The Truth will set you free.

 The Thief comes to steal, kill, and destroy... Jesus came that you might have overflowing life in Him.

Please don't blame God because you made a bad choice.

And please... stop lying to yourself.

There is nothing for you there.

The Truth will set you free.

The Net-Mender

Once upon a time lived a simple mender of nets. He lived in a simple village near the river, in a simple home and enjoyed a simple life mending nets for the fishermen who found vocation in the sea. The sound of the surf, the laughter of children and the chatter of birds-- these he held dear. The smell of sea at night and the scent of the hills by day, these were his canvas.

He once was a fisherman, himself, and enjoyed the tug of both oar and net, unafraid of long work and hot days pulling and putting nets, sorting and selling his catch, repairing his gear by night so that he might enjoy a new day the next morning. When the storms came, and they always do, he would pull up his boat with the tide and repair what was needed after the danger was past. It was a rhythm; it was life's own tidal sway.

When the big storm destroyed his last boat, he decided to help a friend mend his nets instead of rebuilding his own bark. He discovered that-- in enabling another to more quickly return to the harvest, he could benefit from the catch and start a new vocation. And so he did. Fishermen would trade catch and currency for the mender to ply his trade, quickening their returns while enhancing his own commerce and connection throughout the village and beyond. When the fishing was fallow, he would weave for pottery and things terrestrial... everyone used net, and for a mite he would lend his leathery, dexterous hands.

As time turned into age, and age turned into thought, the years produced a change that the mender had not considered: What if he was no longer needed? What if his simple life became simply unsustainable? The elders of the village turned from lore into loam, and the youth of the village had little taste for the ways of old. The fish were playing out, so the village was fading into the farmlands to dig a new life from a different kind of sea. And the laughter of children faded. And his stiffened hands-- what were they to do? What was the purpose for an older net-mender?

credit: https://www.ourstate.com/does-the-sun-set-over-east-coast-beaches/

"All these years I have toiled for You..."

The prodigal.
Never responsible. Reckless. Carefree. Living only in the moment without regard for consequences. Disrespectful in his selfishness.
He can't wait for his dad to die to get his third of the inheritance, he wants it now to spend it on partying in the big city; whatever happens after that, he'll figure it out. He is truly prodigal-- he spends money like it cost him nothing, as if money's sole purpose is to bring him pleasure now.

The older son.
The strength of the father, defender of the family name. Destined to inherit a double share for the burden he bears always being responsible, serving the family, being proper, showing respect, maintaining appearances, working alongside the servants in the field and managing the estate.
He is both outraged and disgusted when the prodigal dares ask the Father for his inheritance without waiting for protocol. When his younger sibling leaves the nest, he can't quite fathom that all the Father has to leave as the remaining estate is going to be his; the younger has already sold out his shares. All that the Father has... is his? Except the Father is still the patriarch, still the head of the family, still the master of the estate.

Then one day the younger son, Junior, finds himself destitute and on skid row, a Jewish boy wanting to eat with the pigs. The wages of his work have finally caught up with him; the path he chose finally arrived at the obvious destination-- the deepest poverty that comes when the soul invested in hedonism finally gives birth to its eventual progeny: the deepest form of nothingness that pulls everything to itself like a metaphysical black hole. Situational death with no soul to show for it. Dead man, walking.
Like all narcissists, he carries a mental ledger of all the resources he can take advantage of because people are only of value if he can get something from them for himself. But he has exhausted his list; he has used and abused people in his sphere so much that there is nothing left for him in the big city... and then: he remembers his dad.
He knows that culture dictates that when a son treats his father like he disrespected his dad, that son is "dead" to the family, cut off and not spoken of like a skeleton in the family closet. He has no leverage left in his sonship, no access to using his Father as a resource. He is dead; dead man, walking. Yet he remembers how his father treats the slaves, the servants in the estate... they at least were cared for, they had enough food and clothing... perhaps, what if he came to his father, not as a son but a dead man, walking? Even if his Father rejected his offer he would be in no worse shape than now; he has nothing to lose, and a glimmer of hope from the deepness of this abyss.

Out in the fields the oldest son is working in the heat of the sun, tireless plodding alongside the servants, trying to guide the oxen to make the straightest furrows and break up the compacted soil. With God's blessings and a good rain they can sow and reap another crop before winter comes and turns farming into ranching. "Just keep moving... gotta encourage the men to stay at it," he coaches himself. So tired, like there's nothing left; as if he were almost... dead; dead man, yet still walking.
It seems a lifetime ago that Junior left him to do all the work after his Father became too old to work in the fields. And what's it all about anyway? Who knows whether he will even live long enough to see his Father's inheritance? No man knows the hour of his reckoning with death. Wouldn't it be ironic that he die before his dad, having nothing to show for his years in the field except a memory and a stack of rocks out back? Day in, day out, the same routine of making a living and providing for the family as if the burden of responsibility was squarely on his shoulders alone. Is this living?

A long day today, maybe even a bit hotter than before, but the cool of the evening was helpful and now signals time to head back to the tents and be refreshed, rested and ready for another day in the morning. But something has changed. Instead of the quiet of a tired evening, the homestead seems to be alive... with music? He yells to a servant who comes running to meet him. "What is the meaning of all this?" he asks, confused by the disruption of his crepuscular rhythm.
"Your younger brother has returned home, and the Master is preparing a feast for him in celebration of his return!"
Returned? Feast? Celebration? Has his Father lost his mind? Is he under some codependent spell that he would welcome into His home such a son as this, one who would betray them all for the sake of complete selfishness, and then have the audacity to dare come back to pillage them more?
"I'll have nothing to do with him," replies the eldest, sending the servant back toward the sound of celebration. "He's dead to me!," he yells to the back of running servant.
The long shadows of his approaching Father reach him with his earnest plea, "My son, come join us in this wonderful celebration! You of all people should enjoy the fattened calf that we have been preparing for such a time as this!"
"Father, how can you do such a thing for a disgraceful man as this younger son of yours? He has betrayed our family and spent your hard-earned wealth on whatever his flesh beckoned do next. I have never stopped doing what you've asked, always in the fields, always trying my best to please you and honor you, but never once did you say, 'Son, let's celebrate you with a cabrito fiesta and have a party with all your friends,' ...Never!".
The Father looked at his eldest son, his firstborn child, the sign of his strength, and pleaded, "My son, everything I have is yours to enjoy, everything that you see-- it is yours; enjoy whatever your heart desires. But your brother has  returned from the dead and has begun to live again, he was lost but now is found, so we must rejoice and celebrate such an event as this!"

And then...?

How did this first-born heir respond?

In the Gospel of John, chapter 5, we read the story of a man who was crippled by illness for thirty-eight years. He waited alongside others by the pool of Bethesda, hoping that someone would come and help him into the stirred water, that he would receive his healing. All these years he waited, thinking maybe one day would be his turn to be healed. And he waited, there on his mat, his self-made station in life refined by repetition over generations, hoping maybe it would be his turn, but not really believing such a thing would come to a man such as himself. After all, he by now new how to navigate this familiar routine, how to do this inkling of a life.
Then Jesus shows up.
The query is poetry: "Do you want to be healed?"
Do you want to be healed? It is a simple yes-or-no question. Do you? or not?
Is that which has become so familiar what the Father has for you, or is it about what you have settled for? Do you barricade yourself from the prospect of "more" with excuses and iterations of rationalizations for settling for what is familiar?
What if the Father offers you more than you are comfortable with?
What if His heart beckons: "All that I have is yours"?
"Do you want to be healed?"
It's actually a terrifying question.
What if the supernatural was reality? What if there was more to life than pig slop and unending labor?
What if Jesus looked you in the eye and commanded: "GET UP! Take that mat and start walking!"?
Would you lay there, surrendered to the familiar prison of the familiar?
Or would you embrace the profound foolishness of abundant Grace and enter the party?

Band-Aids and Civil Disobedience

The world seems to be crashing down around Dixie these days.

Innocents were run down in the streets by evil men.

The horrors of Hate, visited upon our fellow mankind. 

Nobody talks about the cause of Hate, or if they do it is couched is such thick psychosocial-jargon that it comes across as empty vanity prancing in the shoes of academics. And nobody seems to listen; they just find people to talk with who share the same views, so they don't have to listen, and the cause of Hate grows deeper into our world. Fear.

Fear is a murderer, not Hate. You can hate someone, even despise them, but if there is not even a single hint of Fear about them, there is no violence.

On the other hand, every day people kill people out of fear, victims who are not hated at all, just feared.

How many times did we see a white trucker, dragged from his rig by black youth who were trying to bash in his head with bricks? Or the video of Rodney King being assaulted by those who broke their vow of civic trust? So who brought us that loop of footage? into the safety of our homes? 

Who shows the brutality of street violence for the world to see? And who is more likely to be shown as the aggressor? The Media shows the black man to be a criminal who is like a pit bull: one moment relaxing and strong, the next moment murderous and out of control.

Then the media shows us white police officers shooting an unarmed man, so all white police have been painted by the Media as murders in a long line of strange fruit.

Who paints POC in shades that are to be feared? Who stirs the oppressed and marginalized communities into acts of incivility? Why do the major media outlets get a free pass to brainwash citizens toward destruction, conditioning them for the siren song of hate-groups who offer solidarity of force in a ever-thickening cloud of fear?

What happened in Virginia is not new. We see it every week on the streets of France or Syria or Gaza or Venezuela. We see it because the Media brings it to us, not to inform us but to gain viewership ratings so they can make more money by using Fear to generate crisis; this rallies our species to stop thinking critically and switch to reacting-mode.

We are being played by the greatest power in the world to make a buck off us, leaving us terrified of people who are different from us, because we are IGNORANT. Ignorant of other cultures, of other religions, of other communities that live 5 minutes from our homes. And that ignorance is deadly.

But what we also see, if we choose to not be ignorant, is the amazing way people are capable of loving each other. There is no greater illustration of this than the fellow believers at Emanuel AME Church in Charleston. I have never in my years seen a greater demonstration of the power of love.

And perfect Love casts out Fear. 

That Jesus would pray to God for those who were torturing him to death... torturing him because of Fear... that humbles me in ways that I struggle to see myself following. Emanuel showed me the power of "dying to your self", to vengeance, to hate-spawned-by-fear... the amazing people of Emanuel AME showed me that ordinary, amazing people are indeed capable of following Jesus, even to the cross. 

The dynamic tension between White Supremacy racists and BLM bigots will validate mutual violence until the scriptures in John 10:10 are fulfilled: the Thief comes to steal, kill and destroy. And this destruction comes not from Hate... it's from Fear... and that comes from not knowing people who are different from yourself: Ignorance. 

And there are very real issues that need to be addressed, to be dealt with in our daily life in America. Because we are still blinded by the band-aids that surround us, blinded, unless we have a friend from deepest, darkest Africa who needs a bandage on her forehead.

Mortality and Jesus: a change of seasons

As the trees prepare for winter time, and leaves begin their fall, 
may the sight of hummingbirds and butterflies remind us all 
that life goes on to a different place, beyond the winter's chill;
a place of sanctuary and transformation,
a place of dreams fulfilled.
And though this season fades from green to orange, then to gray,
The Spring will come, and Life returns, and night gives way to day.

Left-handed in a Right-handed World?

So I seclude myself yesterday into my man-cave, thankful for the junked fan that blows hot air around my garage, a recusal from the torrent of this last week of societal insanity and chaos. As I loose water-weight to the heat and Zika-vectors swarming my ankles, I stand at my work bench, thankful for the comforts of my tools and my self-taught skill-set.

For almost a month I have been working through the aftermath of an apparently injured ulnar nerve that shuts down my full use of my right hand. On occasion I will don the borrowed arm sling to force myself rest for my mysterious injury, using my left hand, an unskilled proxy, an apprentice much in need of life experience, especially if my injury progresses and I no longer have the option of right-hand awesomeness. My left hand is an awkward fellow, the Napoleon Dynamite of my limbs desperately in need of some dance moves. So it was yesterday when I switch-hit for the cleanup of my yard tools that I got a glimpse of a world hidden to my left-brained lifestyle: my garage is right-handed.

You never think about it; you never need to consider it unless you have a life-altering event that shifts the frame of interacting in the confines of your comfort. My world is right-handed. I have a right-handed ignition on the car; a right-handed refrigerator door; right-handed scissors and metal shears (seriously--you try using a "lefty" scissors for a month and tell me it's no big deal). I perpetuate this invisible bias by arranging my living space to maximize the use of Righty, and I had no conscious awareness of any of this until yesterday when I was trying to hang up my square-bladed shovel in it's correct niche on the wall... I could not really do it with my left hand because of the how I arranged that physical space.

And then I thought of all the race-riots this week: Euro-cops killing Afro-civilians in Baton Rouge, and then in Minnesota; an Afro-civilian assassinating five officers in Dallas proclaiming that he wants to kill white people, especially white cops. Black Lives Matter activists plotting with officials to disrupt political conventions to create civic chaos and radical shift in power structures, countered with white-supremacist groups gearing up to counter this, or worse... use it as an excuse to perpetuate what they perceive as America. Crazy! What happened to our Country, Tis of Thee, Sweet Land of Liberty?

And then social media blew up, with non-stop slap-fighting between, "You can't understand because YOU'RE WHITE! vs "I may be white but at least I know NOT TO RESIST COPS!" vs "You don't even KNOW ME, how can you judge me.. because I'm WHITE?! /BLACK?!"... and so it went. Folks posted studies and research and opinions and pointed fingers; white scholars apologized for being white; black scholars pointed to the systemic injustices of our current culture; a few Americans walked across the street and hugged the others. And I felt it... in my right hand.

Our culture, our systems, our institutions in America... we're right-handed.
And my Irish-immigrant hands are white.

Peace.

Ouch... I believe this stone is yours?

I am a sinner, saved by Grace, so I have no room to boast.
I am not perfect... like I said: I am a sinner. I keep screwing up.

The good news is a wonderful paradox-- there is nothing I can do to be "good enough" for God; my only hope comes at the expense of a perfect sacrifice offered on my behalf to take my punishment in exchange for a life-changing intimacy with The Father-- this historic Jesus, born of the line of David, in Bethlehem, was uninterested in political power or military might. The people wanted a fighter, someone like David to shed the blood of the oppressor... so they used the political system to brutally and publicly assassinate him.

There is a popular perception that somehow America, or other countries for that matter, are no longer the Christian nations that they used to be. I have read enough history to doubt whether any nation is Christian, but to qualify that, let me explain what I mean by "christian".
Jesus taught his followers to love their enemies and pray for those who persecuted them. All of the original disciples were killed by the secular and religious authorities of that time, though John outlived most of them. They did not die in gun battles or sword fights; like sheep they were led to the slaughter. Although impulsive and passionate Peter used his sword to try to protect Jesus, he was rebuked and later allowed Rome to crucify him... upside down because he was unworthy to die like the Messiah.
Thousands of these Jesus-followers were stoned to death by Jewish communities trying to "purify" and "purge" their community from this sect. Thousands of others were used for sport in the Roman arena. They huddled in shadows with secret codes to avoid persecution.
In time the good news of the atoning sacrifice of Jesus reached Caesar and other heads of state, but in assimilating it as an institutional religion, transmuted it into something very different from The Way.

Today I see the Christian faith still in this age-old struggle between authentic obedience to the teachings of Jesus  and the institutional power that conveniently adheres to Christian ideology when it suits its agenda. The former is not the same as the latter.
An amazing display of follower-ship was recently seen at Emmanuel AME Church in Charleston. Those families better reflected Jesus than any evangelical celebrity in the media. The very outrage created in the hearts of radical militants by their courageous faith to forgive gives testimony that the Church is not dead yet, though not likely to be seen in the media outside of opportunities to sell advertisement.
I see a great parallel between the original Church and the black church, the Coptic church, or other marginalized communities that follow the Lord's command, "Come, follow me."

So as you throw stones at what you do not understand, I challenge you to consider your role in history, who you stand with, and who you stand against.

Tiny Glass Bells

I remember the night I cried for my loss.

I was on the school's annual induction retreat for incoming freshmen students, and after a late night of preparation and planning for the next day's activities I escorted one of my female colleagues to her cabin in the woods. I'm not sure what kind of security I could actually provide if we encountered some rabid lumberjack on the trail, but there's always comfort in companionship.

As an aging teacher I was beginning to struggle with my hearing, especially those shy little girls that sit on the back row, brilliant yet afraid they may be wrong with their contribution to our daily discussions. "Mr. Kelley, I think tha... ke... but...."-- DRATS! I'm losing my ability to engage in my own discussions!
So I went to the audiologist, was tested in her sound-proof phone booth, and was issued a set of high-dollar hearing aids programmed specifically for me. I was given a two-week trial to see what I thought, two weeks that included this particular retreat. I didn't wear them all the time-- as a playful teacher away at camp with students, I'm always mindful of the possibility that impulse-laden guys may entertain themselves with a moment of mutiny and decide to escort said teacher into the pool or lake-- not good for hearing aids or cell phones. At night, especially during meetings, I was free to don my new toys and try them out. I would turn them on and off at intervals, collecting data whether the cost was worth the benefit. Undecided.

Walking back along the trail that night, I realized I had turned them off during the meeting earlier and thought I'd just turn them back on. This model starts with a little chime: "Do-da-do-deet", except this time something was terribly wrong-- intense static filled my ears, like when as a kid I turned on my AM radio with my earphones on...so loud! So intense! This set of hearing aids were defective-- thank goodness I hadn't bought them-- and I turned them off quickly! Walking another minute down the moonlit trail, I thought I'd give them one-last-try [how often throughout my life I've done this?], and again: "SHHHHHHHH...", yet there was also something... something melodic... something familiar. As I stepped closer to the end of the woods the din unravelled into a very difficult, horrifying reality: the night was alive with insect life and I never heard it in my adult years.
I cried.
I cried for the horrible reality that I had missed a whole world around me for so long, a world that friends would comment on or complain about that I had no awareness of... a world re-experienced with a new wonder, like when a child gets her first pair of corrective eyeglasses. I bought the hearing aids.

So today as I sip coffee and eat breakfast in the backyard with my Sweet Susie, I realized my hearing aids made it home from their normal residence in my classroom. She sits transfixed, amazed at some mysterious event above us as I watch flocks of cedar waxwings fly in and out of the mulberry trees. In her sad, pitiful way she looks at me and repeats her gentle query: "Can you hear that?"
I reply, as always: "The cars?, the wind? the doves? the sparrows? the mockingbird? the neighbors? That?"
She just looks at me... sadly. Except today I go inside, put on the aids, and step outside into a din of tiny crystal bells trilling away with fantastic enthusiasms. "Got it," I say, now appreciating what I've been missing in my own backyard, sharing now with my sweety what brings her such joy.

Little, tiny crystal bells; trilling with life. Thank you, Abba, for the wonder of your Creation. And for the consolation of the Serenity Prayer, knowing there are some things that don't have to be accepted or settled for.

The Grey

Dark eyes, focused.
       Crunch.
The light of my literacy glows cloudy in reflection.
Fixed.
Waiting.
Expectant.
       Crunch.
Brows raised, focus shifts now: left, right, left…. right.
Nares flare with Pavlovian response.
Dark eyes, focused.
        Crunch
Fixed.
Waiting.
Expectant.

It's breakfast time, and I am not alone.

Why WalMart will Fail in my Neighborhood

Customer service.

WalMart has risen to preeminence in the consumer retail industry because of their smart-inventory systems and sense of branding among "associates". But that is recently shifting with ongoing lack of local management.

In the last two years, we, the consumer, have seen a shift to modern exteriors, enhanced produce sections, and poor service. It is now expected that when a customer wants to pick up a bag of dog food, they will wait 10 to 15 minutes in a 15-customer line, because of the 26 registers that are newly installed and ready to go, only two.. maybe three.. have a cashier and are actively helping customers.

If it were anecdotal, this would not be blog-worthy.

But this has been my experience with every visit, save one late-night expedition, and at three different stores in the West-Houston region. 

 Something has shifted. So much so that twice this short month I have simply left the store, abandoning my cart out of the way where another shopper had just done the same. There are 4 store associates talking, and the manager had just opened a register but only to help an employee to make a discount purchase. The rest of us stand in long lines thinking she will look up, realize that we are getting frustrated and have the initiative to open one more line.

Or maybe as another manager at another store chats up some off-line cashier, he might glance at the line (Katy store) and actually invite her to open her register for the line that has now expanded into the retail area. Of the two frazzled cashiers working that store's truncated check-out, I see two customers leave the line and abandon their carts when one of the cashiers has a client who wants a price-check for yet another item. And there are three associates chatting away from the cashiers.. I guess waiting to restock items left by frustrated customers?

So here's the part that the Region managers don't seem to get: if people leave the store, they not only did not spend any money there, they may not want to return.

I have now decided that my money and my time will now first go to my local grocery store, whose inventory, pricing and customer service has just won a client. It's only a $50 purchase, but that's money that Walmart will never see.

(originally written Feb2014)

JK,ns

The Pause

As I sit here in my lab desk, reflecting over the crazy pace of this last month, I am aware of a background noise that masks itself earlier in the day with the sounds of footsteps or conversation. No, it is not my tinnitus, though that certainly is part of the moment.
It is the air conditioner.
The air conditioner running, and there is nobody left in this building but me...
...and I like it.
Have you ever gotten so still, so quiet that you can feel your own heartbeat?
Listened to your pulse in your ears?
That's what the air conditioner moment is like for me right now.
April had been so crazy: school year coming to a close, taxes are due to The Man, already making plans for next school year, working finances for home-repair and a mission trip to the Philippines... so busy that I come home, kiss my sweet Susie on the forehead and just... want... to... sit on my back porch and listen to birds or wind in the trees.
Stillness.
This morning's weekly reunion of Bible, Biscuits and Bro's began a study of 1 Peter. In beginning of this letter, I can almost hear a plea in his tone as he writes his letter to us: "May Grace and Peace be multiplied to you."
Grace and peace.
Multiplied to us.
The awareness that not only are we not worthy, but that's not relevant... we are the Beloved. We have a loving Abba who walks with us into an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled and unfading, moving past the crazy distractions that bring us anxiety, past the painful realities reminding us of our own mortalities... into the peaceful Presence of His embrace.
Lord Jesus, thank you for the cross... for your willingness to take my punishment, for my sinfulness, all the way to death and back. Thank you for Easter; that reminder that death does not have the last word for those who surrender to your Kingdom within.
Lord, thank you for this moment, the gentle hum of a pause.

Happy Labor Day Weekend

It's Sunday morning,  year 2013.
Having missed morning worship, I turned on the local Christian station, sat in my favorite chair, and have been listening to praise and worship music while peacefully reading and truly enjoying the flurry of bird life flocking around my now-filled feeder. I even gave the hummingbird feeder it's first autumnal transfusion of sweetness and have already already witnessed a micro-migrator leaving this new ornament on the arboreal landscape! As I type, a swarm of hummers have just mobbed this feeder-- life suddenly is even happier from this chair.
The One-Year Bible's offerings find us in Ecclesiastes and 2 Corinthians, books strangely congruent aside from overarching theological bases: both seem to be specifically addressing the profound limitations of living solely for oneself, written in a voice that leaves me wishing I was farther along my Jesus Journey.
Paul lovingly writes to his Children in Corinth another letter, and says, "do not be yoked together with unbelievers. For what do righteousness and wickedness have in common?...'Therefore come out from them and be separate,' says the Lord. 'Touch no unclean thing, and I will receive you. I will be a Father to you, and you will be My sons and daughters'..." Paul then pleads: "Since we have these promises, dear friends, let us purify ourselves from everything that contaminates body and spirit, perfecting holiness out of reverence for God." (2 Cor.6:14,17-8; 7:1)
I know that nobody can be perfectly holy, but that is not what is going on here-- it's about orientation: what am I focused on? What is the most important thing in my life? Since I immediately am aware of my imperfections, what are those idols I proudly hold onto, idols God is gently asking me to give up so I might receive something profoundly better?
God is good.
People have a profound ability to rationalize our pig slop.
Jesus, help us to surrender that we might truly experience life. Jesus, for those who have never taken this step, give them the courage to give over their lives to your Love/Life.
In becoming my LORD, you become my Savior.
Thank you for the cross; bear with me as I stumble in following you-- I really don't like being hurt, but I'm learning that may not be relevant.
I thank you for the amazing gifts you give me, including that amazing peach-colored bird sipping from the hummingbird feeder

Jac's Reminder: Breathe.

At our faculty devotions today, Jac'Drake shared some insights from her journey with Christ, especially from lessons learned while attending NYU:

1. Our capacity to create and appreciate Beauty is the Imago that the Abba has placed within humanity; the ability to destroy is evidence of our sin and rebellion.

2. Breathing is worship: it is the first thing we do in the world, and the last, and everything in between. It is what we do as we worship in song-- we all breathe in unison, sharing the same rhythms of in and out, a tidal experience in the Pneuma.

3. Our encounter with the Abba is about breath: the very NAME is about breath:Y=in, H=out, V=in, H=out.

I am thankful and blessed this day, thankful for this place called Houston Christian High School, the people with whom I serve, and my life.
Thank you, Father, for my new life.
I love You.
Jim

The Value of Suffering

I don't like pain.  I was not a great football player.
I hate to see suffering, whether man or beast.  I have deep sorrow when I see an animal struck by a car but not dispatched.
I also acknowledge the value of both pain and suffering in experiencing the depths of life available to us on this side.

I have heard good-intentioned philosophers use pain and suffering as some grasping rationale for the non-existence of God. I don't blame them for being disappointed by the conditions in this world in which we live; it is certainly not Nirvana. On the other hand, we were never promised a life without pain or suffering. Look at the way the occupying soldiers treated Jesus of Nazareth-- he was unjustly brutalized to death, and beckons us to follow Him in loving our enemies. That's crazy talk! I understand how some folk see Jesus as a miracle-performing lunatic-- His teaching is all upside down!

There is, however, another perspective as we travel this rocky road. I was reminded of this today by Wonder-Woman (WW) when I remarked that God will never give me more than I can handle. WW was correct when she clarified the context was about temptation, not about suffering. Yet I was referring to my deep-founded belief that: 1) God is good; and 2) my Abba loves me.
You see, the Bible never says we won't have pain or suffering-- the fact is that Paul warns us: "...when you undergo suffering...". Pain and suffering are the backdrop of a joy-filled life that enables faithful followers of The Way, like Paul, to be ambivalent about death. He writes, "...to live is Christ [a great thing] and to die is gain, so whether I live or die [a horrible death likely under the brutality of Nero], it is all good." Something like that t-shirt that reads, "Those afraid to die are also afraid to live."

To not find value in affliction is to ignore the tragedy that becomes the seedbed of powerful art. How often does the painter, the composer, the writer, the poet produce their greatest works in the wake of a tragedy? And in that powerful expression of authentic humanity, kindle joy in the hearts of those of us no longer tantalized by the gilded distractions that trap them in a frenetic race to get the next fix. Somewhere right now a circle of strangers confess their pain to one another and emerge with serenity, knowing their struggle is shared by others.

And so I guess that is the promise we have in the crucified Messiah-- we are not alone in our experience. His Grace is sufficient for me.

What if we embraced whatever moment we are experiencing, holding onto faith's hopeful blessing, yet not missing the valley of the shadow of death? What if my current symptoms give way to a respite, and thus release a deeper appreciation of the goodness of a moment that has diminished pain? It's like these last five years in Houston:  we complained about the humidity until we had two year's of drought that wiped out our forests; now nobody complains when the rains come-- we recognize the balance now.

And I wonder if that might be about a better-lived life. Balance.

I love You, my Abba, and joyfully receive from Your hand what this day's bread tastes like.

The Beauty of a Storm

Aldo Leopold, in "Come High Water", writes about the special peace that comes in being stranded by floodwaters, unable to return to work or regular life, and forced into a special type of seclusion.
Solitude.
Solitude is what I experience when I step outside, under the cover of a porch, and feel the cool, blustery auguries of an approaching May thunderstorm. The grackles attempt to defy aerodynamics in a feeble attempt to return to a favored roost, long tails perpendicular to their intended destination until they submit to lesser offerings, whether winded heads or tails, as long as this vector results in a perched perspective. The majesty of a towering thunderhead, rumbling and grumbling like an old man's belly,  dark as slate and flashing with power, puts me back into a peaceful sense that all is right with the world-- God is still on the throne, and I no longer am burdened with some false notion of personal omnipotence or uber-responsibility.
Thank you, Abba.

A New Year in 2013?

Happy New Year.
What an interesting season we are in.
This month has been something of an "uncovering" month, when political falsehoods and civic manipulations are coming to light.
I think it's interesting that there was no "assault rifle" used in the Connecticut massacre, and the family of the perp are actually connected to high level finance and the government's investigation of an international political scheme.
I think it's interesting that Hillary got a concussion right before she was to testify, and then during the hearing her non-answers were accepted as if she answered the questions.
I think it's interesting that our President and every member of Congress refuse to participate in the health care "reforms" they are forcing onto citizens, and avoid the question when asked on camera.. repeatedly.
I think it's interesting that the sales of firearms and ammunition has peaked in our country, as citizens stockpile for some type of siege.
I think it's interesting that our President and Congress somehow think that the solution to being so far into debt that we may not make it back-- the solution is to get more debt?? I was attending a Dave Ramsey discussion group about responsible finances and my mind kept going back to our country's leadership and lack of fiscal responsibility. I see no changes in the works. I see word-crafting, positioning and an entrenched Oligarchy who no longer are part of the masses. Elitism has a new face but it still thinks it wise to advise: "Let them eat cake."
New Year?
In some ways, yes... totally.
Some family is going to give birth to their first baby.
Some amazing young person is going to graduate from school.
Blessed people like myself are going to enter into a marriage covenant before God.
And the greatest change this year? Some amazing person is going take that step of faith, surrendering their life to Abba's love in Christ Jesus. So with that I sit up straight and proclaim, "Happy New Year".

Tis the Season

Late December.
I actually wanted to turn the heat on this week.
Finally.
I didn't see a mosquito today.
The American goldfinch arrived this week... Christmas week.
Everything is almost right.
I no longer hear geese over my home during the Autumn... there's always tomorrow's hope.
Lord, thank you for the many blessings you pour lavishly over us.
I'm sorry for how we mess things up, especially when we don't want to think differently.
I love you.
Jim

End of one chapter, beginning anew

With the close of 2012, I find myself reflecting an a rather spectacular year. Though the list is incomplete at this point, some of my highlights include:

Breakfast with Julius

• Starting an E-Harmony profile last January to get up enough courage to officially "date"again
• Getting a house full of roommates, including Julius
• Going to my first NSTA Convention in Indianapolis, Indiana
• Actually asking ladies out on a date in March
• Meeting Susie last May for our first date
• Becoming Department Chairperson of science department and constant interviewing of candidates for open positions
• Joining a team of high school students to South Africa for two weeks of trekking 
• Sending off Julius and new wife to start life in Waco
• Saying goodbye to my Uncle Mike
• Backpacking with students above Lake City, Colorado, and peaking Uncompahgre 
• Getting to know my godly "person", Susie; I even purchased and have started using jogging shoes... sheesh.
• Starting a very, very challenging school year with huge amounts of changes and challenges at work
• Proposing to Susie on a chilled, moonlit, Nebraska November night after meeting most of her family over Thanksgiving
• Turning 51 and still having some fight in me
• Not seeing flocks of geese migrate overhead this year... makes me sad and concerned.

Crying at Crowder

Twice this week I've ordered Siri to "..play Crowder music..", both times sending me back to a place of intimate connection with our Father.
The only album I own is "Church Music", and I wore it out last year when I drove to Colorado and then the Grand Canyon to spend time with the Father.
To listen again to this music recreates that memory springing from a season of living as a hermit in my own home, a time of rich solitude, contemplation and intimacy with my Lord.

Life is different today.
Not bad, different.
Today I am learning how to be in relationship with a godly woman who seeks to serve the Father and others. As roommate Willy says, a great deal of time is required to be in relationship.

I get Paul's admonition, that it is better to be unmarried, simply on an economy-of-time standpoint. Now I want to spend time with her, whereas before I would sublimate that need for connection and use it to serve others.

Life is good. It's messy. It's different.
God is good. I'm messy. We're different, yet I hope somehow to bring Him a smile at my goofy attempts and foolishness.

Father, protect me from what I was; shape me for who You would have me be.

I love you.

Journey in a Day

I am here.
Here does not define me, but it does describe part of me.
I am not my path, but my path has shaped me.
I am not my future, for there is no such thing; only in the present does the future exist, and no man knows the hour of his reckoning. At best, we get retrospect to learn from.

I have been set free for Freedom, but that freedom is not license... it is an honorable opportunity to choose the things pleasing to my Abba.
I do not get to redo the past-- it is not my present, and therefore not my responsibility. My Lord tells me that he has washed it clean as snow anyway, so to reflect on my past in manners unworthy of my Present is perhaps my greatest sin.

Abba, please allow me the grace of seeing myself in Jesus.
Please allow me the grace to see others as Jesus would.
In this moment, this Moment, I submit what I know to One who gets me.
I love you, Lord.