“May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits.”
It was with these words of affectionate harassment texted from my uncle to my brother that our British Columbia fishing adventure began. My brother, dad and I were waiting patiently for our flight at the Calgary International Airport. My uncle being the more intrepid traveler, or perhaps a general sucker for punishment, had decided to drive with a friend the 1357 kilometers to Prince Rupert. His poetic little rant was no doubt in response to… well… I can’t recall! It certainly wouldn’t have been because of any disrespectful, unwarranted comments on my brother’s part.
We all finally made it to Prince Rupert and settled into our rooms at the Moby Dick Hotel. No, I’m not kidding- that’s what it was called. It was a nice place. Yup, nice. They had beds, televisions, and other things you might expect to find in hotels in Canada. Things such as a Tim Horton’s just a block away. I’m telling you, it’s all about location!
Our fishing guide, who was born in P.R. and had lived there all his life, said that in all his years he had never seen July weather as bad as this last weekend. The fish we baited must have agreed with him and decided to stay home instead of eating out. You might think this was discouraging for us, but it was actually to our benefit. We only had one cooler of fish to pay extra baggage fees for when we returned home to our [very supportive] wives. Some hotshot group of guys who dubbed themselves the wolf pack (ooo, aahhh, very manly!) must’ve paid a fortune for the eight coolers they had to haul around! Dang overachievers… gripe grumble grouse.
We didn’t reel in much fish, it’s true. What we did catch, however, will stay with us a little longer than a few fillets. We caught a glimpse of the histories that make us brothers, sons, and fathers.
The victories won and the losses endured.
The snoring that begs to be smothered, and the alarms set to the wrong time zones.
The honesty that exposes our vulnerabilities and the grace that guards our backsides.
I have to admit that I was a bit jealous of the wolf pack (you may not have caught on to that earlier). It is a cool name- wolf pack. I wish we could’ve had a groovy name, but when I think of the guys I spent this last long weekend with only one word comes to mind:
Men.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Tortoises and Tire Trouble- the Tale of Herbert the Unswift
Herbert the Tortoise died a gruesome death under the wheels of a truck, on a hot African afternoon.
When I first met Herbert (or Herb for short) his untimely demise was not a part of my plan for him. Nor, I think, was it in his plans for himself. I don’t suspect he had grandiose visions of a dramatic martyrdom. Like many tortoises of his age and disposition, I believe he wanted to live out his life frustrating the appetites of weak-jawed carnivores and making slow, slow, slow love to a Mrs. Herb, if he had been so lucky as to woo one.
Alas, Herb the Tort was never given the chance.
As tortoises go Herb was fairly average, which is to say, Herb was slow in word and deed. This accounts for his being captured by a poor African farmer, his inability to talk himself out of slavery, and his subsequent sale to yours truly, the passing missionary.
Yes, and Herb mourned his loss of freedom. I know this because in spite of an unending supply of food and water, Herb was always trying to make his way out of the safe haven I had provided for him. Adventurous little bugger that he was, he tired quickly of city life and longed for the wilds of the West African bush. His stout heart was ready to brave the snakes and general African nastiness for a chance to find a young reptile of like species with a sexy little mini-shell.
It came as no surprise then, when one day Herb was seen slowly making his way to the gate of the compound we called home. He had placed himself in the perfect position for a hasty escape.
And “hasty” is exactly where his strategy fell short of genius. He was a tortoise after all. As those gates swung open the first thought that entered into his tiny little head might have been “Freedom!”, but the last thing he saw was rubber.
Oh Herb, you were such a good friend, and even now in your death you give us a nugget of eternal wisdom.
Friends, we too are often slow. Slow to forgive. Slow to sacrifice. Slow to love. We want our freedom, and if it isn’t delivered just how and when we want it, we’ll go take it. It doesn’t matter that life will lead us into trouble by default- we feel the need to add our poor choices and selfishness to the mix.
But pause now, and watch Herb in his last few moments of life. Gaze into his eyes as he turns his knobby little head towards you, the realization of imminent doom looming large in his pleading expression. I made a mistake, he says. I was brought here so that I wouldn’t be made into soup, and now it’s too late for me. Go back. Trust Someone bigger. Put your life in the hands of Someone swifter. Go back.
When I first met Herbert (or Herb for short) his untimely demise was not a part of my plan for him. Nor, I think, was it in his plans for himself. I don’t suspect he had grandiose visions of a dramatic martyrdom. Like many tortoises of his age and disposition, I believe he wanted to live out his life frustrating the appetites of weak-jawed carnivores and making slow, slow, slow love to a Mrs. Herb, if he had been so lucky as to woo one.
Alas, Herb the Tort was never given the chance.
As tortoises go Herb was fairly average, which is to say, Herb was slow in word and deed. This accounts for his being captured by a poor African farmer, his inability to talk himself out of slavery, and his subsequent sale to yours truly, the passing missionary.
Yes, and Herb mourned his loss of freedom. I know this because in spite of an unending supply of food and water, Herb was always trying to make his way out of the safe haven I had provided for him. Adventurous little bugger that he was, he tired quickly of city life and longed for the wilds of the West African bush. His stout heart was ready to brave the snakes and general African nastiness for a chance to find a young reptile of like species with a sexy little mini-shell.
It came as no surprise then, when one day Herb was seen slowly making his way to the gate of the compound we called home. He had placed himself in the perfect position for a hasty escape.
And “hasty” is exactly where his strategy fell short of genius. He was a tortoise after all. As those gates swung open the first thought that entered into his tiny little head might have been “Freedom!”, but the last thing he saw was rubber.
Oh Herb, you were such a good friend, and even now in your death you give us a nugget of eternal wisdom.
Friends, we too are often slow. Slow to forgive. Slow to sacrifice. Slow to love. We want our freedom, and if it isn’t delivered just how and when we want it, we’ll go take it. It doesn’t matter that life will lead us into trouble by default- we feel the need to add our poor choices and selfishness to the mix.
But pause now, and watch Herb in his last few moments of life. Gaze into his eyes as he turns his knobby little head towards you, the realization of imminent doom looming large in his pleading expression. I made a mistake, he says. I was brought here so that I wouldn’t be made into soup, and now it’s too late for me. Go back. Trust Someone bigger. Put your life in the hands of Someone swifter. Go back.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
I Call You Lord, But...
guest post by Mike Cala
I call you Lord and I dedicated my life to you . . .
I call you my Lord and I told You that all I have and all I am are Yours . . .
I call you Lord, pray that Your will be done and sing “I surrender all . . .”
BUT . . .
When you ask me to sponsor a foster child I say, “But Lord, I’m just making it paycheque to paycheque” – then go have a $4 latte or ice cap . . .
When You ask me to spend time with my neighbour who’s marriage is crumbling and teenage children are drifting away I say, “But Lord, I’m so busy with my family and church obligations already” – then go spend hours in front of the TV, checking emails or surfing on Facebook . . .
When You ask me to give $100 so that a family of 8 can have clean, safe water in the third world I say, “But Lord, I don’t have that much money at hand to give away on short notice” – then go fill up the tanks on my RV, quads, motorcycle or second car . . .
When You ask me to give back a tithe of all I earn in thanks and obedience I say, “Yes Lord” – but grudgingly make sure it’s a tenth and not a cent more . . .
When You ask me to spend time with You in Word and prayer I say, “But Lord, it’s so late and I’m tired. Tomorrow is a big day” – then go pop in a DVD or play a little Xbox until bedtime . . .
When You ask me to give up my desires and dreams for Your plans I say, “But Lord, You promised me the desires of my heart if I followed you!” – forgetting that You gave up everything for me before I even knew You.
So how can I call You Lord?
Matthew 7:21-23
“Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. Many will say to me on that day, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name and in your name drive out demons and in your name perform many miracles?’ Then I will tell them plainly, ‘I never knew you. Away from me, you evildoers!’”
I call you Lord and I dedicated my life to you . . .
I call you my Lord and I told You that all I have and all I am are Yours . . .
I call you Lord, pray that Your will be done and sing “I surrender all . . .”
BUT . . .
When you ask me to sponsor a foster child I say, “But Lord, I’m just making it paycheque to paycheque” – then go have a $4 latte or ice cap . . .
When You ask me to spend time with my neighbour who’s marriage is crumbling and teenage children are drifting away I say, “But Lord, I’m so busy with my family and church obligations already” – then go spend hours in front of the TV, checking emails or surfing on Facebook . . .
When You ask me to give $100 so that a family of 8 can have clean, safe water in the third world I say, “But Lord, I don’t have that much money at hand to give away on short notice” – then go fill up the tanks on my RV, quads, motorcycle or second car . . .
When You ask me to give back a tithe of all I earn in thanks and obedience I say, “Yes Lord” – but grudgingly make sure it’s a tenth and not a cent more . . .
When You ask me to spend time with You in Word and prayer I say, “But Lord, it’s so late and I’m tired. Tomorrow is a big day” – then go pop in a DVD or play a little Xbox until bedtime . . .
When You ask me to give up my desires and dreams for Your plans I say, “But Lord, You promised me the desires of my heart if I followed you!” – forgetting that You gave up everything for me before I even knew You.
So how can I call You Lord?
Matthew 7:21-23
“Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. Many will say to me on that day, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name and in your name drive out demons and in your name perform many miracles?’ Then I will tell them plainly, ‘I never knew you. Away from me, you evildoers!’”
Thursday, June 23, 2011
today she's for rent, but NOT TOMORROW
When I was six years old I was collecting an allowance, simply because my parents were gracious. In Sierra Leone nine year old boys are fortunate to go to work breaking rocks in a quarry, because then they may be able to eat.
When I was nine years old I would lay in bed pretending to fly in outer space, saving the galaxy. In Sierra Leone nine year old girls are in danger of being rented out by their family members.
You may remember Sierra Leone as the country whose civil war inspired such films as Blood Diamond and Tears of the Sun. There is a scene in Blood Diamond where prisoners are wallowing in a swamp, churning and turning the mud with feet and hands under the glare of their rebel masters. Death is a breath away. In those days evil had descended upon that small nation like a horde of West African mosquitoes.
I remember Sierra Leone as the place where I almost lost my life to malaria and typhoid. For me, it is where the romance of travel and missionary life soured like milk under the scorching heat of human waste and wasted humanity.
Eight years later Sierra Leone remains to me a shining star of hope for the world, for exactly the reasons I mentioned above. If I’ve confused you please read my previous post Where Hope and Mushrooms Grow. You have to understand that if Jesus brings hope anywhere, He must bring it to Sierra Leone.
Regular readers of this blog will know by now that I support an organization called The Raining Season. The purpose of my writing is not to endorse them (though I do). I just get so excited when I see someone doing what God asks them to!
That little boy breaking rocks? His story is a Raining Season story, and you can watch it here.
The little girl being rented out by her uncle? They are praying and working to rescue her this week.
The Raining Season is in the business of mining for children. They are rescuing these diamonds of life out of the mud of poverty and abuse, but it isn’t under the stares of a malevolent taskmaster. They strive alongside the tear-streaked face of Jesus, who said, “Let the little children come…”
When I was nine years old I would lay in bed pretending to fly in outer space, saving the galaxy. In Sierra Leone nine year old girls are in danger of being rented out by their family members.
You may remember Sierra Leone as the country whose civil war inspired such films as Blood Diamond and Tears of the Sun. There is a scene in Blood Diamond where prisoners are wallowing in a swamp, churning and turning the mud with feet and hands under the glare of their rebel masters. Death is a breath away. In those days evil had descended upon that small nation like a horde of West African mosquitoes.
I remember Sierra Leone as the place where I almost lost my life to malaria and typhoid. For me, it is where the romance of travel and missionary life soured like milk under the scorching heat of human waste and wasted humanity.
Eight years later Sierra Leone remains to me a shining star of hope for the world, for exactly the reasons I mentioned above. If I’ve confused you please read my previous post Where Hope and Mushrooms Grow. You have to understand that if Jesus brings hope anywhere, He must bring it to Sierra Leone.
Regular readers of this blog will know by now that I support an organization called The Raining Season. The purpose of my writing is not to endorse them (though I do). I just get so excited when I see someone doing what God asks them to!
That little boy breaking rocks? His story is a Raining Season story, and you can watch it here.
The little girl being rented out by her uncle? They are praying and working to rescue her this week.
The Raining Season is in the business of mining for children. They are rescuing these diamonds of life out of the mud of poverty and abuse, but it isn’t under the stares of a malevolent taskmaster. They strive alongside the tear-streaked face of Jesus, who said, “Let the little children come…”
Sunday, June 19, 2011
The Dark Side of Father's Day
Happy Father’s Day?
Each year around this time I see grown up children at the local drugstore. They stoop over the rows of Father’s Day cards trying not to dry-heave, their backs and spirits bending under the pressure of finding that one card that is just pleasant enough to be believable.
Abuse.
Neglect.
Abandonment.
When childhood is marked by these demons, where is Hallmark then? What kind of emotional Heimlich maneuver are you going to offer to someone choking on a past that refuses to be dislodged?
God help us.
Help us remember we are not alone.
Help us remember that you have not forgotten us.
Help me remember that You know my real name.
Today remember that when God calls you, He’s going to call you something good.
“Whoever has ears, let them hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To the one who is victorious, I will give… a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to the one who receives it.” -God, quoted in the Bible, New International Version (NIV), Revelation 2:17
Each year around this time I see grown up children at the local drugstore. They stoop over the rows of Father’s Day cards trying not to dry-heave, their backs and spirits bending under the pressure of finding that one card that is just pleasant enough to be believable.
Abuse.
Neglect.
Abandonment.
When childhood is marked by these demons, where is Hallmark then? What kind of emotional Heimlich maneuver are you going to offer to someone choking on a past that refuses to be dislodged?
God help us.
Help us remember we are not alone.
Help us remember that you have not forgotten us.
Help me remember that You know my real name.
Today remember that when God calls you, He’s going to call you something good.
“Whoever has ears, let them hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To the one who is victorious, I will give… a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to the one who receives it.” -God, quoted in the Bible, New International Version (NIV), Revelation 2:17
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Father's Day Video
Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there. Enjoy this video by Church on the Move.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Where Hope and Mushrooms Grow
True hope stinks because it is always given birth in… less than sterile environments.
I would love to offer you some hope today, but I don’t know if you’re ready for it. I’m afraid you may be like many people I meet in church; the people who want their hope just like their mushrooms: picked, washed and canned. Maybe even sautéed and piled high on a steak sandwich.
It’s not going to happen.
It’s not that hope can’t be found in church, or among those who attend. Like I said in my last post, one of the things that I appreciate most about Christian recording artists like Cindy Palin, Red and Picking Violets is that they aren’t afraid to face reality. While longing for the day when they meet God face to face, they radiate a conviction that faith is useless unless it brings hope now.
You need to know that whatever else True Christianity is, it’s organic. Don’t be fooled by those prepackaged deals that offer all the taste and none of the mess. Ever since the first Christmas morning it has been easier to find Jesus in places that smell more like manure than incense. It’s what he’s used to, I suppose. Hope and mushrooms grow up in the same place.
Some people say they have hope, but the cynic wonders. I speak of those who offer you a ray of light after they drive up in a Land Rover, acting and smelling like a tornado going through the fragrance isle of the Bay. They leave you with the feeling hope springs from a fountain at the annual Amway convention.
I say ka-ka.
That’s right, hope grows in poop. Just like mushrooms.
Hope can be found in churches, but it isn’t grown there. It’s planted in bankruptcy, cancer wards, divorce court, and abortion clinics. It’s watered with tears through sleepless nights. It sprouts in the cellar of guilt, and on Roman crosses. It’s harvested in empty tombs. It’s meant to be picked, not bought.
So yes, I’d like to offer you hope today, but it’s going to be hard to uncover some if you don’t know what it’s like to find yourself standing in a pile of crap.
I would love to offer you some hope today, but I don’t know if you’re ready for it. I’m afraid you may be like many people I meet in church; the people who want their hope just like their mushrooms: picked, washed and canned. Maybe even sautéed and piled high on a steak sandwich.
It’s not going to happen.
It’s not that hope can’t be found in church, or among those who attend. Like I said in my last post, one of the things that I appreciate most about Christian recording artists like Cindy Palin, Red and Picking Violets is that they aren’t afraid to face reality. While longing for the day when they meet God face to face, they radiate a conviction that faith is useless unless it brings hope now.
You need to know that whatever else True Christianity is, it’s organic. Don’t be fooled by those prepackaged deals that offer all the taste and none of the mess. Ever since the first Christmas morning it has been easier to find Jesus in places that smell more like manure than incense. It’s what he’s used to, I suppose. Hope and mushrooms grow up in the same place.
Some people say they have hope, but the cynic wonders. I speak of those who offer you a ray of light after they drive up in a Land Rover, acting and smelling like a tornado going through the fragrance isle of the Bay. They leave you with the feeling hope springs from a fountain at the annual Amway convention.
I say ka-ka.
That’s right, hope grows in poop. Just like mushrooms.
Hope can be found in churches, but it isn’t grown there. It’s planted in bankruptcy, cancer wards, divorce court, and abortion clinics. It’s watered with tears through sleepless nights. It sprouts in the cellar of guilt, and on Roman crosses. It’s harvested in empty tombs. It’s meant to be picked, not bought.
So yes, I’d like to offer you hope today, but it’s going to be hard to uncover some if you don’t know what it’s like to find yourself standing in a pile of crap.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Change the Channel!
I was sure that I had done something wrong. Please God, I prayed, let me have made a mistake. To be sure, this isn’t a normal Christian prayer, but these were extreme circumstances.
I was listening to the radio while driving to work when a boy band from the nineties came across the airwaves. This particular group has seen a recent resurgence in their popularity, but let me assure you it is in one very narrow demographic to which I DO NOT belong. Suddenly feeling an overwhelming surge of spiritual maturity, I switched my car’s radio to the local Christian station.
I could have sworn the same band was playing there as well. I started to sweat. I got the shakes. Maybe the world had ended, and I was left behind. Or worse yet, I was in hell where a bunch of squeaky-voiced posers played over the loudspeakers, time without end. The only difference between the two songs was the lyrics. ‘Rock yer something’ was replaced by half baked, tired Christian platitudes.
‘Git yer soouuulllll saved…”
‘Poooot yer hands in da aaiiirrrr, oooo yaaa!”
It appears, friends, that I have reached the age where I begin to disparage the younger generation’s choice of music. The date on my driver’s license has apparently given me permission to become close-minded and cynical.
Maybe.
Or maybe the Christian music industry’s primary concern is making money, and they know that the average consumer will buy watered down clichés that take no effort to produce as long as they mimic their more successful secular counterparts.(The author concedes that it may be a combination of these and other factors, which cause his fits of hysteria).
Thankfully, there are exceptions. I would like to recommend to you Picking Violets- a country/pop duo interested in more than just going platinum. (Full disclosure: I sponsor a child from Sierra Leone through their organization The Raining Season).
Can you recommend some music that won’t go stale faster than bubbliscious? It doesn't have to be Christian, per se, but let it have a message that is worth hearing. Let me know!
I was listening to the radio while driving to work when a boy band from the nineties came across the airwaves. This particular group has seen a recent resurgence in their popularity, but let me assure you it is in one very narrow demographic to which I DO NOT belong. Suddenly feeling an overwhelming surge of spiritual maturity, I switched my car’s radio to the local Christian station.
I could have sworn the same band was playing there as well. I started to sweat. I got the shakes. Maybe the world had ended, and I was left behind. Or worse yet, I was in hell where a bunch of squeaky-voiced posers played over the loudspeakers, time without end. The only difference between the two songs was the lyrics. ‘Rock yer something’ was replaced by half baked, tired Christian platitudes.
‘Git yer soouuulllll saved…”
‘Poooot yer hands in da aaiiirrrr, oooo yaaa!”
It appears, friends, that I have reached the age where I begin to disparage the younger generation’s choice of music. The date on my driver’s license has apparently given me permission to become close-minded and cynical.
Maybe.
Or maybe the Christian music industry’s primary concern is making money, and they know that the average consumer will buy watered down clichés that take no effort to produce as long as they mimic their more successful secular counterparts.(The author concedes that it may be a combination of these and other factors, which cause his fits of hysteria).
Thankfully, there are exceptions. I would like to recommend to you Picking Violets- a country/pop duo interested in more than just going platinum. (Full disclosure: I sponsor a child from Sierra Leone through their organization The Raining Season).
Can you recommend some music that won’t go stale faster than bubbliscious? It doesn't have to be Christian, per se, but let it have a message that is worth hearing. Let me know!
Monday, June 6, 2011
Lifting the Virgin's Veil
As soon as my jeans touch the sun-warmed leather of my motorbike seat, my heart rate usually slows. The world doesn’t turn quite as fast, and everything seems to be put together just right. I own a cruiser- the bike for those who just want to get on the road and go. No need for outrageous speeding tickets or clouds of rubber smoke; just give me some asphalt and the rumble of a v-twin. Motor biking is my portal to peace and well-being.
Usually.
There was one trip a couple years ago when my restless spirit would not be silenced. Discontent hitched a ride as I rode away from town toward the Rocky Mountains. As prairie gave way to foothills, and foothills became peaks, my hope was that the majesty of the Rockies would overwhelm the incessant voices in my head. I needed some clarity. What I wanted was to hear God’s voice again.
I eventually left the highway, rode through the town of Canmore and wound my way up a mountain road to a small lake. Here, I thought, I could find some solitude. At least a hundred other people had the exact same idea that day, so it was in a spirit of frustration with my thoughts arrayed like radio static that I penned the words of The Wild.
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.
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.
Sometimes the noise of our lives makes it difficult to think clearly. We’ve weaved the threads of our bad choices and circumstances into a blindfold that can hide the joy of a thousand radiant mornings. Our ears have been plugged so long with the gunk of religion that we no longer recognize the music of life’s Composer.
There was a time when I suspected that something Beautiful was passing me by, and I’d have reached out and grabbed it if only I hadn’t been so weary and beaten and blind. Then it came around again. I’ve sensed its Presence in the crashing waves of Oregon coast, and in the silent sandstone deserts of the Middle East. I caught a glimpse of it when I read of Jesus touching the untouchable people and covering up the naked adulterer.
Maybe it’s coming around for you. I know you have something to do and somewhere to go, but why don’t you take just a moment? Stop and listen?
It may very well be that despite all we’ve seen and heard, heaven is free and Life can begin sooner than we think. Is it difficult to believe? May today be the day when our frustrated longings begin to lift like the veil of a virgin bride.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
The Christian Requiem
I tried to be a good Christian this week. I didn’t laugh too loudly at my workmates vile jokes, and I avoided the seedier parts of the internet. There were probably other churchy type people just like me, shielding their self-saved souls as best they could from the exact same things. Did they feel - as I did- a bit grungy by the time Sunday rolled around?
Thus another week passes by for those trudging joyfully through the slime of humanity on their way to the Pearly Gates. I wish everything was going to be alright in the end- that I could approach that day knowing that I had done my best, and that doing my best actually counted for something. I fear that isn’t the case.
This kind of Christianity makes me wonder if Jesus isn’t building a mansion made out of itchy pink fiberglass insulation; that I get to spend eternity wearing spotless robes with too much starch while scratching out a tune on a harp. I don’t even want to know how to play a harp, for goodness sake!
I keep running into people who think that Christianity is basically about what you can and cannot do on your way to heaven. Where the hell did they get that idea? Oh… I think I just answered my own question.
I suppose a lot of us Christians have confused them too. God once promised to exchange our hearts of stone with ones that could actually beat, but it’s easier for us to remember the rules if we can chisel them into something solid.
This is my lament. A dirge for what we once called the hope for all mankind. The Christian religion.
Now if it would only lie down and die so that something… or Someone… could rise up in its place.
Thus another week passes by for those trudging joyfully through the slime of humanity on their way to the Pearly Gates. I wish everything was going to be alright in the end- that I could approach that day knowing that I had done my best, and that doing my best actually counted for something. I fear that isn’t the case.
This kind of Christianity makes me wonder if Jesus isn’t building a mansion made out of itchy pink fiberglass insulation; that I get to spend eternity wearing spotless robes with too much starch while scratching out a tune on a harp. I don’t even want to know how to play a harp, for goodness sake!
I keep running into people who think that Christianity is basically about what you can and cannot do on your way to heaven. Where the hell did they get that idea? Oh… I think I just answered my own question.
I suppose a lot of us Christians have confused them too. God once promised to exchange our hearts of stone with ones that could actually beat, but it’s easier for us to remember the rules if we can chisel them into something solid.
This is my lament. A dirge for what we once called the hope for all mankind. The Christian religion.
Now if it would only lie down and die so that something… or Someone… could rise up in its place.
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