We battle to own the apostates.
We fight in our bunkers of shares.
We taunt them with jesting emojis.
We rage with our unflinching stares.

We argue our case on the platforms.
We scroll, we like, we subscribe.
We give the guilty comeuppance.
In political tribes, we abide.

And we wonder why we are dying
as descendants are leaving the church.
But our minds are so quickly distracted
by views that we share from our perch.

We’ve taken His throne in our scoffing.
The gavel we’ve ruthlessly kept.
Stoned on the wine of our malice,
Mocking them all as He wept.

We rage at the ones who offend us
And wound them with daggers of scorn,
This stain runs ever before us.
Our unity- broken and torn.

So this is the state of our movement.
This is our shameless pursuit.
Instead our loving our neighbors,
There are errors we need to refute.

So drunk in the glory of judging,
Admired for rhetorical skill,
Proclaiming our tribe’s indignation.
But it’s better to cease and be still.

We spew out the bile of our anger.
We play the pawn with the press.
We lie to ourselves in the meantime.
We rant upon those in distress.

The venom stirs in our outrage.
Insulting for glory and thrill.
For we are aroused by the carnage.
Instead, we should cease and be still.

Be still before Christ in your silence.
Wait for the dawning of night
Boldly retreat from the clamor.
Surrender your need to be right.

---

Featured Image of phone and dagger created by DALL·E

The greatest lessons I learn about the gospel are found in relationship with other people.  Not just believers but in every relationship. The lepers, the Pharisees, the prostitutes, the wasted and the weary– they’re all right here today. 

I learn best about the gospel when I am under oppression, when I realize my own failures and when I am angry enough to turn over a few tables… as well as when I am so grateful that I feel rocks will join me in praise. 

I learn best about the gospel when I identify with the despair and the joy and the anger and the celebration of everything this life entails. And when I join Christ in the mission, despite all the spiritual darkness in this country of glitz and grit.  

I rarely ever learn when I get my way.

I learn best when my back is against the wall.

I learn best when I pray and only silence replies.

I learn best when answers are elusive.

I learn best about the gospel when I see the broken as well as the proud and I realize that I am both.

Jesus becomes my tour guide and I am amazed by the places He takes me… Sometimes He takes me- kicking and screaming into the darkness of the world and the darkness in my own heart. I riffle through the ashes and rust for the smallest wisp of glory.

I learn best about the gospel when I am wrapped up in the story and I choose the right role.

Truth be told, I am a wreck when life is predictable and safe. 

Here’s a great conversation with Chris Forbes on churches, cooperation, and the future.

Most creatives can’t explain how they do what they do. Formulas escape them. The mysterious process occurs somewhere between the prefrontal and motor association cortex.

Apart from the mechanics of syntax, color, structure, template, perspective, and story arc, creators are at the mercy of something no one but God understands. Like little children at supper, they say grace over it but can take no great credit for its existence. It’s something that causes emotional tremors from time to time. It causes lack of sleep, lack of time, brief moments of tunneling when all relationships temporarily vanish, frustration on the behalf of spouses, and the inability to focus on other people and things during moments of artistic production.

Most artists have low self-esteem even though some may appear egocentric. Their low self image is rooted in emptying one’s self to make room for things that come through them, but not from them. The best creative work is found in hiddenness. This hiddenness allows the reader, audience, viewer or listener to feel as if they, themselves are in the experience created by the artist. It’s why lovers love love songs. And mourners need poetry. They walk into the art and adopt it into their own personal narrative. In this way the artist becomes a concierge of the human experience. Great art always gets personal.

There are moments of unrestrained yeses. Everything is yes in the creative process, before the murdering of darlings- those little things in the work that mean much to the writer and little to the reader. The writer must scatter themselves to the four winds of the delete key. They are at the mercy of the muse because they don’t know how the muse works. I use the term “muse” but I’d rather not. It’s the spiritual cosmos that is unseen and neutral until the forces of divine consequence appear. Artists do it but don’t understand it any more than most people understand the inside of an MP3 and how it produces sound from digits.

But when it happens they are as close to God as Genesis 1:1. “Created” is a verb coined by God Himself. There is nothing new under the sun, but the artist will fight tooth and nail to disprove it.

All good gifts come from God but not everything artists write or say is God breathed. Not in the least. But there are those times when the Spirit moves, the clouds part, and glory speaks. The artist stands trembling with a little flicker called an idea. The artist enters the process like an East Tennessee snake handler in a church with signs following. It’s risky but it’s when the artist feels most alive. Ideas are best seen in caves of solitude and often express themselves in seismic yearning. Painters paint, musicians compose and writers write because they can’t help themselves any more than one can stop a sneeze, and often just as messy.

Some artists give meaning to mythos and mysteries but find it hard to iron shirts or complete an online form. They dance between the county lines of catastrophe and bliss, often in both at the same time- a fact proven possible in quantum physics.

How does normal life work? Why is everything so desperately broken? Why do I feel so alone? These are questions that creatives struggle with but never conquer. (And woe to the artist that thinks she’s figured everything out.) The name “artist,” like the name Israel, means STRUGGLE. Struggling is a virtue, not a vice. It stands poised for the angelic fracas until the blessing is spoken.

The mortality rate for creatives is much lower than the general population. Their brain’s tread-life is much shorter. They are stripping gears to dig deeper. And for that we should all be thankful. We need them down there in the threshing floor.

So the nervous, emotional artist continues to do what he can’t put his finger on, for an audience he doesn’t know and a debt that he didn’t owe when he started. He or she lives in a state of panic or grace, totally dependent on God or some infinitely lesser being to survive.

Not all crazy people are artists, but most artists are crazy people and we need them. Bruce Cockburn puts it so simply, “Pay attention to the poet. You need him and you know it.” We need them in our homes, churches, universities, seminaries, and kindergartens. But don’t hand them the keys. They’ll lose them.

My life is on the wheel…Earthbound clay

Spinning. Wondering. Why are His hands changing me?

With purpose

What is He creating in me?

What does He see?

Is there a purpose in the pain?

Stretching, sensing, swirling, struggling

I’m smaller than I used to be, it seems

The Mosaic of broken dreams

I’m dizzy with change

The wheel slows as his eyes scan my shell

And he sees it.

I was hoping that he’d over look it.

Halfway hoping he would cast me aside and move on to a more fitting lump of clay.

He pauses-

Divine rejection is what I feel. Rejection that He sees who I really am-

A catastrophic mess

Deeply wounded- Brokeness

He picks me up again and throws me back on the wheel.

This is not the way it’s supposed to be.

Still working- it hurts because I’m still me

Can I ever be what He wants me to be?

He’s creating in my  catastrophe.

I’m spinning again- Oh God what do you see?

The heat of the oven- birthplace of sanctity.

Above and beyond all treachery

That separated my soul from Thee

Burning, glazing, waiting, straining

I stand before the Master of the clay

I didn’t know it then but I know it now.

He recognizes me.

And- He SMILES. He smiles at me.

My creator

Who walked me through the fire of earth

And now I see him

The all-things-new Messiah

King of Castaways

The Potter

Victor

Creator

Jesus

In awestruck wonder we will stand

His masterpiece of grace.    `

Recently, we’ve seen God’s word questioned, defiled, glorified, and deified. It’s all caused me to really think through what the Word of God means to me. God’s word is peace to me, but God’s word also disturbs the peace in my life. That’s right, it disturbs the peace. It causes me to see the storms. It’s constantly stirring me as batter in bowl- It thickens me.

It tells the whole story.  There are lots of things that I would have censored out, but God chose to tell the truth.  To record anger so great that it wishes for the death of infants. It shows heroes with flaws. You won’t find a Clark Kent type in this book other than Christ- who was the Word. Men and women fail and then succeed. Or they succeed and then fail. It’s always a combination of both except for Enoch and he got a hall pass before the bell rang.

The Christians I’m around today are on a quest of defending the Word of God against heretics. Nothing new to the church… But as Spurgeon once said, “The Word of God is like a lion. You don’t have to defend it; you just have to let it out of the cage.” (How I wished I would have thought of that metaphor! Please forgive the writer envy, Sweet Jesus.) 

Theologians wield the Word of God as a theological litmus test to keep out people they don’t like. We find our favorite parts, parts that fit our general worldview and we make people sign off on it. Others choose to make the Bible a graven image, worshiping it more than God himself. Putting God, the 20lb version on the communion table- never read but ain’t it big.

As I read the Acts of the Apostles- the major formula of the Holy Spirit is this: The Holy Spirit doesn’t have any formulas. Meanwhile the Acts of the American Church is that we are glitzed out, overfed and underachieving. We are focused on the power of the company (church inc.) rather than the Company of His Power.

To tell you the truth the thing I love about God’s word is this: It’s a director’s cut of the Good News. No deleted scenes. No formulaic ending, no apologies, and no edits. It’s the light unto my path. It’s a scary book when you get right down to it because it calls for radical love- it propels us to snatch people out of the leper colony and the Bethesda’s pool of self-help and holistic healing. It leaves the servant work to me. It warns me to avoid debt and riches- both have the potential to damn me. And it dares me to believe in something from nothing, life from death, and beginning from ending.

You can’t deconstruct the Bible, yea and verily, it is deconstructing you.

The Bible is Anti-Religion. It doesn’t show God as a “tip toe through the tulips” Creator. He’s a roaring Lion and He dares you to battle- note that His battle is always His. He is not looking for our help. He is inviting us to adventure- so great and unpredictable that even as we gasp our final breath, we look forward to the next page-turning chapter of the swashbuckling thriller. It is not stayed; it is not a book of administration and order. It’s a living, progressive organism of divine transformation. And again, I say–It’s against religion. (And most will never get their brain around that truth. I pray I will.) The Bible is about dead men walking. It’s about surrendering- holding our hands to Heaven and watching our God, like an angry parent witnessing a bully torment his little girl- knock the snot out him and dare him to pull that stunt again. Therefore, one must examine himself to be sure he is not a bully.

Some Christians use the Bible as lawyers use precedent the argue their case citing certain past cases in God’s Word as their loophole and syllogism. Usually, their case has more to do with their personal power than it has to do with the Great Commission or the Greatest Commandment. Some of these people would rather see a neighborhood go to hell than have the wrong type of person (sex, race, political faction) preach in the neighborhood. And because of this they become the practicing liberals in the Body. I’m convinced that the Bible needs more lovers than apologists, more incarnations than discernment rangers.

I must spend more time reading the Word of God than the time I spend listening to people talk about the Word of God. I must spend more time letting the Word teach me through the Holy Spirit. It’s trusting God’s promise that the Word will accomplish what it set out to do. And yes, indeed, certainly, and verily I must DO the Word of God every day.

I look forward to spending more time in God’s Word- when I do, it’s never wasted time.

some plan

their own phantasmagorical funeral

preacher boys with stories that’d make everyone cry.

even mother-in-laws and accountants

I have different plans on that day.

when i die

I’ll watch my father sling jawbones

with samson

both made it in the door by the grace of God

same as noah

he found grace

he discovered it

or it discovered him

before he clanked the first nail into gopher wood

or shoveled the first cart of kangaroo caca

the story began in grace and splinter

the mercy of limping jacob and stumbling bartimaeus

they sidebar and tell stories

smiling and wondering about weak eyes

discussing it with the miracle boy of Jesus’ mud pies

look(!) there’s paul–the lasik surgery is divine

big letters not necessary.

he can read the fine print

he’s catching up with a big stack by his side

& checking out the far flung analysis of his work

from n/t/wright to barnes to hal lindsay

(the later, just for fun)

The speech therapy is complete for stuttering moses.

he can wax eloquent for millennia

AND Jesus is smiling

His children–the whole great cloud is back home

The aroma of the spread catered by angels

and feasting on the vision He’s been waiting to see.

and in gobsmacked wonder, there’s a whisper

under the breath of all the saints-

“it’s all true”

me?

i’m the guy way over in the back of the family portrait

on the 12,857,009th row

next to a man named bart wrankle (of whom i have not met)

I want you to know how proud I am to be your father. You have brought so much joy into my life with your humor, passion, your hunger for knowledge, and your love of life. I hope that you will remember this night as a time when I gave you my blessing. Always know that your father loves you and prays for you as I will until I die.

This is your life.

May you find that the only true friends are the ones that will tell you the truth even when it hurts.
May you run toward God because in the end- He’s what this life is all about.
May you seek wisdom above everything else.
I pray that you will have fun. Fun is good. But I pray that you will run away from foolishness. Remember that you can ruin your life in 60 seconds of wrong decisions.
I pray that you will treat women with dignity.
I pray that you will be true to yourself and be uncompromising.
I pray that you will not be caught in the snares that are everywhere around us.
I pray that you will learn the power of relationships.

This night is special too. This night I am giving my first father’s blessing. Tonight I speak blessings upon you and I release you. As much as I would like to keep you under my wings, the truth is you are now the caretaker of your destiny.

I release you into the world. As much as I am able I will continue to invest in your future but from this night on I will become more and more a prayer warrior and a spectator as your choices.

Tonight I want to challenge you to step fully into manhood.  It’s not something that happens instantaneously but manhood is about choices. I’ve learned the hard way in my life. Manhood is not an age but a choice.

A boy is selfish.
A man is sacrificial.
A boy speaks easy lies
A man speaks hard truths.
A boy has a foul mouth relying on a few vulgar words to communicate a myriad of messages.
A man uses a robust vocabulary to solve a myriad of conflicts.
A boy refuses to listen with an open mind.
A man listens much and talks little.
A boy is controlled by anger.
A man channels his anger to create Godly change.
The pleasure of a boy is unbridled and thoughtless.
A man is lives for a cause which ultimately brings him more pleasure than anything a boy could even imagine.

Jesus said: “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”

I can tell you this one thing that I know for sure:  Life is difficult. And once you accept that life is difficult you will find that it’s not too difficult to handle.

You’re likely to meet your future wife in the coming 4 years.  Choose wisely. Whoever finds a wife finds a good thing, and obtains favor of the LORD.

Marriage is learning how to serve.  It’s God’s invention so that men like us could learn how to be like Jesus.

There is no woman on the face of the earth who will be able to make life worth it. It’s got to come from inside you.

Your success will be measured by your ability to do the hard work first and then the fun stuff. Every successful man learns that skill.

Christians will let you down.  It’s a fact of life.  Christ won’t.

You are going to face temptation greater than any you have ever faced. But I believe you have the character to handle it.

Sitting in front of the class will do more to help you succeed than any other college tip I can think of.

I have known five friends that have died from alcohol related deaths- binge drinking, alcoholism, killed by a drunk driver.  Please don’t be the 6th.

Your metabolism will slow down tremendously over the next 2 years. It’s just how a man’s body works.  Exercise and eat right.

You are loved, accepted and celebrated.  Tonight, I regard you as a man. Now it is your turn to change the world.

May your head be full of dreams.

May your heart be tethered to truth.

May your path be narrow and challenging.

May you fight for nobility.

May you never take alliance with fools.

May you run toward God.

May you find romance in life.

And may you seek the approval of God more than the approval of men.

Recently, I did the annual New Year’s cleaning. I love getting rid of stuff. Like most, it happens on a warm Saturday afternoon after the garage sale. We sold 174 items and ended up with around 35 dollars. I was amazed that so many of people don’t want what we don’t want. By the end of the day, I was paying people to take what’s left over. “I’ll pay you 50 dollars to take the sofa that’s parked in the garage.  Please? I know it’s mauve. But mauve is back! I’ll even throw in the inflatable Santa Claus!”

After a Saturday of lifting a refrigerator, an entertainment center, my son’s barbells and various other items, I woke up the next morning and grabbed a shirt out of the closet and the next thing I knew a shock of electricity shot through my back. I aged 30 years in half a second, as I tried to get up. I looked at myself in the mirror. It was a pathetic sight. I was stooped down and to the right at a 60-degree angle. I had the posture of the Elephant Man. What happened? The day before, I was robust, vigorous and almost impressed with the deftness of my herculean prowess and the next, I’m bent over like an extra on the set of the Golden Girls after attempting the feat of lifting a shirt from the closet. I went to church like that because I didn’t have time to draft a small group leader replacement.  Our group was very understanding and prayed for my restoration, but evidently these demons require much prayer and fasting. 

Monday, I found a chiropractor who could squeeze me into the schedule. I am not a frequenter of chiropractors, but I’ve been before. I’ve learned through the years that there are different schools of thought when it comes to chiropractors. (Or as my grandmother called them: “the choir-practors.”) Some of them have a little tool that pokes you in the spine after they hook you up to a something akin to an octopus with electrical suction cups. I’ve been to others that wanted to sign me up for a lifetime supply of supplements containing things like lamb’s hair extract, acacia seeds and aromatic wild caught salmon oil. For me, I don’t think you’ve actually been to a chiropractor until he puts you on a plank of wood and you hear bones popping as he plunges his knee in your thoracic vertebrae.  That’s when I know I got my money’s worth.  

It’s been a few days and I’m walking normally now. I’ve learned a lot since then. I’ve learned that it’s the little things that often trigger the hidden pain of over-exertion. I think that’s true in marriage. It’s often not the actual disagreements we have that bend Darlene and me out of shape. It’s sometimes the guy tailgating me on the way home that incites my contrarian mindset. And sometimes the best thing I can do to keep my marriage and my back healthy is a little daily stretching.  It’s not a macho as weightlifting but it’s just as important. 

In wanderlust of eternity,
I travel streets of grace 

I know the power of illusion.

But I find truth upon Your Face

(illusions crumble)

the b/ro/ke/nness have weakened bones and feeble flesh. 

I trust in the Musician’s strings,
The One who makes the nation’s sing.
You are good
it’s understood
as days lead on……………. to Day.

So
I
trust
in
You.

 I long for bliss.

 I send resounding praise.
You have always (in every single moment of my life) placed Your Hand upon me and I could not escape it. 

I could not escape the love and the joy that had brought me even in the midst of dark hours in crooked roads.
You hem me in with mercy.
You have laid my sorrows upon the banks of Your glory.

Your glory, outshines them all.
Your holiness compels me in the arena of your steady sure activity
even in times of c h a o s you speak (a sensible soft Voice) like a faithful father, Your Hand
on
my
shoulder.

 I will be guided and I will be kept.

in flesh and blood,
gold and glory,
eyes of fire,
You tell the story.