"Enigma........................."

It surprised me a bit, having missed the initial class in our Bible study of the Book of Acts, to find myself now but one of two with a history of having walked in old-time holiness. My partner in such distinction was no more than a young child when I first joined that bunch in the old church, leaving me to wonder about the absence of my other friends, those also having reached the status of being “senior citizens”. We’ve got two Baptists in my age group who never miss, the rest of the group, on this occasion at least, with less than fifteen of us there, Pentecostal, but their thinking influenced by all that’s changed since we put “legalism” behind us. There are two teachers who rotate in bringing forth a lesson, two different perspectives, two different personalities; and, in truth, it’s hard for me to just let some things slide, the one fellow entrenched in a more Charismatic point of view. That is, at the same time, however, what make me anxious to return each week, disappointed when revival or some other event knocks it off my calendar. We talk. We share. We look at our faith from each other’s perspective without going to war. Here and there we “connect”, the Holy Ghost showing up to manifest Himself in our midst. Tony, last night, briefly commented on one of those verses in the second chapter where it deals with Jesus being crucified and, when his eyes began to tear, his voice quivering, we encouraged him to continue. What we heard was an experience encountered once in a moment of prayer, a spiritual merging with Christ as He hung on the Cross, a tale much resembling a dream once given to me. He and I would talk afterwards of what the “death penalty” actually was. It would have been good to have discussed it with all; but you learn to walk with caution. Not all are ready for deep waters. One step at a time and as He opens the door. I’m just grateful for these who can come together as we do, finding unity in Him without demanding a cloned doctrinal dogma….

"Community.................."

It surprised me a bit, having missed the initial class in our Bible study of the Book of Acts, to find myself now but one of two with a history of having walked in old-time holiness. My partner in such distinction was no more than a young child when I first joined that bunch in the old church, leaving me to wonder about the absence of my other friends, those also having reached the status of being “senior citizens”. We’ve got two Baptists in my age group who never miss, the rest of the group, on this occasion at least, with less than fifteen of us there, Pentecostal, but their thinking influenced by all that’s changed since we put “legalism” behind us. There are two teachers who rotate in bringing forth a lesson, two different perspectives, two different personalities; and, in truth, it’s hard for me to just let some things slide, the one fellow entrenched in a more Charismatic point of view. That is, at the same time, however, what make me anxious to return each week, disappointed when revival or some other event knocks it off my calendar. We talk. We share. We look at our faith from each other’s perspective without going to war. Here and there we “connect”, the Holy Ghost showing up to manifest Himself in our midst. Tony, last night, briefly commented on one of those verses in the second chapter where it deals with Jesus being crucified and, when his eyes began to tear, his voice quivering, we encouraged him to continue. What we heard was an experience encountered once in a moment of prayer, a spiritual merging with Christ as He hung on the Cross, a tale much resembling a dream once given to me. He and I would talk afterwards of what the “death penalty” actually was. It would have been good to have discussed it with the whole group; but you learn to walk with caution. Not all are ready for deep waters. One step at a time and as He opens the door. I’m just grateful for these who can come together as we do, finding unity in Him without demanding a cloned doctrinal dogma….

"How To.........................."

Six days into Summer Break and, to be honest, it feels strange having no obligations as to being anywhere in particular and knowing that, for the most part, there are still about nine more weeks of the same in front of me. My upcoming visit to Veterans carries with it the possibility of more trips to Veterans. It is, therefore, the unknown that holds me in this state of limbo. Nonetheless, I am far from bored, looking forward to midweek Bible class tonight, and yet feasting on our time spent with the kids at the Detention Center this past Sunday. Gordon Livingston, a psychiatrist and the author of one of the books presently holding my attention, wrote that “The most secure prisons are those we construct for ourselves”, adding “Before we can do anything, we must first be able to imagine it.” The latter reminds me of the old Rene Descartes misquote “Cogito; ergo sum” (I think; therefore I am), not that he didn’t express himself in such terms, only that, rather than claiming we exist only in our thoughts, what he really suggested was that we progressively become the person we mentally make ourselves to be. I believe that to be true in more ways than one. Our attitudes and our character are both born of the journey thus far, our reasoning created out of our history; and that which we build spiritually, even as in the physical realm, cannot be so concrete that an earthquake can reduce it to rubble, so flimsy that the first strong wind blows it to kingdom come. Sand beneath the foundation isn’t the only weakness to sound structure. It takes the Holy Ghost, alive in me, an on-going correction in my thinking, the mortar applied between the bricks, the nuts and bolts holding this all together. I am reminded of my grandfather laying block for the basement of our future home, troweling “mud” as needed and proceeding at a pace that had my dad following in his footsteps carefully adjusting each addition. Likewise, this old man is glad for the Master Architect, a tangible presence in whatever each day brings to me….

"Osmosis.........................."

“Time is not a straight line, but a labyrinth; and if you press yourself against the wall in the right place, you can hear the hurried steps and the voices. You can hear yourself walk past on the other side”….Tomas Transtromer

“Eventually all things merge into one; and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops; under the rocks are the words; and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters”…..A River Runs Through It

The first quote above was utilized in a book I’m currently reading and the poet’s words reminded me of the second one which comes from the final scene of that particular movie. There an old man stands fly-fishing in a mountain stream as he recalls his father’s final sermon about our inability to help those closest to us. I prefer the latter description of time, seeing such commodity, myself, not as a path we walk, but as an existence, a dimension within which we, ourselves, determine all the circles and zig-zags of our stumble through the unknown. Indeed, the only real measurement that that can be made in this reveals no more than the number of breaths we’ve taken thus far, not some physical route through the wilderness. The space we occupy has known others. In this thought, the writers and I are in agreement and I do believe that, not so much the spirits of those departed, but some “trace” of them remains with us, some sort of “whisper”, a memory that can be accessed if we would but slow down in our rush to join them, listen with our hearts instead of our ears. No; I am not suggesting ghosts. God is the only tangible connection between here and eternity. Within the framework of “time”, however, my father, for example, is yet held somehow within my being, an invisible cord of some sort un-severed; and I am thankful for it. Likewise, all of history is lost to me only in my decision to ignore it, to leave it there on the other side of the veil……

"Relay............................."

“Life is no brief candle to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got a hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it onto future generations.”… George Bernard Shaw

Attending two graduation services this weekend, I heard a total of nine speeches, one a short sermon delivered by our church pastor, another the above quote with a few words added given by the principle of a huge school in Lexington, four individual from the salutatorian and the valedictorian of each class, and three from just students of that larger assembly. I thought the last a “nice touch”, that triad simply elected to such honor by their classmates. In particular, one of the latter invaded my mind enough with what he shared so as to still have me chewing on it this morning. It could be no more than an old man reminiscing, his pointing to the future as being yet unknown, their only possession being this moment with an opportunity to give it their best shot, finding me nodding in agreement and wondering, indeed, what tomorrow held for this large enthusiastic group seated before me robed and tasseled. Merely fifteen received their diplomas the night before. Over four hundred on this occasion were about to go forward for diplomas. The number alone, I suppose, set me contemplating how many of them would actually achieve their dreams, how many of them even entertained dreams, how many of them had any kind of relation at all with Christ. This, then, was the message taken to the Detention Center this morning, with a stress on the need for, not just an initial point of contact, but also a continued return to that location. If nothing else in this life comes with a guarantee, in this one thing we can anchor our soul: whatever tomorrow holds, He remains, an assurance in the depths of our existence, a tangible, knowable Reality in whom we can put our trust regardless of our faults and failures as we go. While no certificates of achievement were awarded in our meeting, we left knowing that the real teacher, the Holy Ghost was still conducting class even after our departure.

"Ministry................."

A cold breeze chilled the first day of Summer Break this morning, so, instead of motoring over to the park for a three mile walk around the soccer field, I stretched out in the recliner with a new book loaned to me by a friend. “Beyond Opinion” by Ravi Zacharias is subtitled “Living the Faith We Defend” and it took me only moments to realize I need to purchase one, myself, there being too much desire on my part to highlight segments, scribble notes, gather it together for future reference. A couple of lines, in particular thus far, speak to me. In quoting that verse about there being nothing new under the sun, he says that we forget something very important: The people to whom it is happening are new and the answers, however old, must never sound stale. “I have little doubt” he adds, “that the single greatest obstacle to the gospel has not been its ability to provide answers, but the failure on our part to live it out.” Then, as if that wasn’t enough to provoke my thoughts, a friend elsewhere quotes Rick Warren saying “In deep pain, people don’t need logic, advice, encouragement, or even Scripture. They just need you to show up and shut up.” Her own words then speak of a cynicism that arises within her when believers seems to “wrap up life’s small and big things with a bow named God”, it rolling “off their tongue with a flippancy that seems devoid of reality”; and yet, at the same time, she also takes into account a recognition of an “inner wisdom” witnessed in the shining faces of a few elderly women, a possession she, herself, would like to know… It is a problem, as I see it, within Christianity, partly due to the fact that “Christ in me” has not eliminated the “me in me”. This is a journey. We learn as we go. Some learn quicker than others. It is no less true, in my opinion, however, that the Church, at large, has greatly failed to teach those three words in its reality, either reducing the Holy Ghost to an un-discernible identity attached to the nuts and bolts of our faith, or else claiming His identity ours to usurp, His wisdom, power, and knowledge simply given for us to utilize as we see fit. Neither is the Gospel. He may well abide within us once we have experienced reconciliation; but there remains that need for us to know “contact”. Just because His “pilot light” now provides an inner source of all that He is, it doesn’t mean our own flame bends to join it at all times. We yet stumble. May we not forget that in reaching out to others…..

"Pause................................"

While these last few days of school are mostly occupied with fun and games, final testing already conquered, our Special-Ed unit yet requires some degree of “work as usual”, the kids acclimated to a routine and needing familiarity. Tuesday morning, therefore, with two of the boys doing something instructive on a computer and another piecing together a crossword puzzle elsewhere, I sat at a kidney-shaped table with three of the other children while the teacher attempted math problems with them on something called a “Smart Board”. One at a time each was individually called forward to count two sets of objects, the lesson being to merely conquer basic addition, but not an easy task for this group, even after a full year of approaching it from different perspectives. In watching the song and dance unfold, my thoughts went to this young man before me, his skill for this job having been made apparent to me these past nine months, patience, compassion, and simply some inner source of “grit” necessary when the only reward is the relationship acquired as you go. Surely there are times when you ask yourself why you’re here, the educational system, itself, often the biggest question mark. Paper work. People. Principled paths with demands that seemingly make no sense. Somewhere along the way, though, the soul in this child before you connects with your heart, something beyond the undisciplined behavior, an inner spark that breaks through the fog and holds you so as to create a bond. The rest of it doesn’t matter after that happens, or at least not enough to dissuade the desire to return. You give it all to God and He walks with you through the details. “One more year” has turned into eleven thus far, this one maybe the best yet; and while summer break is welcomed with enthusiasm, in truth there is, within me, that which looks forward to August…….

"Query......................................."

Sunday evening service kicked off four days of revival, a different preacher every night and a special speaker, one quite knowledgeable about Biblical prophecy and current events, scheduled for morning meetings. The place was packed for this initial entry, people there from several other states thanks to our regular internet broadcast. Worship, as usual, was loud, upbeat, and bringing the body into a sense of unity, the Holy Ghost in the lyrics, but, for whatever reason, not overflowing to a point our knowing any real depth of His presence. Thirty minutes and three songs down the road, the pastor came forth to recognize a few visitors and receive an offering, becoming passionate in addressing us. “When you sit in this house”, he said, “You have come under a covering, a spirit of prosperity, because I have prayed and conquered that demon of poverty!” The sanctuary filled with rejoicing, the musicians providing a background as the granddaughter and this old man left… In “The Question of God”, a book written by Dr. Armand M. Nicholl, Jr. wherein the minds of Sigmund Freud and C.S. Lewis are compared, atheist psychiatrist and atheist author converted to Christ, Socrates is quoted as saying “The unexamined life is not worth living”. The finger is then pointed at all those who scrutinize every possible aspect of our universe, from billions of galaxies to subatomic particles, electrons, and quarks, but never take a deep look at their own image, who they are as a person. Then Pascal is added as observing that “If we were truly happy, we should not need to divert ourselves from thinking about it”, indeed, the sole cause of our unhappiness being “we do not know how to sit quietly in our room.” Forty-one years into a born-again relationship with my Maker, I find myself puzzled by the gulf that separates me any more from the roots of my faith, this Pentecostal bunch that now more resembles television evangelism, celebrity hype that moves the mass. The well is still there. I connect occasionally, His reality thick and moving in our midst. The mindset overall, though, leaves me sitting in the balcony, viewing from the sidelines. These are good hearts, some them known through four decades of what life brings to all of us. We just don’t see it from the same perspective nowadays and the guy who worries me is me. Everybody else hears voices and speaks “with authority”. Inside me is an “anchor-line”, a “hook in my belly”, a living witness that meets me, leads me as I go. Peace is maintaining that covenant…….

"Closed Circuits........................."

It was about eight-thirty when we stepped outside the rescue mission Wednesday evening, darkness not yet upon us as we crossed the street to walk another block down to where our cars were parked. The four of us were chatting about something or other, carrying our Bibles, most everyone in that area knowing churches visit for nightly services. In other words, we “stuck out like sore thumbs”. It was also evident to us, however, that we had picked up a hitchhiker almost no more than we arrived at that opposite curb. African-American. In his late twenties. His appearance gave no evidence at all of being no more than someone who lived in the vicinity, just a young man who admitted to us that he was, for whatever reason, interested in our talk, eager to let us know he knew Christ. Or did he? When I didn’t immediately confirm his claim, he told me of walking across the Ohio River Bridge one night when a violent thunderstorm suddenly erupted, electrical lightning flashes making it seem as if he was on a battlefield somewhere. Scared to death, he threw his hands up and agreed to repent if God would only make it all stop. A voice, an audible voice, he insisted, answered him “He’s with me!” The words made little sense to me as being any sort of reply to his request, however; and, not getting any input otherwise from the Holy Ghost, I left him with the truth: confirming his salvation wasn’t my job. If he had any doubt at all, he needed to go back to his Maker and find peace about the matter. My advice had nothing to do with such questionable witness as he had provided me, his faith, as stated, based only upon an almost laughable “encounter”; but how many do I know whose eternity rests on no more than a self-constructed theology with little or no life in it? In my book, it seems to me that dogma can be just as deceiving as drama. John wrote in his first epistle that “there are three that bear record in heaven” and “three that bear record in earth”, giving us indication, to say the least, of our assurance needing an on-going affirmation from on high. That doesn’t mean we need to walk in doubt and fear, question this re-connection provided us in Christ; but it does suggest we regularly go back to the well within us for another plunge into the deep……

"Spanning the Gulf......................."

It being Mother’s Day this past weekend, one fellow in my group cancelled his participation in our bi-monthly scheduled visit to the Youth Detention Center. He and his wife suffered the loss of their only son, eighteen years old, in a traffic accident over a decade ago, the tragedy yet fresh on occasions like this and the need to just get away together understandable. Saturday evening, my own family had a scare: three of our grandsons, along with several other companions, were forced into the expressway guardrail at about 55 mph, the van totaled, but all occupants walking away with no injuries. Life happens. We thank God when it seems that His hand somehow kept all safe. We turn to Him in our grief when, for whatever reason, finality cuts deep into the heart of our existence, His anchor-line giving support in the midst of what we cannot change. How, I wonder, does one get that message across to the other end of this journey? What does one say to a group of kids, none of them yet out of their teens, a few looking like it’s impossible that they’re yet twelve, and on this occasion one small boy about nine who has been seated with the girls, a “ward of the court” they tell us, positioned here until something else can be arranged. Standing before them, you ask yourself if any of these young men and women before you have any sound stability in the way of parental guidance. In such prayer as we can draw from them after an hour of sharing, our women learn that one that she has no relatives at all, mom and dad deceased, she simply assigned to the system. The male population seldom gives us as much “release”, no one about to show “weakness”; but it’s not hard to look in their eyes and find evidence of God’s tug on their heart, often a tear or two sliding down their face, unable to be contained. One man did raise his hand to ask that we remember his mom who passed when he was just five; and, as the others were escorted to other spaces, he came forward for that request to be met. Do they “get it” at all? The guards have told us at different times how it is expressly after our meetings that they have noticed a change in the spirit there, no arguments, discussions about that which we brought forth rising between our former congregation. I’ll take that. The mission is His. Our charge isn’t to prove we, alone, have conquered the Book, but to point them to the truth of a risen Savior who is willing to meet them where they are. We fold up our tents and go home in about an hour. The Holy Ghost remains……

"Interrogatives............"

I’m five chapters into the autobiography of Malcolm X, a life violently taken in 1965, his name familiar to me only through the report of his death. I was twenty-three years old, going through a year of learning Russian in Monterey, California, courtesy of the United States Navy, married but ten months and my wife already pregnant carrying our first daughter. He was merely a black man in the news, another element of the racial upheaval taking place in this country, someone involved in “radical” protest, killed by his own people. Beth and I would spend a tour on a hunk of rock out in the Aleutian Islands before returning to Washington, D.C. and witnessing firsthand a bit of the “dream”, the anger, indeed history unfolding. It would be over a decade, however, before coming to Christ would open my eyes to the world around me, humanity in general, and my responsibility in the midst of it all. Now, in perusing this man’s life as he lays it out before me, I can see myself in his shoes and understand a bit of what brought him to his early hatred of white America and a rejection of Christianity as a whole. It was a different era, his culture and childhood environment nothing like my own. The Caucasian church in his neck of the woods worshipped on Sundays and lynched “misbehaving negroes” on Monday. Completing that picture, his own father was a pastor, one that would “preach the house down” and then come home to beat and abuse the wife and kids. Malcolm would become a teenage drug-addicted hustler on the streets of Harlem and eventually do time in prison, a Muslim group called “The Nation of Islam” gaining his allegiance, he rising within its ranks before finally walking away from the violence it advocated. Such action prompted his assassination. Just another ghetto casualty? No concern of mine? There are many questions we might ask, no real answers if we are honest. Some would be quick to condemn him, there being no evidence of him ever coming to Christ; but, as for me, such judgment belongs to the Creator. He who knows all things, a man’s history, a man’s heart, and a man’s head, points to finality, in that day, beginning at the house of God…….

"Dancing With the Star............."

My group is scheduled this Sunday for worship with the kids at the Youth Detention Center, and thus far, other than a thought or two, an inkling of where to go and what to say, my mind is fuzzy, unable to focus. Prayer is always the main ingredient, of course, but it isn’t like one simply steps into God's presence and begins to hear His voice framing your message. Last night I went rooting through my collection of quotes, a few Richard Rohr observations catching my interest, in particular the idea that nature, like an unruly child, both reveals and obscures the Creator. The author puts it in terms of creation “groaning” and warns that we must not go to her to construct our theology, for she will fail us every time. We can visit her once we have the details with our own grasp, allowing her to fill words like awe, glory, beauty, and terror with meaning; and it is, he continues, much like our relationship with the Church, there being a gap between what we are doing and what we are trying do, an imbalance between the incongruity of who we are and who we are trying to move with our petitions, one that resembles “a sort of dancing bear act”. I can relate to that latter analogy. Christianity, almost from my very entrance into its ranks, proved to be a walk through a maze of denominational dogmas. While, within my own bunch, I found His presence alive and working in our midst, it was also clear that our humanity stained the operation and, if that was true in our ecclesiastical identity, then surely it demanded an investigation of what we taught in our interpretation of the Word. No; I did not toss my belief in Pentecostal belief, as a whole, out the window; but I did look around at other groups within our faith and setting my eyes on the Cross, I did my best to follow the Holy Ghost within me. I also realized, at the same time, that I was just as capable of stagger as anybody else. What would remain with me in the journey, then, unbendable, unshakeable, and a promise kept every step of the way, was an assurance of His connection, an anchor-line that secured me to His love, an oasis to which I could return again and again. If only He enables me to somehow reach the kids with that gift his weekend……

"Clean-up......................."

“Spring is here, the grass has riz; I wonder where the birdies is?”… Who authored that one is beyond me, a phrase heard in childhood years that resurfaces annually in my brain. Keeping up with the lawn’s need to be mowed has been turned over to my grandsons, not so much that I couldn’t use the exercise, but more so that they need the wages. The house is quite another matter, however, Beth working herself much too hard last week going room to room battling that thin, minute film of grime that accumulates over winter. Saturday she assigned me some new blinds to hang in this “den” where the computer sits. Then, cleaning out the large storage closet by the front entrance also fell to this old man. Toward evening, with some rain clouds slowly gathering overhead, the two of us weeded the area under the magnolia tree in the front yard, setting out a few phlox plants in hope that they will spread. Life in one’s little corner of the world is not all that complicated. You sweep out a few cobwebs, tend our own garden, and then sit down with a good book before going to bed around eleven. It’s the bigger picture, the task of sharing this planet with humanity at large that brings chaos and confusion into Eden… Arising early this morning and with a few hours to myself before church, I sat down in the recliner and reached for my Bible. When it fell open to some notes penned in it long ago on some verses in Romans, Chapter Two, “breakfast was served”, my mind digesting once again something believed way back there. Paul, in trying to explain to the Jews God having “no respect of persons”, speaks of that which all of us will one day give answer for in the end: (a) how well the Creator’s rules were written upon our heart; (b) how well we listened to our own conscience in our stagger down the road; and (c) how well we adjusted our thinking and gave grace to one another. Too often, within the Church, it seems to me that we lock salvation into our own determined definition of the Word and forget He, not we, has the final say. My job is only to point you to Him, take care of my own mess, and extend to you help if needed…..

"Vision...............................

"I once watched a snake shed his skin. Discomfort apparently alternating with relief, he stretched and contracted, stretched and contracted, and slowly, slowly pushed himself out the front end of himself. His skin lay behind him, transparent. The writing of these notebooks has been like that for me."…Anne Truitt

"The door to infinity is somewhere in the room with you, right now."…Gina Rocca

“Whiskey River” has been a link on my sidebar for more than a decade now, the keeper of such quotes as the two above once approached in conversation, but while the knock on the door was answered, the personal identity of whomever was on the other end wasn’t revealed. The wish to remain anonymous, however, never interfered with my desire to return every now and then, his (or her) table always spread with an assortment of food. Who prepared it may sometimes give me pause, the “theology” shared perhaps clashing with my own; but seldom do I leave without a tidbit or two rolling around inside me, “shedding my skin” in these musings of my own being a condition that sounds familiar. Likewise, the idea of eternity never being beyond my touch is an admitted reality made clearer every day, the subject, though, at least for me, not just a matter of departure, but one defined by He who cannot be bound by temporal limits. Longevity may well account for at least some of my present proclivity toward probing the mystery of it all; but life, in truth, has always been a question mark I began pondering at an early age. People. Events. Me, the biggest piece of the puzzle. God was dismissed when my father died, my Navy dog tags, in fact, stamped “N O N E” in that space designated for “religion”. I still carry one of them on my keychain, a witness to a young man’s anger keeping him from Christ for more than a decade, it taking that long for me to admit my mess and find Him one Monday afternoon in my own living room. Molting, of course, is even yet a part of the process. Being “born-again” didn’t provide me with a sudden clarity about all things; but it did bring unto me an inner connection, One to walk with me through the fog……..

"The Tie That Binds................"

Our Bible study class began last night with a reference to “unity” in the Church at large, the body of Christ, splintered as we are into so many different dogmas, nonetheless tied together by the “umbilical cord” of God’s Spirit. My own contribution to such point, in an attempt to perhaps give better image of such reality, was to speak of the fact that, within any individual assembly, the only time we experience being completely one in our existence is when the Holy Ghost overflows in our midst, His presence in the sanctuary effecting a temporary merger. That connection, and that alone, the possibility of knowing it “en masse” albeit we are separated otherwise in many ways, is the scarlet thread hung from Rahab’s window on the wall of Jericho, the bond of who we are in Him. Surely where we, as a small group, less than twenty of us participating in the lesson, went from there would only confirm my suggestion, the subject of whether the “gifts” yet operate in believers today enough to generate several opinions from those there. When a definition for one particular item on Paul’s list in Corinthians was sought, there were two examples put forth with little or no similarity between them and the fellow who had given the first declaring it mattered not, to each their own perception of truth. Then, even though we had already discussed “arrogance” and the necessity of always remembering this part of the Promise is never about the individual being “special”, this same man noted that, because he had been anointed to possess the gift of prophesy, it was now his responsibility, upon entering into any service, to seek out people who needed to hear from God. Seated in the back row, hidden by three fairly new converts in front of me, I shook my head in silence, believing this not the time to air my opposition to his perspective. He has a good heart. Put the two of us in the same room when the Third Person of the Trinity begins to manifest His reality and we’ll both fall down before Him in worship. In the meantime, we each have to allow the other space for his own individual journey. This, too, is a gift from on high if the heart is willing to receive it……

"Treatment....................................."

The granddaughter is staying with us again for a few days. She visits almost weekly, enjoying our company for some reason, two old fogies and a seventh grade teenager in the making. I must admit, though, this occasion was purposed by a last minute school assignment. We’re approaching single digits in a countdown to summer vacation and one of her teachers has required a three-page report, due Friday, on whether violent video games can be held responsible in any way for all these acts of aggression taking place in America today. McKenna and I spent two hours last night gathering information and then decided to give it a rest with just the first sheet put to print. My own thoughts on the subject matter, however, have already been forged. While surely there can be no benefit to all the explicit gore configured into some of this sort of “amusement”, at the same time, statistics show the history of such tragedies as we’ve seen recently within our educational system goes as far back as the early beginnings of this country. What has changed is both the availability for almost anyone to acquire “weapons of mass destruction” and the media’s ability to almost immediately take us to the crime scene. No; I am not for repealing the Second Amendment. What possible need the normal citizen in this country might have for one of these multiple-rounds guns is beyond me; but, in truth, it seems to me that the solution to all this rests in a resurrected Savior, not legislation. Our best hope in the middle of all this mess we’ve made is His anchor-line attached in the depths of who and what we are. No; there are no guarantees. Even in Him, we remain human. Any quick examination of the Church at large will confirm that. Nonetheless, I believe that if we spent as much effort in allowing His reality full reign in our life as we do in pointing our finger at the world for all the sins we see in it, His grace could accomplish much more in the whole scenario. Indeed, it seems to me that if we focused more on the soul addicted to the disease, the Cure, itself, would eliminate the addiction….