To my nephew Douglas. Died suddenly, unexpectedly, of heart failure this afternoon. Age 28. Pretty much of a screw-up for the last several years. I did not return his phone call last week. Figured I'd give him a few more years to grow up. Last week his Dad sent him packing because a short visit was turning into an extended stay complete with disrespect, running from the law, and no immediate intention of turning in another direction.
He left this earth on poor terms with most everyone who loved him.
Hell.
How were we supposed to know?
Monday, October 30, 2006
REAL Intimacy
...is seeing your loved ones with morning hair.
everything else pales in comparison: their doctor has seen parts you'll never even look for
most everyone's caught them at a moment of bad breath. or, uh, gas.
the neighbors have seen them in yard-work clothes. family's seen them in camping mode.
but no one. NO ONE. ever gets to see them in morning hair.
to intimacy: Hair Hair!
everything else pales in comparison: their doctor has seen parts you'll never even look for
most everyone's caught them at a moment of bad breath. or, uh, gas.
the neighbors have seen them in yard-work clothes. family's seen them in camping mode.
but no one. NO ONE. ever gets to see them in morning hair.
to intimacy: Hair Hair!
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Making Room for God
I choose life, health, wealth, to make a difference, for my heart to beat in a healthy, life-giving rhythm. Where does that put God, the source of my power to choose and my power to act?
Why does it feel like an either or? Why does it feel so difficult to both choose for self AND for God?
Are self and God mutually exclusive? (There's Paul's message of dying to self. Will have to mull that over.)
What if focusing on God means also focusing on developing one's gifts? I mean, you could go to church all your life, pray continually and work in a soup kitchen, but what if God had something else in mind for you?
What if your power and drive are the result of God saying "I've got something in mind for you to do, but first, you must prepare."
Why does it feel like an either or? Why does it feel so difficult to both choose for self AND for God?
Are self and God mutually exclusive? (There's Paul's message of dying to self. Will have to mull that over.)
What if focusing on God means also focusing on developing one's gifts? I mean, you could go to church all your life, pray continually and work in a soup kitchen, but what if God had something else in mind for you?
What if your power and drive are the result of God saying "I've got something in mind for you to do, but first, you must prepare."
Friday, October 20, 2006
yikes!
talking to my sister today, I learned that the description I gave in earlier post (Oc. 3)
matches exactly what she and a younger brother experienced with "It" when we lived there. "It" approached her one night. She began screaming. Our mother ran to her. She ran through It. The black fog swirled. My sister screamed louder. Our mother turned on the light. It disappeared.
Another time, my sister and brother were jumping on the bed. Brother left the bed and peered into a mirror. It was there. He screamed, got back on the bed, and they began jumping again. (It had the power to make you afraid to leave.) It was dark outside. As they continued to jump, It came through the window. The bedroom was on the second floor of the house. This time, they fled for the relative safety of the downstairs.
Never heard our mother's description of It, but we all knew It was there. Funny, how 40 years later, we compare notes on the details and find that the stories, which we've all known, are different in the experience but underneath—the same It was present for each of us.
Try bringing that up in Bible study...
matches exactly what she and a younger brother experienced with "It" when we lived there. "It" approached her one night. She began screaming. Our mother ran to her. She ran through It. The black fog swirled. My sister screamed louder. Our mother turned on the light. It disappeared.
Another time, my sister and brother were jumping on the bed. Brother left the bed and peered into a mirror. It was there. He screamed, got back on the bed, and they began jumping again. (It had the power to make you afraid to leave.) It was dark outside. As they continued to jump, It came through the window. The bedroom was on the second floor of the house. This time, they fled for the relative safety of the downstairs.
Never heard our mother's description of It, but we all knew It was there. Funny, how 40 years later, we compare notes on the details and find that the stories, which we've all known, are different in the experience but underneath—the same It was present for each of us.
Try bringing that up in Bible study...
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
The Weight of Faith
today in preaching with power we discussed analogies. here's one i've been using for a few years; i think that today i got it to it work on paper:
the tree which appears to block your path is nothing more than a mirage.
it's a roadblock which holds the substance and weight of wood only until that moment when you, full of fear and trembling, place your trust in God and boldly step forward.
at that moment a miracle occurs. solid matter disappears under the weight of faith.
the tree which appears to block your path is nothing more than a mirage.
it's a roadblock which holds the substance and weight of wood only until that moment when you, full of fear and trembling, place your trust in God and boldly step forward.
at that moment a miracle occurs. solid matter disappears under the weight of faith.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
haunting!
the six-year-long ghost story we lived when i was a kid was not fun stuff at all.
whatever posessed the house where we lived was angry and hateful and cruel. it delighted in terrorizing us by making its presence an intimidating, black, roiling cloud of presence, power and threat.
that cloud wasn't visible, but it was thick. it owned the upstairs, where the only bathroom in the house was. it would let you run up the stairs and let you use the bathroom, but it hovered, snapped and growled, so you would finish as quickly as possible, then run like mad for the safety of downstairs. it would open as you scampered, then snap shut behind you, almost audibly, almost engulfing you within—but not quite.
whatever posessed the house where we lived was angry and hateful and cruel. it delighted in terrorizing us by making its presence an intimidating, black, roiling cloud of presence, power and threat.
that cloud wasn't visible, but it was thick. it owned the upstairs, where the only bathroom in the house was. it would let you run up the stairs and let you use the bathroom, but it hovered, snapped and growled, so you would finish as quickly as possible, then run like mad for the safety of downstairs. it would open as you scampered, then snap shut behind you, almost audibly, almost engulfing you within—but not quite.
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