"We are journeying to the place of which the Lord said, I will give it to you." Numbers 10.29
There is tranquility in the midst of chaos. You just have to plan for it and the moment it happens upon you; ride it until the very end. Oh, I assure you, it will end. Yes, in our own minds we imagine that they go on forever, these endless highways of life. But they do end, though their ending is not always the same and frankly the variations to which they end seem unnumbered. The night always surrenders to the light as the sun kisses the dawn.
It would seem Hobab took up the desert journey. Reluctantly I admit but are not many of our undertakings of a reluctant nature. One is hesitant until they recognize the full value of the experience. Did Hobab ever say, "I wouldn't miss this for the world". Did he not become the eyes of Israel? A desert guide if you will. I doubt he fully grasped the full essence of this journey as surely we fail to grasp ours. Yet the "goodness of the Lord" would become his. A beneficiary of the kindness of God. And so the gentile joins the journey and travels down this lonesome highway. These are some of the best moments. The solitude of it all, endless miles peel away, trees blur into one as the day gives way to the encroaching night. Mesmerized by the hum and the glistening starlight, while a guitar gently weeps into the night. These are the quiet moments. The memories come flooding back. Journeys long forgotten, old roads beckon as the sirens of the highway calls.
Why is it that we are always going toward or away from something. Are we prone to missing that which is in-between? Nor am I sure that it matters if one is running away from something or running towards. The pursuit of the prize, the goal which dominates one's attention robs them of the moment, and then it is gone. I confess I had forgotten the joy of the moment. Thankfully it found me and one does not always have to live in the past. I loved that old road, from Haverhill all the way up past Dover. For me of course it all became one. I was younger and simpler then. It all made sense. God forgive me for growing up (not old, there are many who are old and have not forgotten this lesson). I am referring of course to the journey and the prize. Are they not in their own way one and the same? Never dread the journey, for on that lonesome highway you just may have some of the most peaceful moments of your life. "So we roll.... clean out of sight." Sola Fide, WHB
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Thursday, November 17, 2005
The Land That Time Forgot
"he was looking for the city wich has foundations, whose architect and builder is God" Hebrews 11.10
Abraham was a stranger in his own land. Living like a squatter, some starry eyed child talking about how they will own the world someday. But the desert is elusive, even Abraham spent a season in Egypt. I wionder if he missed the land? The exiles (by the River Chebar) used to sing of it and dream of a day when the land would open itself up to them. How they must have wept when the 'good earth' spit them out.
Prophets strain against time. Living in the desert, bearing their burden for the "word of the Lord was rare in those days." Are those who would listen rarer still? The American pioneer was in search of a land. The last oasis they would call home. Yet this place they called "paradise" claimed so many. Still they loved the land and the land loved them. They had been mystically bound to it, whereby they would scribe their names in the dirt. It was as if the land owned them-- it did own them. I am one with the desert which is untouched by time. Here I am a witness to the one who is coming, "the keeper of the keys." Here I bear the burden which is rare these days and rarer still are those who will hear.
People come and go they do, but the desert is always there. A land without beginning and without end. My name has been etched in the sand. Neither wind nor rain can make it fade away. I used to think the land was under my feet. But I have found my feet to have submerged into the sand.
Sola Gracia, WHB
Abraham was a stranger in his own land. Living like a squatter, some starry eyed child talking about how they will own the world someday. But the desert is elusive, even Abraham spent a season in Egypt. I wionder if he missed the land? The exiles (by the River Chebar) used to sing of it and dream of a day when the land would open itself up to them. How they must have wept when the 'good earth' spit them out.
Prophets strain against time. Living in the desert, bearing their burden for the "word of the Lord was rare in those days." Are those who would listen rarer still? The American pioneer was in search of a land. The last oasis they would call home. Yet this place they called "paradise" claimed so many. Still they loved the land and the land loved them. They had been mystically bound to it, whereby they would scribe their names in the dirt. It was as if the land owned them-- it did own them. I am one with the desert which is untouched by time. Here I am a witness to the one who is coming, "the keeper of the keys." Here I bear the burden which is rare these days and rarer still are those who will hear.
People come and go they do, but the desert is always there. A land without beginning and without end. My name has been etched in the sand. Neither wind nor rain can make it fade away. I used to think the land was under my feet. But I have found my feet to have submerged into the sand.
Sola Gracia, WHB
Friday, November 11, 2005
All That Glitters Is Not Gold (especially in the desert)
"He is a slave to a sign who uses or worships a significant thing without knowing what it signifies." St. Augustine
This is a familiar road you're on. Old paths have a way of finding you again. The desert will do that to you. Long forgotten roads materialize before you as you are beckoned to take that stroll down memory lane. How accurate are memories anyway? Can we call it "history" when we are living it and interpreting it at the same time? Did wandering prophets of old struggle through restless dreams and meditate upon words on stilless mornings before the silence was broken? Oracles like knives cutting, words glittering in the sunlight fall on deaf ears and remain unseen by those with eyes who do not see. Is Paul being generous when he says, "Now we see dimly." Is not much of what one sees but an illusion? Those who do not know how to live in the desert curse the land which they wander in, forgetting that it was they who thought it could be traversed in the first place. It is without beginning and without end, ever reaching beyond our next footfall with no end in sight.
"There's a sign on the wall, but she wants to be sure. 'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings." The desert is full of 'sign,' but for many it is without rhyme or reason.They fail to see the story and become one with the desert. - Even in the haziness of dusky light, night falls, swallowing the discerning wanderer. Who with soft footfalls invisibly makes tracks by moonlight. For the tell-tale signs are there for the trained eye. If you're going to make it in this desert you'll have to learn to read sign. Some of the sign is almost as old as the desert itself. An old old story that will always make the wanderer safe at home. You can not fight the desert. You must become one with it, submerged in sand. The oracle etched in stone; I see, I feel, I rest in a secluded oasis. Sola Scriptura, WHB
This is a familiar road you're on. Old paths have a way of finding you again. The desert will do that to you. Long forgotten roads materialize before you as you are beckoned to take that stroll down memory lane. How accurate are memories anyway? Can we call it "history" when we are living it and interpreting it at the same time? Did wandering prophets of old struggle through restless dreams and meditate upon words on stilless mornings before the silence was broken? Oracles like knives cutting, words glittering in the sunlight fall on deaf ears and remain unseen by those with eyes who do not see. Is Paul being generous when he says, "Now we see dimly." Is not much of what one sees but an illusion? Those who do not know how to live in the desert curse the land which they wander in, forgetting that it was they who thought it could be traversed in the first place. It is without beginning and without end, ever reaching beyond our next footfall with no end in sight.
"There's a sign on the wall, but she wants to be sure. 'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings." The desert is full of 'sign,' but for many it is without rhyme or reason.They fail to see the story and become one with the desert. - Even in the haziness of dusky light, night falls, swallowing the discerning wanderer. Who with soft footfalls invisibly makes tracks by moonlight. For the tell-tale signs are there for the trained eye. If you're going to make it in this desert you'll have to learn to read sign. Some of the sign is almost as old as the desert itself. An old old story that will always make the wanderer safe at home. You can not fight the desert. You must become one with it, submerged in sand. The oracle etched in stone; I see, I feel, I rest in a secluded oasis. Sola Scriptura, WHB
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Get Your Filthy Hands Off My Desert - Pink Floyd
"The LORD spoke to Moses and Aaron: The Israelites are to camp under their respective banners beside flags of their ancestral houses. They are to camp around the tent of meeting at a distance from it." (Numbers 2.1-2)
One assumes that the desert is a place of solitude. There's nothing more disturbing than being alone with yourself in the wilderness only to hear someone talking just around the bend. Is not the desert a place of community? We not only learn to live there (here) but we learn to live with others in it. One quickly learns that it will take teamwork to survive in this desert. Take the Israelites for instance, camped around some big top tent. I can see their little pup tents all in a row. God's idea of a crop circle made out of people. What did they do when they did not get along? Roll up their tent and move across the street, cross the crick, make camp on the other side of the ravine? Is one to think that Moses (or God for that matter) was going to allow that? Wasn't being outside the camp generally considered a bad thing? Shouldn't camp be a safe place?
But that isn's always the case is it. There can be as much danger and idolatry in camp as there is outside of it. The wanderer insists upon his rights of course, but the desert scoffs at our "rights." The desert insists that it is only by its mercy and grace that you live there in the first place. Yet the wanderer is not listening but worrying over eminent domains, rights to privacy and freedoms of speech and religion. One would think we actually believe the lie, "You will be like God." The camp has become a buffet and "choice" is the main dish, as one sells their soul for a tradition or a trend. Why submit to being community when you can pay someone else to do it for you anyway. Is this not the American way? And so the carcasses dot the landscape as one makes their way to the promise land. When will the pilgrim realize that "sometimes you can't make it on your own" (U2). Sola Fide, WHB
One assumes that the desert is a place of solitude. There's nothing more disturbing than being alone with yourself in the wilderness only to hear someone talking just around the bend. Is not the desert a place of community? We not only learn to live there (here) but we learn to live with others in it. One quickly learns that it will take teamwork to survive in this desert. Take the Israelites for instance, camped around some big top tent. I can see their little pup tents all in a row. God's idea of a crop circle made out of people. What did they do when they did not get along? Roll up their tent and move across the street, cross the crick, make camp on the other side of the ravine? Is one to think that Moses (or God for that matter) was going to allow that? Wasn't being outside the camp generally considered a bad thing? Shouldn't camp be a safe place?
But that isn's always the case is it. There can be as much danger and idolatry in camp as there is outside of it. The wanderer insists upon his rights of course, but the desert scoffs at our "rights." The desert insists that it is only by its mercy and grace that you live there in the first place. Yet the wanderer is not listening but worrying over eminent domains, rights to privacy and freedoms of speech and religion. One would think we actually believe the lie, "You will be like God." The camp has become a buffet and "choice" is the main dish, as one sells their soul for a tradition or a trend. Why submit to being community when you can pay someone else to do it for you anyway. Is this not the American way? And so the carcasses dot the landscape as one makes their way to the promise land. When will the pilgrim realize that "sometimes you can't make it on your own" (U2). Sola Fide, WHB
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Prayer Is More Than Words
"In order to pray a man must struggle to his last breath." (Sayings of the Desert Fathers)
Words do not come easily in prayer, "LORD, consider my sighing" (Psm. 5.1). Here in the desert the shepherd often takes a view from above. He skylines himself for all eyes to see. No "cleft in the rock" or shadow can hide him. Desert wandering has a way of exposing those who journey. Oh, one tries to blend in, become a part of the landscape and stick to low ground and follow forgotten dry creek beds, but inevitably he tops out somewhere.
Why is it Satan took Jesus to high places, to tempt him with the world, to dare him to leap for his life? Did he feel vulnerable, exposed on those wind-swept heights?Jesus skylined himself against the horizon for us. Jesus preached in public but he prayed in private. My most vulnerable moment is when I am skylined, rising above the plateaus of this desert wilderness. Like Moses, just before he comes down off the mountain and gives the Torah to the people. "Let your words be few," but they expect platitudes and grocery lists. When prayer is more than words. The desert fathers realized this. They understood prayer could be downright painful if it was not being born out of pain. "He sweat great drops of blood." Jesus understood the painfulness of prayer. There is eloquence in being prostrate in some remote desert cavern, one's rock garden of prayer. For there it is about him and we are free to breathe or sob. But here on the plateaus, skylined against the horizon for withering grass and fading flowers to see it's about us. One struggles to find the words and hopes prayer will be enough. Sola Gracia, WHB
Words do not come easily in prayer, "LORD, consider my sighing" (Psm. 5.1). Here in the desert the shepherd often takes a view from above. He skylines himself for all eyes to see. No "cleft in the rock" or shadow can hide him. Desert wandering has a way of exposing those who journey. Oh, one tries to blend in, become a part of the landscape and stick to low ground and follow forgotten dry creek beds, but inevitably he tops out somewhere.
Why is it Satan took Jesus to high places, to tempt him with the world, to dare him to leap for his life? Did he feel vulnerable, exposed on those wind-swept heights?Jesus skylined himself against the horizon for us. Jesus preached in public but he prayed in private. My most vulnerable moment is when I am skylined, rising above the plateaus of this desert wilderness. Like Moses, just before he comes down off the mountain and gives the Torah to the people. "Let your words be few," but they expect platitudes and grocery lists. When prayer is more than words. The desert fathers realized this. They understood prayer could be downright painful if it was not being born out of pain. "He sweat great drops of blood." Jesus understood the painfulness of prayer. There is eloquence in being prostrate in some remote desert cavern, one's rock garden of prayer. For there it is about him and we are free to breathe or sob. But here on the plateaus, skylined against the horizon for withering grass and fading flowers to see it's about us. One struggles to find the words and hopes prayer will be enough. Sola Gracia, WHB
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