These Dry Bones

Desperate Search: Poes and Dicks and Ostriches, Oh my!

2012-02-25T21:09:00.001+01:00

Once upon a time I wrote an entry entitled Desperate Search: Discovery. In that place I came to the following conclusions:

Every person could be indwelt with a (platonic, eternal, unique) form
The essence of these forms are in being beyond the boundaries of language, and therefore we recollect them in trans-linguistic methods, namely art.
When we get glimpses of these forms through art, we carry them deep within us, as they give us something tangible to relate our formnesses to.

And then rattled on to state the reasons these postulates excited me:

It helps me to consciously remember the great value of every individual
It elevates the purpose, function, and existence of art
In my mind, it helps bridge the gap of how to connect with the supernatural (maybe more on this one later).

It is a one, Mr. Edgar Allan Poe who will propel us promptly, nearly two years later, to fall further down the rabbit hole, Lord willing towards more sensorily tangible seas.

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Subject One: Edgar Allan Poe

Poe's voice in his stories tends to be as a firsthand account from our protagonist who now lives with the mysterious horror from which they have sometimes miraculously lived through, and now sulk in despair with the devastating weight of their memory.

These protagonists know something we don't. Their experience, though often horrible in nature, is so peculiar, so unnerving, and also so original, that it would seem that these protagonists can do nothing but tell their putrid tales. They live now only to tell -- this is their essential lot. They have this one thing to give, and it is such a thing, that all other things of their lives have been swallowed up by this one cataclysmic event. It owns them -- has become them.

Take for instance the story A Descent into the Maelstrom. A fella is being led by an old man on a mountain in Lofoten, Norway. Far below them lies the sea. The old man, sitting precariously on a ledge many fathoms above the earth below, opens the story's chest by beginning,

"You suppose me a very old man," he says, "but I am not. It took less than a single day to change these hairs from a jetty black to white, to weaken my limbs, and to unstring my nerves."

In this case it was a vortex/whirlwind, of the magnitude on display at the climax of The Little Mermaid, that intoxicates our imagination. The storyteller lives mostly by blind luck, as it was his own boat that at one treacherous day was sucked into Neptune's curse. His brother and all others on the boat clearly perished, but the our man now lives as an elder, made old by a plague of knowledge.

In another situation, The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar, our protagonist is a mesmerist, who, wanting to put a man under suspended hypnosis who is within moments of joining in that final dance with death, dreadfully retells the adverse affects of attempting to ward off death from the inner-man. As the last line informs us, when the client is taken out of suspension, relents unto death, we see that

...his whole frame at once — within the space of a single minute, or even less, shrunk—crumbled—absolutely rotted away beneath my hands. Upon the bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of loathsome—of detestable putrescence.

The insipid grotesqueness of the display almost stands as a sideshow to the real drama at hand. The hypnosis worked. Our character found a way, at least momentarily, to hold off death's cur. Of course, the adverse effect here is that the body was decomposing whilst the soul was not yet freed from the body, but therein again is the distraction. The gig worked: new knowledge found.

Edgar Allan Poe is repeating himself. In various ways, he is interacting, perhaps interconnecting, with the same themes, the same variables, the same constants, etc.

For kitsch sake, I can't continue without mentioning the strange occurrences revolving around Poe's death. He was found in horrid condition, deliriously bounding about the streets of Baltimore. He was admitted to a hospital, wherein he never fully regained consciousness, but kept repeating the name "Reynolds", which no one could make a connection to at the time. The cause of his death remains unknown, though the most consistent estimate is something sprouting from alcoholism. It also must be noted that the clothes he was found in were not his own. Go figure...

As curious as his death remains, it is, like the putrescence of Valdemar's body, merely a distraction. The only question we should bother ourselves with is why did Poe choose the stories he chose? Why did he repeatedly turn to the same themes?

What makes any one of us compelled to dwell on one subject over another?

Subject Two: Werner Herzog

There's a continuing motif of the ostrich in Herzog's film My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done? There's plenty of footage where there's just ostrich; nothing more, nothing less. Ostrich.

I think Herzog forces us to stare at these creatures because he finds them both comical and illogical -- in conjunction with the events of the rest of the film, we can view the murdering protagonist in the same light... and maybe also all of society.

But what led Herzog to look at God's creation like that? How did he get that out of ostrich?

In essence, this small question boils down to: what makes Herzog tick?

Subject Three: Philip K. Dick

I recently purchased a book entitled The Exegesis of Philip K. Dick. While it is indeed a thing to behold, the book is more or less a compilation of personal manuscripts that together form something of a journal. Mr. Dick was a highly intellectual individual, but I must admit, I find that his journal entries, although again fascinating, so far, according to my comprehension, amount to little more than mere pseudo-philosophical rubbish.

The same however, cannot be said of his novels. They are implanted in the very psyche of our society for a reason ~~ they resonate with us.

The work, it would appear in this case, far surpasses the mind itself. The product is more than the sum of its parts.

Subject Four: The Strange Case of Moses' Body

Moses dies in the last chapter of the torah. There, on a mountain, God himself buries the prophet. Deuteronomy 34:6 states plainly, ...but no one knows the place of his burial to this day. Why is that important? Why did God chose to bury him? Why not leave him for the Israelites to bury? The Christian tradition tends to think that the soul leaves the body upon death, so why here do we see God take notice of the body?

It would remain just a faint mystery if that was all we heard of Moses. But that is not all. By no means!

The Book of Jude, verse 9, states that the archangel Michael "disputed" with the devil over the body of Moses. Say what?? Why the hell should the principalities care about a little ol' fleshly body? It doesn't make sense according to the generic Christian lens. What the hell? Why does a dead body matter?

Perhaps we are given a hint (or two). Amidst the transfiguration of Jesus, Matthew 17:1-9, Mark 9:2-8, Luke 9:28-36 both Moses and Elijah are present. We are forced to ask ourselves, of all the folk in history to bring forth beside the Christ, why these two? What heavenly raffle did they win? Well, they do have one thing in common: man did not dispose of their earthly shells.

It has often been surmised that the two prophets who will lay siege to the antichrist in Revelation are in fact Elijah and Moses.

Why would God desire to make use of these two guys once again?

My humble theory, open for criticism (as I'm sure it has many flaws) is this:

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Each one of us is endowed with the reflection of the Divine. That reflection is fundamentally unique, in that no other soul shares in it. No other soul reflects the Divine in the same manner.

Perversion aka evil, is mere parody of the good. It is not a thing in and of itself. This is why Tolkien wisely had the Orcs not be a species created by Morgoth, but rather, they were a mere perversion of the Elves, made perfectly by God.

All things God created are good. We, therefore, are good -- but lay perversed by our many sins.

Each of us, can both be connected to every other man and woman and find connection with that which also is good, and more severely, with that which is also a reflection of God.

This disconnect from perfection, from the fullness of God with which we now suffer, amidst this deep groaning, our souls can spring forth with revelry and excitement amidst finding truth, finding glimpses of God, those precious instances of perfection, in the outpourings of others.

Perhaps it could be so that throughout an artist's life a general theme or mantra will always seep to the forefront. In this, am I not right, would be the essence of their 'personal reflection'. The reoccurring themes of Poe would, under this understanding, be aspects of the likeness of Poe that reflects God. That being said, this likeness of course can be, sometimes beyond repair, utterly perverted, so that even with the keenest of eyes we cannot see God's unique goodness in it.

It would also follow that this personal reflection lies often dormant and still more often as something hidden from the person themselves. This would explain how someone like Philip K. Dick could be closer to revealing his eternal form of reflection in the work of his fictional outpourings than his personal journals.

Finally, in the case of Moses and his mysterious body, my theory proposes that because Moses has a certain reflection of God and His Godness that no other soul has or ever will have, it could conceivably make sense that one particular person could be the best fit for multiple jobs.

We are all good, and we are all made in God's image, but we're not necessarily made equal.

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In conclusion:

If my theory holds any weight, than we should indeed look deeper into themes from those whose voices seem to us in some ways most piercing, for in them may lie deeper truths (reflections) of the very God we worship.
Ostriches.

P.S. It seemed that Moneyball, a film about the value of individuals as they matter to a larger whole, was a relevant metaphor for this conversation... but I acknowledge that the juxtaposition of image and word may seem odd.

Scatterbrained III: The Repeating Artist

2012-02-23T18:35:00.002+01:00

*Word of warning: Scatterbrained posts come forth out of an overcaffeinated sensation and thus are written hastily without regard for the reader's ability to follow my train of thought. This train is not really for riding, you see. It's more of a type of train that you just look at from afar and go, "Oh yeah. I kinda like trains." That's all that they're good for, when push comes to shove. You know this to be true.

Stephen King once said to me, through the confines of his old devil, Hell is repetition.

Why is it that artists in general, and I wag my finger particularly at painters here, tend to repeat the same work over and over again. Why paint so many flowers? Didn't you ever imagine what a dragon might look like, Vincent? How many damnable nonrepresentative scattered-inkblots could you handle, Jackson? Is that why you came to the end that you did? -- because you couldn't get past it? And Woody, must you always have your women momentarily swoon all over your neurotic protagonist? How many times must we cover these bases?

Maybe there is a magic here I am missing. By examining relatively similar motifs, perhaps the artist is exploiting that small hue that stands distinct in each case. Maybe it is a practice of the science of studying outliers.

If there is wisdom here, I should find and categorize my personal motif and exploit that sad sucker for every inch of its wretched value. We are men, are we not? We are built for exploitation!

It's really quite simple. I don't have to examine long at all.

It's Kubrick that nailed it on the head, even if that wasn't his intention. I'll use him and exploit the snot out of the remainder of his soul. It's the black monolith. Remember it? It stood as our ominous constant in 2001: A Space Odyssey. At every evolutionary turn, there existed this signpost of terrifying adventure. That where we go, there we find it. The Black Monolith.

I remain fixated on God as the source of revelation. This is my place of eternal catharsis. This is the last and the first frontier; the alpha and omega of all treks. All my stories I conceive inevitably push somewhere towards that stalwart.

It's something akin to:

You're traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind; a journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That's the signpost up ahead - your next stop, The Black Monolith!

Dudududuu-dudududuu-duuuuuuuu! Black Monolith for the win!

But it ain't all that simple. Hobbitsies are tricksies, they are, they are.

Too much of this new-truth serum pressing in on us from all sides is too much. Take, for instance, for example, e.g. i.e. etc. lol loling lolingly lmfao, this trippy trailer for Beyond the Black Rainbow. It's too much weird. It promises a new experience, a new rationale, a new epoch of consciousness. But more than likely it will fall into a category of 'too weird to get' films. The problem with the 'too weirds' is that you never end up investing personally in these plights, because it is too far removed from any substance of our reality. Sadly, weirdness tends to equal illogic and nonplotting. Those are cardinal sins of storytelling, they are, they are.

The Black Monolith is just a little bit weird. It's not toooo weird. Granted, the end of 2001 is batshit crazy, but let's happily sidestep that little bit of madness, shall we?

The point is -- yes, of course there is a point -- that a little bit of trans-truthfulness goes a long way.

I don't want to be a plagiarist, so let's use something else besides the Black Monolith to make our point...

Hmmm..... what to use, what to use.

Let's go with a singing minotaur. Everybody knows that minotaurs went extinct decades ago, so for them to show up in a film is bizarre. It's a trans-truthfulness, it is, it is.

Trans-truthfulness, that's a mouthful. Let's shorten it a bit. How about transfulness? Transtruth? No, no... I got it... Truthotaur!

Okay, let's see the genre of Truthotaur in action! Here's a few films that we can exploit to expose the deeper truth that of course we are all zestfully seeking with much, much obsession.

Gone with the Wind: Rhett leaves Atlanta for that real-time South he once knew. And as he heads out the door, we see the shadow of a minotaur dancing in the twilight, singing to the heavens, "Give me that old-time religion!" Bam. Truthotaur sneak!

Lawrence of Arabia: In that weird scene of torture and other unknowns, right before those secret atrocities are committed unto T.E. Lawrence, a minotaur enters the screen whistling a tune to "Singin' in the Rain". Bam. Truthotaur attack!

A Man for All Seasons: As Sir Thomas More puts his head down, waiting for the executioner to cut his head off, we see that there is another prisoner also awaiting the same end: a minotaur! More looks to his neighbor and says to him matter-of-factly, "I'll see you in paradise." They chop More's head off. The executioner raises his ax a second time, and we see the minotaur shed a tear and hum the tune "God save the king". Blam. Truthotaur torrent!

Hannibal: Whilst Hannibal is serving brain to his hosts, sitting at the other end of the dinner table is a minotaur. None of the characters acknowledge the beast's presence, but the creature sings quietly under his breath, "I'm in heaven, I'm in heaven." Over and over and over and over again. Slam. Flawless Truthotaur victory!

Master and Commander: When Commander Aubrey realizes that he in fact did not catch the commander of this french nemesis boat, Acheron, we suddenly get a close-up of the boat's real commander steering the ship: a minotaur! Over the seas we hear his faint voice leak out, "Yo-ho, yo-ho, a pirate's life for me." Fade out. End movie. Ka-cha. Truthotaur kill!

Forrest Gump: One of Forrest's ping-pong competitors is a minotuar! While they lob that little ball back and forth, the minotaur sadly raps solemn the Beatles hit, "Yesterday". We later see the same minotaur making friendly in the background at Forrest and Jenny's wedding.

See! It's so easy.

Trans-truthfulness, aka Truthotaur, is a violently pivotal incoming genre of media. Embrace it! Embrace the repetition. Maybe there's a little piece of heaven yet to be found in this hell.

Movie Bible Study: Take Shelter

2012-02-19T20:20:00.002+01:00

It's a little scene, perhaps quite inconsequential to many. Nevertheless, if we bring our bags into the screening, if we dare to read between the lines our own apocalyptic timepieces, then maybe, just maybe, the small, intimate scene illuminates the devastation that is to follow.

We have Curtis as our main protagonist. He is short on speech, certainly midwestern in his various customs, and perhaps a bit on edge, but we see the affection he has for his wife and child and take him for what he is; a decent human being. The question of 'how decent?' is one that he and us both will continue to dialogue about throughout the rest of the film. But for now, for tonight, for this scene unfolding, Curtis sits in his car dropping off his colleague and best friend, Dewart.

They arrive in front of Dewart's house. This is the congenial pause where life speculations and sharings occur; the last moment before departure.

Dewart looks consterned. He pauses briefly, shakes his head, and then mentions the strangest thing. He tells Curtis that he and his wife are considering having a threesome with some large-o heifer from Columbus. Curtis asks how large. Dewart responds through laughing teeth, something like 250 pounds. Large. The two share an awkward chuckle before Curtis answers humbly from his perspective that he can't imagine that he and his wife would ever get into that type of thing.

Nodding solemnly, Dewart becomes deeply introspective before offering a telling praise:

You've got a good life, Curtis. I think that's the best compliment you can give a man; take a look at his life and say, 'That's good'.

How telling indeed. Good men don't need threesomes -- that seems to be the jist of Dewart's words. Throw that back at Dewart and the only answer is that Dewart sees his own li e as something less than good. Less than good = threesome needed.

Once upon a time God formed man out of the dust of the earth and said that it was,

Very good.

And then things changed. Things changed greatly. Very good became something less.

The man who was called by God 'the Son of Man' was taken up by God in a vision to Jerusalem. God said to him then,

Son of Man, do you see what they are doing?

And then God showed Ezekiel what this group of 'they' were doing.

And he (God) brought me to the entrance of the court (of the temple), and when I looked, behold, there was a hole in the wall. Then he said to me, "Son of Man, dig in the wall." So I dug in the wall, and behold, there was an entrance. And he said to me, "Go in, and see the vile abominations that they are committing here." So I went in and saw. And there, engraved on the wall all around, was every form of creeping things and loathsome beasts, and all the idols of the house of Israel. And before them stood seventy men of the elders of the house of Israel... Then he said to me, "Son of man, have you seen what the elders of the house of Israel are doing in the dark, each in his room of pictures? For they say, 'The LORD does not see us, the LORD has forsaken the land.'"

After that night, nightmares of ever worsening effect haunt Curtis. These dreams tend to be about extreme weather and the madness of the people caught in it. It bothers Curtis greatly.

Wanting to be wise, yearning to not alienate and abandon his family, Curtis looks into the possibility that he is beginning to suffer from psychoses. He doesn't trust himself. This, of course, over the span of weeks, only raises his paranoia. What do you do amidst torment when you can't even trust yourself? Who do you turn to?

Take Shelter offers no omniscient third person voice. We get only the occurrences as according to Curtis. Ezekiel the prophet, on the other hand, is burdened with God's perspective. Multiple times in the book God gives him a warning as to what will happen if he does not heed God's word. God commands him to pass on his oncoming judgment. He even commands our man Ezek to eat a scroll as a symbol of his responsibility, so that Ezekiel would know with all assurance that he carries God's words in him. From him must unspool the coming judgment. He may not stay silent.

Curtis is not one to speak. He resists, for as long as he can muster, to keep the recent visions in his mind from even his wife, only relenting when his dreams cannot remain hidden. He spasms and bleeds from his mouth while asleep. Such horrors he knows cannot be hidden eternal. But what of the people? The plague in his mind remains: 'what if I'm right?' More and more he suspects that he is. Curtis acts on it. He builds a bunker for his family. He will protect them. Of this he is certain.

But what of the people?

Who will save the people? Who will save the others?

Long ago the world was judged with a flood, but God salvaged Noah and his families.

Long ago Sodom and Gomorrah were burned into annihilation for their deeds, but Lot and his family were set free from that tragedy.

Long ago a Spirit came to execute first born males, but God kept his chosen safe from that desolation.

And now a storm is coming.

Who will be saved?

After being pushed and pushed, Curtis, at a Club banquet, finally lets his tongue be unleashed:

You think I'm crazy? Well, listen up, there's a storm coming like nothing you've ever seen, and not a one of you is prepared for it.

The show Curtis puts on is intense beyond description. His words hang somewhere between hysteria and rage.

True prophecy comes from a place of knowing.

Knowing can be a violent affair.

Again and again Ezekiel vainly pleads with the nation to listen to the scroll coming from within him.

They don't listen.

More signs and wonders are necessary. In chapter 24, Ezekiel, the chosen prophet, is used by God yet again, to show the people; to show them what is coming.

The world of the LORD came to me: "Son of Man, behold, I am about to take the delight of your eyes away from you..." So I spoke to the people in the morning, and at evening my wife died... And the people said to me, "Will you not tell us what these things mean for us...?" And I said to them, "Thus says the Lord God; "Behold, I will profane my sanctuary, the pride of your power, the delight of your eyes, and the yearning of your soul, and your sons and daughters whom you left behind shall fall by the sword... and you shall rot away in your iniquities... thus shall Ezekiel be a sign to you."

God comforts Ezekiel only in saying,

You will be a sign to them, and they will know that I am the Lord.

Does Curtis suffer as a prophet? As a one to bear foreknowledge as a sign to the people?

Perhaps.

Are we then, these Christian men and women, the prophets of our day? Are we the signs and wonders for those around us? Do we not believe in hell? Do we not perceive where the ends of our friends and family will be?

If we are the Noahs, the Lots, and the Ezekiels, do we not also carry the burden of proclamation?

YES.

But, though there is pain in the sacrifice, though there are undoubtedly stories that absolutely end in tragedy, though there is blood --- there is always a Savior... a man in linen. And thankfully, he is not us.

Ezekiel was the prophet for Judah, indeed. But he was never assigned to be their savior. No, that role was for another.

Hear the Word of the Lord Ezekiel 9:3-6:

Now the glory of the God of Israel had gone up from the cherub on which it rested on the threshold of the house. And he called to the man clothed in linen who had the writing case at he waist. And the Lord said to him, "Pass through the city after him, and strike. Your eye shall not spare, and you shall show no pity. Kill old men outright, young men and maidens, little children and women, but touch no one on whom is the mark."

Come and see -- your friends and community around you are practicing injustice.

Look closely and you will see it -- they know they are something less than good.

But fear not, we are neither judge nor jury.
We do not mark foreheads.

That role belongs to another.

And behold, the man clothed in linen, with the writing case at his waist, brought back word, saying, "I have done as you commanded me." Ezekiel 9:11

Mindshot: The Green Mile

2012-02-18T02:42:00.000+01:00

We love him. 

He is a creature somehow still innocent from the thick gloom of reality. 

We suspect that maybe he is an angel. Perhaps one day he stringed his harp a bit too zealously, lost his balance, and fell off his heavenly perch. In our bones we know, he is better than us. 

Yes, John Coffey commits several acts of miracles along the way. A logical man could point to that as the center of our awe of him; a logical man would be wrong. 

It was never the magic that sold us on the greatness of Mr. Coffey. No. It was his purity. 

He is an empath. He can feel the vibrant hues of the inner tuggings of folks' souls. He knows us by our hearts. This is why the moment is so painful, why the scene is so toxic to our sense of justice. 

They jeer him.

Their anger has burned, and must be quenched with the shedding of his life. It is not the death of John Coffey that we collectively fear, so much as it is the face of the world; how could men consume themselves with hate for such an angel. 

We bitterly ponder, "How dare they try to shame the pure with their tarnished and hardened hearts! Who are they to destroy such a majesty?"

We ponder... and we weep. 

Mercifully, there are souls in the room that know better. As they perform the predestined execution, they pour out their love to him. John Coffey is told to focus on their love. Only on the love. 

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This is what we must do. 

We must love devastatingly.

In the midst of blackened souls and darkened nights.

We must love with abandon.

We must hurt for the hurting.

We must sigh for the sorrowful.

We must also pity the hateful... 

and ask God for the courage to love them too. 

In Haste: Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall Past Lives

2012-02-15T19:55:00.000+01:00

There's some crazy looking, red-eyed monkey-men ghosts in Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives. There's also a fair amount of still photography, slow conversations, television watching, and catfish sex in the flick.

I've been contemplating to myself, demanding,

Dante, you sir, must decide what you think of this here film.

You must, you must, you must!

But I just can't seem to come to any consensus.

From what I can gather, the film is looking notsomuch at the "lives" of Mr. Uncle Boonmee, but rather, at the soul of Thailand. I think that's the point. All the different iterations of being that the consummate Thai soul has been about. When I think about the film with that lens, it's pretty interesting, right?

Right?

Li'l baby Willems

And let us not forget that those first few scenes with the red-eyes were legitimately creepy. I was taken aback, somewhere between fear and intrigue. Good stuff, I reckon...

...but then the red-eyes come into the light, and it just looks like a dark skinned Willem Dafoe conceived by a herd of evil marmosets. That kinda killed the magic for me, like walking behind closed doors at Disneyland. It ain't worth it.

I also cannot not speak of this bestiality incident. I found it to be an unpleasant experience. Simply put, I'd rather not behold such visions.

So where does that leave me? What am I supposed to do with this?

(you must, you must, you must!)

Thankfully, I was freed from my own drilling conscience of concerned decision-making by today's spoonful of politics. I must briefly explain.

Rick Santorum is the new GOP front-runner. Good for him. Apparently, this week the military just made some sort of executive decree that women can now fight in more active ways in military service. Mr. Santorum is frustrated about this. He spoke out against the policy change. I listened to him, and felt like he made some rather realistic concerns come to the surface. I thought that maybe he had a point... but then I heard an army general speak of the reasons for the policy change. They sounded legitimate too.

Then I blinked. And blinked again. Once more for good measure.

With my eyes sufficiently lubricated, I could now think clearly. I don't know a thing about fighting wars in the modern age. How could I? Maybe Mr. Santorum knows more than I. Maybe not. Maybe he just feels like he needs to take a stance on it because he's seeking the highest office in America. He is setting himself up to be a leader, so he has to have a strong opinion on everything, right?

I think not.

Perhaps we should feel free to not have an opinion on every topic under the blue sky. As for women fighting in combat, I hereby raise my hand as one who knows not any answer. I feel comfortable with that decision.

As for Uncle Boonmee Who apparently Can Recall His Past Lives, I don't have a verdict.

Some stuff happens, and then it's over. Who am I to judge?

Like Tears in Rain

2012-02-12T17:35:00.002+01:00

Today I discovered that Blogger has upgraded their infrastructure for these blogs -- which led me to discover that I've left a rather lump sum of unfinished drafts of blog entries. As I was purveying, with an air of amnesiac wonder, the fountain of un-blog-ed souls, I came to a curious entry entitled Verse One.

This particular entry started with what sounds now like a very cliched phrase, It began like any romance... What was I doing writing some crappola like that!? I had no idea. The draft date says July of last year, but for the life of me, I could not conjure up a recognition of this multi-paragraphed fable. So I read on.

The story I wrote was indeed the beginnings of some sort of romance. Through reading, my memory revved up enough to note a vague comprehension that this was supposed to be part of something much larger. Surely, I told myself, I would only ever write the phrase, It began like any romance, as some sort of clever ploy to fool the doldrums of the audience's calibrated ear. Surely!

But nothing was striking. I couldn't wrap my head around what this blasted document was supposed to be introducing! Perhaps, I inquired of my inner man, 'tis a ditty I wrote whilst mostly asleep. Surely this, and nothing more.

Slowly and slowlier still, I found myself a man apart from my own being! Who was this chap that a merely seven/eight months ago wrote this off behind my back!

What sort of man was I??!!!

And by the grace of God, I found another lost draft simply named, outline. It was quite simple. It stated:

Verse One: Romance
Verse Two: Daughter
Verse Three: Death
Verse Four: Obsession
Verse Five: Inception
Verse Six: School
Verse Seven: Evolution
Verse Eight: Faith
Verse Nine: Doubt
Verse Ten: Conquest
Verse Eleven: Other Science
Verse Twelve: Non-Transferable
Verse Thirteen:Epilepsy
Verse Fourteen: Romance
Verse Fifteen: Betrayal
Verse Sixteen: Death Again
Verse Seventeen: Starting Point

Ah yes! Sweet relief rushed in! Everything flooded back. Last Summer I pondered an idea for writing something of a chapter novel on this here blog. The rough story was that of a very devoutly religious computer geek who creates an artificially intelligent computer who convinces the nerd's daughter that there is no God. Ah by jove -- hooray! It's regularly ol' mega-purpose-of-life-questioning me, yippee!

At any rate, for posterity's sake, so that I don't again fall into the wretched pit of self-doubt and Kafkaesque metamorphosis, here lies the original unfinished first chapter of my unnamed chapter novel. *photos from Short Circuit were added today, for good measure*

OH -- BTW -- This is a gratuitously boring read. I wouldn't actually recommend reading it... see the title above? -- this is a post which exists only to not-exist. Understand? Are we on the same page yet? I hope so...

Really, don't read it.

VERSE ONE: ROMANCE

It began like any romance, though perhaps one could say the roles were reversed. Jennifer Brighton was the type of woman who was undeniably pretty and indisputably extroverted, yet she had the type of face that lesser folks ridiculed as bitchy. This insult was to set right the injustice of the world. Beautiful women had enough luck to be beautiful, they ought not also be gifted with genius as well.

Desmond Dore was skinny and blended in. This was about as far as any casual acquaintance could get while trying to harvest up a description of the young scientist. He was not shy, nor did he particularly make choices in life to remain the observer rather than the center stage actor, it just so happened that life seemed to prefer him to be a sideline character. Once in fifth grade he accurately guessed the exact weight of a pumpkin, and won the right to take it home. As far as he could remember, that was the only time he garnered much attention from the outside world. He often vividly remembered the envious looks on his classmates faces when he was announced the estimator champion. Desmond could never be too sure whether soaked in those jealous glares with joy or fear. Somehow, it was both. Trembling glee.

College, being a natural ghetto of young, fertile fleshy minds, was a ripe environment for the rumor-mill of how a guy like Desmond Dore could end up with a chick like Jennifer Brighton. This question bounces through the mind of any single man who spots a couple in which the woman is more than two inches taller than her lover. Desmond was not a short man. He was, once again, quite average in the height department. A sure 5'10", no doubt. Maybe a 5.10.5 on a clear day. With a sombrero he could fake six feet, sure. But Miss Brighton, taught by her mother, father, and subsequently grandmother, branched over Desmond with her 6'2" measure. Being the elegant, studiously domineering woman she was, Jennifer would seldom skip an opportunity to execute her beauty to the utmost with the utilization of only the finest heels. And so the incredulous looks and questions abounded, "What on earth did Desmond Dore do to garner the affection of the brilliant bombshell?"

He needed help. Desmond was by no means a physicist, but his interests required some leverage in that department, so it was on his conscience to familiarize himself with that genre of information. The problem was, he was flailing in the subject, nearing failing. So he enrolled to get free tutoring. It just so happened that earlier that semester, Jennifer, due to an unfortunate happenstance, found herself refusing to grovel at the mercy seat of the dean. For a lesser student, the dean would have found a harsher punishment, but being privy to her academic potential, not to mention being cheered by her magnanimous beauty, doled at a simple sentence -- 15 hours a week of tutoring. And so they met.

Desmond never tried anything fancy with Jennifer -- he was, from the very beginning, oddly confident that he didn't have to. Say what you will about the man, but his memory is immaculate. He could, at any struggling moment, bring to mind at demand the moment he knew he won her.
-----
She was notably upset that day. No tears. But her nose dripped with consistent volume.

He wanted to know what was wrong. She so seldom should any vulnerability, that the thought of something tarnishing her day was something of a mystery.

P.S. Man alive! That robot Johnny 5 & Ally Sheedy dance sequence is creepy! I watched Short Circuit all the time when I was a wee-chap! Gross.

Sunday Inquiries: #3.5

2012-02-12T14:56:00.003+01:00

Inquiry #3 was my general question of the overall motive of Satan, the one formerly known as Lucifer.

The quandary is not one that I imagine will ever be answered fully this side of Paradise (and perhaps not on the other side either), and that, truth be told, is okay. I don't need to know that stuff. Not really.

But what does seem a much more currently pressing dilemma, is this aspect of the 'Serpent' from Genesis, Chapter 3.

There is no mention whatsoever of this swarmy slitherer in chapters one or two. If he is, in fact, the very same being that we know as Satan, which Church tradition tells us was the head of all the angelic realm before he chose to fall, then why is there no note of his creation? We know that in the first sentence of the Bible God created 'the heavens' and 'the earth', but the Hebrew word for heavens can be a tricky one to define, and, it would seem, does not necessarily have to include the angelic realm as the indwelling residents of that 'heavens'.

Then along comes chapter three, and immediately we are gobsmacked with a villain: Now the serpent was more crafty than any other beast of the field that the Lord had made. From that resume, we seemingly can conclude:
     a) the serpent is one of the 'beasts of the field'
   b) the serpent was made by God
   c) apparently he was a smart lad

So far so good -- no problems there... but the very next verse throws me for a loop: He said to the woman, "Did God say, 'You shall not eat of any tree in the garden'?"
     d) apparently the serpent can talk

This is where the story breaks from what we know of the world. I've never watched any sort of youtube video in which a 'beast of the field' just went on up and talked in full sentences.

In my mind's eye, the obvious solution is that the description of this 'Serpent' is told as an analogy for something else. But what, exactly? What did he look like? Was he a man? Was he half-human, half-snake? Was he Trogdor? We get no details on the nature of this creature.

Being raised as a boy in Sunday School that this 'Serpent' was in fact Satan taking the story somewhat allegorically is not difficult. Perhaps Beelzebub is a shape-shifter.

No matter... but then...

The story unfolds as we expect; the serpent's craftiness exceeds that of Adam and Eve and the two lovebirds eat of the fruit and incur God's wrath.

The exegesis of the story again gets tricky, however, when we are greeted with God's curse to the 'Serpent':

The LORD God said to the serpent,

"Because you have done this,

cursed are you above all livestock

and above all beasts of the field;

on your belly you shall go,

and dust you shall eat

all the days of your life.

I will put enmity between you and the woman,

and between your offspring and her offspring;

he shall bruise your head,

and you shall bruise his heel."

Now, I've ingested a wealth of fantastic sermonizing on the latter half of this curse. Jesus is said to be the offspring of the woman, whom Satan will bruise at the point of Christ's crucifixion, but Jesus will hurt him far worse by his resurrection. That's a lovely scene and fantastic foreshadowing: huzzah!

But what of the first half of the curse? It sounds to my plebian ears like a literal curse. What does it mean that the serpent will have to writhe on its belly, eating dust? If this is Satan, was he still rewarded something above that of the animal kingdom before the sinful seduction of man?

The simplest way to read the curse is literally, in which case we have the story of 'how the snake came to be'.

Why is this story veiled so?

It seems almost as if God does not desire for us to know the historical, literal depiction of how the fall came about... why tell the story with such apparent symbolism?

And again, if the curse is for Satan, who is his offspring? Can Satan reproduce? How could that be? Who is his seed? Nephilim? The Antichrist? That all sounds a bit too conspiracy theoristy to me.

I don't know how to interpret this stuff, but I do know one thing:

I hate snakes... and I have Biblical backing!
WHACKING DAY 2012 -- KILL 'EM ALL!!

Sunday Inquiries: #4

2012-02-12T13:43:00.001+01:00

The philosophical battle between cessationists and continuationists (wikipedia has a decent article on the meaning and difference between the two>> here), is an overly complex, pedantic exercise.

As for me, the question is pretty darn simple.

Obviously, miraculous, 'charismatic' gifts of the Spirit were in full display during the first century of the Christian church. The Book of Acts speaks immensely to it, as does Paul's own words on numerous occasions.

It can be easily established that God has given, at times, supernatural gifts to his children through which He displays His power and edifies His church. This is a New Testament reality.

No Biblical text states that the times of the gifts of the miraculous are over. For me to jump onboard cessationism, I would need to see this concept explicit in Scripture. Furthermore, for those who hold rigidly to a classical form of cessationism, they must work to disproof and speak against every single apparent experience of a charismatic gift, no? As a whole, since Scripture doesn't speak to the end of gifts, the burden of proof rests on them.

Although I have seen with my own eyes spiritual gifts abused and/or faked, I am one ever inclined to embrace the Good Ghost's active and punctual involvement in the lives of His servants. He's a Ghost, after all, of course He's going to be esoteric and difficult to define and comprehend!

So -- if we establish that the charismatic Gifts of the Spirit remain with us today, where do we draw the line?

We, and I count myself foremost among these participants, think spiritual gifts and actions as things which are always about building up the good and restoring relationship and bearing in reconciliation.

But we have two very prominent New Testament cases that point to something else. Certainly it is fair to say that Peter and Paul are the two main human protagonists that the Book of Acts periscopes in on; both of them commit miraculous actions that we could characterize as CURSES.

FIGURE ONE:

Ananias and Sapphira

Acts 5:1-11

This relatively well-known story tells of how a church-y couple sell their home and lie about the amount they are giving to the church. Ananias lies, and Peter calls him out, exclaiming, "Ananias, why has Satan filled your heart to lie to the Holy Spirit... Why is it that you have contrived this deed in your heart? You have not lied to men but to God." The very next verse states, When Ananias heard these words, he fell down and breathed his last.

Okay, maybe one could make the claim that Ananias merely had a heart-attack, or that God struck him dead directly --- that it was not done through the will of Peter. But then Sapphira comes tip-toeing in. When she too lies to Peter, he lambasts her with his response. "How is it that you have agreed together to test the Spirit of the Lord? Behold, the feet of those who have buried your husband are at the door, and they will carry you out."

The text continues: Immediately she fell down at his feet and breathed her last.

Again, perhaps Peter merely had foreknowledge of her death. He may have not been the conduit through which God doled out his justice. But the story ends on a strange note. Verse eleven states cleanly, And great fear came upon the whole church and upon all who heard of these things.

FIGURE TWO:

Elymas the Magician

Acts 13:4-12

Paul and Barnabas are in Cyprus. They come across this magician fella, who apparently is against the Word from the outset, trying to convince the Proconsul to turn away from the truth. The scripture specifically refers to Paul being filled with the Holy Spirit when he blasts the little man, boasting, "You son of the devil, you enemy of all righteousness, full of deceit and villainy, will you not stop making crooked the straight paths of the Lord? And now, behold, the hand of the Lord is upon you, and you will be blind and unable to see the sun for a time." Paul is not mincing words here, and his aim clearly is to deflate entirely Elymas' efforts to stop the spread of the Gospel. Blindness for a period, apparently is the device that will fetch the needed results.

The story continues according to Paul's plan: Immediately mist and darkness fell upon him, and he went about seeking people to lead him by the hand. Then the proconsul believed, when he saw what had occurred, for he was astonished at the teaching of the Lord.

Paul's indictment on Elymas followed by the sudden blindness upon the man clearly served a direct purpose; Elymas' efforts to convince the Proconsul away from Paul fails. The Gospel is spread as folks are "astonished" at God's story.

Likewise the sudden deaths of Ananias and Sapphira bring a certain new fear and respect for God and His eminently active Spirit amongst the brethren of the church.

So yes, the judgments of these supernatural outpourings from Peter and Paul served very concrete purposes, but nevertheless the question is still begging to be inquired:

Have our Christian leaders been given the authority

to curse and blight for the sake

of the unhindered continuance of the Gospel?

Is supernatural cursing a spiritual gift?

Endgame Payout

2012-02-12T11:28:00.001+01:00

They wandered, blind, through the streets...

My eyes were just beheld by the mystery that is the new trailer for Beyond the Black Rainbow.

Behold for yourself.

The trailer was reminiscent for me of other strange films that promise to take me somewhere wholly new, wholly other. The bait of such a marketing slogan might not coo to many, but it does hold a deeply seductive resonance with me.

It calls to me from the highlands, from beyond the meadow and past the plains.
It whispers to my soul, promising:

(in a mechanical, yet soothingly erotic female voice)

Dante, there are new ideas here. They live, grow, and reproduce here.

Yes, they reproduce merrily.

I alone know what hope this enraptures in that shell of yours, small man.

I know the secret yearnings in your heart's mind.

Dante, come and see, witness and take note --

the time of revelation has been found here.

Behold.

And like a weightless Garfield, levitating towards the fumes of lasagna, I must quench my thirst.

I must behold.

And so I do...

...and inevitably am disappointed.

The problem with these films Beyond the Black Rainbow (I'm assuming), Cube, Begotten, Into the Void, and to a lesser extent Pi, is that they can never actually take us to that place of total epiphany and wonder. They may show us obscure images and sounds, but they ultimately hold little meaning. There's nothing by which I can cultivate my truth-garden with --- truth-garden--- hmmm... I may hold onto that phrase.

They all end the same way: the protagonist either escapes the 'new-ness' or enters into it.

Take for example, Cube.

Cube is a jolly fun film. A bunch of folks wake up in a cube. They have no memory of how they got there. They don't know each other. But, by jove, there appears to be a paneled exit. Sadly, however, for the amnesiac band of outsiders, this panel leads to yet another cube, and it just so happens that this cube is booby-trapped, deadeningly! And so it goes; each cube has a different booby-trap, and each cube has an exit leading to another like-minded cube. That's just how it goes.

The film is a bit of fun just for trying to decipher which of the ragtag team will make it out alive, and indeed there is a level of enjoyment in beholding the various ways the renegades get impaled and the like, but the bottom line question of the film always remains --- what is this place, why is it here, and why were these people chosen?

Those are also the questions of our existence:

What is this place?

Why does it exist?

Why do we exist here?

I find those questions to be a bit more intriguing than the more generic "Who am I?" and, "Why am I here?" --- the focus is less on us, the microscopic, and more on the creation as a whole along with the Creator, the macroscopic.

Spoiler Alert:

As it is always the case, one dude or dudette (in this case, handicapped dude) escapes the mystery. Yep, he escapes, and the movie ends.

The films themselves can never enter into these unknown realms entire. They can maybe touch them, but inevitably they have to leave.

Ultimately,

I am left lacking.

We can't know the mind of God. We can't figure him out or understand his motivation. Every time we try, we'll come up pathetically short.

Nevertheless, I can help but give a thumbs up to those aestheticians who try, eh?

They wandered blind, through the streets;

they were so defiled with blood

that no one was able to touch

their garments.

Lamentations 4:14

Last Wish

2012-02-01T21:37:00.006+01:00

As I lay dying,

I turned to the Father of my Father.

I asked;

Lord, you know all things,

and I know that you love me.

You have blessed me with a life abundant.

All my ways have been blessed,

my efforts never waged in vain.

But this still I hold in wonder,

and bring to you now;

I am old now,

and all I want is to drink from the cup of memory,

to dwell in my many merry moments gone by.

Why do they remain hidden from me?

Forever it has been this way.

I know I was once born from out of my mother,

but where is that experience,

where is that charm?

Long ago in time it was lost to me.

Maybe from the beginning it was so.

I long to reflect upon the day I met my bride,

to observe the smile on her face,

to touch the fabric that covered her body,

to smell her youth and joy,

but this too you have hidden from me.

Why?

Therein I waited on my back. Helpless.

In mercy, the voice of the one I love

came to me.

Such a voice echoed in my ears.

Saying:

Little child,

do you remain still so blind,

still so lacking in discretion?

Are you so stupidly brave,

as to believe they were yours to take hostage?

The day of your birth,

do you dare claim its ownership?

Did your mother not weep at your coming?

Did your father not falter in his knees?

Did your brother not boast to his friends?

Did your sister not pester to see your form firsthand?

Should you steal away the day from them,

in your greed do you dare keep it for yourself?

I sighed, knowing in my heart the words soon to follow.

The voice continued,

Saying:

Little child,

I gave you life,

why are you not yet content?

The world

and all that is in it

is mine.

My ears went deaf then.

Knowing my time was running short, I dared further,

Asking:

Lord, you know all things,

and I know that you love me.

Time and tide are not mine,

they are not pieces for purchase.

Knowing this now,

I ask,

I plead,

I beg,

Would you give me just one memory?
One to know completely
-- in and out and between --

Can I hold just one moment in my soul,

so that I can

hear

see

touch

taste

smell

once again

that beauty which I knew?

I beg for this mercy from

the Keeper of Promise

and Holder of all Reason.

I exhaled and waited.

Many nights I waited longingly.

Then I smelled his presence.

My ears heard nothing,

but my mind perceived the message.

Little child,

I love you,

and to this I shall always remain.

If you received what you ask for,

if a moment you could embrace,

if time was a compass in your hand,

if the sun set on your command,

so that you could fully know the breadth of one instant,

then you would cease to see

cease to hear

cease to taste

cease to touch

cease to smell.

You would be devoured,

precious child

you would not survive.

You would be master of that place,

and your soul would grow ever dim.

Above all, you would love the moment,

and although you thought you were its arbiter,

of this idol you would never cease to worship.

I shuddered.

Another presence entered. I could taste its odor on my tongue.

My breath quivered and I began to gasp for air. For strength.

I could feel the second presence pressing in on me,

decaying the last of my being.

I shuddered.

I could then see him,

the Father of my Father.

and he comforted me,

Saying:

If I gave this to you,

if you really had it,

you would feel everything that could be felt.

This burden is too much for you,

O' Little Child.

I have forever kept time in motion,

for there is not a point in time's turning,

that a child does not go hungry,

that a heart does not break,

that a soul does not turn dark,

that the earth does not groan.

Yes

I have hidden deep memory from you,

My Son,

so that you could know mercy,

accept grace,

and be reborn

again

and

again.

Beloved,

rest now.

I closed my eyes

and died.

Sunday Inquiries: #3

2012-01-28T19:04:00.001+01:00

Let's call him Baal-zebub, which, literally translated refers to the Phoenician god Baal plus the word zebub, which means Dung.

This question is quite simple, and will take very few words to depict. I just want to get to the bottom of this shit-faced villain.

My simple question is this:

Who the hell is this Satan, and why does he hate us so damn much?!!

As Christians, we must stay persistent in not-falling into a form of Manichaeism. This is the religion St. Augustine was converted from, which essentially says that Goodness is at eternal odds with Darkness. The two are equal forces and worthy opponents. Our God is far far mightier than Lucifer, the one He created, so it really isn't a contest that can be weighted; God wins. That's the point.

And in knowing that; in knowing that WE can know that, how is it that Satan came to fall? How could the most marvelous of creation be so arrogant as to think he can beat the creator of all things?

Something isn't right here. The data doesn't make sense.

How could the most brilliant of creation be so naive to think he could win a battle against the his very maker?

I don't understand...

Adam and Eve had a serpent. They at least had a scapegoat. Who does Satan have? What slithering beast can he point to as treasonous? When he fell from grace there was no precedent of evil. There was nothing yet called evil...

And yet now we have for ourselves an arch-villain.

Jesus speaks devastatingly to his critics in the book of John. He says:

You are of your father the devil, and your will is to do your father's desires. He was a murderer from the beginning, and has nothing to do with the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he lies,, he speaks out of his own character, for he is a liar and the father of lies. 8:44

Who did he murder from the beginning? What was his first crime?

How is it that his character is rotten? How did it become that way? Did God put that in him? How could he choose for himself such a stupid resolution? Knowing as much as he did, far more than we do, why did he not choose life? Why was he not satisfied with being the head of the host of angels? Why, why, why?

Amidst the prophet Zechariah's many visions, we see that Satan, the adversary, is our accuser. Why? Why does he choose to hate us? Both Ezekiel and Isaiah may speak to his fall (Isaiah 14:12-24, Ezekiel 28:13-17) but who among us is renown enough to interpret these passages accurately?

The devil plays a fundamental role in the John's vision of Revelation. The prophet speaks exactly to this adversary's final judgment.

I just don't get any of it.

What is his hope? What is his plan? What does he think he can accomplish against an omnipotent creator? How did he come to think that betrayal would be in his self-interest? Surely he knows the prophecy, knows that he has not the power to avoid it, right? Or are we mere mortals smarter than him?

God is keeping much of this story from us, I reckon.

Maybe someday we will know exactly how all these things came to be..........

.....but I doubt it.

Sunday Inquiries: #2

2012-01-28T16:23:00.004+01:00

Right before the rough turn the plot is destined to take in Steve McQueen's newest film Shame, Sissy Sullivan comforts her brother:

We're not bad people. We just come from a bad place.

For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of him who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. And not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first-fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies.

Romans 8:20-23

Three years prior to his decision to write and direct Shame, first-director Steve McQueen took on the story of Bobby Sands, leader of a prisoner strike. He was a member of the British Parliament, yet sent to prison for his activity in IRA related protests. He pioneered a hunger strike in prison, making five demands. Wikipedia lists those demands as:

the right not to wear a prison uniform;
the right not to do prison work;
the right of free association with other prisoners, and to organize educational and recreational pursuits;
the right to one visit, one letter and one parcel per week;
full restoration of remission lost through the protest.

Sands and two other men lost their lives over those five points. They seem reasonable to me. They don't seem ridiculous, and they don't seem like they were worth the lives of the three men it took to gather the attention of British legislation.

When did men become so cruel to one another? When did Bobby Sands' life become so worthy of disregard. It took him sixty-six days of fasting to die.

Why are we so evil as a people? Why do we hate with such zeal? Why do feel such wretched pains inflicted?

It seems we were, from the beginning, fit (or destined) to bear evil in our hearts, minds, bodies and souls. The first man born from a woman, Cain, became a murderer. That's not a good way to start.

So why has God let us (let us be conditioned) become what we are -- sick-minded sinners, through and through? generation after generation... the sins of the Father expanded and re-imagined by sons and grandsons.

There was a time when God was fed up with us, when he seemed through with us.

The story of Noah and the flood is back-dropped by a rage of sin and violence.

Genesis 6:5

The Lord saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth,

and that every intention of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually.

But the text goes on to speak of the mind of God -- and that's where I get confused.

And the Lord was sorry he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him to his heart.

So the Lord said,

"I will blot out man whom I have created from the face of the land,

man and animals and creeping things and birds of the heavens,

for I am sorry that I have made them."

Genesis 6:6-7

How can God have regret? Didn't he know what he was doing when he created Adam? Didn't he see this coming? He let the serpent walk around in the Garden. I don't understand... how can God be regretful of what he's done?

How does God experience emotion? -- particularly regret?

And if He did feel this regret somehow, this low sense for having created such an abominable race, why did He not start over? Why not make all things new without sacrificing Himself?

I reckon the question comes down to:

Is this the world that really brings You the most glory, Lord? Wouldn't it have been better if you created a people that wouldn't move You to regret?

We groan.

Richard Wurmbrand spent a better part of his life in Soviet-run Ukrainian gulags due to his unrepentant faith in Christ Jesus. The nightmares he tells in several of his books are nearly unimaginable. Reading his memories, we can see the great depth of human depravity exercising its most talented machinations of imagination for the torment of the soul.

One story remains with me. In Wurmbrand's book, In God's Underground, he speaks of a country priest who is vigorously tortured for months on end. By the end of it, this beaten man tells Wurmbrand, "I have suffered more than Christ." I can't imagine the horrors a man, indwelled by the Holy Spirit of promise, must have suffered in order to say such words.

Just a few verses later in Romans Chapter Eight, Paul dares to write these words:

And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good,

for those who are called according to His purpose. Verse 24

All things work together for good... really? How? How do we say that to the man tortured in the gulag beyond any reason? How do we say that when You Yourself have been sorry for creating us?

My question is an age-old variant on the anthem of Why do bad things happen to good people? But, in knowing the usual answers, I re-state it this way:

If You regretted what You had done,

why did You persevere with us?

And

How much longer must we groan?

Please, make all things new again. Please.

Then I heard what seemed to be the voice of a great multitude, like the roar of many waters and like the sound of mighty peals of thunder, crying out,

"Hallelujah!

For the Lord our God

the Almighty reigns.

Let us rejoice and exult

and give him the glory,

for the marriage of the Lamb has come,

and his Bride had made herself ready;

it was granted her to clothe herself

with fine linen, bright and pure" ---

for the fine linen is the righteous deeds of the saints.

Revelation 19:6-8

Sunday Inquiries: #1

2012-01-22T23:53:00.001+01:00

I am a man made both mighty and humble by inquiry. The attention of this new series of posts is to ask a question of the LORD on Sundays that perplexes me. You are welcome to join me. God knows my heart, and therefore knows that I do not inquire of him in a combative manner, but that my aim is only to know him, his imagination, and his will, deeper still.

And there has not arisen a prophet since in Israel like Moses,

whom the Lord knew face to face,

none like him for all the signs and the wonders that the Lord

sent him to do in the land of Egypt, to Pharaoh and to all his servants and to all his land,

and for all the mighty power and all the great deed of terror

that Moses did in the sight of all Israel.

Deuteronomy 34:10-12

Let's start with a bang --- perhaps something of a second big bang. The bang that was Jesus' coming into the world in first century Palestine.

Beyond the questions of why God chose to come incarnate at that stage in history (Israel in 4BC had no mass communication! ~ Jesus Christ, Superstar), is the question of the environment he chose to place himself into.

The Jewish people of course had been looking for a Savior, a prophet like Moses, since the very death of Moses himself. Hundreds upon hundreds of angst filled years waiting for the Redeemer. The Torah ends with the above quoted lines from Deuteronomy, the capstone of the five book history, which was mostly compiled by Moses himself. But things from a historic standpoint get sticky when you realize Moses dies before the end of the book. Someone added the ending. It is often conceived that this ending tag that includes Moses' death as well as the line, not arisen a prophet since was added to the book much much later in history. Maybe a thousand years later.

Anyway, this all bears some level of significance because the entrance of Jesus the Christ into the world harbors so many parallels to that of Moses. Highest among these parallels is that of the government infanticide brought on by the ruling parties of the day.

King Herod was fearful of the Jewish hope of a Warrior Savior. When some wise dudes came knocking on his door telling him about the star they saw, he feigned love, only to hide his intense fear and hatred for the baby that would be king.

Then Herod, when he saw that he had been tricked by the wise men,

became furious, and he sent and killed all the male children in Bethlehem

and in all that region who were two years old or under,

according to the time that he had ascertained from the wise men.

Matthew 2:16-17

The text also tells us that Joseph, Mary, and Jesus (Oxford comma? What a quagmire!) escape the bloody hands of Herod by sneaking into Egypt, and remained there until the death of Herod. This was to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet, "Out of Egypt I called my son." Matthew 2:15

My smart-as-a-whip-which-went-through-medschool-passed-the-bar-and-was-utilized-on-numerous-occasions-by-indiana-jones-himself fiancée (because frankly, I don't know why whips are supposedly smart...), in speaking about such things made a valid point; which was:

Why did so many children have to die for Jesus to come into the world?

We long can speak of Jesus' sacrifice for us (and for obviously good reason), but what of the sacrifice of the families who suffered the murder of their child for the sake of Christ?

Then was fulfilled what was spoken by the prophet Jeremiah:

"A voice was heard in Ramah,

weeping and loud lamentation,

Rachel weeping for her children;

she refused to be comforted, because

they are no more."

Matthew 2:18

Sure, God didn't "cause" the death of those kids, in that Herod's plan was not something that was done in adherence to God. Nevertheless, surely the Lord could have come in such a way into this earth that so many would not have to suffer the consequences of the ushering in of the Lord of hosts.

So why did it play out like this? Why did Jeremiah's words need be fulfilled in this?

In the days of Moses, Pharaoh commanded all his people,

"Every son that is born to the Hebrews you shall cast into the Nile..."

Exodus 1:22

Was it so important to God that Jesus come into the world just as Moses, under direct persecution of the innocent? Why?

If the star did not shine, if the Wisemen didnt't see the star, then the children would not have been butchered. So then why did God see to it that his son would come into the world this way? No one can bring comfort to Rachel.

So we know that Christ's blood was shed for you and me, but what of the blood that was shed for him?

The Top 33 Lingering Fragrances of 2011

2012-01-15T17:47:00.011+01:00

But thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumph in Christ, and manifests through us the sweet aroma of the knowledge of Him in every place. 2 Corinthains 2:14

An incredible year of grace, joy, failures(,) and discoveries (oxford comma -- important or no? I can never decide) these past months have been. As for me and my ways, 2011 could be split into two parts pretty cleanly. There are the smells that belong to the past, and the overwhelming olfactory aroma of the hope and promise of the future. The smells of a bygone era, and the smells of a journey not yet quite understood.

This is a seriously long list, but in many respects it was a long year, with many things worth reconsidering as time moves on. If you've stumbled upon here, I hope some of these instances that brought me various emotions and experiences you too can allow yourself to stop and smell for a time. Uživaj! (enjoy)

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33. I Don't Believe in If Anymore song by Roger Whitaker

Besides the deep-seated conviction when I watch this video that Roger Whitaker belongs in Middle-Earth, wherein he was bred from some sort of chicaneric off-creation between elf, hobbit and youth counselor, I can't help but be energized by this song's smiley war-torn melody. Maybe it's just Roger's aquamarine button-down, but I can't peel my eyes away from all the what-ifs and wtfs of this jazzercise-disco-spectacular, spectacular.

Watch the youtube video of the song here.

32. Hellfire song from the film The Hunchback of Notre Dame

There seemed little reason to check into Disney films after The Lion King. The formula that returned the magic kingdom to a second era of golden animated films was becoming its own bane. Song and dance and princess and talking animal will forever appeal to the li'l folks who have not yet gobbled up years of entertainment, but for the age-ed, the formula becomes nothing more than vague repetition... and Stephen King taught me long ago that, "Hell is repetition." It is because of that waning interest in all non-Pixar Disney endeavors that led me to avoid Hunchback for so long. By happenstance I came upon it this summer, only to discover a vast world of Catholic guilt, indignation, and scoldering envy! The battle of religion as power versus love as grace wields the plot of this fair adaptation, and makes for the best villain song Disney has ever offered.

Watch the musical scene here.

31. Voldemort character from the Harry Potter book series

I admit, I still know very little of the Harry Potter universe that Miss Rowling has devised, and, up until this past year, had little-to-no desire to endow myself with such affiliations. Somehow, amidst a conversation over the powers of Harry's arch-nemesis, that all changed for me. Voldemort (or as I read his name in the Slovene translation, Mrlakenstein), is a being who apparently, from my thin knowledge perceive, cannot create, but led by his immense greed and power-hunger, twists creation to his own bent. He gains his power by sucking the will and soulful offspring of others. This is intriguing to me on two fronts:

FRONT ONE -- Voldemort seems to be a mere fictionalization of Satan. It would follow then that an understanding of him as a character would be akin to a modern-day study on the thought process of who Lucifer is. Very little is actually written in the Bible about Satan. Much of what we think we know is mere tradition. But the ever-curious question remains: we know how and why Adam fell from grace, after all, he was tempted by a serpent (hmm... Voldemort has the ability to speak the language of serpents... fascinating), but what was it that drove Satan to fall; the greatest of all creation made into the darkest of light?

FRONT TWO -- Voldemort cannot make out-of-nothing. In this he is like mankind, for we are only endowed with the ability of sub-creation. So it is a practice of twisting the real into something at first only perceivable. Perhaps this is why the book of Revelation says that the mark of the beast 666 is also the mark of man.

The boy Harry has never had any interest to me --- even now as I sludge through reading the books in Slovene, I find myself often frustrated and bored with the weakling boy. It is the arch-villain who remains veiled in secrecy and prized myth. He holds the keys to deeper truths and answers. He is the reason to journey onward.

30. Tree of Life movie directed by Terrence Malick

The picture, meticulously assembled by the oft-gone visual artist, that dared to grasp the entire breath of this thing called life, was easily the most-anticipated film of the year for me. What I hoped for was an ecstasy of worship, that praised the Creator in wondrous awe. I dreamed that it would plant seeds of inquire about the function and purpose of existence that would feed my ever-exploring soul. I also feared for the production. I feared that it would turn out to be an exercise not in wonder, but in conceited 'artistry'.

Perhaps above all, I wanted an emotional experience on par with Aronofsky's The Fountain, with a story that would continue to stalk and haunt me as implicitly true to the life experience. In this writer's opinion, what we were given with Tree of life was nothing of pomp, nothing of the cataclysmic pretension of The Fountain. Rather, I saw a film of color and time. I think the key is to see the humility in the accomplishment. I don't think Tree of Life seeks to answer any questions; I'm not even positive that it asked many. Malick's work simply serves as a full-course meal. The sounds and images hope to embrace the expanse of life. He shows us as much of existence as he can dare. We are the ones left with the responsibility of what to do with the pieces.

Enrich your life with the magnificent trailer here.

29. This Too Shall Pass music video by Ok Go

I don't know what they're singing about. I don't know why it was decided that the addition of a marching band would really kick the song up a notch. I don't know why everything takes place amidst a fall-ish field surrounded by a colorful forest. I don't why the band members pop out from the green marsh. I don't know a lot of things. But when those kids join in with their melody and raw energy, who am I to do anything but grin. Somethings we're made for grinning... and grinning broadly.

Grin through the music video here!

28. The Republican Primary Race

We have come to the place where all things are sport. As far as my eyes could see (particularly in being a dogged San Diego sports fan), nothing provided me with more intense strategery and groupthink manifestos than the race for the next Republican presidential candidate. In relative earnesty (if earnestness is something that can ever be found in politics) the race began in August during the Iowa straw poll. The results of that one put Michele Bachmann at the top of the rat race. But she tends to have a scary face, so her few minutes of fame were few indeed. Then Rick Perry barged onto the scene and immediately shot to first place in the polls -- that is, until he opened his mouth. Rick Perry is a candidate better seen than heard. His debate oops-y-ing cost him his frontrunner status long ago. Then the Herman Cain train came to town, and I'll raise my hand here; I was sold. 9-9-9 was a ticket to ride! But then lady after lady strolled into newsrooms towing endless parades of affairs with the Cain man, and that blew the brakes real hard-like on his train in a mighty hurry.

Avalanched by televised debate after debate, the pundits and people alike saw Newt Gingrich as the opponent most suitable to fight Obama for the presidency, via mouth or fist. But Gingrich is an angry doughboy, and angry doughboys can only stay docile for so long; the campaign he started out as one of innovation and idea turned under fire to one of hostile snark and bite. All the long through the tides of candidates, the Mormon remained calmed. Mitt Romney. Businessman. Clean. Mormon. No one really likes him, but folks seem to collectively sigh and select him when push comes to shove and shove comes to bullet. By the time 2012 rolled in Rick Santorum gave a short gasp of hope to the anti-Romney electorate as the new great white hope, but now it seems that that ship has sailed as well. As for me, I have been indoctrinated to fall in line with Ron Paul-ism, but it really isn't about who stands for what, it's about how they play the game... and how the game plays all of us.

Laugh-out at this oh-so-entertaining Ron Paul ad!

27. WICKED musical

When looking at the world of musicals, I find myself a reticent glutton. The masculine, full-contact side of me rears its battle-scarred head at the notion of enjoying the romp and riddle of music in plot-motion. But alas, once I sit my butt down to inhale such intoxicants, I inevitably fall victim to their siren songs. Going to see this Oz-ian production with the girlfriend (now fiancee!) in December was nothing short of choking out a buck to play a rigged game ("but it's the only game in town"). Of course I was going to helplessly fall for the play. I never had a chance. This being a year of fictional universes as ardent conveyors of deep truth, the universe of Oz had much intrinsic value for me. Add to that the beautifully layered discussion surrounding the question: how can one be good in a realm devoid of goodness? What good does altruism accomplish when there's no one to acknowledge its effort? Intoxicating music sharpened by themes of relevant value creates a lasting impression. Check out these lyrics from the song No Good Deed:

One question haunts and hurts

Too much, too much to mention:

Was I really seeking good

Or just seeking attention?

Is that all good deeds are

When looked at with an ice-cold eye?

If that's all good deeds are

Maybe that's the reason why
No good deed goes unpunished

All helpful urges should be circumvented

No good deed goes unpunished

Sure, I meant well - Well, look at what well-meant did...

26. Maps music video by Yeah Yeah Yeahs

One of story's most brutal devices: time never stops. The death of a relationship, the end of an adventure, the last chord of a song --- time passes, forcing us in and out of situations and moments. You'll hear a call from time-to-time, an impassioned plea from a weak soul, "wait." Wait. I'm learning now what it means to want a moment to extend into eternity. No moment does. As soon as it's over, that very instant you are as incalculably departed from that moment as you'll ever be. You can't ever go back. That can be a virtue and a vice.

The video ends with house lights flickering back on. Time and tide sober ever passionate plea.

Cry with her here!

25. Airports and Airplanes

Going to a shrink is something like searching for a cheat code to a video-game we're always playing. And if that is true, surely airplaning is pressing pause. As much as I've learned to acquaint myself with the oddity of transport via air, I still can't really wrap my mind around it. Days are quicker, but yet hours feel longer. I sit in a chair and wait. Wait, wait, and wait; then, somehow, I arrive. I do this strange traditional rhythm. Take off my belt, my shoes, smile at the passport people, wait in one line after another. None of it really makes any sense to me. Sure, I can explain it from an objective point of view, but from my own subjective perception of reality, it just seems batshit crazy -- like the myriads of us airplaners are performing strange cultural traditions in order to be graced by the god of the air, so as to be magically transported to our secret heart's desire. Does my body age when I fly? Will that time be counted on my mortality clock? Seems like it shouldn't...

24. Helplessness Blues song by Fleet Foxes

Like a melodic vision of Candide minus the comedy, the song plays like a memory adrift inside a slow-moving dream. Candide ends with the line: "We must cultivate our gardens." Helplessness Blues ends this way:

If I had an orchard, I'd work till I'm sore
If I had an orchard, I'd work till I'm sore
Someday I'll be like the man on the screen

Listen here!

23. Sister Winter, The Friendly Beasts, Dumb I Sound songs by Sufjan Stevens

Having been sullied by the overspoilment of two (count them: one...two!) Sufjan albums last year, to ease the burden of waiting, I indulged in a furthering of Mr. Stevens' back albums. Praisefully, almost all of his past work can be streamed for free off his website. These three particular songs impress upon me the landscape of thought that Sufjan's work creates in my head. He builds environments, atmospheres, in which my mind joyfully jaunts through. For instance, the terrifyingly lonely Dumb I Sound does not so much tell a story as it does lead me to build my own lachrymose world to build flights of fancy for resident thoughts and feelings. The music of Sufjan takes me places, but then wondrously leaves me be to imagine on top of his founding work.

Spend some time building for yourself here.

22. Degeneration Street album by The Dears

The album title tells you what you need to know. The world is crumbling. The whole earth groans for redemption. All of creation aches as it slowly breaks. With energy and a hypnotic sense of melodic vitality, The Dears newest album is the forceful plea on the otherside of, "Wait." It's the scream at time to hurry. It's the hope to stay alive until the story finally turns! Get past the winter! Make it to the day when you can cultivate your garden.

Lyrics from the last song on the album:

This was the child of the Millennium

A switchblade hanging round the neck

A trail of crosses burn continuum

The path to Hell blazed in a wreck

Over and over

Get me through the night

Get me through the winter

Get me to the sun

Or we'll all be gone

Listen to the song 5 Chords off the album here!

21. Invasion of the Body Snatchers movie directed by Philip Kaufman

True horror must be about the metaphysical. What if God isn't who he says he is? What if I'm right about God's power, but wrong about his grace? What if he turned his back on us? What if he doesn't love us? What if he's not looking after us? Horror is the fear of alienation. That's why aliens work so well. They're good at that stuff. I snuck into viewing this film with a doubtful eye. But it's a doozy if you embrace it. Go ahead. Let yourself live there.

Check out the Amazing Grace riddled trailer here!

20. Bad as Me album by Tom Waits

You find yourself lost. You know you're wandering down the lost-side tracks back of mainstreet at some uncertain hour before dawn. You are vaguely aware that you're scurrying through a major metropolis, but for the life of you, you can't seem to recall which city this is. Time drifts away. You are trapped in this moment, in this place, and you're lost. All that was is a foggy memory. All that is now is this treacherous back alley. You ask yourself, 'what is next?' That's when a door swings open. With nothing to lose, you push yourself through the black chasm. Completely dark, you again find yourself tripping down an endless flight of stairs. You lose your balance. Fall. Now you tumble down and down and down. You stop. The back of your head has slammed against dirt. You feel wetness from the backside of your head scamper away from your warm body. Head facing up, you dare to open your eyes. You don't know how it is possible, but from this position you see the stars of the night sky. Bright and beautiful they glow. You smile at their color. In that space, the music of Tom Waits hollers in. It is at once obscene, baroque, melodramatic, flashy, cold, jagged, and almost in spite of it all, truthful and vulnerable.

Here's one star from the album (heavy language). Enjoy!

19. The Ongoing Performance of Glenn Beck media personality

Beck is passionate like no one else. The dude blows that whistle as loud as any Old Testament prophet. He's the energizer bunny of apocalyptic news commentators. He has for years now been the darling child of Foxnews and their ilk. But he grew and he grew and just went and outcrazied the crazies. Getting ousted by Foxnews for your political right-wingery is a feat unparalleled in channel news history. Of course, rather than shut up, the man goes on and creates his own network. GBTV, meaning: Glenn Beck TV. Crazy just got up and running. Now, I must admit to a high degree of admiration for the man and his endless supply of chalkboards. He's got passion and he's gonna quell that inner beast of burden if it's the last thing he darn well does! The problem is... he's great a casting a flag of doom, but he fundamentally fails at painting a positive picture of what the world should be. He focuses on his conspiracies so much that we seldom see what his view of a perfect world would be. How would it function? What does liberty do? I liked Beck's persona so much this past year that I created my own youtube series trying to take the good from him and applying it towards something positive. Go ahead, judge away.

Watch my Glenn Beck inspired rants here!

18. Going On music video, by Gnarls Barkley

I got essentially kicked out of my apartment. I wasn't a happy camper. I was frustrated with my situation, with aspects of my job, with my future, with how to move forward in life. God loves me. This I know. Not just because the Bible tells me so... but because I feel it in the story He has given me. This is an incredible life we all get to live. 2011 will prove to be a fundamental year in my life, because in it I was led to a door that brought me to my current fiancee. I know grace, because I don't deserve to be loved so... neither by God nor the girl. And, as is also fun-exciting-frightening, I get to be the door my fiancee walked through as well. My role changes as I walk through these doors. When all is said and done, a lot of life shall be painful for us, but it seems best to just keep dancing through -- door-to-door -- for Oh, the places we'll go!

Behold the glory here!

17. The Plague Dogs movie directed by Martin Rosen

A certain phrase has been thrust upon me at multiple times this past year: "perception is reality." As much as I dry-heave when I try to ingest that idea, it may stand as one way in which this film ends smitten with hope. My poor, poor eyeballs watched this concentration camp of a film back in February, and it immediately, without hesitation, received the honor of most depressing thing I've ever seen. Now, it has long been documented that I'm a worthless wreck when it comes to animals (and their souls). When I was fourteen, I watched my dog die over the course of an evening, and it was a pathetic, brutal thing to behold. The Plague Dogs starts with dogs escaping from a center for medical experimentation, wherein our protagonists are being tortured. That's where it begins. It ends with our brave protagonists still journeying on. By story's end, I've long lost hope for our bedraggled comrades, but maybe the point is that they haven't. I find that they're searching for a quixotic dream that simply cannot be --- but, maybe they're perception will become reality. Whatever the answer, it's a rough road...

Read my initial reaction to seeing the film.

Just watch the movie in its entirety on youtube. Come on, I dare ya!

16. Parks and Recreation tv show

There's a song my fiancee and I like to repeat to each other (hee-hee... I have one them now... them fiancees!). The line we most repeat reads, "Home is wherever I'm with you." Parks and Recreation is time spent with people you simply want to be around. There are seldom any true enemies. There are few insurmountable problems. There's just us. And as it turns out, the 'us' that the writing staff of this made, just so happen to be really funny and lovely. I love 'us'. And I want to spend more time there, in that place... with us. Because we're awesome. There's comfort food, so I presume that there can be such a thing as comfort shows, of which Parks and Rec is the foremost comfort.

Watch one of the best characters ever say something mildly amusing here!

15. Ordet movie directed by Carl Theodor Dreyer

Some films evade description. There is a plot. There is a message. There is a theme. That's all you need know. As I sit here writing, trying vainly to decipher how a film like this should be heralded and sold, I find that the best way to depict the film is that it is what it should be. It is bound by earth, but seems to be more closely akin to something of a lost, pure language. Faith. Go see it.

14. Paris, Texas movie directed by Wim Wenders

What will my story look like when I die? What will the pages display? Is the road I'm on now the same one I'll be on when the book is complete? Paris, Texas is about listening, both to the past and to the point of the story. We like to talk more than we listen. Listening takes work... and... for many of us, there is a great fear behind listening that is not there when we speak. To talk is to know the answer, to know what is about to come. To listen is to be unsure. The last act of this film features, almost exclusively, two characters telling their stories unabridged and unflinching. What courage they show. In all my relationships, I am so quick to assume I know what will be said. Even if the other says it, I've already interrupted their words by my presumed answer. I must resist this urge. I must listen deeply and with vulnerability. In that deep place, where any word fills the future with meaning, and only in that deep place, can I truly be hurt or cured. Only there do such words as "l love you" mean anything at all.

Listen to my first post on Paris, Texas here!

13. Mark Driscoll pastor

For when one says, "I folly Paul," and another, "I follow Apollos," are you not being merely human? What then is Apollos? What is Paul? Servants through whom you believed, as the Lord assigned to each. I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth. So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth. He who plants and he who waters are one, and each will receive his wages according to his labor. For we are God's fellow workers. You are God's field, God's building. 1 Corinthians 3:4-9 ESV

These verses reverberate through my head when I dare to think of leadership in the Church. Christ is our head. He is our rock, our fortress, our defense... However, being human and being bound by time we find ourselves looking for role models and leaders. Of course, we also have the awful prize of Catholic history to reflect on as to how men of certain ages have used leadership in the Church as a means to personal power. So, we who tend towards protestantism also tend to be overly cautious at anointing leaders. Nevertheless, as the age of communication and internet continues onward, a united Christian Church would be great if it could be so. Could it be? Could we be united under Christ without bickering and apartheiding? In the Old Testament we had commissioned roles for Prophets and Priests. Can we still have that sort of administration? Questions of this nature hurt my head ---- but I will say this; so far, Mark Driscoll seems to be a man above reproach. I pray he remains so... and I pray God leads him evermore into the role Christ would have for him.

Scroll through the website for Mar's Hill Church here!

12. American Gods novel by Neil Gaiman

Everything that has ever been worshiped is real. All the gods dwell on earth. The gods were once strong because man believed them to be, and so they ruled in the manner in which they desired to rule. But time has past and man being an inventive creature, has forged new ways and has begun to build altars to new creations; to new gods. Once upon a time Thor lived in antiquity, but then the men and women of the north took to the seas and came to America. Once upon a time the tribal gods of Africa ruled with vicious precision, but then the slave ships came. Once upon a time Ra was the sun, but now he has fallen into memory. American Gods envisions a landscape of vagabond gods, touring lumps of soil across America feeding off whatever faith they can summon up from white-eyed lads and lasses. The book is oodles of fun, in that it materializes the seconds of our lives. It stares back at you from its pearly white pages with a subtle, admonishing glare, asking, "What do you spend your time worshiping?"

11. Breaking Bad tv show

Television, taken as a collective whole, is perhaps the artistic agent best suited for causing long-term change in its recipients. It has the widest breath, the greatest proximity to being a surrogate caretaker of any other art form. The power of any one particular television show can be immense. Sadly, the medium is seldom wielded widely. What we have in Breaking Bad may be the wisest tv show yet created. Breaking Bad follows the trials of Walter White. It meticulously shows his decent into evil over (so far) the span of four seasons. Never has a show so slowly turned the screws on a character, constantly leaving the audience at odds with how we should view our protagonist. We have this tendency, as an audience, to want to blacken (whiten?) a character with the simple label "Good" or "Bad". Children play good guys versus bad guys; so do viewers. Is Walter White good or bad? Deep down? Why do we insist on some sort of fairy logic that people have a good or bad heart? Breaking Bad may be a lesson in how situations nudge inventive, desperate souls towards decisions of bleak consequence. Morality is real. There is objective truth. But damn, it's hard to say whether decisions make the man, or if we are in fact somehow greater than the some of our (chosen) parts.

For those who've already experienced it, re-watch the best scene of the show (thus far).

10. Rob Bell former-pastor, media personality

False prophet or modern voice of Jesus the merciful? I have half-a-heart to roll up my rug and follow Bell wherever he leads and half-a-heart to burn him at the stake. He may be the voice of postmodern belief, but man alive, can that really be a good thing? Our petty human minds have a tendency to think that things in tension must be diametrically opposed. Bell hits heavy on mercy, grace and his definition of love. Does that then mean he is undermining God's justice, his perfection, his wrath? Sure, we are loaded with deep questions and mysteries in this life. Some of those questions hurt. Hell is a hurtful topic when you start naming names. I can understand, deeply empathize, with Bell's desire to see God not as the author of Hell, but at the end of the day, does he allow for God's justice to reign. Does he put God above man, or fit God into his paradigm of how man should be loved? I don't know the answer. I have no incentive to find the answer. I will admit to some sadness. The question of modern day prophet arose in my mind as it has with Mark Driscoll, but then I read of Bell's decision to leave his role as pastor of his church. This makes me sad. In its place, he is choosing to create a television show loosely based on his own life. Sketchy...

Read my two posts on Rob Bell's newest book Love Wins HERE and HERE TOO.

9. Transcendental Man documentary directed by Robert Berry Ptolemy

Our instinct may be to write the protagonist of this documentary, Ray Kurzweil, off as a complete nutjob. That may be well true, but it doesn't take away from the gravity of the conversation. Technology is changing our lives at a constant clip. And it has gone far past the work of devices like the cotton-gin, which merely make life easier. Technology has changed not only how we live our lives, but what we choose to value in life. Kurzweil predicts that by 2029 computers will gain consciousness. Furthermore, by 2045 we, being humanity, will merge our consciousnesses with the computers. Again, you may mock the mere notion of this claim, but one thing is undeniable: technology will continue to throw our culture into new waters. We must consider all consequences, particularly Christians. How does all this affect our faith? Our daily lives are continuing more and more to be divorced from the picture of what it was to live in first century Palestine. This is going to be challenging, my friends. And exciting. But mostly challenging. But really exciting as well. And friggin' challenging. Etc.

Indulge in the trailer here!

8. MOVIE TRAILERS!!!

Over the past few years the echelon of artistry in movie trailers has dramatically risen. 2011 became for me the year when many trailers surpassed in beauty the very films they were representing. The greatness of a trailer is that it leaves your mind to fill in the gaps of story that the tone and atmosphere sculpted for us. It leaves us to do the heavy lifting. Rather than blurt on about them, I'll just provide a few links below. (I know The Social Network came out in 2010, but I didn't see it until 2011, so I'm counting it... as it may be my favorite movie trailer ever devised.) Click on the films to behold the glory.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

The Social Network

7. Dead Island Trailer video game trailer

Confusion. Horror. Awe. Remorse. Ecstasy. Pain. Epiphany. --- All these emotional responses from a game trailer. I am no gamer, and I've never played Dead Island, but this trailer is remarkable. The palette of emotions the concoction of beauty and ugliness the moment allows steals my breath. Although I've never had my family wretchedly attacked by a band of bedraggled and desperate zombies before, I'm pretty sure this is what life is... an intolerable melding of the serene with a little violent chaos sprinkled in.

WATCH IT NOW!

6. The Zeal and Imaginative Grit of J.R.R. Tolkien writer

One night not too unlike the nights that still bode over our tired souls, a young Tolkien sat roundly defending his thoughts by the shrewd and cunning C.S. Lewis. We see them now as giants of imagination's lore, but way back then they were mere friends, confounded by each other's ineptitude to comprehend the very truth of the matter. Lewis asked with his very British form of scathing bite, 'What good fairies and elves? What good myth?' Tolkien responded with a poem that was later to be enshrined with the name Mythopoeia. It begins:

To one [C.S. Lewis] who said that myths were lies and therefore worthless, even though 'breathed through silver'.

Philomythus to Misomythus

You look at trees and label them just so,
(for trees are 'trees', and growing is 'to grow');
you walk the earth and tread with solemn pace
one of the many minor globes of Space:
a star's a star, some matter in a ball
compelled to courses mathematical
amid the regimented, cold, inane,
where destined atoms are each moment slain...

I've never before cared for the expansive universes of Tolkien or Rowlings or Lucas. I thought them mere distractions from raw truth. But this year I've come to see further. There is a magic to this world -- I like to call it 'Awe'. We have normalized our minds to its presence, so we rarely acknowledge its light. But rest assured my comrades, our God has made a doozy of a creation. Later in his direct poem Tolkien stands on his apple box to defend the continuance of modern myth for the soul:

Yes! 'wish-fulfilment dreams' we spin to cheat
our timid hearts and ugly Fact defeat!
Whence came the wish, and whence the power to dream,
or some things fair and others ugly deem?
All wishes are not idle, nor in vain
fulfilment we devise -- for pain is pain,
not for itself to be desired, but ill;
or else to strive or to subdue the will
alike were graceless; and of Evil this
alone is deadly certain: Evil is.

Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate
that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate;
that seek no parley, and in guarded room,
though small and bate, upon a clumsy loom
weave tissues gilded by the far-off day
hoped and believed in under Shadow's sway.

Blessed are the men of Noah's race that build
their little arks, though frail and poorly filled,
and steer through winds contrary towards a wraith,
a rumour of a harbour guessed by faith.

Blessed are the legend-makers with their rhyme
of things not found within recorded time.
It is not they that have forgot the Night,
or bid us flee to organized delight...

Imaginations can be used for such dreadful things. Have we not an extensive history of ironic tortures devised by the machinations of men's minds? But if such a vile thing can become of the imagined mind made perverse, what power of beauty lies in it before it has been twisted to wretchedness? Tolkien concludes his poem like so, imagining the heavens we'll once come to know:

I will not walk with your progressive apes,
erect and sapient. Before them gapes
the dark abyss to which their progress tends
if by God's mercy progress ever ends,
and does not ceaselessly revolve the same
unfruitful course with changing of a name.
I will not treat your dusty path and flat,
denoting this and that by this and that,
your world immutable wherein no part
the little maker has with maker's art.
I bow not yet before the Iron Crown,
nor cast my own small golden sceptre down.

In Paradise perchance the eye may stray
from gazing upon everlasting Day
to see the day illumined, and renew
from mirrored truth the likeness of the True.
Then looking on the Blessed Land 'twill see
that all is as it is, and yet made free:
Salvation changes not, nor yet destroys,
garden nor gardener, children nor their toys...

Read the Mythopoeia in its entirety here!

5. Super movie directed by James Gunn

Sometimes the sum of the parts of a film is more than the whole. Super slips and slides along the way, but I forgive it all for the sake of a few painfully honest and backbreaking moments. The cornerstone moments of the film revolve around childlike crayon pictures of the protagonists 'perfect moments'. He draws them an gives them a place of honor so that he can always be reminded and strengthened by these few moments of grace in his life. This is not dissimilar from the Israelites needing to be constantly reminded of what God had done for them. In college, my roommates and I did this very same practice of putting hand-drawn memories on the wall for reflection and boast. We forget what grace feels like, so we must remember, remember, remember. Super's main man is like an Antonio Salieri figure; able to appreciate the type of character he'd like to be without the inherent gifts to become that man himself. Amidst this discomforting reality, our protagonist, through wretched sobbing, kneels down at the foot of his bed:

[Praying] God, please guide me. Tell me what to do. I hate you god!... I'm sorry I said that. It just seems so unfair god. Other people have goodness, they have good things, they have love and tenderness, people who care about their lives. Not humiliated at every turn. Other people have things god, even the starving children in Africa, even their parents love them. Why was I so unlucky, to have my soul born into this disgusting me? This ugly face, this hair, this hair that doesn't comb, and this dumb idiotic personality?
[Sobbing]
Other people stare at me god, I can tell. They are amazed at how something so stupid and idiotic can even exist! Why am I that? Please. God. I just want this one thing, I'll ask for one thing, I'll never ask for anything ever again. Please.

More thoughts I have had on Super can be found here.

4. Next to Me song by Sleeping at Last

The adventure is shared. There's so much yet uncertain, but I'm not worried. We'll turn hours into gardens, cultivating every shared moment.

HERE.

3. Louis C.K.comedian

The new voice. The new angle. Humility in pragmatic deconstructionism <-- that is the core of both Louie's comedy and his philosophical underpinings. I find him to be a swell chap, in that you instinctively know that he's a guy who'll sit down with you and listen to whatever it is you believe you need to say. Above all else, Louie is a brilliant observer, who can harbor both disdain and poetry within his glance. He poignantly made this perhaps most self-evident in an episode of his show this past year when he goes to visit the troops in Afghanistan, only to find that his kids shelved a baby duckling into his carry-on backpack. Amidst the hate and fear resounding between afghan and marine, there waddles out a cute duck. The world freezes. Everyone focuses on this docile little bundle of love. The duck has no enemies and no agenda. He is the ultimate diplomat of the moment. This is the thrust of Louie's charm. If only the man were curious... then we'd be getting somewhere.

Read my forever long post on Louis C.K. here!

2. To Whom it May Concern song by The Civil Wars

In the beginning we didn't have touch and smell and taste to rest our minds and hearts. We had only the universe we envisioned together; our sub-created kingdom sodded by hope and faith. "You and me and the Holy Ghost make three." Those first few months had to be gentle. There's perhaps been nothing that's come easier to me than falling in love with you. But with all things open comes fear and trembling. At any point the Lord could have taken you away (could still). I'm so happy he hasn't. So thankful. Maybe one day he will, and then I'll return to our once imagined kingdom, where God makes all things new again, and we bask in eternal embrace. I'll wait there for you. In some ways, I'll always be waiting there. I am happy.

here.

1. Surprised by Hope novel by N.T. Wright

As a child, I would find myself from time to time pondering on the subtle fear that Heaven seemed like a rather dull place. Then, being a lad raised by Godly parents, Revelation chapter 21 was read to me:

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I head a loud voice from the throne saying, "Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away." And he who was seated on the throne said,

"Behold, I am making all things new."

Revelation 21:1-5a ESV

I then, being a small lad, smiled at the concept of BOTH a new heaven and a new earth, for surely there would be a giant slide connecting the two. If I ever got bored I could just jaunt on over to that slide in paradise!

N.T. Wright speaks much to these things in his book, and much to the idea that many of us in the western Christian culture have fallen victim to a latent belief in gnosticism. He rebukes hymns that have helped sculpt our view of eternity as being a place of celestial spirit bouncing on clouds thumbing the delicate hairs of harps. By no means! Wright writes that the scripture is quite clear that our eternity is to be with God on earth in bodily (and soulily!) forms. The earth below me shall be redeemed as all of earth will be, but our nature, our very function shall not be mocked and changed in eternity gone by. We will have work to do on the new earth as we will still have physical bodies to plow with.

There is far too much content to broach in Wright's book to be mentioned here. I will leave it with this ---

---for eternity, in the presence and glow of God with us, we will cultivate our gardens.

Chapter 5

2011-10-19T21:03:00.001+02:00

The seas were calm. The boy sat, cramped in his little alcove, smooshed between the stuffed lion and the stuffed zebra, who, conceivably, were most certainly enemies.

There wasn't too much to do but sit and think. His first thought every morning was of his brother; whether he would ever see him again this side of heaven. Charlie was always supposed to be there. For you see, throughout the young lad's life, he had Charlie by his side. Charlie was his conscience. His great advocate, his true companion. Many men lead lives of intrigue, but if they have no one to relate their stories to, what's the point? Stories are only worth living if you have someone to tell them to.

In this contemplation, the boy became overwhelmed with loneliness.

Such a sensation was fraught with a deep, internal coldness. Though his skin, bundled up amongst his ark of zoo animals, remained warm to the touch, his bones shivered. What if this journey led him nowhere? What if he never finds the owner of the lock? What would his key then be? Without Charlie, who was there to live for? The boy was never particularly blessed, so he pondered... why now did he presume that the tides would change? What hope was there?

It rained.

The seas became violent.

Water seeped into the shaft of his vessel. He couldn't stay dry. The animals gained pounds in wetness.

The horrendous pattern of waves smacking and catapulting the little albatross also caused much sickness. Rounds of vomit became an inevitable aspect of these dark days.

The boy lost weight. He lost energy. He was beginning to lose hope.

And then his sail broke off.

Just like that, in an instant, a violent wind blew the whole thing sheer off its base. Gone baby, gone. This meant one thing: every inch now had to be earned. No more resting on the laurels of the wind. Rowing was the cost.

The boy began to row. He would never stop. This was his fate. This was his call. He would bleed out this voyage, putting forth the weight of his whole being; mind, emotion, will, and now body -- all for a goal he couldn't fathom.

Hope, like a commodity in high demand, seeped out of every orifice. As the stormy days lingered, what once was hope morphed into perverse thoughts of end-games. Maybe a tiger shark would come and eat him. Maybe a title wave would push him to the bottom of the sea. Such thoughts, such thoughts...

Then the sun came.

Sprinting away as if to a sudden impulse, the dark clouds parted. The seas calmed. Daylight. Sunshine. Peace.

The change alone rejuvenated the boys' audacity to hope. He rowed once more with meaning, with purpose, with direction.

He paddled and rowed onward in a hurry, concerned that if he were to for a moment relent, that the sun would deem him unworthy of her presence, and hide herself once again behind the vengeful dark of cloud. He rowed for hours and hours, perhaps days even. As long as he continued valiantly, the sun would not escape him. Daylight would not abandon him to utter darkness. The moon dared not creep up. The sun refused to go. Hour after hour. How long that time remained, this author knows not, but many have auditioned the thought that time itself had stopped so that the boy could make his way through the sea world.

He tried to hold onto the moment, the peaceful bliss of calm sun light on his brow, but his body ached. His muscles contracted and groaned. As much as he longed to continue ever onward, he knew a rebellion of flesh was upon him. He couldn't keep this up forever. His bones would forsake him.

The chance had to be tested. Since he couldn't bear to row forever, since he would have to stop eventual, the boy began to ponder how that moment was to come. He could row until he could row no more. But that was risky. Who knew what would happen to him under the reigns of such exhaustion. It would be better to stop before he reached his own end. But would the sun then betray him? The silly worry welled within his bosom.

Logic won out in the end. Surely his rowing had nothing to do with the rising and the setting of the sun. It couldn't be! The sun is no respecter of mere boys! This was not the world of the greeks, the world of fickle gods concerned with the fortitude of overly zealous young chaps. Neptune and Ra were not real.

Reason dictated the answer; the boy stopped rowing. At long first, he held his breath in frightened anticipation. The relief slowly crawled in. Moment after moment, second after second -- as his tired muscles thanked him for release, the boy whispered divine thanks, for he closed his eyes, lifted his head, and still felt the happy sun caressing his face. How sweet the feel!

With his eyes resting, basking in the contented moment, the boy's ears perked up. A familiar sound. Coming from behind.

He looked back just in time to see a pigeon fly down and squat at the edge of his tub. The bird indignantly shucked its left foot. A small scroll fluttered down off the leg onto the bow of the ship. The bird then, at once, lifted off and resigned itself back from whence it came. The boy scrambled to read the note. It read:

Charlie is dead. Please come home.

The lad passed out.

In his exhausted state of sleep, the boy dreamed many dreams. They were not about Charlie. They were not about Seattle. They were not about his adopted parents. No. They were about the future. They were about touch. They were about a certain feel, a certain elevation. He could see only intense close-ups... images seen too nearly to be composited. Grass. Flowers. A smell. A bare shoulder. And hair. Lots and lots of hair. The rest of it. The boy smiled in his sleep.

A jerk and he was awake. The lids on his eyes arose to behold quite a new view. His boat was at rest. Land.

"Life is Lived on the Streets"

2011-10-08T18:54:00.000+02:00

The statement, I have had enough may claim two polar meanings.

The first interpretation moves one to change, the other, to complacence.

There is the 'enough' that equates to a resting point, and there is the 'enough' that comes as a bellowed longing, a heaving sigh or a vindictive chant.

I am no scientist. Patience I have not, and the mathematical patience the various scientific trades require is much too heavy a cost for my feeble body and mind. Nevertheless, despite this prescient reality for me, I remain deeply interested in the theoretical and practical advances we see constantly revealed before our eyes. A question I have longed asked my friends of renown, is the question of the speed of light. For interstellar travel, it would appear necessary for us to break this supposed law to make any claims at Star Trekkian success. I have, on many occasions, been told that it can't be done; that it will never be done. The speed of light is the max-out, the end of the ball of yarn, the summation of the speedial story. I refuse, in my home of relative ignorance, to accept such a proclamation.

You see, maybe this world's had enough of being solely slower-than-the-speed-of-light. Maybe we've had our fill of that time period. Maybe it is time for a speedal game changer. And I ask you, you skeptic, you fat and satisfied; who are you to say otherwise? Tell me!

Last week quite a rufus was made by claims that some Italian neutrinos had broken the speed of light by a few nanoseconds. Apparently the evidence is pretty credible:
http://www.scientificamerican.com/article.cfm?id=particles-found-to-travel

The thing about being satisfied, about saying, I've had enough as if to speak of a permanent contendedness with the status quo, is that it ultimately constructs a belief that the story is complete.

The story is not complete. To believe otherwise is blasphemy.

We are walking through this life, through this grand story that we've been dipped into, and in our walking we must remain acutely aware that we are walking towards an end, towards the next signpost.

N.T. Wright writes in his book Surprised by Hope,

Jesus’s appearing will be, for those of us who have known and loved him here, like meeting face-to-face someone we have only known by letter, telephone, or perhaps e-mail. Communication theorists insist that for full human communication you need not only words on a page but also a tone of voice. That’s why a telephone call can say more than a letter, not in quantity but in quality. But for full communication between human beings you need not only a tone of voice but also body language, facial language, and the thousand small ways in which, without realizing it, we relate to one another. At the moment, by the Spirit, the word, the sacraments and prayer, and in those in whom we are called to serve for his sake, the absent Jesus is present to us; but one day he will be there with us, face-to-face.

When all is lost, when best friend betrays, father denounces, and nation slanders... when characters like Titus Ronet have no physical relationship to cling to --- there remains the reality --- the story isn't over. Not yet. There are more acts to be played out. There are more cards to reveal. There are more plot twists to be had, to inspire, to bring to despair, to bring to hope.

As for me, as for you, let us not grow satiated with having enough blessing.

Enough's enough. Something's got to give. Let's live to see the next plot twist. Let's live to meet our maker face-to-face... to see what the denouement has in store for us.

*The title of this post was taken from a work of graffiti I pass by almost daily here in Koper. It presents to me this unease, this uncanny sense that I must do more of this, this living.

A Conversation with Titus Ronet (with commentary)

2011-09-29T16:45:00.000+02:00

My son, eat honey, for it is good,

Yes, the honey from the comb is sweet to your taste;

Know that wisdom is thus for you soul;

If you find it, then there will be a future,

And your hope will not be cut off.

Proverbs 24:13-14

--------------

I have met for 30 minutes with Titus once a week for the past 11 weeks.

He drinks only water. I drink scotch. I like to drink in front of the patients I meet with (unless they have a history of alcoholism) to try and break their perceptions of who I should be to them. I am no father. I am a brother. I may be a priest, but I am made of flesh and blood. I am like them.

Titus infuses me with passion for my work. My heart is lit by his words to set my body free of the inconsequentials of this life. My mind is aflame to be free of the tediousness of my daily physical tasks. So far, it would seem the God of my life put Titus in front of me to save me from a wasteful existence. It would seem so... but what of his soul? Oh God, what of his soul?

Titus doesn't drink. I asked him why once, and he politely told me, like he has in every other situation, that he knew of no reason why he should escape. It is hard not to hear such words as convicting... but, I admit, I need the alcohol to keep my composure in the midst of such a man as him. I need scotch during my encounters not as a means of escape, but as a means of coping with the reality, the here and now, of Titus Ronet.

I've written down the stated words of our latest meeting as best as I could recall them.

Good afternoon, Titus.

Straight for the scotch, today, I see.

You are a handful, good sir. I need a little liquid courage whenever I come into your presence.

...

Do you think I am wrong for drinking?

You know better than to ask such a question.

Why do you say that?

How could there be a wrong decision?

Do you not believe in hypocrisy? Even those most ardent believers in relativism tend to disparage the hypocrite.

What are you doing? You are hear to talk, and you have this hope, this aspiration for yourself. You want me to repent of myself; to join your cause.

Yes. Yes I do. I won't lie to you, Titus.

No, you save the lies for yourself.

That's not fair.

Take another shot, Doc.

You think I'm a hypocrite? Is that it? You muddle me together with all your past hurts and experiences. All religion is the same. All men have licentious motives. All men only want. You cannot do this; you cannot simply number me among their count.

Hypocrisy is a two-step process, no?

How do you mean?

A hypocrite performs two actions. First he states a conviction, and then his action betrays that conviction. Fair?

Sure.

Those are two moments in time. Two-steps.

Sure.

I am trying to only see the current outpourings.

You are trying to remove the past, every past, all the time? That's impossible Titus.

I am trying to only function in any one moment. If you knew me, you would know fully why this is so necessary.

If I knew you? Titus, you can't hold the world away at arm's length. I've spent enough time with you to know who you are. Do not ration me as a mere stranger.

Tell me, Pastor, what is the point of Christianity?

It is a relationship with the very God that formed you, the very God that loves you, the very God that knows you.

What does this relationship look like?

How do you mean?

What does it look like? What does it resemble?

He is with me always. There is not a moment that He is apart from me.

Even now? Is He here with you?

Sure.

He is with you when you lie, when you cheat, when you steal, when you sneak a look at that woman who is not your wife?

I've made no claims of perfection, Titus, you know this better than most.

And yet He leads everyone in such petty lives.

Men are flawed.
It is not a matter of being flawed. If God is with you always, then you walk in constant betrayal. That would be an ever queer relationship, no, one based on such continual degradation of the other?

Life is tough. People get distracted. They lose their way.

Ah yes, they forget that God is with them.

Something like that.

I think this is not what your religion is about.

Because of the hypocrisy?
I interest you. I can see it in your beady green eyes. You are not yet satisfied with me. You are not yet quenched. This is tangible alliance. If you were in relationship with this omniscient God in such a way as you pretend, then you would be stuck in a state of continual infatuation, of ceaseless hunger. Christianity is not about this, is it? No. It is about the comfort of the next life --
And you don't need hope for the next life, you need hope for the next.

(At this point, Titus leaned in over the table. His eyes trapping mine. I was stuck here, where he put me.)

If you believe in this God of yours, why aren't you aching to know him better? Why aren't you all worshiping him day and not? You do not even pray as faithfully as the Muslims do. You do not meditate on him as the Buddhists do. You do not fixate on fidelity as the Mormons do. You do not focus on obedience as the Jews do. If you want to prove to people like me that God is knowable, then why do you act as if there's nothing else you need learn about him? Have you tapped out? Have you seen all there is of the infinite? Are you already quenched? If so, if you know all the recesses of the eternal, then I can tell you now, it is a shitty world, and the eternal is a bore... but something tells me that you won't make claim to knowing it all. And yet you betray your own words, your supposed convictions. You ask of hypocrisy. Sir, I don't believe in it. People do what they think is best. People do what they believe. People nurture the relationships that are pleasing to them. You want to convince me that the God of the universe loves me, then show me what that love looks like. Lovers cannot hide.

--------------

Our textbook for American History was the book "Don't Know Much About History". The title, of course taken from that boo-woppy song, implies a certain disposition of humility.

Proverbs rakes us with a mallet over and over with the beauty of the pursuit of wisdom. We are to do this. We are to seek it out as something insanely precious. Our precious. My precious.

For a brief moment in college, I conceived of a church named called the "Don't Know Much About God Congregation". Such a name would perchance lead to a strong sensation of false-advertising, as that church community would still obviously need to be centered on the Word and the leading of the Holy Spirit.

But...

I don't know God that well. I know a few things. I guess one could say I know enough. I know facets of His story. I know plot points. I know the story of His Son. I know the story of His people. But there's so much yet to know, yet to learn, yet to acquire, yet to feel.

This is now bone of my bones,

And flesh of my flesh...

I want to know more. I want to mine for the character of God. I want more of Him, more of His heart, more of His mind, more of His will, more of His story. Is that not what love in motion should look like? Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your mind, and all your strength. This 'allness', is it something that is static? By no means! Everyday my mind is expanding, my capacity for love is growing, my physical body is changing... the limits are in constant flux.

Evangelism is a strange little entity. What, when we tell people about our Lord, are we welcoming them into? I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven; and whatever you bind on earth shall have been bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall have been loosed in heaven. Granted, this life is decaying, groaning, helplessly calling out in anticipation of renewal, but it is not all for nothing; the body is not evil, in eternal conflict with the soul. No, God fashioned for us physical bodies, and we will be physical into eternity. But according to His promise we are looking for new heavens and a new earth, in which righteousness dwells. Into this promise we tell our fellow man of the great future, and what else? Is this the Kingdom not already here? Are we not born again into this present life? And heal those in it who are sick, and say to them, "The kingdom of God has come near to you"...But if I cast out demons by the finger of God, then the kingdom of God has come upon you.

God is knowable.

And there is yet so much to know.

Let us live evangelism as such; that the desperate worship and rich enjoyment of seeking out the Lord in every fabric, every cornerstone of life, would mark as as the Beloved. Let our evangelism be the gait of our search and discovery. Let our evangelism be the outpouring of our growing relationship with the Triune God.

If we call our friends into the kingdom of tomorrow only, are we not deceiving ourselves, living as the dead-in-waiting rather than the alive in Christ?

Is the Spirit not with us? Do we not believe He can be known as a lover?

Pine for God.

Put me like a seal over your heart,

Like a seal on your arm.

For love is as strong as death,

Jealousy is as severe as Sheol;

Its flashes are flashes of fire,

The very flame of the LORD.

Song of Solomon 8:6

Titus Ronet

2011-09-23T06:52:00.002+02:00

The patient, Titus Ronet, is the most amazing creature I've ever encountered. I am humbled by his intellect. He reads my motivations, intuitions, my every poise, long before I can consciously guard them.

How can I help a man whose grasp of this world is far beyond my own imagination's compass?

How can I help?

How can I help?

Despite his intellectual fortitude, he does not appear to hold it as a thing to be weighted. He doesn't seem to reckon its very presence. The pity is I can't even hold tightly to that observation, for he may well be playing me by some hidden methodology of appearance over substance. He could very easily be doing that to me.

Our job is to help, to shine a light in the dark recesses of a plagued mind. We build up. We tear down the impure. We build up. But Titus will only ever be convicted by his own rationale.

Maybe that is the trick; I should let nature speak for itself. Let him convict himself by the functioning craft of this natural world. I can't do that work. Something greater than I and greater than him will have to.

He's experienced the darkest of nights. He's felt reams of pain, physical, mental and spiritual, in a manner I will never know.

After 10 hours of sessions, I told him directly. I said plainly, Titus, you are a broken piece of equipment. Surely you know this.

He stared right back at me. There was no fear in his eyes. No shame. All I could catch was the slightest inch of smug certainty.

He replied, And what would my machinery be used for, if it was never broken?

I, of course, had no answer.

Mercifully, he cleared me of any duty...

Titus spoke. There's nothing to be done. Here, in this room, or there.

Can I really give an answer? Love my wife. Work hard at my job. Raise a family. Do those things add up to meaning?

If Titus Ronet cannot be unbroke, then I believe it is the world entire that lay in shards.

Only the Smudgeness of It

2011-09-22T17:42:00.000+02:00

Many years ago, I had a worry, a burden of the future.

Though I have not always been prudent to follow such paths (for myriad reasons), throughout my life's journey it has come to my mind that I am something of a writer. In college, in one of those self-help spiritual formation type classes, I was asked to chronologue my dream-life ten years into the future. I quite struggled to come up with something tangible to put on paper. I knew I wanted my life to be immersed incessantly with a concrete sense of grappling story, but that could take thousands of forms. I didn't know if I was to live the story, write the story, or will the story into being like quiltwork. All I knew was that a life without intense emotional story arcs seemed lame. And lameness is most assuredly a thing to be avoided.

Like I said, I had a worry, a burden of the future.

I had to turn in the paper for class; I had to come up with something. So I put pen to paper. I made decisions. I sealed a hypothetical fate. The process was eye-opening, in that I wasn't really even that comfortable with the image I created... if God came to me like He did Solomon, telling me that I could have the desire of my heart, that I could own my most precious life, would I be content with receiving the apple of my eye?

The paper ended up as such: it's a Monday morning. I sit on the porch, looking out at the mountain tops before me. I sip my coffee with ease, having no sense or worry of the hour. There's a wife. She's with me. We sit awhile. Then she departs -- off to some job, off to share herself with the world. I stay behind, finishing up my time with the morning newspaper. There's a dog that faithfully follows me throughout the house, hoping beyond hope that this is the blessed moment in which I'll explore the vast outdoor world with her. Today, however, she yearns in vain. I lock myself in a little room and manifest some immense screenplay of merit. There I dwell, there I live, there I am maintained. That was it. That was all I came up with.

But you see, I had a worry, a burden of the future...

perhaps a burden that I am just now realizing I can put aside.

I worried about this idea of contentment. I worried that it would function as some sort of natural Provac; a lifelong sedative. I worried it would dilute the passion of my soul. I worried my inner being would be silenced by its casual fulfillment. I worried that I would be sacrificing the highest peaks by filling in the deepest troughs. I worried my ability to empathize immensely with the characters of my life and intellect would run dry. I worried for the loss of my intensity for the sake of peacefulness. I worried for the dulling of my earth. I worried.

One cannot simply brush aside this worry. After all, John himself told us through inspired Scripture that, perfect love casts out all fear 1 John 4:18. What fun is life without shots of fearful adrenaline?

And now dear class, cheesy life lesson time:

As I grow closer to God, closer to the One who cared to frame my soul, as well as closer to His creation, I get an ever evolving and maturing grasp of what this perfect love does. Sure, it casts out fear... but it also raises the stakes.

Christianity, or rather more explicitly, the Christian story, is one of great price. Whether or not you can bring yourself to worship the man who is God, think about its most fundamental idea. It boils down to this:

-I was lost, doomed to despair.

-Someone loved me... and not just anyone, but the King of the land. 

-So He experienced pain, excruciating punishment, so as to erase my record. 

-And now, what have I to look forward to? --- Forever. Forever with the one I love, the One who first loved me. 

It is an epic story that cannot be rivaled.

I am in love with the story, as I am with the One who formed it. And because I am in love with it so, the stakes are high. Even if I am able to cast aside all doubt (which, being prone to the ways I am proned to, have certainly not yet been able to do), there is still imagination's game of 'what if'. What if it weren't true? What if God didn't love me?

The Bible uses much romantic language to speak of God's relationship with man, and so I will follow. What if your lover wasn't true? What if it was a house of lies? The more in love you are, the greater the fall, the greater the betrayal. If Romeo didn't love Juliet, they would have both lived full lives, no? The cost of their love was the sharpness of their fall. Believing in the life they could have together meant that the vision of life apart became a horror beyond endurance. So it must be for the lover of God.

And so I may, in full assurance, put aside my worry.

It is not love that casts out my ability to be a storyteller,

to be the tortured artist; by no means!

The truth is quite the opposite...

another anecdotal story...

This week I talked with a gentleman who has had a history of drugs (and surely gobs of life story I will never know). He spoke freely that he did not believe in any concept of love; not of family, not of friends, and certainly not of lovers.

The longer one dwells entirely in the shadows, the longer one aspires to live up to the 'tortured artist' pedestal, the smaller one's world becomes. I may, in my embrace of God and the notion of love, experience great sadness and mourning for my comrade which is far too jaded to know such majesty. My joy does not hinder me from such emotional peaks and valleys.

---------------

Being in the emotional state I find myself in on these fine days, I am brought to wonder about the other end of the spectrum.

Elijah Price: Your bones don't break, mine do. That's clear. Your cells react to bacteria and viruses differently than mine. You don't get sick, I do. That's also clear. But for some reason, you and I react the exact same way to water. We swallow it too fast, we choke. We get some in our lungs, we drown. However unreal it may seem, we are connected, you and I. We're on the same curve, just on opposite ends.

If I feel so full -- what of the one who is just as empty as I am continually nourished?

Take a man. In ruins.
He was kept away from happiness. Perhaps physically beaten; torn to shreds.
Now he comes into the normal world. How can he function? How can he perceive this normalcy?
And then that which is beyond normalcy, could he ever accept it? What would break a lifetime of hardened torment? Can love be fathomed by the hated?

Charles Williams recounts the soul of a man who knew not any love in his fleshly life. The man, expunged of his own humanity by the shrewd depravity of this brown earth, kills himself. For Williams, however, this suicide does not entail the 'unforgivable sin' as Catholics would see fit. No. In the imaginational clefts of William's fictitious analogy, this unnamed vagabond is shown a great mercy. He is shown the chance of a real love. He, now being rid of his body which was trained to know only the constant torment of hateful derision, is free to chose of his own accord. It is a pleasant thought...

But of the poor sap who only knows pain in this life, who can not honestly admit to knowing of any mere earthly love, by what means can he be made innocent again?

Of course he can. God can (and does) redeem the most broken of souls among us. This is grace manifested. But...

But until that day, until grace is made fresh in the weary heart,

until that precious moment;

there is no story.

And there is no storyteller there.

There's nothing.

Do you yet understand? Do you yet see?

Shall I show you?

The Necessity of Ghosts

2011-09-18T15:41:00.004+02:00

It has long been said that if God didn't exist, man would invent Him. I wonder if the same goes for poltergeists.

When Saul inquired of the Lord, the Lord did not answer him, either by dreams or by Urim or by prophets.**

The tendency is to think of ghosts as something frightening, as menacing. Either that, or then we have the personal hocus-pocusy Crossing Over with Jon Edwards bullshit that involves much well-wishing and happy denouement closures for long lost loves. There's no point in dwelling on the latter issue. It is a sickness birthed wholly from regret and suffering. But it's far too cheap to warrant my consideration at this time (as I dust off my shoes and indignantly raise my hand against its bitter nothings).

From what I can see, there exist, there remains through the epochs, three reasons for a psychological desire for the palpability of phantasms>>

Then Saul said to his servants, "Seek for me a woman who is a medium, that I may go to her and inquire of her." And his servants said to him, "Behold, there is a woman who is a medium at En-dor."

Reason #1: Okay, there's a ghost that's chasing me. AAahhh. Scared, I am, I am. Oh-no.... it's all so dramatic. But remove yourself from the present darkness, and a rather sweet sensation rolls through your soul. You've been chosen. For whatever reason, you, amidst this big sea of humanity, have been plucked out for ethereal torment.

Amongst the myriad reasons a spouse may stay in a battered relationship is that very powerful base thought that at least I'm receiving attention -- at least I am important enough for that, I am important enough to stir up such anger in him, at least I am that important. In the same vain, are not ghosts spinning the same story? As we look behind our backs in that dark alley, at least I'm valuable enough to be stalked. At least I'm worth someone's obsession.

At least...

Collectively, we want to be justified in our existence. We want to matter. Some specter trying his damnest to get inside me is re-assuring. My life is not without its observers... it is worth something.

Then Saul disguised himself by putting on other clothes, and went, he and two men with him, and they came to the woman by night; and he said, "Conjure up for me, please, and bring up for me whom I shall name to you..." Then the woman said, "Whom shall I bring up for you?" And he said, "Bring up Samuel for me."

Reason #2: Similarly to our first rationale, specter involvement in our little lives gives our lives a presumption of purpose. If we are granted with the presence of those that stepped beyond the grave, than there obviously is some sort of consequence to our actions here in our fleshly vehicles. The next life, the bodiless one, apparently still can't hold a candle next to our deeply-impacting lives.

Take for instance, the common superstition that ghosts are troubled souls that left something unfinished here on the third rock. That implies a few intriguing ideas. It implies that there's real, genuine, eternal work to be accomplished here. How can something be unfinished unless there was an initial blueprint of what must be done? This bears with it the idea of destiny. Destiny, in and of itself, is a thought of security. If you have a destiny, a fate, then the book has already been written in some far-off timeless age. You are merely the lead actor in a predestined play. This is a great comfort since so many of us walk in fear of screwing up our lives beyond repair.

You see, with these apparitions wandering about us ever-so curiously, the need to define the purpose of our lives fades away. We need not search for it, since the wondering bodiless souls amongst us give credence to our meaningfulness.

A similar corollary is that exactness of fear. This fear of those stretching from that one-step beyond, only enforces the strength of this life. To feel fear is to acknowledge subconsciously that you want to live; that there indeed IS something to live for. Fear as an advocate of appreciation... interesting, no?

The king said to her, "Do not be afraid; but what do you see?" And the woman said to Saul, "I see a divine being coming up out of the earth." He said to her, "What is his form?" And she said, "An old man is coming up, and he is wrapped with a robe." And Saul knew that it was Samuel, and he bowed with his face to the ground and did homage.

Reason #3: The easy one: there is more left. For the brokenhearted, the despondent, the bored, the cantankerous, the tired, the irrational, the lonely, the old, the shy; there is more. The existence of ghosts confirms an afterlife. Hate your life? -- well that's okay, because there's another one coming so maybe you'll find justice there.

Even if it proves to be true, that this life and humpty-dumpty alike can't be put back together again, the world of apparitions gives us an eternal hope. No matter how deep the shit gets, there flickers this hope for another place, another realm.

Hope. It can set you free?

Then Samuel said to Saul, "Why have you disturbed me by bringing me up?"

-------------

To Summarize

Reason 1: Importance

Reason 2: Meaning

Reason 3: Hope

-------------

But there are indeed ghosts... or rather, A Ghost.

God is omnipresent. And He has promised His presence with us in the personhood of a Ghost.

This Guy is a Wildcard. Certainly the Biblical text is vague at best about His meanderings.

Christ tells us the Ghost is our Helper. So what does He help us in?

Thing 1: Lo, I am with you always. Matthew 28:20 He cares enough to be with us all the time. Through thick and thin. This attention instills within us the true knowledge that we are loved. In this we may find our value and our importance.

Thing 2: But when they hand you over, do not worry about how or what you are to say; for it will be given you in that hour what you are to say. For it is not you who speak, but it is the Spirit of your Father who speaks in you. Matthew 10:19-20 We need not worry about our purpose, for the Ghost is enacting in us what the Father desires to see come forth. If God speaks through our vehicles, if the very Creator of all things is willing to use us to speak, I think we need not fret over purpose, destiny, and the like.

Thing 3: Do not fear those who kill the body but are unable to kill the soul; but rather fear Him who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell. Matthew 10:28 Our hope is built on nothing less, than Jesus' blood and righteousness... with the good Ghost with us, what need have we for anything but a blessed hope of utter union with our Lord. The Ghost would not be with us if He didn't have plans for us, would He? Whether it be in this life or the next, the Ghost in you is a sealed promise. Of Heavenly places. Of love divine. Of hope fulfilled.

-------------

Postscript: today's thoughts inspired by the newly released trailer for The Awakening. The opening credits of the trailer read:

After the massive loss of life in World War I

many drew comfort from a belief

in the supernatural.

Enjoy!
* All photos taken from Ghostbusters (1984) and Ghostbusters II (1989) directed by Ivan Reitman
**The story of Saul and the ghost of Samuel is recounted in 1 Samuel chapter 28.

Sufficiency

2011-09-11T18:25:00.000+02:00

The beginning of wisdom is:

Acquire wisdom;

And with all your acquiring,

get understanding.

Prize her, and she will exalt you;

She will honor you if you

embrace her.

She will place on your head a

garland of grace;

She will present you with a

crown of beauty.

Proverbs 4:7-9

We are given two moments from which to grow. Two snapshots. Two drawings. Two memories of inspiration. This is to be a our base. Our origin. Our firm foundation.

The indie-superhero flick, Super, starring Rainn Wilson impregnates its protagonist from scene one with these two pillars of truth. Frank D'Arbo is a pathetic man who has the poor misfortune of not being particularly bright, being incessantly socially awkward, and the worst of the lot, being perceptively aware of his personal shortcomings. He is a man who's life experience has taught him to think lowly of himself. From the getgo, we generously pity him for his lot in life. But at least he has his two foundations...

Frank tells us of his bedrock. He has two happy memories; two moments where he felt important, two moments in which he felt empowered by purpose. I would add that these are two moments of grace felt.

Moment One: His wedding day. Frank loves his wife. He seems to have this understanding that she is a perfect, immaculate creature that he really has no right to be with. He sees her as vastly beyond him. It is an infinite grace that such a beautiful creature would care to love such a man as him.
Moment Two: Frank helps an Officer of the Law get his man. Frank plays a role in establishing justice on this earth, if only for an instant.

Wanting to be daily encouraged, Frank draws these two moments onto a couple pieces of paper and tapes them to the wall. To remember. To be edified. To be renewed by the reassurance that the world has shown him favor. Frank has known love, and been loved in return.

For her profit is better than

the profit of silver

And her gain better than

fine gold.
She is more precious than

jewels;

And nothing you desire

compares with her.

Proverbs 3:14-15

Now the inciting incident. Sarah, Frank's bastion of grace, his beautiful bride, is lured into a drug addictive relationship with heroin and its dealer, Jacques, played to the max by Kevin Bacon.

Frank falls into ruin. His foundation is rocked. His great gift is taken away.

*Here, a few thoughts about the film's execution before mulling over the themes therein...

Super is a twisted film. From my perspective, it doesn't know what it has. It too badly wants for cross-pollination of genres when it should have been played with much less pomp. To depict with example: at various times in the film, we are given cartoon-interstitials. The characters are depicted through comic book antics. This is galvanizing, creating a second reality -- one that breaks from the story to comment on the evolution of the superhero genre in pop culture. I mention this to the shame of the film. Anyway... I am distracted...

Half of his self-worth suddenly catapulted away from him, Frank cries a desperate and honest and sad and self-centered and remarkable prayer:

God, please guide me. Tell me what to do. I hate you god!... I'm sorry I said that. It just seems so unfair god. Other people have goodness, they have good things, they have love and tenderness, people who care about their lives. Not humiliated at every turn. Other people have things God, even the starving children in Africa, even their parents love them. Why was I so unlucky, to have my soul born into this disgusting me? This ugly face, this hair, this hair that doesn't comb, and this dumb idiotic personality?

[Sobbing] Other people stare at me god, I can tell. They are amazed at how something so stupid and idiotic can even exist! Why am I that? Please. God. I just want this one thing, I'll ask for one thing, I'll never ask for anything ever again. Please. Let Sarah be my Sarah again.

A sobering prayer; one not that distinct from desperate moments I myself have exuded to my Lord.

Frank is given a vision, one that will leverage his other bedrock (helping manifest justice); he is to become The Crimson Bolt. He is to become a superhero.

Until the final scene of the film, the rest of the film is fairly predictable (except maybe the realistic bloodiness and consequences of dolling out hand-wrenched violent wrath). The film's climax involves Frank's inevitable assault on Jacque's property and the saving of his lost bride. From there, however, we fade to the moment of Frank's story. Again we find him sobbing in his room... but this time, his eyes run with tears of joy. He is alone, but he now has not merely two, but dozens of drawings of happiness from his life. The movie ends with his voice-over:

So maybe you think something's wrong with me. Maybe you thought I was gonna learn what Jacques said was true. That I was deluded. That I was as evil as the rest of them. But maybe you're the one that needs to learn something. I know how it looks. But sometimes how it looks, and how it is, are two different things. The truth was in my heart. I followed it. And I saved Sarah.

She stayed with me a couple months. They were not bad times. Though they were most likely out of Sarah's sense of obligation. But one morning, she moved on. I thought it was me at the time, that I was the chosen one. But it was Sarah, all along. And that's why I needed to save her. She needed to finish school, to study anthropology, because Sarah knows something about people. She needed to go back to her meetings, where she had insights that struck others uniquely. And sometimes she needed to have nightmares of those ugly times at Jacques' ranch. Because a kind man, a man who was good and didn't know it, needed to learn how to comfort someone. And maybe, most of all Sarah needed to have Patrick, and Trevor, and Laura, and Joy. Four children who probably wouldn't be at all if Libby and I hadn't gone to Jacques' ranch that night. Maybe, if all of us are lucky, they're the ones who are gonna change the world.

My son, if you will receive my words

And treasure my commandments within you,

Make your ear attentive to wisdom,

Incline your heart to understanding;

For if you cry for discernment,

Lift your voice for understanding;

If you seek her as silver

And search for her as for hidden treasures;

Then you will discern the fear of the Lord

And discover the knowledge of God.

Proverbs 2:1-5

Once, long ago, I heard a sermon on the sufficiency of Scripture. One cannot easily argue with such a lesson. Yes. The Biblical canon is sealed. It is complete for telling the story of redemption history. Yes. But what does this word, sufficiency, mean? What does it imply? To be satisfied, for me, conjures up the image of being full. I need not eat anymore when I feel as such. Truly, I have not even the desire to ingest more. More food would lead to suffering. Is that how Scripture is sufficient?

How did John the Revelator receive his vision? He tells us simply enough: I was in the Spirit on the Lord's day, and I heard behind me a loud voice like the sound of a trumpet... Revelation 1:10. That voice proceeded from the mouth of the Lord Jesus Christ. Whilst in the Spirit, the Lord spoke to John.

Do we not have access to this God of ours in similar fashion? Of course we do. If we claim relationship with God, then we claim progress, no?

In a romantic relationship, does not each person desire to know more and more of the other? Does not the bond grow deeper with every discussion, every minor revelation? Is it ever sufficient? I would gander to say it is both sufficient and yet unsatisfactory all at once. Are not all things of this nature in tension?

Paul tells us that all of creation groans. That includes us. We should be groaning, for the church's bridegroom, our great Redeemer, our Boaz, our Father and the One in which we are fulfilled wholly in, is not yet fully known. His kingdom is not yet fully realized. We are not yet in His utter presence.

And yet with each day we can grow more intimate with Him, no? I think so. I think that is how the Ghost works in our lives. I think.

Why is wisdom and knowledge and truth and beauty so impressed upon the reader in Proverbs? Why was God so impressed by Solomon's asking for wisdom? Because in these things lies the fabric of the character of God.

There can exist a laziness in the Church. There can exist a sickness among us. I, often, find myself falling victim to it. It exists as this: the perception that we know God well enough.

Think of the Jews of Jesus' earthly ministry. How could they have anticipated how the Savior would come? Granted, the scriptures prophecy so much of what Christ was to do, but yet, the full measure of how God chose to save us remained hidden. We expected a warrior king, someone who would physically free Judah from her natural oppressors. We got a servant. We got a sacrificial lamb. We got God's blood on our hands. Who could have predicted it? Who could have fathomed such a story beforehand?

God is too big for us to fully understand. I write this smiling. It's a great, awe-full thing for Him to be as such. We can never fully know. The implication of that fact then stands that we can forever be learning more. We can forever grow closer to Him. We can forever want more. We can forever be hungry.

Frank D'Arbo had only two drawings. He loved those memories. He clung to these instances of grace. But he, in his heart of hearts, longed for more. I think so should we.

God has blessed me beyond any means by which I can measure. Still, I shall ask for more, confident that in my seeking, I will be set ablaze in awe, glimpsing more and more of the God whom I am just beginning to love. The God who loves me so.

Chapter 8 of Proverbs takes a bizarre turn. Wisdom herself takes form, and speaks to her own being:

The Lord possessed me at the

beginning of His way,

Before His works of old.

From everlasting I was established,

From the beginning, from the

earliest times of the earth.

When there were no depths

I was brought forth,

When there were no springs

abounding with water.

Before the mountains were settled,

Before the hills I was brought forth;

While He had not yet made

the earth and the fields,

Nor the first dust of the world.

When He established the heavens,

I was there,

When He inscribed a circle on

the face of the deep,

When He made firm the skies above,

When the springs of the deep became fixed,

When He set for the sea its bounday

So that the water could not transgress

His command,

When He marked out the

foundations of the earth;

Then I was beside Him,

as a master workman;

And I was daily His delight,

Rejoicing always before Him,

Rejoicing in the world,

His earth,

And having my delight in the son of men.

Now therefore, O sons, listen to me,

For blessed are they who keep my ways.

Heed instruction and be wise,

And do not neglect it.

Blessed is the man who listens to me,

Watching daily at my gates,

Waiting at my doorposts.

For he who finds me finds life

And obtains favor from the Lord.

Proverbs 8:22-35

In Haste: The Tree of Life

2011-09-06T06:59:00.001+02:00

Do you not see it?

Do you not feel it?

Look, and you will know. Touch, and you will feel.

There is so much.

Lord! A Psalm and a Lamentation: there is so much.

How can I comprehend?

There is so much.

Desperate Search: Doors

2011-08-14T20:45:00.002+02:00

*Talking to myself one day;

I said,

Are there any surprises left to be discovered in this life?

You responded, Of course.

I answered, Will you show me the way?

Who is with you?

I said, This is my imagination.

You said, What's wrong with him?

He's sick.

How did he get that way?

He's malnourished.

Then feed him.

Don't blame me. This is your fault.

How?

I scoffed, Show me something new and he will be well.

The three of us stood silently.

I came to you one day urgently begging;

Is there anything you can do for us?

You asked, Who is he?

I replied, He is my wounded soul.

What wounded him?

The day. Your day.

In silence you rebuked myself.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean it.

Can you help him?

Did the Lord not shed blood for him?

Yes, but...

I dare not gain from his reward.

You answered,

This sickness will lead unto death.

Again I came to you and said,

Look at me!

You answered, I see.

Isn't it great?

Who is with you?

You.

And you stood motionless.

Smiling, I assert, Don't you see?

Tell me what it is you see.

I see you.

You fix us.

You bring sight to my heart

to see what was once unimaginable.

You sow up my wounded spirit.

You renew my life

with gifts of serendipity.

In you I find myself.

In you every door is opened.

And who do you say that I am?

Grace. You are grace.

Then a cloud formed, overshadowing them, and a voice came out of the cloud, "This is My beloved Son, listen to Him!" All at once they looked around and saw no one with them anymore, except Jesus alone. mark 9.7-8

Therefore let us draw near with confidence to the throne of grace, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need. hebrews 4.16

*Photo 1 from the music video for Tom Halperin's The Last Song
Photo 2 from the music video for Gnarls Barkley's Going On
Photo 3 taken from the film The Adjustment Bureau, directed by George Nolfi
Photo 4 taken from the film The Chronicles of Narnia; The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe

Moneyball: a post about money and baseball but not about the baseball movie, "Moneyball"

2011-08-09T22:33:00.005+02:00

The first girl I ever asked out was on the last day of seventh grade at the last minute of lunch break.

I remember her very courteous response,

"Umm... maybe next year."

Somewhere between the All-Star game and October, I hear the same line. Every year. It's either a silly hope I whisper to myself or worse yet, the management itself tells me so.

There is something rotten in Baseball, my friends.

The underseen underdogs, the 2010 Padres, managed to win 90 games during the season. They held onto first place until the very last game of the season, Game 162. They lost to the San Francisco Giants. Those same Giants went on to win the World Series.

Okay. Life is tough. Okay-okay, I ain't here to make no claims about what life ain't and ain't not!

But Oh Lord, have mercy! It's the hope that kills. It's the hope that burns.

After our 90 win failure, our perspective dogs salivating from the hope of a better tomorrow, the Padres management did what they inevitably had to do. Our star, our lone run-producer, Adrian Gonzalez, was traded to the Boston Red Sox for three prospects who everyone hopes will make a splash by around 2013.

Adrian Gonzalez was involved in 24% of all the runs the Padres scored in 2010. He was a legitimate superstar, the only Padre ever invited to take part in the Homerun Derby... and now...

Now it's pretty much agreed that Mr. Gonzalez will be awarded the MVP award for his incredible run production. He's also on-track to end the season with the highest batting average (.350) in the major leagues. As a member of the Boston Red Sox. Not as a Padre.

We lost him because we couldn't afford him.

It's one thing to never have a Babe Ruth or a Willie Mays -- but to have it and then be forced to let him go -- it's just brutal.

I got over my seventh grade crush. After all, I never dated her. What's happening in Baseball these days is as if I dated the girl, and then on the last day of school she kissed another boy, only to sweetly turn to me, ever so calmly. She pulls me in. We embrace. She brings her mouth to my ear ever so softly. I shiver from the warmth and beauty of her lips tickling my ears. Then the words. They puncture my earlobe, tumbling through my body. The words. Like daggers.

Maybe next year.

Oh, cruel fate, why have you teased me with such fantasies!

If only we could hold onto the ones that grow near to us. Instead the silver spoons of the New York Yankees, the Boston Red Sox, and the Philadelphia Phillies seduce the moon away from us.

As she walked away, so pretty her poise, I stood dumbfounded. I knew not what to do. As the words reverberated through me as a blood-stained hope, I could do nothing but quote Major Bennot Marco...

Hell. Hell...

This concludes my moment of sobbing self-pity.

Keep it Secret

2011-08-07T19:07:00.001+02:00

What the hell kind of a preacher are you not to see

if you can save my soul?

*This post best read while indulging in Sufjan Steven's I Want to Be Well. here.

Hazel strikes a match to reveal the truth. He must know for sure.

A pair of eyes stare back in surprise.

And so the blind preacher has been proven a fraud.

Hazel's anger need not rage against the hypocrite any longer.

Hazel turns away.

He must fight Jesus on some other ground.

--------------

Flannery O'Connor's Wise Blood (adapted onto film by the famously atheistic John Huston) follows the story of Hazel Motes, the man who Jesus gets in the end. And boy does he ever get him.

Hazel runs about the town preaching the gospel of the Church of Christ without Christ, Where the blind can't see, the lame don't walk, and the dead stay that way.

Jesus didn't die for our sins, because there is no such thing, so says Hazel. This severe thought of Hazel's continues to unravel through the course of his church's uprising because Hazel does believe in sin. Above all else, Hazel hates hypocrisy. Day after day, the world and all its inhabitants spoon feed hypocrite after hypocrite to Mr. Motes, expecting him to eat it all up and ask for dessert.

Eventually, like a diver reaching new-found depths, the pressure becomes too much. It breaks Hazel. He is swiftly broken. And so he turns to Jesus. I believe it is a fair interpretation to say that Hazel Motes is saved. God gets him in the end.

Mark 10:17-31 tells the story of a rich man who seeks salvation from Jesus. The man asks plainly, Good Teacher, what shall I do to inherit eternal life? verse 17 Good question young jedi apprentice! Jesus tells him to keep the commandments passed down from Moses. The kid eagerly responds, Teacher, I have kep all these things from my youth up. verse 20 Can you imagine his excitement? He thinks he's passing the test. He's going to win entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven. He's made the cut! Hallelujah!

Mark then writes, Looking at him, Jesus felt a love for him and said to him, "One thing you lack: go and sell all you possess and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow Me." verse 21

Explain to me how that works.

Only the poor enter into Heaven? So, do I need to go become a communist to gain access into life ever after? Does my television stamp me void? Do my clothes banish me from the pearly gates?

Hazel Motes does not respond the way the rich man did. Hazel goes the distance. He goes to the store, buy a package of lime, and promptly burns his eyes out.

Over the subsequent months, he fills he boots with rocks and covers his body in barbed wire.

Hazel Motes is not well.

Verse 22: But at these words [the rich man] was saddened, and he went away grieving, for he was one who owned much property.

Does Paul not teach us that it is grace alone that grants us access into the Kingdom of Heaven, that it is not a work of ourselves, but a gift of God? Absolutely.

So how does that fact of grace correspond to Jesus' demands of the rich? Do they not contradict themselves? Why must Hazel torture himself to become "clean"?

--------------

I confess that the question, "Do you have a relationship with Jesus Christ?" is jarring to me.

I have yet to hear the Holy Ghost tangibly speak to me. He doesn't respond to my prayers the way a friend would respond to a conversation I start.

Nevertheless, I do have a relationship with God. It's a mystery to me, but it is real.

Critics of scripture have pointed to the letter of James as evidence of a direct contradiction in the Bible. James, never one to pull punches, states plainly, But are you willing to recognize, you foolish fellow, that faith without works is useless? 2:20

...you've got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?

James continues a couple sentences later, You see that a man is justified by works and not by faith alone. 2:25

--------------

Everyone of God's children is distinct. No one is like me. No one is like you. God knows this. God loves this. He must us this way.

While grace is free, our response to it may look a million different ways. Sometimes, I reckon, it will look down right bizarre (Abraham and Isaac!). Sometimes, though the gift is free, our response is costly.

Seeing Hazel torture himself may sound perverse (and I am not willing to state that he did this BY God's leading -- only that in his eyes, from his experience of the world, this was the appropriate way to show his appreciation and commitment), but let us hold back judgment on this account. I am, as of yet, not called to sell all my possessions for the sake of following Christ, nor do I see that as a necessary way for me to show my affection to the Lord, but I'm delighted that for some people, that is how they will need to relate to Jesus Christ -- to grace. Our myriad responses to God's free gift helps broaden my understanding of God's bigness. He interacts with us each on our own level, and that will subsequently manifest itself in oh-so-many ways.

I want to be well.

Only Jesus is willing to do the dirty work to make me clean.

I want to be well.

"Everybody Needs a Friend"

2011-08-07T11:33:00.000+02:00

What an audacious script. The Jodie Foster directed, Mel Gibson comeback flick, The Beaver, is a dazzling experience. The story adroitly spans, in equal measure, the comedic and crushingly devastating aspects of severe depression.

Whilst the Beaver and Mel go about seeking forgiveness from the world, a side story unfolds, culminating in a brave, albeit strange, philosophy.

Gibson's son in the film makes a heck of a high school living as a scam-artist. He's paid as the ultimate ghost essayist. The situation reaches a new height of grandeur when the hot, cheerleading valedictorian pays him off to write her graduation speech for him. Naturally, they fall in love. And just as naturally, their relationship hits some snags.

And so it is to culminate in a speech. What words did he write for her? What words will she add to his? How will all the king's horses and all the king's men put humpty-dumpty back together again? That's what we want, right? We want resolution. We want the pieces of the puzzle to come together. We want, as an audience... we want. And so she says...

I'm not okay. Not at all.

The truth is

I'm missing something...

So what do I do with that?

What do any of us do?

This is an inspiration; this worldview. Generally speaking, the films that dare to say the world is irreparably broken are the ones that, from the opening frame, immerse us in the ugly. My mind drifts to 8mm. After nearly two hours of seeking out this horrendous masked murderer, our loyal hero finally finds him. He pulls off the mask of the deranged pervert only to find the look of a common man. The killer gloats back:

What were you expecting? A monster?

What is intrinsically intriguing about The Beaver, is it never sets out to be a film about brokenness. We are expecting to be told that everything will all be alright. This is what we've come to expect from the cinema.

Here is truth: the world is dark, the world is broken. Most of the time I don't know what to do with that.

Sadly (for me), the graduation doesn't end at the question. The gallant cheerleader presses on:

This is what I believe:

Right now in this auditorium

there is someone who is with you

someone who is willing to pick you up

dust you off

kiss you

forgive you

put up with you

wait for you

carry you

love you

so while everything might not always be okay,

one thing I know is true;

you do not have to be alone.

And then I get frustrated. Is this true, that everyone has somebody?

No.

It can't be true.

Some people have lived cursed lives, beaten and horrifically mistreated by those who should have cared. Some people have alienated anyone who ever dared to share affection. Some people are just too darn shy to have friends.

Here's what I believe:
Everything is not alright.
Everything is not going to work out.
But it is a great story, this life.
The best.

You see, grace is the end result of all this. It has to be. It's the only way this scorched Earth can hope for a happy ending. Grace. Grace. God's grace.

We can't, by our own will, fix the world. We're too dumb, too self-absorbed, and too rotten.

But I do believe that there is someone who is smart enough, wise enough, clean enough.

A good lookin' dude -- that Marko fella.

My good buddy, Marko Kotnik, came up with an idea. He calls it RewardHero. You can check out his website at rewardhero.com. The basic idea is to create a system in which people can easily return items back to the folks who lost them. It's something of a big lost and found, with an emphasis on the returner of said lost item being a hero.

What inspires me about rewardhero.com is that it seems to be fundamentally about grace. Find a wallet -- return it. Sure, you'll be rewarded for your good deed, but that's not really the point. The point is to be a hero to someone you've never met. Show that person that grace exists. Show a kindness. Be more than what is expected of you. Be more than a man. Be a hero. And all it takes is to show some stranger a bit of grace.

Therefore let us draw near with confidence to the throne of grace, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need. Hebrews 4:16
By grace this world will be saved. There's no other way. There's no other hope.

The Lion and the Lamb Ain't Sleepin Yet

2011-08-06T02:19:00.000+02:00

Jack London wrote two dog-centric novels:

Call of the Wild and White Fang.

Call of the Wild is a loose telling of a dog turned wolf. White Fang is the opposite: wolf turned dog. Or we can choose to look at the stories in a rounder manner; From Tame to Wild and From Wild to Tame.

Below is a quick investigation of two prototypes representing the two Londonian story arcs.

Call of the Wild

It starts slow, the descent, that is. The blindness carries with it an initial perception that it is something that can be beaten, can be overcome.

Then the exclusion begins. And like a too-hot spa, we slowly dip ourselves into rotten despair.

Blindness is a film that plays out like the anti- Children of Men. Both films find themselves locked inside a canvas wherein a fundamental aspect of humanity has been ripped from the people. Both films appear to desire to speak of hope under miserable settings. Both films hope to achieve epiphany. Blindness distinguishes itself from its superior sister film by focusing on the shittiest aspects of a shitty world. It's eye is on the vileness of humanity.

The film looks at how quickly we feeble humans debase ourselves when our worldly pleasures are stripped from us. Blindness is an exercise in masochism. It is ugly.

Whilst enduring the 121 minute exercise, I found myself being lectured by an alien doctor. The doctor has spent years studying the insipid human specimen, and has cruelly devised plots to determine the very modes by which men are brought to become incalculably asinine.

This doctor could very well be the Devil himself. He looks at the world and dares to say to God, Does Job fear for nothing?... But put forth Your hand now and touch all that he has; he will surely curse You to Your face. (Job 1:9,11) Now, a Job recreation could make for some good-time storytelling, but nay! Our doc is both prophet and king of this world.

Children of Men quietly took note of the beauty amidst chaos and death. Blindness never blinks. The film keeps its stare eternally fixated on the obscene and ugly.

Why is this picture here? Why does it exist? On whose back is it writing its message -- and for who?

I believe the answer is fairly straight-forward.

The flick is a propitiation.

If we acknowledge our own slavery to our natural instinct, if we dare to reconcile ourselves to the reality of our own repugnancy, then maybe we can move forward.

Move forward unto what, I ask. Silence. There is no answer to be found.

I never read Call of the Wild, but I watched, with much boredom drumming in my young mind, the seventies film adaptation starring Charlton Heston. If I am remembering correctly, the film ends with a stunningly visual of Heston frozen under the lake; his trusty dog, Buck, scratching hopelessly at the snow.

Without someone to watch over him, Buck turns to the wilderness. His master is dead. He becomes a wolf. But he was born a dog, not a man. If we see God as dead, if we too turn to the wild, then I'd just rather be blind then watch our descent.

White Fang

I gleefully admit that my recent theater viewing of Rise of the Planet of the Apes amused my soul. I found myself laughing out loud frequently, not because the story was ridiculous, but because I found the film so audacious in its projections.

Do not lie to yourself! -- Unlike its predecessors, Rise of the Planet of the Apes is really about the apes. Our protagonist, our hero, is a chimpanzee. We will feel more attached to him than anyone else.

Furthermore, when the battle heats up, when the shit hits the fan, we are asked to side with the apes. We are inclined to become self-haters, to be cannibals to our own kind. And as the big gorilla sacrifices himself to save Caesar (our charismatic chimpic lead) and hurls himself at the enemy helicopter, I was giddy with monkey glee.

The anthropomorphizing of the apes was fun to watch and easy to allow myself to sink into. I've written at length on this blog as to the confusing blurriness that is the distinction between man and beast, so to make the leap of empathy for monkey over man was not hard. But here's the tricky fun of it all: in order for the filmmakers to sell us on the rise of the apes, we had to be convinced that we humanoids deserve judgment.

In essence, the ape had to be more than man; more than a mere anthropomorphization. This happens remarkably easy. Why? Because we all know we are a slimy creation. We know about our own ugliness. We know we sin.

The ape is sinless. If the ape were to become like us, he still wouldn't be under the same moralistic framework. He wouldn't be dooming himself as we do.

For Caesar and his renegade legion, the goal is to cross the golden gate bridge to get to the forest. And it's not just any forest; it just so happens to be a redwood forest, home to the tallest trees in the world. Chimps like to climb trees... apparently to look out over the world. I found this desire of the newly formed ape-nation particularly poetic. The apes want to go into nature and enjoy it. They want to enjoy the land. I think, for a creature not under the carnage of sin's shackles, this is worship.

If the chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever, I would reckon the same must be true for the animal kingdom. And if you are an intelligent ape, the best way to glorify God is to climb the biggest tree God ever made, look out over His creation, and enjoy the view.

White Fang ends with the wolf having been made a father, and enjoying the lifestyle of a tamed and comfortable dog.

The last line of White Fang ends this way; "...and he lay with half-shut patient eyes, drowsing in the sun."

Life can be so simple, no?