"Perspective.............."

It’s eight o‘clock, Friday morning, the weather just outside my front door looking like another go with off-and-on-again drizzly rain. Some sunshine did pop through a bit yesterday afternoon, but nothing so great as to encourage that many others to join me in the nearby park for exercise. This time next week I’ll be over at Veterans undergoing some exploration concerning a recent rise in some sort of number they monitor via yearly blood samples. Other than interfering with my life as it comes to me on a daily basis, the scheduled visit gives me little concern, my thoughts more occupied with the almost serendipitous nature of our existence. That new WWII historical novel I’m reading, among many other inane accounts shared thus far, mentions how our military’s pre-D-Day intelligence reports failed to reveal a ten mile-long piece of Normandy’s landscape that the Germans had flooded to a depth of ten feet, an area covered with reeds and dense marsh grass into which a large number of our troops parachuted only to drown in the darkness. Consider, as well, humanity’s stupidity, a medical battalion coming ashore on Omaha Beach after the blood-bath, bringing with them typewriters and office files, but no surgical equipment or morphine; or, if not already sickened, humanity’s character, one British officer telling his soldiers as they were about to disembark the ship “Do not worry if you don’t survive the assault, as we have plenty of back-up troops who will just go in over you.” The “religious”, of course, point to their faith and speak of “prayer” producing some sort of invincible shield over the believer; and surely there is a bit of truth to that old declaration of there being “no atheists in a foxhole”. Nonetheless, I read of a Nazi V-1 bomb penetrating the reinforced concrete roof of the Guards Chapel in London even as hundreds of people petitioned for His protection with its sanctuary, the explosion killing half of those there, the rest wounded and buried in the rubble; and it seems to me that there has to be an assurance beyond ritualistic repetition, a confidence greater than somebody’s interpretation of chapter and verse. To each, their own; but, for me, that amounts to an initiation confirmed along the way by a few definitive encounters that removed all doubt. From there, though, admittedly it has been a journey, one wherein my stumble is monitored by an inner connection often referred to as an “anchor-line”. Let today begin; tomorrow bring what it may; I am not alone……

"Assurance......."

When one examines life from the perspective of anything making sense, reality tends to leave the brain swimming in an abyss, the world, as we know it, although stamped with a design so obvious there can be no doubt of a creator having initiated its genesis, yet existing seemingly with no rhyme or reason attached to its unfolding, everything within it able to know sudden extermination. Soldiers storm the beaches of Normandy only to be slaughtered en masse, here and there a single survivor of the bloodbath. A tidal wave breaks over Japan’s coastline; an earthquake shakes Haiti; a tornado snakes its way across Oklahoma; and this day, this hour, this minute was the wrong time to take the expressway on your way to the mall. Human resolve, I suppose, somehow accounts for our ability to ignore the facts, trust in the odds, and hope for the best, each of us grasping for our own anchor-line in an attempt to know some sort of security as we go. Our Bible class, last night, with Acts, Chapter Three for a backdrop, discussed the gift of healing. The “mystery” of healing might well be a better way to frame it, none of us having any good answer as to why some obtain it and others do not. We examined “faith” and whether the name of Jesus held authority merely in its enunciation, our ninety minutes of fellowship accomplished without any of us going to war. It amazes me how believers tend to eliminate the Holy Ghost or at least reduce the indwelling to an insignificant part of the equation, especially when the bunch is, for the most part, Pentecostal. To be fair, though, language is a poor way to communicate; and I need no more than to point out our struggle between male and female, the gender barrier, in many ways, a mental one. Such thoughts, however, all bring me to some monologue extended to God on my way out to church earlier, the words spoken in response to another failure on my part to hear His voice in a way so as to confirm the connection I claim. Having known, on occasion, that which was sought, the hunger to realize it again is an ever-present desire. The silence now was met with disappointment; but, in my “belly”, somewhere down in the depths of my soul, the waters began to stir, a tear coming to my eye and a “touch” resting upon me as I prayed. If, between here and eternity, this old man never knows again the convincing of His Word in my ear, in my spirit, to know that inner “hook-up” in such manner is a privilege of which I’m unworthy. It meets me in my questions, goes with me in the next step. Let tomorrow hold what may……

"Abra Cadabra....."

There is a mental image yet held by me of my paternal grandfather stretched out in his recliner, watching wrestling on the television set while listening to the ballgame on the radio and reading a paperback western at the same time. Take away the quart of beer on the floor beside him plus the cigar that he always enjoyed, and maybe it’s where I inherited my ability to peruse more than one book at the same time. There are three presently occupying my thoughts, one of them written by a psychiatrist and the fifteenth chapter, in particular, speaking to me in terms of possible use in ministry at both the rescue mission and the Detention Center. Surely the subject matter applies to us all, though, the truth therein certainly a part of my own life. It’s entitled “Only Bad Things Happen Quickly” and opens by stating: “One of the common fantasies entertained by those who seek change in their life is that it can be rapidly achieved. Once we think we know what to do, it appears that we ought to be able to simply do it. That these sudden transformations are rare is a source of puzzlement to many.” The author next begins to show that our addictions are not just limited to drinking, smoking, drug dependency, sexual perversion, and gambling. In his words, “What is at work here is the psychological power of habit, the characteristics that render each of us unique seldom the product of rational choice and the life-altering maladaptive behaviors that are our habitual ways of relating to others major determinants of how successful we are in forming and sustaining relationships.” He goes so far as to claim our “identity” is not a matter of conscious choice, but either inborn or formed by our history, ingrained within the very fabric of who and what we are, and he assures the reader that nothing is going to be altered overnight. In his opinion, any “sudden good news” was reduced to just four things: “a last second touchdown, an unexpected inheritance, winning the lottery, or a visitation from God”… That last statement made me smile, giving me pause as to just how much he considered each of these four events to be “life-changing”. While the latter holds more potential for transforming the inner character of a man, it yet remains without guarantee and conditional upon the relationship maintained with the addition of Christ “in” me. We, within the fellowship of faith, seldom put it in such terms, there being a better “draw” to stress the immediate more so than the journey yet ahead. Nevertheless, Paul admonishes us, as believers, to “examine” ourselves on a regular basis, perfection the goal, grace the incentive, not a blanket permission to remain as we are……

"Super Glue......"

Having often expressed here my disappointment with much that has changed in Pentecost and in my church, in particular, during the last four decades, it seems only fair that this old man also share some reasons why he yet finds himself seated in the balcony for Sunday morning and evening services. I’ve previously pointed to my daughters and grandchildren being active members, volunteering and giving themselves in several ways, Christ alive in their life far beyond what happens within their attachment to this body of believers. It’s also true that, while the majority of this congregation is no longer familiar to me, having grown larger than my ability to contain everyone’s identity, there yet remains within the bulk a certain few who were there with me in the beginning. My wife’s roots go back over sixty years and my own history amounts to more than four decades. That which holds us here, though, is an even deeper connection, one that surfaces from time to time, a reality that works in our midst regardless of all our differences, in spite of our humanity as it exists, a grace bigger than our inadequacies…. Sunday evening, perched in the upper level, I found myself once again simply listening to the worship team, the songs seemingly “programmed”, an attempt to “prime the pump”, but without any real success. It happens. The Spirit comes as He determines, not through any command on our part. So it was, then, in the process of taking Communion, we experienced, not a “rushing mighty wind”, but something closer to His presence simply being “poured” into the sanctuary. You sensed the difference, His entrance as if an invisible, divine dignity had arrived and the reality of such visitation filling not just the space around us, but receiving us, at the same time, into its depths. Willingly we became one within it. Praise began to flow out of us, the Holy Ghost for thirty minutes or so working in our midst. There would be no need for a sermon afterward, person after person in the pew beginning to exhort and testify of His grace…. I once thought such experience exclusive to “tongue talkers”, having never known anything like it in my earlier brief brushes with other denominations. Years have taught me otherwise. God connects with all who come to His well, the overt manifestation of such event only a matter of how much we surrender ourselves unto it. Let me also admit here that humanity remains humanity, all not using good sense in the liberty given; so I understand why some would prefer a different scenario than what occurs within my bunch. For me, though, this is familiar territory, “home” in so far as attachments, but a place where a commitment to its overall theology left me long ago……

"Integrity..........."

”Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired, signifies in the final sense a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed”… Dwight D. Eisenhower

I’ve started another book, three different ones now being perused at the same time, each one a different genre. This latest purchase is written by Ray Atkinson, author of “The Longest Day”, his subject here but one more historical novel entitled “The Last Guns of Light”. World War II facts have always held my interest. I was born in October of 1941, less than two months before the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. My father fought in the mountains of Italy, one of only two men in his battalion who survived, no wounds suffered other than nightmares on occasion. As a child, I quickly learned it not wise to wake him from slumber. Casualties of such hell are surely measured in more ways than one. In reading about Eisenhower this morning, though, it surprised me to hear several of his contemporaries express poor opinions of him, one fellow observing that “When it comes to war, he doesn’t know the difference between Christmas and Easter”, another judging him to be “no real director of thought, plans, energy, or direction!” Our 34th President, however, while bothered some by their criticism, struggled with more important issues, as far as I’m concerned, this particular account stating elsewhere that “While he was neither philosopher nor military theorist”, he believed too few commanders grappled with what he called “subjects that touch the human soul – aspirations, ideals, inner beliefs, affection, and hatred.” It makes one wonder if he took both of those evaluations into the Oval Office with him. I look at politics much as I look at the Church. We elect and accept our leaders mostly out of (a) party/denominational preference and (b) some charismatic quality the person holds with us. What we get is a man or a woman wrestling with life even as we do. Humanity always factors into the matter, on both sides of the voting booth, on both sides of the pulpit. Government doesn’t necessarily always equate to Washington, D.C. and the above quote need not distinctly apply to all military conflict between nations……

"Declaration................."

This space has always been mostly about a place to sort out my thoughts, a relaxation equivalent to that found through fishing or hunting, the difference being nothing gets killed, no dead carcass to deal with in any manner whatsoever. There’s no kidding myself about being a writer, though, it being fairly obvious that the only subject usually on my mind is Christianity, the Gospel as it filters through my perspective, over four decades of sharing it with others shaped by my journey within the Pentecostal experience. From the beginning, “truth” was never a matter of doctrinal dogma set in concrete, but a continual walk through the fog secured by an inner anchor-line. For me, this has always been an investigation, of me more so than of Him, an occupation, strangely enough, not always welcomed by many within the Church. Questions seem to scare believers, at times even anger them, their religion already framed and put to rest. Who needs explanations? It seems to me, however, that life is in the details as well as in the living, lessons learned as we go and longevity often requiring another look at the manual to determine if we’ve read it correctly. I’m not so much a teacher, in the sense of possessing all the answers, just another pilgrim on the path, and what comes forth here is merely my perspective at the time, up for examination, open for discussion. If theology is no more than an evolving analogy of an enigma, then it is also true that humanity, itself, is the biggest piece of the puzzle. God gives us direct contact, Christ in me, and we somehow manage to turn that into enough denominational dogma to confuse the issue. The instruction manual merely allows each factor to build its own Tower of Babel, some “pre-tongues” and some “post-tongues”, all of whom individually either claim to be the truth, or else the next closest thing to it. Sorry; but my only wish is to point whomsoever to the promise of our knowing an inner personal relationship with the reality of His resurrection; and, from there, it becomes a walk shared between you and the Holy Ghost. Discussion, not demands, is where this old man sits. Drop by any time……

"Illumination...................."

Seeing as how there are no more than about four who visit this site with any frequency, I’m going to expound a bit farther on Tony’s prayer experience that he shared with us in class Wednesday evening. This was not a “Now I lay me down to sleep” declaration on his part. It may well have started out as a petition of some sort, but somewhere in its course he somehow stepped into His presence, becoming as one with Him, hanging on the Cross. If it was a vision, he was in the vision. He could actually feel the nails as if they were in his own hands and feet, his body identifying with the Savior’s and knowing all the pain of simply trying to breathe. His muscles cramped, his mouth dry; and yet worse than all else was that moment when he realized that connection with the Father had been severed. It was an extreme sense of loneliness, producing fear and testing faith. Then that walk into the bowels of the earth. None doubted the tale as told, indeed all of us pausing for a few seconds when he finished. This old man did not make any mention of his dream, though, preferring to speak with Tony afterward about something I’ve long believed. The phrase utilized in our room was “death penalty” and it’s pretty safe to assume most, if not all, of Christianity equates that with the physical demise of Christ, the crucifixion in its entirety. Where is there any explanation in that, however, other than “I should have been nailed to that tree”? Do not all of us yet face the assuredness of our own demise? On the other hand, if we, without dismissing the agony endured throughout the whole assassination, consider that point in time when He was voided of that inner connection known with His Father from birth, suffering what we have known from Adam’s transgression in order to take our walk into hell, “paying the price for our sins” begins to add up for me. Calvary becomes, rather than a religious doctrine upon which we claim possession of a “get-out-of-jail-free” card, a relationship restored and held accountable to us on Judgment Day, the Gospel takes on new perspective. There is no wish here, on my part, to throw away and forget any of the other details concerning Golgotha’s hill. It all figures into “the price He paid” that humanity, as a whole might be reconciled with its Creator; but “how shall we escape if we neglect” salvation’s most important piece of the puzzle?.......