Tag Archives: hopelessness

Storm

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I sat in a darkened corner of the bar.  All alone and stupefied by the things I’ve seen.  Nursing my fourth drink, my mind was nearing numbness.   Ah, that familiar and welcome place.

My eyes were obliviously staring toward the front door.  The door opened and the shadow of a ragged man filled its frame.  “Ah, something to watch”, I thought to myself.

He walked straight to my table, and just stood there.  It takes a little longer for a fuzzy brain to process information.  Eventually I stop staring.  The blurry figure took focus.  Since he appeared to be in no hurry, and nowhere to go, I let a moment pass before I offered him a chair.  With lazy movements he sat down.  So the tone was set, an easy-going lazy, easy conversation.

He put his arms on the table, not taking his eyes from mine.  With an Indescribably steady voice he said, “What are you doing here”.  I told him I was drinking to numb the pain of life.

“Do you know why it hurts?”  Kind of a curious question.  It made me reach a little deeper than the surface.  I told him no.  “I really don’t have the slightest clue.”  But he didn’t offer anything more.  No answers, no reflections, no Nothin.  So we sat there in silence for a few minutes.

I was the one to break the silence.  “It’s like I live in a hurricane.  Everything I do, everything I am, everything I say, gets blown away and tore to pieces.  And I can’t seem to find shelter.  So I come in here to numb the pain of being tossed against the wall.”

He looked down thoughtfully.  It didn’t look like he had anything to say.  It seemed he was just waiting for my mind to listen to his words.  Like getting used to silence just before the Big Bang.  He started speaking before his eyes began to rise.

“Life is a storm from birth to death.  Most people prefer the depths of a cave.  But there are some who dare to wander about.  These are better fed.  These are far stronger and more able.  Frankly, these are more useful.”

He had set the tone so, again, I followed what he did.  I lowered my head and watched the top of the table stay still.  I thought about what he said.  I thought about how odd it was that he opened the door and came to my table to say these things.  I thought about the storm of my life.  Then I thought about my weakness; how he came to me in my cave.

“If this is the storm that comes into my cave to batter me against the wall, what is it like outside?”  I was sincerely curious about these strong people.

He didn’t pause this time.  “Outside is death.  What is it like inside?”  It seems like my answer came from somebody I didn’t know.  But I was sure it was my own lips that said this, “It’s useless, it’s mundane, it’s tedious, it’s insane.  In short and in truth, it’s a slow painful death.  But somehow it seems equitable, to be distant from the rest.”  (A poem?  Really!)

Now the conversation took a bit of a faster pace.  Without the slightest hesitation he shot back, “Do you want to work?”  I really don’t know how, but I understood what he meant.  My stomach convulsed and made me say, “Yes”.  (Alright, I thought, we’re having a conversation, and I’m really weirdly involved.)  “Then go outside and die with me.”

I know my eyes got wide.  I could feel it in my soul.  Could this man be the answer?  There wasn’t a shred of apology in his voice.

“No one has ever stayed with me.  How do I know you won’t take me outside and abandoned me in a worse place than this?”  His reply shut my mouth.  “Because I said so, and I cannot lie.”

Why should I believe him?  But look how strong my want-to is.  I looked down and thought again.  What’s the difference?  Die in here or die out there, what’s the difference?  Then I knew what to say.  Then I knew what to do.  I didn’t say anything.  I simply got up and put my coat on.  Within a few moments we were silhouetted against those in the cave.  We left.

I’m writing this, aren’t I.  Yes I’m still alive.  I have weathered the most magnificent storm my mind could possibly imagine.  He has never left me.  He has guided every step I took.  He has healed my wounds.  He has taught me how to fight.  He has encouraged me to take risks that men in their caves don’t even know exist.  And there ain’t no way I’m going back!

By the way.  His name is Jesus.

Proof By Adversity?

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“Frivolous” Humanities Helped Prisoners Survive in Communist Romania

(I tried to comment on the writer’s article in his page.  But his page would not accept a WordPress login.  So I make this entry in my blog in the hopes that it will reach the writer.  Who knows, perhaps it will also reach a soul somewhere else.)

In that writers article he describes how the government legislates its own morality.  The writer says that he found the government’s methods and its operating premise to be at fault, simply by humanity’s insistent efforts to circumvent unjust laws.

The writer says this: “If the study of literature or history were really that pointless, a government trying to control the minds of its subjects would not go to the trouble of putting humanities students and professors in jail.”

Isn’t the same thing true of Jesus?  Part of the proof of his royalty is the venomous activity of his enemies.  And if all of Jesus is true, proved by the activity of his enemies alone, wouldn’t it be wise to consider his words.  If he is truly life are we wise to ignore him?

Wake-up Call

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Jesus didn’t wake up my soul to be popular.  He woke me up to stand against the things I have done.  He woke me up to stand for the things that are his.  He woke me up to stand against the things that were about to destroy me forever.  He woke me up to, in some fashion, be crucified with him.

There is joy in the Holy Brotherhood of Christ.  Faithfully, he is teaching me to live in that Joy, that joy that surpasses all understanding of mere men.

Come, drink of the cup that is true life.  Approach the throne of the Living God in the name of Jesus. 

Remain there.

The Sad Songs, Sans-Joy

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THE SAD SONGS:

Listen to the pace and the melody of a sad song.  As far as I can tell, I am not educated in music, all the notes are arranged in minor scale.  I suppose there’s a technical name for that, but it escapes my mind.  For it escapes my desire to learn.

It is a melody slow and deliberate.  It is a melody that defies dance.  It is more a melody of atrophic limbs.  It is not a melody that gives our legs that leap you see in those who are presently joyful.  It is far more a malady to our body than a melody.

But the soul.  The soul stands still.  The eyes of the soul are not shut, while its ears listen attentively..  It looks around with longing.  It looks around for eternal hope.  The soul sings along with sighs and groanings, imperceptible to the ears and eyes of man.  And if it could be heard, Man would not understand the sounds.

The response to sad music is in full light of God’s eyes.  No man can see that response.  No one dances lightly down the street to a dirge.  They plod along with careful steps.  Introspection, for a time, is their king.  Balancing their lifeless frame atop helpless hips.

From point A to point B, that is their only need.  Sadly and deliberately, we live in point A.  Point B is too far removed from our perception even in the best of days.  How much farther when trouble attends our every waking moment?

The sad song is not the solution.  It is a manifestation of the symptoms.  Christ is the solution, my friends.  He is the One who watches for the broken hearted.  The joyful often elude his sight, even while they receive his sustaining.

Are you broken hearted?  Then listen to a sad song and let your souls eyes look up.  From the hills comes to Redemption.  Upon the Great Hills is the glistening White Hope.

By His Grace.

Home?

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The Lord, The Sovereign Lord, the Source of life, ever-present Righteousness, Glorious mercy and justice.  He has all things, doesn’t he?  He lacks nothing, how true.  That’s what Sovereign means.

But let me speak to the rich man.  Let me speak to the perverted drunk.  Let me speak to the beautiful woman.  Let me speak to the greasy whore.  Let me speak to all those who have a place among Man, whether glorified or horrified; those with clean hands and those whose hands are covered with blood.

God has all things for he is all things.  Yet what he does not have, he has poured out his life to gain.  He does not have your love.  He does not take first place in all your days, though he is first in all eternity.  All creation honors His Holy Name, except here.  His name is Jesus the Christ, look into it.

“You ask too much of us!  You sit in your religious Chapel, carved of pure Ivory, and judge us.  You have forgotten the demands of life that are far more then we can bear.  We cannot put God first we must defend our home!”

Your home?  Your home is a soleless pair of old shoes.  Your home is a worn-out pair of jeans filled with holes, and leaving your buttocks bare.  Your home is an umbrella missing it’s purposed fabric.  Your home is a cave filled with Wolverines and poisonous snakes.   The floor of your home cannot be cleaned!   Why can’t you smell the stench of your household enemy’s feces, which lay in the crags you can’t reach?  Precious place, isn’t it, this place you call your home.  The place where you fear even in what you call solace.  You light a lamp, but still darkness pervades.

8 “He has shown you, O mortal, what is good.
And what does the Lord require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy
and to walk humbly with your God.”  (Micah 6)

He is your potential friend.  He is your potential Guardian.  Already he provides what you call your home. 

Who causes the lava to harden?  Who plants the seed of a tree in its craggy niches?  Who brings the beautiful erosion to cause a paradise?  Who gave you this place?  Who dressed you with skin?  Yet you would fear and keep him far from you?

Trust him and do the things that belong to him.  Then you will have a home that is not filled with stench and death.  Your home provides you no pact with death.

The Now.

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A man doesn’t look at his watch to see what time it was.  His watch can only tell him what time it is.  It doesn’t tell him what time it’s going to be.  It tells him what time it is.  You can’t lay hold of the past.  And you can’t lay hold of the future.

Regret reminds him of what time it was.  Perhaps we regret that we cannot have the good times we had.  Or we may regret that we have destroyed joy, for ourselves or others.

What is regret but a knowledge of what is right.  A knowledge of appropriate restraint.  Truth restrains us in “the now”.  You’re not going back my friend.  And as you reach the future you bring the old man with you.  What you did back then, you are doing now. You need a change of heart, not a change of time.

We may look at the past desiring some pleasant time.  Or we may look at the past, regretting abject folly.  But we can only do this looking from “the now”.  The man who lives in Nostalgia does not know what time it is.  Regrettably, this is to his constant loss.

Nostalgia will always be beyond our grasp.  But regret can happily thrive in our house.  All the while, truth says something imperative.  “I am here.  Come live with me.  I am here to offer you life.”

It is impossible to fix a misdeed.  The best we can possibly do is offer reparation.  And the cost of repair is vastly more than a man’s resources will ever afford.  You can’t undo anything, whether good or bad!

Man thinks that by paying for his horrible mistakes, he becomes a righteous man.  Perhaps he thinks if he regrets his past enough, there is some reparation made.  As if suffering  produces anything of value.  But no action on our part undoes the death we have born.

Christ Jesus is in the now.  No matter what clock you look at, there is the Lord holding out his hand to help stop the engine of regret.  Will you reach out and take his help?

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One thing I will say about regret, it is a useful tool.  It teaches humility.  And in an odd way, it gives validity to the warnings we offer to those who are as blind as we. 

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The man who climbs out of an open cesspool is happy to warn those who are walking toward disrepair.  Blinded by the darkness of their mind, they stagger toward loss.  And isn’t such a man rather frantic as he tries to help his brother?

Their response doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t matter if they hate him.  It doesn’t matter if they give him some superficial glory.  He knows from experience they are about to encounter regret.  He busies himself to remind his brother of the now.

Christ is in the now.   And he alone is The Living pure truth.  Listen to him.  His wisdom and strength are ever-present.

As the blind are walking toward the pit.  As they are falling into it.  As the shock of their disrepair dawns on their dull minds.  As they thrash about to release themselves from their present aberration.  As their hands lay hold of solid ground.  As they pull themselves out, covered with stench.  And as they sit perplexed on the edge of the pit, wondering what to do next, or how they could possibly have been so stupid.

Christ is in the now.

Christ is in the now.

He is not just a historical figure.  He is the now.

If you have freed yourself from a certain pit, I promise you, without Christ there’s another one waiting just in front of you.

Answer to yourself, what time is it?

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The usefulness of this post depends entirely on the reaction of those who read it.