The Beginning

In the beginning was the Word… He is the Firstborn of all creation He is the Beginning… Christ Jesus, being God, existed at the beginning of all things-He already was. In fact, all things came into existence through Him and for Him and without Him was nothing made that was made. He is very God and very Creator-Truly God and truly Creator. In Him all things consist; all things hold together in Him. But He not only was there, not only created it all but He IS the beginning itself. Without Him, not only would there be no creation, there would be no beginning. In Colossians one, we have an ever-expanding view of our Lord Jesus. There are four pairs of descriptions. The first and the fourth pair are Hebrew poetic parallelisms. He is the image of the invisible God; The firstborn of all creation. He is the beginning; The firstborn from the dead. Creation being a beginning, we are presented with two beginnings: the beginning of things and another beginning which is He Himself. In a sense, without detracting from the glory of creation, it was a false start, or maybe better put, an incomplete start. We rhapsodize the beauty of Eden past and future and rightly so, for it was all that we can imagine and so much more. But that Edenic beauty, lost an restored, is of things, of bodies, and fruit, leaves and earth. We cannot conceive of the beauty that will strike the eye when first exposed to its perfection-perfect harmony between light and color and shape in individual and in corporate view. No matter the scale, subatomic to universe, when seen with the newborn eye of a redeemed soul, we shall be breathless with wonder and awe. All our art is but child’s scribblings, our music but fingernails scraping on a blackboard, our writing henscratchings in the barnyard dirt. But this beauty is not The Beginning. The Beginning did not happen at the beginning. The true Beginning, the beginning which made the first creation real required passing through the deep waters of Jordan, through death itself, by One who was qualified. At the time when all seemed lost, the Creator Himself, the great Originator, Life Himself, stepped into the frame. He, the precise image of the invisible God, the creator of all, became the Beginning. He did not speak this beginning into existence as He had the creation. He became it. He was it; it was Him. He stepped into the death chamber and for a fraction of a moment, was lost to sight. Then the new beginning, the glorious Beginning Himself broke free and became the Beginning of all things as He was the Creator of all things. Now the world could truly begin, truly start down its real path. And, wonder of wonders, in this bloody path, this scarlet weekend, He triumphed far beyond any imagination of the wisest of mankind’s wisdom. In the blood of His cross---listen carefully now-in the blood of His cross, He reconciled man to God. All that alienated mankind from Godkind was swept away; peace was restored, God and sinners reconciled as the old Christmas hymn says so succinctly. Not only things on earth reconciled, but things in heaven as well—all things reconciled. It is yet a shadow of a dream, but lives in future time as if it already is-God and man are reconciled. The war is over, rebellion has burned itself to cinders on the cross. All is at peace, all is at rest. The Sabbath of eternity is but is not yet at the same time. The blood, His blood, has accomplished this great thing. It’s end, the conclusion of the story, the experiencing of the reality is here and now for some; then and there for others, but the reality exists for those to whom it is revealed. We live in Him, we move and have our existence in Him. We are at peace with God, in Him, in the accomplishments of His cross. What words can convey such great glory? What music? What art? Can the thought even be hinted at in the brightest of minds? No, I think not. But though we see as in a smoky mirror, this glory, this delight, it is nonetheless real and approaches with the deliberate speed of Him who knows all things and knows the end from the beginning and has marked it out on His timetable. He knows and I am content to await its revelation and bask in the early dawn light of that glorious day when peace will break through like the dawning of the day and mankind will come home to Godkind, settle into His all-encompassing lap and snuggle close to His great heart-at peace forevermore. ********* Scriptures: John 1:1-5; Colossians 1:13-21 12.27.12

God Dust

There is no such thing as nothing. Nothing “exists” in the same way in which darkness does: it is the absence of something. We who claim the title “creationists” often say that all that is was created “ex nihilo” or “out of nothing.” This makes no sense. If something is made from nothing, then nothing would have substance—a logical conundrum. We would be made up of nothing. Those who contend that we are the result of the “Big Bang” say that we are made of stardust.We consist of an almost incomprehensibel number of interactions and reactions between particles which originated in an extremely ancient “explosion” which itself resulted from an incredibly small bundle of pre-matter. What was outside of this, few attempt to explain; what it expanded into, what it displaced, no one can tell. The primary point of agreement is that we exist, we consist, we have substance. So, then, of what does substance consist? Scripture, especially in the writings of Paul, repeatedly uses the phrase “In Him.” In my favorite text, all things are “of Him.” If we are “of Him” and if we exist “in Him,” then we are of the very substance of God and we exist within Him: “in Him we live, move and exist (The Acts of the Apostles chapter 17 verse 34). We are made of and within Him; we are maintained within Him and return to Him (Pauls’ Letter to the Romans, Chapter 11 verse 36). We are not stardust; we are God dust. Now to be perfectly clear I am not suggesting that, being made of God dust, we worship the dust. We are not God—He does not require us to exist or function. Rather, we exist only because He does. He is the framework upon which we depend; the form which shapes us; the oxygen, water and nutrients on which we subsist. We breathe Him, drink Him, eat Him whether we acknowledge Him or not. There is no outside to God within which He exists. In some mystical way, all that is exists within Him. We are alive, function and have our very being within the universe that is Him—the Universe that is all that is. We are saturated in Him. Between every organ of our body, between and within every cell, every atom, every subatomic particle, there is God—or rather, it is all God dust—every thing that is consists of Him, yet is separate from Him. Ah what grand mystery, what wondrous quandry. How beautiful and how glorious, how mysterious and beautiful is He in Whom we exist! Being of Him, we are stamped with His image, His likeness; our DNA codes His reflection into our body, soul and spirit—We are bone of His bone, flesh of His flesh, spirit of His Spirit, yet not Him. As mirror reflects a clear likeness, so we reflect an inexact but real likeness of Him from whom we are, from Whom we derive action, life and being. God dust—You, me and all that is. 12.26.12

The Cry of the Weakest

Tension hung in the air, suspended, awaiting the gavel signaling the beginning of the life and death struggle. It was a capital murder trial of a young black man, accused of murder. On jury duty for the second time in as many years, I sat near the outside edge of the jury pool, listening as lawyers maneuvered to select the most advantageous jurors for their purposes. My turn came. There was a moment of silence, then half-embarrassed whispers among the attorneys, then a carefully-worded objection to the judge even before any questions were directed toward me. “Mr. Parker, will your er blindness effect your ability to render a fair verdict in the trial before this court?” asked the judge. In my mind’s eye, the statue out front of the courthouse rolled her eyes behind her makeshift blindfold and shook her head slightly in ironic resignation. I stood, hoped I was facing the judge and, leaning on my white cane, addressed the court. “Your honor, as a United States citizen it is my duty, my privilege and my right to serve on the jury in a trial. However, the rights of the accused trump my rights. If there is any chance that my blindness would interfere in a fair hearing for the accused, then his rights supersede mine.” (I think retroactive memory may have colored the phrasing a bit,. It was most likely far less dramatic and formal than my memory presents it to me now.) The judge conferred with the two attorneys and dismissed me with thanks. In this real, but perhaps slightly dramatized retelling of the event, two rights are in conflict: my right to serve on a jury versus the rights of the accused to have a fair hearing. How does a society like ours, built on the rights of individuals, resolve such conflicts? In this example, there are two layers of rights: The first is in the severity of the consequences; the second the relative powerlessness of the two. For the purposes of this essay, I would like to dwell on the second. A young black man in custody for murder in a mostly-white courtroom. Probably in handcuffs and with armed guards in the room, with the accusation staring him in the face, the accused was the one with the least power. Any attempt to escape would be met with instant dire consequences; I was free to leave of my own accord. His rights trumped mine. This relationship of power between two incompatible rights, I will call the Powerless Axis. Election 2012 is a little over two months away. Debate, accusation, lies and innuendo are flying thicker than flies on a cow patty. Abortion has just hit center stage with Todd Aiken’s “legitimate rape” comment. Stripped of all the political hot air, the issue crystalizes into the rights of an unborn fetus versus the rights of a woman over her own body. Many would disagree vehemently with my basic assumption that life is a continuum from conception to death. But since none can agree on a definition of life and since one cell divides into two, two into four until more than a trillion cells make up a living adult human, so the logic, for me, is that any dividing line is an arbitrary one, subject to legal definition but not to a moral definition. Back to my premise: Leaving all other considerations such as rape, incest, mother’s health out of the equation, and judging one versus the other and applying the Powerless principle, it is clear the fetus is the weaker; the more powerless; without any means of self-preservation against an abortion procedure. Our Founding Fathers did not consider women, slaves and non-landowners equal to the landed gentry such as G Washington and T Jefferson. Yet they laid a foundation on which the rights of these groups could be and would later be built. Recognizing their humanity, their individual worth, their value made it possible to eventually make these groups more equal with rich white men than they were in the past. Slaves were freed; women got the vote, land-ownership and other tests of voting were struck down. I believe that one of the reasons these eventually won out is that of a recognition of the relative powerlessness of one group under the domination of another. We are faced with an incredibly complex and divisive issue in abortion. Compounding the problem is its politization: being hijacked by both right and left for their own political power and appeal to various blocks of voters. We need to step back, take a deep breath and begin to assess abortion with at least this axis in mind. We will probably never come to consensus, but perhaps we can begin to speak to one another without the nails-on-blackboard screech that passes for discussion today. Perhaps we can wrestle the issue away from the idiocy of the political process and begin to discuss it in human terms among ourselves. Perhaps, over time, we could even resolve the dilemma in a way that protects the rights of mother and babe with dignity and compassion. May it be so. 08.23.12

As a Little Child

NPR’s “This American Life” for this week, featured stories about celebration of Christmas. These were not heart-warming stories in every case. One such story was of a family whose celebration had, for generations, featured some scenario designed to foster belief in Santa. One such scenario had Santa lost on a golf course, wandering around trying to find their home. Another year, the children found Santa sprawled on the ice in their back yard, exhausted and in tattered non-Santa clothes. They helped him regain his strength with food and rest and sent him on his way. The tradition was so strong and so real that the children’s belief lasted far longer than most children’s. In one case, a son of the family believed well into his teens. He faced a crisis when he forced his mother to tell him the truth. Now in his thirties, he blames his inability to form trusting relationships on what he feels is his parents’ betrayal of his childhood trust. The taproot of trust is buried deeply in the soil of dependence. Think of a child you know; one who is less than five. Without adult provision and guarding, it is unlikely the child will live. From conception into the teens, a child needs an adult for food, clothing, shelter, love, wisdom,. From conception to birth this dependency is extreme; whatever happens to the mother happens to the child. What she eats, drinks breathes is shared. From her all resources are gained. Separated from her, a child requires a great deal of very expensive support to survive. As consciousness and reason dawn, this dependence fosters trust—the ability to predict that what one needs will be provided. Will there be food on the table at breakfast? Will I be cold when I walk to school? Am I safe in my bed at night? Unverbalized, these questions are answered deep within the child’s developing person. The answer she or he arrives at shapes an entire life of relationship. Brennan Manning spent many years telling of Abba-Daddy: God seeing Himself and trying to get us to see Him as a proud loving father; a father who goes to any length, through any sacrifice to provide all necessities to His dependent children. If recognized, if truly realized, we, the recipients of His loving largesse come to trust Him. Our dependency nurtures trust. In theological terms, this is called “faith.” It is a gift, a free gift, growing, as it does, from the soil of provided and recognized needs met. He tells us, “I provide the rain, showered on those who believe and those who don’t.” Rain being the foundation of an agricultural society’s survival, it is a symbol of the provision of all needs, given without discrimination to all mankind, to all His children. Recognized or not, we are bathed in a sea of His beneficence, His gifts. From conception to death and beyond, if truly recognized, all things are a blessed gift of His gracious love. All events, good or ill, arise from His generous and wise heart. Recognizing Him as Daddy, can I see myself as child, as infant, as fetus? Can I lay aside my distorted view of myself as independent adult and sink back into that time when all was provided without measure, without cost, without reciprocity? American culture in particular is so rooted in the concept of self-sufficiency that we have difficulty accepting any thought of dependence. “God helps those who help themselves,” undergirds our culture, our stories, our politics. But, perhaps, our disastrous relationships with one another and with Daddy, are based in just this: that we see ourselves as independent, autonomous beings-separate and self-sufficient in all things. We try to make Him happy with us by doing, by rule-following. We want to provide for ourselves and our family by the sweat of our brow. Trust and dependence; two sides of the same coin, one growing out of the other and in turn fostering a recognition of the first; an unending Moebius ring of relationship; the cure of all my rebellion; the source of all my joy. 12-24-12

Living by the Sword

Note: In response to the recent slayings In New Town, Connecticut and the subsequent announcement by the National rifle Association, I am posting this story, written in 1997 even before the Columbine massacre. If the NRA has its way, school guards will be armed in order to defend students against violence. Children, living in fear and exposed to violence as the solution to fear, will certainly not grow up to be balanced citizens and healthy adults. Children in war-torn countries have a portion of their psyche, their hearts torn out and trampled upon. We cannot, we must not, teach them, by word or example, that the way to peace and safety is through an escalation of violence or even threat of violence. We who lived through the Cold War should be the strongest proponents of peace through giving and loving rather than through grasping and ever-increasing levels of threat of violence and retaliation. 12-22-12 Seconds ticked. Time elongated, prolonged, stretched until the pause between each jump of the red second hand seemed an infinity. It paused at 25, then, eventually, ticked to 26, 27, 28. They watched, all of them. Tension filled the room, a tension nearly audible in its intensity. 33, 34, 35. The hour and minute hands so closely aligned at the vertical that human eye could not distinguish one from the other. 46…47…48… He stood closest to the clock, watching it with the concentration of one who has everything to gain and everything to lose. Convergence. Convergence of the hands of the clock, convergence of the seconds, minutes, hours and days of his life. All concentrated at this moment of time, this sliver of his life, this watershed. Nothing could stop the flow of events, now. Success or failure, indeed, life or death hinged on the few seconds remaining. 4…3….1… As if conducted by an unseen hand, all eyes turned to the window overlooking the city. A small rustle of adjusting position fluttered through the assembly, then, in the final half tick before the convergence of all three hands, silence. An almost-palpable shock ran through the assembly, at the infinitesimal jumped to one second past noon. Disappointment surged. Then, a puff of smoke, far across the cityscape, then a sudden burst toward the sky, resolving into a column a hundred feet high. Silent, at this distance and time, yet a cry of triumph shook the room, followed, a second later, by the dull reverberation that rattled the windows and sent confirming shock waves through the group. Their shout died. A solemn awareness settled. It had begun. He was dead. His death signaled a new life, a new pulse through the arteries of their country. His death cleared the way, opened the path for new leadership, changes, liberation. Liberty, at last. Freedom, at last. Time flowed, gaining, now, the speed of a swift stream. Quiet knots of discussion filled the room. Handshakes, backslaps, tears. Their time, now, they, the people, finally, in control. And he, in the center, their new leader. All eyes turned to him, expectant, waiting. Waiting for the first solemn victorious words from this planner, this architect this new messiah of their freedom. Later, much later, after the hubbub, the delirious celebration, the words of victory, the words of war, he was alone. Jubilation and fear, now, filled him. And a nagging worry. A worry kept in the background, suppressed in the excitement, the released tension of the day. Where was she? She hadn't been in the waiting group or the celebrative throng. He knocked on her door, once more, thinking she might have slipped in quietly, hiding her entrance from him at this late hour. Where could she be? This one gem of his personal life, this one survivor of his dead wife, this one seed of his own future. The streets grew silent, even the crowds of drunken revelers clearing the streets at last, tired of their own joyous rejoicing. Dew dripped from condensing surfaces, the occasional bark of a dog's disturbed dream, the passing of a distant car on some night errand the only sounds to break the night still. Outside the dark sky, speckled with the spangles of bright stars began to pale in the predawn preparation for a new day. A car's headlights turned into the street, its red taillight visible for a brief second as its perspective changed. He watched it slow then stop in front of his door. Police. How could they know? Was he still alive, in spite of the radio announcements? Could someone else have filled the power-vacuum so soon? Could they have traced him so swiftly? But, wouldn't they have sent many? Would they entrust such an important errand as his arrest to a single officer? He watched the polished boots, the hated symbol of the oppressor emerge first, followed by the head, above the door frame, uncovered by the second symbol. Then a tall thin body emerged, glancing at the door, confirming an address. He reached into the interior, retrieved the hat, put it on his head, adjusting it to just that angle that conveyed power and authority. Closing the door with quiet force, he turned to the house and rang the bell. Hurrying down the stairs, dread and fear filling him, he opened the door to face the officer. They stared into each other's eyes for a moment. He could not see threat there, could not see reason for flight or fight. A certain sadness, perhaps, but not reason for alarm. "You heard, sir, of the bomb, today, no doubt?" his words seemed an anachronism, an irony. "Yes." Cautious. "Well, sir," his voice faltered, seemed to break. He shuffled his feet, sliding his eyes from direct contact. "Well, sir," he repeated, clearing his throat. "I'm afraid." He did not finish his sentence, but thrust a purse into the gulf between them. It was battered, torn, scorched. “I'm afraid, sir, that someone from this house…." He did not hear the rest, did not want to hear the rest, could not hear the rest. His mind reeled in an agony of denial, of anger, of bitter recriminations. He opened the purse and dumped its contents to the concrete. But there, in the midst of the trappings of a young woman's life, the bracelet he had given her, the bracelet she wore as a symbol of her loyalty to him, her tie to him, her love for him. 1997

New Town, Connecticut

I have frequent encounters. These are not ordinary encounters with family or friends, nor are they encounters created by sci-fi movie producers with strange or cute aliens. But they are very real, nonetheless. My encounters are with trees, telephone poles, parking meters, half-open doors, wall corners, and other hard objects. And these meetings are, inevitably, painful to me. One of my least favorite close encounters is with an open dishwasher door. At shin height, it is a painful reminder to stay on task. Another frequent encounter is a telephone pole planted nearly in the center of a curving sidewalk. It is my nemesis. The curve is slight and deceptive, making me feel secure in my distances and trajectories. But, somehow, this telephone pole has a way of sliding slyly into the small space not covered by my cane’s arc. I really don’t know how it does it. But barked knuckles, and several bruised shoulders, are testimony to its skill and my lack of the same. This isn’t about clever, inanimate objects (though, sometimes, their cleverness does test my belief in animism a bit). It is about the results of these encounters. For example, over my right eye, neatly and precisely spaced as if a surgeon placed them, are a series of four scars from a certain bookcase corner. My shins have a nice set of scars and healing scabs from my forgetfulness around dishwashing time. At any time, I have one or more sore spots from a close encounter with some solid object. I’ve never been seriously wounded, just small cuts, abrasions, or bruises; things that sting when in the shower or make me wince when I bump the same place a second time. This makes me think of Columbine. I lived, until first grade, in Denver, and now live no more than two hours from Springfield. These two names, with a handful of others, have taken their places in our consciousness as places of unbelievable terror and horror, of heart-wrenching sadness and tragedy. Listening to the experts telling us what is wrong with our society, how we can identify potential perpetrators of such angry acts, whose fault and where the blame should be placed, activates my cynical side. I fear there is little or no chance of stopping this, no way to identify, to treat, to resolve the issues of these young people. There is something beyond society’s corporate coping working here. I think of the murdered ones and of the ones who wielded the weapons of hate and vengeance. And my heart weeps for both. How intense must the anger and hatred boiling within be to make killing seem an appropriate response to humiliation, neglect, or bullying? But, a part of me understands. No one feels good when belittled or humiliated because of membership status. Some are so fragile they feel the smallest pinprick of slight. Knowing this, hurting them, do I not share, to some small degree, in their pain and ultimate action? Their bruises may be as invisible as the scars and scabs of my pants-covered shins, but just as real. Their emotional bruises are painful to the slightest touch. Repeated wounds bleed with little provocation and fester deeply without a healing touch. Those who do these horrendous things are responsible for their own actions. But, do I not contribute to their anger and hatred when I hurt them. Since I can’t tell who the wounded are, I want to live life so as not to break a bruised reed or quench a smoldering flax -- to live in a way that will heal not hurt, soothe, not scar, bring peace, not pressure. It may be an impossible task, but it does start with me. Perhaps if each of us lived this way, we could prevent one school ground massacre. We could keep another town from being shredded and turned into a media circus, reclaim one more damaged life, remove one more child from the death list. And, perhaps, one road to this utopia is a generous heart. In this “I” generation, descended from the “me” generation, where success is measured in getting, where paranoia and anxiety are whipped to fever pitch by television; where all things are measured in terms of their impact on my well being, my benefit, my pleasure—perhaps giving is one facet of the gem of love that would begin the healing of our society. IN gifting, both giftee and gifter are blessed. One heart is warmed knowing the joy of giving; the other by the thought of another’s care and love. How can hatred anger and murder dwell in a land full of loving giving and with a void of greed? Perhaps, together, we could silence the evening news due to lack of content. Note-This is a revision of an essay originally written in 1999, shortly after the Columbine massacre. It seems especially Germaine following last week’s horrific events both here in Oregon and in Connecticut. It is taken from a forthcoming book of essays reflections on vision and blindness written between 1995 and 2000. These essays were my therapy following loss of vision in 1995.

Heaven's Hell

Terror and exhaustion distort his face. He runs, sweat stains his shirt and slicks his face. He gasped for air. A hard flat crack goads him into even greater effort. He dodges into an intersecting street, The bag of stolen cash now a supreme luxury. His heart stops: a brick wall terminates the street. With his final reserves of energy, he scrabbles up the vertical face. Fingers grasping desperately at tiny cracks, he pulled himself to the top. One hard blow, then another, slammed his body against the wall. His Fingers relaxed, lose their grip and he slides to the ground, a limp pile of death. Blinding light suddenly surrounds him. He wakes to a beautiful room. He is astonished to see Ornate gold fixtures, marble floors and a fireplace burning a cheerful blaze. His eyes widen, taking in elegant furniture, a table laden with all manner of gourmet items and, perhaps best of all, three beautiful women. “How may we serve you?” one question. For the next year every whim was catered to. He reveled in the luxury, the pleasure of it all. One day, one of his attendants said, “You seem a bit out of sorts today.” “Yes, a bit. Not sure why.” His voice trailed off. Then, after a long pause, “I’ve got it! I’m bored.” “Oh, what would you like to do then to liven your day?” she asked. “Well, let’s see…” he paused, thinking. “”Actually, you know, I kind of miss the excitement of robbing banks. There was such an adrenalin rush from the fear, you know?” “We can arrange that,” she said.“ Later that day, she entered with mask, gun and black clothing. She handed them to him then introduced him to a man who had followed her into the room. “This is Reginald,” she announced. “He is a bank robber too. I’ll leave the two of you to plan the caper.” The two men shook hands and settled at the dining room table working out details and logistics. The next day, the two burst into the house, shouting in triumph and throwing wads of cash into the air. “Let’s do it again soon!” He cries. “We can arrange that,” she says. They are even more successful this time, netting twice the cash. The pattern repeats. ““how can we be so successful,” he asks his beautiful attendants one day. “We’ve never even been chased by a bank guard, much less been shot at.” “Why, you’ll always be successful,” she counters. “What do you mean?” “You can’t fail.” “You mean, I can never be caught, never shot, never captured and sent to jail?” “Yes, that is true, though I suppose we could arrange to have you chased and shot at if you wish.” ”Well this is a hell of a place,” he barks. “Where did you think you are?” she questions. So ends one of the episodes of “The Twilight Zone.” Hell, for our hero, is discovering that he cannot fail, therefore the adrenalin rush of danger will fade and finally disappear. Life, for him, is ultimately an eternity of boredom. As a child, riding the back of a lion was, for me, the ultimate thrill. But as time passed, this faded into juvenile irrelevance. Later, exploring the universe and having all my curiosities, “how?” “Why?” and “When?” questions answered seemed a worthy pursuit for eternity. Still later, the mystery of salvation became my goal. But even delving into the sacred mysteries seemed incapable of occupying me forever; Heaven itself transformed into hell. What, then, I asked myself, would hold my attention, give me satisfaction for eternity? Solomon, in his depression-of-old-age book, Ecclesiastes attempts to answer this way: “The conclusion, when all has been heard, is: fear God and keep His commandments…” (The Preacher, Chapter 12, verse 13) Now cowering in fear and obeying rules is not even close to my idea of fun, so what is the answer? Solomon’s shorthand “fear and obey” really allude to relationship. Today we might say, “Sit down and have a cup of coffee with the Lord.” If he didn’t mean this, then there is no point to the whole of his book: Everything, include the Lord, is vain and has no meaning. But I think he knew, after much experimentation, that the only thing that matters is knowing and being known. The only thing that endures is you and me and Him in endless joyful communion—an eternal conversation of knowing and being known, of an ever-deepening relationship with the Beloved and our beloveds. The core human desire is for love, according to Abraham Maslow. We spend our lives, our fortunes, our energies in pursuit of those things we think will bring satisfaction. Love is the only real satisfaction. And that is what makes heaven heaven and an inferior heaven and this earth hell. 12.10.12 ee

Daddy's Child

If we could truly know God as Father, as daddy, we would experience the relief that He views even our most heinous of sins as a daddy does: the breaking of a saucer while helping mommy wash dishes; hiding after breaking daddy’s favorite coffee mug; crayon drawing on the wall; missing the nail and marring the finish on a kitchen cabinet while trying to fix it for mommy; a temper tantrum in response to parental edict; mischief on a lazy summer’s afternoon; a spate with a childhood best friend; tracing an ant’s path instead of attending a duty; scribbles of a preschooler writing a letter to Daddy; nightmare terror in the dark, the panic of a three-year-old when separated from Mommy in a crowded store; breaking brother’s toy in revenge for his tattling; grabbing the biggest cookie. All the evil of the world is in the heart of a child. What presidents and rulers do to their enemies; what the rapist, the serial killer does; what the greedy capitalist does in stealing the widow’s home and pension; what we are in grown-up life is written in miniature in the mind of the child. All that we are lies small in the tiny self of the three-year-old child. We are what we were then becoming; we were then what we now are. In infinite parenthood, He daddys us all. No matter our tantrum, our childish terror, our forgetful repetition of the same old mistake, with infinite love, tenderness and patience, He loves us back to himself. No matter how often we carelessly smash His heart, His loving arms still enfold; His hands still wipe the tears; His lips soothe with a father’s kiss. What all the best fathers are in finite, He is in perfection: our Daddy. 12.9.12

Portuguese Man o' War

Portuguese Man o’ War Like the Portuguese Man of War, I have no tail to propel me; no fins to stabilize me. I am adrift, at the mercy of wind, wave and current to carry me to food or to a sandy death on the seashore. There is little of true substance to me; I could be called "jelly." I must wait for food to, from the Hand of the great Giver, though from my self-centric position, I like to think I earned it. I have a sail on which the wind can act, grappling hooks to hold onto what is given; flotation to keep me from sinking, but none of these are under my control-they are how I was made, not how I made myself. The Wind is the Spirit blowing on the sail of my heart, guiding and directing at His will. The current is the Spirit, holding me up, guiding and directing me in His wisdom. Food is He who is the Bread of Life with Whom He brings me into contact The sandy shore is that place and time where and when He brings me to ground-to rest. I, the surrendered, live in His direction; in His bounty and in His time and timing. 6 21 09 See Wikipedia.org for article on the Portuguese man o’ war

Body Image

Who has believed our message? And to whom has the arm of the LORD been revealed? 2 For He grew up before Him like a tender shoot, And like a root out of parched ground; He has no stately form or majesty That we should look upon Him, Nor appearance that we should be attracted to Him. 3 He was despised and forsaken of men, A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief; And like one from whom men hide their face He was despised, and we did not esteem Him. Isaiah 53 A beautiful woman, an idol of her time, the perfect image of the time and place's most cherished ideal of woman, was asked: "What would you change about yourself?" Instantly, she replied, "My nose." "Why?" asked the questioner. "It's too long." she said as if it were perfectly obvious. It wasn't as far as millions of people were concerned, but for her, this tiny unnoticed imperfection ruled her sense of self. Jesus is usually portrayed as the perfect image of a man for the time and culture of the artist, but one artist depicted Him as a hunchback, scandalous to most of us. But notice what Isaiah says: "despised and rejected." This is before the section of that most glorious and horrific of chapters in which He bears our sins and carries our sorrows. Is it possible that He was deformed in some way? Probably not. Yet, He had nothing of physical attribute to attract either. Then, finally, He became sin for us. Isaiah, in the verses preceding the chapter on the Suffering Servant: His appearance was marred more than any man And His form more than the sons of men. (52:14) For those of us who have some physical imperfection, it is common to have people stare at the oddity. I think of the "elephant man" whose face was so disfigured that women fainted and children ran away screaming. He became a wonderful Christian and his story is a testimony to transforming grace. But back to Jesus. If for some reason He was not that perfect specimen; if nothing else but that He was ordinary looking with no physical defects, this is a tremendous lift to me. Not only did He take my sins, wondrous as that is, but He also lived in my shoes. He felt the sting of the local bully's teasing; he felt the critical stares of other mothers as they compared Him to their perfections; He knew the agony of the rejection of oddity. He walked in my shoes. The rejection which is part of my life is borne by Him who experienced the same. I take comfort in the fact that He knows the bite of rejection, the feel of scorn, the lash of rejection. And I, knowing the same, can know His sorrows and sense His pain. We share in one another's sufferings. What a wonder! My pain resolves into a shared joy of comrades in misery, but that company buoys each the other.   6 3 09

Signed in Blood

The Bible is written in blood; signed in blood--the blood of Jesus Christ. Every word, every character, every dot on every I is written in His blood. Without it, the words would have no meaning. No message of deliverance would be in its pages. It would be a dead book of history of an ancient civilization, not the actions of a God who invaded this world in a way that changed everything. 04.17.03

Irresistible Force vs Immovable Object 2: An Example

After posting the last blog, Irresistible Force vs Immovable Object, I thought it wise to give a scriptural example. Exhibit A is Paul aka Saul. As you probably remember, Paul was born “Saul” to Jewish parents in Tarsus, a city in modern Turkey, just north of the curve of the Mediterranean as it turns southward toward Egypt. No doubt his parents were strict Jews, as he was sent to Jerusalem to study under a world famous rabbi, named Gamaliel. A child prodigy, he was fast becoming the prize student, progressing, as he said, “beyond his peers.” As most of the rabbinical students could quote most or all of the Hebrew scriptures from memory, his excelling must have meant an exceptional talent for memory, debate and must have had a reputation for an exemplary life. He would have had to keep all 616 rabbinic laws relating to the dozens of Mosaic laws; Paul knew how to obey. Saul’s training was occurring just at the time of the beginning of the Christian era. He must have witnessed or at least heard of Jesus, Jon, peter and James. He had to have known something of the claims of Jesus’ miracles and the day of Pentecost. Somehow, with his nose in the book, he was not swayed. Rather, in fact, he became even more zealous for his traditions. It started with the death of the first Christian martyr, Stephen. Saul watched over the coats of those slinging stones at Stephen. One can imagine a young man, unwilling to get his hands dirty—he was too much of a scholar, too much of a Pharisee to dirty his hands, literally or figuratively. As an aside, Saul was named for King Saul, first king of Israel, the people-selected king. This king came to no good end, but somehow, his tarnished reputation was overcome and Jewish boys were named for him, perhaps as a nostalgic glance over the shoulder at Israel’s glory days. Now Saul means “ditch, hole in the ground or grave. Not sure I’d like to be named “grave.” It doesn’t seem conducive for a stable life among one’s peers. So, a young man who was an extraordinary scholar, one who kept the law, whose name meant death, became a murderer by proxy. He was so zealous for his religion that he brought to Jewish justice those of “the Way” as Christians were known in his day. Having cleared Jerusalem, he sought and received permission to go to Damascus to begin the process of cleaning up the rats nest which had fled from Jerusalem into this ancient Syrian city. Later, he was to say, he was proceeding “breathing out wrath” and One can imagine this holy man, striding along the dusty road, using every word he can think of short of blasphemy, to describe what he is going to do to those unsuspecting refugees. His traveling companions must have kept their distance from him; few enjoy the company of a fanatic in full battle mode. Suddenly Saul is hurled to the ground-not by force, note, but by a blinding light. In the light, Saul sees one whom he has not met but knows. Now many a blasphemer has challenged God to strike them dead as proof that there is no God. One such, challenged God and was struck dumb, not by God, but by the comment of a passerby: “If your son asked you to do such, would you?” So, here is Saul, on his way to destroy fleeing remnants of the infant church. Instead of striking him dead, the Heavenly Vision calls his name: “Saul, Saul” “Death, Death.” Then makes a gentle comment: “It is hard to kick against the ox goad, isn’t it, Saul?” Nothing more; no condemnation, no coercion; just a simple statement indicating just how well the Interrogator knew him. Now Saul is undone: “What will You have me do?” he asks. Now it is not Saul, but the Heavenly Vision who is guiding and directing him. He is overwhelmed by the love in the face of Him Whom he has been persecuting. His life ends and he is reborn in an instant. The one who will later say “I was the worst of sinners,” is turned inside out and upside down. All else fades to nothingness in the face of the glory of Jesus Christ. A number of years later, Saul will change his name to Paul. It happens between verses during his first missionary journey. From that time on, he was known as “Paul” which means “Little.” From deadly Saul to little Paul. Now, in his own eyes, he is small-measuring his stature, his worth, against the infinite, not the finite rule-bound religion of his youth. Such, I believe, will be the experience of those, who in this era, this lifetime, do not have the chance because of circumstance of birth, of training, of location, of family to truly know the One who died for them. There are far more in this class than in the tiny group which makes up even the combined Catholic and Protestant world. How fair is it, how just, to permit billions upon billions to roast in hell or die forever, who never knew anything about the Lord Jesus? How fair that a child raised in physical or sexual abuse who grows to abuse the next generation should be so condemned? If this condemnation be true, I would challenge God to His face to demonstrate how One who claims to be love can be just, fair and loving. We would not so treat a fellow human, how can the Infinite, all-knowing, all loving One do so and make such claims? He cannot; He does not. Love will find a way. He must, He will or risk a just condemnation of His own. 11.26.12

Irresistible Force vs Immovable Object-1

One warm spring morning, at the time of year when men’s hearts turn to thoughts of love, Frank is strolling along Main Street with his buddies on their way to the soda fountain. They have two objectives: get a root beer float and eye the pretty girls. As young men are wont to do, they are talking much too loudly, pushing and shoving each other and generally making themselves appear young and foolish. I know because, aged though I be, I haven’t forgotten every juvenile thing I did. Frank and his gang approach the door to the drug store (where soda fountains used to be in the Good Old Days). From the opposite direction, a gaggle of girls approaches. Being Young Women, they are much less boisterous; they whisper among themselves and giggle behind their hands when they see the boys. Our hero casts an appraising eye over the selection of young beauties. Lightning flashes, thunder roars and he stops dead in his tracks. His buddies move on ahead of him and he doesn’t notice. He is suddenly and completely in love; he sees Olivia. Now Olivia need not be the most beautiful among the maidens; she need not be the most outgoing. For the sake of our story, Frank, in that age-old mystery of first-sight love, need only see her to be smitten. The two groups enter the drug store and begin the embarrassing tactical ritual of, “Who sits where?” Frank, being the expert cowboy he is (Did I mention he is a cowboy?), cut Olivia from the herd and wrangled a seat next to her at the counter. Now the Herculean task begins: how does he get her attention and win her favor? As all heroes must, he is tongue-tied and red-faced. But love conquers and he manages to stammer a squeaky “Hi.” Of course, being the female of the species, she ignores him and turns to her left to make a comment to her friend. Frank is crushed, but undefeated. We shall draw a veil over the rest of the scene as it is too painful to contemplate. Needless to say, Frank withdraws, having leaving his root beer totally untasted. The next weekend, after gathering his courage, he loiters around the drug store, hoping she will reappear. When he hears the sound of girlish laughter, he straightens and turns to watch. When they are within earshot, he steps in front of the group, forcing them to stop. He fixes Olivia with a stare that could bend a steel bar at fifty paces and says, “Will you go to the dance with me tonight?” From the look on her face, he cannot tell if she is undecided, horrified, or amused. She smiles and his heart leaps with joy. “No,” she says, and gathering her skirts around her, leads her pack into the cool interior. Frank is devastated. But Frank is also determined. He asks about her everywhere. His peers are confused by this sudden change in Frank; adults are amused and reminded of their own youth. He shows up at odd times and places: church socials, the sidewalk in front of her house, at the door of the millinery shop. At first she ignores him. Then she turns away when she sees him. Finally she becomes rude and says, “Go away.” Frank, being Frank, persists. She becomes angry. One hundred years later, she would call her attorney and file a harassment suit against him for stalking. The point of this story not being the story, I shall let you finish it at your leisure to your own satisfaction and get on with my point. The Ancient philosophers must have had too much time on their hands. They argued about such trivialities as “How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?” and “What happens when the Irresistible Force meets the Immovable Object.” Somehow they convinced someone to pay them to think and argue such deep thoughts. So, OK now that I am retired, I can sit around and do the same-which makes me about as useful as a philosopher. Waking early this morning, I began ruminating over the Object/Force question. At first, it seems that there are three possible outcomes: win, lose, draw. If Irresistible Force (from now on “Force”) meets the Irresistible Object (Object), if Force pushes Object out of place, Force wins and Object loses; Object is not immovable after all. If Object cannot be budged, Force is not irresistible after all. In losing, one or the other is proven not to be what it claimed. It appears that the only true result must always be a tie. But, on closer examination, this cannot be true. If Force does not overcome Object, the result is not a tie, but a loss for Force and it is proven to be an imposter to its eternal shame. So we are right back where we started from. Or are we; is this the only possible way Force and Object can resolve their impasse? Is Frank and Olivia’s social dilemma only resolved by obstinately resisting or continuous assault? The basic assumption of the problem is presented as if Object has in its core nature to be obstinate and Force must, by nature, exert itself against any object, including one which it cannot overcome. Must both parties act in accordance with their nature? Force forcing and Object resisting? What if Object decided to cooperate with Force? What if Force decided not to act against Object? What if they went merrily along their way holding hands forever instead of battling it out over which is superior? What if the two of them sat down and parlayed a treaty in which, each recognizing the benefits of an alliance, agreed to work cooperatively? After all, with Irresistible Force and Immovable Object as players in this cosmic Superhero story, what other actor would have a chance? Could not Force stop its forceful nature behavior and present logic or it could attempt to woo with thoughtful gestures and heartfelt pledges of love and devotion. Circumstances might change; Force could be called away to deal with a crisis in its own domain and forget all about Object or the rest of the universe could be swept away in a devastating black hole. Force and Object, left to themselves, might find some common ground in which neither sought to win but to cooperate. How does this apply to real life? Good question; glad you asked. On the human scale—person to person, group to group, nation to nation-much of our interaction is in terms of power, of force. For example, what might have happened had the victorious allies not imposed, by force of arms, a punitive armistice on World War I’s loser, Germany? Would Hitler have had a fertile soil in which to grow, mature and fruit into a destructive force? Without Hitler’s aggression, would the empire of the Tsars defeated the Communist rebels? Would the Soviet Union have come into existence? Would there have been a “Cold War” an arms race, a Korea, a Vietnam? Could the billions of dollars and the hundreds of thousands of lives expended been put to better use? Who knows? As these are moot questions, without answers, since history is a one-way, one-choice street. But it could’ve been so. In an even more macro view, in the tension between God and man, how does the Object/Force drama play itself out? Two views of God prevail in the Christian world today: Calvinism and Armenianism. Those who champion Calvin argue that God’s will cannot be overcome; those who are saved are saved in spite of themselves; those who are lost are likewise doomed to their predestined fate. Tipping their hat to Arminius, those who are in opposition to Calvin vehemently take the position that it is man’s free will which is in charge-It is man who accepts or rejects God’s freely offered grace. Both parties can quote miles of scriptures to buttress their position. As in many such theological controversies, both are partly right and partly wrong. It’s not an either/or but a both/and. Let me put it in the terms of Immovable Object/Irresistible Force. If God is the Irresistible Force and mankind the Immovable Object, then we are confronted with exactly the same dilemma: who wins? As in the Object/Force debate, mankind need only resist and God loses-He is no longer an irresistible force. If He slinks away into Himself, leaving us to our own devices, He has lost by default. But is it such a contest? Are these the only options open to the two sides? Here is an outline of our choices: 1. Accept 2. Reject Here are God’s choices: 1. Force; 2. Abandon; 3. Trick 4. Woo In this power equation, mankind holds all the cards. As in the relationship between the genders, the power is in the one who can say “No.” (I know there are exceptions, but I’m talking about a real relationship, not rape.). In the range of God’s choices, I reject trickery and abandonment out of hand as both are not of His nature. We are left with the choices of force and wooing-both of which have scriptural support: God forces; man rejects; God forces: man yields God woos: man rejects God woos: man yields Of the four, only the last can result in a harmonious long-lasting relationship. I would contend that God’s will is that all would be saved and enter into an eternal loving relationship with Him. I would also argue that mankind, fully understanding God’s will perfectly displayed in His love, will ultimately freely and joyously yield-thereby reconciling Irresistible Force and Immovable Object. Though He could coerce, He does not. Rather, He exposes Himself to us, drawing us to what He is. He is confident that, knowing Him, we will be drawn into His embrace-finally and fully children of the heavenly Father. Like the prodigal son, drawn homeward for survival, but staying because of the party, all will finally see Him as He is: pure love. It is a yielding, not of subjection and defeat, but of awe and wonder at what and who He is and an incredulous shaking of the head at our own resistance. 11.15.12

Making molehills out of Mountains

In the cartoon, an army of woodsmen furiously wield their axes, wood chips flying left and right, scattering the pieces that mean the death of a giant. They dance and celebrate as it begins its final fall. Loaded onto a train, transported to the mill, it enters one end of the long building. The wine and burr of saws and great blasts of steam and smoke reveal the energy expended in processing the behemoth. Finally, a baby carriage exits. Someone bends tenderly, peeling back the coverlet to show the face of a brand new baby—toothpick. It wails its entry into the world-the product of hundreds of years of growth and great gouts of energy. Created in the 1930s, when the forests of the Northwest seemed endless, the trees large enough to build a house in and man’s ingenuity seeming to stretch into the future forever. It was an allegory worth tending. I was probably eight when I saw it, having snuck away to my friend’s house-the one who owned a TV. A couple of years before my father’s death, I told him about the cartoon. He remembered it from his own childhood in which it was shown between movies in his local theater. I don’t know why the simple images of that cartoon stuck in both our minds, but it meshed recently in my mind, with something which, I believe, is one of the viruses weakening the body of Christ, His universal, across-all-boundaries church, His Ecclesia, His betrothed Bride-to be. Let me explain. For most of my life, I belonged to a denomination who held 27 doctrines to be the essence of Christian life and which were sacred to them as the portal of everlasting life. In the last couple of years, they have added a 28th—not quite sure how they missed it when they were formulating the original 27… A person convinced of the “Truth” would confirm their belief in all 27 (28) doctrines read with great solemnity by the pastor and then would undergo water immersion in a tank of water in the front of the congregation. This signified joining “The Remnant” church-the last gasp of humankind to be ready for Christ’s Second Coming. Whatever communion you hail from has some similar list of doctrines in whose belief or rejection, opens or closes the doors of admission and to salvation itself. Now, just how does one go about making a molehill out of a mountain? The aphorism from which I have inverted the title for this essayist, “making a mountain out of a molehill “putting into a pithy saying, someone’s actions or thinking which attaches to a small event or task a much larger significance. The reverse, as in the cartoon, takes great energy, many person-hours of study, and reflection; many days spent in selecting just the right text to create a chain of logical proofs to pare down the glories of god’s grace into a few rules of belief. For example, the Seventh-day Sabbath is one “testing” belief for my former denomination. Here’s how they put it on their web site (www.adventist.org): The seventh day (Saturday) is an extra-special part of the relationship. The Bible, from Genesis through Revelation, describes the seventh day as the one day God has set aside for focused fellowship with His people. God has named that day "Sabbath" and asked us to spend it with Him. "Remember the sabbath day," He says, "to keep it holy." The Sabbath is a whole day to deepen our friendship with the Creator of the universe! A day when we're together, Jesus with us and us with Jesus. As an aside, when reading this web page, I found that the doctrines have been completely rewritten into language that is very friendly and inviting. No more barebones statements of legal fact, but an inviting language of family, friendship and love. They have also not mentioned a few doctrines which are a bit less easily put into a family-friendly format, such as leaving pork, shellfish and buzzards off the dining room table. Another is the insistence that Ellen White be recognized as a recent-history inspired-of-God prophetess whose writing interpret correctly the Holy Scriptures. Interesting. Anyway, back to mountains and molehills. The concept of spending time establishing a relationship with God is condensed into a “day of worship” required by God as an entrance test into the denomination and into His Kingdom. The wonder and awe of coming to know Him, is compressed into a day. He who invites our worship in spirit and in truth is sandwiched between sundown Friday and sundown Saturday-He Who contains the universe within Himself, He Who died to break the chains of The LAW, portrayed (winsomely, no doubt) as a Being who demands 1/7th of our time as a special day. How the mountain of He Who is all, is pared down to one day, a bit more or less than 24 hours, depending on the season of the year. I illustrate at the expense of this particular denomination. But the truth is that all denominations, even most of the liberal, have some litmus test of fellowship and therefore entrance into the kingdom of God itself. We make a list of rules and point to the small pile of dust: “Here is the mountain that contains God. Worship here.” We settle for such small bits of Him, when a vast mountain range, a continent, an ocean, a universe cannot contain Him or all that He is. Blow away the pile of dust with a flick of the cleansing broom and turn to Him Whose vastness cannot, comprehended and in Whose vast heart we always have and always will find our peace, the true Truth who woos and wins and draws us to Himself. Less, less of that which I can write into rules, creeds, statements of belief; More more and still more of You Yourself, seen, experienced, touched and tasted in my spirit. Note: Here is the “official” doctrine (Number 20 in the list of 28(as voted by the denomination in session.: 20. Sabbath: The beneficent Creator, after the six days of Creation, rested on the seventh day and instituted the Sabbath for all people as a memorial of Creation. The fourth commandment of God's unchangeable law requires the observance of this seventh-day Sabbath as the day of rest, worship, and ministry in harmony with the teaching and practice of Jesus, the Lord of the Sabbath. The Sabbath is a day of delightful communion with God and one another. It is a symbol of our redemption in Christ, a sign of our sanctification, a token of our allegiance, and a foretaste of our eternal future in God's kingdom. The Sabbath is God's perpetual sign of His eternal covenant between Him and His people. Joyful observance of this holy time from evening to evening, sunset to sunset, is a celebration of God's creative and redemptive acts. (Gen. 2:1-3; Ex. 20:8-11; Luke 4:16; Isa. 56:5, 6; 58:13, 14; Matt. 12:1-12; Ex. 31:13-17; Eze. 20:12, 20; Deut. 5:12-15; Heb. 4:1-11; Lev. 23:32; Mark 1:32.) 11.24.12

Outliers

Prior to the 1970s, as scientists did their calculations, a normal statistic would often show plots of results close to a line. In other words, things were as they assumed they would be. But in almost every calculation, some of the points were scattered outside of the predicted pattern. These were puzzles to the scientists and were dismissed by them as anomalies, outliers. Some artifact in the data, some error of computation caused them and they were dismissed. Then someone started looking at these data points and a whole new science was born-the science of chaos. Chaos is really a misnomer. It should really be called the science of macro organization because it deals with very large systems such as the universe, hurricanes, weather, solar systems. Taking a hurricane as an example, the points on the scientist’s graph which lie along the “correct” line are like standing within the hurricane. We feel the wind, can measure it, show its direction and speed. Chaos is seeing the hurricane from a satellite and being able to describe it shape and components, photograph the whole and begin to understand the dynamics of it. When the Spanish were marauding the New World for gold and slaves, they could only exist in the local: the season of the hurricanes, trying to survive if caught in one. But now our vision and our math can begin to view the hurricane as a whole system. Now predictions can be made, paths tracked and warnings given based on this science. Christianity as lived in its myriad denominations, is like the scientist’s graph. Most belief systems fall within a fairly close pattern. There is a basic “orthodoxy” revealed in the creeds and doctrinal sets each deploys as an attempt to describe God and man and their relationship to one another. It is a bit like standing out in the hurricane: some things are clear, but most is noise and disorganization and frankly destruction. Perhaps the great gift to someone by the great Giver will be that of a macro lens through which to view Him and His actions, His attitudes and expectations. As an “outlier,” I would that we might all be able to view the entirety, not just the line. Perhaps this would destroy some of the animosity, some of the dividing walls that make it impossible to talk to one another. May we each one look through that lens which sees beyond the border of our confining boundaries and join with fellow believers in celebrating the hurricane which is His love for us displayed in Jesus Christ our Lord. 10.23.12

Life and Death and Life

Farley Mowatt and his new bride traveled through Europe a few years after World War II seeking memoria of battles and stories of a time recently past. Farley served with the Canadian Army in Italy and the war was fresh to overflowing in his mind as he visited the battlefield on which he nearly died. Another battle, hardly known outside France took much effort to discover. Local residents would not talk about it; the memories were too fresh and cut too deeply. The area sits high atop a plateau, protected on all sides by steep escarpments and reached, at the time, only by treacherous unpaved roads. The French Resistance exploited its natural defenses from which to launch vicious and nearly-successful raids on the Germans spread out on the plains below. Their tactics succeeded to the point that the Germans were forced to divert troops from Normandy Beach to quell the resisters. Finally, the Germans had enough. They mounted a full-scale assault on the fortress. In days of bloody battles, they finally defeated the partisans. Soldiers, resistance fighters and civilians alike were rounded up and slaughtered; a grim chapter in a grim war; one of a \n almost continuous grim saga which is the history of Europe. Mowatt and his wife found small cairns of rock at locations along the roads with names of those murdered; grim reminders of a time when a whole nation became a serial killer. As a child, riding in my parents' auto, we drove through lush green canyons of corn growing from the rich Iowa loam of central Iowa. Dotting the roadside were crosses; here one, there five. I was horrified to learn these crosses marked the site of an accident in which some was killed. In my childish mind I saw five crosses where our family met their untimely demise. The terminus of death, marked in both locations in memorium; one to accidental and senseless death and the other to inhumane slaughter of purposeful vengeance and bestial cold-hearted murder; death by coincidence of time and place, marked by a roadside memorial. Is death truly accidental, based on a coincidence of time and place and circumstance? Or, conversely, is death a timed event, no matter how apparently accidental, a planned event ass the narrator of Johnny's Got His Gun says, "Somewhere there is a factory manufacturing the shell with my number on it"? If death is unplanned, then we have every right to fear the next moment, the next car ride, the next landing, the serial killer roaming uncaught in the region. If death is a future calendar event, marked in red on His great timetable, we need have no fear; all is in His loving hands. He knows, He gathers into His fatherly arms each at her appointed time and manner. Some view God through this latter perspective with anger and dread; I think it is one more way in which He invests us with faith and trust in His benevolent love; a Mother rocking her babe in her arms, singing a simple tune with comforting words to her fretful infant. Knowing this, having confidence in this, we can cease our restless anxiety and relax into the momentary sleep that wakens into His glorious eternity. Since his days are determined, The number of his months is with You; And his limits You have set so that he cannot pass. Book of Job’s Sorrows Chapter 14 Verse 5 The LORD knows the days of the blameless, And their inheritance will be forever. LORD, make me to know my end And what is the extent of my days; Let me know how transient I am. Book of Psalms Chapter 37 Verse 18 and Chapter 39 Verse 4 " 10.20.12

Happy Captives

Chains clanked; a macabre rhythm of sorrow, pain and far too often, of death. Blood dropped dripped from the wound caused by the chafing of the coffle around his neck. Bare feet shuffled in the dust, raising great yellow clouds which filtered the sunlight and signaled the presence of the slave procession for miles on either side of the trail. Captured, imprisoned, sold, he knew his fate existed in a future time and unknown place, full of hopelessness and pain. Too weary for tears or anger, his only thought of making enough steps to rest in the evening chill around a campfire. The thin gruel of the evening meal loomed in his mind as real and as rich as the banquet held in his honor the night before the betrayal. Agony of mind and body surged and waned as he relived the capture and anticipated with terror, his future. Words cannot express the unhappy lot of a captive. Whether taken as a slave from Central Africa to the slave market on the coast or a prisoner of war or of a displaced person forced from home and hearth by war, famine or earthquake, the lot of the captive and refugee is bare minimal subsistence and terrible uncertainties. However, there is one procession of captives which does not fit the mold. It is a festal parade, full of the vanquished, the utterly defeated, the destroyed and defeated ones of God. He breaks the nations with a rod of iron, subdues His enemies, wades in their blood, shatters their bones and they rejoice in their defeat. Defeat, for these captives of the Most High are not just content to accept their fate, they rejoice in it, revel in it. Enemies once, their battle lost, they find their true selves, their true love, the One who died Himself to bring them into this joyous slavery, this rejoicing train of freed captives. What a joy to be dead, to be raised into this new captivity, this happy captive throng. The chariots of God are myriads, thousands upon thousands; The Lord is among them as at Sinai, in holiness. You have ascended on high, You have led captive Your captives; You have received gifts among men, Even among the rebellious also, that the LORD God may dwell there. Book of Psalms Chapter 68 verses 17 and 18 11.1.12

Slave Coffle

The unyielding, sun-heated iron collar blistered my tender skin and its unfinished edges lacerated my raw flesh. A lifetime of wear had not smoothed its edges or callused my skin. My head bobbed and jerked to the random rhythms dictated by those, one step before and after, to whom I was chained. My bare feet shuffled the dusty path, contributing to the cloud which veiled the hot sun in a ruddy glow and choked my breathing. I wished for the freezing snow and cold rain of winter, but violent shivering and deep mud were only variations on the theme of misery. Plodding, I hoarded my meager energy. Heaps of bones line both sides of the path, mute testimony to those who had already expended their last ounce of strength. Ahead, a woman's voice sang a popular song. Those chained around her joined in. They passed a flask and a white powder carefully between them. In merriment they sought forgetfulness. Laughter rippled along the line as a ribald joke was passed from mouth to mouth. Behind me, two discussed theology. I joined them, debating and arguing over the finer points of doctrine and the pursuit of knowledge about God. We anesthetized our pain in intellectual pursuit and prided ourselves in being religious; better than the rest. As the human chain rounded a bend, I was transfixed by the sight of a woman's lewd dance. She gathered the stares of men to herself as if the sense of her own attractiveness would heal her soul. I lost track of the intellectual conversation in the sight. For a few moments, the sensations drowned out the pain and discomfort of my slavery. The warp to the woof of our pain was pleasure: we Exchanged it, bartered it, sold it. It seemed as necessary as air. Ahead of me, the chain sagged. Those who carried the sudden extra weight on their necks cursed and strained. A shadow materialized, spreading a loathsome, stinking miasma of death and decay around us. In comparison, A Leper's disfigurements seemed beautiful. The apparition unlocked The body and tossed it aside, a silent new member in the piles of bones that fenced our way. Its putrefying stench would soon add to the misery of our journey. Death is our only escape from this hellish life. Once, long ago, I thought I had escaped. I ignored the angry words of those travelling nearest me as I thrashed about, desperate. The iron seemed to yield, and I instantly leaped over the bone barrier. Before I took two steps, the claws of a shadow horror encircled my throat with superhuman strength. With a scream of fury it thrust me back into the line of walking death and abound my hands behind my back. I shuffled with the rest, mesmerized by the unending motion, lulled into a soporific half sleep. A wave of derisive laughter swelled along the line. Its object became clear as By slow inches, I shuffled forward. A strange man stood on the piles of bones. His clothing was ordinary, but stripes of dried blood welded the shirt to his back and a round blotch of dark crimson sealed it to his side. A circlet of dried thorns crowned him. Their hard unyielding spines penetrated the tender flesh of his brow, fountains for Bloody streaks which coursed down his face. His beard was matted with the blood. It dripped from his beard to his shirt, creating a pattern of fresh crimson blots on his shoulders and chest. One man from the line struck him on the head. Laughter rippled around the perpetrator. He spat, a parting contemptuous gesture. This new insult added to the accumulation which covered his face and dripped from his beard. Blood and spittle soaked, his shirt clung to him, revealing ribs standing out clearly as if he was near starvation. He held his hands out to the one who struck him, revealing gaping blood-encrusted wounds in his wrists. "…free…," the word exploded in my mind, absent its context, but capturing my entire attention. "Would you be free?" he asked the one in front of me. "I am free!" He retorted, blaspheming. I stared at the marred face. He turned to me. The line seemed to stop. I could not breathe. An eternity passed as he read my soul to its very depths. He knew my longing, the pain of my enslavement, my desperate attempts to free myself. He understood. He held out his hands to me and asked. "Yes," I said. His word freed me. The collar fell away. The knot holding my wrists slipped to the ground. A shriek of death-wings surrounded me, enveloped me, but I was not afraid. Joyous Peace filled my mind. Falling to my knees, I clutched His wounded feet and worshiped Him. I felt the bones of dead men beneath my knees but the life of him who died for me flowed from his wounds into my soul. "Free, free, evermore free," reverberated in my mind, the antithesis of the hopeless cry of my soul but a moment before. I felt the cleansing touch of His blood as it dripped on me from His wounds. I heard the welcoming words of acceptance and love. The power of a new mind, of a new me, surged in my veins and cascaded down the nerve fibers of my body. "Free, free, everlastingly, eternally, free." 01.31.99

Exhibit Z

“An now, ladies and gentlemen, if you will step forward with me to the next exhibit, you will see Exhibit Z. Frankly, he isn’t one of my personal favorites. In the previous Age, he lived a rather mundane life; ordinary to boring, if you will.” The guide coughed and smiled at his own little joke. “But it pleases His Grace to include him in the rotating order of exhibits. He is not like Saint Paul, over there,” half turning, he pointed over his right shoulder, “Now there was a real witness. Traveling for thousands of miles when transportation could only be considered hard, long and dangerous, he turned the world upside down, as he himself said. His letters were some of the most influential writings throughout the age of the cross and thousands were led to His Grace through his influence. In my book, Paul stands on a high pedestal over all others, even Peter who was sometimes a bit of a flake.” “but what about this Exhibit Z?” came a voice from the back of the tourist group. “He was born in the middle of the 20th Century, a time known for its violence. Those of you born before that time have no doubt experienced the Historicon and were able to sense the tension and fear in that time. It was quite different from the fears of earlier ages when battles were fought by armies and in which civilian populations were relatively unscathed by the battles themselves at least until the battle was won or lost.” “What was so different?” came a young voice at the front of the crowd. “They were threatened by nuclear weapons,” answered the guide. “This meant that now the whole world could be blown to bits.” “But let me get back to our exhibit before we move on to some of the significant events in the days just prior to the closing of that age.” He turned and scanned the audience, then continued. “If you notice, the graph at the back of the exhibit, shows a timeline of exhibit Z’s relationship with His Grace. For most of his life, Z was quite dogmatic, believing the sad tale of his particular group that His Grace wanted his obedience to Moses’ laws. He believed them, taught them to his family and worked for his group spreading the lie. But, unlike Paul, he was rather an anemic enemy of His Grace. Nothing he did made any major impact, though his children and wife suffered under it and all three became less involved as time went on. You will also notice the rebellion line which swings violently up and down. The high of course, is the times when he was most rebellious; the lows are when he pulled himself up by his bootstraps and tried to live what he called ‘a good life.’ At first the line has a gentle rise and fall, but later, in that middle time in a man’s life when all the hopes and fears of the young man become reality, the swings become more dramatic and closer together finally ending up in a rather extended period of rebellion. Even in this, though, he was rather mediocre. He just sort of oozed into rebellion, keeping it well covered. Neither great saint nor great sinner, he lived his ordinary life until His grace confronted him. You will note the image of the meeting he was in at the time, there on the left. Notice his fidgeting and the boredom on his face. If we could hear his interior monologue, we would hear his discomfort at being there-they were discussing Romans at the time, Paul’s great exposition of grace. It is obvious he doesn’t want to be here, but endeavoring to keep his life a secret, he can’t be too different from his religious outer life. Now watch right here. See the change? He is startled by a thought which seems to come from nowhere. Now we know, by his own statements, what the thought was. ‘It came unbidden’ he says, ‘I was sitting there and suddenly the thought came to me, “I believe in Jesus.” It wasn’t a conscious thought, a logical progression of facts, a choice, but a sudden realization of a fact.’” The guide sipped from a flask of water. “I see what you mean,“ said one tourist, “His life seems ordinary, but isn’t he much like the most of mankind, even those who followed His Grace?” The guide thought for a moment and said, a bit reluctantly, it seemed, “Well, yes, I suppose that is so. Perhaps it is like His Grace said in His earth years, ‘…so the works of God might be shown in him.’ It is true, that, as you may notice, that Z’s life took a rather dramatic turn, with fewer and fewer rebellions, but he still did next to nothing for the cause of His Grace. He was a minor player in his lifetime. I still puzzle over his inclusion.” The air suddenly seemed to vibrate. A light too intense for even heaven-accustomed eyes, glowed around them. Warmth enveloped them and each felt a joy and peace that could only come from the immediate presence of His Grace. “Ah my dear Guide,” said a voice which came from everywhere and nowhere, felt as much as heard. “You know me far too little--even after ages of leading these tours. I did what I did for just such as him; he became as a little child and lived and trusted Me. His story is exactly what I wanted it to be and, in his own tiny sphere, contributed to My kingdom. You favor Saint Paul. He’s a good friend of Mine, too. So I want you to remember something he once said when he was writing a letter to my gathering in the town of Ephesus: ‘…so that in the ages to come, He might show the surpassing riches of His grace in kindness toward us, in Christ Jesus.’ It’s not just the great things done with energy and valor that makes one worthy to be an exhibit here in the Hall of Fame; it is much more often small things done from a heart overflowing in unconscious reaction to My love which bubbles from the hidden spring of a yielded heart.” There was a pause, as if the Voice were thinking. “You know, my friend, my beloved guide, I think I’ll send you back to school. It’s been many ages since you were in school, hasn’t it?” “Yes.” The guide responded. “Well its settled then. Take your time, we have plenty of that,” He chuckled and the sound was music. “I’d like you to do a research paper on Exhibit Z. Examine his life, talk to him, listen particularly for how he views his own contribution to showing My glory, My grace in kindness to him and to his family. Would you be willing to do that?” “Why yes, of course. Shall I stop leading these tours?” “Just for now; You will be an even better guide after you know Exhibit Z a bit better.” The light dimmed and faded, its evidence betrayed only by a residual glow on the faces of the group and their guide. They all turned to Exhibit Z and saw that his face glowed even more brightly. 11.5.12

Thanatopsis Revisited

Death became real to me one dark Friday evening. There were five of us in the car, two adults and three young boys, all of us around ten years old. The adults were leaders in our church youth group. Both worked in a hospital and had emergency training. We were on our way to join others in a weekend camping trip. Traveling east from our suburb of San Diego into the back country, a place of few houses and fewer lights. As we approached a curve, a spray of sparks arched across the road in front of us; a single headlamp wavered and crossed in front of us, then disappeared into the ditch on our side of the road. The driver braked. Both adults ran to the scene of the accident. We waited, silent with dread. After the ambulance’s arrival, we drove on. One of the men said, “There were two of them on the motorcycle. The passenger broke his leg. The other one caught the handle bar in his chest. He didn’t make it.” For years, thoughts of that night haunted me; driving at night became a silent terror. Mortality and immortality; this life and the next played a constant low-level dirge accompanying all of my adolescence. To make matters worse, the denomination to which my family belonged believed in eternal life for those who kept the rules, including all ten commandments. We focused a great deal on last-day events. Eventually, as I trained for the pastorate, I was able to lay out in exquisite (or was it “excruciating”) detail, the sequence of events which would herald and precede the second Coming of Christ. We knew that those who didn’t believe as we did would be “lost” and would eventually be destroyed forever-no hell for us, or rather being burned alive was a shorter hell than believed in by those other denominations—those “false” denominations. Vaguely we had an inkling that Jesus was involved in our salvation in some way—after all, we quoted John 3:16 as our favorite text whenever asked. But eternal salvation was an elusive target. We never quite knew whether we were saved or not, primarily due to counsel written a hundred years before by our “prophetess” who stated that one should never say “I am saved” as that led to pride. I suppose she was right, if one believes that one’s own obedience is the key that unlocks the gates of heaven. This second layer of dread made the first even more potent. What if I died tonight and wasn’t saved? I knew I would burn into nothingness in the hot fire of God’s condemnation and never ever know anything again. I suppose that is somewhat less traumatic than a forever-burning hell, but to my mind, at that time, not a great deal. The concept of “eternal” and “eternity” were fraught with anxiety-eternal life, eternal death-both clanged in my mind constantly. That future time loomed on an ever-changing distant horizon—now imminent; now distant, but always hovering. The Second Coming was supposed to be a joyous event, but for me it held only terror. Since recognizing that God’s grace is all; that He does it all, even supplying the faith to believe, the future has lost its terror for me. In addition, the words “eternal” and “eternity” have come to mean something quite different. Just to set the record straight for what follows, I absolutely and unequivocally believe that there is an eternity awaiting past the next step in God’s unerring plan. But what has been opened to me cheers me immeasurably. And it’s based on a chronically mistranslated word in the Greek New Testament. The word is aion. It has been transliterated into English as “eon.” We usually think of an eon as a long time as in “It happened eons ago. We sometimes use the word “age” or “era” for the same concept. Greek used it in a similar way: The “eon, age, era” of a ruler, for example. It could denote a period of time of thousands of years or of a relatively short period of time. New Testament translators, however, added some meanings to it; sometimes translating it as “age,” sometimes as “world” but most often as “eternity” or “eternal” in its adjectival form. In that most famous and beloved text, John 3:16, we should render “eternal” as “in this age” or “age-long” life. For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believes on Him might have life in this age (here and now; age-long). This is part of that wondrous Good News proclaimed by the angels at His birth. Jesus and His apostles, when speaking of the aeon, were assuring us, over and over, that the future Life has broken out, a glorious plague, in the here and now. Its rampant infection is overwhelming the darkness of this age and propels us into a multi-dimensional state of being right here and right now. Those who know not Him who is the Doorkeeper into this duality, see only the darkness; we to whom this has been revealed, see with faith’s eye, that which is invisible to the natural, unaided eye. Neither night nor blindness; depth of cave nor of sea can obscure the glory of the other side, this timeless Time outside of time. That which is to come already is. We are in a twilight zone or rather a dawn zone in which the night struggles desperately to hold us back while the light of dawn strides confidently forward toward the ultimate noonday brightness of His appearing. Death is swallowed up in victory. Even though we die, we have already been subsumed into that eternity of which I was so fearful. I can now march with confidence toward that brief night of quiet rest awaiting the trumpet blast that will waken me to that other Age, that new Eon which will have no end. Being raised together with Christ (Ephesians 2:4) you and I already share in that blissful state shadowy but assured, during which all tears, all fears, all pain, sorrow and anxiety are forever past. Welcome to eternity! 11.18.12

God's Math

The universe and all it is, can be described with numbers. Don’t ask me to do the math; it took me three times to pass algebra 70 (bonehead algebra). But brighter minds than mine can see the beauty and logic of these numbers that tell His story without alphabet. One of my favorite books is St. Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, especially 1:3 through 2:10. The whole of the Christian life is presented, both the individual and corporate life. Chapter 1 deals with the church, the Ecclesia (the called-out ones) and Chapter 2 deals with the individual. In chapter one, a sequence of seven ultimate blessings are outlined from being chosen in Christ to be holy and blameless in God’s presence through being sealed by the Holy Spirit of Promise. Number five starts in verse eight and runs through verse ten: In all wisdom and insight He made known to us the mystery of His will, according to His kind intention which He purposed in Him with a view to an administration suitable to the fullness of the times, that is, the summing up of all things in Christ, things in the heavens and things on the earth. Here Paul reveals a mystery—that all things will be “summed up” in Christ-things in heaven and things on earth. Here is the equation: All Things in Heaven plus All Things on Earth equal all things added up into Christ All things on earth intrigue me. What are “all things?” What does this include? I suppose, first, that all things must include humanity. We are summed up in Christ. He is the Last Adam; the Adam who was victorious. It must also include all nature: all animals, plants, all the elements of the periodic table, all the quarks and gluons and sub-sub-sub particles of which science says the universe is made. Now things get a bit sticky. Does this summing up include the devil? Does it include Adam’s sin? my sin? Does it include my sins against you and yours against me? Hitler’s sins? Stalin's sins? Does it include all the evil of this world, not only the sins but the agony of illness and death? What can be excluded from “all things in heaven and on earth?” Nothing! All things are summed up in our Lord Jesus Christ. He bore our sins; he bore our pains, our woes, our alienation from Himself and from one another (Isaiah 53). In Him all is forgiven, all healed, all totaled up in that one value in the equation-“on earth.” “In heaven” is actually described a little later in the same chapter in verses 19 through 23. God’s power in resurrecting Jesus, seating Him at His right hand, far above every rule, authority, power and dominion, not only in this age, but the one to come, the victory over all things and being made head of all things pretty well sums it up. He is Head of all things even though we may not know of what this “all” consists. Now for the astounding part of this. What is the purpose of this equation, this infinite equation? It is for the Church, the Ecclesia, you and me who make up this denominationless group of called-out ones who believe. Here it is in Paul’s own words: …and gave Him (Christ) as head over all things to the Church, which is His Body, the fullness of Him who fills all in all. Did you catch that? He who fills all in all is Himself filled by His body, the Church. It was for this purpose that He was sent, died, was raised, was seated in the heavenly places. We are what gives Him joy; we who make His day; we who fill his cup; we who are the sunshine on His shoulders. What a stupendous thing is this! Words fail, thoughts quail, comprehension shakes her head in wonder. We, me, us, are His purpose, the summing up of all things. 11-1-12 God's Math

Two Little Words

But God; two little words which tip the balance of this whole world history. But god. These two words are found in the first part of Ephesians Chapter 2. Here’s the context from the NASB: And you were dead in your trespasses and sins, in which you formerly walked according to the course of this world, according to the prince of the power of the air, of the spirit that is now working in the sons of disobedience. Among them we too all formerly lived in the lusts of our flesh, indulging the desires of the flesh and of the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, even as the rest. But God, being rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in our transgressions, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved), and raised us up with Him, and seated us with Him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus… (St. Paul’s Letter to the Ephesian Church, Chapter 2, verses 1-6) Two little words: “But God;” Two little words, six letters, two syllables in English; seven letters and three syllables in Greek. In both English and Greek, the conjunction “but” ties two thoughts together in comparison or contrast. “But God” in this passage of scripture is the starkest of all contrasts, the division between the most polar of all opposites: Death and Life. We all were dead but God made us alive. All other contrasts pale in comparison: black and white, sickness and health, male and female, slave and free, wet and dry, rich and poor…ad infinitum. We humans can think of nothing worse than death and better than life. These two tiny words are the pivot of a scale, one side of which is so weighed down that it is at its nadir-it can go no lower than death. Then, abruptly, God enters in with His alternative: Life. “But God”…made us alive. The scales crash down on the opposite side, kerblam! Death is left hanging in midair, dangling helpless, suspended with nothing to support it. Death itself is dead, outweighed, outflanked just when it thought it had achieved the ultimate victory. We were dead, all of us, completely under its control, fully in harmony with its powers, the consensus of its counsel, the slaves of its prince, in harmony with the spirit of the disobedient; enslaved to the lusts of body and mind and ready to be consumed. But God! Made us alive Raised us up; Seated us with Him in the heavenly places. A stunning victory; death is swallowed up, absorbed into life in the resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ. This is grace: that God, in loving mercy, without our consent, even while we were still dead in our sins-with no consciousness of our state or of the option, made us alive together with Christ Jesus our Lord. No wonder Paul in chapter 1 fervently prays that we, the believing ones, may know the power which He exerts on our behalf, the power of the resurrection of our Lord (1:18,19). We are raised with Him, seated with Him and all this so that Jesus may be head over all things. For what purpose? For the Church, His Bride, who is His own fulfillment, the filling up, the satisfaction of Him who is Himself, the fullness of all things. How marvelous is this grace, this gift, this Gift which brings with Him all gifts for the Bride who is not ready for Him, but whom He loves unto death, the heartsick-with-love suitor. Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ who blessed us with this gift, the gift of life, sung out to us in two little words: ”But God.” 11.2.12

Children of...

“It makes sense to worship the sun and the stars because we are their children.” – Carl Sagan Carl Sagan’s pithy pronouncements summarized his beliefs, his philosophy, his ethos. We are “star stuff,” he often said. Who or whatever created us, that from which or whom we originated demands, deserves our adoration and worship—in that he is correct. We have but two choices: we originated from nothing or a conscious being did the deed. For me, the logic of something from nothing is a leap too far: I have too little faith. Without the a priori of the creative being, we are left with no other choice than “we came from nothing.” But logic, intuition, probability and inspiration all point to a creative intelligence, a supreme being. I assert that there is Someone out there. I agree with Paul, “Of Him…are all things.” We are not “star stuff” but “God stuff.” We are, in some way, made up of whatever God is. I’m not saying we are God, but that we derive from out of Him; we are of His essence. Or as Paul again says, “One God and Father of us all, who is over all and through all and in all.” “This is my Father’s world; I rest me in the thought Of rock and trees Of skies and seas, His hand these wonders wroght” --Maltbie Davenport Babcock

Divine Moebius Ring

Try this: cut a one inch strip of paper eight or so inches long. Draw a line through one side of the center of the longer dimension. Turn one end one-half turn, then join the two ends, making a circle. Tape the two ends together. The circle will have a half twist. Now start at any point on the surface of the ring. Follow it through the twist and back to the starting point. At any point on the ring, there are two surfaces, but following the surface, there is only one. This is known as a “Moebius Ring” named for its discoverer, August Ferdinand Moebius. “No one can come to Me unless the Father…draws him…”. Jesus: Gospel According to John 6:44 "I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father but through Me.” Jesus: Gospel According to John 14:6 In these two scriptures, both from the pen of St. Jon, Jesus presents us with a Divine Moebius Ring: No one comes to Jesus but those drawn (dragged) by the Father; No one comes to the Father but through Jesus. We evangelize; we talk of conversion, the new birth, accepting Jesus, but these two verses belie all our dogma and theology: No one comes to the Son but through the Father; no one comes to the Father but through the Son. This creates a mighty conundrum for most theologies. All denominations claim divine sanction, final and authoritative truth without which one cannot come to the Father for it is in knowing Him we have life (Jesus: gospel According to John 17:3) Is it possible that all our evangelism, all our Bible studies, all our altar calls, all our printing presses, all our schools and universities; in short all that we do to “win” others to Christ are a colossal waste? Unless Jesus is wrong or is lying, they are. What a terrifying thought this is: Nothing we can do “converts” a single soul. Truly it is said by St. Paul, “Of (from) Him…are all things (St. Paul: Letter to the Romans, 11:36): even soul-winning. What energy savings! What rest! How much lower the temperature would b between denominations within Christendom and between Christendom and other systems of belief! How many relationships down through the centuries would have been saved; how many lives, if 1900 and some years ago the Body of Christ would have recognized this core truth: We are drawn to Jesus by the Father who introduces us to the Father: the Divine Moebius Ring—each a side but eternally blending into and referring each to the other. Related scriptures: "I am the door; if anyone enters through Me, he will be saved, and will go in and out and find pasture. St. John: Gospel According to John 10:9 "All that the Father gives Me will come to Me, and the one who comes to Me I will certainly not cast out. St. John: Gospel According to John 6:37 "…no one can come to Me unless it has been granted him from the Father." Jesus: Gospel According to John 6:65 And the Lord was adding to their number day by day those who were being saved. St. Luke: Book of the Acts 2: 47 Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places in Christ, just as He chose us in Him before the foundation of the world, that we would be holy and blameless before Him. In love He predestined us to adoption as sons through Jesus Christ to Himself, according to the kind intention of His will, to the praise of the glory of His grace, which He freely bestowed on us in the Beloved. St. Paul: Letter to the Ephesians 1:3-6 "Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing." Jesus: Gospel According to Luke 23:34 For while we were still helpless, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly…But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us…Much more then, having now been justified by His blood, we shall be saved from the wrath of God through Him. For if while we were enemies we were reconciled to God through the death of His Son, much more, having been reconciled, we shall be saved by His life. And not only this, but we also exult in God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have now received the reconciliation. St. Paul: Letter to the Romans 5:6-11 But God, being rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in our transgressions, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved), St. Paul: Letter to the Ephesians 2:4,5 10.21.12

Within

Reaching as far as I can up, down, left, right, forward, behind, within, without there I touch You. For You are in all place; in all somewheres. No matter how far I can perceive the past or the future, You were already there and You precede me. For You are in everywhen. All someones, from conception to the grave and beyond are enclosed within You and are filled with you, for you are everywhere and everywhen. We exist in the true Matrix; in You we live and move and exist. We are saturated with You. All things originate in You; through You are carried out; to You return. Yet, there is another dimension of inness, another existence within You. We who are called, chosen, elected are in Christ; a within in a within. In this eon, this time after You became one of us, we, the called, the chosen, the elect are graced with this greater and more profound existence within You. We are aware, acknowledge our oneness with You; a consciousness not known to others; their time is not yet but will soon be to share in this, His Kingdom. 10.21.12

Devil's Concert

He stood before them, elegant in tailored tuxedo , waiting for the applause to die. He bowed, turned and seated himself at the console. Bank on bank of ivory keys, patinaed with age, curved around him. Row on row of stops made all but the master organist himself quail in fear. Practiced movements, perfected over millennia, created a graceful dance of arm, hand and finger as he adjusted stops and touched buttons. The image of the Victim himself appeared on a giant screen above the Maestro’s head. Wild cheers and whistles greeted the Maestro’s newest innovation. He paused, ever the consummate showman, waiting for full attention. Fingers poised above keys, he held the pose for a few more heartbeats, then, with lightning stroke, he plunged into the new composition. Hellish sound filled the room and crashed against the walls reverberating back on itself, a wave of sound that deafened and resonated within the hearers. The translucent apparition, suspended in mid air, danced a grotesque marionette dance in time to the cacophony. Arms flailing, legs jerking, head seeming in danger of losing its attachment to his body, It was obvious he was completely out of his own control. The vast audience roared with laughter. Anger, fear, frustration and self-loathing distorted his face. But, always, he danced to the terrible, irresistible beat. In the box seats, left and right of the stage, special guests reveled in the physical sensations of the Victim And gloried in his pain and shame. The master organist forced actions which mocked, degraded, and humiliated the Victim in his own world. Then, for the greater pleasure of his listeners, he played a cacophonic chord that inflicted excruciating pain. Building to a crescendo, pulling stops to their full open position, he played the final bars of his masterwork. In ghostly green light, the Victim performed as commanded. In his real world, those he loved paid a dear price in terror and pain. The last long note hovered in the air, dying slowly into silence. The Victim slowly collapsed in on himself. None of the hearers moved or spoke, overwhelmed by the experience. Then a mighty roar filled the giant auditorium. “Bravo! bravo!” The adulation of his minions stroked his giant ego. He remained seated, back to the audience, bathed in their praise. Finally, turning to face them, he bowed condescendingly and strode into the wings. The sound of their applause followed him for long moments. A weeks later, He announced a new composition and concert. They assembled, expectant, wondering how he would top his last performance. An excited buzz filled the room. Again he set the stops. The audience gasped in admiration at his cleverness and applauded as the Victim appeared in full color. And this time, even those in the cheapest seats, now felt the exquisite sensations of the Victim. Hands poised, the Maestro paused , wringing the fullest measure of tension from the moment. Then,, as before, his fingers crashed to the keys. A sweet simple melody filled the room. Howls of agony washed the room. Straightening himself, he made a minor adjustment to a stop, implying some small error of setting. Sweating, attempting to hide a tremor, with a bravado he didn’t feel, he brought his hands down again. The name of their Enemy on the Victim’s tongue filled the room. Even the maestro screamed with terror. He slammed his hands on the keyboards trying to find the combinations he knew so well. Nothing worked. The simple prayer of the Victim twined with cries of terror and pain. Exits jammed and fights broke out. Some were trampled. At the console, the Maestro wept and cursed. Over time, he tried different combinations, variations on old familiar themes and new compositions. Nothing worked. The voice of the Victim grew stronger and more determined. The Maestro filled his ears with wax that he would not hear him. Rarely, he found a responsive chord and, feverish with anticipation, manipulated it in minor variations seeking that perfect chord which would restore his mastery. These, too, failed before long, leaving the Victim even stronger in his resistance. He craved the ego boost of the adoring audience, but dared not risk another humiliation. He cringed at the memory. From time to time, now, he touches the keys in melancholy reminiscence. No responsive note does the once-great organ sound. He hears only that music he once loved, but which now causes the hair to prickle at the back of his neck. He flees, hiding his shame and anger. *** And you were dead in your trespasses and sins, in which you formerly walked according to the course of this world, according to the prince of the power of the air, of the spirit that is now working in the sons of disobedience. Among them we too all formerly lived in the lusts of our flesh, indulging the desires of the flesh and of the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, even as the rest. But God, being rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in our transgressions, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved), and raised us up with Him, and seated us with Him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, Ephesians 2:1-6 NASB (Used by permission)