Salty Grave

Why do some days just suck? Who knows. Somehow, the perversity of life seems to heap one misfortune after another, until my head protrudes from a pile of garbage and un-wanted mess.

It's that day;
That day when you don't hear the alarm until maximum volume about five minutes late,
That day when nothing important seems to happen,
That day when none of your baseballs seem to travel where you intended,
That day when your baseball coach hits you in the head with a baseball.

It's that day, when I retreat into my shell and hunker down until Life's blows subside. When I await the moment that he puts away his boxing gloves, when I can regroup in my safe place.

It's that day when you just want to go to sleep earlier so the day will end, and tomorrow will start anew.

God, give me the faith to praise you as I drown. As I flounder in Life's trash can, I want the kind of faith that won't scream in anger, or throw baseball equipment, or even find other ways of releasing agony and frustration. A faith that will instead take my frustrations and my emotions, and nail them to the cross with Jesus--a place where He takes them on himself. Though I may or may not still feel the feelings, my spirit will be enabled by His spirit so that I can praise Him. That day was not today, but I pray for an ever-increasing outpouring of His spirit.


"There is something to say
About being desperate, down and low
Giving a chance to see what it all can mean
There is something to say
About being desperate, down and low

Upon my arrival, I either learn to swim or drown
As I struggle for air I see only water
And I reach for anything as I cry for help
I feel my body growing week slipping away,
It occurs to me that my cries are worthless
Acknowledging death, I no longer mourn my own loss
And begin to sing praises to the one that has me here
As I sink to my salty grave I drown
No hand to reach for, no ear to listen

Let it be a sweet sound, sweet sound… In your ear

Up to the light I will sing praises; surely we will all die
Up to the light I will sing praises because surely we will all die"

"Salty Grave"

nate.

Read more...

That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire and of the Comfort of the Resurrection

Driving home from church tonight, I saw a beautiful sight. Just above the sharp outline of leaf-less tree branches, a large, red moon stared back at me, almost perfectly mirroring the pensive mood with which I left our service tonight. Holy week, as this week before Easter is often called, is quite an emotional week. With two baseball games, the looming shadow of exams, and the soon end of school, the "Easter feeling" has had an unusually small role in my week. In the busyness of my recent life, autopilot kicked in, and Easter has taken a backseat. Tonight, as I sat in our Maundy Thursday service, I began to think about the events leading up to what we call Easter.

Think of the disciples, what would they be doing right now? (Thursday night at about 10:30). Tonight is the night of the Last Supper, and Jesus knew he was to be crucified--brutally slaughtered in one of the most gruesome deaths possible. How could anyone be joyful, or even consider stooping to wash the feet of his followers.

He did.

Being fully God and fully man, Jesus could've stopped it all. Angels, cherubs, the weather, and anything else imaginable was at his command, and yet he suffered. Who, in anticipation of this horrid death, would pray, "Not my will, but yours be done"?

He did.

Whose purpose was so entangled with God's that he was willing to be simultaneously guilty of all sins of the world and separated from God, his father, his ultimate joy and comfort?

I know mine is not. But that is the whole point of Easter: We can't. We cannot do what Jesus did. That is the message of Good Friday. He took our punishment for everything we ever will do and in doing that, he paid the price we are unable to pay. He defeated death so that we can spend eternity glorifying and enjoying God. We cannot be Jesus. He lived a perfect life; I am imperfect everyday. It is, however, his death that frees us from the chains that bind. Jesus paid it all, all to Him I owe. Sin had left a crimson stain, He washed it white as snow. Through his horrible death, we, as Christians, now own a power over sin, over death. We are no longer slaves to sin! We are now able to chose to not sin! We are free! We are not "in Adam", our identity is not in man, but instead, we are "in Christ"! We have a new spirit, a spirit that has the power to satisfy our deepest longings, the power to break free of sin, and, most importantly, the power to become more like Christ. We now become "children of God", heirs to his kingdom. Now we have victory over the systems of this world. We are now able to claim victory, through Jesus, against many things.

Satan tempts me frequently and I fail. Jesus is Risen!!
I am addicted to weed and cigarettes. Jesus is Risen!!
I am full of pride. Jesus is Risen!!
My parents are divorced. Jesus is Risen!!
My life is full of pain and suffering Jesus is Risen!!

Claim the power that we are given through His death and resurrection! Christ went down and whooped the devil for three days, then He came back to life, declaring victory over Death itself. We have this power, through His spirit in us. By taking hold of his power, we not only break sin and temptation, but we have the power to love without bounds and to have the same agape as God! We have an awesome God, take hold of his power and own it!

nate.


Love's as warm as tears,
Love is tears:
Pressure within the brain,
Tension at the throat,
Deluge, weeks of rain,
Haystacks afloat,
Featureless seas between
Hedges, where once was green

Love's as fierce as fire, 

Love is fire:
All sorts--Infernal heat
Clinkered with greed and pride, 

Lyric desire, sharp-sweet,
Laughing, even when denied, 

And that empyreal flame 

Whence all loves came. 


Love's as fresh as spring,
Love is spring:
Bird-song in the air,
Cool smells in a wood,
Whispering "Dare! Dare!"
To sap, to blood,
Telling "Ease, safety, rest,
Are good; not best."

Love's as hard as nails,
Love is nails: 

Blunt, thick, hammered through 

The medial nerves of One 

Who, having made us, knew 

The thing He had done,
Seeing (what all that is)
Our cross, and His. 


C.S. Lewis - LOVE'S AS WARM AS TEARS

Read more...