and can it be? (amazing love)

And can it be that I should gain
an interest in the Savior’s blood!
Died he for me? who caused his pain!
For me? who him to death pursued?

Amazing love! How can it be
that thou, my God, shouldst die for me?

’Tis mystery all: th’ Immortal dies!
Who can explore his strange design?
In vain the firstborn seraph tries
to sound the depths of love divine.
’Tis mercy all! Let earth adore;
let angel minds inquire no more.

He left his Father’s throne above
(so free, so infinite his grace!),
emptied himself of all but love,
and bled for Adam’s helpless race.
’Tis mercy all, immense and free,
for O my God, it found out me!

Long my imprisoned spirit lay,
fast bound in sin and nature’s night;
thine eye diffused a quickening ray;
I woke, the dungeon flamed with light;
my chains fell off, my heart was free,
I rose, went forth, and followed thee.

No condemnation now I dread;
Jesus, and all in him, is mine;
alive in him, my living Head,
and clothed in righteousness divine,
bold I approach th’ eternal throne,
and claim the crown, through Christ my own.

(Charles Wesley)

soma

I declare to you, brothers, that flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable. Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed– in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed. For the perishable must clothe itself with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality. When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: “Death has been swallowed up in victory.” (1 Cor 15:50-54)

Deep within the blackness of my peaceful slumber I see a pinprick of light ascending from below. It is approaching at a great speed; at such a rate, in fact, that within seconds it envelops my entire view. It is so bright that I can see into it no further than the darkness of before, but this light is filled with an inexpressible expectation.

From what seems to be a tiny seed inside me, there takes shape a form unlike I have ever known, a form now seen with eyes which thrive in this state of glory. It seems vaguely reminiscent of something I once knew before, but this something had been transformed and is now more a part of me than my flesh ever had been. It is a fullness that is perfectly whole, like the Jesus I had known, only recreated for the world of light. The pains of bleeding and heartache are gone, and there is no stench of disease or death to be found, only a fragrence like that of flowers in spring but filled with more life than seemed possible.

As I reach out my re-born hands, I find the tomb that had once held me in is no longer there. The stone has been rolled away, but even if it wasn't, I have the feeling that I could've walked right through it.

I am in a garden again. This time, though, there are no dead or dying plants or sick and mocking people. Instead, there are countless others, some whom I know and the rest in whom I only recognize a family likeness. They are majestic in their resplendent beauty, forged through years of sufferings and persecution for the faith they clinged so strongly to. It is then then I recognize not only a family likeness, but myself in their shining faces. We are one. We are a Body. Here there is no Anglican or Brethern, no slave or free. It is as though we are a living, moving reflection in a crystal pond. All that is needed is the One whom we reflect.

Then, coming down the path towards me, I see one who was unlike the others. He appears to be a gardener of some sort, one who had tended souls from their conception in the heart of God to their completion and re-birth. Is it really Him? For a brief moment, it is beyond my hope. This would be too good to be true, something I dare not dream. I had said I would go to die with Him, but to expect a return could not be imagined.

He continues to approach. He is very close now. "Shalom," he says, and a deep peace beyond comprehension floods my soul. Reaching out familiar hands, he says, "Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe." I grasp His warm, scarred hands - hands scarred by what was once my disease - and look deep into His eyes of sublime love and an infinite joy which has overcome untold sadness.

In the consummation of all love, tears flood my eyes, and I sink to the ground, my hands still clutching His, and His mine. "My Lord and my God!" We and He are face to Face; I am my Beloved's and He is mine. I know Him fully, just as I am fully known, and we are bound in an inseperable love that has shattered the chains of death itself.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade–kept in heaven for you, who through faith are shielded by God's power until the coming of the salvation that is ready to be revealed in the last time. In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. These have come so that your faith–of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire–may be proved genuine and may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed. Though you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and are filled with an inexpressible and glorious joy, for you are receiving the goal of your faith, the salvation of your souls (1 Pe 1:3-9)

suspension

When he heard this, Jesus said, “This sickness will not end in death. No, it is for God's glory so that God's Son may be glorified through it.” Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. Yet when he heard that Lazarus was sick, he stayed where he was two more days (John 11:4-6).

at the moment of collision, a silence fills my senses. he is gone. i am no longer falling or moving at all. it has been four days since i have entered this tomb, and the stench lies pungent on my nostrils. he had known my sickness, he had heard of my misfortune, and yet he had lingered longer in the place where he was. i thought we were friends; best of friends. yet now i lay here, separated from flesh and substance in a nothingness like a deep, unwakable sleep. if he had been there, i would not have died.

oh, this foolish heart of mine. to always alight on such arms as to let me fall. why is this always so? will i ever find a love that doesn't let me go? each trust invested finds fickle response, each leap of faith impales on jagged precipices. how quickly strong attachment becomes a shallow shell of lost anticipation. if there is nothing forever in this world, why should i hope for such in the next? this Jesus was only the latest, and most tragic, of such misspent commitment.

he was to be my Savior, my fortress, my deliverer. he had been my friend, or so i had thought. yet, trapped behind this darkness as behind tightly shut and locked doors, i knew he had left. so many promises. so much expectation and hope. surrounded by palm branches, i had known he was the one. but that was before this. before the horror of it all. before every dream was shattered and every hope defiled.

in the darkness of this tomb, all i can hear is the soft sobbing of my fleshless spirit, resounding in invisible ears. then it comes back to me; "today you will be with me..." "destroy this temple..." such mystic utterances, cryptic sayings. we ate them up at the time, not knowing what they meant. i still don't know what they mean. but somehow, that unknowing suspends my spirit between peace and turmoil, between spirit and flesh, between good and evil in such a way that all i have left is a choice. to abandon this dream in the face of conclusive proof, or to cling to a doomed faith in light of a love that seemed too infinite to be overcome by the grave.


he had fallen below. far, far below. this much i knew. i had heard his last cries wherein he had forfeited his spirit. he had descended to the depths of the dead, the caves of the unknowing and the fortress of satan himself. would he return? such a thought seemed like desecration at this time of sorrow. though it was never spoken, the thought beyond hope lingered.

this is the moment to decide for broken faith or for harsh reality. for lost love or for empirical truth. for an unseen light or for the present shadow. there is no getting beyond this choice. the future of my world hangs in the balance. this is the time to cling to faith over doubt, hope over despair, and love over hatred - despite everything my eyes have seen and my senses recall.

caught between the two, with seeming no way of escape, a soft memory floods my consciousness. there he is, as clear as if it were happening again. we adored him as a king, as a prince, as the son of God. tired from the journey, we collapsed, tossing off sandals covering repungent feet, stained with the filth of the road. then, as though the entire universe had been flipped upside down, our Lord took out a basin and began washing our feet. we were too shocked to respond. who was this, who would raise the dead and clean feet? then the memory shifted to last night. the cries, the torture, the agony of a beautifully frail man being beaten and killed. it was as though life itself were dying.

i have made my choice. i choose death with this man before life with any other. the hush of the tomb was no longer tainted by failure. it had become the only bed fit for a king.

I am still confident of this:
I will see the goodness of the Lord
in the land of the living.
Wait for the Lord;
be strong and take heart
and wait for the Lord.
(Ps 27:13-14)

the horror

"For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh; for the willing is present in me, but the doing of the good is not. For the good that I want, I do not do, but I practice the very evil that I do not want... Wretched man that I am! Who will set me free from the body of this death?" (Rom 7:18, 19, 24)

I hate this sin at work within me. It started as a faint cough, then it began to wrack my whole body. Its defilement crept into this sarx, my flesh, and once it gained a foothold it never stopped its exponential onslaught. No longer can I remember the days of light, of walking quietly in the garden. All has faded to black in my depraved mind.

Only a shadow of a long-lost love remains. I can almost remember goodness, beauty, and truth. But alas, as a daydream plunges into a tragic nightmare it vanishes, as reality clutches me in her icy grip. I think back to that fated day when this hated lust began. He had offered so much, it seemed. To become like God. To possess the entire world and all its kingdoms in their splendor. To know the world in its entirety, both true and false, good and evil. All these had been promised. In a sense, they had come true. Only, to be like God was never enough when I knew I would never be. The kingdoms of the world no longer amused me. And it was only by falling outside of the good that I knew it; it is only in becoming evil that I comprehend what I lack.

"How then can we be saved? All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags; we all shrivel up like a leaf, and like the wind our sins sweep us away" (Isa 64:5-6).

Every morning I fall out of his bed, hacking and broken, feeling nothing but tired and dirty. His stench clings to my flesh as I scrape this spot of damnation. "Out, out..." I cry, my voice trailing into a hollow whisper. Twelve years this bleeding has wracked my frail frame from the inside, and now the disease has broken out upon my surface, a black leprosy oozing for all to see. All who once called me their friend gape and mock, laughing at my wretched state. Collapsing on this ash heap, I scrape myself with broken pottery. Slowly I crawl into a dark whole to await another night to hide this shame and indulge in another.

Outside the insults have abated. The hating horde has been lured by another weak victim. A muffled sob of relief escapes as I turn back to scratching these raw wounds. Stopping suddenly, my curiosity is peaked. Who could this outcast be who would engage such a cruel crowd more than one as defiled as I? Crawling towards the throng, I see One who is more rejected than myself. It is beyond me to see why. He is rejected and despised by men, and yet I can see no flaw. Indeed, there is no beauty to attract me to Him, and yet He is whole. There are no pox-marks from continuous sores, and no scourge-welts from deeds done in secret. Unlike the rest of us, the oozing puss of decay has not punctured His skin, nor has the disease of death marred his robust body.

Then I understand. They hate Him because He is whole, while they are cursed with self-inflicted emptiness. They hate Him because He loves them, His enemies. They hate Him because He is what they never will be and have chosen not to be. They hate Him because He is the King's own Son, the son of a King they'll never be.

At first my disgust rises in me just as it has in then. I pick up a jagged stone to throw, to join with the rest of my doomed cell-mates. But then, beyond all hope, a small flame flickers. What if this man would love me as I dare to dream? It is ludicrous. But then, there is nothing left to lose. Inching closer, the crowd fades away. My pulse quickens. A garden, its haunting beauty echoing a time long a go. Closer, closer. He doesn't see me. If I only touch His cloak... I am there. My shaking, broken hand feebly closes on the strong white wool. As He turns, a power unlike I have ever known grips my body. "Today you will be with me..." His eyes pierce mine with sublime love and infinite sadness.

What have I done?
 
Tearing my eyes from His, they turn to a horror too unexpected to understand. I can only watch as the writhing decay of my graying arm eats away at the thick cloth. It has reached His flesh. A shriek of despair leaps from my lips to fill the air with a maddening echo. The disease has enveloped His beautiful body, tearing it apart and shredding his back. I reach for Him, only to find the flesh crumbling as rapidly as if it were my own. We fall. Darkness is upon us. In the flickering light of hellish flames, as we plummet through innumerable dimensions, I hear Him gasp for His Father.

"Eloi, Eloi, Lama Sabachthani?"

Crushed on the floor of an endless void, we drop perpetually through time and space, the nothingness of me only surpassed by His insurmountable emptiness. His death is my destruction, consuming my filthy flesh in the fires of an eternal furnace. The universe collapses upon itself, as Satan himself and all his miserable army are drowned beneath the blood-red sea of a love beyond any understanding or comprehension. The curtain of existence has been torn in two. The line dividing good and evil has been plunged into the same terrible flame that wrought the beginning of time and forged the foundation of the world. Suspended in history as a portal into the eternal, the collision of darkness and light implodes as full consummation in the horror of the death of God.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Why are you so far from saving me,
so far from the words of my groaning?
O my God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer,
by night, and am not silent...

But I am a worm and not a man,
scorned by men and despised by the people.
All who see me mock me;
they hurl insults, shaking their heads:
"He trusts in the Lord;
let the Lord rescue him.
Let him deliver him,
since he delights in him."

(Ps 22:1-2, 6-8)

caution: mighty power at work

For we know in part and we prophesy in part; but when the perfect comes, the partial will be done away. When I was a child, I used to speak like a child, think like a child, reason like a child; when I became a man, I did away with childish things. For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I will know fully just as I also have been fully known. But now faith, hope, love, abide these three; but the greatest of these is love.
(1 Cor 13:9-13, NASB)

We are in the dimension of imperfection. It is not a time of nothingness; it is a time of imperfection, of the partial. There is something here, and that something is beautiful. We have been blessed abundantly by God with every good and perfect gift through His Son. However, we are still incomplete. The Kingdom is within us, but it is also not yet completed, for it is still at hand. We are to pray "Thy Kingdom come," and yet it is here as a seal, as a promise, and as an imperfect perfection.

In this stage of transition, it is the ordering of desires that structures the realization of the Kingdom, that nurtures and fertilizes the seed of faith and that challenges to grow from mere infants into children of God. While we are not yet fully, it is not this moment that is to be focused upon, for this moment is transitory. Rather, it is the direction, the movement, of our lives within this moment that truly takes significance from an eternal perspective. It is who we love, what we desire, and what we will to do that determines who we actually are.

Indeed, it is inherently upon recognizing what is truly lacking and in striving for what is best to be completed that there is the possibility of completion, of perfection. The act of completion is realized only in faith, through which we are confident that our work, our striving, is not in vain. This act is not of ourselves, for it is only God who is able to perfect, for in Him is perfection.

In fact, were God merely complete, there would be nothing left for us to realize, since there would be no overflow of His perfection. His love, however, is immeasurable. It is constantly greater than anything, since there is nothing that can separate it from us. His love is in-finite, beyond any end or limit, even the limit of completion. God is love. He is always more, and able to do immeasurably more than we could ask or imagine. When we say that God is unqualified perfection, we not only acknowledge that there is nothing that is lacking in Him, but we paradoxically acknowledge that He is beyond perfection.
Aristotle's ideas on potentiality and actuality may help to clarify what this means for us. Actuality is what is while potentiality is what may be. God is. "I am who I am." He is actuality, for He is and He enables us to be. We participate in God's reality through the life He has given us and anything that "is" as we may define it. Everything was created by Him and for Him. Unfortunately, we often realize that what we are is not what we desire to be. We are not living up to our potential.
 

Potentiality, then, is defined as an "Inherent capacity for growth, development, or coming into existence" or "Something possessing such capacity." It can only be found within sequence, transition, or movement. This is our dimension. We have potential; this tremendous power of God's redemptive plan that we trust will one day allow us to see face to face and know fully. Potentiality is not lack, per se; it is capacity, a power (hence root 'potency'). It is included in what we are, not what we are not. Because it is in him that we live and move and have our being, it is according to His power that is at work within us that our labour is not in vain. We are perfect, as our heavenly Father is perfect, in potential, through His power. His power is our potential.

As believers knowing God's gift of free will and personal responsibility, our will and desires determine what becomes through our faith and God's power. As such, it is necessary that our desires are properly ordered, that we seek the only One who is able to reward our desires. Delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart.

In this, we must not be consumed with who we are right now, but rather we must focus on the Joy we are pursuing right now. We are to fix our eyes upon Jesus, who is the Author and Perfector of faith. It is this telos that we are striving for. He is the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the End.

This is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. It is by His stripes that we are healed. He is our final end. As such, while we are on this journey we will not perfectly reach our destination, only imperfectly see it from afar and welcome it. The risen Christ at the right hand of God is the Joy set before us.

Thankfully, the servant Christ is our guide, walking the road to Emmaus with us. We are receiving the goal of our faith as God transforms us through His power to be children of light, even here and now in our imperfect state. Earthbound, I will never fully embrace my Lord, but He will always be my treasure and through His power I am drawing near to Him. In this life I will never be the ideal me, but the man of Christ is who I desire to be, and in faith I know that I am becoming that man. Christ's love compels us and gives wings to our weary souls, strength to climb another day.

real and ideal love

as an unperfect actor on the stage,

who with his fear is put besides his part,

or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,

whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;

so I, for fear of trust, forget to say

the perfect ceremony of love's rite,

and in mine own love's strength seem to decay,

o'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might

-shakespeare
(from sonnet xxiii)

to me, girls are an elusive mystery yet a close perplexity, a distant illusion yet an obvious reality. in the Return of the King, Aragorn tells Eowyn, "It is but a shadow and a thought that you love." generally i am not in favour of quoting mushy movie lines, but unfortunately this one caught my ear and resonated too loudly in my mind.

i'm caught at a seemingly impassable fork in the road when it comes to the more-attractive half of humanity. on one hand stands the idealistic proverbs 31 babe. she is beautiful in heart, soul, mind and strength. her heart is devoted to loving others; especially God, those who are hurting, and yours truly. her soul is steadfast and unwavering in the things of the Lord, yet down-to-earth, aware of her own frailty and never condescending or arrogant. her mind is inquisitive, pondering the deeper matters of life and soaking in the beauty of God's wisdom, yet never letting such thoughts keep her from love or faith. her strength is spent selflessly, caring for her family, the church, and for the less-fortunate. essentially, she is perfection incarnate.

on the other hand, sometimes none of this seems to matter much. instead, what matters is to have someone who is here, who is real, and who cares for me as i care for her. someone who has flaws that teach me grace, struggles to teach me encouragement, and tears which i can dry. someone to fight through the darker side of life with and with whom to fly hand-in-hand through the rays of God's blessing. someone whose hurts echo mine and mine hers. someone to fight for and who wants me to fight for her; a companion with whom to open this gift of life, to investigate the mystery of redemption, and to swim in the ocean of Christ's love. someone who is frail and weak like me, small and cosmically insignificant like me, and a treasure in a clay pot like me.

the two paths appear exclusive in my mind. if a girl is the first, then I don't really know her. if i only seek the second, perhaps i am settling for second-best. must i be rid of the Idea? or should i keep my eyes on this shadow, this thought, so as to recognize the reality when i may? will i ever be ready to accept the reality and forfeit the thought? is there any substance to this shadow or is she an illusion, quietly slipping away through the night as i turn my light upon her?

in the end, it is only my Father who knows the answers to these questions. i must trust His hand. i have wondered at times if He keeps this reality from me, preserving a quiet longing and pain which, like a thorn in the flesh, keeps fulfillment from me so that i must perpetually be broken before Him and thirsting for the Living Water rather than for the simple streams of this life. i hope this is not so. i would prefer to inspire the saints with an overflow of love springing from the blessings i have received from His hand. either way, let it not be my will but Thine that is done, and may i have the strength to embrace Thy will as it is done.

wanna waddle?

recently my msn name has been "I'd like to be a penguin." this has prompted a hefty slew of questions on why I'd want to be a penguin. this is slightly unexpected. after all, who wouldn't want to be a penguin - especially an emperor penguin? have you seen the snazzy suits they wear or thought about the joy they must have sliding along on their glossy white bellies?
 

as I thought about it more, and learned a bit more about these plump birds, I realized it was no longer merely an inane nickname. I really do want to be a penguin. perhaps it is because they are my inspiration when it comes to the ladies. all us single guys could use some 'picking-up' tips from these swathe gentlemen, these dashing romeos. while singing their love sings, their courtship behaviour includes a wide range of displays ranging from head bowing to head swinging and walking around in a most impressive manner.

after finding his girl, the two are together for good. apparently they haven't been to north america much. human husbands and fathers have much to learn from the male penguin about dedication and self-sacrifice. not only is he devoted to his mate for life, but after she has given birth he takes care of their young one 24 hours a day while she leaves him for the winter to regain her strength by the sea. by the time the chick hatches, he will have fasted for four months and will be starved to approximately half his original body mass, because he cannot leave the egg alone in the temperatures that may fall below -60 Celsius with blizzards of up to 200 km/h. all this is done with faith that his love will return in time to save him and their young one. that's romantic.

I find a deeper inspiration in the penguin than just in the romance department. it is how I truly want to be a penguin. in fact, I intensely desire that everyone in the Body of Christ would become penguins in this way, especially in North America. I am not suggesting that we all start to waddle, as cute as that would be. I think there is a profoundly simple truth of our faith to be learned from penguins.
 

in the extremely harsh conditions of the winter months, the male penguins exemplify what it means to love their brothers. while incubating the little ones, male penguins pack as closely together as they possibly can. "there is a friend that sticks closer than a brother."
in this huddle, individuals seem to temporarily lose their identity and their mass adopts the appearance and behavior of a single living entity. "that they may be one as we are one."
they self-sacrificially follow one another in a constant rotation through the warmest centre of the huddle to the outer edges, where the cold bites most bitterly. "greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends."
if it weren't for this sacrificial love and cooperation, there is no way that they could accomplish what they do. "a cord of three strands is not quickly broken."
 

not only this, but they are preserving the future generation. they don't just endure this hardship for their own survival, but for the survival of their brothers and the young ones. an egg or chick left unattended can freeze to death in two minutes. we also need to watch out for those who are still infants in the faith or their joy in the Lord, too, will die.
 

in the Word we are commanded emphatically, again and again, to love our brothers and sisters in Christ - to sacrifice for them and to care for them. if one in our huddle dies, it is because he was not relieved from the bitter chill of the Enemy by one of his brothers. if one of our sisters feels alienated from God's love, there is a good chance that she is not being loved by the Body.

"if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us."

if outsiders are not seeking warmth in the Body, it is almost certainly because our love for one another has grown cold. there is no greater inspiration to love than love itself. before anyone hears our words, they are going to look for our love.

"by this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another."
 

perhaps it will not be until we face -60 degrees and 200 km/h winds that we will truly learn to love one another. however, i do know that the air is getting colder, and I'd rather start a huddle now than wait until the blizzard hits.

would you be a penguin with me?

the old guitarist

I took this picture at the Art Institute of Chicago. It could be my favourite painting of all time. I love blue. I think God must love it, too, because He painted the sky with it, but perhaps I'm biased.

In this painting I see a profound dialectic. On the one hand, the emancipated and contorted body and sorrow stressed during Picasso's 'Blue Period' stress deep suffering, likely inspired by the suicide of his friend, Casagemas, and the poverty and pain he saw in those around him and faced as a struggling young artist in Barcelona. This is the sorrow of the outcasts of society, the poor and the downtrodden that Picasso especially identified with during this time, as his sales had fallen sharply and he was forced to contend for mere survival.

On the other hand, this poor and blind guitarist is doing what he loves. Despite the misery of his situation, his world is transcended by the melodies of his instrument, his craft. In this sense, the blue of the painting also represents a sense of tranquility. No matter how painful our situation in life may be, if we are able to enjoy that which we love there is a peace that goes beyond the temporal situation.

As Christians, enjoying the One whom we love is our greatest joy in life, and the greatest hope we have. He has also blessed us with many simple sources of happiness and pleasure, including that of music. The pleasure and love we experience in this life is only a shadow of the bountiful blessings our Father of lights has in store for us. 

We, as Picasso during this time and even more so as our Lord, need to have an our eyes open for those who are poor, suffering, and neglected. When Christ was on earth, He viewed situations such as this man's blindness not as works of evil, but as opportunities for God to be glorified. We must do the same. Just as we have this treasure in jars of clay, so there is resonance of God's grace in each outcast and downtrodden sinner. Despite our sometimes-crooked posture and spiritual starvation, there is still order and beauty to our lives in Christ. 

As I gaze upon this painting, heartfully crafted by a young man who was about my age, I am reminded that God's strength is made perfect in my weakness, and that the melody inspired by my frail spirit is a beautiful symphony in the ears of my Lover. 

The Old Guitarist (1903)

Pablo Picasso (1881-1973)

my offensive Beloved

what is this tragic mercy, this divine sickness that compels me to hope? i'm condemned to an intangible optimism that requires staking every last object of my affection, every sensible pleasure and every delighted love outside the door of my death. doubt is a luxury too expensive for this vagabond who's hurled each coin of the thirty at his feet. the one whom i desire is the one from i would most often rather hide my face. he is my offensive Beloved. i cannot tear my eyes from his conflicting gaze. his glorious power and shameful weakness draw me to his vanished body. alone, my very breath betrays the substance of shattered hope. quaking here in timid assurance, i know beyond understanding that my Redeemer lives. when the universe has been incinerated, he will stand upon my earth. when this corpse has rotted to nothing and all memory of my life has passed from time, then, in my flesh, i will behold my God. i, keith ernest dow, will see him with these eyes - i, not another! oh how this fragile heart yearns within me.

analogous scissors

I cut my hair today. I’m not sure how masculine it is to cut one’s own hair, but I do, and I like it. It’s saved me a lot of money over the past few years. In fact, when I was in the dorm at Briercrest it became quite a lucrative little business for me. In the end I was charging top dollar for Keith Kuts (no, I did not actually have a name for it). This probably had a lot to do with the fact that most people were too lazy to go into Moose Jaw, and I knew it. Sam Walton has nothing on yours truly.

Cutting hair is fun because it reminds me of those little pots that looked like faces that you could grow grass in. Eventually it got to the point that you could give them crazy green hair-do's, something I'm sure most of us secretly desired at one time or another.

It’s rewarding to see the dry, dead cells fall to the ground and the head regain a sense of symmetry and decency. I may not be able to order society, or bring justice to the people, but I can straighten a mop of hair. That is, if it falls within my specialized range of variation on the ‘Keith style.’

It’s like the sculptor, chipping away at a large rock until a beautiful marble statue is revealed from within, an exquisite work of art that was always there but took the master’s eye to reveal. It's like the way God chips away at our filthy sin and the dirt we cling to until he reveals us as a new creation, his beloved children.

 

Honestly, though, my hair cutting is nothing like that at all. Analogies are useful, but affirmative theology only goes so far. Analogy is the only language we’re left with when discussing the Person of God outside of reference to the revolution of Christ's humanity. Ana-logos: word beside word, or, in this case, word beside Word. Our linguistic tools are vain and pure artistry when left on their own to articulate spiritual substance. Their only redemption from pure mythology is in the reality they point to within our own spiritual experience. This is what gives our words truth in relation to spiritual matters. This is how we express spiritual truths in spiritual words. "He who has ears, let him hear." No wonder Jesus referred to himself as the Bread of Life, the Living Water, the Good Shepherd, the True Vine. No wonder he spoke in seemingly silly stories. Everyone who has will be given more, but whoever does not have, even what he has will be taken from him. You have to know him to hear him, so to speak. He who belongs to God hears what God says. The Spirit of truth guides us into all truth.

Praise God that his Spirit is at work in everyone, that his Word does not return void… That his Word through us and in us does not return void.

tomorrow’s pain, today’s hope

have you ever bit too much off of life? gone beyond you, grasping at divine complexity? clouds surround the sun, cutting off its light. in the rain and the hail, icy darkness turns every direction down. stepping too far into oneself is a dangerous thing. our frailty was never made to control eternity, only to live it. cobwebs of life past and future cloud reality until present fades in upside-down oblivion.

what does the future hold? i know. it holds the explosion of past mistakes and tragic failures. i must change this. i must change my future before it catches up with my past. but myself is something i cannot change. i am always me. i will never not be. this moment is doomed because it cannot predict the past or redeem the future. both are lost. how could i ever dream to accomplish what i once dared to hope? there is too much for me in this time i’ve been given. how could i my shoulds? incapable. inept.

strained eyes peering into the darkness of tomorrow turn blind. i can no longer see past this. confined here, a bizarre sight i see. there is something between i and then… someone i’ve been looking beyond. gone is the desire to embrace the dark. this light has captured my sight, and i cannot tear my eyes away from him. the future is now, and now is safely hidden in him, my life and my light. past redeemed, future sealed, present lived.

they dwell among us

you may have caught a glimpse of them as you go throughout your day. you'll never find them as a high government official or even pumping gas, but one day they will rule the world. often quiet and observing, you never know when they will suddenly become a vibrant explosion of energy, doing things that people such as you and i would find absurd.

today i made the mistake of catching the eye of one of these little people. suddenly, i realized i was in over my head; caught in a staring match i couldn't win. i had driven a go-cart to a nascar race, and i knew i was about to be lapped like milk in a saucer. it must've been three minutes before my eyes watered over and i had to look away.

i enjoy watching people. each wrinkle in a face, each nervous twitch or gentle gesture is a clue towards unveiling the treasure of a unique personality. i am intrigued by each life story, each hidden pain or destiny-impacting moment encountered by every individual who shares the air of this terrestrial ball with me.
today, though, my fascination and open-eyed amazement at God's intricate investment in humanity wasn't enough. i had encountered one who was even more-so amazed, and i humbly took a back seat to a fairly inept bundle of cells and structures with honest eyes so absorbing and engaging that the deepness of my own seemed like shallow mud puddles in comparison. as i timidly held tiny mackenzie up to myself, unsure of whether i was worthy to handle such a precious creation, i realized again how miraculous every-day life is. here, cradled in my arms and smaller than a microwave box, there rested a being who would grow and suffer, learn and forget, bring joy to others and occasionally cause them pain. certainly, she could be the next hitler or mother teresa, but such menial notoriety and recognition is fairly insignificant in comparison to the mere expanse of experience and influence this one tiny person would have. she will love and be loved, laugh and bring joy to others, grow and take on an identity that no one else can fulfill.

from my experiences tutoring, counseling at camps, teaching sunday school, all the way up to being a youth pastor, i am overwhelmed by the beauty God has surrounded us with in the vitality and inspiration of young people. i truly do love them. from teaching a young girl how to read, or helping a boy to pass math class, to explaining to samantha at awana what it means for God to have sent his 'only begotten' Son, I have been greatly blessed by my interactions with these 'little people.'

there aren't many feelings in the world better than having a child, in his or her unbiased, unpolluted, and completely transparent initiative, come to care for me and value my presence in his or her life. a dirty dandelion from a child means more than the priceless garlands of princes. there are no tricky mind games or complicated reactions to interpret with children. if they like me, they'll run to me and give me a hug. if not, they'll run and cry to their mother. their choices are obvious and without facade.

through my encounters with children i have glimpsed two important truths. first, how overjoyed our father must feel when one of his long-lost children comes running back to him with a heart full of love. second, how we are to approach our father: naked and wonder-full as the first day, knowing we have nothing to give him but our transparent adoration, but knowing this is enough.

my soul, my soul must sing

precious day, crown jewel in eternity
that your dazzling light should cascade
through the lens of my soul
a blessed sublimnity
my treasure immanent

my Joy, whose Spirit inspires air i breathe
whose grace crafts form in radiance
whose charity brushes space with spectrum
and whose power transforms every lofty peak
into a scepter proclaiming your majesty

you are full beauty to me