Arrived, still moving

Will I ever arrive at quiet rest?
       Rest maybe on the other side of breathing.
       Breathing means I am alive still, not dead.
       Dead would mean immobile, incognitive, not.
       Not removes me from is and is is what You are.
Are, my Great and Living God, my Am.
       Am I to continue to strain, Jesus, tired?
       Tired of reflections showing me and myself?
       Myself so disruptive to my desire to follow You.
You, the Emptied-for-others God, Giver.
Giver of my station and place even now.
       Now is where I am, my loving I am.
I am, I love You.  Because here is where
       You as Lifegiver have me.  So I rest.
Rest in You, the Always Good and Right Here God.
God, I have arrived.
       Arrived at finding what really fills me.
               And that is You.

Fatih covered eyes

Eyes covered and I go where I don't want to go.

"Go to the light of My Son's kingdom.
    A kingdom I brought you into, remember?
Remember that dungeon you were in, that pit of despair?
    Despair no more!  My Son is your Reform, my son."

"Son of God, Son of Life, O how much I want you.
    You are the One I desire, Jesus, you.
    You, Jesus, have and still can heal my heart.
A heart so prone to aloneness, shadowy.
    Shadowy places into which you have long spilt your light.
Light where I am asked to believingly bask.
    Bask me, Jesus, bask me in faith!
    Faith to believe you, Jesus, faith to believe you,
       eyes covered."

The letter S redone (at least lines 1-4)

Sheep beyond the pen and off we stray into the wild,
seduced by that within which labeled us defiled.
Staff in hand, shepherd weary and reviled,
Sinks into the crag or bog, see how he smiled.

Sop handed to betrayer who met with the wicked,
selling out one who touched his heart to prick it.
Sponge on the hyssop with the jeers as we picket
the lamb that was caught by the thorns in a thicket.

God, He be pregnant, pushing the eternal stroller

Indeed, of Zion it will be said, "This one and that one were born in her,

and the Most High Himself will establish her."

The LORD will write in the register of the peoples:

"This one was born in Zion."

Psalm 87:5-6

God loves giving birth I would have to imagine. He made it, writes about it, it's His idea, after all. Conceives of the idea of rebirthing one of us poor lost souls and goes through the gestation, the months and trimesters. Reaches His hand down onto the earth's belly, His belly, and feels us kicking around. Sometimes in discomfort with what He's doing to us, feeding us His good nourishment through the umbilical cord of pulling us toward Himself. Sometimes we want to stretch and stay in our ways and give Him a swift kick, trying to get Him to leave us alone.

We drop in His womb as we lower ourselves in humility and become human, humus, humble, prideless enough to say "Yes, Lord of Creation, I am human, of-the-soil, need of birth from "top-to-bottom," as Will Willimon would nicely say. We cannot give birth to ourselves, stepping out of the canal of salvific relationship with a limelit, "Look what I can do!" No, salvation is a God-on-me thing, a movement induced by Him Above, The One with the swelled belly and sweaty brow, going through contractions and pulling His knees apart as we cry and make our way into the new world of re-creation. His gown is bloody to be sure, but He is all smiles when it's done, holds us close to His breast. Nurses us and we suckle on God's nipple, feeding on the milk of the Word. He pats our backs, burps us, even has a little cloth on His shoulder, for we are surely going to spit up on Him every so often. Is He surprised? Why would He be? He has done this hundreds, millions, billions of times, has got the biggest damn stroller you ever did see.

And need we speak of the snipping of the umbilical cord that truly never happens? For He is in us and we are in Him and Jesus is in Him and Jesus is in us and the Holy Spirit, Comforter of all that is inside and outside us, He's here too. Salvation's marriage bed is quite big when our Trinitarian God gets under the covers. What a beautiful sight it is! Writer of Song of Songs is quite the Lover.

So how does He birth all these different colors of skin under the rainbow, shades yellow and brown, peach and ruddy? God is all colors, every shade, doesn't miss a single one. He's God, Cosmopolitan new birth Maker, no corner of the earth too far from its Lover, coitus all at the hands of the Lover of all time. He is The Holy Don Juan, catches us swooning in His cooing voice. But this language is moving us away from birth and into conception.

Jesus has got His eye on blood

"For he will deliver the needy who cry out, the afflicted who have no one to help.
He will take pity on the weak and the needy and save the needy from death.
He will rescue them from oppression and violence,
for precious is their blood in his sight."
Psalm 72:12-14

"Of Solomon" sits under the header, "Psalm 72." As king-son-mediator-representative between God and a nation and vice-versa, Solomon prays for endowment, ability and capability to deal justly, rightly and mercifully. In words, he voices his recognition of such weight and acknowledges that though he had wisdom beyond all others touched upon him by God, he is wholly dependent on and sustained by that same God, The Disher-out of wisdom. Solomon's desires and heart are definitely in the right place wanting to dispense truth and goodness for the Twelve Tribes, from the Levites to the shepherds of sheep to the owners of said sheep to the people-sheep who have no pasture and beg and grovel at the city gates.

Solomon, man of abundance. Man who has amassed animals, shekels, lamp oil, figs, dates, palm fronds, gold and silver, rubies and stones more than anyone across the desert in every direction, from the unknown Tarshish to The River, from down south Sheba up to Assyrian mountaintops. And let us not forget the women. Thousands, wasn't it? So he owns pretty much whatever he wants, be it food, land, clothing or skirt. Between his ears is both amassed knowledge and gifted wisdom. But it is his heart that beats through the words of this prayer-song, thumping, reverberating in request to the One and Same LORD that he himself is needful, even in the midst of his royalty and socio-economic-political plushness. Man born into blue blood needs The One's blood to rule well the blood below him. It is good, yes, very good to see this.

And this, further understood out of the mouth of Jesus the penultimate King of the Psalms, the real Son of David in the Psalter, is when I really start to feel my own heart rate rise. My blood moves with quickness, my spirit rises and praises lift toward Him Who delivers, takes pity, rescues and speaks of me as precious.

When we speak of someone today as being "needy" it is never in words of admiration and endearment. We speak of someone like this with derogatory lilt, "Oh, she is soooo needy." Always requiring attention, never able to take care of something themselves, time consumers, life drainers. Often the world seems to be crashing down on them and the addage, "you've made a mountain out of a mole hill" sits above their life-mantle. Word-awards like "self-sufficient" and "capable" do not call them to the stage. No, they get the "For best scene of displaying crying out for a wet nurse" statuette. On top of all this, don't even get me started on the modern view of "pity" or "weak." Whew... needy, pity, weak. Sounds like the sad clowns are in town, maudlin face paint seen daily, complete with drooped shoulders, frowns and fat teardrops made plain for all to see. The world smiles not at the needy. It lifts not a finger for the weak and steps on the pitiful.

Jesus, King-Royal Son-Endowed Judge-Deliverer-Rescuer. Yeah, remember Him? I thought so. He is not of this world and in the world's ways He is not rehearsed.

And such is the reversal Jesus is looking for in each and every one of us. He does not align Himself with the peacocks and bulls, the "look at me" or "measure my barrell-chested abilities" advertising. He is in search of the three-legged sheep and the pigeon whose wing is clipped as they are tossed out of the city-gate and away from the sellers in the temple courts. And we are mere animals ourselves, my friend. Yes, a little lower than the angels, I know, I know. But lest you puff your chest out or start measuring your you-know-what, let it be said Jesus doesn't say a positive, "I lean towards such" word about such trumpeting, such pomp, such braggadocio. No, for those who don't need Him, He says, "Be on your way, even if I know you really are blind and sick and in need of a doctor. May your bootstrap tugs and self-made luck get you what you've said you can get (which is a whole lot of nothing. I know it and maybe someday you will too) all without Me."

What Jesus is looking for from me, from you, from any who call Him Savior and Lord, King and Shepherd is bleating. Even in the best of my "everything is right in the world" days, I still want to lean towards and with near-second nature instinct, say,

"Oh, Jesus, how I need You.
I am poor and weak and needy, oppressed and tossed in violence near unto death.
Please, please rescue me from the tangling, lapping seaweed pulling me under.
I am up to my nose, eyes bulging in panic.
Please, Lord, please deliver me from the grasp and the brought-on gasp of the enemy
in myself, inside my sin-sick bones.
Please, please take pity on me the afflicted,
disease within, disease encroaching."

It is of great captivation, these words, ...for precious is their blood in his sight.

I've called our daughter Rachel "Precious" for a long, long time. Out of endearment and love, adorning her with my affection and fondness. Because she is special, very, very special to me. More than just my progeny, she's my flesh and blood, she's a person about whom I care deeply, want the best for, weep over pain I see done to her (especially when it comes from the owner of these fingers typing), rejoice when she is all happy and waving hands around, enjoying music blasting from the radio as we drive down the road. I see myself in her as her father and get told by others and her that of our four children she is the one most like me. As Rachel wrote in a letter on Father's Day, she's "a chip off the old brick." So I am imprinted in her through DNA and family sociology, child rearing methodology and macro environment impression. It is a great gulf fixed between the tie between myself and Rachel and my tie to a child in the jungles of Guatemala, nameless and faceless to me. I am carried around in my daughter to some degree and in some enigmatic way my blood courses and pulses through her. She carries my last name and bears the first and middle names my wife Sarah and I chose for her, Rachel Hope. "Precious" is oh so good a word for these things.

The mystery this takes me into is the contemplation of the words of Jesus and how He will be in me, I will be in Him and that the Spirit will be in me and that the Father and Son will make their home in me. This is too much to bear, too much to even take one step toward mastery. Indwelled by Maker of heaven and earth? Tent to He Who Is and Who Was and Who Is to Come? Being "knit together in my mother's womb" and having The Knitter somehow coursing through whatever makes me up is of greater mystery than woman. I am told by Jesus Himself and, not being one to take up argument much with Him, I shall take Him at His word. So The Word is in me.

No wonder my blood is precious in His sight, in some way my blood is His blood. Would it be that I could spill "our" blood in self-denial death daily. Would it be that I could shed "our" blood spreading Jesus around the land. Would it be that I could empty "our" blood, precious that it is, that proclaims the kind of death and resurrected life that coursed through the Nazarene those many moons ago.

It is by no means a strange thing to say that God's blood is precious to Himself. It is His. His life. To put your blood in another from father to daughter, or Savior to follower is a mighty delicate and precious matter. I am in Rachel and she is in me and I am in Jesus and He is in me.

Whew, I need to go exhale somewhere.

All things I cannot take back

Life is not like this post, where I can go back and correct some spelling and grammar, erase a sentence, a paragraph, even the whole damn entry if I want. No, what is done is done and the past does not offer a backspace key or "cut and paste." It is there, indelible. My superhero, Mr. Effacing, can't even get a toenail in the door. And when sin is back there, this inability to alter things is painful. For some, regret and sorrow take over to the point of olives in countless bottoms of martini glasses. And others go even further and you find them and their matter sprayed across a wall. When you can't take it back, some decide to rid a period with a shotgun exclamation point.

Oh, how I wish I could take it back. Alas, I cannot. And so I must either enter into the light of the Son's Kingdom or hide in a corner of sin's attic with nails sticking through the shingled roof, cobwebs and dust my company.

I could dwell in that attic. And have. Plenty. And the visitations. Oh, hellish fire, the visitations. The shame of foolishness. The pain of sin's effect, its uninvited reach to those I say I love and respect and honor and cherish. The sorrow found in ten thousand tears. Self-loathsome pity, chin against chest, murmuring with murmur's own form of yelling, "What the f**k were you thinking, you stupid f**k! You weren't at all, were you?!" Yeah, self-pity punches hard, damn hard. And the grappler that is the past does a body slam on the future, something right out of WWF highlight reels. I get visited by the seeming impossibility to make amends with those I hurt, where relationships and people see the wound now scarred and the reminder is too much. These are the ghoulish specters in the attic.

I am haunted so badly by some memories that I might as well call my head a time machine. What is worse is asking myself what this says about me. What is said by my flight on memory's wings and then crashing to earth? Idiocy? Lunacy? Overlove of self? Morbid fascination with morose sadness and regret? I don't know. But what I do know is that all things I cannot take back.

And wouldn't even if I could.

Like mercy and forgiveness. I wonder if there are any followers of Jesus that look in the photo albums of sin and redemption and say, "Jesus, I sure wish you had stayed out of the picture. Why did you have to jump in there and put your bloody hand around my waist and your bloodcaked head on my shoulder?" Can you imagine saying that? When one goes through grave and heinous sin (is there any other kind?), wholly swallowed by its jaws ever-widened and is taken to the bowels of hell's fiery belly and there, there of all places finds Jesus in fast pursuit, running full bore, with no robe gathered up into His hands for He is down to nothing, can one not be welled beyond heart's cage? Jesus swooped me up, hot breath on my neck as He repeats, mantra-like into my ear, "Forgiven. Loved. Redeemed. Made new. Saved. Cleansed. Robed. Clothed. Righted. Holy. Freed. Alive."

I shall tell you here and now that there is nothing, no thing more powerful or better than the love of God. And when it happens, when it is known and experienced, felt and understood in truth and wisdom, you practically think no one else in all the world knows how good it is. I find myself thinking, "God, You..." and I can't find the words. Only shoulder shaking sobbing of joy. When God makes Himself known in this way, there is no proper joining of letters and phonetics to pinpoint definitively and rightly how good the love of God is. You sit there and it wells up and cannot be corked. Neither by "No-feelings-allowed spiritual high ground denial" nor "I-am-a-man-and-men-aren't-touchy-feely-and-do-not-cry." You just sit there overwhelmed, washed over, a holy and near-gluttonous encounter with what we've come to call forgiveness, love, mercy, grace.

At the heart of such encounter, experience, euphoria (and hey, I'll add another "e" word, ecstasy. Why not?) you end up admitting, agreeing, seeing, knowing that our God is the "farther" God. I end up with words like "the farther Father", that He goes way, way, way waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay beyond what I thought measured such words like love and forgiveness. God is the Overwhelming God, blankets me yonder "completely." He is the Beyond God, not allowing limit and boundary and calculation of What and Who He is. And for me, I think that is what makes me cry in loving wonderment til I'm practically dry. That such a Being, the Limitless, Boundless, Infinite, Fills-all-things-front-to-back God is particular and detailed, precise down to me and my own particulars and details of mud and mire, my personal wicked witchery, and wipes the relational slate clean, throws the ashes of my ugly heap deep to the bottom of the sea, and just like dawn never touches dusk, so my evil shall not touch His love. Is this not astounding and as I keep saying, indefinable, language unable to box this?

And so, while all things I cannot take back, I shall look over my shoulder at the past and see those things I wouldn't want to take back even if I could. No wife of Lot here, looking back with longing desire and remorse. Not a chance. I am wife of Jesus, looking back with ear-to-ear joyous smile at the love of the God-to-man honeymoon of salvation and the "those who are being made holy" life of salvation-marriage. Elated, I run to my Groom. Embraced, I sigh in wondrous joy.

Enter into His Kingdom of Love. Leave the attic.

9/11, nations and 30 or so hundreds removed from the Psalms

The book of Psalms. Who doesn't know the 23rd Psalm and "The Lord is my shepherd.."? Or for more seasoned or ascribed followers, there is "O LORD, our Lord, how majestic is your name..." of Psalm 8 and its lines of heavens and man and a little lower than unknown places. And "The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands." in the 19th Psalm. Or the words about the word, the law, the statutes, the commands and precepts of God in the regal 119 and the intricacies of being knit and sown by God in 139. Lots of lines, even whole Psalms we have memorized to attach our hearts and souls to our great God, tender in mercy and lovingkindness. No doubt He is this and more. The hymns in the book have the words and the forefathers sang them, belted and shouted them, blowing shofars and pounding animal skins, knocking cymbals and shaking tambourines.

But tell me, have you sung or memorized anything like this lately:

• "...happy is he who repays you for what you have done to us - he who seizes your infants and dashes them against the rocks." - Ps 137:8b-9
• "Like a slug melting away, as it moves along, like a stillborn child, may they [the wicked] not see the sun." - Ps 58:8
• "The righteous will be glad when they are avenged, when they bathe their feet in the blood of the wicked." -Ps 58:10

And there are many more lines like this. Not exactly Chris Tomlin or David Crowder or Third Day material, but the lines are there, nonetheless. Lines intended to be sung worshipfully, in adoration, in calling upon the LORD in song and prayer.

The bottom line of these psalms, hymns, spiritual songs with all this said is still, "We need You. We want You. We ask of You. Please be with us. Life is all about You." Yep, I would say that sums up the Psalter pretty well.

So, here I am, 30 or so hundreds removed from theocratic government, nations incessantly attacking and life in a very different way and distanced from the expressions and vocalization of the Great Hymn Book. One of the beauties to me about being a faith-er (yes, I know I've made up a word) and having what a faith-er comes to believe about the Word of God, the Voicebox of God in written form, is the need or even the art of pressing my ear to His Wordrail and listening to what the nouns, verbs, adjectives, transitive verbs, on and on, are saying to me, Jesus' disciple, many, many hundreds later. I love this about anything from "In the beginning God..." that starts it all to the "Amen" that says, "Drop the curtain" in Revelation 22.

While it is good and proper and right of us to be good students and studiers of the "W"s of Holy Writ, God (at least I have come to believe this) is far, far more interested in seeing that what He says actually get life-listened. Do you think He really gives a shit that I can ratlle off 5 references involving Jesus and the idea of "will"? Or do you think He is looking far more for me to grip, with my life as Jesus' disciple and follower, the idea of "will" properly? I will stand on the side of the aisle voting for the latter question, thank you. Academia is a world in which I have have logged mile after mile and studied under thousands of suns and moons. It's important, to be sure, but when systematic theology overthrows practical living, when all of the spiritual "-ologies" trump loving God and loving people, something has gone awry and God kind of wrings His hands concerning our self-absorption with knowledge and our T-squaring of the Bible and God and Jesus, et al.

Which take me back to the Psalter. It is a violence-filled, war language swamped songbook. And the holy springboard of it into my life and heart is the fact that I have enemies within and without, that I need God as Refuge, Strength, Shield, Defender, High Tower...Warrior. So here I approach Psalm 59 this morning on the heels of Psalm 58 yesterday morning and the other "50s" in previous days with their little introductions about trouble and grief and life-threatening menace for David. I hear with my eyes lines like "...in your anger, O God, bring down the nations." and "O LORD God Almighty, the God of Israel, rouse yourself to punish all the nations..." And thus, as a follower far removed by time, culture, government and a slew of "-ologies" from the thrashings of the Near East of David's day, I need to listen, listen hard for God's Voicebox to reverberate up and out His Holy Gullet and into my Eye Gate, Ear Gate, Heart Gate, Soul-Spirit Gate, my LIFE Gate.

Imagination, creative process, the artist-in-me takes over. Nations of a whole different sort surround me, even have their geography inside me. It is a world of sentry duty, flintlocks, battering rams and catapults. Of ramparts, pots of boiling oil, sword and cavalry. There is the envisioning of spies and scouts of my enemies coming into the territory of God called Heartseat. There are the shots of flaming arrow over walls, searching to expose and exploit weakness, limited fortification and sleeping guards. Heartseat is under siege it seems everyday.

The nations that lay siege, beleaguering and bedeviling, are of sundry form.

There is the barren, windswept desert of Self-pity, where the Spirit wind hovers, breathes, even storms but is not grabbed and bottled. Rather, the Spirit wind is left to move along and the oasises for me have the acidic water and figs and palm trees and names like Me and No One Cares.

There are the rocky crags and fissures, the crevasses of Risk Not Worth Taking. Land where steps taken are not measured by wisdom but rather by foolish justification. Where there is effect of the rush and adrenaline caused by danger. Warning signs are not heeded and fences built, even the high ones with barbed wire are ascended, sometimes with cuts disregarded.

Nation known as More, always with its construction zones and skyscrapers making out with the clouds. Never a restful place, More pops its flash and lights up its billboards, beckons me to be mindful of need and dissatisfaction. Enough is graffiti fast removed from the walls and Complete gets spammed and receives mass mail marketing. Hungry, "feed me", want, gimme, lipsmacking. These are the soldiers of More.

These are the nations that terrorize Heartseat. The dragoons of the 21st century. Crouching, lurking in the shadows, lying awake even in the hinterlands, always aready to stake unoccupied territory and move enemy borders. It may be many hundreds since the sling and stone of David but scabbard and cannonfire make everyday a battlefield for Heartseat.

The wineskin of God

"...put my tears in your wineskin ..."

- from Psalm 56:8


Look, there's God traversing the landscape of humanity, got His wineskin hanging off His side. Sweeps the four corners of human geometry.

Sees some in their deserts, parched, tongues stuck to the roof.

Some in caves, the eyes' flashlights nearly dead.

Others on the cliff's edge, inches from peril, pondering jumping.

There's one of the uncountable to me but named and numbered by Him, sleeping in his scraps of a "home", a shanty, a lean-to, a different kind of roof to which he is stuck.

He sees each child trafficked for sexual evil and its ugly flavor tastes and He knows the intricacies and loathsome intimacies of the needle and the spoon, balloon after balloon, track after track.

Of the octogenarian abandoned to an institution by her human train, He is familiar. He knows the swirls of her fingerprints and the little scar on the index finger of her left hand that is there from a cut when she was 28 and picking up shards from the glass her 6 yr old daughter dropped and broke in the kitchen, putting it too close to the edge of the counter. "I know, honey, I know you didn't mean to break it. It's ok. No, no, don't try to pick any of it up! Let Mommy take care of it." Mommy to Mom to parent to "go away."

He gets an eyeful of the woman lying on her half of the bed, the other side cold and empty. She knows he's feeding his eyes and fingers, tongue and ears with another. It is a dark bedroom even at 1:00 in the afternoon as the smiles of life are on the loose all around her. No, the prescription bottles and Smirnoff at her table side speak of how her life has run into marital death. It has run amok, aloof in his distant frenzy.

God sees it all, make no mistake. As we are in the throes of sinbirth. As we are thrown by others' sinbirths. And the tears, oh, the maddening tears! Do the Seven Seas have room enough for the shed tears of our existence?

The woman kneeling by her dead fellow collegian at Kent State on May 4, 1970 spills into His wineskin and mingles with wetness made from the Islamic mother as she knelt over the shed blood of her dead son in 1106 in Jerusalem, part of the ugly pile of the Crusades. A father weeps over the crib death of his precious first son in 2007 and it falls into God's wineskin, embracing the grief of the Incan father whose firstborn died of measles as the white man made elbow room in conquest. A woman devoted to her husband for two decades and more, who loves him and lives life with him, learns of his adultery and spends days breaking down and the tears flow. Out of the eyes he has stared into and down the cheeks he has rubbed and touched. And they join and do the slow, mournful dance with a woman who wore her sandals in Rome of A.D. 216, husband leaving her for flesh he has found in Northern Africa during his lonely militaristic stint in servitude toward his emperor.

The everlasting stretch of God's wineskin does not, cannot, will not burst. My tears spilled onto the bathroom floor in my white-noise sanctuary do not make God's wineskin overflow. It doesn't crack. Not even close. And do you know why?

God drinks from His wineskin. Not because He is parched, tongue bloated in life-thirst. Oh no, no. God forbid God drink out of need! God lifts His wineskin to His lips and with mouth agape with love, mercy, grace, faithfulness and every other word that can give us word-drink of Who God Is and What God Does, He swallows every tear ever shed. Adam and Eve cry and weep over the ground of Abel and fast forward through it all, my friend. Through it all. Through...it...all. More than the Seven Seas is God’s wineskin fit to hold the tears of pain, sorrow, mourning, aching, reaching, bowing, breaking. Crashing to earth they go, swelling with wrong turns and their consequences, wrong turns against us, dripping with their myriad reasons and backgrounds, but He swoops on in and they drop into His wineskin. Ploosh.

The wineskin of God will never crack. Never has. Neither in my years nor yours will it crack. He runs and traipses north, south, east and west, past, present and future, inside, outside, upside, down and not a drop has been lost, not a tear has made it past His wineskin He drinks from, forever to forever.

Shriveled hand, twisted intestines, same Jesus

"On another Sabbath, [Jesus] went into the synagogue and was teaching,

and a man was there whose right hand was shriveled."

"He...said to the man, "Stretch out your hand." He did so, and his hand was completely restored."

Luke 6:6, 10

There are times when I have had enough of letting or allowing others dictate and tell and control and impose and enforce and exact and levy and exploit and decree and instruct me. I grow tired of their container of all that is right and proper. I am careful to squint in my mind and heart and soul and spirit at what is coming toward and to me. I am finding myself finding the path that I walk becoming narrower and narrower, less than a single track.

Who God is, What Jesus does and How God wants to have and be in relationship with me are on stage, center light. There are literally times when I am crying over discovery, enlightenment, theological or relational crystallization. The other day in my white noise prayer sanctuary known as the toilet room I was both sad and ecstatic over the issue of relationship and intimacy with God, with Jesus. It was undoubtedly a locked-in-step time of prayer, contemplation and listening.

I was sad over wonderment about how much I have boxed God concerning the issue of interaction of Him to me in the 20th and 21st centuries. How I have let myself be formed by others about how personal and involved God and my Jesus not only want to be with me but can be with me. Somehow, over my traveling within Christianity, there has been the imprint of separation upon me. That the God of parting a Sea and a river, of stopping lions' mouths and an army bearing down, of giving sight, unplugging ears, the Man of mud and spit, of straightening out a shriveled hand on a Sabbath is not for our day and age, here in our now. That somehow, between then and now, God changed. His modus operandi has taken a detour. Alive? Yes. Living? Well...what does that even mean for my Jesus concerning all that He knows is going on, going down, happenin' all up and in this place?

So, our son Gideon has for years had problems with his intestines. Uncontrollable, unable to know when he's "gotta go", twisted and kinked are his guts. There is advice and professional opinion and expertise and science and medicine and knowledge and elixir of degree and education. And now I find myself saying, "Yeah, that's all there, no doubt. And may I introduce you to Jesus?"

I am being stretched and moved to a new place in relationship with Jesus and the God of my fathers. That's all I know right now. He is taking my box and pinching between His fingers the tape and wrapping and slowly peeling it off. It is a movement on His part to remove whatever is in my box and recreate, renew, restore. Perhaps even words without "re-" are necessary for I find myself in new territory, a land or acre of creation in the world of being a new creature where I have not pitched my faith tent before. I am a bedouin, a nomad and I like where my Jesus is taking me. He speaks of oasis, of presence that is real, where His hands and saliva and spittle, His voice and command are here today just like they were some twenty hundreds ago.

Call me the desert traveler. But man, there is the Water of God all up and in and over this place.

Cottonwood Mall and the abandonment of our parents

The other day a friend and I went disc golfing and drove by the Cottonwood Mall. Once one of a few malls in the Salt Lake valley, it is on its last legs, barely breathing on consumer oxygen tanks. No food court. Empty both of pedestrian and materialism. Once vivacious and abuzz and now dying in the death wing of out-of-date. My friend said that the plan is to tear it down and rebuild a mall, fancier, cooler, hipper, up to speed with our 21st century spending ways and means and needs.

It is being abandoned and replaced.

This past Sunday at K2, the sermon title was, "What Matters To Parents", part of a series called "Family Matters." As Andy was preaching on how we do "honor" to our parents, how does honor play out, one of the points was we do this by affirming them and not abandoning them. I wrote to myself in my bulletin these words, "Their marketplace becomes a Cottonwood Mall. And they can feel like they're being torn down and rebuilt anew and fresh and up to date and cool."

And my heart was broken.

For I love my parents. Love them, admire them, learn from and listen to them. Enjoy being with them. And yet I only talk to them, man, I don't know how often. Birthdays? Holidays? I do email to them but not nearly as often as possible. My heart broke as I thought of my dad's latest email to me about checking out a couple of hotels for them when they come out in late September as they head toward Las Vegas and beyond. He used the words, "...sucked big time" and I chuckled inside because I have never found my dad to be one to embrace the language and words of our contemporary human stream. He is adamantly against the butchering of the English language and strikes the hot iron of proper grammar and proper words, vocabulary, spelling. I love that about my dad. So to see him use the words, "...sucked big time" as a 73 year old, retired Ph.D. professor of history launched me back to driving by the mall and its impending doom.

My dad often talks of time marching forward, with one of the markers on the timeline for him being trash and recycle day. It races round and round on him and just as he's bringing the bins in from the street it apparently becomes time to put them back out there. Time is on the rabbit run.

Life happens all the time. Time happens without stopping. My parents are lovely people. The horizon nears. I am here as a result of them and that alone is weighty enough sitting on my chest that my heart cannot miss it.

So, Mom and Dad, whether you ever read this or not, I here and now pronounce my love for you. Deep to the marrow of my life. And I commit to staying in relationship via contact much better. Email, phone call, card, presents, flowers, physical presence via vacation and travel. You not only earned it, you by far and away deserve it.

Add 29 and you get God

"Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love."

Psalm 51:1

In the world of financial representatives, investment brokers and advisors, there are Series exams you have to pass in order to legally give advice, counsel, make trades and basically have "game" and be "good to go." These exams like the Series 7, 8, 63, are a simple "pass" or "fail" and the line in the sand of alllowance is 71. 70 fails and 71 passes. The 7 and 8 are headwreckers for sure, hours long. At the end you have the joy of trepidation as hands are clammy and shaking, face flush and brow beaded a bit, heart is beating, racing unevenly as you press your fingertip to the screen to see the verdict. The exhale is exquisite as the cork in your lungs gets popped if you pass.

And where I work, the firm will pay for your tuition as long as the studies are in business. Undergraduate degree, MBA, M.Finance, the whole enchilada. Along with the Certified Financial Planner document for your wall. It's definitely a majorly sweet deal. But you need to get at least a C in your classes and need to pass the CFP modules and the comprehensive exam that is two days long and your brain is something the certificate puked up to sit beneath your hair and above your neck by the time your done and have waited over a month to find out if you passed that bastard or not.

And who remembers the days where 61% got you a D in a class in JHS or HS and you didn't have to repeat the class? Whether it was Physics, Calculas, British Literature, whatever. As long as you kept air between D and F you were moving on. I'll never forget getting an F in Algebra in 9th grade and overhearing my dad tell my mom to talk to me about it because if he did, blood would end up being spilt. How nice. Nothing like memory. Yupper.

But as I sat upon Psalm 51:1 and the words, "UNFAILING love [bold and capitalized by me]" from the lips of Almighty God, I was caught up in how He isn't like this at all. Add 29 to 71 and you get God. He is the valedictorian of all things above and below, from the dawn over the eastern edge to the darkness after the sun has moved long past western views. I cannot conceive of a God Who gets Cs, Ds and barely passes exams. I am unable to envision His fingertips shaking, voice cracking, knees knocking, bladder emptying. Nope, not a 0.0000000001% chance of it.

His "lovingkindness"(KJV & NASB), "generous in love"(MSG), "steadfast love"(ESV) is not going to barely scratch by. He doesn't have a 1.2 GPA and He doesn't sweat anything. Not the little things for sure and way better, not even the big things. Yet, even as I wrote that I am reminded of Jesus in the olive grove, pores giving up strain and anguish as He grips the next few hours on His knees. Even then though, He did...not...fail. There is no fail in His marrow, our life that courses through and in the life of God. And for this I am mesmerizingly thankful.

Thankful He is never late with His fingertips to my screen-life.
Thankful He is the penultimate straight A student in my life's shittiest classes.
Thankful He is. He is. Always is.

Contriteness and partying. Yes, they mix well

Today in Psalm 51 I prayerfully approached it, asking God to tell me what the flow is, what to see anew, let Him open His lips and talk it up to me and that I would have the life-ears to listen. What stood out is that there is speaking of God that needs to happen, needs to take place and then and only then there is speaking the psalmist is desiring to do. So in the song of the psalmist I sing with him, in a duet with David (now that is a trippy thought!):

• God is proved right as He speaks about my sin(s) and transgressions and He is certainly justified as He speaks and gives judgment and stings with His Effective Consequence(s) to my wicked causality.
• I sing to "hear joy and gladness." So if I'm to hear this joy and gladness, where is that going to come from? God and Him alone.
• It is only from God and His giving of His kisses, voice, word, vocalization into my heart-soul that I will and do find cleansing, creation, renewal, granting, ultimately salvation for a follower of Jesus.
• Once (is there ever finality in this sense, I wonder) David and i see this and the depths to which we are taken and the heights to which we are carried, we are not only fulfilled in desirous word but in ability to speak "God" to others, to teach, sing and declare.
• And it is divine to see that David is once again (and thus I am as well) taken aback to the threshing floor of seeing speaking God is not about us, it is about Him. He wants us low, so low that we are out of the picture and off the stage, broken pieces and crushed, scattered all over the floor of the shell called "Self" and contriteness is done to empty ourselves and ask God to push Himself in and upon us.

I also read Luke 5:27-32 where Jesus calls Levi, celebrates with him and another crowd and starts to have it out with the finger-pointing religiosity of those who think themselves rightly dressed in holiness. I am all smiles as Levi holds a great banquet and word spreads. "It's time to party. Jesus parties. Grab some wine and cheese. Hey, how about that barley loaf from last night? Let's roll!" And yes, I am there. You are there. We are there, passing the goat cheese, tearing off some bread, drinking from our wineskins. Other than Jesus' voracious word-eating of the Pharisees, we are left to wonder and guess what the conversation pieces were out of His mouth with the tax collectors and 'sinners.' Somehow, He was able to shine light and rather than repulse and repel, He is attractive and progresses them forward onto the path of wisdom, love and the guiltlessness at the end of repentance.

And when I see myself as rudely barging myself into the lives of others as I am behind my own kind of booth and practicing extortion of another kind and then know that Jesus has come along and said, "Follow Me," I run and run hard and fast to Him. I don't want to lose sight of His sandal marks or forget to see where His robe went around another corner, down into another alley of tax collectors and 'sinners.' I love Him, love Him!

Woof! Beware of God!

Well, one of the bummers about driving to work myself is that I don't get to see God's mouth move as He speaks His Word. But I did get KLOVE's Encouraging Word, which is Isaiah 41:10, "Don't be afraid, for I am with you" in the NLT. This is certainly a major theme from the mouth of God. "Don't be afraid" He says to Zechariah, Mary, the shepherds, Peter, and these are just the first few chapters of Luke.

The community of Israel is told to not be afraid as the chariots roil up dust and dirt as they bear down on them at the Sea.

The community of Israel is told to not be afraid as they're in exile under rule not their own.

The community of believers is told to not be afraid as they cower and tremble behind locked doors days after their rabbi is executed.

On and on it goes. God sitting around our campfire telling us story after story of "Don't be afraid." But the reason is the best part: "For I am with you" and I'm not going anywhere. Can you imagine God putting His tail between His legs and running? Ha! He bares His teeth at the enemy and anxiety and temptation and unrest and cowardice and fret with which we fill our hearts and minds. The world and the enemy may as well head to some other backyard, for the big neon sign says, "Beware of God!"

What can man do to us?

Jesus the Deparalyzer

Today I again read Psalm 51, finding myself in wonderment about what a "willing spirit" is and trying to better grasp the atrocity of evil, sin, iniquity and transgression. There are literally times when I question whether I take such things very seriously as I think about the truth that God knows me thoroughly, knows the seeds I sow, the sin I commit and unquestionably loves me, forgiving me for it all. To spend overt amounts in study of sin is to lead to downcast legalism. To spend overt amounts of time in study of forgiveness is to lead to blithe dismissal of righteous living. I've got to get somewhere between those two extreme edges and borders.

I also found myself in the story of the paralytic and his friends as they come to Jesus via tile removal of the roof. And there I am again. Paralyzed and bedding down with sin. Friends named Holiness, Spirit, Righteousness, Love, Truth, Wisdom, Confession, Repentance, Forgiveness, Grace, Mercy that take me to Jesus, vying for Him but crowded out. And these friends, they don't quit, they don't turn around and head home, saying "Ah, we'll catch Jesus some other day." Roof climbing and carrying me, delicately balancing me so I don't fall off into the world-crowd staring at what's going on. I wonder if Jesus was startled when straw, dirt and tile fell to the floor before Him. I wonder if He is startled at all when any of us come so desperately to Him. And as I lay before Him in want of healing and most likely more settled on myself than Him, Jesus spooks me with words of "Friend, your sins are forgiven." Astounded, I hear Him call me "friend" and speak, "forgiven", two F words I don't expect from God ofttimes.

As Jesus speaks to me, what else can I do but get up, roll up my mat, put it under my arm, and go home praising God? The fascination and wonderment in my world-whipped bones, my sin-eaten heart is too much to hold in, too much to keep corked for myself. I must tell others about this Jesus. I must celebrate with my friends that carried me to Him. I sing to Righteousness and toast Holiness. I hug Love and grab a latte with Truth and Wisdom, sitting down to talk, pray, fill our mouths and hearts with Jesus the Deparalyzer. He won't stand for sedentary world-sin paralyzation; there's far too much good in Him to let me lie down and grovel with the dogs for the world's bread crumbs. Not when He's partying all festively at the House of Mercy, Grace, Joy and Life.

I can say with everyone who saw it all, "I have seen remarkable things today."

The letter G redone

Gravestones for bedding, the dead for a floor,
gnashing my chains and shrieking for more.
Garish the festers and gashes I bore.
Gripping the swine, Mob drowns by the shore.

Gethsemane cradled the words that He spoke.
"Glory to God," said the wood He would soak.
Good Samaritan came, off His back came His cloak
and He hung there stripped and the living bread broke.

The skin-eaten man and The Willing One

A most fascinating time this morning in Psalm 51 and Luke 5:12-15, which is Luke's account of Jesus and the man with leprosy. Perfect with His speaking, appropriate with His vocal undulation, God talks. So I knew I would be in Psalm 51 (again) but didn't know I'd be listening to the story of Jesus and the skin-eaten man. Check this out:

• In Psalm 51 are these lines, "...and cleanse me from my sin.", "Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean." In Luke 5 the leper begs Jesus, "...you can make me clean." and Jesus said, "Be clean!" and also ordered him to go show himself to the priest "...for your cleansing."
• In Psalm 51 the psalmist prayerfully cries and sings to have, "...a willing spirit." In Luke 5 the leper begs Jesus with the words, "Lord, if you are willing..." and Jesus speaks, "I am willing."
• In Psalm 51 are words about sacrifice and being broken in spirit and we find the same in Luke 5.
• In Psalm 51 the psalmist sings with intent about eventually teaching transgressors about God and that sinners will turn to the Lord. In Luke 5 news spreads about Jesus and people came to hear him and to be healed.
• In Psalm 51 is tremendous language about healing, cleansing, washing, being made aright and in Luke 5 in the story of the skin-eaten man we find the same.

So, as I've said who knows how many times in my preaching, in writing, in talking about Him, when I read the Gospels, I see myself in the stories over and over again. All followers of Jesus should, as far as I'm concerned. To not do so is to miss the narrative theology intent of our Come Down to Earth God. So today, I dsicover anew and afresh and aright that I am the skin-eaten man, touched and healed by Jesus, The Willing One and the news sperads abroad that Jesus is not just smoke and mirrors, He's the Real Thing. Amen and Amen.

The letter D redone

Damned, dumb and drunk from the temptations held out.
Decaying in the grave and lingering in doubt.
Despair brays and coddles as I'm wandering about
deserts of sin with my faith dried by drought.

Dust kicked up by the Pillar of Cloud, quenching my thirst.
Drops from His wounded side catch my tongue and I'm immersed,
drowning, dying and holding hands with the Savior of the worst.
Kisses from the Dayspring since I see His lips are pursed.

Where does such forgiveness come from?

"Jesus said, "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing."

Luke 23:34

~ + ++ ~

Not so sure I can say such words. Nope, not so sure at all. Not to those who inflict and instill caustic pain upon me on purpose or even when someone does so without even knowing it has happened. Not so sure I can speak Jesus' line when pain is brought by lack of words spoken or words dressed with barbs. Weak in my flesh, I sink and with eyes of squinting anger and acidic heart I refuse to forgive. Pain from years ago and pain within the past few hours. If I were walking in the Spirit rather than the flesh I would see plainly that unforgiveness is nothing less than selfishness and pride and love of self being the all-important absorbant of The Me.

And once again, here is Jesus in the eleventh hour, the worst of it all, naked, beaten, bleeding, dying...and bursting forth with forgiveness. Where does such response come from? Because I haven't found it and not even so sure I am looking.

I give and question whether it is even taken. And forgiveness may be needed and extended and this I fully anticipate when I give, which leads to a whole other chapter about giving and selfishness. These two words should not ever dance together. Ever. But that is for another time...

an email to an ailing dear friend

Dude

Be of good cheer, my brother. King Outward Heart is bigger than Satan and already kicked the shit out of him and left him dead at the side of the Cross road. You are greatly loved, man. By me, by my family. We met a year ago at South Mountain GC, I liked you immediately. Know that.

I read this this morning before seeing your email:

Ps 109:21-29
"But you, O Sovereign LORD,
deal well with me for your name's sake;
out of the goodness of your love, deliver me.
For I am poor and needy,
and my heart is wounded within me.
I fade away like an evening shadow;
I am shaken off like a locust.
My knees give way from fasting;
my body is thin and gaunt.
I am an object of scorn to my accusers;
when they see me, they shake their heads.
Help me, O LORD my God;
save me in accordance with your love.
Let them know that it is your hand,
that you, O LORD, have done it.
They may curse, but you will bless;
when they attack they will be put to shame,
but your servant will rejoice.
My accusers will be clothed with disgrace
and wrapped in shame as in a cloak."

The accuser is able to do nothing more than that, my brother, accuse. Jesus takes it, chews it up, spits it out with nails and bleeding side. Tells the devil he can go f**k himself. Satan is forever down for the count, dude, on the killing floor.

Be upward in heart.
Mark

"Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.

Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling.

Each one should use whatever gift he has received to serve others,

faithfully administering God's grace in its various forms.

If anyone speaks, he should do it as one speaking the very words of God.

If anyone serves, he should do it with the strength God provides,

so that in all things God may be praised through Jesus Christ.

To him be the glory and the power for ever and ever.

Amen. "

1 Peter 4:8-11

~ + + + ~

Sometimes, I mistake what is truly friendship for pity and extended help or offer as an expression that says, "You are lacking." But if I step back and bring God into the picture, perspective crystallizes into a right view and a proper grasp and I am able to see that love is what is driving this train. I can't imagine a God Who would leave me to "go it alone" or says, "You've made your bed, now sleep in it." For the God of The Word is One that is seen tromping through the garden in search of Adam and Eve. He is seen parting a sea as hoof and chariot bears down on the Israelites. God the Lamplight finds the lost and clothes the naked. He pulls obnoxious Peter out of the water and says, "Father, forgive them…" from the bloody tree. He reaches out. Constantly. Incessantly. He is Ever-pursuant with His giving.

So, as the community of God exercises what each member deems fit to do, who am I to turn my back, lift my hand, say, "No thanks, I've got my trowel in my hand and I don't need yours."? After all, followers of Jesus are implored and called, pointed at and told, "You are me down here."

The crux of humanity's problem is such: a crooked look at a straight path. Yup, that's us, alright. And God, I imagine, mixes weeping and sorrow with wonder at our stupidity.

To have seen, to see, toward seeing ahead

"Mary Magdalene went to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the entrance."

John 20:1

"He bent over and looked in at the strips of linen lying there but did not go in.

Then Simon Peter, who was behind him, arrived and went into the tomb.

He saw the strips of linen lying there,..."

John 20:5-6

"Finally the other disciple, who had reached the tomb first, also went inside. He saw and believed.

(They still did not understand from Scripture that Jesus had to rise from the dead.)"

John 20:8-9

"...Mary stood outside the tomb crying.

As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb and saw two angels..."

John 20:11-12

"They have taken my Lord away," she said, "and I don't know where they have put him."

At this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize it was Jesus."

John 20:13-14

"Mary Magdalene went to the disciples with the news: "I have seen the Lord!"

John 20:18

"After [Jesus] said this, he showed them his hands and side.

The disciples were overjoyed when they saw the Lord."

John 20:20

"Now Thomas...was not with the disciples when Jesus came.

So the other disciples told him, "We have seen the Lord!"

But he said to them, "Unless I see the nail marks in his hands

and put my finger where the nails were,

and put my hand into his side,

I will not believe it."

John 20:24-25

"A week later...Jesus came...he said to Thomas,

"Put your finger here, see my hands. Reach out...stop doubting and believe."

Thomas said to him, "My Lord and my God!"

Then Jesus told him, "Because you have seen me, you have believed;

blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed."

John 20:26-29

"These [miraculous signs] are written that you may believe

that Jesus is the Christ,

the Son of God,

and that by believing you may have life in his name."

John 20:31

~ +++ ~

And so, just like his evangel brothers, Matthew, Mark and Luke, we come to the fulmination, the purpose, the point, the whole enchilada of John's pronouncement with his gospel. In Jesus there is life, the only life to be had. Life is had not in ourselves and staying on the right side of the road. It is not had by religious ticksheets and cutting a monument to ourselves and what we've been able to do by our own great feats of focus, strength, determination or will. To propagate our deeds and clean noses and smiles and worn hands of doing and try to stake it as claim to life is to ultimately shit on Jesus and why he came.

Ultimately, Jesus came to die. To give. To cloak our shitty-good-deed-claims with himself in death and better than that chapter, show he's all he said he was by kicking death to death. He broke the monkey's back, the monkey that climbs and haunches on all our backs, digs in and screams about, "You be the one, man! It's all about you, girlfriend! You get it done, you're the captain of your life vessel!" Jesus, by stepping on the neck of death, sin and judgment, is the only one who has property that is real. "You want a piece of this land," Jesus states. With eyes of steel and upturned hands in offer, he holds out reality, real life, real property, real land plush with pasture and still water.

The kicker to it all and the string running through John's play-by-play of Jesus' return from the point of no return has much to do with seeing.

And also not seeing but yet believing.

Mary, Peter, John, the Eleven all believe based on seeing, touching, reaching, hearing. Twenty hundreds later we are not afforded such luxury, if you care to call it that. We are pushed, pulled, prodded, asked, urged, expected, given bid to believe all on the witness of others. At the same time Jesus speaks of the blessed in faith based not on sight, John's gospel is absolutely inconspicuous with the marks of witnesses, account, testimony, evidentiary language. It's a strange and queer road, the path of belief and faith and everyone that has graced the big rock has something they think they stand on. Ultimately, ultimately, it will come down to belief in oneself or belief in needing God and God alone for everything.

Do you see what Jesus is saying?

Here is Jesus

"Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother's sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, "Dear woman, here is your son," and to the disciple, "Here is your mother." From that time on, this disciple took her into his home."

John 19:25-26

~ + + + ~

Here is Jesus with whipworn flesh, emptied of the sea of life, face pummeled and beard grabbed and shucked. Here is Jesus, arms stretched beyond socket, hands driven through with nine inch nails, feet unable to move due to the soldiers' riveting them to wood. Here is Jesus, exposed and nude for all the passersby to hawk their religious castigation. Here is Jesus, bearing humanity's villainy, person after person, century after century, from the hiding in the garden to the 11:59 when all will be changed.

And here is Jesus, more concerned with others rather than wallowing in himself. The Teacher even in the throes of his own 11th hour, he schools me on self-life being so childish compared to the outward eye.

Falling in love in the best of ways

Hi, my love!

A sweet thought in my heart for you, my sweet love-woman. I am so happy where we are right now, my love. So happy it makes my eyes water even as I write this. For me, we are in a place that I feel I should have led us to 22+ years ago. Deep water love, prayer, open-hearted talks, barren with each other about our dreams, fears, stresses, wants. I can't tell you, my sweet wonderful Sarah, how I have longed for this for so long. And know this too: K2 may talk about how one's spouse is not a running partner and to that I say, "Bullshit." For so long, Sarah, I've wanted you and I to be like we are right now. In a very strange, mesmerizing and almost bewildering way I truly feel like what is going on for me (and you too I think) is what should have begun way, way back in our dating days at Pillsbury.

Instead, our relationship became far more about the flesh than the Spirit and for that I have borne great responsibility and guilt for many, many years now. But, like what was preached about yesterday, why should I stress about the past since it cannot be changed? Before us is all we have and between us is what we can choose to mend and sow and weave as one. And nothing relationally is more sacred and beautiful than that.

Well, Sarah Jane, love of my life. My heart is very, very large for you right now. I look so, so forward to getting home to you each night. To see you, touch you, gaze upon you, make love to you, be with and talk with you, to bow our hearts before God in prayerful solace. My heart nearly breaks out its cage of bones.

You are my woman and I am your man. Praise be to the God Who Makes Two People One!
Mark

A letter I wrote about this past Sunday's service

Dave, Mike and Julie

To each of you I feel it so necessary to thank you for the service yesterday. It is beautiful to see people of weight and influence, of character and goodness, be so open and willing to speak about how things really are sometimes. Julie, to hear you talk about knowing the truth and not experiencing it. Dave, to hear you share about your time in seminary and being stripped naked down to the marrow of "I've had it, I'm done." Mike, to hear you speak of singing songs sometimes and not meaning the words coming up and out the mouth. I cannot express well enough the watering of my eyes and the quivering of my lips, the aching of my heart and the chasing of my soul that took place yesterday.

To know that others of maturity in Jesus go through such alleyways and shadow was surgical and salve at the same time. I have had times of prayer in the last month where I have been bawling, bawling with shoulders shaking, crying out in pain and sorrow and question, "God, where ARE you?!?! God, it feels like there's a galaxy between us!!" And if I may be personal, my struggles have been with the movement of my heart and feet toward the ugly rabbit trails of misbehavior and sinful choices. Like I told you Thursday, Dave, the older I have gotten the more miscreant I have found myself to be. And this is not what I thought life in Jesus would be; I thought it would be the joy (while certainly landscaped with rough valley sometimes) of experiencing a holier and holier life as I got closer to the waning years. Dave, you said something that piqued my heart as I was notetaking (of course). You said something like God sometimes digs a hole, throws us in and covers us with dirt. What I wrote down was this: "He digs a hole (or doI?), throws us in (or do I?) and covers us with dirt (or do I?)" And that was just one, one example of how much yesterday's service moved and shaked and grabbed and clenched me! And your first point was so well taken, "He wants to assure us of His love." Whew!

Honestly, from the haunting of Bittersweet Symphony to your words, Julie, to your words, Dave, to your words and songs, Mike. May I be free to say you may have thought it was all just coming out of your mouths, but I tell you here and now I heard the mouth of God like the tide. Pulled me in, tossed me around, washed me ashore, baptized in His love.

Much, much love and thanks to each of you,
Mark

A letter from my 15 year old daughter Rachel Hope

Fit for framing this is. It will be in my eye and heart's view for the rest of my days. Amongst the presents Rachel Hope DiMeglio gave me yesterday was this letter.

Pops,

Happy Father's Day, Daddy. I hope it turns out to be all that you want it to be. I could never put into words how much you mean to me. A lot of my friends go on about how much they don't like their fathers and how mean they've been but I'd be sinning if I said the same thing. How could I ever do that to me with how much you have provided me with through out my entire life? And there are plenty of things that you've done for me that I don't even understand or yet know of, and there are probably a lot more to come. I may disagree with a lot of rules and opinions of yours but I'm glad that we can set them aside and still have an amazing time and relationship. I don't know how I should really put this Dad but thank you for all the memories and time. I always hated how much you would get angry at me over little stupid things I did but I know and now I understand. Thank you for sticking it out for the long run in life. I'm so happy God blessed me as having you as a dad. I wish I'll become as good of a parent as you are. A lot of people have told me that I'm so similar to you and I'm a chip off the old brick or some saying like that. You know what I'm saying. Anyways I hope and I pray that what they are saying is true because if so that is such a compliment. Thank you for being who you are and doing what you do. And I wouldn't say any of this if I didn't mean it dad. I love you.

Sincerely,
Rachel, your: Kooker-koo, Precious,
but most of all daughter

In Every Direction

Wide and long and high and deep.
It don't meander, it never sleep
all pillowed, eyes shut to sheep.
It was God Who took a bloody leap.

Deep and wide and long and high.
Ain't no ceiling and there ain't no sky.
He lifts the veil, eye to eye.
It was God Who jumped on up to die.

High and deep and wide and long.
Knows no run too far, no sin too wrong.
Speaks His love in every tongue.
It was God Who said, "Ever among."

Long and high and deep and wide.
No hell can split, no demon divide.
He blankets world side to side.
It was God Who showed on wood His stride.

Distance beneath and above

"When evening came, the boat was in the middle of the lake, and he was alone on land.

He saw the disciples straining at the oars, because the wind was agianst them.

About the fourth watch of the night he went out to them, walking on the lake."

Mark 6:47-48

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"Even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast," said the psalmist. Even on the far side of the sea. At times, O God, I feel like it is evening and it is the fourth watch and I am straining to go where you sent me and get where you want me. And instead of you being alone on land, I feel alone on the sea, the deep beneath me, the dark haunched about me, crouching and pressing in. There are words said or things done that push like wind against my soul, Lord. The weight of them aches my being, my centeredness that I believe is settled on you. There is crying inside me at times. Desires seem distant, even untouchable.

~ + ~

Wind, water, the Lord in the midst

"...the boat was in the middle of the lake,
and he was alone on land. He saw

the disciples straining..."

"...the wind was against them..."

"he went out to them..."
"he was about to pass by them..."

"...they saw him...they cried out...terrified."

"He spoke to them..."
"Then he climbed into the boat with them..."

"AND THE WIND DIED DOWN"

"...they were completely amazed."

"...they had not understood."

"...their hearts were hardended."

Mark 6:47-52

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Whenever I read the gospels, Lord, especially Mark's rendition, I am pulled in to it. I am yanked behind me twenty hundreds and simultaneously you come forward and stand in my world of days. And every time, I find myself identifying with the disciples. When I'm honest. I'm all up inside the circle and find myself not living like it. High on identity with you, all proud and right. Stumped on who you are and who I am. And yet, in the midst of all the imperfection, insecurity and inner turmoil, I am still very much at peace and joy being with you. In all of the mystery that you are and all that life is, there is still wide-open space for great joy.

Amen.

Strapped by doubt or gripped in belief?

"Then Jesus directed them to have all the people sit down in groups on the green grass.

So they sat down in groups of hundreds and fifties..."

Mark 6:39-40

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So after the apostles give Jesus their whopping 5 little barley loaves (and whoa, two fish, which Jesus didn't even ask for!), he directs them to sit, chill, relax, get ready to eat. I wonder, Lord, what was going through the heads of the Twelve at this point.

• "What in the world is he gonna do now?"
• "Man, Nathaniel, I think he's lost it."
• "I guess it's time for some more teaching. Probably gonna tell us how unimportant food is and how God's words are food food."
• "When in the hell are WE gonna eat?! Good God, give me somethin'!"
• "Hey, Andrew, I thought we came out here to get away from the madding crowd and eat?!"

~ + ~

Now I wonder, Lord, years later, as they'd sit back reclining, eating some figs, bread, fish, grapes, wine, I wonder how they'd talk about that day. Would they talk about being flabbergasted? Would they talk about it in present-future application to the stresses and needs they had and would face as gallows and courts and executioners awaited them? Would they write about "a present help in time of need" and "to cast all your care upon the Lord"?

~ + ~

And what of me now, twenty hundreds later, on the other side of the world? Would I sit in the grass? Would I think you an illusionist? Am I strapped by doubt or gripped in belief?

Amen.

"They went out and preached...they drove out...and anointed many...and healed..."

"King Herod heard about this, for Jesus' name had become well known."

Mark 6:12-14

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So, Jesus, You sent the Twelve out, gave them authority and they did and taught much. You are spreading out, sweeping across the Galilean hills a holy fire. But there is more to the story here besides the mushroom effect. Much, much more.

~ + ~

There is the bareness and faith of going out with little more than the clothes on your back, empty of self-preservation and trusting on the Lord-Provider. There is the risk ultimate as John's death carpets like fog into the story, rolling in and covering those Galilean hills of holy fire. Trusting for life's needs and believing even life take and sacrificed in Jesus' name is engrained with faith. Lord, am I made of such faith? I am not so sure.

~ + ~

There is opportunity even in such a place here where Jesus' name is plastered on nearly every street corner. Opportunity as a follower of Jesus, as a family of followers, as a body local of followers, as bodies local of followers. Opportunity to make Jesus' name become well-known. Issues of faith, trust, the stripping of anthrocentric theology and self-reliance, of boot-strap religion. The giving of all, as much as even life itself in Jesus' name. In a land covered with religiosity, there is wide room for truth to shine and spread and strip shadow of its domain. Long has been the night here, Lord. May You, our Morningstar, shine---> spread---> blanket---> and be known. May they know You.

Amen.