On Prayer

"The world is full of so-called prayer warriors who are prayer-ignorant. They're full of formulas and programs and advice, peddling techniques for getting what you want from God. Don't fall for that nonsense. This is your Father you are dealing with, and he knows better than you what you need. With a God like this loving you, you can pray very simply. Like this:

Our Father in heaven, Reveal who you are. Set the world right; Do what's best— as above, so below. Keep us alive with three square meals. Keep us forgiven with you and forgiving others. Keep us safe from ourselves and the Devil. You're in charge! You can do anything you want! You're ablaze in beauty! Yes. Yes. Yes." (Matt 6:7-13 TM)

A diagnosis of colorectal cancer has recently brought me to my knees, and taught me some valuable lessons about prayer. I have also developed a new appreciation for Him. I have always believed that God, who hears all prayers, said "yes" to some, "no" to others, and "maybe, but not now" to the rest.

No prayer goes unanswered. To the very degree it is fervently held as truth, to that degree will it be made manifest in my experience. It is not God's function to create, or uncreate, the circumstance or conditions of my life. He created me, in His image and likeness. I have created the rest, through the power He gave each of us, free will. In this sense, my will for me is God's will for me.

If I beg and supplicate, it stands to reason that there is a smaller chance that I will experience what I think I am asking for. It seems to me that the correct prayer is one of gratitude for what he has already done. And gratitude cannot be used as a tool to manipulate God.

I get caught up in the outcome of my prayers, and forget that to some degree at least, God is not concerned about this outcome. This is because the ultimate outcome is already assured. It is doubt about the ultimate outcome that created my greatest enemy, fear. If I doubt the outcome, I must doubt God. And if I doubt God then I must live in fear and shame my entire life. If I doubt God's intentions, and God's ability to produce the ultimate result, then how can I ever relax? How can I ever truly find peace?

How I Love

I don't love you as if you were a rose,
a precious stone, or a favorite food.
I love you as one loves something more obscure,
secretly, between life and soul.
I love you as a plant that does not bloom
but carries the light of those flowers hidden within itself.
And thanks to your love, the scent that arose within
still lives dimly within my body.
I love you without knowing how,
or when, or from where;
I love you directly, without problems or pride.
I love you like this because
I do not know any other way to love,
except in this form in which I am not,
nor are you,
So close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
So close that your eyes close with my dreams.

My Trembling Pen

Poetic whispers of a kiss

to set my lips afire -

to send my pen trembling

across this open page.

I would touch you with desire,

with the flames of my confession

as such longing for your mystery

entices me, Imbibe!

As I sprawl across these sheets

lying naked and exposed,

I invite you to explore

the hidden mystery of my soul.

Scar me with the traces

of your poetic pen.

Endow me with the pleasures where -

the trembling thus began.

Reflections on an Easter Weekend Backpacking Trip

How disappointed He must have been. His followers arguing over who was greater. So he washed their feet. They had all been given the chance to serve Him, had failed the test.

My brain cries "Tell them! Tell them to wash Your feet!" But He forgave instead. Double-tongued promise breakers, fair-weather friends; they would leave Him at the cross, or sooner. They made promises that night; they made tracks the next day. While He was beaten, they beat feet.

In my life i have come to experience sorrow, yet nothing like His. Left to my illness, questions unanswered, holding the bag, out in the cold. Logic says, "Put up your fists." He says, "Fill up the basin." My head screams, "Bloody his nose!" He whispers, "Wash his feet." I protest, "She doesn't deserve it." Jesus answers, "You're right, and neither do you."

Amidst this garden of wildflowers, these stems of gentle strength, rooted in truth, my word-petals of praise amount to nothing but weeds in light of His sacrifice. The Author of all i see, the Creator of time itself made me but a footspan on eternity's trail.

Because of Him, of what He did, I live free from the compulsion of retribution. The pain of accumulated hurts sheds itself from my heart. And Love, a Love that never fails, offering the Life I had so often rejected, taken for granted, spurned in favor of temporal pleasure, wells up inside me, reminding me that Love is only Love if chosen. And Love never fails.

I Need to Hear This Again

Sometimes I write because I need to be heard. Sometimes it is because of things I am afraid I won't get to say. Sometimes I re-post older stuff because I need the reminder when I get those niggling little doubts. Today is seemingly the latter.

A dear friend faithfully kept my ramblings penned while in jail, just over a year ago. Re-reading those unmedicated diatribes presents me with a chilling portrait of just how sick I was, but also serves to validate how far I have come. Suffering from a treatable mental illness is OK now, with treatment. I didn't always think so.

But even at the worst of my illness, in jail for months without treatment of any kind, I can see how God had me all along. From June 30, 2008: "Today I was actually able to rise before the morning cacophony and get in my Bible study. Chapters 30-31 of Proverbs, 1 Cor 13, a Psalm and some readings from John and Matthew. Recognized something today from my readings I had not noticed before. While all the Gospels record Peter's denial of Jesus 3 times - only John records Peters' having been restored to fellowship with the Lord.

"Even more poignant is that Jesus ask Peter 3 times 'Simon, son of Jonah, do you love me?' see John 21:15-19, the number of Peter's denials. [My sentence structure and punctuation excused, please] The passage reports that Peter was 'grieved' at being asked 3 times and I find myself identifying with Peter. I do not like to questioned repeatedly - ESPECIALLY when I am guilty of something. I want to be forgiven without being made to feel guilty, yet that feeling of guilt is what brings on remorse, and remorse is what causes the behavioral change that demonstrates repentance; or at least in my world. I don't know that any notable theologians would agree with those thoughts."

After that passage, my writing disintegrates into some frightening observations of life in jail, much of which I recall with a shudder. But I see, in looking back, that I needed to be still and recover my contact with Him.

1 Kings 17 opens with the prophet Elijah being told to "Hide in the Kerith Ravine." Why hide out? Why be fed by ravens, a none-too-pleasant carrion feeder? And then to have to stay there until "Sometime later the brook dried up"?

The purpose of my jail time I can't say for certain, but while there I did rediscover the value of alone time with God, and in a discipline of daily reading and prayer. I learned a lot about powerlessness and trust in Him. One way or the other, we must all learn the difference between trusting in the gift and trusting in the Giver. The gift may only last for a season, but the Giver is the only eternal love.

Kerith Ravine was a difficult problem for Elijah until he arrived at Zarephath, and suddenly everything became clear as daylight to him. Gods hard instructions are never His last word to us, for the woes, the waste, and the tears of life belong to its interlude, not its finale.

My Light is Too Dim

...God is light; in him there is no darkness at all. (1 John 1:5)

My light is too dim to hold back all my dark. And yet, "...if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus, his son, purifies us from all sin. (1 John 1:7)

Throughout his writings, John uses metaphors to illustrate his points, light representing what is good, true and holy; darkness representing what is evil and false; and walk a metaphor for living. John's pastoral writings encourage us "to have fellowship" with Him, and with each other.I for one need that fellowship. I need the support of believers in my daily life. I need encouragement to continue the good fight.John uses the word sin 27 times in his first epistle. That sounds like a metaphor for pay attention here to me. Sin severs my walk with God, cuts it short. Since God so graciously sent His only Begotten Son "so that [I] would have life" (find it in John's Gospel), and I don't want my walk (living) cut short, I need a way to be rid of my sin. My Abba was also gracious enough to provide that.If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness. (1 John 1:9) John packs some very important concepts into his first letter, important concepts for my daily Christian walk. In so doing, he reveals perhaps the greatest need I have for Christian fellowship. How do I go about this problem of confession? What is confession, anyway?The Greek word John used that translates as "confess" means "to say the same thing as", or "to agree with." It is less of a grocery list of my wrongdoings than it is an understanding that I live in a state of sin - "off the mark" is how sin translates.
... confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. (James 5:16) The issue of confession is not about keeping my relationship with God alive. Regardless of how I am living here on this planet, my relationship with God exists. I want my fellowship with Him restored. I want my walk with Him to continue. I want that spiritual connection with my brothers and sisters in Christ to improve. I want to be healed.

The Inventory

Jeff and I plied his dog with beer one night.
Oh, how he lapped it up.
At times the past washes over me,
and as if I could ever stop it,
I rebel, and then revel
in the flood of memories I cherish,
And revile.

Too much of this,
not enough of that,
too much like myself,
or not enough.
Calamity upon calamity,
things happened as if by themselves,
But not.

Moment by moment,
and also in great bites,
life happened to me,
and now seems so inconsequential
in the face of monumental loss.
Self destruction seemed,
So attractive.

Who is that other me,
who didn't value smiles, and laughter;
Who died of sheer grief,
enduring hell and flowers?
Drunken regrets count for naught
while you are too drunk
To regret.

That dog wandered in circles
and then headlong into the wall.
My heart asks questions
for which there are no replies.
These difficult tasks cross paths,
each demanding their pound of ego;
For what reward?

Of what was I so afraid?
From what did I run?
The very things I wanted
so deeply, so longed for?
Squandering memories dear
to pursue an uncertain death,
At life speed.

As if in retaliation
for thinking I could forget,
the pain of my wrongs,
recriminations flood back,
emotional prison becomes hell,
and hell becomes,
Me.

And I become another
drug-fueled psychotic,
Until the walls
of my ever-shrinking cell
tower to the heavens;
no end in site,
again today.

With options short
I go on from step to step,
without knowing what the moral is,
because in my many lives
I am absent, here now,
and also the man I was,
At the same time.

Perhaps that is the real mystery;
Jeff's dog never drank again.