The Great Examination


It seems to me unfair that in this life we can restart a failed task. For once we are born it cannot be taken back or done again. And once we die from this place we can never return.  

It’s odd, that the two absolutes of our life are the beginning and end of so many restarts. It’s almost like everything in between is nothing but smoke and mirrors to obscure the inevitable.  


By this the test is real. Will we love what is absolute and true, or will we succumb to the temporary lie?

Ancient Obscurity 


What is ancient? If something is ancient is it useless? If a people are considered ancient are they also useless?

This generation:


Enjoys peanut butter,

Knows nothing about the personal life of George Washington Carver.  (or the Aztecs for that matter.)


Enjoys peaceful civility,

Knows nothing about Moses.  


Has a firestorm of social trouble,

Knows nothing about Adam and Eve.  


Considers themselves far advanced above every other civilization,

Knows nothing about the Living God who provided all Good things.  


Is taught that the body is the proper center of man’s attention,

Knows zilch about Christ Jesus.  


In your estimation are these things too harsh to write? Prove the value of these words yourself. Make it a point to start a conversation with millennials. What I’ve written here is extremely kind.  


What’s the point of bringing this up? Whose job is it to step out of what is called ancient and prove to the millennial’s that we are viable human beings? Perhaps in conversation we could bring up the usefulness of the generations past.  


I realize that this writing may be completely useless in itself; being of ancient intent.  

What Do You Rxpect?


The religion of the world worships in a temple.  It lay on the sand of ignorance, but temple was built with two materials. One material is expectations. The other material is assuming.  

Here’s the question. Is the temple made of expectations or is it the foundation? Or is the temple made of assuming and the foundation is expectations?


This is not a “chicken or egg” debate. I am personally very curious about the matter. 


Because if the foundation of world religion is expectations, I simply close my ears. But if the foundation is built on assuming, then I can expect that everything I am will be dragged through the mud of suspicion long before I am excepted on any level.


Don’t think the Christian Church is exempt from this trouble.


P. S.  

Expectations are often written down as rules and regulations.

Assuming is a pure derivative of opinion.

“I Believe”, by Brooks & Dunn


​I was happily listening to Brooks and Dunn sing the song “I Believe”.   I love the story about the old man.  I love the story of how the young man took the news of the old man’s death; “I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh”.
     Then the lyrics come what my soul has had trouble with in the past.  I know the words are coming, and so I overlook them.  But today they disturbed  my peaceful mood.  The singer says, “I can’t quote the words, the chapter or the verse”.
     Here’s the rub:  Well why didn’t you look into it before you wrote the lyrics!
     The world always takes as much of Jesus as it wants to.  It knows what makes money, and what doesn’t.  If he had completed the lyrics to that song with a passion for Jesus, I doubt the song would have sold as much.
     That just rubs my soul!  Because the people who love that song likely agree with him.  And because they sing the lyrics they think they have something.

Enough said I suppose.

The Legend Waits


You’ve seen it in the movies, how someone is running away from a crumbling building.  For the sake of theatrics, they always manage to miss the last piece by inches.
Isn’t life like that?  What we build always seems to fall apart.  But by some fortunate circumstances, we are always inches ahead of the last falling peace.  The noise, the dust, the sparks that fly,  they are always behind us, or just brushing our shoulders.
But just as curiously, there is collateral damage.  Many are caught in the wake of catastrophe from our mistakes and mishaps.  And we, ourselves, are victims from the work of countless hordes of fools.  Death is the place where we emerge from the smoke and dust.
I wrote a poem called “Sorrow”.  The poem is the offspring of this realization.  With all sincerity, I desire that death should come.  Let it come and put an end to this catastrophic event called “My life”.  
I don’t desire death because I’m lazy.  I desire death because of Jesus.  (The very same reason I’m still living.)  I desire death that there may finally be peace in the place where all I could bring was horror.  I desire death that his work may find completion.
How precious then are these words he has led, inspired or incited me to write.  Though they cause upheaval, it is for the better of every soul.  And as I have written before, as long as I live here these words remain concealed.
They are concealed because of the pride of Man.  As long as he can attribute an errant human to these words, he will not find them nor seek them out.  But take away the man and the legacy sprouts wings.  “He was ten feet tall.  He was the epitome of muscle and brain.  His heart was forever in the right place.  He was a saint among us!”
How wrong they will be.  But how useful is their error.  May God be glorified in Jesus His, Holy and Righteous Son for the sake of what He has done in this fool.

Sorrow


​Wisdom of “The Pace”

Fills the hearts of most who race.
Measuring their stride:

With wisdom, most preside,
Over all of life’s demands;

With sobriety command,
The weary and the grand

Requirements of the Race. 
For me it is not so.

I dearly wish it were, 

Though.
For what I do is sprinting, resting,

Through the marathon of life.
The finish line.

Where are you now?
That lovely place,

Where my soul will bow.
Please break from your tethers.

Come meet me in the “Now”.
Arise and cease this music;

An errant putrid song,
That seems to be the only noise

Of my strings against the thongs.
Oh, how I strive to limit burden!

Only adding to the weight.
To offer sweetness as desert,

But filling up their plate!
The marks of feet upon the ground

Belong to errant soles, I found.
Old dust, I rose, come cover me.

Oh, “Finish Line” sublime!