Currently Reading The Universe Next Door: A Basic Worldview Catalog By James W. Sire see related

Portraits of Grace: Ebenezer

A TRILLING bird call danced through David’s ears. He stood there and listened, as still as the great oaks beside the path. It sounded like a flute, enchanting, teasing, beckoning — summoning him into this wilderness world. A small smile creased his face, and he turned toward the woods.

Mommy told him to hurry up just as he walked into the forest. He glared and stomped over to his family. “I wanna see the birdie.”

“Some other time, son,” Daddy said as he ruffled David’s hair.

David crossed his arms and kept glaring. It was always “some other time.” He ignored Daddy’s excited shout to look at a stork and walked over to a smooth-barked tree. Beech. . . . That’s what Daddy had called it.

Little ants swarmed the roots of the tree. They carried large pieces of leaves in strange shapes, held high above their heads. David crouched to examine them, counting as they passed. Twelve black ants before a lone red straggler struggled by with a full leaf. It reached a short, gnarled root, climbed halfway to the top, and tumbled to the ground, dropping the leaf.

David giggled, rocked on his heels, and clapped. Silly ant.

“Lunch time!” David grinned at the announcement, jumped up, and dashed over to a small wooden structure. Rough posts in the corners held up a brown shingled roof. He laughed — no walls!

With a sigh and a grin he slid into his seat at the picnic table. All day they had hiked through the woods, and he was hungry.

Mommy ripped open a package of paper plates. She separated a few from the pile and arranged them around the table. At David’s place she paused for a moment, shook her head, and plunked down several plates on top of each other, body quivering as she laughed. Still laughing, she reached into her backpack and pulled out a thick peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an apple, and a granola bar.

David tapped his fingers on the table while Daddy prayed. As soon as the prayer finished he crammed a corner of the sandwich into his mouth, crunching the small bits of peanut. He stopped eating and licked his lips, casting a sidelong glance at Mommy. “Why did we come to the nature park, Mommy? It’s boring.”

“Daddy and I like walking. It’s good exercise. And there are animals and pretty birds, like the one you heard earlier.”

“It’s boring!”

“No it’s not, David. Eat your sandwich.”

“It’s boring, Mommy.” Decided now, David tore a chunk out of his red delicious. Chewed. Attacked the apple again. He stopped mid-chomp, and gazed into Mommy’s eyes. His lips tugged downward. “Can we take a birdie home with us, Mommy?”

She sputtered a response and turned away. David cocked his head to the side as he scratched his nose. “Did a bug get in your eye, Mommy?”

“No, kiddo.” She tousled his hair. “But thanks for asking.”

Two miles. Mommy said they still had two more miles to walk. David let his feet drag. He did not care that the ponds were pretty, or that the ducks were pretty, or that the flowers were pretty. His feet hurt.

Each step spiked fire through his feet. David slumped down on the path and kicked off his shoes. “Mommy,” he wailed, “walking trails . . .” pant . . . “are so . . .” pant . . . “insufferable!”

“Get up, David. It’s only two more miles.”

David twisted his lips and glared, mumbling. He yanked his hiking boots back on, stood up, and kicked a rock. It bounced off a large pile of yellow-speckled red stones and skittered into the forest.

A grin on his face, David dashed over to the big rocks and crouched next to the heap. He pried his fingers into the mound and dug through the slabs, their gritty texture tickling his fingertips.

At the crunch of footsteps on gravel, he lifted his head, staring up at his Daddy. “What’re these called?”

“Sandstone. Aren’t they pretty?”

David giggled. “Prettier than the ducks and flowers!”

Sandstone. Lovely. He looked down at his hands and clenched little fists. “I wanna take them home with me. Mommy, will you take them?”

“You have to do it yourself, honey. I am not going to carry the rocks for you. If you want them, you carry them.”

“Okay, Mommy . . . I'll try.”

They walked down the trail, passed another rock pile, and rounded a bend. David trudged along a few paces behind his parents. In each hand he held a huge sandstone rock. From between the rocks, he gazed around him, twisting his torso with his head so he could see. Ahead the path split. One branch led toward the large pond on his left, the fourth in the water network. The other edged the woods to the right.

David stared at the pond water. Oil had collected on the surface near the shore, coating the murky water. He skipped down the left-hand path, dropped his red rocks on the sand, and shoved both hands into the water. His fingers poked holes in the film and spread ripples across the surface of the vibrant pollution.

“David! Don’t touch that!” Mommy rushed over and snatched David away from the oil, cleaning his hands with a baby wipe. “It’s dirty. Don’t touch.” She smiled and took his hand, led him back up the trail.

David rolled his eyes. “You’re forgetting my rocks, Mommy.”

“Fine. Go get them.”

“But they’re heavy! You carry them.”

“You have to carry them, honey.” Mommy leaned over and caressed his cheek. “I know they’re heavy, but they are your responsibility. If you want them, you have to carry them.”

David snorted. Miles of trail, heavy rocks — he grinned and grabbed his sandstone prizes off the ground, hopping up and down on one foot. “I can do it, Mommy.” He bounced again. “I’m gonna be a superhero!”

Mommy laughed and gave him a thumbs up. “Save some energy for cleaning your room, Superman.”

They walked for ten minutes. David carried his two red rocks, one in each hand. He gulped at the air and felt it rush into his lungs, the pleasant burn of oxygen filling him with strength. He scowled. He was Superman. He shouldn’t grow tired. Silly ant. . . .

A few steps later he stopped and sat down, panting from the exercise. “Mommy! Please, the rocks are heavy . . . carry them for me?”

“If you want them, you carry them.”

David nodded and kept trudging along. His rocks felt heavier with every step. They walked several hundred more yards, and David felt his shoulders sag. “Mommy,” David whimpered, “the rocks are really heavy. I can’t carry them anymore.”

“David, if you want them, you have to carry them. I am not going to do it for you.”

David pouted and stumbled over to his dad. “Can you carry them for me?” His dad nodded, and reached for the rocks.

“Stop, Dear.” David’s mom shook her head. “If you carry them for him, then he won’t learn to do it for himself. He expects us to serve him in everything. He has to learn responsibility.”

His dad sighed and agreed. They both turned to David and said, “If you want them, you carry them.” Again they walked. David grew more and more tired, his arms beginning to ache like never before. After a few minutes, with tears in his little eyes, he again asked his parents, “Can you please carry the rocks for me?”

They sadly shook their heads.

His shoulders sagged even further. He dropped the rocks and rubbed his nose. Then he raised his head. Smiled. “Could you at least stuff them in my pockets for me?”

With a chuckle his dad kneeled and struggled to stuff the large rocks into his son’s little pants. He dropped one. “Whoops! They’re trying to escape!” Daddy said.

David giggled. Eventually Daddy got them in the pockets, and they were on their way. David fell farther and farther behind, however. The rocks weighed his pants down and pulled them halfway to his ankles.

Hand clamped around the hem of his pants, David plodded onward, trying valiantly to keep up with his parents. At last he couldn’t walk any farther and he called out for his Daddy. His dad came back and squatted in front of David.

“If you want the rocks, you need to carry them. . . .”

David sniffled and rubbed his nose, and then nodded through tears.

 “If you want the rocks, you need to carry them. . . .” Daddy smiled.

“But I can carry you.” And with that, he picked David up and placed him on his shoulders. David slumped forward and hugged his dad’s neck, too exhausted to talk anymore. Together they walked out of the park, David carrying his rocks — and Daddy carrying David.

Currently Listening Of Love and Lunacy By Still Remains 10. I Can Revive Him With My Own Hands see related

My Dreams and Goals — Surrendered into His Hands

Linguistic and cultural experiences have always fascinated me. From an early age I participated in cross-cultural communication, since my parents are both Sign Language Interpreters. I grew up signing, and thereby gained a unique perspective on the role of language, culture, and life experience in communication. After completing my degree requirements, I’ll use the skills I’ve acquired to continue working with other cultures and languages, cataloguing undiscovered systems of expression and promoting cross-cultural understanding.

To this end I seek to implement two methods: first, tangible, in-country cultural participation through physical theatre, music and teaching programs. Secondly, the writing of both articles and novels designed to explore the human condition and the nature of mankind, especially pertaining to the paradox of basic, shared emotion and mindset within the context of vast cultural diversity.

A man needs a single all-consuming obsession. It is the nature of man to obsess, to want with such abandon that nothing else will sate him. Adventure fires his imagination. Power enthralls him. Passion captures his heart. Beauty leaves him awestruck. Yet modern life has left him bored.

I long for one thing to gloriously occupy and satisfy all of my energies and efforts. I crave to be swept up in a transcendent cause or some noble purpose. My soul rejoices, for I have found my all consuming obsession: Love embodied in Jesus Christ. And He has called me to something so huge that I tremble at the thought. See, I’m a bit of a coward, sometimes. But He remains faithful.

I have found my purpose in life. It is quite comforting. At the same time, however, it is frightening—chillingly so. I'm terrified; petrified by naysayers and more so by my own doubts. The plans are so big I know they could only be from God. (Though that's not normally a good standard of dreams and ambitions and desires, I feel that in this case something so gigantic could not have originated with me—I tend to think too small and far too rationally.)

Two years ago my desire was to be a physicist. I am glad that God broke me of that. It was a long struggle, full of pain, tears and a million heartaches. When I was eleven I had decided that I was going to be a theoretical physicist, and nothing would stand in the way of that dream. Indeed, I spent hours reading college physics textbooks, puzzling through the questions and occasionally researching the issues further on my own. By the time I was thirteen I was giving two and a half hour lectures to my friends. (One no longer has to wonder why I had few friends . . .)

God led me to the verses in Psalms 37:3-7a:

3Trust in the LORD, and do good;
   dwell in the land and befriend faithfulness.
4Delight yourself in the LORD,
   and he will give you the desires of your heart.

 5Commit your way to the LORD;
   trust in him, and he will act.
6He will bring forth your righteousness as the light,
   and your justice as the noonday.    

 7Be still before the LORD and wait patiently for him;

In addition, Isaiah 26:7-9 has become my battle cry:

7 The way of the just is uprightness;
      O Most Upright,
      You weigh the path of the just.
       8 Yes, in the way of Your judgments,
      O LORD, we have waited for You;
      The desire of our soul is for Your name
      And for the remembrance of You.
       9 With my soul I have desired You in the night,
      Yes, by my spirit within me I will seek You early;
      For when Your judgments are in the earth,
      The inhabitants of the world will learn righteousness.

Because I love Scripture, I’m going to also give a few verses from II Corinthians 7:1 & 10-11:

 1 Therefore, having these promises, beloved, let us cleanse ourselves from all filthiness of the flesh and spirit, perfecting holiness in the fear of God.

10 For godly sorrow produces repentance leading to salvation, not to be regretted; but the sorrow of the world produces death. 11 For observe this very thing, that you sorrowed in a godly manner: What diligence it produced in you, what clearing of yourselves, what indignation, what fear, what vehement desire, what zeal, what vindication! In all things you proved yourselves to be clear in this matter.

- -=- -

Contemplating all these words led me to realize that even if I was sorrowful at the thought of surrendering physics, God has plans in mind for His name and His glory. Indeed, my sorrow did lead me to repentance. Because truthfully, I was in sin by demanding that my ways win out over God’s ways. Yet now I am full of vehement desire, zeal, fear and diligence for the work of Christ.

It’s easy to talk about theories, however. Here is the practical vision that God has given me. It is not an all inclusive list. Please keep in mind this merely covers the few main points of emphasis. As time goes on I will add more to the list—most likely something to do with social justice. As of now my goal is to set up a full-time ministry focused on foreign and domestic missions. Its goal would be manifold, so far including (but in no way limited to) the following: 

(1) Ministering to the “scene.”

This is antithetical to the church’s current approach. Most in the church shun scene kids or assume they are just good kids gone bad, instead of treating them like a culture that needs Christ just as much as the cannibals and headhunters in Africa or the jungles of South America. I mean, the Dani tribe that the Dekkers went to is a nice, ‘normal’ missionary venture, while goths, punks, hardcore kids, metal heads, emo kids, skaters, neo-hippies, and other in the so-called “alternative” styles and clothing/music tastes are considered off limits. This makes no sense. I feel deeply for this culture, because it is the one I identify with most strongly.

My approach will involve setting up a network (starting fairly locally and moving nation-wide with an eventual goal of reaching around the world) of highly adaptive churches. They would also function as concert venues, radio stations, free hotels, art galleries, recording studios, clubs—the possibilities are endless. Anything associated with the arts and oriented towards my culture. From these churches, I would send out missionaries into the cities and towns the churches are located in, and they would basically infiltrate scene culture and life.

I’d also like to set up a few large sanctuaries for troubled youth. Those trapped by self injury, for example. They weigh heavily on my heart, and I’d like to minister to them with one-on-one counseling and prayer. Think of the old boy’s and girl's homes they used to have: Like a huge foster care system, almost, but a bit more intensive. I think it would be an amazing ministry. I know I would grow so much just learning to lavish pure agape on those kids. To share Christ and to model His love to a broken and dying generation is my great desire.

(2) Ministering to families and the lost through family-oriented short-term missions trips.

This is another big thing. I grew incredibly close to my teammates while I was in China. I had only known one of them before I went, but while I was with them for that month, I grew to love them deeply. Imagine if families were to go on missions trips together. Instead of vacationing, they were to be actively involved in ministering together. Obviously, it would not automatically cure all familial problems, but it would go a long way towards pulling families together. Families need to pull closer together, especially Christian ones. This would be a double-tasking ministry toward both the families and those they go to serve. It’s very close to my heart.

(3) Ministering to the world and to full time missionaries who do not yet know where they are called through rapid-deployment, “strike-force” style operations

Many of the kids I went to China with felt called to full time missionary work, but they didn't know where exactly. So instead of just trying to figure things out and only praying for direction, they can pray and actively get hands-on training on the field. I got the idea from the military, actually. Squads are trained to respond to any threat, anywhere, at any time. What would missions look like if missionaries responded the same way? Medical doctors, English teachers, IT experts, engineers, specialists in various fields, etc., all going world over at a moments notice, in rapid-fire, instant response teams. They would work with local missionaries and travel to areas in need of assistance, often staying for one to two months before going back to base to rest for a week or two, then heading out again. There would be multiple teams, always rotating through. Each team would be comprised of roughly twenty-five members. This elevates the idea of internship to a whole new level.

(4) Ministering to missionaries by fully supporting them on the field, freeing them from the tyranny of repeated fundraising trips, and allowing them to focus exclusively on their ministry.

This would require immense amounts of money, but I am preparing already by studying Chinese and learning the rudiments of economics: I shall establish a new, multi-million dollar company in China. Franklin Graham talks about a principle he calls “God Room,” and it’s very important. Basically, it is the disparity between human ability and reason, and God’s boundless supply. And that’s what I’m going to do: put things in God's hands and rely fully on Him for provision. I’ll need it . . . I want to completely support as many missionaries as I can. And when one needs a break, I will provide transportation and set up the facilities for him or her and bring in one of my teams to take over till a return is feasible.

In addition, writing is one of my callings. I know that God will use my writing—novels and short stories, essays, documentaries and articles—to His glory. It will not go wasted, nor will it be relegated to a position of unimportance while I work with my ministry. Conversely, I shall not let my writing overrule my responsibilities to my ministry. Because, really, life is ministry; everything else is just my work. My vocation cannot help but reflect the beauty of my Lord.

Music is another area of huge interest/calling. I love music—probably too much at times! I am currently working on a network of fan sites for different bands that would encourage users to promote the band more actively. Eventually this network would become an online distributor of music for unsigned artists employing a franchise approach to an indie record label.

Worship is my deepest calling of all. Americans tend to think of it in terms of music only, which ignores the vast richness of a life made glad in Christ. However, as stated, I love music. God has laid it on my heart to write and record a full-length worship CD. I hope to connect other young people with a passion for praise and join the worship revolution sweeping the world.

Imagine one day watching as the whole world bows the knee before our great and glorious King. Imagine the tears as you see thousands upon thousands who know Him because you sacrificed at His request. Imagine the depth of His love as you raise your eyes and are caught up in the blaze of His gaze. Imagine falling in love with this Lover, painting with this Painter, dancing with this Dancer, singing with this Singer and writing with this Writer. Imagine climbing into your Daddy’s lap and knowing that all is well.

Because He loves you.

Grace and peace,

Andrew <><

Currently Watching V for Vendetta see related

V for Vendetta

V for Vendetta often veers from its storytelling, plunging into idealism and political hack. Its veneer proves thin in places, transforming an otherwise solid tale into an infomercial for those on the political left. Or so critics claim.

While the objections are not unfounded, they are rather short-sighted. Movies may indeed be social commentary, but the masses rarely make such erudite distinctions, preferring to watch films for their entertainment value. And here V for Vendetta delivers nearly perfectly, splicing strong, understated acting, brilliantly non-kitschy special effects, a wonderfully intricate plot and clean*, well-scripted dialogue. Only a few directorial and cinematography errors mar an otherwise meticulously crafted piece.

Steadfast moralists will no doubt argue the ethics of the film’s depiction of justice, terrorism and homosexuality ad nauseam, but in so doing they miss the broader, more transcendent aspects.

Rife with allusions to celebrated works, Vendetta succeeds in making a serious contribution to the realm of story, drawing on divergent literary pieces—most explicitly The Count of Monte Cristo—to form a rich heritage. There is also an intriguing, subtle nod to Till We Have Faces, though perhaps inadvertently so.

At the risk of blatant isogesis, I propose that Vendetta is the gospel in a radical, harsh new form. Those involved in writing, directing and producing the movie may very well disagree, but the story is there nonetheless. Each necessary element exists—the redemptive analogy is not only viable but vibrant. Avant-garde and daringly gothic, yes: but isn’t the true gospel as well?

Daughter of murdered political protestors, Evey goes from obscure worker to linchpin for the resurrection of the Guy Fawkes Rebellion. She becomes heavily involved in a budding resistance movement, and eventually is chased into hiding. Then she is captured and immured in a small, dank cell. Time grinds to a dark, chaotic halt as she is tortured and psychologically battered over and over and over again. She loses everything but her life.

And when all she has left is her life, she clings to something potent: hope. And it is more than hope, for hope only exists where love first captures the heart. She is inspired to love. This love is not a concept, or in the vague sense of Love, but personal. When told she can escape death if she will tell of the whereabouts of 'V' she refuses, and—

Well, best not to give away too much. But the point remains that it is love which keeps her alive, and love which saves her. Furthermore, that love empowers her to fight against the corruption of the dystopian system. Totalitarian government cannot comprehend grace. Love transcends their edicts and efforts. Control crumbles and disintegrates before the onslaught of those hungry for hope and consumed by love—but it starts on the personal level. Before the love can conquer, however, the core issues of identity must be addressed.

In his cerebral work Till We Have Faces, C.S. Lewis not only retells a Greek tale in a compelling fashion, but also allows the story to address issues of identity without a didactic ulterior motive. Orual, elder sister to Psyche, wrestles with bitterness at the gods, who chose Psyche as their own and demanded her life. Psyche is supposedly consumed by a 'Shadowbrute.' Abduction is Orual’s charge: the gods have unfairly stolen her sister, and they will pay. She spends her entire life hidden behind a mask to cover her own identity while she writes an invective against the gods—a tyrannical lot of capricious evil-doers, in her mind.

The recurrent theme of the book manifests itself in an elaborate analogy: faces anthropomorphize Identity. Orual hides her face behind a mask, taking on a new identity at the expense of the old. Near the end of her life she journeys to present her case against the gods. This begs the question: 'How can we meet the gods face to face till we have faces?'

'V' is notable for his perennial mask. As we learn in the opening scenes, it is modeled after Guy Fawkes, the would-be terrorist who sought to blow up Parliament on November 5^th (which just happens to be my birthday). Guy Fawkes becomes 'V's' adopted identity as he engages in his vigilante justice.

After twists and turns too numerous to summarize (and too delicious to spoil!) 'V' sends a package to all the residents of London which contains a mask and cape identical to his own (though the impact is slightly weakened in that the film never explains how this is accomplished or financed). He had previously hacked the interlink—the main telecommunication medium—and appealed directly to the London population, asking them to join him outside Parliament on the evening of November 5^th.

On the fifth of November, the houses empty. Streets fill in turn, choked by the surge of bodies. All of London descends upon Parliament Square, specter-like in their black cloaks and pallid masks. The masses have assumed his identity. And it is one of vengeance—and hope. Yes, hope. Hope for a future free from fear. Hope for a better life. Hope that once again they can afford to simply hope . . . for no other reason than the hope itself. It was an eerie moment; the hairs on the back of my neck raised and my heart palpitated as if on amphetamines as the people took off their masks and boldly declared to the world that freedom had dawned.

Then it hit me. One man risked everything in order to bring redemption. In order to realize that redemption, others had to first assume his identity in order to take on their own. And then the fireworks began.

*By clean I do not mean lacking in swearing. I simply meant free from extraneous, clunky phrases.

Currently Reading River Rising (Dickson, Athol) By Athol Dickson see related

Goodbye!