Hope for the End

Folks,

It's been one of those days. I have a friend living with me and I was telling him my story at lunch. In reflecting on my story, it made me depressed. What a pathetic human I really am! I am a relationship risk at every level. Even now, in telling him about me, I want to hide and isolate myself. Self-preservation is pushing me to run away.

The problem isn't him. He is a fine, exemplary, young man. It's me. It's hard to imagine that someone likes me when I can't seem to like, let alone, love me. I feel so isolated from the world and utter abandoned by God: I don't want to talk to him or sing to him, I just want to die, let judgment happen and then I get renewed to what I should be or annihilated forever. Either seems preferable today.

The accident was almost six years ago. She died and I lived, and I wish it were reversed. To wake up from an accident into a world that is different, though subtly so, is hard to explain. It's like trying to explain the difference between a home grown tomato and a hot house tomato; they are different and one is preferred, but qualify that difference. It's not so easy but the taste tells the tale. It's like the judge who can't tell you what pornography is but he knows it when he sees it.

So, I exist until accident or providence place me before the judgment seat.

The end is near;
the choice not clear;
let punishment be swift;
the annihilation soon;
the respite soothes;
no more to fight;
no battles to lose;
just rest;
just peace;
out of sight;
or at his feet;
the desire satisfied;
the worries gone;
The end complete.

They cry, they yell;
He can't be well;
To say such things;
Doth not bode well;
Yet on he goes;
Thoughts so extreme;
He can't be well;
For he blasphemes;
To make such things;
Both seem well;
Content in heaven;
Content in hell;
Complaints complete.

As he stands;
To give retort;
The well, as well;
Start to snort;
Not all have had;
Seas at peace;
Not all land;
is flat and fleet;
No all roads;
Paved and smooth;
Some have bumps;
Dead ends too;
Some just confuse.

And so I say;
On this day;
To those so well;
They know not hell;
Some do live;
Or so it seems;
In a hell;
Where nothing gleams;
They know not peace;
No comforts prevail;
Only Sisyphus;
And them in hell;
Uphill all the way.

And so I say;
Wear my shoes;
See the swells;
The ditches too;
As it's said;
If I should die;
Before I wake;
Or Rise anew;
As Dawn breaks;
Whether time should go;
Or time should cease;
Either way, Lord;
Give me Peace.

Avoid the vomit,

keith

"The World is too much with us"

 The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers,
Little we see in Nature that is ours,
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

This poem has intrigued me for years as I comtemplated what Wordsworth meant. In the midst of the prosperity, the appreciation and love for nature is lost. This disconnect with nature has brought disconnect with God. Wordsworth yearns to be brought up in some ancient,pagan religion which is so connected to nature that they have created mythologies to explain the cycles of nature, rather than ignore them.

We even see this in our own culture. Picturesque landscapes are destroy for the latest shopping craze, or the most elite living quarters are built on luscious vistas. Our getting and spend, a drive to be at the top, has removed from our sight the simple, beautiful landscape that our Creator provided for us. To see nature requires a drive to a park or a protect forest. Life is much too busy.

This even infiltrates the church. The world is too much with us. They very thing we are called by our Savior to do is the very thing we least do. If you asked someone what the purpose of the church was, I'm afraid the answers would vastly miss the mark. Yet, if we asked what program or programs were the best, the answers would be immediate, varied and sharply defended.

We don't know the purpose of the church but know the type of catering we like. It's the getting and spending, the consumerism of the church that lays waste it power. We are not so much there for giving as we are for getting: the reason for all the programs is people want to be catered to rather than commissioned.

The purpose of the church is this: "Jesus came to them and said, 'All power in heaven and on earth is given unto me. After having gone into the world, make disciples, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit: continuing to teach them to obey whatsoever I have commanded you: and lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of this age.'" (my translation)

This is our commission, our marching orders, our calling, our purpose. We are to make disciples! Yet, when was the last time a church took this seriously. Churches have all kinds of programs for all kinds of people but there is no intentionality in creating both disciples and disciplers. Most would agree that's why they pay staff: staff can do the dirty work. Our churches now reflect this consumeristic ideal: church must provide me what I want or I'll find one that will, and they will -- it's the easy way.

It is easier to provide instant programs than to walk the long, difficult path of discipleship. It's the path that Jesus walked with his disciples and it led him to a cross. It's the path we're called to walk. It can't be completed in an hour or a day or a week or a month or even a year: the process begins with a new birth ends with our death and requires our lifelong adherence.

We have given away our hearts, a sordid boon! For this, for everything, we are out of tune -- with God. It is time to reclaim our power and return to our first love. It is time to be disciple, to be salt and light in a rapidly decaying world.

As E.M. Bounds says, "The church wants better methods, God wants better men."

Avoid the vomit,

keith