It's Hard To Take Courage

"we speak in Christ, as from God and before God" - St. Paul

In a world full of people it's easy to lose sight of Him. Not long ago I was at what some call the "greatest auto show on earth." I was in Detroit, Motor City viewing the latest and the greatest the auto world had to offer. The lights were bright, the cars sparkled and coreographed models showcased the next best thing to hit the car lot. The glitz and the glare, bright lights, big city. This does not feel like the desert. I felt like a child again amidst the mob of people. There was no place one could go where people were not. The frightful thing was that I was afraid I would lose him. My dad that is. The engineer who has worked in the industry most of his life. At first I thought "no problem," I'll just call him on my cell if we get separated. Then I realized I hadn't brought it with me. I made every effort to keep him in my sights amidst the mass of people.

The desert can become like a crowded house. The air is stale and the oppressive walls close in around you. It is imperative that the wanderer get a breath of fresh air. Check the north star to be sure his bearings are right. You must always keep Him in your sights. For you are without doubt in His. Our words must always be spoken with HIm in mind. For it is not our voice which the masses need to hear, but His. It is not as if we can borrow His voice. Rather it is embedded in us. A compelling spirit moves us to utter words not our own. At times there is a violence to it, such as when Jacob wrestled before the face of God. We fight for a blessing only to offer it up as a sacrifice upon the altar of proclamation. Its aroma rising, having passed amongst the people to the One who pauses from the balcony as if anticipating the echo. The best sanctuaries always have great acoustics. So take courage and breathe deeply for in the end we preach for an audience of one. Sola Fide, WHB

The Dance of Life

"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

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

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

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

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

Is Anybody Out There? - Pink Floyd

"Trinity!!....Lead us up beyond unknowing and light, up to the farthest highest peak of mystic scripture, where the mysteries of God's Word lie simple, absolute and unchangeable in the brilliant darkness of a hidden silence." - Dionysius the Areopagite

Well a new year awaits us and I thought this would be a good time make an assessment of things. Not that I have a clue what I'm doing. I've been blogging since October as an experiment/outlet of sorts. I've read other blogs (mostly political, business or topic-specific stuff) to get a feel of what is happening out there. To some extent I think a blog is a dead end, another empty portal filled with jargon the average reader does not understand. I suppose I have only added to the litter. Perhaps it does matter though. For it matters to me and possibly the wandering few who bother to read what I write. Understanding is another thing altogether. If you understood exactly what I was saying would be at times disconcerting. What I write is buried in symbolism quite intentionally. Though if you read carefully I may reveal more than you realize.

For me this is a quiet quest. To be undone, reduced to obscurity. That one might be truly known and to some extent know the unknowable, the transcendent One who has determined to be known. If it helps you on your contemplative quest I am doubly blessed, for it has certainly aided mine. That being said I dare to request feedback. I say dare, because I'm not sure anybody is out there. I will survive if there is nothing but silence. I already know that this is one more dark portal, with a black screen staring back. But etched within the fabric of this space are the words "God Is In the Desert." If a tree falls in the woods and nobody is there to hear it, it still makes noise and if a book is written that nobody ever reads, it still says something. Because its author who controls its meaning put it there. Anyway that is another story. As I was saying, feedback can only help me improve what I am doing. The fact that I write so frankly probably exposes my internet ignorance. But suggestions may help me produce a better product so I am open to ideas or criticisms. Wether it be in regards to what I write, how I write or what is in my profile (I'm not sure if anything is there or for that matter what should go there).

After the first of the year we will return to our regular scheduled programming. Desert journeys, contemplation, mystical meditations with a splash of exegesis, all harmonized in the music of my own song. Sola Fide, WHB

The House of Bread

"We have seen his star in the east and have come to worship him." - The Magi

"And so God gave the Israelites bread from heaven" (Ex. 16). This manna the Israelites ate for 40 years as they wandered around the desert. Six days a week, 360 days a year for forty years the children of Israel woke up to a winter wonderland. This was the best of bread, an enduring witness to the faithfulness of God, who does not forget his covenant. It was the preamble to Christmas. Even in the desert of disappointment there was hope.

"In Bethlehem of Judah, so say the prophets," in regards to the birth of Messiah. Obscurity is only in the minds of unbelievers. For is not Bethlehem the birthplace of kings? The birth of Jesus eclipses the birth of Israel's first davidic king; David. Yet this is a prophecy born out of struggle. Israel has been fractured by civil war and further humiliation is to follow at the hands of the Assyrians and the Babylonians. The words of the prophet Moses had come to pass as Israel suffered the consequences of her sins. Yet out of the desert, on a rocky hillside in an out of the way village, hope blossoms.

Bethlehem means "house of bread." Jesus Christ is the "living bread who has come down out of heaven" (John 6). Such food for thought, that manna would be so significant to the survival of Israel in the wilderness as Jesus, the bread from heaven is to us in our own desert journey. Christ is our hope in our seasons of disappointment. Disappointment haunts this story, always lurking in the dark, ever following close behind. It was not Israel's preference to wander, and Israel would endure more cruel hardships (Assyria and Babylon) before the Messiah would ever be born. And what of the birth of Christ? Do you suppose this was Mary's idea of a wedding or Joseph's idea of a honeymoon? And while Jesus slipped away into Egypt for the remaining young mothers, Bethlehem would become a house of mourning. Don't tell me disappoint isn't a part of this story. But is that not the point? Jesus is our hope in the season's of disappointment. And hope is to those who worship the new born king. Have traveled far and will travel farther yet, because Christ is our life. He is the source of life in the desert. May he be your 'north star' by night and your manna in the morning- a guiding light and nourishment to those who follow narrow paths. Sola Gracia, WHB

"The Field of Blood"

"You speak of hope. Shattering blows have buried my hope, my birdsong. My faith, I fear, is periously near extinction." Dunstan Massey

They say a man has 8 to 10 pints of blood in his body. Then why am I still bleeding? The desert can be as beautiful as it is morbid. Looking from the valley below, one sees the sun striking a distant mountain top which appears to be bathed in blood. It is my field of blood, a battleground of broken, twisted bodies. When I was in grade school I had a teacher who used to take us to old indian/frontiersman battlefields. Deserted places that no one visited anymore. We would look for arrowheads and he would tell the stories of my forefathers (indian and frontiersman alike). I could picture the scene.

Now the scene is all too real. Casualties of war, mountains of them. It just never stops, the blood that is. I just keep on bleeding. It covers my hands and when I try to wipe it off all it does is smear. Frankly I'm not sure whose blood it is anymore, mine or those,...........those corpses staring back at me. Begging for battlefield dressings that will never cover the gaping wound that has been ripped in the fabric of the desert. There seems to be no end to this pain. And were it not for his voice I would go insane. "Everyone who thirsts, come to the waters" (Is. 55.1). Sometimes I hate fact that he ever made me feel. "You who have no money, come buy and eat." That he ever made me care. "Delight yourself in abundance.....come to me,....listen,.....live." Because there is so much pain. But I need my pain. God please don't let me ever stop feeling, even if it means pain. (At least then I know I'm still breathing). Our pain is the heartbeat of the desert. Sola Gracia, WHB

The Weight

"Come to me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." Matt. 11.28

You have to choose your baggage wisely in the desert. Needless to say one has to learn to "travel light." Yet I anticipate this is prone to glamourization. For only a fool enters the desert with nothing. You're likely to die out there as it is. Isn't it plausable that we take something? The Israelites as I recall did not leave "empty-handed." They left tracks only too easy for Pharoah to follow. The ruts must have left deep scars in the earth as they took off with all of Egypt's bounty. So much for traveling light. Not that I'm criticizing them mind you. I've read the end of the story, that God had a use for all that booty.

I anticipate, that is not the burden that would leave the deepest scars upon the desert surface. It is the burden of the soul. Like some rock you started to extract from the backyard only to discover that its depth had no end. It just goes deeper and deeper, until your blood, sweat and tears are inscribed on that rock and the dirt has been ground into your forehead and the grime forms long rivers from your elbow to your wrist. The creases which run in the rock are akin to the creases of your own heart till there are moments when you're not sure if your struggle is against the rock or your own soul. The weight of it all.

Th deepest ruts left in the desert are the contemplations that the "other" is better. Like Egypt, it was better; better food, better water, better housing. But slavery is never better, just easier. No I did not stutter. I think that thoughts that Egypt was better left ruts so deep in the desert that it began to bleed. Yes to answer your concern, Egypt is easier in the sense that one knows their fate; slavery...... then death. But in the desert, well that seems to be another story. At least is that not how the story reads? At least from the perspective of the Israelites. What would the next sunrise bring, but more intense heat, thirst, wandering. The weight of it all. You see it's not until you fall in love with the desert that it becomes easy. You shoulder your pack only to discover that you've learned to travel light. And how can you not? Not learn that is, for do we not have the best teacher? He carries "the weight of it all". So take a load off and walk a mile with me. Sola Fide, WHB

Let It Go..................... Into The Desert (Part 2)

"For any person who is not afflicted in soul on that same day shall
be cut off from his people." Leviticus 23.29

The gospel was always meant to be experienced. The man stood, looking up into the starlit sky. Shook his head, turned his back and walked out of civilization and into the desert. Christ was crucified outside the city. Not so much in the desert mind you. But the outskirts, neglected and unkept. Places children should not play, but are all drawn to. Somewhere between the edge of civilization and eternity. In his thirst did he think of the desert? The place where temptation fled and destiny could not be swayed.

There is much debate as to the location of Christ in the intermitent period between his death and his resurrection. Was he preaching hell, fire and brimstone or resting at heaven's doorstep? It moves me to wonder what happened to all those goats? You know, the ones on the Day of Atonement? One was slain and the other surrendered to the desert, bearing that heavy load. The burden none of us could carry, though at times we seem insistent. Pride truly does come before a fall. There are many who stumble in the desert (something to do with not travelig light).

But not him, the Man's too big the Man's too strong. Could it be he went into the desert, like all the rest before him? The Place which is neither heaven nor hell, though you will have your share of both there. You're wondering if any of this is real or is it all an apocalyptic mystery. Words without meaning or meaning too deep to be fathomed. This blade is real. The blood on our hands is real, becoming sticky, beginning to dry and crack. The smell of goatskin and burning flesh is real. The cold ashes of this sacrificial fire are real. Can't you see his footprints in the sand? They are untouched by the winds of time. I saw him, (just about sunset) walking out of the camp............ and into the desert. Sola Scriptura, WHB

Let It Go............ Into The Desert (Part 1)

"For any person who is not afflicted in soul on that same day shall be cut off from his people." Leviticus 23.29

"Father forgive them." Famous last words. What were those goats thinking when Aaron flipped that coin. Is it heads or tails? Of course there was no coin toss at Golgatha's Mercy Seat. The single grain of wheat had to die, fall into the ground and emerge.

- Eyes that do not see
Ears that do not hear
Hearts that do not beat

Stone cold, wrapped in the icy grip of winter,
Lost in the frigid winds of a Nor'easter.
Hopelessness wanders in a ice-glazed desert with no road home.

If you find yourself in Missouri during Spring, when the pastures are green and the hills roll on forever into a Kansas sunset, it has been said; "This must be heaven." Like a stubborn flower, splitting the 'stone cold' creating fissures which rivers of life now flow through. Yes, Golgatha like some high tower lifted high the "Carrier." He who bore that heavy load, and then she like some monstrous rocky crag swallowed him whole; whereby angry young men could only look back and lament. Rather than flip another coin the straw was bruised for our transgressions. I can see Him, (just about sunset) walking out of the camp......... and into the desert. Sola Gracia, WHB

On A Long And Lonesome Highway....

"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

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

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

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

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

"There are spirits in the Material World"

"The Spirit of God moves in the waters of repentance, which though troubled, are yet pure." (Thomas Watson, puritan)

Is there anyone beyond this dark screen? Are these words lost in the language of Babel? These are questions which haunt me. What will become of us (or is it only 'me'), in light of this new universe? They say it has made the world smaller.Yet has it not also made the universe bigger. This is not the garden of eden. This is a wilderness in which you can get lost. I don't suppose Adam and Eve ever got lost in the garden. It is not until we go east of eden that we lose our equilibrium, one's sense of direction. Did they say, "Let's always keep eden over our left shoulder." How long was it before they were lost in a myriad of valleys with no apparent road home.

To speak plainly, is the wilderness of the blogosphere a safe place for the Church? Or should this be our next crusade, the latest realm to conquer? With the advent of software, it begs the question of a need for a rabbi. Or is there a new rabbi in town, cloaked in the darkness of this black screen. Perhaps I am insecure if I fear this modern mentor. Maybe it is a legitimate concern, as a reluctant professional whose life is one with the word and the work.

Mine of course is the life of the shepherd. Therefore I stumble through an uncharted desert, (or should I say at least for myself the maps I have to read of this desert are practically incomprehendable). For my sheep dwell here, and here I must be also. I know there are spirits in the material world. But is there a "Ghost in the machine?" Without him I fear we will all perish. Our sense of community will be lost. We need him, as a cloud by day and a fire by night to guide us. Without him these are mere words, and "what are words for when no one listens anymore?" May there be a Ghost in this machine to apply these words in the hearts of those who are gaining the world but losing their souls.

And A River Runs Through It - GOD

"Abbot Moses.....took with him a very old basket full of holes, filled it with sand, and carried it behind him. The elders came out to meet him, and said: "What is this, Father?" The elder replied: "My sins are running out behind me, and I do not see them, and today I come to judge the sins of another!" (Sayings of the Desert Fathers)

The desert can make you delirious, not that you would know it. We are often lost and rarely admit it in this ocean of sand. I have found the desert to be utterly impartial, without remorse. How many has it claimed? Abandoned possessions and crooked markers line this Oregon, Santa Fe trail; whatever you prefer to call it. Recently in my own desert wanderings I realized how desparately thirsty I was, dustdevils swirled around me, forerunners of a sandstorm that would engulf me. Hunkered over by the battering wind, eyes red with sand swept tears I was reminded that desert trials fall upon the just and the unjust. "Flash floods of tears, torrents of them, flow down exposing long forgotten strata of life, a badlands beauty. The same sun that decorates each day from arroyos and mesas also shows every old scar and cut of lament. Weeping washed the wounds clean and leaves them to heal, which always takes an age or two" (Ann Dillard).

When Christ suffered in his agony, he hoarsely whispered, "I thirst." Suffering is not something which any of us are fond of but it is inevitable for those of "the way." Pain and tragedy have become a part of my desert. A word spoken can not be easily retrieved (and that is putting it lightly). Yet I have determined that this is a desert journey worth taking. Relentlessness is imperative. And just when I thought my cup had run dry, it came to me: there is a desert and a river runs through it- God. I have drunk and I am no longer dry. Sola Scriptura WHB

"To Know What Was In Your Heart" - God

"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world." (W. B. Yeats, The Second Coming)

I believe it was C. S. Lewis who said, "We are far too easily pleased." A compelling thought in its own right and yet I find myself thrust in a different direction today. On the opposite spectrum of all this is the idea that one is never satisfied. It is never enough or it is not good enough, these are the mantras of our day. The desert fathers seemed to know none of this. They found contentment in an ocean of contemplation, or so it seems. How ironic in light of the desert which we know or for that matter the desert of Israel's wilderness journey.

"He gave you manna to eat" (Deut. 8.3). Have we not all tasted of the monotony of manna? How we come to hate it and long for something more only to find out that 'more' is not exactly what you were wandering for. That's the problem with desert journeys, you encounter things you never dreamed of. Too often we think we own the desert and we are at its center. A center which we cannot hold together. Like grasping sand, you always end up with less than what you anticipated. I have come to the conclusion that no one owns the desert (with the exception of God of course). Ours is to learn to live there, no... that is a subtle sin. Ours is to learn that "man cannot live by bread alone but by every word that proceeds out of the mouth of God" (Deut. 8.3). Ours is to learn to depend upon him in the desert, he must become our centre. WHB Sola Gracia