Admonishment

Last Friday I was reading a devotion and was suddenly inspired to start writing again. With only a couple of stops for prayer, and a couple of minor edits, this is what I wrote.

Can you count the stars in the heavens?
Can you name them and give their age?
No, but it is good to study their beauty,
To learn what they may teach.

Can you number the grains of sand
And hold them all in your palm?
No, but they can teach you
Of the vastness of God’s glory.

Can you know the thoughts of men
That stir their deepest souls?
No, but seek understanding
As if it were a precious jewel.

Can you know the mind of God,
Who hung each star in its place
And named it,
Who carefully placed each grain of sand
And holds them in his mighty hand,
Who breathed life into man
And stirs the depths of his soul?
No, but search earnestly His word
As one who mines the heart of the earth
And brings forth greater riches with increasing depth.

Bow with your face to the ground before the throne of God,
And you will be standing above the heads of mighty men.
Humble yourself in the dust, esteeming all above you,
And your crown will shame the kings of the earth.
Invest your life, your strength, your every breath

on the beggar and cast-off child –
Receive a dividend of joy eternal.

De-baptizing

I read this article recently about atheists using hairdryers to “de-baptize” people. They hold a mock ceremony with one person wearing a monk’s frock, and he blows hot air on them to “taketh away the stigma and taketh away the remnants of the stain of baptismal water.”

Hearing this makes me very very sad. I know that people get hurt by religion, and even by others who claim to act in the name of Jesus Christ. That is a horribly unfortunate ramification of fallen, imperfect humanity using religion to its own end. Probably these individuals were hurt by religion, or by religious leaders.

But I don’t believe they have any idea of what they do. Perhaps they are disillusioned, or they just don’t think about what they are doing. Maybe they really believe that by removing that symbolic washing that indicates they have died to sin and been raised to Christ, that they will attain some freedom from God’s judgment. Either way it tears my heart out, because they are rejecting the only One who can help them to truly find freedom and peace. Instead they are heaping judgment on themselves. It is one thing to avoid the question because it is a difficult one – it is quite another to deliberately and explicitly reject Him.

Interestingly, the atheist group leader’s son has made the opposite choice, and has become a born-again Christian. God does have an interesting sense of humor.

Predestination

Dr. R.C. Sproul recently preached on the topic of predestination, a subject that has always been unpleasant to me, and to most people I think. I've always considered the concept of predestination to be at odds with man's free will (which is extremely important to each of us!),so that one cannot have both. But man's will is attached to his fallen nature, and therefore how could we choose God by our own will? We are a "slave to sin", (Romans 6:15). Only by His will can we be set free of that slavery. And as He sets us free we are able to respond in the affirmative to His invitation.

And it's not analogous to a drowning man to whom God throws a life-saving rope, but rather a dead man, already drowned (in the Fall). Dead men do not have the strength or desire to receive aid, but must be brought back to life first (Ephesians 2:5).

Add to that the fact that His choice to save someone has nothing to do with that person's inherent value or good deeds, past or future. Rather, it is according to "His good pleasure" (Ephesians 1), and it is good because He is good; not arbitrary or capricious or evil as man is wont to be. Otherwise we could not hope in Him.

This is a very difficult concept, because it demonstrates that He truly is the "author and perfecter of our faith" (Hebrews 12:2), and we can do naught but receive it (and that only by His grace) and give Him glory.

Dr. Sproul also explained that what is grace for us is justice for Christ, for He died for our sins with the promise that He would receive the purified Church as His bride, and each of us individually as His "brothers". The analogies aren't perfect because what's truly going on in the spiritual realm is complex and in many ways alien to our understanding.

One important note: it has been argued that predestination negates the usefulness of evangelism, but the fact is that God has commanded us to preach the gospel because He has chosen to save His elect through the preaching and evangelism of men. And He specifically does not tell us either who will be or who is made alive. We are like the wheat and tares in His parable (Matt 13:24-30); not to be separated until the Judgment. Therefore we do play a role, even though He must do most of it for us.

As you can see, my mind was changed, though it is still a very difficult concept for me. But if we are to worship a holy and infinite God, we can't be afraid of facing and accepting ideas that are beyond our understanding.

Religious "tolerance" and Christianity

Okay, now I'm out of good poems (well I hope you thought they were good, otherwise nevermind); I'll add more if I write any, but since I haven't done so in several years, I'm not holding my breath. Instead you will get my take on what, I believe are important discussions about the Christian faith. Like this one...


People of other religions (or none) often talk of the need for "religious tolerance", and they usually point to Christians as a great hindrance to this goal. But why are many Christians vehemently opposed to tolerance of all religions?

I think the answer has to do with belief versus Truth. Most world religions depend on the belief of people: they present a set of precepts and followers can take them or leave them, or mix and match, and it doesn't really matter too much. In such cases, it really is easy to be tolerant of others' beliefs and to agree that all religions are equal.

Yet if all religions are equal as they claim, then all religions are false, the wishful imaginings of an ephemeral species, alone in a doomed universe. Because various religions teach various things about gods, god, or no-god. And even with the Universalist's claim that each religion is a window to some aspect of God's revealed personality, we are left with a god who contradicts himself, is confused, easily manipulated, and no god at all. Which, again, stinks of wishful thinking.

However, Christianity stands out (Islam and Judaism also, but they are beyond the scope of this discussion) because Christianity is about ultimate Truth that governs the universe outside and the heart and mind inside man. While liberal Christians will protest, our faith is based on the authority of the Bible as God's word, but it is also grounded in history. This historical foundation is critical, because if those men who wrote down the Scriptures never really lived, or if Jesus really did not say those things He is quoted as saying, Christianity has no claim to ultimate Truth and is truly equal to all other religions.

But if those men really did live, and if Jesus really did say those things, then our faith is grounded in history and not just made-up legends. And if this is the case, we must deal with Jesus very seriously, because He said some extremely provocative things, such as "I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me." (John 14:6) So if we are to take Him at His word, then we must acknowledge that no other "way" can lead to God, and therefore no other religion can hold the Truth.

Liberal Christians like to gloss over such uncomfortable statements, but in doing so they do Him a terrible disservice, one that I do not believe will be overlooked.

** For an exhaustive discussion of the objective truth of Jesus and his apostles, I recommend Josh McDowell's book, The New Evidence That Demands a Verdict. It's a huge tome because there's a lot to cover, but an invaluable resource.

Sonnet 6

And here I recorded the closing of a chapter, though I didn't know it at the time. In fact, I sincerely believed we would be reconciled. An excruciating final page.


Alone

I cannot now believe in what I knew
that life would never change – a year before –
that I would be a soul complete with you,
that we would be together evermore.
For when I took the band that bound me to
the oath I gave with joy and hopeful heart,
resolving – always – faithfulness to you
I trusted, fearing lest that joy depart.
Now I live each day in hope’s despair –
old words and warmth in gift-book covers linger –
and speak my heart to one who isn’t there –
the glass no longer clinks against my finger.
But I resolve, no matter what you do,
To keep my oath of faithfulness to you.


I haven't written much since, but not for lack of inspiration. I remarried, and my wife and three children bring me a joy I had not known. When I get around to writing again, it will be to capture the essence of the happiness and pain that have gone into nurturing a maturing marriage and family.

Sonnet 5

I don't remember exactly when I wrote this or what was going on at that point, but this marriage got off to a rocky start and never did get much better, so it was probably in the first year. Apparently I had been accused of not really loving her. This was my response.


A Husband's Protest

Dark mutt'rings sometimes creep from shadowed thoughts
that love, though often steady in its light,
must flicker in my breast, too weak for aught,
when Time's cool breath expires in winds of spite;
for, in my mortal state of otherwise
dim feelings groping in a shutter'd heart,
the flame kept there for you at most belies
the darkness that surrounds this brighter part.
But despair not the frailty of this light
against the draughts that waft through chambers dim --
its strength is not alone of this poor wight,
but God protects a flame, once sparked by Him.
And as I vowed my faith to God and you,
so does He aid me always to be true.

Poem: The Wedding

I think this one is pretty self-explanatory. It's not a sonnet, and not one of my better poems, but it is a part of the story, so I included it here.


It's hard to know what thoughts you mind when promising to give your life
to make it one with that of he who fain would ever call you wife.
How can one know the feelings flowing through the rivers of your heart?
One only guesses at the flood that even he may see but part.

The spinning hours between each beat bring anxious care your heart may burst,
for Patience will not beg your hand when Giddiness has wed you first.
But he is calm and laughs when friends extol marriage and all its causes
and paces "just to pass the time" and only trembles when he pauses.

A step, a chord, a mother's tear, and side by side two spirits stand
with swollen hearts and nectar smiles, twain lovers lightly hand in hand.
A thousand heartbeats pass and you at last give loving voice your part:
in Godly song, "I do," spoken true, rings not from words, but from the heart.

Sonnet 4

I wrote this poem when I moved back to my hometown and prepared to begin what I thought was a lifelong journey with my soul mate. I'd been gone a year, and the private university I was attending was way too expensive, but that wasn't my primary reason for transferring to a university in my home town.

To My Love Upon Returning from College

The dew blankets the quiet morning now
like fire from creeping dawn, and clouds cold, white
and still belie the long, hope-drenching row
they thundered overhead that coal-dark night
we were apart. Today the hours we spend
together touch your cheek like morning rays
among the shading leaves of life and lend
their moments of light to ever brighter days.
And brighter still, the path that winds ahead
to denser distance, hiding future bends
that, walked with you, no matter where it led
would be for me my heart's desired end.
For time, which was my torment once before,
with you is now my joy forevermore.

Sonnet 3

In this poem, I tried to convey the joy of a visit home, in which I would spend every possible moment with the one I loved.

Visiting Home from College

This road I travel cuts its barren lanes
through one-church towns it rends like glaciered hills,
while minutes bear as Sunday bullet-trains
through shadowed valleys creeping forest fills.
And I rush t'ward your waiting arms like death
to meet the welcome smiles my visits bring --
where dew gleams in the city's dawning breath,
where grand cathedral choirs in sunsets sing.
For, though this journey's short in time and space,
and food and rest my fervent toil require,
my thoughts are ever turned from tasks I face
to dwell upon that heart I most desire.
Wherever I may stray, whatever do,
is less important, far too far from you.

Sonnet 2

While I was away at college, I would write to my sweetheart daily, and my visits home were more frequently to her than to my own family. In this poem I continued the metaphor of the storm for my lonely time away from the one I loved.


Down Pour

Beneath downpouring days, I trudge my thoughts
in search of rest from hope-eroding hours
that gathered in the clouds of choices wrought
and now rush thickly from those gloomy tow'rs.
And with each step, I stumble with my fears
as lonely moments crash before my eyes
and rumble sorrow though my straining ears,
redoubling Time's cruel storms my love defies.
But on I struggle through the blinding roar,
sustained by knowledge of your biding heart,
reminded of the love we shared before
and will again when no longer apart.
For, just beyond the darkness and the hours,
I feel my outstretched hand still clasped in yours.

Sonnet 1

William Wordsworth said poetry is "...emotion recollected in tranquility." The following poem begins an arc which starts at the beginning of a long-distance dating relationship that ended with me returning home after a year and marrying the girl, and continues through a waning marriage to its end. Very painful for me, but I hope enjoyable for you.

I have always been a formalist poetically, and like Shakespeare, so I thought the sonnet would make an excellent vehicle for my romantic feelings.


To My Love Upon Leaving for College

A warning dawn leaks sanguine through my mind
with brewing threats of swiftly rolling hours,
with flashes of the sadness we shall find
when time pours down on mine and yours, not ours.
And closer than feels safe the rumblings sound
out dolor for two hearts, haplessly marked
to be beneath those loudly pitch days drown'd,
or lose themselves in gusts of love unmarked.
But we would fain these rueful winds defy
by crescent hope rooted in certainty
that weath'red storms will love intensify,
that time will water our magnan'mity.
Each drop of time upon my lonely brow
will, to its torment, watch my fondness grow.

Poet's thought

Everyone needs a little irony in their diet, and this poem is chock-full of it. I was very frustrated at not being able to think of anything to write, so I wrote this.


I never could see a poet's thought;
I read little in his face --
just the bright, piercing eyes, squinting
as if looking from a distance at the word, coaxing
to light willfully its shiest secrets for men
who see naught in aught at the last.

His distant smile seems to boast that it understands
the spells his pen incants, while wrinkles
gather about these soft invocations, curious,
straining like children listening
for what old eyes have learned.

I never could read a poet's thought;
I see little in his words --
just the rough texture of sandpaper-syllables,
dots and commas poised to pierce the skin
and spill forth a pain called thought and my wish
that just once I could bend far enough over
to drip onto eloquent paper
an original verse.

Day at the Beach

Here I tried to capture a typical day at the beach for me when I was a kid. The preparation and the drive there seemed to take so long because we were excited. We'd spend all day there, leaving only at dusk, and I'd always get a sunburn even though my mom slathered sunscreen on me.


Morning started slowly,
as we threw yesterday's potato salad
in a red Igloo cooler, cramming
bags of towels and swimsuits
into the green '66 Volvo station wagon.
Roads like time stretched
through watermelon fields and cabbage rows
that met in the distance,
and we watched for white dunes
until salt burned in our nostrils and we swore
we heard the rush of waves
above the engine's roar.
Gray castles ruled coquina kingdoms,
but we ate cold fried chicken
and greasy orange soda,
faithful subjects in a fiddler-crab's demesne.
Treasures lived in warm tide-pools
when the sun dipped low,
and we hunted crawling stars
and followed the shallow, rippling seas
until they dried up,
and red coals burned across our backs
from the West,
and we went home.

Commonly misunderstood fundamentals of orthodox Christianity

I was planning to write on the most widely held *incorrect* beliefs about Christianity, but I don't like to "reinvent the wheel", so a little research was in order first, which turned up this web page. I have not yet read other pages in the site, and this page references those extensively, but the theology is sound, and the teaching is clear.

Misconceptions include:
* We get to heaven based on how good we are here on earth.
* Once we become a Christian, being saved by God’s gift of grace, it does not matter what we do.
* The New Testament was written long after the events took place and are thus subject to legends being inserted into the text.
* The God of the Bible is immoral.

I recommend this page for anyone, believer or non-believer. Test yourself on these points. If you disagree with the author, pray to God and search the Bible. It is there so that we do not have to depend exclusively on other men's word.

Poem: Haunted House

When I was ten, my folks helped a young couple move into this old house that had a history of tenants suddenly leaving for various reasons. The most recent tenants had left a lot of stuff behind, as if they'd been in a terrible hurry, so that had to be moved out first. In addition, a large nest of hornets had made their home near the top of the stairs, so they had to be sprayed.

My brother and I were not as a rule afraid of old structures, but this place terrified us -- especially upstairs, and particularly the third bedroom; even in full daylight it took everything in me to stand in the doorway and not run away.

Years later I wrote this poem, then drove out to find the old house and take some pictures with my mom's old Brownie camera. She'd taken a few pictures on the roll; I took several of the house to illustrate my poem. Then I gave the camera back and she finished the roll. When she got the pictures developed, hers turned out fine, but mine looked like I'd left the lens cap on, completely black. Except, Brownie cameras don't have lens caps.

Oh, and that couple didn't stay long in the house. I didn't find out why.


Haunted House

Those live who scoff at dreary haunts and laugh when others' eyes grow wide,
but no man knows a haunted house, or not, unless he's been inside --
and yes, I have, once or twice, and dared myself through darkened rooms,
whose seeping silence sapped a thrill unmatched by any carnival ride.

Cadav'rous it was, cold-gray from neglect, two stories and eerily haunting to see,
inside: a plethora of corners and halls, and even a narrow, walled staircase, and bees.
Yes, hornets haunted the upper rooms and begrudged the movement of any who called,
and even the Windows glared in at the gloom and despaired at the state they did not want to be.

In rooms there dwelt a chilly Fear that dully clothed itself in dust,
and hugged in-comers for their warmth, 'til they grew numb, as all men must.
But up the stairs and down the hall resided a Dread most cold of all,
which begged me please, good sir, to leave, and let the creaky doors to rust.

The House could tell its own brief tales of tenants come and quickly moved on,
and long years left between the days, when darkness slept past outside's dawn.
But charity brought me to ready this house, to rake back the age from the dead, leafy lawn
and dispose of the last tenants' worldly effects for a couple who nervously came, then were gone.

Poem: Dead Man Mountain

Here is another poem I wrote after hearing a sad story of a sharecropper in the Ouachita mountains of western Arkansas. I tried to be true to the story as I heard it.


Dead Man Mountain

Once, through my youth, a poor man passed and travell'd by a lonely path
that oft' I wander in my thoughts to grieve for prey of Fortune's wrath.
The trav'ler left a shadowed past and in the valleys fell at last
to strike a deal to rent the land a failing farmer leased too fast.

'Twas sixty acres that he planted, cotton that he quickly sowed,
yet carefully, lest any foot yield less than that he thought it owed.
And then he waited for the harvest, waited while Job with him watched --
he watched the cotton grow and ripen: dress and shirt and rag and swatch.

At last there came the day when oven-sun and earth had done their work,
and cotton burst like downy popcorn -- long-awaited harvest work.
Then frantic'ly he reaped the cotton, labored on the mountainside
and filled his wagon, yoked his horses, whipped them t'ward a two-day ride.

And in the farmer's name (by law) the poor man sold his cotton crop,
but cash-rain fell to credit's claws and to his hands fell not a drop.
Then, as he climbed into the wagon, empty now of all but pride,
his head held high, his rough face stern, he closed his eyes to life and cried.

At journey's end he found himself, and so he stepped down from his life,
hung up the reins with weary hands, now spent and cotton callouse-rife,
and shook his lowered, thinning head -- he moved his lips as if to pray --
"A pair of shoes was all I wanted. . ." that was all he found to say.

And then he left us, wending up a mountain man had yet to name,
but as he went, we each looked down to see his feet (though more for shame)
were bare as newborn babes', but rough from years of toil and war with sod --
then he was gone, adopted by the nameless mountain near to God.

A few years later on that mount, a skeleton men sadly found
and gave a long-deserved fun'ral -- buried it in hallowed ground.
And then and there they named that mountain, named it Dead Man for the soul
whom Fate had found her finest fool, whom life could torment, death, console.

Welcome!

Welcome to my new blog. If you are interested in science fiction, poetry, Christianity, or my opinion and revelations in general, you will find them here, updated at least weekly I hope. As for poetry, I haven't written since college, so my own is limited; I may link to others I like when that runs out. For now, I will start with one I wrote that others have enjoyed.


Thunder Clouds

Swift, gray children run laughing past growling winds,
scattering their footsteps in puddles and rivulets.
Dizzily, they dance among shaded daisies and pounce on angry tin roofs
until Prettiness catches their dark, excited eyes,
and they shout their delight as they gaily stoop to touch their fancy
with electric fingers.