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Watch to the very end!!!!

What is the Gospel?

Thoughts on Changing Culture

Czech president Vaclav Havel and other dissidents began to ask, ‘How can we live the truth in a culture based on a fundamental lie, especially since the lie is in our heads? How can we begin to live into the truth? We desire so much more than just things. We want something to hope in, a reason to believe.

So in his country as in other iron-curtain countries, people began to set up what he called ‘parallel cultures.’ It was not a counterculture because, he said, it was impossible for us to live totally outside the system.

You cannot live outside a culture. But you can create within it zones and spaces, where you can become who you really are. It is in such places that one can speak the truth, where one can gather with others who share that truth.

This went on for years, not without difficulties, but for years. Over time, the truth became stronger and stronger, and at a certain point people began to walk in the streets and to say to the system, ‘We don’t believe you anymore.’ And the system fell.

It fell, not because of the power of Western nuclear equipment, but because the people said within the system, ‘We don’t believe you anymore.’ It was a vision that had been nourished within those parallel cultures.

Feeding the Beast

Feed the beast
Ever hungry never full
Dress up; come as you are
Feed the beast

Three t’s a day
Are the beast’s delight
Time, Talent, Treasure
Feed the beast

Consuming, devouring, life sucking
Dehumanizing appetite
Spewing guilt and shame
Feed the beast

Ever growing spiraled horns
Meal bells toll
Flocks assemble
Feed the beast

Feed by guilt
Feed by love
All the same
Feed the beast

Four things never to do

;">There are four things you must never do: lie, steal, cheat, or drink.

But if you must lie, lie in the arms of the one you love.
If you must steal, steal away from bad company.
If you must cheat, cheat death.
And if you must drink, drink in the moments that take your breath away...

Brianne Kelly Darragh

Something to get your shorts tangled up

The matter is quite simple. The Bible is very easy to understand. But we Christians are a bunch of scheming swindlers. We pretend to be unable to understand it because we know very well that the minute we understand, we are obliged to act accordingly. Take any words in the New Testament and forget everything except pledging yourself to act accordingly. My God, you will say, if I do that my whole life will be ruined. How would I ever get on in the world? Herein lies the real place of Christian scholarship. Christian scholarship is the Church's prodigious invention to defend itself against the Bible, to ensure that we can continue to be good Christians without the Bible coming too close. Oh, priceless scholarship, what would we do without you? Dreadful it is to fall into the hands of the living God. Yes, it is even dreadful to be alone with the New Testament.

Kierkegaardian quote

But I Got to Carry the Beer

As a college student I had my fair share of jobs. One of the most , shall I say, curious was laboring on a construction crew, in what was then rural Davie several miles to the west of Ft. Lauderdale, Florida.

The project consisted of 180 two-story townhouses with eight units to each building. I began this career digging footers, laying steel rods, and placing concrete.

I began in February working form 1:00 until 5:00. (My Bible college classes all ended by 12:00. The pay was $3.00 per hour. Believe it or not that was big money back then and probably ages me with those who tell stories of walking to school miles uphill both ways. A few fellows I knew from college were already working there and helped me get the job.

During that winter and into the spring there was 8 – 12 of us at a time from the Bible college working at this construction site. “White ears” was one of the names used for us that I can repeat. We were called that due to our college dress code required that a fellow’s haircut show skin behind and above the ears.

Now construction jobs are not known for the gentility and civility of the crew. One might think it would be a difficult place for Bible college students to work. That is probably so, but what made this particular job, as I said – curious – was that besides those of us from the Bible college most everyone else was part of a motorcycle …er...uh…social club. Their colors bore the insignia Sons of Dixie. All that is except for the mob hit-man who was laying low, but that’s another story, oh, I wasn’t supposed to tell that, so keep it between us, OK?

By the time our semester ended in early May only two of us “Bible Boys” remained. During the four months, I guess, two dozen or more guys came and went from the college. Most left in a huff; offended by the bikers’ language, attitude, taunts or boyish pranks some of which involved pistols. Their self-righteous pontifications could be heard in the dorm halls in the evening out of ear-shot and arm-reach of their tattooed rapscallions.

One fellow, a nervous kid from Atlanta, quit after shots were fired into the top of the pot-a-pot he was evidently sitting in. I guess he had justification to leave, but my fellow “we-are-going-to-win-the-world-for-Jesus” buddies simply exhibited a self-righteous “better-then-thou” relationship with the bikers which only prompted “good-humored” abuse. Some of the pranks, questions, responses, and expletives I must admit were funny.

Anyway, to move this tale along…. I was able to fly under the radar and not rile up the bikers and was a hard worker. My work ethic earned me respect from several of the club members. One of the problems some of the preacher boys had was leaning on their shovel as they expounded on the word of God rather than digging the dirt.

I remember one fellow who quit after being told to “get up off your __ ___ ___ fat ass and get to work.” I’ve wondered if he was more offended by the profanity or for being called out for being fat and lazy. Guess I’ll never know but I have an opinion.

The construction company, Dixie Drywall, lacked efficiency. The ability to complete tasks and projects was evident in that we were about 75 completed buildings behind schedule. They were the poster child for the adage: “drugs and alcohol are the road to construction”. Though there never seemed to be any urgency, buildings that had not even been begun were supposed to have been occupied by clients who had already paid for them.

Skipping ahead to get to the beer – I hadn’t forgot. One night in late June the foreman and three others were murdered by a rival club, the Outlaws. The foreman was the national vice-president of the Sons of Dixie gang …er… I mean social club.

I went to the funeral – seemed to be the right thing to do. This was the only biker funeral I have ever attended. The roar of what seemed to be 500 Harleys which made up the procession was startling. I stood out a little, I might have been the only male not in colors. My attendance did make an impression on my fellow workers. After that I was not isolated as the Bible guy.

Well a new foreman was promoted, Barry an ex-marine, His brown shoulder length hair bleached blond by the sun, framed his piercing steel-blue eyes. A friendly smile and a laid back demeanor hid a very determined taskmaster Barry commanded respect or fear you knew instinctively not to get on his wrong side. The efficiency on the job site quickly improved. Progress began to be made as work was directed in an efficient and organized manner. Whether out of fear or respect everyone began to put in a full day’s work (more or less).

On a Tuesday, after lunch break about two weeks after the funeral, Barry returned from lunch in a cloud of dust and grinding gears as his el-Camino roared across the job site fishtailed sideways to a stop in front of the shell where I was at work on the second story slab with a few preacher boys and self-medicated non bikers.

In a voice that revealed Barry had enjoyed a very liquid lunch and was both angry and threatening commanded me to down off the slab and into his car. I did, and we pealed off into a cloud of construction yard duct. Later the kids from Bible college told me that they thought I was going to be killed and had begun to pray for my soul.

In silence, Barry drove. Basically he stayed on the road; never did more than two wheels leave the asphalt on either side of the road. He took me to a bar. Well, they sold beer and you could sit so I guess it was a bar. But how may bars have you been in that were in a 15’ x 40’ unpainted concrete structure with an exposed tar paper roof for a drink on a Tuesday afternoon. (If you have had fundamentalist Bible College experiences you will relate even more with the dilemma I faced.)

Barry ordered a beer. I took a chance and ordered a Pepsi. Only after finishing his first and starting his second as I sat in silence sipping my Pepsi did he speak. Barry told me the story of the murders. His best friend had been one of the victims. He had been to see the police and somehow even had photos of the crime scene. I didn’t ask him how he came upon them. Then he asked me to pray. So I did.

We met a couple of more times after work; he taught me to read simple blueprints and gave me the job title and position of labor foreman and a $.50 raise. That was a big deal in 1974; I was now making &3.50 an hour! His reasoning was that since I was the best “___ ___ ___ worker there”, I deserved it. And who was I to argue with Barry, I had seen the result of that with others. I like my face just the way it is.

Oh, and since I was the best laborer he gave me a leather nail apron and told me I was no longer to do any work; but to follow him around and carry his beer. That’s what the nail apron was for, to carry his beer.

Ok, I know you have questions, I even know what they are but I never asked him to explain, it was just one of those things, you had to be there. Also I do not enjoy pain and even more so dislike seeing my own blood flowing from wounds to my face or the discomfort of breathing with cracked ribs.

Barry seemed to take great satisfaction going into the offices of the sales force and property owners with me in tow and then asking them if they knew who I was. They always said, “No”. He proceeded to tell them that I was the best ___ ___ ___ worker there and he had just given me a 50-cent raise and guess what my job was now? “He carries my beer!” I just smiled and opened and handed him another.
I guess he made his point, whatever it might have been, because after a few days of carrying the beer I was back tying steel, sweating in the South Florida sun and directing the other laborers.

Another perk of my new position was to collect a few dollars from Barry and go to the local 7-11 to buy beer and ice for the day each morning. Other than chastisement from my fellow Bible boys – who considered it sin to buy beer and a mortal sin to contribute to someone else’s vice I enjoyed the time out of the sun. I believe that this may have been the moment I began to stray from the fortress of fundamentalism.

Now this story would be sweet if Barry got saved and is now a missionary to bikers worldwide, but as far as I know he’s not and isn’t. But we did talk about Jesus some and he said he had a different opinion about Christians. Sometimes he or another “club” member would ask me to pray. Barry told me one time that if I ever was to preach a sermon he would come to a church to hear me. Even though it has been many years, I often thought of Barry when I had the opportunity to fill a pulpit.

I hope I see Barry again someday, maybe in heaven, ….and I’ll carry the beer.

Hope and Despair

soft morning light

.........a bird sings
.......belief reborn
..................inhale

dew on the lawn
.......cool breeze
.........head high
..hope renewed

afternoon heat
back bent
glare obscures belief
desire melts




sun sets
sweat stained
flee to sleep
despair

On Being Invisible

I am invisible
Standing within
Unnoticed not shamed

I am invisible
Unseen, not blind
Unheard, not mute

I am invisible
The stench of my
Breath smothers you

I am invisible
The sweat of my
Back greases your path

I am invisible
My shadow chills the
Room I no longer dwell

I am invisible
Passing through cage
Bars forged by fear

I now invisible
Feel the breeze
Only a body knows.

I am invisible
Clothed by friends
Belief and trust

I am invisible
Sighted audible
Bound no more

On not posting

Wow, I have not posted in a while. My time has been taken up with book-selling. This is something I began in 2002 with my private collection, basically to support my own buying.
Recently I have been acquiring boxes of books from friends so my sales increased. In late November a dear friend who is an author/speaker moved from the community. He blessed me with many boxes of basically new books which he had been given while on speaking tours or by various publishers


My sales skyrocketed with this acquisition. I began listing on Amazon in January (my other venue is half.com) and started to learn about book-selling as a part-time income producer.
This involves “scouting” for books at yard sales, consignment shops and thrift stores. I have been acquiring 30 – 40 titles on a Saturday and selling as many during the week.
Hopefully, I will get back to bloging soon.

On Following Satan

Take a deep breath, dear reader, let it out slowly, very slowly, and now please take another. Don’t light the torches just yet, and would you please untie me from this stake; at least until you finish the article.


“Satan wants us to either be preoccupied with him or to ignore his reality.” So how have I followed this course of action? Well, it was quite innocently and certainly not by design, but I must admit I indeed did follow.

I coached High School basketball for 25 seasons at a small private Christian school. During the first few years we were the “cupcake” on everyone’s schedule. That is until a group of athletes, all in the same class came along. I had been their 6th grade teacher we bonded that year. I have never coached a group that were closer to each other or who trusted in me as their coach.

As they entered Jr. High our relationship continued as I was also the Jr. High coach. We began to play a physical, hard-nose man to man style of defense. They accepted the challenge and were willing to give their dedication to learning a physical way of competing.

It was slow going at the beginning of the season, but their hard work began to pay off after a few games and their confidence rose. Our varsity was still getting beat and beaten up with regularity, but the Jr. High squad was beginning to win.

In South Florida during the early 80’s none of the schools in our division played man-to-man defense or at least not well. The result was that none of the teams had a well developed offense to play against a man to man defense.

Without going into detail that would only boar a non-basketball-junkie, I’ll simply say that our help side defense would have brought a smile to Coach Knight and our kids really liked the contact of boxing out.
Our style could have been called full court karate.

So what does this have to do with following Satan, you might ask, well just hang on and you will see. And no, I do not believe it is a good idea to see if I will sink to the bottom of a pond!

As this group reached varsity in 10th grade, we were unknowingly following the modis operandi of the Prince of Darkness. Teams expected to win easily and win big against us. They no longer did. Even when we lost, our opponents, battered and bruised, rarely cerebrated.

As that season worn on and during the next two years, teams either became preoccupied in the days before playing us trying to prepare a new offense. This played right to our advantage. Our opponent was so busy concentrating on the new offense patterns and responsibilities that our defense worked even better. Also since their coach seemed concerned – why the new offense – opponents also worried. By half-time we would have their patterns and assignments learned and with simple adjustments would totally dominate the second half.

These teams were often only a little more talented and athletic than us. We would beat them by thirty. The powerhouse teams just ignored us, expecting to win – they always had before – due to sheer talent. I can’t say I really blame them, there were some really talented teams.

Though we pulled only a few upsets, teams who were accustomed to scoring 70 – 90 points a game and were looking forward to putting up 100 against us and padding their personal stats typically struggled to score 50 against us.

Frustration grew and blame among the opposing player began to flow like a cancer. Several of these talented squads had coaches who appeared to have been trained at the Bobby Knight School of Persuasion and Motivation. As their coach became more animated, we began to bait a trap.

With special coaches like this, we applied another of Satan’s tricks, we lied. Calm down, I have confessed and repented; it was thirty years ago, already. And no, you can not use that as evidence. Furthermore I will not walk nine feet, over red-hot ploughshares as proof I am not in league with Satan.

Our players were adapt at the use of language to cause doubt and sow division. They could spot a disgruntled attitude quickly and then went to work. A simple, “Why don’t they give you the ball more?” Spoken at the right moment to a leading scorer would be sure to ignite teen tempers. Once a few flames were lit; we verbally poured on the gasoline.

Though I did not see these strategies as from Satan at the time, I now see the correlation between either ignoring or having a preoccupation with an adversary as frustrating any advance. You see we should not have been able to compete but by shifting the focus away from our opponent’s strengths to ours we often prevailed.

The disharmony among many brothers and sisters in Christ not only between congregations but may be due to lies being whispered by an enemy. Certainly not accepting that we have an enemy or underestimating his abilities hinders the advance of the Kingdom of God.

Equally dangerous is focusing our attention on his schemes. Another lesson I learned as a coach was do what you do best and be only a little conscious of the other team’s methods. If my players sensed that I was worried about a rival squad they became more so.

OK, so here’s what I am trying to say. A Christian’s primary task isn’t to avoid sin, which is impossible anyway, but to recognize sin. Well, that’s not really our primary task but in order to move along. There is an enormous amount of self-deception in sin. When this is combined with devil-deception, the task of recognition is compounded.
We have an enemy, whose purpose to kill, steal, and destroy. Not so unlike HS basketball. If we become too preoccupied with our enemy he has an advantage over us. If we pretend he is powerless or non-existent he may have a field day over us.
One last stroll down memory lane, a lesson I learned as a coach was to keep it simple and do what you do well. Yea, as coach I studied the other teams but never made a big deal out of it to the players. Maybe we should just keep it simple; you know, love God and love your neighbor.

The Measure of Greatness

Then little children were brought to Jesus
for him to place his hands on them and pray for them.
But the disciples rebuked those who brought them.
Jesus said,
"Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them,
for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these."
Matthew 19: 13-14 NIV

Seven years-old and trapped with my mom at her workplace on a perfectly good morning on a teacher’s workday – what could be worse? First, for some reason we had no books or toys for me. Secondly, my mother was secretary for the president of Crozier Theological Seminary in Chester, Pennsylvania and in these hallowed halls no children were seen or heard.

Perhaps in compassion, but more likely to hide me, my mom placed me on a couch at the end of a large library/reading room. From the untrustworthy memory and perception of a seven year-old the room was enormous stretching past the distance an eye could see.

There were no interior walls. The appearance of several connected rooms was achieved by the placement of couches, chairs and tables. Each area had its own entrance door, but once inside one could move freely from one end to the other.

On the couch, my back was to most of the room as I was seated in front of a small b/w television set. My mother had tuned to a cartoon show and instructed me in her MOST serious voice: “Do not move, do not get up, do not make a sound, do not touch the TV, do not touch anything. Had it not been unhealthy I would have been told not to breathe. Thoroughly warned, completely intimidated, and utterly bummed I settled back and began to watch Woody Woodpecker.

As older TV’s often did, the vertical hold began scrolling. Now I was really in the dumps. How long before my mom returned to check on me, probably hours. Just when matters could not be worse a group of Suits entered the far end of the library from where I now cowered.

If the term Suits is unfamiliar, it refers simply to grownups that wear collars to small, ties to tight, never smile, and, most significantly, have a particularly strong dislike of small boys – like me.

After sneaking a peek above the couch back, I tried to become invisible while attempting mind control over the Suits, willing them to exit prior to entering this last section of dusty books and leather couches where I now trembled. My fear became panic as the tip-tapping of black wing-tipped shoes came closer as the boom of several bass voiced echoed in my ears.

Spotted! I could feel one of the group approaching. He sat down, placed a strong hand on my shoulder. His gentle eyes looked into mine as his smile and kind voice clamed me instantly. I don’t remember if I spoke. He asked what was the matter and then as if he already knew asked if he could fix the TV. I wanted to tell him not to touch it; I didn’t want him to get into trouble. But my voice disappeared in his presence as he stood, tall and confident. He adjusted the TV.

At the very moment his hand went behind the set, my mother entered. She stopped in the doorway. I could tell from her face that she was unnerved, more panicked than me, in fact, flustered.

“Ethel,” the man spoke her name. He knew her, I marveled. Ethel, it’s all-right,” he said as he approached her and greeted her respectively. I observed her embarrassment and apprehension dissolve as he engaged her in conversation.

Even at seven, I was able to intuitively sense the annoyance of the Suits; while amazed at the grace of this powerful man. Whoever he was they deferred to him. I quickly concluded he was OK; he probably had to dress that way, but he was no Suit.

After they left my mom sat with me and spoke about my new friend. Though I was only seven, the seriousness and gravity of her conversation remained with me.

During the next few years my mom would occasionally remind me of the encounter when we saw him on television, particularly when he was maligned on the newscasts.
Before he had a dream Dr. King was living his dream, at least with me a little seven year-old white boy.

"The King will reply,
'I tell you the truth, whatever you did
for one of the least of these brothers of mine,
you did for me.'
Matthew 25:40

Love: Inside Out

I first meet Manny after the summer of my ninth grade year. He was a student at the Philadelphia School of the Bible and had begun to work at our church as the 12th grade boys Sunday school teacher. I was returning form a summer as a counselor in training at Christian camp on Maryland’s eastern shore.

Manny was from New York City, in his early thirties, married with two boys under the age of 5. Though my church’s Sunday school program divided classes by grade level and gender, my friend David and I were assigned to Manny’s 12th grade class.

Several Christian men spoke into my life as I grew up in the church but none had the impact as Manny. I’m sure the time of my life was significant, but in actuality it was Manny.

Manny was not fooled by our teenage B.S. or attempts to pretend to follow the accepted and unspoken Christian standards of the late 60’s. He had been part of an organized crime family form his early teens and way to street-wise for us white suburban posers.

So for the next three years between the hours of 9:30 and 10:45, I sat under Manny’s teaching. Actually I don’t recall a thing he said, but I remember his life and the grace that flowed from him to all he encountered.

After Manny became a follower of Jesus he tried to leave the rackets and the fellows he had run with since he was thirteen. However he had made a pact with the devil – so to speak – and it ended with his house being fire-bombed and him fleeing with his young family to Philadelphia. I never learned but sketchy details of his prior life and as I grew to know him, I became more interested in this man who actually believed the words of Jesus and attempted to live them out.

Leaving New York and is former life with nothing but his family and the clothes on their backs, Manny found an apartment in a third-floor walk up in an inner-city government project. The project in all of its concrete and utilitarian splendor was part of a government program of the 60’s that failed. As was the case in Philadelphia the majority of the unfortunate residents were black, while Manny was Puerto Rican, a mix that had not yet been reconciled by Dr. King’s Dream. This was a difficult place to live. A place I never mentioned visiting to my parents.

During the next three years several things happened in the project. Most significant was a Bible study begun by Manny and his wife. The study grew and took on a life of its own. Today we would describe it as a home-church.

Though he was a student with a family, Manny’s finance situation improved to the point where he could leave the rat and dope infested project. Instead he chose to stay – because of the relationships and the need of the gospel of grace and love offered by his savior Jesus Christ. I remember discussing – actually questioning – Manny about his decision until I saw the love of Jesus in his eyes as he kindly answered me while portraying staying in the ghetto as the most logical and practical place for his family.

The influence many had in my life is difficult if not impossible to measure. A few years after leaving home I reflected back and with the proverbial light bulb flashing realized that I was not the only one. There were thirteen fellows in my actual grade. We had basically grown up together in the church. Even as high school seniors, we rarely missed Sunday school – though I’ll admit that many a morning my eyes were heavy and my head ached for sleep. Even though except for Dave and me the others only had Manny for one year, all thirteen of us entered a Bible college somewhere following graduation.

Manny’s love was not always kind or appreciated – at least by my seventeen year-old assessment. Most Friday evenings I received a phone call around 5:00. After some small talk, Manny would ask if I had any plans for the evening. Of course he already knew I would be going out either with my girlfriend or some of the guys from school. Then he would pray God’s blessing on me, my friends, my girlfriend, our plans and safety. He really knew how to put a speed bump into my plans. It was not until much later that I figured out that Manny probably made two dozen calls on Friday evenings.

The Monk’s Story

A monastery had fallen on hard times. It was once part of a great order which, as a result of religious persecution in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, lost all its branches. It was decimated to the extent that there were only five monks left in the mother house: the abbot and four others, all of whom were over seventy. Clearly it was a dying order.

Deep in the woods surrounding the monastery was a little hut that the rabbi from a nearby town occasionally used for a heritage. One day, it occurred to the abbot to visit the hermitage to see if the rabbi could offer any advice that might save the monastery. The rabbi welcomed the abbot and commiserated. “I know how hard it is,” he said, “the spirit has gone out of people. Almost no one comes to the synagogue anymore.” So the old rabbi and the abbot wept together and read parts of the Torah and spoke quietly of deep things.

The time came when the Abbot had to leave. They embraced. “it has been wonderful being with you,” said the Abbot, “but I have failed in my purpose for coming. Have you no piece of advice that might save the monastery?” “No. I am sorry,” the Rabbi responded. “I have no advice to give. The only thing I can tell you is that the Messiah is one of you.”

When the other monks heard the Rabbi’s words, they wondered what possible significance they might have. “The Messiah is one of us? One of us, here, at the monastery? Do you suppose he meant the Abbot? Of course, -- it must be the Abbot, who has been our leader for so long. On the other hand, he might have meant Brother Thomas, who is such a holy man. Or could he have meant Brother Elrod, who is so crotchety? But then Elrod is so very wise. Surely, he could not have meant Brother Phillip – he’s so passive. But then, magically, he’s always there when you need him. Of course he didn’t mean me – yet supposing he did? Oh, Lord, not me! I couldn’t mean that much to you, could I?”

As they contemplated in this matter, the old monks began to treat each other with extraordinary respect, on the off chance that one of them might be the Messiah. And on the off chance that each monk himself might be the Messiah, they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect.

Because the forest where the monastery was situated was beautiful, people occasionally came to visit, perhaps picnic or to wander along the old paths, most of which lead to the dilapidated chapel. These visitors sensed the aura, permeating the atmosphere. The visitors began to come more frequently, bringing friends, and their friends brought friends. Some of the younger men who came to the forest began to engage in conversation with the monks. After a while, one asked of he could join then another and another. Within a few years, the monastery became once again a thriving order, and – thanks to the Rabbi’s gift – the vibrant, authentic community of light and love for each other and others had blossomed.

Adapted from The Art of Possibility, Benjamin Zander

There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations--these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit--immortal horrors or everlasting splendors. This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must be of the kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously--no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption. And our charity must be real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinners--no mere tolerance, or indulgence which parodies love as flippancy parodies merriment. Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses. If he is your Christian neighbor, he is holy in almost the same way, for in him also Christ were the glorifier and the glorified, Glory Himself, is truly hidden.

from The Weight of Glory, by C.S. Lewis...

Perhaps as we think about the birth of our savior Jesus and how he came to earth so ordinary we might also look upon everyone we meet as unique as the creator intended.

The way of Law or Grace

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood…

begins Robert Frost’s famous poem, a favorite of mine: two roads, a choice to make.

…Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

And so ends the poem and I want to believe that I have taken the more difficult of the two: the path of grace rather than the law. I’ve come to realize by experience that one can have the Spirit of God (grace) or legalism (the Law) but never both. As one can only be on one path at a time you can never be living by grace and the law.

The path of law is smooth, broad and well traveled. The path of grace is narrow and there are some places that are not comfortable to the step.

It is harder to forgive, than it is to judge. Judgments are the stones that pave the path of the law, giving a sure foundation to all heavy loads. The path of forgiveness is a tangled way not clearly marked, but the flowers along this path are fragrant to the smell.

The pathway of grace is illuminated by the soft light of love. The love offered to the hurting, broken and lowly of this earth, a light that comes from giving love to those who never repay but with the demand of more. Easier to travel is the neon lined route of the law. Harsh neon that falsely makes the dark appear to be day. Powered by hate the light burns away the soft layers of natural light.

All is not bleak on the trail of grace for those along the way are known for their inclusion and help offered to all the weary travelers met along the way. A merry rag-tagged band of brothers are we. The way of law is a interstate, of fast moving sedans with only seats for a chosen few. Diesel fuming buses filled with those who think alike, sitting up straight, looking at the countryside through dark tinted windows.

Road-weary pilgrims along the path of grace know that it is harder to engage, than it is to ignore, harder to share, than it is to hold, harder to accept, than it is to reject, harder to welcome, than it is to walk away. Many started out on the Highway of Law but it just didn’t seem right and we have returned retracing our steps humbled. But we are refreshed by streams of living water bubbling up along this path. Tall trees shade our way and a cool breeze of the Spirit’s wind is at our back.

It is harder to live in grace, than it is to live in the law.

…Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Dancing in the Dark

Dancing in the moonlight the young man turned bent low and then spun quickly gracefully athletic. His joyous laughter pierced the still and silence of the night.

Approaching him along the shoreline a tall muscular three pieced suited gentleman, walking briskly, his steps in measured strides, his arms keeping time like a mechanical metronome.


The very proper and correct man broke his pace at the sight of the dancing, prancing silhouette in the moonlight. With hands firmly on hips and his suit jacket bulging at his chest he glared at the dancer. Not until he allowed his sight to adjust to the shadowing twilight did he see that the ritual dance had a purpose.

The dancer was picking up stranded starfish left behind by the receding tide to soon be baked up the rising of the sun. The starfish of many colors littered the beach as far as the eye could see.

Without hiding his contempt the watcher chided condescendingly, “What are you doing? What difference can saving a few starfish possibly make?”

Smiling with the innocence of a child the dancer sang while whirling but one more stranded starfish back into the deep. “It certainly makes a difference to this one!”

How are we as followers of Jesus the Christ to measure success? Are we to calculate by the multitudes, business models, and the lenses of modernity. Can a life spent in only making a difference to one be counted as a success?

Absent from the story are the familiar qualifications of success and measurements of progress. All that mattered was the dance and the “one” of the moment.

My point and purpose is not to attack large successful ministries nor to hold them up for examination but simplt to propose that the importance of the one is close to the heart of God. And those dancing in the dark may not be so out of step.

I have met some wary dancers – perhaps am one myself – who feel abandoned and diminished only due to their dancing the steps that the Spirit of God has put into their hearts. Their crime: caring more for the “one” than the organizational goals.

So, dancers in the dark, keep dancing even if only for the one. Keep dancing for if you slow down and lose the rhythm you may find your unique personality being trimmed to fit someone else’s mass-produced frame.

Post script:

Today I learned that one of the “ones” I hoped to throw to the deep was not thrown far enough and is trapped in the shallows with the heat of the full sun now bearing down.

J, may you find deep water and rest for your soul.

For when you feel powerless

We prayed earnestly that God would bless out land and would confound the machinations of the children of darkness. There had been so many moments in the past, during the dark days of apartheid’s vicious awfulness, when we had preached,” This is God’s world and God is in charge!”

Sometimes when evil seemed to be on the rampage and about to overwhelm goodness, one held onto this article of faith by the skin of one’s teeth. It was a kind of theological whistling in the dark and one was frequently tempted to whisper in God’s ear, “For goodness sake, why don’t you make it more obvious you are in charge!”

No Future Without Forgiveness
Desmond Tutu (page 4)