"I went down to the orchard of nut trees
To see the blossoms of the valley,
To see whether the vine had budded
Or the pomegranates had bloomed." Song of Songs 6.11
The heart is abloom.
Recently my daughter ran into the house estatic about having found life. With the unusually warm weather of January a dandelion had begun to press up from beneath. With bright eyes and hair aflying, she danced the dance of life around it as if to urge it on. Yet there was steel in her. The younger brother stalked with delight. He was consumed at the thought of smothering the life out of the lone dandelion daring to bloom in January. His mission was to stamp out its life.
As I look out the window now snow covers the ground and once again the frigid winds of winter have returned. It is the pause in life. A pause that can not last forever. The heart is abloom. Though even that remains unseen, hidden beneath the folds of the valley.
Thank God there is life in the desert. One just has to know where to look for it. For does not the land covet life? It harbors its residents, nurturing them for every season that will come. And the desert traveler is there amid life and death. While he can not create life, he learns to work with the land. He harbors and nurtures what it gives. The searcher of souls in the folds of the valley for the heart that is abloom. That he might do the dance of life. Sola Gracia, WHB
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Thursday, January 19, 2006
No One Ever Told Me There'd Be Days Like These
"Set apart for me Barnabas and Saul for the work that I have called them to do." - Holy Spirit
The preceding reference is out of Luke's Acts of the Apostles, chapter 13 verse 2. Out of the fledgling church of Antioch God calls two relatively unknown saints. At least from the early church's perspective that was probably the case. Notice Luke calls Paul by his old name Saul. As of yet he has not made a name for himself. Nor is he claiming to be the "Apostle to the Gentiles." Today we would call these men pioneers. But in reality neither of these men were as recognized as Peter, James or John. For all we know Saul was still digging himself out of the grave of a scarred reputation and strained relationships with a body he had previously sworn to destroy.
But all of that has changed now. Grace has a way of doing that to you. Suddenly you realize you're not the person you once were and over time that old man becomes unrecognizeable. Looking through the fog of the past we ask ourselves, "was that really me?" Yet I suspect there is a subtle danger in forgetting. Is there not humility in remembering who you once were? Like an old wound, the numbing pain and then on the wings of an angel it quickly passes away.
What I find compelling about this text is that the 'work' they are set apart to do is never specified. I realize Luke likely anticipated we would figure that out as we read on. But did Barnabas and Saul realize what they were getting into? No one ever told me there'd be days like these. And if they had, I probably would not have listened. And properly so, for if I had listened I fearfully doubt I would be what I am right now. The cost is more than one can bear, but spread out over time it is consumed in the river of grace.
-Panting from the exhaustion after racing for all he was worth,
over hill and over dale,
through field and under wood
the old dog collapses in a quiet crick.
Water moves, over him, under him, all around him.
He pants in pain as he struggles for breath,
eyes rolled back in his head, near death.
He hears footfalls, he feels the gently caress,
the healing stream and words of comfort
invade his memory and bring him back to reality.
For those who consider ministry as an option I suggest you find another way to kill yourself. For ministry is no option at all. For those God has called it becomes compelling, and then overwhelming. At times I have contemplated the word "addiction" but its associations are cloaked in outer darkness. And yet, it has a ring of sovereignty to it. In this place you will always get more than you bargained for and yet it will forever be all you can live for. Until you would die without it, don't pick up that phone. Maybe someone else will answer it. Because once you say, "Hello," it becomes impossible to say no. Sola Fide, WHB
The preceding reference is out of Luke's Acts of the Apostles, chapter 13 verse 2. Out of the fledgling church of Antioch God calls two relatively unknown saints. At least from the early church's perspective that was probably the case. Notice Luke calls Paul by his old name Saul. As of yet he has not made a name for himself. Nor is he claiming to be the "Apostle to the Gentiles." Today we would call these men pioneers. But in reality neither of these men were as recognized as Peter, James or John. For all we know Saul was still digging himself out of the grave of a scarred reputation and strained relationships with a body he had previously sworn to destroy.
But all of that has changed now. Grace has a way of doing that to you. Suddenly you realize you're not the person you once were and over time that old man becomes unrecognizeable. Looking through the fog of the past we ask ourselves, "was that really me?" Yet I suspect there is a subtle danger in forgetting. Is there not humility in remembering who you once were? Like an old wound, the numbing pain and then on the wings of an angel it quickly passes away.
What I find compelling about this text is that the 'work' they are set apart to do is never specified. I realize Luke likely anticipated we would figure that out as we read on. But did Barnabas and Saul realize what they were getting into? No one ever told me there'd be days like these. And if they had, I probably would not have listened. And properly so, for if I had listened I fearfully doubt I would be what I am right now. The cost is more than one can bear, but spread out over time it is consumed in the river of grace.
-Panting from the exhaustion after racing for all he was worth,
over hill and over dale,
through field and under wood
the old dog collapses in a quiet crick.
Water moves, over him, under him, all around him.
He pants in pain as he struggles for breath,
eyes rolled back in his head, near death.
He hears footfalls, he feels the gently caress,
the healing stream and words of comfort
invade his memory and bring him back to reality.
For those who consider ministry as an option I suggest you find another way to kill yourself. For ministry is no option at all. For those God has called it becomes compelling, and then overwhelming. At times I have contemplated the word "addiction" but its associations are cloaked in outer darkness. And yet, it has a ring of sovereignty to it. In this place you will always get more than you bargained for and yet it will forever be all you can live for. Until you would die without it, don't pick up that phone. Maybe someone else will answer it. Because once you say, "Hello," it becomes impossible to say no. Sola Fide, WHB
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Bittersweet
"For the prophets the word of God is a distinct reality that encounters them almost as something material. They therefore see the relationship of this word to history as also something almost material, in any case as an indescribably effective power." Gerhard von Rad
"If you utter what is precious, and not what is worthless, you shall be as my mouth" (Jer. 15.19). To be the mouth of God. Is there no greater privledge? Yet the prophets were often scorned people. How Israel's kings dreaded their forays out of the desert and into civilization. They are the conscience of a nation. I have found "if" to be a fearsome word.
In the sound of silence he trembles, from the strength of it all.
In the silence he frets, that there will be no call.
In the silence he chooses, trying to make sense of it all.
In the sound of silence he crumbles, under the weight of it all.
The prophets only recourse is to open his mouth. He has no choice in that matter, though there is much choosing in what may be ultimately said. In this the prophet must tremble, or he be no prophet at all. The mere possibility that there be that which is "precious" and that which is "worthless" should make any prophet pause. The prophet is tentative about it all. For is not God's word, power? That which is sweet becomes bitter. That which energizes becomes burdensome. Only as the prophet is crushed like a rose pedal can the full sense of the fragrance be felt. The prophet does not tame the word, for it is a power all its own. No, the prophet is tamed by the word. Harnessing him, driving him, compelling him..... at times breaking him. In brokenness precious words fall like raindrops on a dry and thirsty land. In tatters the prophet collects himself, only to repeat it all. Sola Fide, WHB
"If you utter what is precious, and not what is worthless, you shall be as my mouth" (Jer. 15.19). To be the mouth of God. Is there no greater privledge? Yet the prophets were often scorned people. How Israel's kings dreaded their forays out of the desert and into civilization. They are the conscience of a nation. I have found "if" to be a fearsome word.
In the sound of silence he trembles, from the strength of it all.
In the silence he frets, that there will be no call.
In the silence he chooses, trying to make sense of it all.
In the sound of silence he crumbles, under the weight of it all.
The prophets only recourse is to open his mouth. He has no choice in that matter, though there is much choosing in what may be ultimately said. In this the prophet must tremble, or he be no prophet at all. The mere possibility that there be that which is "precious" and that which is "worthless" should make any prophet pause. The prophet is tentative about it all. For is not God's word, power? That which is sweet becomes bitter. That which energizes becomes burdensome. Only as the prophet is crushed like a rose pedal can the full sense of the fragrance be felt. The prophet does not tame the word, for it is a power all its own. No, the prophet is tamed by the word. Harnessing him, driving him, compelling him..... at times breaking him. In brokenness precious words fall like raindrops on a dry and thirsty land. In tatters the prophet collects himself, only to repeat it all. Sola Fide, WHB
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
To Whom It May Concern
I have made a new post for January 10th, though as you can see it is not here. That's because it is in the December archive. Something I started working on and then set aside. For those of you who have been waiting it is Part 2 of Let it go........... into the desert.
For the sake of length you can anticipate a part 3 and maybe even four. Stick around school starts tomorrow and that is liable to generate something. Time is pressing though, I will be away for the weekend. So from Thursday to Monday I will be preoccupied. May the words of your mouth and the meditations of your heart be acceptable to the LORD. WHB
For the sake of length you can anticipate a part 3 and maybe even four. Stick around school starts tomorrow and that is liable to generate something. Time is pressing though, I will be away for the weekend. So from Thursday to Monday I will be preoccupied. May the words of your mouth and the meditations of your heart be acceptable to the LORD. WHB
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
When Doves Cry
"I have come as light into the world, so that everyone who believes in me will not remain in darkness." -Jesus
There is something haunting about the mist rising with the sun over the Kansas prairie and the sound of a mournful dove cooing in the distance. The heavy silence is broken when the dove cries. Rising with the sun and taking flight in pursuit of the light. Yet out of the mist robed in black and statuesque, silent monuments to pain they are. Speechless, they are. It is the silence of the confused. The unfamiliarity of it all, an unknown fear which insists it be heard out of the darkness. It is our darkness, wrapped in the somber silence of pain, our mausoleum.
But the voice cries out of the mist, splintering the night.
What did it cry?
I am the light which dispels darkness.
I am the life which infuriates death.
I am the oasis in the desert.
Too many settle for a "light at the end of the tunnel." When there is one who dispels darkness and becomes our light. Jesus is the light and he dispels the darkness for those who believe in the light. Do not beckon to the voices which call from the ends of the valley, those lights at the end of the tunnel. Hearken to the voice in the valley, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil....for thou art with me." One does not have to walk that last, long mile alone.
Monuments of silence, shivering against the icy winds of winter lumber back into darkness.
Eyes that did not see, ears that did not hear,
Leave lonely footfalls in the snow.
Must this always be the way?
Out of the wilderness the voice cries, "Today she is with me in Paradise."
Today I wiped the snow away from his grave. Gazing silently across the lonely hilltop into the valley time has forgotten. The valley I hope God has not forsaken. I am of his line, he who forged steel with his right arm. I see the boy on the sidewalk confused and overwhelmed by his mausoluem of pain. Today I am not afraid, for we have seen a great light and he of whose name I bear passed through the valley of shadow in the light. May he who is of our line see the light, hearkening to the voice of the One who cries in the wilderness. The place where doves cry. Sola Gracia, WHB
There is something haunting about the mist rising with the sun over the Kansas prairie and the sound of a mournful dove cooing in the distance. The heavy silence is broken when the dove cries. Rising with the sun and taking flight in pursuit of the light. Yet out of the mist robed in black and statuesque, silent monuments to pain they are. Speechless, they are. It is the silence of the confused. The unfamiliarity of it all, an unknown fear which insists it be heard out of the darkness. It is our darkness, wrapped in the somber silence of pain, our mausoleum.
But the voice cries out of the mist, splintering the night.
What did it cry?
I am the light which dispels darkness.
I am the life which infuriates death.
I am the oasis in the desert.
Too many settle for a "light at the end of the tunnel." When there is one who dispels darkness and becomes our light. Jesus is the light and he dispels the darkness for those who believe in the light. Do not beckon to the voices which call from the ends of the valley, those lights at the end of the tunnel. Hearken to the voice in the valley, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil....for thou art with me." One does not have to walk that last, long mile alone.
Monuments of silence, shivering against the icy winds of winter lumber back into darkness.
Eyes that did not see, ears that did not hear,
Leave lonely footfalls in the snow.
Must this always be the way?
Out of the wilderness the voice cries, "Today she is with me in Paradise."
Today I wiped the snow away from his grave. Gazing silently across the lonely hilltop into the valley time has forgotten. The valley I hope God has not forsaken. I am of his line, he who forged steel with his right arm. I see the boy on the sidewalk confused and overwhelmed by his mausoluem of pain. Today I am not afraid, for we have seen a great light and he of whose name I bear passed through the valley of shadow in the light. May he who is of our line see the light, hearkening to the voice of the One who cries in the wilderness. The place where doves cry. Sola Gracia, WHB
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