Peculiar Obsession

Currently, I’m dumbfounded by the attention and devotion that God shows towards me.  He found me, neglected, unwanted, broken, and dirty.  And he simply went nuts to get my soul.  And now that he has it, though I’ve failed him, he has never failed me.  He should have left long ago, but he didn’t.  Instead, he stuck with me and changed me.  What on earth would make him love me, this God whose words brought the stars into existence?  What a peculiar obsession indeed.

The poem reads as follows:

When he saw me broken,
He went berserk.
I never saw him again
After that.
I don’t know why he would
Do that for me.
But I hope to see him
And tell him, “Thanks.”

I’m back!

I figured it’s time to get back on my blog again.  I don’t know that it’ll be devoted solely to rewriting stories of the Bible, though.  I think I’ll be putting some of my drawings up here.  Often, when I’m spending time with God, I’ll get a picture in my head.  I’ve recently begun drawing what I’ve seen.

So, yeah, I think I will post some of those.

Maybe other reflections as well.

I’m not sure, but I am planning to post more regularly.

Our Last Words Together (John 21:15-22)

The sun was hotter than the coals of our smoldering fire; its rays burned into my eyes and caused little fires to leap and dance about in my vision. On the edge of the lake, the sunlight reflected and shone like a candle in front of a million mirrors, first shining this way then that way, searching and dancing about. The light stung my eyes like his words stung my heart, sand and grit rubbed across my raw and beating flesh. Why doesn’t he believe me?

“Of course I’m your friend,” I spit out the same words I had spoken before, plain and obvious like vomit on the sand. As the words fell, to my mind came the memory of my betrayal only a few nights previous. The memory cut hard. “You know everything that’s happened. You know I care about you.”

Comment on “What is Faith?”

I’ve often wondered about the heroes of faith found in Hebrews 11. When Abraham left his family, his country, his employment, what was he thinking? Was he “full of faith” and confidence or really, really scared? Or what about Gideon leading his few hundred men to battle against the thousands of Midianites? If he wasn’t afraid, he must have been an idiot.

Is faith the absence of doubt or action in spite of doubt?

I have been very much blessed by the writings of Erwin R. Mcmanus (author of many books and pastor of Mosaic). The first book of his that I ever read (An Unstoppable Force) held that to have faith did in no way mean to be without doubt, fear, anxiety, etc. Rather, to have faith meant to trust God in spite of your doubts, fears, anxieties. (If I had my book here, I’d tell you what page number that was from.)

That makes a lot of sense to me, more sense than to think that faith means somehow ignoring the facts.

So, why do we act by faith, then, if there is still doubt?

Maybe some of those great moments of “faith” were actually moments of vast desperation.

I think for the friends who lowered the paralyzed man through the roof (in Luke 5), faith was an act of desperation. I can’t imagine none of them had any doubts about whether Jesus would respond kindly or not. (They just tore about the man’s house, for cryin’ out loud! I’d be seriously doubtful of a kind reception.) But I can believe those men were desperate, clinging to a thread of hope that maybe, just maybe, Jesus would overlook their impertinence, their impatience, their lack of social grace. And maybe, just maybe, he would choose to heal their friend.

I think those men showed great faith, but it was faith in the presence of doubt, not in the absence of it.

What is Faith? (Luke 5:17-26)

Some people have said I had “great faith.” But as I look back on that day, all I know is how desperate we were. It wasn’t a question of faith really; we were just desperate. Desperate and tired.

I remember sitting around Elias’ bed. It was dark inside though the sun streamed to the floor in bright white knifelike rays through the cracks in the thin boards of the walls. The stabbing light seemed to make the rest of the room darker rather than brighter, worse than at night when no light came through. The smell was better than most days, though death and poison filled the air. It was almost a tangible hopelessness, something you could feel, something that weighed on you no matter how much courage you might have had.