Fewer and fewer people are undertaking the journey to uncover the relevant and essential truths of life. The temptation to let the mind stew in its own unsure and apathetic juices is overwhelming a great deal of the populace. What can I say but that I can hardly blame them. Just to pick a major in college is a staggering hurdle to scuttle over with the vast number of options and their implications towards the future that are offered. And then we are expected on top of that to wade through the mire of philosophical battlefields to come out the other side with our own well thought out, critically accepted ideas about questions pertaining to morality, purpose, existence, and the essence of the cosmos. Even worse, we must come through it all with the correct answer or the whole agonizing trip will ultimately have been a waste. Those people who disdain a thinking existence sound wiser by the second.
And yet, we know that we have to make strides in that journey or else run the risk of a useless life. The twitter of an unused mind must be irritating to our omniscient God. So delve into those cavernous books, bring out the pocket dictionary to understand Hume's Treatise on Human Nature , clear your schedule of anything for the next six years (although you will most certainly need more than that pitifully short amount of time). After I've asked all the hard questions and conjured up all the deceased great thinkers of the past to answer those questions, to whose argument should I lend my ear? The majority of them have done an impressive job of sounding remarkably clear and remaining befuddling enough to make me curl up on my couch like Andy Capp. We are all reasonable creatures, but how many of us possess the ability to think cogently and logically? How many times are we persuaded to believe an idea based mostly on either our respect for the speaker or the quality of his speech rather than relying completely on the rationality God has bestowed on us?
The goal is simple. Ask every question you can ask. But you must be more than Socratic about it. Ask for an answer that fits or, at the very least, doesn't contradict the worldview you have constructed. It is not enough to just accept the world as it is handed to us. Even if you are given all the right answers, it's nice to know about all the wrongs ones to appreciate the sheer beauty of true truth.
Showing posts with label By Jonathan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label By Jonathan. Show all posts
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Four Hearts, One Song - 4
The road had been a long one for Micah; glad he was to put it behind him. At this spot, he would lay down the weight that he had carried for so long. It was nothing more than a hill, but for him, it was the succor he had desired for what seemed an eternity. He thankfully fell to his knees, relishing the cool earth that yielded to him, coddling and caressing his aching muscles. The peace of this moment surpassed his expectations. With a groan, he let the beam of the cross slide from his shoulders.
The thud of the wood hitting the ground lightened his body and awakened his mind. He remembered now where he was and what he was doing. The malicious accusers behind him would not let him forget that. They hurled their insults and their anger at him as poisoned darts, their hateful faces contorting into grotesque shapes that would barely seem human to an observer. But to him, these were the faces that they always had, whether they were mocking him viciously or pleasantly greeting him like an old friend. This was how men were really. When the façade of charity and human kindness was taken away, the true face appeared and it was loathe to behold.
In some part of his heart, he had secretly feared this day’s coming. It must have been the condemned criminal in him. He could not deny that part of him, and it was ugly and cowardly. The other part of him, however, had longed to be caught, longed to be free from fear, longed to feel the harsh embrace of the cross. He stretched the length of his body along the beam, laying each arm out as far as he could. When the day had begun, the pain had been nearly unbearable. Still he could feel the bite of the lash across his back and the taste of sweat on the knuckles of the Roman guards was on his mouth.
He had always taken some amount of pride in knowing that he was a little different than the rest of the vagabonds he associated with. They were cruel and cold, thinking that the world owed them something for their suffering and it was their right to take by force what had been denied them by fate. He had never deluded himself with such idiotic notions. He did what his nature dictated because he was too weak to deny it. That was all. The truth of this had been with him since he was a boy. Pilfering from neighbors as a child, selling away someone else’s sheep for pocket change when he was a shepherd, it had all been so easy, so common. The descent to decay is often a pleasant trip. He might have changed the road he had begun to walk down had he ever bothered to look at his surrounding, but he never did. Save for that one night.
The terror of that night is what stuck with him the most. Naturally, he had feared the appearance of the angels as some sort of supernatural executors of the divine judgment of God for his wrongs. His three friends had nearly dragged him to the barn the angels indicated. Even then, he could have changed the momentum of his life, but the fear of reprisal drove away such hope. The compassionate eyes of that woman cradling her child had laid him bare, open to the attacks of the world. She saw everything that was in him, and he saw the fear that in her. But he was beyond redemption.
The convict’s wrists throbbed with pain and the familiar feel of warm blood trickled down his arms. He was hanging upright now, though he had not noticed the nails being driven into his wrists. The whole crowd stood before him now as a jury -- the verdict condemnation. The dejected criminal would make no plea for penance or forgiveness, knowing that he was well beyond hope of either. The pain started to push to the surface again, stifling him with aching spasms. He tried to concentrate on the world around him to block out the torture inside. He picked out several jeering voices, “What now Jesus? Hail the King of the Jews!” The name spoken startled him so badly that he lurched forward, straining his arms against the nails uselessly. It couldn’t be.
He realized now that two more men were being crucified alongside him. One man he recognized, an associate of his whose name escaped him. He was a murderer. The other was set slightly in front of him, giving him a view only of the back of the cross. The taunts of the crowd lessened over time, but the impact of their words accomplished more than they could have realized. The criminal gaped and gargled, laboring to see a face that was impossible to see. For the last few years, he had heard rumors of the prophet Jesus, and they had always reminded him of that night in the barn. But he could not fathom the idea of this man Jesus hanging on a cross alongside convicts.
Eventually, the other man joined in the flurry of insults raining down on Jesus, “Come on, Son of God! If you are so powerful, why not bring yourself down from there? Take me with you while you’re at it, I’m sure it would be no problem for you.” The first criminal began to feel his blood boil. The impertinence of such crudeness towards a holy man infuriated him. This was at least a decent man. This was a good teacher. This was a prophet. This -- the words of Mary returned to him out of the tender blue sky, “This is Jesus, he is the Savior of the world.”
In a voice that was not his own, then enraged convict denounced his jocular companion, “Do you not even fear God, seeing you are under the same condemnation? We are judged justly, for we receive the due reward for our crimes, but this man has done nothing wrong.” The jester was thunderstruck a moment, then began to howl maniacally with laughter. It was unimportant. Turning from the lunatic, the man tilted his head and faced the back of the man in front of him. With stinging tears in his eyes, he spoke again, this time with a timidity and trembling that had hitherto never appeared in his voice, “Lord ... remember me when you come into heaven.”
It was a cry from his heart, a desperate plea hoping beyond reason, and despaired of as soon as spoken. There was no redemption for demons like him. There was only the licking, consuming fire of Hell. He hung his head, realizing now the pit of agony that awaited him. Suddenly, he was not eager to die. There would be no freedom in death, only the just and merciless payment for his deeds. He trembled. A rasping sound responded to his dejected heart from the direction of Jesus. The sound of it was as though from beyond the grave. He had never before heard anything so laden with torment. The frightful sound twisted and grew, formulating into shapes and colors before the convict’s eyes, each apparition more disquieting than the last. The shapes danced around him, coalescing into one horrifying form, the sound reaching a crescendo of abjection in sorrow that bore the accumulation of the whole of mankind’s suffering. The voice of Jesus pierced through all these ghastly phantasms, chasing them furiously away into the ether of the sky, “Assuredly, I say to you, today you will be with Me in Paradise.”
Jesus said no more. No more needed to be said. The impossible gift had been given. Would he truly be able to receive it? Forgiveness? Salvation? They had always been more fanciful dreams to him. Now he could taste them and touch them, and he reveled in it. His eyes were blinded by his tears, but still he seemed to be able to see beyond his normal scope of vision. The face of Jesus loomed up before him, torn and battered ... and utterly flawless. The crowd was still there for the most part, but the hideous masks were gone and he finally saw what people truly looked like. And then he spotted someone, or to be more precise, three someones he had never anticipated seeing again. It was his friends that had dragged him that night to the barn and had each shared in that glimpse of truth to lost souls. They switched between gazing at Jesus and the convict. When their eyes met, an understanding was exchanged. After more than thirty years, they had all ultimately come to the same conclusion. Jesus, Savior of the world.
The voice of Jesus boomed in the stillness of his heart, “It is finished!” Ah yes, Micah, the redeemed convict, closed his eyes to the stupor invading his body. A smile crossed his blood-soaked face, so it is.
The thud of the wood hitting the ground lightened his body and awakened his mind. He remembered now where he was and what he was doing. The malicious accusers behind him would not let him forget that. They hurled their insults and their anger at him as poisoned darts, their hateful faces contorting into grotesque shapes that would barely seem human to an observer. But to him, these were the faces that they always had, whether they were mocking him viciously or pleasantly greeting him like an old friend. This was how men were really. When the façade of charity and human kindness was taken away, the true face appeared and it was loathe to behold.
In some part of his heart, he had secretly feared this day’s coming. It must have been the condemned criminal in him. He could not deny that part of him, and it was ugly and cowardly. The other part of him, however, had longed to be caught, longed to be free from fear, longed to feel the harsh embrace of the cross. He stretched the length of his body along the beam, laying each arm out as far as he could. When the day had begun, the pain had been nearly unbearable. Still he could feel the bite of the lash across his back and the taste of sweat on the knuckles of the Roman guards was on his mouth.
He had always taken some amount of pride in knowing that he was a little different than the rest of the vagabonds he associated with. They were cruel and cold, thinking that the world owed them something for their suffering and it was their right to take by force what had been denied them by fate. He had never deluded himself with such idiotic notions. He did what his nature dictated because he was too weak to deny it. That was all. The truth of this had been with him since he was a boy. Pilfering from neighbors as a child, selling away someone else’s sheep for pocket change when he was a shepherd, it had all been so easy, so common. The descent to decay is often a pleasant trip. He might have changed the road he had begun to walk down had he ever bothered to look at his surrounding, but he never did. Save for that one night.
The terror of that night is what stuck with him the most. Naturally, he had feared the appearance of the angels as some sort of supernatural executors of the divine judgment of God for his wrongs. His three friends had nearly dragged him to the barn the angels indicated. Even then, he could have changed the momentum of his life, but the fear of reprisal drove away such hope. The compassionate eyes of that woman cradling her child had laid him bare, open to the attacks of the world. She saw everything that was in him, and he saw the fear that in her. But he was beyond redemption.
The convict’s wrists throbbed with pain and the familiar feel of warm blood trickled down his arms. He was hanging upright now, though he had not noticed the nails being driven into his wrists. The whole crowd stood before him now as a jury -- the verdict condemnation. The dejected criminal would make no plea for penance or forgiveness, knowing that he was well beyond hope of either. The pain started to push to the surface again, stifling him with aching spasms. He tried to concentrate on the world around him to block out the torture inside. He picked out several jeering voices, “What now Jesus? Hail the King of the Jews!” The name spoken startled him so badly that he lurched forward, straining his arms against the nails uselessly. It couldn’t be.
He realized now that two more men were being crucified alongside him. One man he recognized, an associate of his whose name escaped him. He was a murderer. The other was set slightly in front of him, giving him a view only of the back of the cross. The taunts of the crowd lessened over time, but the impact of their words accomplished more than they could have realized. The criminal gaped and gargled, laboring to see a face that was impossible to see. For the last few years, he had heard rumors of the prophet Jesus, and they had always reminded him of that night in the barn. But he could not fathom the idea of this man Jesus hanging on a cross alongside convicts.
Eventually, the other man joined in the flurry of insults raining down on Jesus, “Come on, Son of God! If you are so powerful, why not bring yourself down from there? Take me with you while you’re at it, I’m sure it would be no problem for you.” The first criminal began to feel his blood boil. The impertinence of such crudeness towards a holy man infuriated him. This was at least a decent man. This was a good teacher. This was a prophet. This -- the words of Mary returned to him out of the tender blue sky, “This is Jesus, he is the Savior of the world.”
In a voice that was not his own, then enraged convict denounced his jocular companion, “Do you not even fear God, seeing you are under the same condemnation? We are judged justly, for we receive the due reward for our crimes, but this man has done nothing wrong.” The jester was thunderstruck a moment, then began to howl maniacally with laughter. It was unimportant. Turning from the lunatic, the man tilted his head and faced the back of the man in front of him. With stinging tears in his eyes, he spoke again, this time with a timidity and trembling that had hitherto never appeared in his voice, “Lord ... remember me when you come into heaven.”
It was a cry from his heart, a desperate plea hoping beyond reason, and despaired of as soon as spoken. There was no redemption for demons like him. There was only the licking, consuming fire of Hell. He hung his head, realizing now the pit of agony that awaited him. Suddenly, he was not eager to die. There would be no freedom in death, only the just and merciless payment for his deeds. He trembled. A rasping sound responded to his dejected heart from the direction of Jesus. The sound of it was as though from beyond the grave. He had never before heard anything so laden with torment. The frightful sound twisted and grew, formulating into shapes and colors before the convict’s eyes, each apparition more disquieting than the last. The shapes danced around him, coalescing into one horrifying form, the sound reaching a crescendo of abjection in sorrow that bore the accumulation of the whole of mankind’s suffering. The voice of Jesus pierced through all these ghastly phantasms, chasing them furiously away into the ether of the sky, “Assuredly, I say to you, today you will be with Me in Paradise.”
Jesus said no more. No more needed to be said. The impossible gift had been given. Would he truly be able to receive it? Forgiveness? Salvation? They had always been more fanciful dreams to him. Now he could taste them and touch them, and he reveled in it. His eyes were blinded by his tears, but still he seemed to be able to see beyond his normal scope of vision. The face of Jesus loomed up before him, torn and battered ... and utterly flawless. The crowd was still there for the most part, but the hideous masks were gone and he finally saw what people truly looked like. And then he spotted someone, or to be more precise, three someones he had never anticipated seeing again. It was his friends that had dragged him that night to the barn and had each shared in that glimpse of truth to lost souls. They switched between gazing at Jesus and the convict. When their eyes met, an understanding was exchanged. After more than thirty years, they had all ultimately come to the same conclusion. Jesus, Savior of the world.
The voice of Jesus boomed in the stillness of his heart, “It is finished!” Ah yes, Micah, the redeemed convict, closed his eyes to the stupor invading his body. A smile crossed his blood-soaked face, so it is.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Four Hearts, One Song - 3
It was a solemn day. Many of the townspeople had gathered together and were already walking down the main thoroughfare of the city of Nain. Demas had taken a little too much time to get ready and was no doubt late for the processional. Much was on his mind. Pain was everywhere in life, unavoidable and oft unbearable; but it was generally death that would send Demas into these fits of consternation. This most recent death weighed heavily on him. Nineteen years old, Demas brooded. Too young to die. It had only been a couple of years since the child’s father had died as well. With the both of them gone, the widow and now bereaved mother was alone, itself almost a death sentence in this society.
Demas finished getting dressed, putting on his sandals last before heading to the door. Leaning both hands on the door, he bowed his head until his forehead gently touched the wood. He sighed deeply. He sighed the sigh of a man in turmoil. He sighed the sigh of a man who was not suffering, but acutely felt the suffering around him. The heaviness of the pain almost brought him to his knees. Was there no healing in this land? Was there no way to relieve the pain that crippled it or the sorrow that incapacitated it? This poor widow had known nothing but worry for years now with the death of her husband followed by the drawn out sickness of her son. Today she had to bury one more body, one more lifetime of memories. Would she only find reprieve when others gathered to lay her body to rest? It was a morbid thought, but those were the only kind of thoughts Demas had been left with over the years.
Unlike the majority of people, Demas was not naïve enough to shut his eyes to what was going on around him. Every face he encountered bore both the cuts and the scars of haggard living. Bandages covered wounds, but this was not healing. A bandage can only staunch the wound; it cannot erase the indelible mark it leaves behind. No one can take that away, no matter how much he might pray for it otherwise.
Thinking of his own cuts and scars finally did bring Demas to his knees. The savage beatings. The constant rejections. The failures. These were the sum of more than forty years of life. Demas loved the stars, but he hated the sun and moon. The sun would wake him in the morning, shining cheerfully and pleasantly recounting to him the sorrows that sleep had wiped away for a few hours. The moon would keep him up at night, its doleful face reminding him of the drooping, encumbered faces of men. The stars were his only friends, millions of little dots that are so small and so huge at the same time. They spanned the width of the sky while only occupying a fraction of his view. So much like life, they were. When he could look up and only see the stars, Demas felt like someone finally understood him, and he could sleep peacefully while the stars promised to bear the burdens of mankind for the night.
A solitary tear rolled off his cheek. Composing himself, Demas rose to his feet, straightened his clothes, and walked outside. He had only to walk for a few minutes before he caught up with the funeral procession. He reached them as they were nearing the last turn before the city gates. Silence ruled the day but for a few stifled sniffles and an occasional sob. The creak of the wheels of the cart bearing the coffin made the most distracting noise. The widow stood close to the cart, one hand laying languidly on the coffin, the other being cradled by a friend. Before long, however, a new noise beyond the wheels presented itself to the mourners. A quiet muffle came from near the city gate, gradually growing in tempo and volume the closer they got. Upon turning the corner, all were surprised to see an even larger crowd walking their way.
The crowd was loud and unruly, augmented by the constrained procession, but as with the case of the funeral, the mob seemed to revolve around a single point. People were pushing and yelling, desperately attempting to reach a man walking in the center of the mass. They would touch any part of him or his clothing and then back away. The crowd continued to obliviously follow the man forward. He appeared to be the only one as yet to notice the procession heading their way. Fearful of the meaning of such a rabble, the mourners clustered together, bodies touching to bear a semblance of power. When the groups were too close to miss each other, the noisy mass took notice of the solemn occasion in front of them. They slowed down to a crawl, their yelps and cries dying down into whispers and nudges.
Though the crowd had stopped, the man at the center of their group continued onward, purposefully directing his steps towards the widow and the cart. Both crowds had now come to a complete stop, the mourning facing the jubilant, the death shroud before the festival. One of those with the man whispered hoarsely, “Jesus! What are you doing?” The name pierced Demas’ mind like a dart, allowing the light of memories to flood in unabated. The cackling of the intruding crowd and the creaking of the cart had ceased; only the scraping tread of the prophet’s sandals could be heard. He came to a stop next to the cart within a couple of feet of the widow. Glancing first at the coffin, Jesus slowly approached the mother of the deceased. Their eyes met. Jesus’ eyes were brimming with tears, his brow knit together in a look of powerful compassion. The two of them shared an understanding.
The widow broke the look as a fresh burst of tears fought their way to the surface. Sobs and moans escaped her throat, tumbling over each other in confusion and pain. The sound of it wrenched the hearts of all present, perhaps Jesus most of all. Reaching up with his right hand extended towards the widow, he implored in a ragged, broken voice, “Do not weep.” With a few more sniffles, she did master her tears, gazing expectantly at the face of the prophet for she knew not what.
Keeping his hand raised, Jesus laid his left on the side of the open coffin. Both groups surged forward, the newcomers expectant, the mourners defensive. The sorrow-filled voice was now gone as he commanded with authority, “Young man, I say to you, arise.” A tide of frustration rushed through the people at these words. Mutters of anger were turned to shouts of shock when the upper torso of the young man emerged from the coffin. The once dead child rubbed his eyes and gaped at the crowd as they gaped at him.
Jesus took the man by the shoulder and reintroduced him to the world of the living. Fear and awe dominated the scene. Murmurs of praise and terror spread throughout the city like fire. Only Demas remained silent. When the child had uttered his first phrase from beyond the grave, Demas had once again fallen on his knees, badly shaken. It was not fear that brought him down, but the most complete joy that he had ever felt. He had only to look at the faces of the mother and son to know ... to know that there was hope. One suffering, one sorrow had been removed. It was a small consolation for all the pain in the world, but the fact remained that it been taken away. Healing had occurred, not only of the child, but of Demas. For the first time, he searched for the memories that had haunted him all his life and they were lost.
Demas, tears still blurring his eyes, returned to his feet and peered back at the cart where the dead had already departed. The prophet was still there and Demas realized that he was not the only one that was silent. They exchanged looks and Demas felt for a moment that he could see the reflection of his inner sorrows reflected in the depths of those healing eyes. Yet they no longer troubled him; the eyes overcame the pain. Those eyes would always overcome the pain from now on.
Demas finished getting dressed, putting on his sandals last before heading to the door. Leaning both hands on the door, he bowed his head until his forehead gently touched the wood. He sighed deeply. He sighed the sigh of a man in turmoil. He sighed the sigh of a man who was not suffering, but acutely felt the suffering around him. The heaviness of the pain almost brought him to his knees. Was there no healing in this land? Was there no way to relieve the pain that crippled it or the sorrow that incapacitated it? This poor widow had known nothing but worry for years now with the death of her husband followed by the drawn out sickness of her son. Today she had to bury one more body, one more lifetime of memories. Would she only find reprieve when others gathered to lay her body to rest? It was a morbid thought, but those were the only kind of thoughts Demas had been left with over the years.
Unlike the majority of people, Demas was not naïve enough to shut his eyes to what was going on around him. Every face he encountered bore both the cuts and the scars of haggard living. Bandages covered wounds, but this was not healing. A bandage can only staunch the wound; it cannot erase the indelible mark it leaves behind. No one can take that away, no matter how much he might pray for it otherwise.
Thinking of his own cuts and scars finally did bring Demas to his knees. The savage beatings. The constant rejections. The failures. These were the sum of more than forty years of life. Demas loved the stars, but he hated the sun and moon. The sun would wake him in the morning, shining cheerfully and pleasantly recounting to him the sorrows that sleep had wiped away for a few hours. The moon would keep him up at night, its doleful face reminding him of the drooping, encumbered faces of men. The stars were his only friends, millions of little dots that are so small and so huge at the same time. They spanned the width of the sky while only occupying a fraction of his view. So much like life, they were. When he could look up and only see the stars, Demas felt like someone finally understood him, and he could sleep peacefully while the stars promised to bear the burdens of mankind for the night.
A solitary tear rolled off his cheek. Composing himself, Demas rose to his feet, straightened his clothes, and walked outside. He had only to walk for a few minutes before he caught up with the funeral procession. He reached them as they were nearing the last turn before the city gates. Silence ruled the day but for a few stifled sniffles and an occasional sob. The creak of the wheels of the cart bearing the coffin made the most distracting noise. The widow stood close to the cart, one hand laying languidly on the coffin, the other being cradled by a friend. Before long, however, a new noise beyond the wheels presented itself to the mourners. A quiet muffle came from near the city gate, gradually growing in tempo and volume the closer they got. Upon turning the corner, all were surprised to see an even larger crowd walking their way.
The crowd was loud and unruly, augmented by the constrained procession, but as with the case of the funeral, the mob seemed to revolve around a single point. People were pushing and yelling, desperately attempting to reach a man walking in the center of the mass. They would touch any part of him or his clothing and then back away. The crowd continued to obliviously follow the man forward. He appeared to be the only one as yet to notice the procession heading their way. Fearful of the meaning of such a rabble, the mourners clustered together, bodies touching to bear a semblance of power. When the groups were too close to miss each other, the noisy mass took notice of the solemn occasion in front of them. They slowed down to a crawl, their yelps and cries dying down into whispers and nudges.
Though the crowd had stopped, the man at the center of their group continued onward, purposefully directing his steps towards the widow and the cart. Both crowds had now come to a complete stop, the mourning facing the jubilant, the death shroud before the festival. One of those with the man whispered hoarsely, “Jesus! What are you doing?” The name pierced Demas’ mind like a dart, allowing the light of memories to flood in unabated. The cackling of the intruding crowd and the creaking of the cart had ceased; only the scraping tread of the prophet’s sandals could be heard. He came to a stop next to the cart within a couple of feet of the widow. Glancing first at the coffin, Jesus slowly approached the mother of the deceased. Their eyes met. Jesus’ eyes were brimming with tears, his brow knit together in a look of powerful compassion. The two of them shared an understanding.
The widow broke the look as a fresh burst of tears fought their way to the surface. Sobs and moans escaped her throat, tumbling over each other in confusion and pain. The sound of it wrenched the hearts of all present, perhaps Jesus most of all. Reaching up with his right hand extended towards the widow, he implored in a ragged, broken voice, “Do not weep.” With a few more sniffles, she did master her tears, gazing expectantly at the face of the prophet for she knew not what.
Keeping his hand raised, Jesus laid his left on the side of the open coffin. Both groups surged forward, the newcomers expectant, the mourners defensive. The sorrow-filled voice was now gone as he commanded with authority, “Young man, I say to you, arise.” A tide of frustration rushed through the people at these words. Mutters of anger were turned to shouts of shock when the upper torso of the young man emerged from the coffin. The once dead child rubbed his eyes and gaped at the crowd as they gaped at him.
Jesus took the man by the shoulder and reintroduced him to the world of the living. Fear and awe dominated the scene. Murmurs of praise and terror spread throughout the city like fire. Only Demas remained silent. When the child had uttered his first phrase from beyond the grave, Demas had once again fallen on his knees, badly shaken. It was not fear that brought him down, but the most complete joy that he had ever felt. He had only to look at the faces of the mother and son to know ... to know that there was hope. One suffering, one sorrow had been removed. It was a small consolation for all the pain in the world, but the fact remained that it been taken away. Healing had occurred, not only of the child, but of Demas. For the first time, he searched for the memories that had haunted him all his life and they were lost.
Demas, tears still blurring his eyes, returned to his feet and peered back at the cart where the dead had already departed. The prophet was still there and Demas realized that he was not the only one that was silent. They exchanged looks and Demas felt for a moment that he could see the reflection of his inner sorrows reflected in the depths of those healing eyes. Yet they no longer troubled him; the eyes overcame the pain. Those eyes would always overcome the pain from now on.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Four Hearts, One Song - 2
The sun never did seem to have any sense. It was like a cosmic joke arranged between the heavens and earth. Whenever some sunlight is necessary, a cloud meanders in the way. Right now, a cloud would be a welcome intrusion, but none was to be seen. The throng gathered under the delighted sun, prisoners to its terrible sense of humor. They had been there for hours and now the pleasure of the eye in the sky melted away into displeasure at their continued presence, making one last bid to chase them to shelter before it settled behind the hills for its nightly rest. Still no one rose to leave. This was not the kind of place to casually walk away from. After all, they were at the feet of the teacher, the prophet.
More incredible than the disdain of the sun was the stamina of Jesus. Addressing a crowd of thousands required a commanding voice to be sure, but to sustain that voice for a length of time was a daunting task. Jesus had been at it for more than four hours already. Signs of tiring began to show as the day drew to an end, but he would not be hindered.
Epaphros had never seen such a supreme eloquence, noble compassion, or enlightened wisdom. For years, desperate for something more than his mediocre profession and disappointing personal life, Epaphros had journeyed from city to city to better himself. He would attach himself to the wise men and the teachers, leeching away any knowledge he could get his hands on. From the moment he woke until the moment he slept, he devoted his life to one goal: to become better. To become stronger. To become wiser. To become pious. To be a better man. But what did that really mean? For all his dedication, each day he awoke to the same face, the same weaknesses, the same man. In the end, the failures overcame the flame for growth. Apathy swept away all desires that previously inflamed him to succeed. The light of life had all but faded from him until a name casually mentioned had rekindled his ambition. It was the name of Jesus. A name that he and three others had held in their hearts for thirty years.
Forsaking all other duties, Epaphros followed every story and rumor until he had been led to this place. In his heart, he had been hoping for a private meeting with Jesus, but the large assembly before him removed any such poetic illusions from his mind. And yet, he was not in the least disappointed. He was enthralled, entranced by every word that proceeded from the mouth of the prophet. He taught his listeners what they needed to be blessed and to avoid woe.
“Can the blind lead the blind?” Jesus asked. “Will they not both fall into the ditch? A disciple is not above his teacher, but everyone who is perfectly trained will be like his teacher.” That’s it, Epaphros reveled, so simply stated, but perfectly true. For all his searching and trying, a man cannot grow or better himself if he is following a blind teacher. Blindness begets blindness. But if the right teaching is followed, one can be whole. “A good man out of the good treasure of his heart brings forth good.” If the heart can be disciplined…no, if the heart desires good, good will be found. Even still, doubt nagged Epaphros.
Here was truth before him, yet it still felt unattainable. It seemed as though a titanic wall impeded him from crossing over. How can such a teaching be found or truly followed?
Jesus paused, changing to another story. He told of to men building houses. One built his house on the rock and it was firm. If a man put his faith in a solid foundation, then every stone laid thereafter would be strong. This was the key, the firm foundation! If he could build upon solid ground, then growth was inevitable and inexhaustible. If he built on sand, then the whole structure would collapse. “And great was its fall,” Jesus declaimed. And the wall between Epaphros and the truth tumbled with a groan.
More incredible than the disdain of the sun was the stamina of Jesus. Addressing a crowd of thousands required a commanding voice to be sure, but to sustain that voice for a length of time was a daunting task. Jesus had been at it for more than four hours already. Signs of tiring began to show as the day drew to an end, but he would not be hindered.
Epaphros had never seen such a supreme eloquence, noble compassion, or enlightened wisdom. For years, desperate for something more than his mediocre profession and disappointing personal life, Epaphros had journeyed from city to city to better himself. He would attach himself to the wise men and the teachers, leeching away any knowledge he could get his hands on. From the moment he woke until the moment he slept, he devoted his life to one goal: to become better. To become stronger. To become wiser. To become pious. To be a better man. But what did that really mean? For all his dedication, each day he awoke to the same face, the same weaknesses, the same man. In the end, the failures overcame the flame for growth. Apathy swept away all desires that previously inflamed him to succeed. The light of life had all but faded from him until a name casually mentioned had rekindled his ambition. It was the name of Jesus. A name that he and three others had held in their hearts for thirty years.
Forsaking all other duties, Epaphros followed every story and rumor until he had been led to this place. In his heart, he had been hoping for a private meeting with Jesus, but the large assembly before him removed any such poetic illusions from his mind. And yet, he was not in the least disappointed. He was enthralled, entranced by every word that proceeded from the mouth of the prophet. He taught his listeners what they needed to be blessed and to avoid woe.
“Can the blind lead the blind?” Jesus asked. “Will they not both fall into the ditch? A disciple is not above his teacher, but everyone who is perfectly trained will be like his teacher.” That’s it, Epaphros reveled, so simply stated, but perfectly true. For all his searching and trying, a man cannot grow or better himself if he is following a blind teacher. Blindness begets blindness. But if the right teaching is followed, one can be whole. “A good man out of the good treasure of his heart brings forth good.” If the heart can be disciplined…no, if the heart desires good, good will be found. Even still, doubt nagged Epaphros.
Here was truth before him, yet it still felt unattainable. It seemed as though a titanic wall impeded him from crossing over. How can such a teaching be found or truly followed?
Jesus paused, changing to another story. He told of to men building houses. One built his house on the rock and it was firm. If a man put his faith in a solid foundation, then every stone laid thereafter would be strong. This was the key, the firm foundation! If he could build upon solid ground, then growth was inevitable and inexhaustible. If he built on sand, then the whole structure would collapse. “And great was its fall,” Jesus declaimed. And the wall between Epaphros and the truth tumbled with a groan.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Four Hearts, One Song - 1
The rumors hadn’t meant anything to him. Gossip seemed to be the only thing people could agree on and consequently was worth nothing. Just smoke and dust. Nothing substantial to grab on to. Nothing that he really needed. Men who drew this kind of attention from the masses came along every once in awhile, stirring up the rabble and satiating the thirst of the rumormongers. Some of them had been men of some merit to be sure, but were not quite so. Regardless they were fools and charlatans all of them. There did seem to be something different about this one. Rather than just the excited peddlers of new, eyewitnesses related their tales of the new prophet with an uncharacteristic sense of reverence and genuine awe. People that spread the word about the prophet were not excited about telling something, but telling of an exciting new something.
Still he would have disdained this growing exuberance if it had not been for the name. “Eli, you must come with us,” one of his friends had begged, “This man is simply amazing. The things he does seem impossible, yet he does them. You must see him yourself. This Jesus is a true prophet ... ”
The eager young man prattled on, but Eli was transfixed. That name awoke in him something that he had not felt for a very long time. In a moment, he was whisked away from his home and felt the prickle of hay and dust on his knee as he knelt in a tiny barn before a woman and her child. Eli’s friend tugged at his shoulder and Eli found himself being easily dragged along, a man who had for years never gone where he did not decide himself to go.
Eli followed the tugging arm on his shoulder, where he was going he did not know, nor care, He was a man on the verge of remembering something vitally important, a feeling, and would not be roused by anything else. Before long, he and his guide reached the local synagogue, the surprisingly crowded synagogue. The crowd was so great that many of the more timid were forced to stand outside. Led by the vice grip of his friend, Eli waded through the knot of people and pushed as far forward as he could. Following the gaze of the onlookers, Eli’s eyes fell on the prophet Jesus standing amidst the crowd in the middle of an impassioned speech. He was simply clad, without extravagant colors or jewelry, and his motions matched his attire, simple and understated. It was his voice that made its impression on everyone gathered. The sound of his voice did not seem to be an outside force, but an emanating vibration that generated within the listener, rising and spreading from the center of the body all the way to the fingertips and beyond. Even if the words could not be understood, its impact was undeniably felt. Eli stood mesmerized, unable to comprehend the words. He saw the man, Jesus, wielding the whole of the synagogue like a sword, thrusting it deep into the hearts of everyone present. For a moment, Eli could picture the whole world in the prophet’s hands, molding and shaping it how he saw fit or, if it would not be molded, breaking it over his knee into a thousand fragments. Perhaps this man really can change something, Eli hoped.
In the forefront of the crowd, a man knelt on the ground before Jesus. A middle-aged man of meager means, he was known to many of those assembled including Eli. Jacob was his name. Eli only paid attention to him because Jacob was in the middle of doing something he had never seen him do. He was kneeling with his head bowed and his hands clasped in front of him as if in fervent prayer. He was showing his hand! Gnarled and mangled, Jacob’s right hand drew almost as much attention as Jesus did. It had been crushed beyond recognition years before and Jacob was always careful to keep it stowed away from view. If he lifted his hands to praise, he lifted only his left. If he greeted someone, it was with an awkward wave. If there was anything that he would need to carry with two hands, he would instead drag it behind him with his one good hand. Yet, here he was displaying his sorrow before this whole congregation. Tears trickled from his closed eyelids and his lips repeated a single mantra, “Please Jesus…Please Jesus…Please Jesus.”
Eli began to scan the crowd to see if they were equally awestruck by Jacob’s display. His eyes finally came to rest on the only other set of people that were speaking in the entirety of the building. The Pharisees occupied one of the corners, holding their heads close together in quiet conference. Occasionally one of their number would look up, first at Jesus and then at Jacob, before returning his head to the circle. If Eli did not feel such an abiding loathing for these men, he would have laughed at their comical appearance, a bunch of gaudily-dressed fools having a private meeting in the middle of a multitude. No one disgusted Eli more than these religious elite. For all their religious holiness and righteousness, the only thing that was truly valuable to them was stagnation. Every “good deed” or “holy act” was merely an excuse to maintain their arrogant equilibrium, their status quo. They would merrily burn an innocent man at the stake to keep their sacred law.
With this thought, it occurred to Eli what their impromptu meeting was about. They wanted to see if Jesus would heal Jacob. Healing on the Sabbath would be a clear violation of their interpretation of the Law. Jesus could not dare to heal the man or he would be deemed a heretic and a pagan. Eli inwardly cringed, Nothing will ever change. No one can do anything about that. With a terrible ache in his chest, Eli turned again to listen to Jesus. But he was not speaking. He was casting his melancholy eyes across the crowd. All thought that he was done speaking. When his eyes fell on the contingent of Pharisees, a cloud passed over his brow. Turning to Jacob, he spoke soothingly but loudly enough to be heard by all, “Rise to your feet.” Jacob instantly obeyed. Facing the crowd and allowing his eyes to fix on the Pharisees, he raised both hands and thundered, “I will ask you one thing.” Even the Pharisees stopped whispering, thinking that Jesus was addressing them. Everyone in the crowd waited eagerly for his question, anticipating something momentous. “Is it lawful on the Sabbath to do good, or to do evil, to save life, or to destroy?” Everyone in the place blanched at once. What a question was that? Jesus patiently waited, passing his blazing eyes across the room, pausing at every person who would meet his gaze before moving on. The roving eyes meet Eli’s. Any hint of an answer to the question posed vanished tranquilly from his mind and he once again felt himself being transported through time. He was back on his knees in the barn before that woman and child. And there it was, those eyes of the prophet’s matched perfectly with the eyes of that woman.
Eli dimly heard Jesus’ voice again, “Stretch out your hand.” Both he and Jacob did as commanded. With outstretched hands, Eli implored, “Is this the Christ?” The woman looked at him sorrowfully.
Eli stirred from his vision at the cry of Jacob. The cripple was gazing dumbfounded at his good hand. Then he lifted up his other hand…his left hand. Everyone understood at the same moment. He had two good hands! An instantaneous murmur rippled through the crowd. The Pharisees turned back into their circle only this time in angry whispers and pointed gestures. But it didn’t matter. Eli had finally found what he had always searched for. Not only had Jesus changed the life of Jacob, but he challenged the law. Things could change after all. It would be like his previous vision; Jesus would either shape the world or snap it to pieces. Either way, there would be change. Eli smiled a satisfied smile before looking at Jesus again.
The prophet still remained in the same place and he was staring placidly at Eli. Those eyes one again reminded him of the mother in the barn, but this time he remembered something she had said, something that had meant a lot time him at the time. “Not only will he change the world,” she had said, “but he will change lives and show people what it means to change.”
So that was it, Eli realized. He’s not here to change governments or law. He’s here to change us, individually, and to show us that we can change. We may be hopelessly lost, but with the true guide, we can find our way into a new world. The tears came to him as they had so many long years ago in a little barn. Jesus nodded with a compassionate and comprehending smile and walked away.
Still he would have disdained this growing exuberance if it had not been for the name. “Eli, you must come with us,” one of his friends had begged, “This man is simply amazing. The things he does seem impossible, yet he does them. You must see him yourself. This Jesus is a true prophet ... ”
The eager young man prattled on, but Eli was transfixed. That name awoke in him something that he had not felt for a very long time. In a moment, he was whisked away from his home and felt the prickle of hay and dust on his knee as he knelt in a tiny barn before a woman and her child. Eli’s friend tugged at his shoulder and Eli found himself being easily dragged along, a man who had for years never gone where he did not decide himself to go.
Eli followed the tugging arm on his shoulder, where he was going he did not know, nor care, He was a man on the verge of remembering something vitally important, a feeling, and would not be roused by anything else. Before long, he and his guide reached the local synagogue, the surprisingly crowded synagogue. The crowd was so great that many of the more timid were forced to stand outside. Led by the vice grip of his friend, Eli waded through the knot of people and pushed as far forward as he could. Following the gaze of the onlookers, Eli’s eyes fell on the prophet Jesus standing amidst the crowd in the middle of an impassioned speech. He was simply clad, without extravagant colors or jewelry, and his motions matched his attire, simple and understated. It was his voice that made its impression on everyone gathered. The sound of his voice did not seem to be an outside force, but an emanating vibration that generated within the listener, rising and spreading from the center of the body all the way to the fingertips and beyond. Even if the words could not be understood, its impact was undeniably felt. Eli stood mesmerized, unable to comprehend the words. He saw the man, Jesus, wielding the whole of the synagogue like a sword, thrusting it deep into the hearts of everyone present. For a moment, Eli could picture the whole world in the prophet’s hands, molding and shaping it how he saw fit or, if it would not be molded, breaking it over his knee into a thousand fragments. Perhaps this man really can change something, Eli hoped.
In the forefront of the crowd, a man knelt on the ground before Jesus. A middle-aged man of meager means, he was known to many of those assembled including Eli. Jacob was his name. Eli only paid attention to him because Jacob was in the middle of doing something he had never seen him do. He was kneeling with his head bowed and his hands clasped in front of him as if in fervent prayer. He was showing his hand! Gnarled and mangled, Jacob’s right hand drew almost as much attention as Jesus did. It had been crushed beyond recognition years before and Jacob was always careful to keep it stowed away from view. If he lifted his hands to praise, he lifted only his left. If he greeted someone, it was with an awkward wave. If there was anything that he would need to carry with two hands, he would instead drag it behind him with his one good hand. Yet, here he was displaying his sorrow before this whole congregation. Tears trickled from his closed eyelids and his lips repeated a single mantra, “Please Jesus…Please Jesus…Please Jesus.”
Eli began to scan the crowd to see if they were equally awestruck by Jacob’s display. His eyes finally came to rest on the only other set of people that were speaking in the entirety of the building. The Pharisees occupied one of the corners, holding their heads close together in quiet conference. Occasionally one of their number would look up, first at Jesus and then at Jacob, before returning his head to the circle. If Eli did not feel such an abiding loathing for these men, he would have laughed at their comical appearance, a bunch of gaudily-dressed fools having a private meeting in the middle of a multitude. No one disgusted Eli more than these religious elite. For all their religious holiness and righteousness, the only thing that was truly valuable to them was stagnation. Every “good deed” or “holy act” was merely an excuse to maintain their arrogant equilibrium, their status quo. They would merrily burn an innocent man at the stake to keep their sacred law.
With this thought, it occurred to Eli what their impromptu meeting was about. They wanted to see if Jesus would heal Jacob. Healing on the Sabbath would be a clear violation of their interpretation of the Law. Jesus could not dare to heal the man or he would be deemed a heretic and a pagan. Eli inwardly cringed, Nothing will ever change. No one can do anything about that. With a terrible ache in his chest, Eli turned again to listen to Jesus. But he was not speaking. He was casting his melancholy eyes across the crowd. All thought that he was done speaking. When his eyes fell on the contingent of Pharisees, a cloud passed over his brow. Turning to Jacob, he spoke soothingly but loudly enough to be heard by all, “Rise to your feet.” Jacob instantly obeyed. Facing the crowd and allowing his eyes to fix on the Pharisees, he raised both hands and thundered, “I will ask you one thing.” Even the Pharisees stopped whispering, thinking that Jesus was addressing them. Everyone in the crowd waited eagerly for his question, anticipating something momentous. “Is it lawful on the Sabbath to do good, or to do evil, to save life, or to destroy?” Everyone in the place blanched at once. What a question was that? Jesus patiently waited, passing his blazing eyes across the room, pausing at every person who would meet his gaze before moving on. The roving eyes meet Eli’s. Any hint of an answer to the question posed vanished tranquilly from his mind and he once again felt himself being transported through time. He was back on his knees in the barn before that woman and child. And there it was, those eyes of the prophet’s matched perfectly with the eyes of that woman.
Eli dimly heard Jesus’ voice again, “Stretch out your hand.” Both he and Jacob did as commanded. With outstretched hands, Eli implored, “Is this the Christ?” The woman looked at him sorrowfully.
Eli stirred from his vision at the cry of Jacob. The cripple was gazing dumbfounded at his good hand. Then he lifted up his other hand…his left hand. Everyone understood at the same moment. He had two good hands! An instantaneous murmur rippled through the crowd. The Pharisees turned back into their circle only this time in angry whispers and pointed gestures. But it didn’t matter. Eli had finally found what he had always searched for. Not only had Jesus changed the life of Jacob, but he challenged the law. Things could change after all. It would be like his previous vision; Jesus would either shape the world or snap it to pieces. Either way, there would be change. Eli smiled a satisfied smile before looking at Jesus again.
The prophet still remained in the same place and he was staring placidly at Eli. Those eyes one again reminded him of the mother in the barn, but this time he remembered something she had said, something that had meant a lot time him at the time. “Not only will he change the world,” she had said, “but he will change lives and show people what it means to change.”
So that was it, Eli realized. He’s not here to change governments or law. He’s here to change us, individually, and to show us that we can change. We may be hopelessly lost, but with the true guide, we can find our way into a new world. The tears came to him as they had so many long years ago in a little barn. Jesus nodded with a compassionate and comprehending smile and walked away.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Four Hearts, One Song - Introduction
To the reader: This begins a five-part fictional series. Stay tuned ...
Rain had been falling for some time, even though the now cloudless sky and humid night air gave no sign of it. The heady smell of water-soaked hay gave proof to the ever-shifting temperament of the skies. Standing at the entrance to the barn, a man stared out into the heavens as if searching for a sign. It really was the smells that made this little barn alive. The damp hay was equally matched by the random aromas given off by the sweating animals as they shifted uneasily about the cramped space. A couple of cows nestled close together in one corner, a few timid sheep in another, and a solitary donkey walked amidst them all. The man contemplated these smells and these surroundings in silent thought as he maintained his position at the door. Certainly a strange place for a child to be born, he mused. But it was much more than that. He glanced back over his shoulder, surveying the whole interior without seeming to take in anything. His roving eye fell on one area near the center of the barn. He had heaped together a pile of hay over which a couple of blankets had been carefully placed. Lying on the makeshift bed was his wife.
The starlight lit up the area where she reclined, bathing her face in a soft, pure glow. Her face was flushed, tendrils of brown hair sticking to her forehead. Slow, ragged breaths caused her face to crease as though straining against some unseen burden. But for all the signs of weariness in her face, her eyes spoke much differently. They had the look of peace and hope that only one kind of person can ever truly appreciate. She gazed lovingly at the tiny bundle caught against her chest, her newborn babe.
“Joseph, how long will you stand at the door? Won’t you come and hold our baby?” Her voice was filled at once with the charity of love and the pride of motherhood.
Joseph left his place at the door and came to stand beside Mary. She held the little bundle up as it squirmed slightly and feebly. Nestling the baby in the crook of one arm, the father caressed the baby’s head, smoothing the tangles of hair into some kind of order. Mary smiled wanly and spoke again, this time more softly as if to herself, “It is just wonderful, Joseph. Everything is happening just as the angels told us. It was too hard to understand, but now that we have our baby, things are starting to make more sense.”
The mention of angels brought Joseph back from his silent reveries. Imprinted fixedly on his mind was the dream he had of the angel so long ago. Every word spoken weighed on his mind and heart like an everlasting chain fastened around his very soul. The angel had given him words of hope and despair. Yes, he inwardly sighed, everything is happening as was said. This child has a destiny far greater than we can ever know. Lord, please give me strength to raise your child. The streak of distress that passed his face did not go unnoticed by Mary. She knew his struggle and his sadness and, though she didn’t always condone it, she empathized with it. This was not his child….but it was hers.
Both of them were interrupted from their private thoughts by a scuffling of feet outside the door. Returning the baby gingerly to the welcoming arms of his mother, Joseph turned to face whoever had come to invade this haven of peace. The rugged, tear-streaked face of a young man peeked around the corner of the door. Joseph met the gaze of the intruder placidly, arms folded across his burly chest. The man’s eyes mirrored his soul; a soul tormented by fear and wonder. Joseph had never seen eyes like his. But after a moment, he was confronted by three more sets of eyes bearing the same mark. All four men were about the same age and similarly dressed, each as timid as a lamb, standing in the doorway with mouths gaping and eyes glistening. They were shepherds by their garb.
After some time of this silent face-off, the oldest looking of them found his tongue, stammering out in a half-yelp, half-groan, “We ... We ... We were told that this is, uh, is, uh, the place. We had ... we had to come.” He paused as though this explained everything and there was nothing more to say. However when Joseph did not respond, he continued, “Well, the angels ... you see ... the angels….how frightening they were ... beautiful. It was them. They ... they, ummm ... told us to come. We came to find him.” All four pairs of eyes left Joseph and roved the room freely, settling naturally at the mother and son in the middle of the room.
The speaker unconsciously stepped forward, the others leaning in close against his back. The first fell down with a clump to one knee and beseeched the mother, “Is this ... is this the Christ?”
These four men held such hope and fear that at first she found herself too abashed to speak. Her child was only just born and already these young men came seeking to rob her of her joy. She was infuriated. The color rushed to her cheeks at this abhorrent thought and she nearly sent them away in fury. But a still, small voice interrupted her rage, This is your child, but not only yours. From this day forth, you must share him with the rest of the world. This is your burden to bear. Rejoice in your burden, though heavy it may be; it is for the salvation of the world. The words of contempt she had prepared for the men caught in her throat at these thoughts. Closing her eyes against the terrible truth behind them, she sought inner peace. When she opened her eyes again, the thieves of her happiness were gone, replaced by the image of four lost and suffering souls in search of answers.
They appeared emaciated and old, mere skeletons deprived of life and purpose. They were horrid, but not in a way that to inspire revulsion but instead pity. Their parched lips longed for the quenching drink of hope to slake their inner thirst. Their hollow eyes pleaded to see just one glimpse of something truly beautiful, truly free of the deforming plague and crippling corruption that seized everything else in the world. Their ears despaired of hearing those few precious words, “There is Life!”
The vision shifted and now she saw them for who they really were. The only one who had spoken still knelt before her and all his life spanned before Mary’s eyes as the deep sea. He was not much older than the rest, but he was one who had lived life beyond his years; someone who had suffered through the utter monotony of sequential pain and disappointment that leads up to the one, inexorable fact: Nothing ever changes. This was his truth; he had never know anything else in his whole life.
Just behind him stood his brother, both hands tightly clenching the right shoulder of his elder sibling. Unlike his brother, this young man was filled with the fire and hope of youth. No height was unattainable, no obstacle insurmountable. He would search every hill and dale for a chance to better himself so that he could rise above his lot in life and declare, “I am of worth!” The calluses of toil had not yet hardened his hands and the rocky paths of destitution had not yet tamed his fiery spirit. Every new idea held a wealth of opportunity. The world was a thing to be conquered, and conquer it he fully intended to do.
The third youth was nothing more than a child, twelve years at the most. Yet those twelve years spoke volumes. He was a handsome child, complete with youth’s charming softness and maturity’s strength and character. One might even say he looked flawless, if not for the ugly purple bruise along his right cheek that marred his otherwise enchanting features. Of the four, his eyes glowed the most with hope. They were eyes that seemed to be seeing hope for the first time, making it even more appealing for its freshness and promise. Here was someone that desperately needed to believe that something better was on the horizon.
Unlike the others, the last of the shepherd was not so easily interpreted by Mary’s vision. There was a mystery that hid everything from sight. Whether it was darkness, fear, or confusion, she could not tell. Of the four, this one seemed to be the one with the most fear and his whole body trembled with it. He did not appear to be willfully here, more than half of his body was still outside the door as if preparing to bolt for freedom. Mary feared this man. Yet her inner eye finally awoke when she beheld his eyes. They were luminous and liquid, two hollow pools of light staring back out of a corner of a forgotten soul. All else spoke of shame, torment, and fear except for those two little pinpricks, gasping, wallowing, surging forward to some unbidden and uncertain freedom from the manacles of fate.
And Mary wept. Hot, flooding tears poured down her cheeks in a torrent of irrepressible emotion, alarming herself as much as it did the men. Even Joseph was frightened now. No, this child was not only hers. There would be times that he would need his mother, but she needed him more, and these men needed him with a blinding desperation. Mary closed her eyes against the vision before her, the life behind her, and the future in front of her. The road ahead would be fraught with difficulty and the ominous possibilities loomed up above her with disconcerting clarity. Now was the time to begin walking down that path with her burden in tow. With an effort, she subdued her tears and with a shudder, she realized it would not be the last time she would have to do that. She clutched the baby a little tighter, deriving her strength from his tiny, frail body. Her eyes opened and she spoke, “Welcome. This is Jesus.”
... to be continued.
Rain had been falling for some time, even though the now cloudless sky and humid night air gave no sign of it. The heady smell of water-soaked hay gave proof to the ever-shifting temperament of the skies. Standing at the entrance to the barn, a man stared out into the heavens as if searching for a sign. It really was the smells that made this little barn alive. The damp hay was equally matched by the random aromas given off by the sweating animals as they shifted uneasily about the cramped space. A couple of cows nestled close together in one corner, a few timid sheep in another, and a solitary donkey walked amidst them all. The man contemplated these smells and these surroundings in silent thought as he maintained his position at the door. Certainly a strange place for a child to be born, he mused. But it was much more than that. He glanced back over his shoulder, surveying the whole interior without seeming to take in anything. His roving eye fell on one area near the center of the barn. He had heaped together a pile of hay over which a couple of blankets had been carefully placed. Lying on the makeshift bed was his wife.
The starlight lit up the area where she reclined, bathing her face in a soft, pure glow. Her face was flushed, tendrils of brown hair sticking to her forehead. Slow, ragged breaths caused her face to crease as though straining against some unseen burden. But for all the signs of weariness in her face, her eyes spoke much differently. They had the look of peace and hope that only one kind of person can ever truly appreciate. She gazed lovingly at the tiny bundle caught against her chest, her newborn babe.
“Joseph, how long will you stand at the door? Won’t you come and hold our baby?” Her voice was filled at once with the charity of love and the pride of motherhood.
Joseph left his place at the door and came to stand beside Mary. She held the little bundle up as it squirmed slightly and feebly. Nestling the baby in the crook of one arm, the father caressed the baby’s head, smoothing the tangles of hair into some kind of order. Mary smiled wanly and spoke again, this time more softly as if to herself, “It is just wonderful, Joseph. Everything is happening just as the angels told us. It was too hard to understand, but now that we have our baby, things are starting to make more sense.”
The mention of angels brought Joseph back from his silent reveries. Imprinted fixedly on his mind was the dream he had of the angel so long ago. Every word spoken weighed on his mind and heart like an everlasting chain fastened around his very soul. The angel had given him words of hope and despair. Yes, he inwardly sighed, everything is happening as was said. This child has a destiny far greater than we can ever know. Lord, please give me strength to raise your child. The streak of distress that passed his face did not go unnoticed by Mary. She knew his struggle and his sadness and, though she didn’t always condone it, she empathized with it. This was not his child….but it was hers.
Both of them were interrupted from their private thoughts by a scuffling of feet outside the door. Returning the baby gingerly to the welcoming arms of his mother, Joseph turned to face whoever had come to invade this haven of peace. The rugged, tear-streaked face of a young man peeked around the corner of the door. Joseph met the gaze of the intruder placidly, arms folded across his burly chest. The man’s eyes mirrored his soul; a soul tormented by fear and wonder. Joseph had never seen eyes like his. But after a moment, he was confronted by three more sets of eyes bearing the same mark. All four men were about the same age and similarly dressed, each as timid as a lamb, standing in the doorway with mouths gaping and eyes glistening. They were shepherds by their garb.
After some time of this silent face-off, the oldest looking of them found his tongue, stammering out in a half-yelp, half-groan, “We ... We ... We were told that this is, uh, is, uh, the place. We had ... we had to come.” He paused as though this explained everything and there was nothing more to say. However when Joseph did not respond, he continued, “Well, the angels ... you see ... the angels….how frightening they were ... beautiful. It was them. They ... they, ummm ... told us to come. We came to find him.” All four pairs of eyes left Joseph and roved the room freely, settling naturally at the mother and son in the middle of the room.
The speaker unconsciously stepped forward, the others leaning in close against his back. The first fell down with a clump to one knee and beseeched the mother, “Is this ... is this the Christ?”
These four men held such hope and fear that at first she found herself too abashed to speak. Her child was only just born and already these young men came seeking to rob her of her joy. She was infuriated. The color rushed to her cheeks at this abhorrent thought and she nearly sent them away in fury. But a still, small voice interrupted her rage, This is your child, but not only yours. From this day forth, you must share him with the rest of the world. This is your burden to bear. Rejoice in your burden, though heavy it may be; it is for the salvation of the world. The words of contempt she had prepared for the men caught in her throat at these thoughts. Closing her eyes against the terrible truth behind them, she sought inner peace. When she opened her eyes again, the thieves of her happiness were gone, replaced by the image of four lost and suffering souls in search of answers.
They appeared emaciated and old, mere skeletons deprived of life and purpose. They were horrid, but not in a way that to inspire revulsion but instead pity. Their parched lips longed for the quenching drink of hope to slake their inner thirst. Their hollow eyes pleaded to see just one glimpse of something truly beautiful, truly free of the deforming plague and crippling corruption that seized everything else in the world. Their ears despaired of hearing those few precious words, “There is Life!”
The vision shifted and now she saw them for who they really were. The only one who had spoken still knelt before her and all his life spanned before Mary’s eyes as the deep sea. He was not much older than the rest, but he was one who had lived life beyond his years; someone who had suffered through the utter monotony of sequential pain and disappointment that leads up to the one, inexorable fact: Nothing ever changes. This was his truth; he had never know anything else in his whole life.
Just behind him stood his brother, both hands tightly clenching the right shoulder of his elder sibling. Unlike his brother, this young man was filled with the fire and hope of youth. No height was unattainable, no obstacle insurmountable. He would search every hill and dale for a chance to better himself so that he could rise above his lot in life and declare, “I am of worth!” The calluses of toil had not yet hardened his hands and the rocky paths of destitution had not yet tamed his fiery spirit. Every new idea held a wealth of opportunity. The world was a thing to be conquered, and conquer it he fully intended to do.
The third youth was nothing more than a child, twelve years at the most. Yet those twelve years spoke volumes. He was a handsome child, complete with youth’s charming softness and maturity’s strength and character. One might even say he looked flawless, if not for the ugly purple bruise along his right cheek that marred his otherwise enchanting features. Of the four, his eyes glowed the most with hope. They were eyes that seemed to be seeing hope for the first time, making it even more appealing for its freshness and promise. Here was someone that desperately needed to believe that something better was on the horizon.
Unlike the others, the last of the shepherd was not so easily interpreted by Mary’s vision. There was a mystery that hid everything from sight. Whether it was darkness, fear, or confusion, she could not tell. Of the four, this one seemed to be the one with the most fear and his whole body trembled with it. He did not appear to be willfully here, more than half of his body was still outside the door as if preparing to bolt for freedom. Mary feared this man. Yet her inner eye finally awoke when she beheld his eyes. They were luminous and liquid, two hollow pools of light staring back out of a corner of a forgotten soul. All else spoke of shame, torment, and fear except for those two little pinpricks, gasping, wallowing, surging forward to some unbidden and uncertain freedom from the manacles of fate.
And Mary wept. Hot, flooding tears poured down her cheeks in a torrent of irrepressible emotion, alarming herself as much as it did the men. Even Joseph was frightened now. No, this child was not only hers. There would be times that he would need his mother, but she needed him more, and these men needed him with a blinding desperation. Mary closed her eyes against the vision before her, the life behind her, and the future in front of her. The road ahead would be fraught with difficulty and the ominous possibilities loomed up above her with disconcerting clarity. Now was the time to begin walking down that path with her burden in tow. With an effort, she subdued her tears and with a shudder, she realized it would not be the last time she would have to do that. She clutched the baby a little tighter, deriving her strength from his tiny, frail body. Her eyes opened and she spoke, “Welcome. This is Jesus.”
... to be continued.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Stagnation through Pride
Independence and dependence, two of the hardest-to-navigate straits in the day-to-day walk of humans. On the one side, it takes little thought to realize the pitfalls that dot the entire landscape of the dependent individual and I don't intend to get into them. So what about independence? Especially in western civilization, (even more so here in the US) independence is one of the first building blocks upon which our youth are raised. Go to school, get a job, move from home, start your own family. Necessary tenets for every household. Of course, as in most things, there is merit to be found in such principles, but the soft fall to destruction is hard to spot and difficult to avoid. It is not so much the independence that is the problem, but its terrible offspring, Pride. It is a short stride from standing on your own two feet to thinking that you stand on your own two feet without even making use of the ground underfoot. No matter how hard one tries or how well one succeeds on their own, it is simply a matter of time before the realization comes that all their independence and all their pride does not bring the entire world to them on a silver platter. And once that happens, the time comes for depression, loss of motivation, stagnation. As amazing creations as we are, self-sustaining is not one of our characteristics. We are designed dependent from birth. To our parents, to our circumstances, to our surroundings, but most of all (whether we admit it or not) to our God. All the other things we might depend on have the possibility of failing or hurting us, leading us to desire more independence, but only through depending on God can we ever be free; free from our own fears and failures.
Monday, January 01, 2007
Way Too Easy
It doesn't take a whole lot of knowledge or experience to recognize that the world is in a constant state of degeneration. Now, I believe the degree of that corruption to be sloping at a much smoother angle than most people like to think, but the breakdown does remain quite tangible. Just looking at the pattern of everyday life is evidence enough of that. At my work, I am heralded as an exceptional employee beyond the scope of any of my peers. Yet, for all the credit I am given (and in some rights have earned), my value as an employee is not so much determined by what I accomplish as by what others do not. To be an above average worker these days requires simply that you show up on time on a semi-regular basis. The actual efficiency and intelligence lent to the job are merely peripheral to the fact that you are PHYSICALLY there. This watering down of the workplace I have learned to accept and plan to glean the benefits for as long as I may.
Now, the question is not whether the degeneration exists, but whether it is within the realm of possibility for humanity to alter its state. What makes me think of such a question is because of people that I have known over the years who must be much more intelligent than the appear, people that just could not possibly survive in life if they were as ignorant as they seem. I think we have all known a few like that. Usually it is a matter of self-fulfilling prophecy where either someone close to them or they themselves downplay their own potential for so long that the litany no longer becomes a joke, no longer becomes a chastisement, but a reality of their being. So can man derail from the ever-descending tracks laid out before him? Without Christ, I must say whole-heartedly, "No!", and I weep for those that try.
Now, the question is not whether the degeneration exists, but whether it is within the realm of possibility for humanity to alter its state. What makes me think of such a question is because of people that I have known over the years who must be much more intelligent than the appear, people that just could not possibly survive in life if they were as ignorant as they seem. I think we have all known a few like that. Usually it is a matter of self-fulfilling prophecy where either someone close to them or they themselves downplay their own potential for so long that the litany no longer becomes a joke, no longer becomes a chastisement, but a reality of their being. So can man derail from the ever-descending tracks laid out before him? Without Christ, I must say whole-heartedly, "No!", and I weep for those that try.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
The Road to Sacrifice
Here is another one from my son, Jonathan:
Sometimes, when I'm feeling disconnected from God, or spiritually stagnant, I have a hard time figuring out how to resolve the issue. I can sense the problem but I am not sure how to rectify it. Most Christians encounter this feeling from time to time and probably more than just myself start to think that the way to turn things around is to give something up. The notion of sacrifice. Whether it be fasting, devotion of time, or any kind of sacrifice, it just seems like that's what needs to be done in order to get myself back kneeling before the throne of God. Yet, if we were to look at how seldom or how temporal that method works, it must mean that something is wrong with the premise. And then I realized the whole basis is out of whack. I should not be trying to sacrifice so that I can come before God; I should be sacrificing myself to God, and He will decide what needs to be changed in my life. The urgency to sacrifice to make oneself clean before God is almost like tossing a dog a bone. We are too frightened to actually face the unbridgeable gap between our sin and our God, that we use sacrifice as a deterrent. "Well, I can't come before God while my soul is in this condition" or "Certainly you don't expect me to try and help other people towards Christ when I am in such a state. That's hypocritical!" Don't you see? We are fallen. The only way to come sanctified and cleansed before God is to come before Him when we are dirty and broken. How clever it is to use our own desire to return to a stronger relationship with God as an excuse to stay away from Him until we "feel" prepared to serve Him properly. And what is lost? The time between trying to get right with God and actually figuring out that you can't and have to plod on anyway, all that time where so much good could have been accomplished has withered away.
Sometimes, when I'm feeling disconnected from God, or spiritually stagnant, I have a hard time figuring out how to resolve the issue. I can sense the problem but I am not sure how to rectify it. Most Christians encounter this feeling from time to time and probably more than just myself start to think that the way to turn things around is to give something up. The notion of sacrifice. Whether it be fasting, devotion of time, or any kind of sacrifice, it just seems like that's what needs to be done in order to get myself back kneeling before the throne of God. Yet, if we were to look at how seldom or how temporal that method works, it must mean that something is wrong with the premise. And then I realized the whole basis is out of whack. I should not be trying to sacrifice so that I can come before God; I should be sacrificing myself to God, and He will decide what needs to be changed in my life. The urgency to sacrifice to make oneself clean before God is almost like tossing a dog a bone. We are too frightened to actually face the unbridgeable gap between our sin and our God, that we use sacrifice as a deterrent. "Well, I can't come before God while my soul is in this condition" or "Certainly you don't expect me to try and help other people towards Christ when I am in such a state. That's hypocritical!" Don't you see? We are fallen. The only way to come sanctified and cleansed before God is to come before Him when we are dirty and broken. How clever it is to use our own desire to return to a stronger relationship with God as an excuse to stay away from Him until we "feel" prepared to serve Him properly. And what is lost? The time between trying to get right with God and actually figuring out that you can't and have to plod on anyway, all that time where so much good could have been accomplished has withered away.
Rehab
I'm trying to get my son to contribute to my blog, but he's reticent. He did send me this little piece, which I pass on to you. In the future he'll likely send me more which I'll pass on to you. So, this is from my son, Jonathan.
You can't flip on the TV anymore without hearing about some celebrity or another going into rehab for any and every reason under the sun. Somehow it has become the get-out-of-jail free card for anyone seeking, whether truly or just for public image, the redemption that comes with admitting you have a problem. Since when did admitting your shortcomings become an acquittal of guilt? But I digress as that is not the point I am trying to make. Watching another celebrity taking shade beneath the all-encompassing umbrella of rehab, a thought occurred to me that has never been there before. What about a Christian rehab? What about a place for the fallen and backslidden Christians looking for a chance to return to some sense of normalcy in their walks with God? I am sure that they must exist already, (I'm not that original of a thinker) but I can't think of ever hearing of one. And if they do exist, should they not be fostered and encouraged to grow? The Salvation Army for the spiritually homeless and needy in every church, a grand idea. Just imagine it like an AA meeting. It would be difficult to feel included in a group where you feel the others around you have never tasted a sip of the spiritual fire water that has engulfed you. Would it not be worthwhile to be in a place where you can help those more desperate than yourself while being able to seek help from those a little further along when your own will falters? Like I say, such a system is probably already in place and one has only to say a few words to me to make me slap my forehead in embarrassment, but for now the thought stays and I am intrigued.
You can't flip on the TV anymore without hearing about some celebrity or another going into rehab for any and every reason under the sun. Somehow it has become the get-out-of-jail free card for anyone seeking, whether truly or just for public image, the redemption that comes with admitting you have a problem. Since when did admitting your shortcomings become an acquittal of guilt? But I digress as that is not the point I am trying to make. Watching another celebrity taking shade beneath the all-encompassing umbrella of rehab, a thought occurred to me that has never been there before. What about a Christian rehab? What about a place for the fallen and backslidden Christians looking for a chance to return to some sense of normalcy in their walks with God? I am sure that they must exist already, (I'm not that original of a thinker) but I can't think of ever hearing of one. And if they do exist, should they not be fostered and encouraged to grow? The Salvation Army for the spiritually homeless and needy in every church, a grand idea. Just imagine it like an AA meeting. It would be difficult to feel included in a group where you feel the others around you have never tasted a sip of the spiritual fire water that has engulfed you. Would it not be worthwhile to be in a place where you can help those more desperate than yourself while being able to seek help from those a little further along when your own will falters? Like I say, such a system is probably already in place and one has only to say a few words to me to make me slap my forehead in embarrassment, but for now the thought stays and I am intrigued.
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