2012, what a year this promises to be. If you're like me, you get a little nostalgic when you stop and think that time and space as we know it are scheduled to end this year. The Mayan's were very clear about this; December 21, 2012 is the last day that anyone will ever be able to calendar an event.
That's right; the Mayan's predicted a total end to calendars. I'm saddened by this because what will people that don't know me give me for Christmas now? I like the calendars I get each year. My favorite of course is the Ronald Reagan commemorative calendar with many of his notable quotes. I also like the little ones I get from insurance carriers and that place we buy pet food. Gosh, I'm gonna miss the Word of the Day. But I wax nostalgic.
I also get a little scared because "Hey: When will it be ok to start singing Auld Lang Syne?"
It has been said that "necessity is the mother of invention" and I am confident in the people of this country. Someone somewhere will pull themselves up by the boot straps and will draw a grid of 31 boxes and place a number in each box and we will dance. We will all start setting appointments again.
Until then I say, "Thank you Microsoft Outlook, I will use you!" "I will use you until the end of time."
Friday, December 23, 2011
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Who is This King?
There is a song that starts “Who is this King of Glory that…” and I thought that is a great question. That is something that great men have contemplated for centuries. I can picture David sitting on the rock overlooking his sheep and asking himself, Who is this King?
I love the Ocean; I love the smell of it, the sound of it and the vast expanse. I sometimes am blessed to go to that place on Earth where God speaks to me the loudest, Bodega Bay, CA. Gorgeous, it is gorgeous. I love to put on my jeans in the morning, not early, and my T-shirt and Leather bomber jacket that was my grandfathers and go down to the ocean. I sit on a certain spot, on a certain outcropping of giant rock and I stop. And I hear the voice “as it were the sounds of many waters” and I seriously marvel. Don’t think I am some strange spiritualist that thinks that sound is Actually God. I don’t, I just imagine. I move closer to Him on that rock.
The ocean really does hold clues. He is the great distance between me and that edge of the earth where the water falls off and pours out into eternity. He is the depth that can not be searched or ever fully known. He is every hidden thing that never surfaces, and every known thing that jumps from the water and reflects the morning sun back at me. He is the one that has raised men up and pulled them down. He is at once calm and tumultuous.
What is amazing to me is that you can’t even come up with enough words to describe all that He is. But what is even more amazing is that like the ocean, while He can’t be fully known or ever tamed, He can be gazed upon and enjoyed. He supplies all that the mariner needs. He cares to be ridden from place to place. He longs to be searched and to those that will with fear and trembling, He opens up and meets the deepest desires of the heart.
So, I go on looking and contemplating this King of Glory? As I think about Him, my mind explodes with thoughts about him. So many I am unable to report them all.
He is the height of beauty. He is the spark and flame of wisdom;
He is the giver of knowledge and the Knowledge itself;
He is a friend and confidant;
He rules over every thought and action of mankind;
He quickens the beast and the spirit of man alike, but not the same;
He is the One who must be known but can’t be grasped;
He is the giver of life and that very Life;
He is the door, the only portal to the Throne;
He is the supreme oracle of the Father;
He is the very first and the very last;
He is the flower on the hill and the hill itself;
He is the Lilly of the valley and the Bright and morning star;
He is the Rose of Sharon and the Rock of Gibraltar;
He is my Deliverer and my Captor;
He is the Servant while Master of all;
He can be fed upon but never exhausted;
He provides out of His wealth and spends nothing;
Then the waves crash again, and I flinch at the thundering sound of it. It is His voice telling me “Yes, all of that and more.”
He is Jesus, the Christ, the King of Glory, the Alpha and Omega. Nothing that is, is, apart from Him. He is the one that quickened my dead heart and gave it life. I did not seek Him, I did not know Him. I could not. But while I was still dead, He died and I lived. And He moves closer to me on that Rock.
I love the Ocean; I love the smell of it, the sound of it and the vast expanse. I sometimes am blessed to go to that place on Earth where God speaks to me the loudest, Bodega Bay, CA. Gorgeous, it is gorgeous. I love to put on my jeans in the morning, not early, and my T-shirt and Leather bomber jacket that was my grandfathers and go down to the ocean. I sit on a certain spot, on a certain outcropping of giant rock and I stop. And I hear the voice “as it were the sounds of many waters” and I seriously marvel. Don’t think I am some strange spiritualist that thinks that sound is Actually God. I don’t, I just imagine. I move closer to Him on that rock.
The ocean really does hold clues. He is the great distance between me and that edge of the earth where the water falls off and pours out into eternity. He is the depth that can not be searched or ever fully known. He is every hidden thing that never surfaces, and every known thing that jumps from the water and reflects the morning sun back at me. He is the one that has raised men up and pulled them down. He is at once calm and tumultuous.
What is amazing to me is that you can’t even come up with enough words to describe all that He is. But what is even more amazing is that like the ocean, while He can’t be fully known or ever tamed, He can be gazed upon and enjoyed. He supplies all that the mariner needs. He cares to be ridden from place to place. He longs to be searched and to those that will with fear and trembling, He opens up and meets the deepest desires of the heart.
So, I go on looking and contemplating this King of Glory? As I think about Him, my mind explodes with thoughts about him. So many I am unable to report them all.
He is the height of beauty. He is the spark and flame of wisdom;
He is the giver of knowledge and the Knowledge itself;
He is a friend and confidant;
He rules over every thought and action of mankind;
He quickens the beast and the spirit of man alike, but not the same;
He is the One who must be known but can’t be grasped;
He is the giver of life and that very Life;
He is the door, the only portal to the Throne;
He is the supreme oracle of the Father;
He is the very first and the very last;
He is the flower on the hill and the hill itself;
He is the Lilly of the valley and the Bright and morning star;
He is the Rose of Sharon and the Rock of Gibraltar;
He is my Deliverer and my Captor;
He is the Servant while Master of all;
He can be fed upon but never exhausted;
He provides out of His wealth and spends nothing;
Then the waves crash again, and I flinch at the thundering sound of it. It is His voice telling me “Yes, all of that and more.”
He is Jesus, the Christ, the King of Glory, the Alpha and Omega. Nothing that is, is, apart from Him. He is the one that quickened my dead heart and gave it life. I did not seek Him, I did not know Him. I could not. But while I was still dead, He died and I lived. And He moves closer to me on that Rock.
Friday, May 13, 2011
The 7 Wonders of the World (We've All Seen Them)
Pick a town, and dirt road, and stream, a creek and put it back in time like 100 years ago. Take your mind there, picture that road. Walk down it, kick the dust smell the brush and trees. Look off to the left at the garden in the midst of the trees and fields. See that little chicken house surrounded by roses? Does it bother you there are only a few chickens and they don’t go in the chicken house, but those 7 silly lanky kids do.
Look at those kids, look at the faces. Those faces, 2, 4, 7, 10 years old are serious and weathered, worked, tanned, smooth and so full of joy.
Imagine them standing, waiting, each with a hoe, at least the ones old enough to hold a hoe. They have to be ready. Water is not something that comes from a faucet here, it comes from the man up stream. When he releases the water you better be ready to pull as much as you can into your garden. They need that water. They need as much as they can get because it will feed them. As the water flows at-will toward them, they all move swiftly and divert it into the garden watching as it washes over the soil that covers the seeds that they planted with their own hands. Like the belly of the young child swooshing down the rollercoaster for the first time and feeling the fear that is drenched in the exhilaration followed by the gasp for air, they work hard. This is not a joke, there is no time for frivolity now.
There is no food. Crops are not ready. There is no refrigerator they can run in and open and, without giving one thought to the God that provides, pull out a gallon of milk and drink up. There is no fresh bread they can just grab and make a sandwich "Today is a scary day, a hungry day." They don’t have “too many of them, but they are real.” They all looked at the sun, blazing on them and punishing them and they smile at each other. Only a few hours of chores left.
Finally, they have done what must be done for a family to survive. They don’t, not even one of them, work for themselves and what they might gain, they work for 8 other people, each loving 7 others, 7 precious people to whom they have a connection that will never find an equal. Without a word, the sense, the invisible communication, the plan opens up wide in each of them and at once as if commanded by a superior officer they run and shed the skins of labor. They tear off the shell of concern and they cast them on the floor, and run to the creek. Yes, it is the creek that you all pictured, the creek with the rope and the bank and the mud. With adolescent callouses on their hands they grab at that rope and swing out into the water where so many other beautiful kids from the “neighborhood” are swimming. In this creek, they were rich and ready to live and no one would tell them any different. You see at the creek, there were no castes, no wealth, no possessions, no title and no rules. They were all "Chicken-house, Brown-house kids."
Only four of them are left to tell the stories they lived. My grandma told me and my boys so many stories. I could tell you each of them as if I was there. She could tell a story. She didn’t think so; she didn’t think much of herself at all, but she was a treasure chest. Pregnant with history and adventure and love.
In her life, long, full and filled with trials. She smiled and laughed and loved. She traveled the entire world over and saw sights that were big and wonderful and amazing. She loved a man that was by all accounts bigger than life itself. But somehow nothing compared to the 7 wonders of the world. The 7 wonders that lived in that really little town, way down that little dirt road, close to the little stream, that ran into that creek with that rope and that beautiful mud, that took us back in time like 100 years ago.
Today is a full day, with food and drink and the absolute absence of fear about tomorrow. I sat with her frail fingers wrapped around her glass of water, no ice, as she tells me that “growing old isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.” I sit with her in my little yard, outside my little house, watching my little boys swim in my little pool. And I cry in my heart, thankful, because God let me swing on that swing, and swim in that creek and redirect that water into that garden, that grew into vegetables, that fed 7 wonders of the world and us.
Look at those kids, look at the faces. Those faces, 2, 4, 7, 10 years old are serious and weathered, worked, tanned, smooth and so full of joy.
Imagine them standing, waiting, each with a hoe, at least the ones old enough to hold a hoe. They have to be ready. Water is not something that comes from a faucet here, it comes from the man up stream. When he releases the water you better be ready to pull as much as you can into your garden. They need that water. They need as much as they can get because it will feed them. As the water flows at-will toward them, they all move swiftly and divert it into the garden watching as it washes over the soil that covers the seeds that they planted with their own hands. Like the belly of the young child swooshing down the rollercoaster for the first time and feeling the fear that is drenched in the exhilaration followed by the gasp for air, they work hard. This is not a joke, there is no time for frivolity now.
There is no food. Crops are not ready. There is no refrigerator they can run in and open and, without giving one thought to the God that provides, pull out a gallon of milk and drink up. There is no fresh bread they can just grab and make a sandwich "Today is a scary day, a hungry day." They don’t have “too many of them, but they are real.” They all looked at the sun, blazing on them and punishing them and they smile at each other. Only a few hours of chores left.
Finally, they have done what must be done for a family to survive. They don’t, not even one of them, work for themselves and what they might gain, they work for 8 other people, each loving 7 others, 7 precious people to whom they have a connection that will never find an equal. Without a word, the sense, the invisible communication, the plan opens up wide in each of them and at once as if commanded by a superior officer they run and shed the skins of labor. They tear off the shell of concern and they cast them on the floor, and run to the creek. Yes, it is the creek that you all pictured, the creek with the rope and the bank and the mud. With adolescent callouses on their hands they grab at that rope and swing out into the water where so many other beautiful kids from the “neighborhood” are swimming. In this creek, they were rich and ready to live and no one would tell them any different. You see at the creek, there were no castes, no wealth, no possessions, no title and no rules. They were all "Chicken-house, Brown-house kids."
Only four of them are left to tell the stories they lived. My grandma told me and my boys so many stories. I could tell you each of them as if I was there. She could tell a story. She didn’t think so; she didn’t think much of herself at all, but she was a treasure chest. Pregnant with history and adventure and love.
In her life, long, full and filled with trials. She smiled and laughed and loved. She traveled the entire world over and saw sights that were big and wonderful and amazing. She loved a man that was by all accounts bigger than life itself. But somehow nothing compared to the 7 wonders of the world. The 7 wonders that lived in that really little town, way down that little dirt road, close to the little stream, that ran into that creek with that rope and that beautiful mud, that took us back in time like 100 years ago.
Today is a full day, with food and drink and the absolute absence of fear about tomorrow. I sat with her frail fingers wrapped around her glass of water, no ice, as she tells me that “growing old isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.” I sit with her in my little yard, outside my little house, watching my little boys swim in my little pool. And I cry in my heart, thankful, because God let me swing on that swing, and swim in that creek and redirect that water into that garden, that grew into vegetables, that fed 7 wonders of the world and us.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
A Knight to Remember?
“A Knight to Remember” What does that mean? I have been asked that by a few people. In their eyes, I see the squint of mockery. They’d be right if I was the Knight to remember. Heck no, I am not. I’ll tell you if you want to know. No, never mind. I’ll just say this:
There is a great King. There is a Prince who loves the King more than He loves His own life. And there is a people, small creatures, not stately in appearance, nor impressive of speech, but fervent in their desire to serve the Prince and meet the Great King face to face.
There is an evil. It is a gray cloudish power that wraps itself around you and chokes the life out of you. It will at once make you tingle with desire to know more of it and shiver in terror. As you read this, you will feel a harsh but soft, hot breath on the back of your neck. The hair on the body of a human is created to sense the blackness and hatred of the one that rules the shadowy region in which he dwells. In this land, a legion of dark and bitterly hateful spirits live and serve. Their weapons are potent. They wield a sword that cannot be seen by human eyes but can be allowed to sink deep into the flesh of the man piercing all the way to the soul and shadowing the light which makes men grow with belief, hope and love.
But, there is another realm ruled by the Great King and loved fervently by His only Son, the Prince. This world is far more real than the one you sit in today. It is more comforting than the bed you sleep in, or the arms of the mother that holds you. Life wriggles and moves and grows spontaneously, instantly and constantly there. There is Water to drink. There are fish that dance, and have danced, the same dance since they were put there. They wave each fin to move and pump air into themselves, yet not without each intricate motion being first ordered by the Great King Himself. There are birds, such beautiful birds. Pure white, soothing blue, and black with yellow throats, red and light grey. So many different shapes that to describe them would only force images into the mind of the reader which would not do them justice. Long legs, short legs, long beaks, short ones, fat ones, thick feathers or no feathers at all. There are creatures of every kind, small and large, weak and powerful. It is a place all at once calm and bustling with busyness. We don’t live in the world I am describing, but it is the world to which some of us belong.
But, in our present world Death lurks and waits to exact its price from every man.
“Death” was not by order of the King yet the King rules over it and ruled over its conception and creation. It is in itself an enemy of the King; an opposite if you will, yet in no way an equal. I suppose it acts as a servant to the King while acting on its own. It can’t do whatever it wants, but whatever it wants it does. It longs to take from the King His voice, because it is that voice that restrains it. Oh and what a voice it is. Low and powerful but smooth as honey and bellowing at the most soothing end of a scale that does not exist, it really just becomes.
In His most righteous anger He need not raise his voice, for if the King was to raise his voice, one millionth of an octave, in anger, the whole of creation from His world to ours would be changed. Not changed in the sense of changing one’s mind, changed in the sense that NOTHING would remain as it was. No substance would be the same substance, no element the same element. No one would be who he or she was. And no one who was, would “be” again.
And there are three Knights. They are all noble, loving and fair, to all they meet, and to the servant, you will learn of him later. But they are human, bound to both a body of flesh and of rules, neither from which can they escape. And they, and only they, can fight the fight for which they have been conferred the title of Knight.
And there is a Knight to remember.
There is a great King. There is a Prince who loves the King more than He loves His own life. And there is a people, small creatures, not stately in appearance, nor impressive of speech, but fervent in their desire to serve the Prince and meet the Great King face to face.
There is an evil. It is a gray cloudish power that wraps itself around you and chokes the life out of you. It will at once make you tingle with desire to know more of it and shiver in terror. As you read this, you will feel a harsh but soft, hot breath on the back of your neck. The hair on the body of a human is created to sense the blackness and hatred of the one that rules the shadowy region in which he dwells. In this land, a legion of dark and bitterly hateful spirits live and serve. Their weapons are potent. They wield a sword that cannot be seen by human eyes but can be allowed to sink deep into the flesh of the man piercing all the way to the soul and shadowing the light which makes men grow with belief, hope and love.
But, there is another realm ruled by the Great King and loved fervently by His only Son, the Prince. This world is far more real than the one you sit in today. It is more comforting than the bed you sleep in, or the arms of the mother that holds you. Life wriggles and moves and grows spontaneously, instantly and constantly there. There is Water to drink. There are fish that dance, and have danced, the same dance since they were put there. They wave each fin to move and pump air into themselves, yet not without each intricate motion being first ordered by the Great King Himself. There are birds, such beautiful birds. Pure white, soothing blue, and black with yellow throats, red and light grey. So many different shapes that to describe them would only force images into the mind of the reader which would not do them justice. Long legs, short legs, long beaks, short ones, fat ones, thick feathers or no feathers at all. There are creatures of every kind, small and large, weak and powerful. It is a place all at once calm and bustling with busyness. We don’t live in the world I am describing, but it is the world to which some of us belong.
But, in our present world Death lurks and waits to exact its price from every man.
“Death” was not by order of the King yet the King rules over it and ruled over its conception and creation. It is in itself an enemy of the King; an opposite if you will, yet in no way an equal. I suppose it acts as a servant to the King while acting on its own. It can’t do whatever it wants, but whatever it wants it does. It longs to take from the King His voice, because it is that voice that restrains it. Oh and what a voice it is. Low and powerful but smooth as honey and bellowing at the most soothing end of a scale that does not exist, it really just becomes.
In His most righteous anger He need not raise his voice, for if the King was to raise his voice, one millionth of an octave, in anger, the whole of creation from His world to ours would be changed. Not changed in the sense of changing one’s mind, changed in the sense that NOTHING would remain as it was. No substance would be the same substance, no element the same element. No one would be who he or she was. And no one who was, would “be” again.
And there are three Knights. They are all noble, loving and fair, to all they meet, and to the servant, you will learn of him later. But they are human, bound to both a body of flesh and of rules, neither from which can they escape. And they, and only they, can fight the fight for which they have been conferred the title of Knight.
And there is a Knight to remember.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Hell
Is Hell literal? I have been asked this question over and over again by the same guy lately. His eyes are cold but not calloused, more scared. "I want to know" He says. I do too. But I think soon I will.
I believe in punishment. But eternal damnation? It doesn't make any sense. "What's the point?" I think I know, because if there's ever anyone that deserved it, it is me. I deserve it. My heart filled with obvious, visible, palatable iniquity must needs be damned.
What then is this grace that is spoken so highly of? Why am I even breathing? Why am I able to sit and look at this screen and type this ridiculous rambling list of questions?
I do believe in my total depravity. My total, total inability to live up to a standard. Even my own standard. It is not possible.
Jesus, appeal my case! I am so dead, so devastated, so deserving of being crushed in the wine press of Your wrath. Clothe me, or destroy me. I only deserve the one. I can only attain the one. I can only desire the one. You can not be taken hold of, You can only take hold of. You are the Beautiful One.
God, have mercy!
Hell is not about punishment, but about the goodness and greatness and beauty, and perfection and righteousness of God. I am so bland.
READ THIS: http://www.desiringgod.org/resource-library/sermons/the-echo-and-insufficiency-of-hell-part-1
I believe in punishment. But eternal damnation? It doesn't make any sense. "What's the point?" I think I know, because if there's ever anyone that deserved it, it is me. I deserve it. My heart filled with obvious, visible, palatable iniquity must needs be damned.
What then is this grace that is spoken so highly of? Why am I even breathing? Why am I able to sit and look at this screen and type this ridiculous rambling list of questions?
I do believe in my total depravity. My total, total inability to live up to a standard. Even my own standard. It is not possible.
Jesus, appeal my case! I am so dead, so devastated, so deserving of being crushed in the wine press of Your wrath. Clothe me, or destroy me. I only deserve the one. I can only attain the one. I can only desire the one. You can not be taken hold of, You can only take hold of. You are the Beautiful One.
God, have mercy!
Hell is not about punishment, but about the goodness and greatness and beauty, and perfection and righteousness of God. I am so bland.
READ THIS: http://www.desiringgod.org/resource-library/sermons/the-echo-and-insufficiency-of-hell-part-1
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