How Do I Deal With This??

I really hope that this doesn't come across as TMI, but I am struggling with a real case of impotency these days. Not the physical kind, but rather a spiritual case of an inability to perform. In the short term this may be preferable for a man versus the impedance to marital bliss that the anatomical variety may provide, but this must be viewed in the long term. Life rattles down the track far too quickly for one to waste time drinking toasts in the bar car, if you know what I mean. These days I have been spending time in the observation car, and the endless sky above has filled my thoughts.
It can be so easy to distill things down to the moments that pass by us like the debris of an autumn afternoon drifting across the face of a gentle stream, or even the panicked rush of the occasional rapids. These fleeting incidents run like a seamless, endless, meandering movie. There is no intermission from it either, unless we choose to get up from our seat in the middle of the row, stumble past the other perturbed moviegoers, and make our way to the lobby for a respite. C.S. Lewis referred to this in his timeless classic "The Screwtape Letters" where the junior charge of Screwtape is admonished to keep his human from leaving the 'theatre', because if he did then God would find a perfect opportunity to speak into the lost soul. It is in the jarring light of day that we realize that it was all just a distraction.
These days we have taken it to an even deeper level with our ability to fast forward, record, rewind, and even edit, so that the illusion roots itself ever further into the strata of our thoughts. When we step outside of the theater we come back to the reality of our mortal existence, and the creeping fear of its sudden climax washes over us anew. The fear of death that Jesus came to free us from. The eject button at the door of the empty tomb.
From the observation car it can become almost numbing to see it all passing by. To step back from the micro, like an actor walking off the stage while the show rambles on. You look around and wonder why it didn't suddenly freeze frame. Why didn't the other cast members notice? The sense of impotency subtly inches its way into the place that virile confidence once held, because you see the limited effect you have on the production at hand. As your eyes flash from face to face, and set to set you finally notice that the director is looking your way. He knows something. He knows that you don't. Perhaps He will let you in on the secret.

Eyes Front!!!

Reading scripture is a sure way to ground oneself out of any kind of cloudy thinking that may lift right self thoughts off of the firm foundation of Christ. There is no surer cure for breezy thinking than to tip toe through Romans, for example, and smell the fragrant blooms of truth contrasting against the hovering stench of our sin ridden bodies. Each small breeze wafts fresh showers of beauty to those who will not recoil from its all encompassing revelation of self. Like Paul who said

²⁴Wretched man that I am! Who will set me free from the body of this death? ²⁵Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!

we have a choice as to what we will do with this knowledge that comes to us from every page of scripture, and every moment in God's presence. We can choose to run, and cry out for every rock of human wit and wisdom to build a barricade between us and heaven. We can plug our noses and cover our eyes so as to walk through scripture as blind men, all the while convincing ourselves that we are in the truth, and feeling very righteous about the whole matter. We may also choose to kneel down in the ambrosial arbor, and allow the juxtaposition to wash over our every thought cleansing the very deepest recesses of our being.
We are sinful; worthy of condemnation every day of our lives, even as we are regenerated by the washing we falter and fail. The folly of claiming any self spawned righteousness that has provoked God to shower us with so numerous blessings of His grace is not only left wriggling under the weight of scripture, but even a superficial self examination. What financial aid will I bring to Warren Buffet? Would I teach Robert DeNiro acting, or Michael Phelps swimming? Would I feign to possess some righteousness of which God was not aware, and thrust it, childishly, before Him in expectation of reward?
The beauty of all of this is that of Christ and His righteousness. The power of it is in our confession of it. The hideous ugliness is produced when we claim it as our own. No wonder Paul exhorted us to keep our eyes fixed on Christ, he saw that all of the little idols of men could capture our wanton gazes and turn us to the pitiful adulation of men rather than the right exaltation of the Lamb of God. Our desire to worship will find a source, and weak as we are it tends to be the thing that fills our eyes and minds at any particular moment. Fortunately, today it was Romans.
Yes, scripture is good!

Morbid Thoughts

So I was watching a movie this evening that involved the collapse of the United States by a foreign power, which is not an odd theme these days, but as usual I found myself hoping that the outcome would be in favor of the antagonists. This has not been an odd response to this particular theme I must admit. Cartoon villains are easy to root against mainly because they are tragically humorous, but the more realistic threats find a foothold somewhere inside that tug at undeniably sinister heartstrings. It isn't a desire to see people dying that has me hoping that Jack Bauer will fail. Even this evening's tale of Russian sleeper agents setting off a bloody jihad with American nukes leaves me cold. I don't find the thought of anarchy appealing personally, and 9/11 sent the same chills down my spine as anyone else watching that day. The fact is, though, I was quietly cheering for Ted Winter in "Salt", which we watched tonight. He turns out to be a Russian agent, but, of course, he dies on the very brink of achieving his nefarious plans.
When I have been watching the news over here about what is going on in North Korea I am also curiously drawn to wonder what a conflict between these nations would look like.
Overthrows, downfalls, conflicts and their like send an odd tickle down the recesses of my thoughts. A tickle that is morbid, but at the same time tinged with hope and desire. There is a hope that this kind of man made disaster would wake people up to the reality of the temporal world around us and a desire that they would begin to ask the right questions. After 9/11 churches were full for months, because people were asking, they were waking up. Unfortunately after not so long of a time the seats began to empty once again as the next waves eroded the writing in the sand. The same sand that so many lives are built upon.
The other desire that fills me is that people would understand that they need to turn to God. Their countries, governments, media personalities, and cultures will not stand forever, but to rest in the eternal presence of the Father is the only true solace we can find. While He continues to hold His saints firmly in His power all other pretenders to His throne are being smashed down, washed away, or simply slowly eroded away by time and circumstance. Psalm 2 speaks of the way that God sees these things, and I so desire that we would see it this way too.

But I'm Scared!

Sitting up late with too much chocolate coursing through my system seems to be a good recipe for a blog post. It has been a while since my last one, but I'm hoping this one will be a little bit different from what I have been putting out there. You see there are levels of honesty we reach when we write these things that make it appear that we are letting you into our lives. Of course, in all honesty, it has always puzzled me as to how we have gotten here when we all know that there is barely a glimmer of the truth to that notion. The internet and all of our other touchless means of communication have left much of our lives as digital residue on the millions of neurons these messages have passed through as they go whizzing around the planet. They don't actually follow the line of senses to be filtered in a sensible manner, they just randomly collide with our grey matter at the speed of light. I am still gazing at a glowing screen in the night, and you'll pocket your smart phone, and get on with your day.

Honesty. I know what the word means. I struggle to live my life according to its bounding principles, and promises of peace. I have suffered under its gaze when the acrimonious bile of its nemesis has seeped from between clenched teeth. I've also known its cooling touch restoring the scorched recesses of of my burnt psyche like a mountain cataract flooding a septic city alley. Seeing its power I have thought to hold it in my hands like a tool at my will's disposal only to find it pressing upon my upturned palms like the weight of the pages written by heaven's very blood. I turn from tool and page to see the substance of their mettle; the form they aped in mere reflection. I see Him.

It was in fact this revelation that finally brought so much freedom to my life. The revelation that these principles we aspire to are not actually disembodied ideals that we can just pick and prod like produce in the day olds section. We didn't come up with them as a convenient way to structure our societies. No one sat around a fire for dinner only to choke on a bone when the 'aha' moment struck, and they realized that we had been going about this all wrong. Hammurabi may have hammered out his view of the reflection he saw, but if he never knew that it was only a reflection then there stands in the Louvre a sad testament of the blindness that takes us as a species. Just as the other pieces of art testify to our desire to grasp at the dissemination of the visual record of the divine character, so to do our ideas and ideals grasp for the intangible. In the recognition of this there is freedom no lawmaker, nor law keeper will ever attain. You've gotta know the Truth.

Here is the hand that both settles heavy on my shoulder and stays my weary, faltering gait. I realize that I do not wield honesty as a tool any more than I forged the truth of the words I profess to the heavens. Truth is the tool that rings in the quarry of my heart to hew out crack and crevice that the promise of flesh may be seeded. Truth is the tool, the hand, the power, and will. Truth is the very Person. Truth will not relent.

Today I awoke with the smell of fresh quarry dust lingering past the falling curtain of morning dreams. He has struck yet again. He has found a place where I have attempted to find some solace that bears only a resemblance of His beauty. Like a child hiding beneath blankets from the deeper comfort of the parent's countenance while fearful thoughts lock little eyes tight. Safety is felt only in the protection from evil rather than the banishment of its very presence. Like this child I too have found a weak and beggarly principle to pull up over my eyes when the boogyman whispers his dark lies. When all my worth is being held ransom I will reach in my pocket and set my fingers about the one currency my abuser must exchange. I will hold out my work ethic. My silly little patch of blanket that was woven against the very curses this tormentor is hurling even now. A work ethic to tell me I'm not lazy. A reference letter to tell me I'm not that same guy anymore. Not the guy I used to be.

How did that happen? Where did the frail cloth come from? Like the child I have forgotten to ask myself where the bed, blanket, and home came from in the first place. Like the child I hear a gentle voice asking me to come out. Come out not to comfort the worries of the Father, but to allow the child to see the eyes of Love. Come out not to give, but to receive.

I only came by any kind of work ethic in my life because of the continuing promise of Philippians 1:3-6 . It only happened because of Him. Were I to pull away the blanket I would see this. If I were to turn away from the schoolyard bully I would see Him standing with me. I will even turn because of Him.

I guess in the end the Louvre can't be blamed for its beggarly reflections, there's no room in the most lavish hall for anything but reflections. As for me I think I'm gonna step out for some air. Peace.

NWFF Take Me Home

My wife and I are sitting on the 5pm fast ferry back to Cheung Chau after an afternoon wandering around Causeway Bay. We picked up a few items for Christmas and basically enjoyed each other's company for a few hours. It is so cool how you can be in an environment that could be high stress, and yet with the right person everything just seems to shine instead. It's like that with me and my wife. We really enjoy these little outtings where we just toodle around some areas that we already know, or maybe even a new area, and we have no set schedule or specific destination. The time is there for each persons little rabbit trails to be explored, because the time with each other is what really counts.
When we sat down for some ramen at Ajisen Noodlehouse our conversation turned to some of the spiritual doldrums I have been finding myself in of late. We have both been through them so she has been very patient and prayerful during this season for me. This allows me to process through the issues with her very constructively rather than always having to beg for the time to talk. A good bowl of spicy Tom Yum ramen doesn't hurt either.
Perhaps it was exactly this setting that helped me reach a critical realization in my ponderings about the "out of season" funk I've been grooving in. The reason for all of this peacefulness and ease is the love that my wife and I share that has been forged through some great and some not so great seasons of marriage. It is because of this love that we can flow together. Love has made a way for us. Love too, desires to make a way with me. Love personified in the Trinity.
I stopped at this thought for the rest of our meal, and have been ruminating on it ever since. First love. First love is what Christ called the perfect church back to in Revelations 2:1-7. First love. True love. The love that sprang out of a heart that knew there was no way it should ever taste forgiveness even as it overflowed like ice cream on a toddler's chin. True love that caught its breath when the lover's eyes filled its gaze. The days when being called a son of the Living God made me feel like I could do anything. The days when all of this was so much more than just a chant or resitation at the beginning of a prayer, and I could know it with only a thought.
I feel that I have let much of this first love cool. I think I have traded much of its worth for the position it first offered in places of service, like the artist working for the bottom line who wonders where the passion went. This isn't a difficult thing to do, and it can happen in so many different ways.
If you are like me it may cool to an ember. If you are a more choleric person it may manifest in a lot of doing without a lot of loving. Either one is wrong, just look at the letters to the church in Revelations. The real question is how to get to the heart of loving my God once again. The obstacles are all those things that want to get me doing it for the wrong reasons.

Simple Connections

Simple connections tend to be the lifelines that keep us from floundering in the rough patches that following our Leader will run us through. The simple love of those who know us the best. The smiles, and tears of those who have walked this way with us. The ones who will keep moving their feet one in front of the other as they put their arm around our shoulder. Those precious souls who will lift our eyes back to the triumphant Lamb upon His throne, and remind us of the prize for which we strive. In John Bunyan's classic “Pilgram's Progress”, Christian had his companion Faithful to keep his feet falling in the Way. Who have you in this way you find yourself?
It seems that when I survey the narrow way there is only room for a small handful to walk abreast, and in this life there are many I know, but few with whom I have truly traveled, travailed, and prevailed. This in no way diminishes the walk of the others I know, but rather leads me to pray that they will find those ones who will step into the fray and the narrow way with them even as I have.
I write this as a public thanks to the ones I hold responsible for holding me on my journey. I also hope that I have in some way returned their fair graces to me. My thanks yet again are given with honor and respect to Mr. Kerry Donovan who first taught me to walk this way by actually getting me out of the map store and walking it with me. My deep love and thanks also go to my wife who has traversed waters deeper than any other has gone through to remain at my side. She has put her back to mine and raised high the sword to lay into the foes that have beset us, and has always offered her hand when I have tasted the dust.
I write this little post to say thanks, and to remind those of you who pass by here to say your thanks where they are deserved, and to remember to raise your sword and your prayers for those who have set their way beside yours.
Grace and Peace

Not Sure....

Sometimes I am leveled by the things that seemed so elementary just a few days earlier, and as I lay there trying to shake it off the question arises of why I thought I wouldn't have to deal with that particular attack again. Rolling over to get back up is like an escape dream, every motion finding its energy being sapped by the jeers being delivered to my mind as spittle from reviling lips. Jeers founding themselves on the truth of the situation; I failed. Taunting faces in the crowds leering out like mirrors showing me playbacks of times when I spoke of overcoming, mockeries of revelations shared to bring hope to others. They lunge from the dark periphery, because the spotlight is on the now, burning down from the nosebleed seats to scorch the canvas I have kissed. The noise, like static, relies on its cacophony even before its volume for maximum effect. White noise. A penetrating spiritual tinnitus tearing away thoughts like so much parchment. The noise, though, like all things, finds in its greatest strength the dark shadow of its greatest weakness. The discordant chorus cannot help but to juxtapose itself against the small still stream of order and purity flowing to my ears. Flowing from my corner. Words of such tangible substance they splash across my very vision. Flowing from my corner. My eyes settle there. They settle upon the eyes of the one who is in my corner. They see no teary eyed sop, but rather are gripped by the ferocity of the passion and fire burning within those regal orbs of glory. My Lord is there, and there is no towel to be seen. He is in my corner!
He bids me to look past the mobs amassed in the shadows, He bids me to raise my gaze above them to the cheering throngs of heaven. He reminds me.
He reminds me of why I need a lawyer; an advocate. The crowds tell me that I need Him to plead my case with the Father. They hurl every substantial accusation they can claw from the dirt of my flesh into God's face. Every one of them twisted, but true at the core. The crowd tells me that my Advocate stands to sprinkle blood over every accusation, because every new sin brings a renewed need for shed blood. This flies in the face of the totality of the sacrifice of Christ. Everything from conception to death is finally, and fully covered. Hebrews 6: 6 states this quite emphatically. (love to go into Hebrews 6 more in depth, but not right now) The crowd tells me that Christ stands there dispiritedly spilling His blood over every renewed transgression. They tell me that He knows I'm a failure, but He'll do it anyway.
The picture of the Advocate that scripture gives us is one who comes alongside to help and to console:

Advocate
(Gr. parakletos), one who pleads another's cause, who helps another by defending or comforting him. It is a name given by Christ three times to the Holy Ghost (Joh_14:16; Joh_15:26; Joh_16:7, where the Greek word is rendered “Comforter,” q.v.). It is applied to Christ in 1Jo_2:1, where the same Greek word is rendered “Advocate,” the rendering which it should have in all the places where it occurs.
Easton's Bible Dictionary

The question that arises in this imagery is why does Jesus need to remind the Father about His blood sacrifice every time I transgress? Does the Father have a bad memory? Is He just itching to let me have it? No. The memory jog is meant for the accuser. Or is it? Consider a courtroom drama where the accused stands beside his lawyer and the verdict has just been read. It comes back as a resounding 'Not guilty!'. The defendant turns and heartily embraces his advocate, but the accuser, rather than hanging his head in defeat, begins to hurl further insults and accusations. He is restrained by the bailiffs from physically assaulting the pardoned criminal, so he uses the power of his voice to rob the joy of this victory day. To whom will the advocate turn his attention? The judge, or the defendant? He needs not address the judge because the verdict has been handed down and the accuser has no more power over the outcome. He turns his attention rather to the one who has been pardoned by his defense. He consoles him, and reassures him that the judge will see to the accuser for being in contempt of court. He leads him from the courtroom in freedom.
See, the picture I was given before had me in a courtroom until the day I die with Jesus repeatedly telling the Judge that He had forgiven me. Court was always in session. The days were long, bleak, and insidiously repetitious. I don't know if this picture is the one you have, but let's do ourselves a favour and pitch it in the rubbish bin. In the courtroom shown by scripture the verdict has already been read. IT IS FINISHED!!!! Finished. No more haggling and drama. No more bloodied bulls and gore drenched priests. Only the victorious Christ leading us from the courtroom, and a bound accuser with no more rights to us ever again! Our Advocate speaks not to the judge anymore on this case, because it is completed. He speaks rather to us to comfort our minds and bring us peace. He speaks to each accusation reminding us of His victory over each and every one. He reminds us of the overwhelming totality of the power of His blood. He reminds us to walk from the courtroom with heads held high, not bowing and scraping. He reminds us that we are BELOVED!!!
Today I needed to be reminded of this, and His voice came through a television program I normally would have ignored for its flashiness. Today the clear stream of His voice came from another servant. Today I will stand.


PS I will apologize here for the seeming incongruities between the metaphors here, but the former image is based in blind feelings and emotions and the latter is based in unseen fact. If you search it out I'm sure the connection will become clear.

Context Is Everything

It's interesting to be sitting here and relaxing after watching a good movie. Interesting because of the surroundings, and stirring because of some of the dialogue from the movie. It was “Good Will Hunting” that I watched in the dark of the staff room while the brothers watched their movie in kwongyeh (wilderness), as they affectionately call the main assembly area. If you haven't seen the movie, and you can stand a lot of South Boston expletives being thrown around, it tells a very intriguing tale. In it the character of a psychologist, played by Robin Williams, confronts a brilliant young man, played by Matt Damon, regarding his lack of true knowledge about the world he could so blithely quote and critique at a comfortable distance. He had never experienced anything outside of his hometown. It made me think again about where I am, because as a friend of mine once said, “Context is everything!”

Context in this case is strangely inescapable, and even more so strangely familiar. I really have to focus on it before it seems out of the ordinary. Reflecting intentionally on my past will show the odd juxtaposition of my current situation, but it cannot sustain the sense of oddity. Like pushing on a minor obstacle, it falls away with little effort leaving only what was before my eyes to begin with. The only thing that is sustained is the sense of belonging that comes not from being in an environment where I am the eternal stranger, but rather the rightness of being wherever I am with my Father.

Hope That Stands

The most difficult aspect of faith, is faith. The aspect which demands that we place our trust in that which is not seen, nor will be seen until faith is thrown in the pot like dye in pure water. As it swirls through the transparent purity of hope then there is some form lent to the unseen. When it curls through the liquid current hope makes sense, but without faith there is no substance given to hope. The interesting thing about faith is that it will only mix with purity. If there is mixture then all we get is mud. If it is a worldly commodity it will simply dissolve. If it is a person it will only disfigure them. Faith only mixes with heavenly things. Faith never apologizes for this either, just as oil will not utter a word as it drifts across the water; it knows no other way.

This is wonderful as we set our thoughts on things above as we are entreated to do by scripture. All of glory opens up before our longing gaze as we sweep the light of faith across the invisible realms of promise. Light, life, and love pour out upon us as fluid music, and our feet are found to be on immoveable bedrock. On the other hand, our gaze will turn to fear, remorse, and despair as we witness the crushing weight of faith settle upon our earthly dreams, grinding them to dust as their insubstantial forms are proven.

I would love to report here that my eyes have beheld the glory of the coming of the Lord, but today I am wiping some dust from my eyes. It will be a good thing in the long run, because it is teaching me about the things of the kingdom, and the benefit will be peace. Yesterday it felt horrible, but today will be better. Today my Father will remind me that faith is all about Him. He will remind me that the hopes that I have in Him will never be crushed by a faith that was given by Him. He will remind me of His love.

Up In The Air

It feels a little weird to be writing this from 31500 feet above the Bering Straits, but that is just how fast life can change for a person. I’m not lucky enough to be doing this with my thumbs. I am, however, blessed enough to be doing this on a laptop that was purchased with funds forwarded to us from Dad. Our Dad that is.

It all seems a little strange because if you have followed this blog at all you will know that I have been having some real issues with the institutions that Christians have established in my homeland. Strange because it was while attending a service at our particular institution that I was handed some white packets (not red, but white) with a substantial amount of cash in them. We were told that the money was to be used for personal items and not ministry unless specifically instructed to by Dad.

The cool thing about that is that before we left we were trying to decide whether to put out a request to see if anyone had an old laptop that we may be able to have for home schooling and for my work. This took a while to work through though since we have already been working through where we stand with the whole institution thing. In the end we both felt that it would not be right to be feeling the way we do and then still expect to suckle up to the mothership, if you know what I mean. So I left it in Dad’s capable hands. If He put it on someone’s heart then that would be fine, and if He didn’t that would be fine too. It seemed much better to trust in Him than in my ability to pull off the puppy dog eyes.

It was also cool how Dad did the hand off. You know how you are usually expecting the play to go to the star receiver from your particular team. The one whom you’ve played with forever. The one who knows you. The one who it would be easy to run the play with. Not so with Dad. He is always using import talent to shake things up on the field. That’s what He did to me. When I decided to hand the playbook back to Him he took the least likely player to pair up with me, and put exactly what I needed in my paws. It wasn’t a laptop, but of course He wasn’t done yet.

When we came back to the Fraser Valley the focus was on two things; a sleep over for the kids, and our final packing for the trip home. I was not really thinking of doing any more shopping because of the issue with bringing back extra luggage, which means more stuff to haul home on foot from the ferry. I could say that it was a need for pit stick (hard to find good stuff in HK) that sent me to Costco with my mom, but now I’m sure it was HS who was giving me a push. When we arrived the first thing that caught my eye, after the flat screens ;) were the laptops. When I went over to check them out it didn’t take long to realize that there was a good deal to be had there. I didn’t jump at it though. After all I am still part of a team. After going home and running it by my wife, and checking on prices back in HK online, I realized this was the way to go. I also realized that I had asked Dad about a laptop. Hmmm.

A number of years ago someone looked right into my financially stressed out eyes and told me,“God is your sugar daddy.”. I still carry this with me. Now I can also carry along a means to write to all of you about it. Cool.