Are you moved?

Eric Ludy asks us if we are moved. That is a difficult question to answer honestly.

It's easiest to say that he is just playing with my emotions. Making me feel guilty. He's manipulating me, isn't he?! Well I won't fall for it! I won't stand for it! God wouldn't speak to me through my emotions!

To say "no" is to be brutally honest. God can accept that to a degree... I suppose... if He must. I'm pretty sure, though, that He only accepts "no" from people who don't claim to be related to Him. Certainly not from people who call Him Lord.

To say "yes" implies a movement from a point 'A' to a point 'B'.

So,are you moved? Have you been moved in the past? Is there life out there? Let me know!

Eric Ludy- Depraved Indifference

All Good Things by Bill Scarrott

All good things once were given us-
Peaches, laughter, roses, bread, sun and trust;
And each and every day we'd dance.
Thru forests green we'd hum, and if by chance
We came upon a meadow there
Would rest awhile, then make love, breathe air.

Until one day- I don't know why-
We cursed God, wanted more, then from dark sky
Pulled credit, orphans, fists, borders;
Became cowards, bandits, gossips, hoarders.
Kings of pig sties and Queens of rot
We pranced and preened noses high; we thought
Everything we touched turned to gold,
And I guess were right as history told
Our lives like metal turned dead cold.
We traded hope, faith, for things we could hold,
And as we piled high wealth and fame
We stored up wrath, war, depression and pain.

Not once but twice the ages passed
As demons and angels silently massed
On hidden borders placed not far
From where we- now mortal- kept sinking far.

And thinly then the veil stretched
Between that second age and the one next.
For ransom a child was given;
Our dim eyes beheld the son of heaven.
The Warrior, the Prince of Peace;
His glory hidden and our hope released.
We loved him with our stomachs tight
With bread and wine. There were stormy nights
When afraid of ghosts we would cry,
And his voice brought peace that we couldn’t buy.

For this and more we’d make him king!
Then we would finally have everything
We ever dreamed that we deserved.
Or so we thought until we found he’d heard
Our little white lies, and we knew
If left to him our days of fun were through.
He’d no doubt make us feed the poor,
Pull off our fig leaves, and expose our sores.

So we schemed and decided this-
Deception is best given with a kiss.
The immortal one we would slay
Then swiftly, giddily resume our play.
Thirty pieces of silver bought
A tree, some spikes and our freedom, we thought.

On a Friday none will forget
We gathered, rolled the dice, and made the bet.
We beat him down then hung him there-
Who had walked on water now dead in air.
Some fool took the cold corpse away
And we stretched, we relaxed, until Sunday.

Sunday the game was not our own
For while we were gloating heaven had shown
Those down below and up above
It was not our hate that killed him but love.
Love for us that made him willing
To endure contempt, rejection, killing,
Knowing that after hellish trek
He would live to hold Hades by the neck,
And not just in memories live,
But to breathe, laugh, heal, hug, and forgive.

Years and more have passed since that day
When our despair and sins were wiped away.
Some beg for mercy and bow down,
But many more still rage and wear a frown
That eternity won’t erase.
The bended knees receive adoption, grace.

Continually we try to smudge
The line that was drawn in his royal blood,
And we’d still love to have him dead
Instead of seeing love and power wed.

Some still play the hedonist,
And many others with religion miss
That on which our future remains:

The dead Son lives, and will not die again.

In Lonely Mountain Ways

By Sugawo Nihmura (1903), Trans. By Paul Gregory (1981)

In lonely mountain ways of this world’s trial and care,
My heart knows naught of fear-scarred days;
The Master’s hand is there.

My journey may be long, the pathways rough and steep;
Sufficient for each day my song;
My way the Lord does keep.

And though when evening falls, a stone my pillow shapes,
The vision of our kingdom calls
And here a Bethel makes.

The Wild by Bill Scarrott

Is there an untamed place
Where mortals have no roads?
I’d like to find it if it’s there
Behind our concrete codes.

Will I have to walk some desert?
Or cross a mountain stream?
Can it be found in some dark hole?
A nightmare, or a dream?

Your kingdom unmapped remains;
Your heart opened, unchained.
If I spent a moment there
I would not live half dead again.

So please take away my blinders
Whether stained glass or sin-black.
I want to see you once more clearly,
I want the wild back.

Stained-glass Jesus by Bill Scarrott

I was sold when I was five years old
to a factory man from the city.
My sister was taken somewhere else
I guess because she was pretty.

So I don't know your stained-glass Jesus.
He's fancier than me;
all clean and colorful, I know
he's never worked for pennies.

I search the trash for trinkets I can sell
to buy food for my little sister.
The African sun without pity looks down
on my hands broken and blistered.

My parents can't be replaced
by your lofty stained-glass Jesus.
As their memory fades He remains
unreachable and graceless.

We can come once a week to worship
in choir robes and crystal chandoliers,
but Jesus is half a world away
in a garbage dump gathering children's tears.

I hope one day we'll learn that Jesus'
kingdom brings this kind of harmony:
That many who call him Lord will die
when the poorest first taste liberty.

Courage by Bill Scarrott

I find myself in a wasteland
the sky stressed and red
the stones jagged.

I stand protecting my beloved
at my feet her tears flowing,
robes ragged.

My gaze rests steady upon
the hardened legions of evil
that soon in combat I’ll meet.

I drum my sword and my shield-
strength to me but to them the echo
of a haunting, menacing beat.

The beat a hammer and nail once made:
the cadence of our victory,
and the rhythm of their defeat.

Pretense by Bill Scarrott

Are prophets always cynical
With faces lined and grey?
At what point does hope break through;
When does night succumb to day?

When we decide we’ve had enough
Of Sunday morning/ Monday whoring
And face life with some honesty.
When we trade polite for a righteous fight,
And following the Nazarene,
Give up heaven for God’s glory.

But we’ve bought the box-store gospel lie
That we all have it together.
So we paint our faces
With sterile graces
And hope heaven will be better.

All the while our families crumble,
And our souls rumble
With a starving need for love.
Our daughters die unbeautified,
And our sons fear what they’re made of.

Here comes hope- our not dead God!
A dove on winds of fire!
His coming sears our masks away,
And peace rises from the pyre.

by Bill Scarrott

Unfinished Business

Eating the agony that the cross brings
I dance away from puppet strings,
And skip down down into the grave;
No longer trying to be brave.

I remain here silent dark and cold;
human giving way to mold,
And sigh with only worms to hear
At he futility of wealth of fear.

I have become a chrysalis,
And all I was you mourn, you miss,
But while you grieve remember this:
The ground and heaven hold discontent;
The living are for death not meant.

I'll be back and beautiful
With heart eternal, powerful.
Yes there is lack now for awhile,
But seconds pass and make me smile.

For I now see that the future holds
More than clouds and harps of gold.
Dreams now lost will be redeemed;
Hope dull, tarnished, soon with glory gleams.

Resurrection was more than an afterthought;
When debts were paid there was a future bought.
Upon the cross we live, we die,
And then laugh, breathe; bury the tears we cried.

by Bill Scarrott

I wrote this poem out of a desire to do more than die and go to heaven. I'm pretty sure I'm going to die and then come back to life.