.

Leave.

Roll the word around on your tongue for a bit. It is a beautiful word isn't it? So strong, and forceful. The way you have always wanted to be. And you will not be alone. You have never been alone. Don't worry, everything will still be here when you get back. It is you who will have changed.
--Don Miller, Through Painted Deserts

Leaving.

7/20/11

Or should I say LEEving. There it is citizens, the next stop on the Classical Ride. It's two and a half hours from my world, so you know, weekend visits aren't impossible or even impropable. In fact, they will definitely happen often. But this is still leaving. This is still the abandonment of all the noble organizations that are still in my life due to youth. They won't be here waiting for me when I get back, they will be the ownership of others.

That's the one thing I disagree with in the beautiful Don Miller passage above, "everything will still be here when you get back." Even if it is here, it won't be the same. Everything will be changing while I have adventures in the collegiate camp.

Recently I've arrived at the beauty of not knowing in my own life. I have no idea what the future holds for me. Not a pinch of a notion. I am not my own though. I'm the product of an Author. The Author of such bestselling works as Creation, Salvation of Mankind, and Heaven. Needless to say I'm in good hands. But oh how wretched it can sometimes be to have to change everything for the sake of a greater, future good.

Change seems to make everything familiar sad. Like music and movies and books and people and places. They all become something other than your own. And you feel a little betrayed by them and unable to trust them. When you leave you have to give things away and release holds, because you can't truly say what's to happen to you or them. It would be unfair to try and keep everything safe in an aquarium for you to come back to. But it's what we want to do. It's a natural sort of vanity.

One month from yesterday. It's gaining on me.

7/25/11

My life has been a lot of loose ends. Life has never felt like a progression. It's always been a book in my hands. It's no wonder my favourite feeling is the sixth sense of nostalgia and my preferred pasttime is playing out the future in my mind. I'm technically not allowed to read ahead. It's kind of a mystery novel. But I can look in the previous pages for clues. I can read on the back flap about the author (incidentally it's an enormous backflap), I can listen to the reviews written by those I know and love all over the cover. I don't mind that the writer's name is the biggest thing on the book, that's the way it should be. I don't mind that my name is really only a subtitle. Merely a "by the way" after the colon. It helps that the preface is made of promises (incidentally it's an enormous preface). Every sixty pages or so a loose end is tethered, but some knots take a lot longer to tie.

College seems like another loose end. Why am I going to this particular place? What am I to do there? Why am I saying goodbye to things I know will never be again.

But then why would I spurn the pages that will never be read if they are not read now.

7/28/11

I am going away for a while,

but I'll be back, don't try and follow me.

Cause I'll return as soon as possible.

See I'm trying to find my place,

but it might not be here where I feel safe

--Paramore, Misguided Ghosts

I feel very safe here. I've spent a long time building a life here. I have perscribed characters and plans for the next scenes. But those plans aren't applicable any longer. I find myself talking with my friends and making plans for this month or that. Then, oh wait, I'll be in college.

I'm leaving with questions and the appropriate punctuation is in my pupils. But I have to wonder, what makes me think I'll come back home with answers. Maybe, I'll come back with more questions.

Calling this a "step" seems like an understatement. A mean a step lifts up a foot and then plops it down. I'm not so Matrix as to put four years of my life in a single step. It's more like a dive or something of that nature. Like something entirely new that will have to shape me for a while. Like little Lucy stepping through a wardrobe. And I know that you can't step into a wardrobe without stepping into a war worth fighting. New Narnias do, after all, await.

8/4/11

Just because everything's changing, doesn't mean it's never been this way before

All you can do is try and know who your friends are, as you head off to the war

Pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light

You'll come back when it's over

No need to say goodbye

--Regina Spektor, The Call

My story isn't really anything new I don't suppose. They say change is the only constant but I say there is a constant a lot less ironic than that. God the Father is, as Owl City would say, "the only north star I would follow this far."

I do know who my friends are, that's for sure. The truest. They are the strangest group of people, it's enough that they pray for me and it's evident. I don't want to be a cynic anymore. I want to be a hopeless romantic again. Why can't life be a story?

This is the Pilgrim's Progress citizens. It's tearing through every thick slough of despair and every doubting castle towards the celestial city. I'm all about the anthem, it plays in my ear. You know it if you hear it too. It's what we all call, The Call.

Listen.

I can't keep a straight face and say this is not the end

Not if you want it, it's upon us and I wanna say it's sinking in.

So think real slow, don't forget that yes is yes and no is no

Melting prints of grass and snow, means you may forget the way to get back home.

--Relient K, (This is the End)

I've found that things are always dying. I'm not being morbid but beggar this thought: babies die into children, children into young adults which die into adults, which die into the elderly which finally die into spirits. Not always in that order. Habits die into hobbies which die into traditions. Affection dies into love and annoyance dies into hate. Interest dies into passion, theories die into truths. Thoughts die into actions or else they simply die into oblivion. I will die into a lot of new bodies before this dress rehearsal is over with.

So is this the end? I can't look at you with a straight face and say it isn't. Of course it is, but it is also the beginning. Birth rides in on the inhale and death dallies out on the exhale. It's simultaneous.

Tonight I was among friends. Two young people who are like family were outdoors with me under the charcoal skies that were quiet firmamental embers on our scene. I looked at them being silly with their classic faces: one on a bike and one frolicking with a husky pup. I wanted to take a picture, then I wanted to remember, then I wanted to write of it. I just wanted to keep it. I realized things like that can't be pressed in big books like leaves or taped into scrapbooks like photographs. What can we do with such beauties? I don't know the answer to that except that I want to keep them.

8/18/11

Long Live all the mountains we moved

I had the time of my life fighting dragons with you

--Taylor Swift, Long Live

There are so many things we want to live on in our lives. My 18 years in the same place are what I most want to live on. I want every memory and every face and every adventure to live on somehow. I want to reside in the legactic lands of eternity or in the precursors thereof. I still wonder if there isn't a state of mind where Past, Present, and Future aren't sitting around in a pub having a few drinks and sharing a good rapport instead of competing. I love my home and everyone here. My friends and family are what I am most proud of. They are what I most love talking about. It was a gift, being part of their stories. I had the time of my life. We fought dragons, moved mountains, made magic, wrote poems, cheered, fought, explored. We were the kings and queens, we were the heroes and heroines. We crashed through walls. I mean it.

So long live every moment I had with every one of you.

Long live your stories.

Long live your memories.

Long live

Now, I'll say goodbye.

I'll be right back.

War--and Rumors of War--(Part II)

What's going on?
Where have all our voices gone?

And why are we afraid of words like war?

Need I remind you, that we are an army and armies engage

Yes! armies engage when the threat is too much to ignore

Sounds like we should sound the alarm

I could answer a few of the questions put forth by rock band Jonah 33 in their song "Scream." Like the matter of our voices. Once beacons, once seasoning, now silent. They are vibrate off a forked tongue and crawl up from a throttled throat on a leash. We wouldn't dare speak up. We wouldn't dare scream at the top of our lungs. We're soft. The word war? It isn't a pretty word. Three jagged, half-hearted letters mixed up and limp. But was it always that way? Or were there once warriors? Did a time exist where the rumor of war was a predestined scent of victory and a call to action rather than a commercialized step in the direction of a larger church and the almanacs claim that Christianity is the largest religion in the western world (excluding the asterisk indicating a lukewarm footnote). Someone needs to remind us that we are an army and that we should engage instead of knitting sweaters to send to the boys already in the battlefield because they are out there.

Sounds like we should sound the alarm.

To sound said alarm, (and to calm my doubts and catalyze my deeds) I asked fellow blogger Kevin Jacobs of For This Cause Ministries to write in the way of war. But what he normally gets in the way of is the Enemy. I've seen his blog attack Satan with all the stealth and strategy that God would demand of us. Through knowledge and the love of Christ he's jumped in trenches not often touched by the average scribes of our Lord. Underlying all of these posts, I always sense a warrior spirit. The twiddle-your-fingers vibe is nonexistent. So I asked his thoughts and this is what happened:

War is not pretty.

Brave men and women lose their lives fighting for what they believe in and often innocent lives are lost and countless lives are changed forever by war. War, as ugly and brutal as it is, is necessary. Necessary because there are people in this world who are controlled by evil and that evil is their own lusts and desires for domination and power. As long as there are those who seek to destroy and dominate others, there will be need for war.

Since Lucifer was found with iniquity in his heart and deceived a third of the angelic host into rebelling against God, war has been unleashed in the spirit world and upon mankind. Since being cast out of heaven, Lucifer has waged eternal war against God. His desire for dominance and hatred of God and man consume him.

The question was asked, do I think Christianity is a war? My answer is both yes and no. Yes because as we become Christ followers we have become willing targets of the enemy by standing on the side of God. My answer is no, because as humans as God’s creation we were already targets of the enemy whether we believe in God, the enemy, or this spiritual war or not. So, this spiritual war we are in not for being a Christian, but for being man, God’s creation.

“For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.”

Ephesians 6:12

It is hard to imagine that there are unseen forces that are at war with us. The most fearsome enemy to face is the one that we cannot see. Think about it. Some of the best and most frightening movies are the ones where the enemy is not seen until it’s too late. Satan and his army are spiritual beings. They are like the wind. We can’t physically see it, but we can see its effects. The effects of Satan’s army are the ravages of this sin cursed world and the effects sin and death have upon us.

Another question asked is the possibility that Christianity being a war is just a gimmick. Let me say it this way. Could the possibility of Christianity being a war be over spiritualized? My answer is that I don’t think it is spiritualized enough. There are books upon books and teachings upon teachings about spiritual warfare, but I don’t think it is taught enough and I don’t think is taught serious enough and taken serious enough. I believe that if we truly realized and took serious what is being put against us spiritually, we would act different and be different concerning the world and concerning Satan and his attacks against us.

“Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.” Eph 6:11

The bible has many scriptures that pertain to war and spiritual warfare. Take this verse for instance. It tells us to put on the armor of God. Armor is used for battle, for war. If it is not a war then why put on the armor? It says that we may be able to stand against the wiles or tactics of the devil. If the devil is not coming against us with tactics or attack plans then why should we stand against him? So, in one verse God is telling us we are in a war and it is against the devil who is attacking us and we need to put on battle armor for it.

There are wars of many different types. Nations war against nations, people war against people, culture against culture, ideology against ideology. Let’s not forget the wars we fight within ourselves. The war between our spirit and flesh, our evil nature against our reborn spirit. None of these wars are as crucial as that great unseen war in the spirit. We are in the middle and yet a part of it. We fight on our knees with the armor and weapons God has provided us.

Until this war is finished and we are finally called home, there will always be Wars And Rumors Of Wars.

And so what will we do with the rumours? Write them off as gimmicks? Dismiss Lucifer as mythology as he whittles away the totem pole of saved souls? Shall we wear our armour like a statement of fashion or enter in the demonic stomping grounds with the preparation of the Gospel? There is something going on behind the scenes that is translating to the visible stage.

Jonah 33 continues:

Don't look now

But somehow our worst enemies

Have found their way inside the walls we've made

These are the moments

That define us as cowards or men full of valor

So shutup and fight and don't let them know you're afraid!

I'm not one to lay down and die

I'm not one to lay down and die either.

Rumor has it there's a war going on. And I want in on it.

Grace is a Gritty Principle

Someone told me this analogy about grace in short once. I hope they will forgive the artistic liberties.

Two gentlemen were hiking in a trail across the foundation of the Himalayas. It was brisk and easy. As the trek progressed it became obvious one of the men was in better physical condition than the other and periodically had to stop to help him along.

Then the unthinkable happened.

The trail extened over an uncomfortably serrated crag of rocks and the two were climbing over it when the weaker of the two gentlemen spotted a serpent flagellating through the rotten leaves below the rocks. Its colour was beautiful to look at and its motion was more a dance than a slither.

"Hey, would you look at that snake?" the weaker of the two instructed.

"I dare not, the venom in those will rot your flesh and liquidate your innards."

"I'm going to have a look."

"Don't do that!"

But his warnings were in vain, the weaker of the two went to it, puzzled over it, prodded it, before finally picking it up. Gracefully, without any inkling of offense it wrapped its lips around the mans wrist. The man let loose a sort of giggle.

"It's playful," he smiled.

"Put that down!"

Too late. The serpent's eyes bulged and his colour sobered and his head convulsed just before the final crunch of skin; like pushing a pointed dowel through the flesh of a fruit.

The weak man's face paled and his nerves drooled before he collapsed. Then his nerves began to vomit instead and his body echoed with pain. Every spasm resonated. He screamed in the most unnerving of ways.

"Oh help! Don't just stand there! Do some--"

He trailed off in unbearable pain. The stronger man was filled with love and compassion for his friend. But also with dread. He knew the only way to save his friend was a treacherous trip of the mountain. The antidote was found in a rare herb at the top.

After making his friend as comfortable as possible he began his ascent. With every handhold the maniacal swarm of cold bit through his gloves like locusts and wiped out the warming crops on his hands. The wind was incessantly strong threatening to relieve him of his footing every second. Oxygen was naturally low and getting lower as he progressed. The only thing that kept him on was the thought of saving his friend. Food was scarce and water that wasn't frozen was out of the question. He tried to drink once by melting it in his hands but when he sucked the moisture from his gloves it solidified almost immediately in his mouth tearing the skin from the inside of his cheeks. A violent violet became the normal colour of his rotting skin as frostbite took hold. Incidents of terror gave little time for rest in between. The slightest sound was more than enough coaxing for a rockslide or avalanche. He once found himself wedged between rubble for days trying to remove it all from his permanently damaged legs. Though he found the circumstances unbearable many other wild animals did not. They constantly harassed him to where he would not stop for sleep. He was attacked on several occasions, they mauled his face and torso. Wolves, wildcats, large predator birds. All the time he thought of his friend and kept on. When he finally arrived to the top he remembered that only certain types of the herb contained the cure. The sort that had a white center. He needed a good bit to provide enough substance to heal the man, but he had to sift through thousands of specimin before finding them. He searched each plant one by one keeping the ones with white centers. At one point, upon nearing the appropriate amount, his collection blew away down the mountain in the sack which he had been storing them in. He began again. When he finally collected enough he began the descent.

Going down proved nearly as difficult as going up. He fell multiple times dropping anywhere between ten and twenty feet. His hands were raw, his ribs were ahead of his stomach. Blizzards came into season and he could not see ahead.

Eventually he felt the foreign warmth and his eyesight returned. He ran as he saw his friend below lying there. He screamed with joy. His friend was ill and he had the solution. He prepared it over a beautiful fire and poured it over his lips. Almost immediately the colour returned to his friends face and his limbs became animate. He smiled and embraced the stronger friend. Both were full of such joy. The weak man apologized for not listening and asked how he could ever repay him.

"You owe me nothing friend, I am only glad you are back with me again. Shall we go on and finish our journey?"

"Of course."

As the two readied their equipment and started on the weak man faltered, took a look over his shoulder and walked back. He went to the serpent, puzzled over it, prodded it, before finally picking it up. Gracefully, without any inkling of offense it wrapped its lips around the mans wrist. He let loose a sort of giggle.

*crunch*

The man lost the colour in his face, screamed and collapsed.

"Help! God! Oh help me! Don't just--"

The stronger of the two ran over to him and was filled with sorrow. He let out a soaking sob only for a moment. He was overcome with love and pity for his friend.

He started the climb up the mountain.

The Wrong Gospel

What dreadful implications accompany the word wrong.

When I attend church in the United States of America we read predominately from a fifth Gospel not included in our canon textually but certainly implied with the largest pair of insinuative brackets I've yet seen. Those brackets personified: Modern Evangelism.

Every week at church at the end of the speaking and the rock n' roll Hallelujah chorus we are asked to bow our heads and close our eyes. And if we want to accept Jesus we timidly raise our hands amid prodding and coaxing, threat and bribery and we are assured that nothing strange will happen. We are assured that our sins will be forgiven and we will be saved from hell and we will belong to a group comprising 73% of our nation and our finances, home-life, relationships, school, work, golf game, and health will all improve in a sweeping storm of divine intervention. And if in a couple of months we feel we're up to it we can be baptized in a heated baptistry. Until then, let's enjoy the lights, music, facilities, and special events of a relevant church.

We've been reading the wrong gospel.

Because the way I read the gospel is the same way Leonard Ravenhill reads it. "It's a gory gospel! It's a bloody gospel! It's a sacrificial gospel!" It's not something for spiritual babies to play with and dribble over. It requires heroes and heroines. We sell it cheap these days and any dummy with a Bible in his pocket can wear the lable. I'm a Christian! I'm a Christian! Anyone can say it, we let anyone walk around with it, we give it to them! Force it on them even. Who do we think we are throwing all the chaff back in with the wheat? Our pastors are mothers who throw a bunch of toddlers in a rugby game and they just get in the way and make the team look bad. "Oh put little Johnny in! Let my boy play!" Well hang it all madam, Little Johnny didn't come to practise, Little Johnny was wiping his nose in the sand box while we were nursing sweat, blood, tears in preparation for the urgency that awaits us. We're luring in people with little chants and toys and any sort of entertainment we can conjure and they are muddying up the living water. At least when we get them there we could tell them the truth, the truth that they are going to have to pick up their cross and take the beatings that Jesus is no longer on earth to take and scream the message on pain of death and torture. It doesn't take bravery, it doesn't take the Holy Spirit to sit in a wading pool, but it takes an act of grueling courage to jump in a boiling channel of molten and take on the current for the lost souls of any given God-forsaken land. You're lukewarm! And you're going to be spit out for it. You can't live everyday like you are going to Heaven just because you say you're a Christian. That's why, even with the oversaturation of Christian resources, references, and places of worship we are still only fooling ourselves. Christianity in America is a joke. That's why our Evangelism is largely uneffective. We wear the name but don't live the life. We're ruining it. We preach the wrong Gospel, the Jesus of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John is the best kept secret and the Red, White, and Blue Jesus is at large and we're sending out missionaries on his behalf. We're all false prophets. "Jesus came to make your life on earth better." No he didn't! He came to tell you of a foreign government that we know nothing about and of a war that we have the power to win if we just follow Him! The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand! Between prosperity and freedom of religion we've made God in our image. Why aren't we the outcasts? Why aren't we weird? Why aren't we baptizing? Why are we making satistics instead of disciples? Why aren't we leaving everything we have? Why are we not selling all? Why do, when we preach these things, why do we make reservations in the end? I think I'm discovering the Jesus I never really knew.

Sometimes I feel like Jim Elliot did. I feel like Jesus is like the Yukon and He's saying:

Send not your foolish and feeble; send me your strong and your sane--

Strong for the red rage of battle; sane, for I harry them sore;

Send me men girt for combat, men who are grit to the core;

Swift as the panther in triumph, fierce as the bear in defeat,

Sired of a bulldog parent, steeled in the furnace heat.

Send me the best of your breeding, lend me your chosen ones;

Them will I take to my bosom, them I will call my sons;

The men of my mettle, the men who would 'stablish my fame

Unto its ultimate issue, winning me honour, not shame;

Searching my uttermost valleys, fighting each step as they go

Shooting the wrath of my rapids, scaling my ramparts of snow;

Ripping the guts of my mountains, looting the beds of my creeks

Them I will take to my bosom, and speak as a mother speaks.

Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway,

And I wait for the men who will win me--and I will not be won in a day;

And I will not be won by weaklings, subtle, suave and mild,

But by men with the hearts of vikings, and the simple faith of a child;

Desperate, strong, and resistless, unthrottled by fear and defeat,

Them I will gild with my treasure, them I will glut with my meat.

We are full of gimmicks and watered down doctrines. We can't go on like this unpunished. Where are the heroes? The martyrs, the saints, and the warrior poets? I'll tell you where the potential ones are. They're in a church pew listening to a man who is getting paid to do what we all should be doing. They are being inspired and fondled and taught by the wrong Jesus and the wrong Gospel.

Unrealistic Goals

It isn't that I dislike guidance counselors (I love them), it's just that some of the things they say just get under my skin. In an earlier post (Quote Commentary 15...Brennan Manning (The Mask)) I railed on their concept of "always being yourself." Now, as promised, I am back to dice another of their practical, successful, life lesson vegetables.

I can see it all now: They have just--among cheaply made videos, power-point presentations, and informational pamphlets--wrapped up a successful lecture. All about your decision to go to college or stay healthy or do whatever it is that guidance counselors say we should do to be well-rounded individuals. They are feeling pretty confident about it and they go in for the classic conclusion, "Now boys and girls, when you decide to do these things, it's important that you set realistic goals."

Way to live valiantly.

I object. Adventure! Why should we have realistic goals? I would propose that we dare to have unrealistic goals.

As a Christian I know that I cannot in good conscience confine myself to the task of reason. Is my God not greater? Stronger? Higher than any other? Healer? Awesome in power? I have a feeling Jesus would feel a little insulted at the thought of realistic goals. Where's the audacity of faith in that? How realistic was Joshua's plea to stop the sun? Or David's to slay a giant? We are the type that would ask God to conceal a leper's boils rather than cure him and comfort the family of Lazarus rather than raise Him from the dead. I have a feeling that if I ask God to help me "at least" do anything he would respond with the same incredulity as he did with the father of the demon-possessed boy exclaiming, "What do you mean 'If I can?' Anything is possible for those who believe."

I am sometimes scared to ask. My frail faith allows me to believe that if I ask and it doesn't happen I will be shaken. But the fear also confirms just how unrealistic the goal is, and how it is a worthy endeavor.

I want to dream BIG! I want to scheme and plot the impossible. I want to imagine the unlikely. Because I know it can be done. Realistic goals are boring.

War (Part I)

We used to say no gimmicks, but everybody's got one.

No gimmicks?

Mine's that I've got none

After years of lambasting and condemning gimmicks in art, hip-hop artist John Reuben finally came to terms with the saturation of gimmicks in all parts of "marketed" society. He became jaded with concept of sincerity.

I'm a cynic these days you see? Yeah, the whole parade. Thick-rimmed glasses, nice clothes, witty answers to contest petty statements. Nothing is legitimate to me. Everyone has a personal agenda. Everybody has a stake, a motive, in every action, and I'm catching them in their act with their fake astonished faces and the flock of fingers that fairy to their mouths in supposed shock. No one is telling the truth. No one is selfless. Altruism? Please.

One day I was thinking carelessly and my thoughts sailed in the way of theology (See? I call it theology, that's sick). As I was being careless, I began to think of Christianity as the great War. And we Christians were battling it out with unseen forces for our souls and the souls of others. Coming to my senses, I quickly coughed up the notion. That's just another way to sell Christianity, I thought to myself. If we want to yell and spit and throw chairs around that's what we say, It's war! But, if we want to sip on tea from our Precious Moments china then we say it is relevant, peaceful, and will make our life better. There are a million gimmicks attached to Christianity. We just have to choose our audience carefully. We make make Jesus and Christianity into whatever we want or whatever the people want (we're getting rewarded for all those souls you know? All those souls whose toes we are coaxing into the water that Goldilocks would just lap up. Ick.) Small wonder I'm skeptical about my subconcious slip of Christianity as a war.

Once upon a time I heard that "in the multitude of counsellors there is safety." Well with all this war going on a figured I could use some safety so I cooked up some counsellors whose runes lay scattered around the blogosphere and thought perhaps they could curb my cynicism.

Among these was Sue Taylor. She is the litterateur behind the charm and truth that are littered throughout Owning Redemption, a blog which I both follow and learn from (along with unlimited free samples of enjoyment). From this conduit I knew sound wisdom would flow as it often has. She did not play games in searching for truth. Beyond all insincerity she committed to the problem. She became a regular sleuth leaving no stone unturned. Not being able to say it better myself. I leave truth momentarily to her:

"Is Christianity a war?"


When I was first addressed with this question, I quickly gave a simple answer from my gut and then spent the next few weeks trying to decide if my gut had any credibility. My immediate doubt of my own response threw me into an internal tug of war that was fueled by countless arguments that seemed perfectly sound until the 'other side' tugged- arguments like these:


Jesus said He left us with "peace." Peace is the opposite of war. If Christ left us with peace, then wouldn't thinking we're at war defy His plan for us?


But Christ also said that Satan was our "enemy." And we can't have an enemy unless, at the very least, we're in a battle.


But we were sent out as "sheep among wolves." Sheep don't fight, so even if we are in a war, it seems that our Father didn't want us to 'fight' in it.


But we have instructions about how to protect ourselves in this world and those instructions include war terminology. We're supposed to be donning swords and armor. Sheep who are wandering down a hill into a wolf pack don't need swords and armor, but our Father told us to put them on, and He told us to put them on everyday. So maybe He knows what we can't see. Maybe we're really at war, even though we don't see it...



On and on the arguments went. One day the "peace" side would be the clear victor, only to be destroyed in battle by "war" with the next sunrise. I found myself so confused that I sort of just drew a line in the sand and told God, "You're just going to have to make this clear for me, because I have no idea how to answer this question with any confidence." In the past, I might have been perfectly content to give what felt like the "right" and "easy" answer and walk away, but this question all but begged for an answer steeped in integrity and now I know why: My answer changes everything.


One of the things I so love about God is that He's forever practical. There's no fluff to Him. Everything He does has specific purpose. And if I believe He's the "God" of my life, then that applies to everything that happens to me, too- including this infuriatingly difficult question. It also means that the timing of the question itself, along with the very dramatic, emotional and faith demanding way I got my answer sits within His perfectly practical, absolutely purposeful way. Take a deep breath and prepare to go on a short journey with me as I share with you my answer from the depth of my heart:


Christianity is a war. Better yet, because I am a Christian, I am at war. I have a part in a battle that has a part in a bigger war and whether or not I fight valiantly determines the fate, not just of myself, but the fate of those I love. Make no mistake about it, this is war. I have an enemy who daily plots my demise, and just like a soldier, my enemy doesn't daydream about my murder because of any of my own merits or mistakes, but rather solely because he hates my Leader. This is war, alright, but these are just words on paper and as much as I love a good string of well said words, they've become way too predictable and yet far too ignored for my liking. I'm past the point of needing to hear what we've been trained to say. I need someone to strip it down and tell me what my heart needs to hear. I need someone who can uncover all the cliches, shake their heads at all the good advice and dig until they find words that really matter to who I am. I need someone who can stand on the battlefield and clearly see the enemy approaching, know that their existence is being threatened and still care enough about humanity to whisper a play-by-play. Give me an hour with that kind of person, and not only will I believe what they say, but I'll adjust my life based on the truth they share...


These were my thoughts until I woke up on the battlefield.


It was all questions and no answers until I was staring into the broken and humiliated face of a person that I love more than my own breath, watching his very future dissolve into a puddle of bad choices while I got the intense notion that our "enemy" was applauding my loved one's demise. Every emotion within me wanted to seep through my skin and strangle the being responsible for the look of defeat and string of consequences I was staring down. At that moment in time, I wasn't just absolutely and completely positive that he and I were engaged in a larger-than-life battle, but I was also absolutely and completely positive that up until that moment of painful realization hit me in the chest; we had lost. Finally, I had something deeper than a surface emotion to go along with all those words I thought I believed were true. Speechless, I stood and listened to this person explain how he'd lost battle after battle after battle, and how he'd only spoken up because he was too exhausted and defeated to pretend he could go on. In a way I might never be able to explain, I realized in that breath that we were throat deep in a very real and dangerous battle that was only a small piece of a very real war. His very LIFE was on the line. Sadly the only thing missing in his war story were the honorable soldiers who were supposed to be standing along side him in the fight.


We are at war. We just don't realize it because it looks all wrong to us. It feels wrong. And you know why? Because we're losing battles left and right, day to day- battles we were never meant to lose. It's all well and good if you believe in God to say that God and Satan are in an all-encompassing war because we would naturally follow that statement with a confident declaration of God's eventual victory. But it's a little harder to swallow than admit that we are a part of that very war, we are on the side of Good, and we are losing nearly every battle we step up to. Friends, it simply goes against the grain of who we were made to be to lose these battles with our enemy, so it's easier to ignore the fact that we're in them than it is to admit our defeat.


We weren't supposed to lose. We weren't meant to lose. We weren't built to lose. We'll never be okay with losing. Given a chance to admit defeat or change the terminology of the game to make ourselves look better, we'll choose a new dictionary every time. But God is true, friends. It's you and I who have a problem with the truth. It's you and I who have an explanation for every divorce, every suicide, every abused and hungry child, for every person who gives up on the good fight and walks right into an ambush.


The truth is: We're at war.
The truth is: We're engaged in some sort of battle at this very moment.
The truth is: We're losing at battles we were never meant to lose.
The truth is: We know how to fight.
The truth is: We've forgotten why we should.




I'm going to be straight for a few vulnerable minutes and tell you what I need to hear: You know the reason we roll our eyes and shake our heads when a wise person hints at the idea that we might be in the midst of the only war that ever was? We have been trained to ignore the signs. We've been brainwashed into believing that it's okay to let our neighbor, our friends and our children walk into enemy fire. It's simply easier not to care enough about their lives to lay ours down and fight for them. We truly believe we have no 'right' to throw ourselves in front of a young soldier who's not thinking clearly and hold him until he sees reason. Gone are the days when men snatched children from fathers who were cruel. Gone are the days when a real friend showed up in the middle of the night because he couldn't sleep from worrying about a choice you're making. Gone are the days when a young man would pull his parents to the side and beg for help for his wayward friend. Gone are the friends who spend hours praying. Gone are the men who spend their lives protecting. And why? Because it's easier to forget that we were fit for battle than to admit we're losing. Don't believe me? Let me share a few very relevant, very current 'defeated in battle' statistics:


Half of all Christian marriages end in divorce. Every covenant turned contract is a glaring "W" for the enemy, so we pretend that marriage isn't really a good indicator of our credibility and faithfulness. We're losing, but we won't admit it.


Nearly 60% of Bible believing men in the U.S. are addicted to some form of pornography. While Satan is busy chalking himself up another win, we pretend that finding physical enjoyment at the rape and ruin of countless young women is "just what men do." We're losing, but we'll never admit it.


Christians turn to suicide at nearly the same rate that the lost do. The enemy that promised to kill and destroy gets another point, while we bury people that said they believed in the power of God. We're losing, but we'll never admit it.


You almost can't tell the difference in the numbers of unchurched and churched people when it comes to alcohol and drug abuse. Satan smiles while we drink and smoke our lives away. We're losing, but we'll never admit it.




I want to give you a challenge. It's a challenge I met personally this week that changed my perspective on the whole war matter and I believe it will solidify your stance as well. I want you to picture the person on this planet that you love the most- that person that you can't even think about losing. Now, picture that person standing between you and someone who is fully intent on destroying your loved one. Really let it play out in your mind. How do you feel? Are you passive? Are you nonchalant? Are you willing to go into a speech meant to entertain both parties about how this is just a 'sign of the times?' Can you look your loved one in the eye and tell them that, while this is heart breaking, you have no right to interfere? Or does every ounce of your wisdom and energy immediately force you to act in defense of that person you love? Do your veins flood with an adrenaline so thick that you can't even force yourself to count the personal costs of your rescue attempt? Does everything else on the planet pale in comparison to the battle you find yourself engaged in?


That, my friend, is war.


And we're in it. I'm in it for that friend I talked about earlier. He desperately needs me to be present and accounted for, alert and ready to fight on his behalf- even if he doesn't know that's what he needs. Your friends and family need you, too. They need you to be truth-sayers, sword wielders, and prayer pray'ers. They need you to be the kind of person who drives all night to ensure justice. They need you to be the kind of person who holds obnoxiously to the truth when everyone else in their life is telling lies. They need you to be the kind of person who says, "hold on," when all other signs point to letting go. They need you to fight. I need you to fight. You need you to fight.


And, not because the war depends on us, but because the battle does.


It's our choice. We don't have to suit up. We don't have to stand up. We don't have to put up. We could, you know, simply choose to ignore the raging battle and leave the armor in the closet. We could choose to believe that no one is worth the effort and stay seated. We could choose to pretend that we weren't made to fight and keep all our resources to ourselves. We could do that. We've been doing that. But we don't have to. We don't have to let our Father win the war while we lose the battles.


We were made to win.

Yeah, we could lose. But, why?



If this was gimmickry I would be sold on it, but the truth remains it isn't. The intangibility of our enemy is an ally. We are all just reformed traitors trying to get back into gear. We are living like all is well, like the battle is going on overseas instead of in our lives and everyother life we damn by our cowardice and apathy. It's war! It's war when we are tempted! It's war when the Gospel is outlawed or shunned or mocked or burned! It's war! And its in your living room and on your street and in your church!

There's a war going on.

Or didn't you know?