Just found this post that I never finished, but started this summer- thought yall might like to see it. Shows a little behind-the scenes in my blog writing process, as it goes sometimes.
-----
Deuteronomy 9:6
"Know, therefore, that the Lord your God is not giving you this good land to possess because of your righteousness, for you are a stubborn people."
notes:
-He is giving me this good land.
-I am a stubborn people.
-But he is giving me this good land.
------
'Master and Commander' is one of my favorite movies of all time. The soundtrack is incredible, and the plot, acting, special effects, are so good.
In one scene... "Hold Fast"
the stubborn wandering
the stubborn faithful
hold fast in deuteronomy.
He is giving you this good land to possess. Because of his love, his choice. So stop grazing the fence line. It's not greener. And the view sucks.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
The Old and the New
Old things. Old inventions. Things once larger than life, that have now been swallowed by it.
Old machines. Old iron. Patina worn and shined by the opposable thumb of time, holding eternity against today's index finger.
To marvel. To wonder. To look deeply, as though sight extended from one's very heart, stretched thin to reach
Old things. Old inventions. Why do you call me?
I do not understand why antiquity kindles my heart. Its every contrast is true, three-dimensional, its every angle encompassed, north to south, as though more real and steady than the present. There is an eternity in me that explores for its beginning, and can't find the thing anywhere. Yet, the map is lovely, and will one day reach its edge, I think. The depth of the yearning says so. I would rather not live, should touching eternity be left to the bookshelves of my childhood.
Simple machinery, simple living. I yearn for less, and sometimes ameliorate with more. Oh, of nothing in particular. So many side projects, so many hobbies. I collected coins for a while, and then fossils and artifacts. I still have the coins, and still collect artifacts. They are old things, after all.
I photographed, but the world came with me, and threatened to spread away the wonder of it. The best pictures are old ones, which are hard to take.
Backpacking. Escaping to old ways.
Old things. Kites. Instruments, one at a time. A trumpet, a guitar, a mandolin. A pair of boxes.
Chairs. Old chairs to be repaired on an old lathe. With old tools that I cannot sharpen without old knowledge.
A bowl of old odds and old ends, on my desk. They rest in hope, like me.
Time. There is so much of it to be excavated, explored, spread out and stretched over. Poured over until thin, until all the oils and all the sugars have bled away, though they never will. There is not enough water to pour it sour, not enough cup to hold it all. I linger over the counter, in soft meditation, soft resting in the antiquity of old machines and old eternity. The old things that spark wonder and sadness at the new world. The simple things, for my mind to run with, and in, and through.
I went to the movies with the Lord. We watched Hugo, making old things new. The Lord is always making old things new. But he took me to the movies anyway, and there they were.
Old things. Old inventions. I rely on old inventions, old things.
To make my heart new, as it were.
---
I'm outside of Metto, on Coleman, in Mt P. Their Italian Cappuccino, double shot, is very good. A taste of rich old things, in the best of ways.
Old machines. Old iron. Patina worn and shined by the opposable thumb of time, holding eternity against today's index finger.
To marvel. To wonder. To look deeply, as though sight extended from one's very heart, stretched thin to reach
Old things. Old inventions. Why do you call me?
I do not understand why antiquity kindles my heart. Its every contrast is true, three-dimensional, its every angle encompassed, north to south, as though more real and steady than the present. There is an eternity in me that explores for its beginning, and can't find the thing anywhere. Yet, the map is lovely, and will one day reach its edge, I think. The depth of the yearning says so. I would rather not live, should touching eternity be left to the bookshelves of my childhood.
Simple machinery, simple living. I yearn for less, and sometimes ameliorate with more. Oh, of nothing in particular. So many side projects, so many hobbies. I collected coins for a while, and then fossils and artifacts. I still have the coins, and still collect artifacts. They are old things, after all.
I photographed, but the world came with me, and threatened to spread away the wonder of it. The best pictures are old ones, which are hard to take.
Backpacking. Escaping to old ways.
Old things. Kites. Instruments, one at a time. A trumpet, a guitar, a mandolin. A pair of boxes.
Chairs. Old chairs to be repaired on an old lathe. With old tools that I cannot sharpen without old knowledge.
A bowl of old odds and old ends, on my desk. They rest in hope, like me.
Time. There is so much of it to be excavated, explored, spread out and stretched over. Poured over until thin, until all the oils and all the sugars have bled away, though they never will. There is not enough water to pour it sour, not enough cup to hold it all. I linger over the counter, in soft meditation, soft resting in the antiquity of old machines and old eternity. The old things that spark wonder and sadness at the new world. The simple things, for my mind to run with, and in, and through.
I went to the movies with the Lord. We watched Hugo, making old things new. The Lord is always making old things new. But he took me to the movies anyway, and there they were.
Old things. Old inventions. I rely on old inventions, old things.
To make my heart new, as it were.
---
I'm outside of Metto, on Coleman, in Mt P. Their Italian Cappuccino, double shot, is very good. A taste of rich old things, in the best of ways.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Why Letting Go is Difficult
At YearTeam on Tuesday we prayed about what we'd be letting go of in 2012, that fear or sin or bondage or compromise out of which God was calling us. Our Egypt. And then, we prayed about what we're walking into this year, be it the desert of challenge and discipline, or the promised land of peace and invitation.
As is my recent custom, I wrote 'fear and doubt' on a sticky note, and stuck it to the 'giving up/laying down' wall. And I wrote some other things too, like gluttony (which I've been convicted of lately- a topic for another day). And I stuck some things to the 'pick up/be' wall as well.
So I stuck up my fear and doubt, and then I lead worship for a few songs. No real emotional connection, but that's ok. Jesus wasn't always happy either. Worship that is hard, that costs something, is good.
Wednesday night at worship, I was leading on guitar. I asked if anyone sensed a vague heaviness, and another leader had also recognized it. I felt a strong sense that we, the community, were one, knit together in the Spirit, as Jesus prayed 'that we would be one, even as I and the Father are one'. I shared it with the group, and another friend laughed out loud. She had just written down that very verse, as a prayer. Lord, would we be one, even as You and the Father are one. Christ was obviously amongst us, revealing Himself.
Then, a friend lead us into a time of offering our blemishes to God, allowing Him to make them beautiful. (An intentional participation in active redemption, you might call it.) As she was explaining what it meant to lay stuff down, to offer ourselves vulnerably to God, two things happened. First, another friend said she was not quite ready to be vulnerable about the blemishes in her heart. Amazing, because she is one of the most Godly women I have ever, ever, ever seen. If ever love came from God into man, it is in her. Her statement was also amazing because of her humility. She was not ready, she was not perfect. Neither am I, and that gives me hope.
Second, the first friend mentioned in passing that to lay down our blemishes may be to lay down part of our identity. We may actually cling to our blemishes, our darkness, as part of our identity.
A solid night of worship. Folks were touched, encouraged, affirmed. But, like the night before, no real emotional connection. And it bothered me. I wrestled with it, analyzing the potential validity behind my current 'frame'*. Perhaps I don't feel love because I'm not chosen. Perhaps I don't feel love because I've turned my back on God, because I have doubted too much, surrendered too little, am still too afraid. Perhaps I don't feel love because perhaps God isn't real at all, because we are all simply progeny-seeking animals who have developed love and compassion to protect our offspring. Truly, my mind followed this path. And does, every once in a while, with varying statements and fears and questions, but all roughly about the same things: the existence of God, the love of God, the interaction of God with me. There is something in me that does not believe any of it, or at least does not want to.
Yet this 'path' I fall into is blazed through a bog of irrationality. Jesus had just affirmed his voice to me in worship. All evening, in scripture, song, and word, He spoke to us of His power and His love, with which He desires to heal us, make us new. He affirmed it through other people, for goodness' sake. He literally shared things with our spirits, by His Spirit, in such a way that we were all moved in the same direction. The questions of God's existence and of His interaction He proves completely invalid, completely bogus. Bologna. Bogus bologna.
But, there is something else. What of His love? Does God, who speaks to us, who directs us, who has made all things good and brings about all things in His time; does God love me?
Here it is. And it's tied to doubt, and fear, and all these other questions. It's the root of them all. I fear, most of all, that I do not love because, for some reason or not, God does not love me. Because, truly, He doesn't 'love' like I would. He doesn't appear in a dazzling pillar of fire when I pray at night, he doesn't float in front of my Kudu-bound-bicycle as a cloud by day. He does not make my emotions perfectly true, perfectly accurate. He does not prove himself in the ways I would. And yet He speaks, in worship night, and in those I mentor, and those who mentor me. Still, I doubt. Something deep does not want to believe.
And so I analyze my doubt to figure out where I have gone wrong. I analyze my doubt to know why He sometimes closes his mouth to my prayers. Because silence scares me. Even when he speaks, as he clearly did Wednesday, silence scares me when He doesn't. Because I doubt.
And I am afraid to lay down my doubt, because in some ways it's all I have. There is some security in challenge, in criticism and waryness. It says, I will not be hurt again, or let go. I will not be let go, because I will go first.
Doubt says that you control the relationship. Doubt says, why trust? You are much more likely to be hurt. Doubt says, protect yourself. Seal yourself off from all but the scientific method of the now, ignore the past, place yourself in the concrete coffin of solitude and worry, lest you be let down**.
Doubt does not believe, or hope, or love.
But faith, O faith. Faith hopes. Faith loves. Faith in what, exactly? If I am so afraid to commit, so afraid to surrender, in what must I place my faith?
You know. My faith must go into foolishness. Into weakness. It goes into surrender to the very thing which is a stumbling block to the Jews and folly to the Gentile. And I struggle, oh I struggle to keep my eyes on Him. The cross is mightily elusive. Or else, I am mightily fickle. My guess is the latter.
But if I can keep my eyes on You, on Christ crucified, on this folly above all wisdom, this weakness above all strengths, then I have hope. Then, in struggle against emotional complacency, I love. I know, I press on to know.
There is no other option to me. God has proved himself. The arguments against Him, besides Him, are strangely attractive, engaging, destabilizing. Fantastically so. But they are, and ever will be fantasy. I know. I press on to know. Because, like it or not, he has spoken. Like it or not, he has affirmed himself. Like it or not, my emotions are not in line with reality. And so, until they are, I must let them go. I must let my doubt go. And press on. What other hope have I? What other chance to love, or be loved? There is none, and thus my desires and his self-revelation trump doubt, conclusively.
It's hard, so hard, to let go, because I still struggle to believe that I am loved and chosen. But what else will I believe? God does not reveal Himself to make Himself unreachable. To please God, I must, what? Believe in Him, and that He rewards those who seek him. And so, against all doubt, and emotion, I must. If I want to live at all, I must. And, with grace, I will.
1 Corinthians 1:22-27
For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, it pleased God through the folly of what we preach to save those who believe. For Jews demand signs and Greeks seek wisdom, but we preach Christ crucified, a stumbling block to the Jews and folly to the Gentiles, but to those who are called, Christ the Power of God and the Wisdom of God. For the foolishness of God is wiser than man, and the weakness of God is stronger than man.
*old English word for emotional state, trying to bring it back.
**C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves
Simon Guillebaud greatly challenged me, both to pray full surrender ( I'll go anywhere, do anything, God) and to memorize scripture. I'm shooting for both this semester. If you haven't heard of him, you should. He's a baller.
As is my recent custom, I wrote 'fear and doubt' on a sticky note, and stuck it to the 'giving up/laying down' wall. And I wrote some other things too, like gluttony (which I've been convicted of lately- a topic for another day). And I stuck some things to the 'pick up/be' wall as well.
So I stuck up my fear and doubt, and then I lead worship for a few songs. No real emotional connection, but that's ok. Jesus wasn't always happy either. Worship that is hard, that costs something, is good.
Wednesday night at worship, I was leading on guitar. I asked if anyone sensed a vague heaviness, and another leader had also recognized it. I felt a strong sense that we, the community, were one, knit together in the Spirit, as Jesus prayed 'that we would be one, even as I and the Father are one'. I shared it with the group, and another friend laughed out loud. She had just written down that very verse, as a prayer. Lord, would we be one, even as You and the Father are one. Christ was obviously amongst us, revealing Himself.
Then, a friend lead us into a time of offering our blemishes to God, allowing Him to make them beautiful. (An intentional participation in active redemption, you might call it.) As she was explaining what it meant to lay stuff down, to offer ourselves vulnerably to God, two things happened. First, another friend said she was not quite ready to be vulnerable about the blemishes in her heart. Amazing, because she is one of the most Godly women I have ever, ever, ever seen. If ever love came from God into man, it is in her. Her statement was also amazing because of her humility. She was not ready, she was not perfect. Neither am I, and that gives me hope.
Second, the first friend mentioned in passing that to lay down our blemishes may be to lay down part of our identity. We may actually cling to our blemishes, our darkness, as part of our identity.
A solid night of worship. Folks were touched, encouraged, affirmed. But, like the night before, no real emotional connection. And it bothered me. I wrestled with it, analyzing the potential validity behind my current 'frame'*. Perhaps I don't feel love because I'm not chosen. Perhaps I don't feel love because I've turned my back on God, because I have doubted too much, surrendered too little, am still too afraid. Perhaps I don't feel love because perhaps God isn't real at all, because we are all simply progeny-seeking animals who have developed love and compassion to protect our offspring. Truly, my mind followed this path. And does, every once in a while, with varying statements and fears and questions, but all roughly about the same things: the existence of God, the love of God, the interaction of God with me. There is something in me that does not believe any of it, or at least does not want to.
Yet this 'path' I fall into is blazed through a bog of irrationality. Jesus had just affirmed his voice to me in worship. All evening, in scripture, song, and word, He spoke to us of His power and His love, with which He desires to heal us, make us new. He affirmed it through other people, for goodness' sake. He literally shared things with our spirits, by His Spirit, in such a way that we were all moved in the same direction. The questions of God's existence and of His interaction He proves completely invalid, completely bogus. Bologna. Bogus bologna.
But, there is something else. What of His love? Does God, who speaks to us, who directs us, who has made all things good and brings about all things in His time; does God love me?
Here it is. And it's tied to doubt, and fear, and all these other questions. It's the root of them all. I fear, most of all, that I do not love because, for some reason or not, God does not love me. Because, truly, He doesn't 'love' like I would. He doesn't appear in a dazzling pillar of fire when I pray at night, he doesn't float in front of my Kudu-bound-bicycle as a cloud by day. He does not make my emotions perfectly true, perfectly accurate. He does not prove himself in the ways I would. And yet He speaks, in worship night, and in those I mentor, and those who mentor me. Still, I doubt. Something deep does not want to believe.
And so I analyze my doubt to figure out where I have gone wrong. I analyze my doubt to know why He sometimes closes his mouth to my prayers. Because silence scares me. Even when he speaks, as he clearly did Wednesday, silence scares me when He doesn't. Because I doubt.
And I am afraid to lay down my doubt, because in some ways it's all I have. There is some security in challenge, in criticism and waryness. It says, I will not be hurt again, or let go. I will not be let go, because I will go first.
Doubt says that you control the relationship. Doubt says, why trust? You are much more likely to be hurt. Doubt says, protect yourself. Seal yourself off from all but the scientific method of the now, ignore the past, place yourself in the concrete coffin of solitude and worry, lest you be let down**.
Doubt does not believe, or hope, or love.
But faith, O faith. Faith hopes. Faith loves. Faith in what, exactly? If I am so afraid to commit, so afraid to surrender, in what must I place my faith?
You know. My faith must go into foolishness. Into weakness. It goes into surrender to the very thing which is a stumbling block to the Jews and folly to the Gentile. And I struggle, oh I struggle to keep my eyes on Him. The cross is mightily elusive. Or else, I am mightily fickle. My guess is the latter.
But if I can keep my eyes on You, on Christ crucified, on this folly above all wisdom, this weakness above all strengths, then I have hope. Then, in struggle against emotional complacency, I love. I know, I press on to know.
There is no other option to me. God has proved himself. The arguments against Him, besides Him, are strangely attractive, engaging, destabilizing. Fantastically so. But they are, and ever will be fantasy. I know. I press on to know. Because, like it or not, he has spoken. Like it or not, he has affirmed himself. Like it or not, my emotions are not in line with reality. And so, until they are, I must let them go. I must let my doubt go. And press on. What other hope have I? What other chance to love, or be loved? There is none, and thus my desires and his self-revelation trump doubt, conclusively.
It's hard, so hard, to let go, because I still struggle to believe that I am loved and chosen. But what else will I believe? God does not reveal Himself to make Himself unreachable. To please God, I must, what? Believe in Him, and that He rewards those who seek him. And so, against all doubt, and emotion, I must. If I want to live at all, I must. And, with grace, I will.
1 Corinthians 1:22-27
For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, it pleased God through the folly of what we preach to save those who believe. For Jews demand signs and Greeks seek wisdom, but we preach Christ crucified, a stumbling block to the Jews and folly to the Gentiles, but to those who are called, Christ the Power of God and the Wisdom of God. For the foolishness of God is wiser than man, and the weakness of God is stronger than man.
*old English word for emotional state, trying to bring it back.
**C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves
Simon Guillebaud greatly challenged me, both to pray full surrender ( I'll go anywhere, do anything, God) and to memorize scripture. I'm shooting for both this semester. If you haven't heard of him, you should. He's a baller.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Thus says the Lord:
“Stand by the roads, and look,
and ask for the ancient paths,
where the good way is; and walk in it,
and find rest for your souls."
Jeremiah 6:16
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