walk.

   Walk with me. Do not fret about which direction we are heading. I am an expert in wandering and finding the way home. I'm not sure of the time. In fact, I left my clocks at home. Use one foot at a time now. There is no rush.

   What do you hear? Tell me. What is it that jumps into your ears? There are sounds which burrow deeper than that of the buzz of electricity on a hot summer day. There are more powerful thrusts than a car that flashes by. Even those instruments that are made to proclaim a coming approach can be set aside, placed on the shelf and left to befriend the dust. It's simple really. You just have to keep walking.

   Think for a moment. When is the last time you thought about the sound of a clenched fist? How it slowly drops to one's side as if holding back an oncoming avalanche; how it rubs callous upon callous, bone upon bone, knuckle to knuckle as a clasp evolves into a vice grip. Or what of the sound that the penny makes when this grip is released and it meets its old friend, the nickel? It is the same sound one friend might make as he meets an old friend from his childhood. There is contact. Sometimes there are flurries of jumbled words, but always: there is contact. And much as the penny will sit beside the nickel until tossed into the hand of a foreigner, these two jolly good fellows are together until their companionship is swept away as quickly as the sun on a cloudy day. The only difference is that the sun knows how to leave properly. The way some people can run abroad and come back again as if they had never left. But this story is not about the sun. It is about our walk.

   Look down. Look up. Look sideways. You can decide whether or not you like East or West better. I find that the East has a more gentle embrace. Have you noticed anything about your feet? They make sounds. They make two sounds. They might even make a symphony of sounds if you have had any experience in the art of tapping. Hey, the fence on your left is begging to be massaged. Sometimes in my wanderings I walk on the wrong side of the sidewalk. Sometimes, I'll even walk in the street. Mostly, I go where my head tells my feet to follow. They are a bit reluctant to walk. They are used to running. But this story is not about running. Well, maybe a little bit, but not like the sun.

   Take the slip and slide through the sea of passing conversation. It can be good fun, but mother will not approve of the mud. I suppose neither do I. I'd prefer not to have to do the laundry. Sometimes I still act as if my mother is watching me, and I think that most of the time, she is. Hold on a minute. That is a foreign sound. Wait, it is that of your breathing.You had just forgotten how. Humans are so forgetful. One time I forgot... well, never mind.

   Come. Let's wait in line. They say that the conductor of our symphony is quite a gentlemen. They say that the sound of his signature will slowly climb into your heart, take its perch and hoot a good cheer. I would usually oppose. I have a busy schedule. However, I have grown to love the slowness of his music, the way it sways back and forth like a weeping willow. Without worry. Just waiting. Just reaching for the water. I have faith in that tree. I have a feeling that it would fall into the river just to be together.

    I forgot to mention about needing a swimsuit. I suppose that I'm a good paragraph late in mentioning anyhow. Maybe more. It depends if you are one of those whom sweats profusely. Like one might sweat on a blazing hot summer day. The kind of day when the sun comes to beat upon his chest and prove he is the king before retiring back to his home on the other side of the world. But this story is not about the sun. Or about leaving. In fact, it's not even about sounds or music or conducting.

   Walk with me. I'll tell you what it's about on the way home.

say what?

   “Oh dang, I left the keys in my car... with the windows down.” “Why did we decide that a dress shirt was necessary on this scorching hot afternoon?” “You should definitely avoid having taco's for two out of your three meals today. Don't you remember what happened last time?”

   Voices. They are present at almost every moment of our lives. Hopefully yours speak more intelligently than mine. Sometimes they join us and affirm our actions. Other times they rally around us and condemn our intuitions, but if one thing is for certain, they most definitely have an opinion. What. You don't hear voices?

   Some will call it a conscience. Although true, this is a poor definition. Genesis would tell us that we as humanity were intelligently created in the image of God. Romans 8 would tell us that the Holy Spirit indwells a man upon full belief in Jesus. On the other hand, some men will blame the demons inside their head. This can still be appropriate---but is probably giving far too much credit to an unworthy source. 1 Peter 5 warns that the devil roams about as a prowling lion seeking whom he may devour, but how cocky of you to think that he is always seeking you? 

   When is the last time that you changed the world, you Ghandi wannabe?

   This quickly brings us to some stark conclusions about the little friends inside of our heads (oh, just admit it already). 

   When you are struggling, it is most likely a rare occasion that you are being tempted. God doesn't tempt you (James 1), and you have enough junk to think about on your own. How many times do we see Christ going to be tempted in Scripture? Not much. And the enemy had every reason in the world to rain on His parade. But at the same time, if you are a believer, you probably aren't just talking to yourself. Think about it. If God is three, wouldn't He commune amongst Himself?

    If you are a believer, you are most likely communing with the indwelling Spirit inside of you; often times, it may unbeknownst to you. Further, Galatians 5 would tell us that every believer is also still wrestling with his flesh. This brings us to three likely voices:

    1). The voice of the Spirit. 

    2). The voice of the flesh. 

    3). The voice that has to decide between the two. 

   Oh wait. You said you hear voices sometimes?

   This morning in service, as I stood there trying to jam out to a song that I was most certainly unfamiliar with, thoughts popped into my head just like young children that are seeking attention might pop into a room. I had to assess which one needed my time the most. Firstly, came the one whom felt it was fine to just: “Roll with it. Don't try too hard to learn this. After all, it is just a song.” Then came, “Dude, look at that guy worship. Isn't that distracting?” After that came a slow complaint, “Man, why aren't they playing anything that I know.” Fourthly, little boy people pleaser piped in with, “If I raise my hands, will I make the guy next to me feel uncomfortable?” "Will the band think that they are rocking out too hard?"

   Somehow, among the thunderous roar of these childlike thoughts, I was able to hear the still, small voice of the Spirit: “You can only praise one thing at time.”

   I was wily Coyote. I was blazing along, just about to catch that obnoxiously crafty roadrunner when: 'BAM!' 

   Yes, ACME had made an anvil delivery to my face. My dentist was not going to be excited about this package. I guess he's never really excited about any of my packages. Anyways...

   What I am trying to say is: friend, you can only praise one thing at a time. Think about it. You cannot marry two opposing ideas to one another. Either you drive a motorcycle off of a cliff or you do not; you cannot change your mind halfway in the act, nor can you drive your motorcycle only halfway off of the cliff. Gravity simply refuses to allow you grace on that item. So the little voices inside your head? You can only agree with one of them fully.

   This floored me this morning. How often I will speculate to assure myself that I am not obstructing the mood of others in the room versus simply singing praise to an audience of One. So what if I come home dancing? Remember how God scorned David's wife for despising his praise of the Lord? When is the last time you saw a grown man, fully bearded, donning his spear and home from war praising the Lord for who He is. Even reading that text, have you wondered why you can't worship the same way? Let me give you a modern context. When is the last time that your body would not allow you to stop grooving to the grace of Jesus when you got home from work? How come you can give J-Beebs or One Direction the head bang on the drive home? I'm spotting some inconsistency, homeboy.

   You live for an audience of one.

   The ketchup stain that you got on your way to church this morning because there was a 2 for 2 deal at Speedway, and you had to be certain that your stomach would not deter you from paying attention to the message, and it was a really fast stop, and you definitely have the skills to eat and drive; in your mind, that is either the headline story on CNN or a kindred moment among the brotherhood of other questionable decisions that you happen to make all of the time. 

*Okay, breathe.*

   All of these decisions have been replaced by the grace which is fixed at the cross of Christ, if you believe. So you have a choice. Listen to the voice that tells you to run to the bath room with your 'OxiClean' pen and work that stain out like a model good boy, or raise your hands in humble thank you that you have entered into this world with nothing and will exit the same exact same way. 

*One more breath*

   Or you can quickly point out the enormous stain on your pants so that every passerby will know that you know that they know that you both see it, or be broken and humbled at the foot of the cross and worship: regardless of what others may be thinking.

   You live for an audience of one.

Why do you think that He only gave us one voice? Why do you think that we can only truly have the power to impact our present moment? Is 1^st Corinthians 10:31 only for pastors and very obedient home-schoolers? No. Everything you do is for an audience of One. Everything you do is deemed as righteous or not by One. Mercy and grace are extended from the hands of One. Light is shined into the darkness of this world and our evil hearts by One. Are you bright without Him? Do you come to Him only when your flame is dying out, or is He a lamp to your feet and a light to your path at all times?

   I told a good friend that my life is seemingly composed of burning bush moments. It seems as if I should have learned this particular one earlier. Then again, I probably have. But at least in this moment, I can fully praise Him with my one and only voice

Can you say the same?

it is mercy.

   It's been a few moments since I have shared excerpts from my life in the public realm, but I am feeling a burden to do so once again. I plan to post once every week some biblically influenced experience that God is teaching me or a close friend. Some weeks it will be short; some weeks it will be long. Some days you may read and laugh until your sideburns hurt. Other days, you may be offended or brought to a sentimental state that allows nothing but an unleashing of your tear ducts. Some weeks it may be a song. Some weeks it may be a video, but most of the time it will be old fashioned pen and paper (uploaded to the computer) in the form of a short story, poem or simple journal entry. This begins the story of something that I have been speaking of for the past few years; I call it the Altar Project.

   The Altar Project is based primarily upon Exodus 17:15. As His children, God gives us many avenues to place landmarks in history that we can remember or cite as examples to our experiences of Him. I have been fascinated over the past few years with the reality of the immeasurable love of God, how He constantly forgives and teaches us again and again things that we probably should have mastered already. Even reading the old posts in this blog I am amazed to know that I still am struggling with the same evil in my heart.

   This project is simply one more thrust of the sword in the battle to fight sin and live a whole and joyful life. I will seek to highlight both the joys and pains of being a follower of Christ. I hope nothing more than for my stories and experiences to plant seeds of the knowledge of a perfectly satisfying God and Creator. Enjoy.

 It is mercy.

sixty soldiers sailing seas

thirty through tempest traveling

fifteen breaking down the mast

seven live throughout the crash

one was left to paint his thoughts

upon the tattered canvas

He was drifting in a museum of experience; instinctively, he fought the pain away. The searing loss of fellowship is as an eagle which claps its' talons on its prey: it will not let go except for the hope to devour. He was dazed. He sat cross-legged among the wreckage as if to try to bring some symbol of tranquility to the hellish scene around him. All at once, as the storm had so quickly come and gone, he stood upon what was left of the boat and angrily shook his fist in the air. He screamed a ferocious scream which seemed to scare away what was left of the poor weather. Just as quickly, his limbs gave way beneath him as he remembered the recent conquest he had led. He could not keep any posture other than a deranged slump. Could it be that this disaster was self inflicted? He thought he had performed every battle with valiant effort. He relentlessly scanned his thoughts to search for an error to his ways which might give him an answer for why the gods would allow such devastation. He found none.

remembrance of this echelon

was fractional, so it would seem.

for he had lost but half his mind

with every sweeping casualty

a divisible whole was split in two

with every gust that nature blew

now reft from any hope of home

upon the sail the soldier drew

He paced the boat ferociously, stepping over dead and decaying bodies as if they were not indeed piled around him and as plentiful as stalks of corn left after the harvest. He must know why this has happened! How dare the gods not tell him. He had not missed a sacrifice. He had killed over a thousand enemy men, women and children in his short time as leader of the tribe. He had secured the land with the most bountiful ground for offering sacrifice to the gods of the earth. He was entirely perplexed. Perhaps this related to something he done in his childhood. Acting upon this thought, he lurched over body after dead body until he had found a place with suitable space for him to begin recalling the events of his history (for he knew that he could recall them all without any minor infraction or misstep in his remembering). Reminiscing was not a strong suit of the chief, but he recalled even the very beginning of his story as he scribed his life upon what was left of the weathered sail. He was a beautiful child. The women of the village said that he was the most striking infant to have ever been given by mother earth. They were so impressed that they thought he must have come directly from the womb of the earth herself. There near the field, by the old river valley, he was given his name: Vishnu.

propriety, propriety

even the wind won't humble me

the soldier thought and felt in heart

a need for retribution

with the blood of the bodies

proof was drawn of his purity

in his mind, in his mind, in his mind

With his account nearly completed up until the moment of the present, Vishnu stood aloft the mountain of corpses and gazed at the masterpiece he had drawn. Could the author of something so marvelous have any fault found in him? What a tragedy to even think it so! The wind was beginning to stir around him again, but he thought nothing of it. He had now been out to sea long enough to remember the entirety of his life. He was certain that nirvana would grant him the status of being reborn as a god. "Not one fault," he thought. "Not one ill deed." "Why, I might even have stumbled upon divinity unknowingly?" At this moment, he began to dance about the boat hoping to conjure his new found power to control the weather. He began to toss decaying bodies off the edge as if to please himself with a first sacrifice. The boat was stirring. The seas were raging. He thought of nothing more than entering the village and demanding that his worship be had. As the storm began to tear apart the remainder of the shipwreck, he floated above it all as only one of divinity truly could. It was this moment, as he was hurled off the boat, pierced through the broken mast and pinned there to hang as one would on the gallows that he was allured to believe something completely different about himself.

hear ye, hear ye,

no bellman to announce

the chagrin of one bitter soul

it is enough, it will suffice

for all-seeing eyes are fixed upon

the spectacle at sea

the man who sinks so humbly

He wanted to give up the ghost, but his eyes would not let him. They were fixed upon his canvas, and this time in a different light, for what he had written was washed away and replaced as if some magical hand had appeared from the sky and wrote upon the parchment. What had once been a qualifier of a perfect life was now a document of treason. Every line was read except for the end. He strained vigorously for enough breath to finish his testimony, and as the mast came to sink to its end, he read these words:

accept that at your end

you could do nothing with your beginning

or anything in between

for the power of your hands is given

the breathe inside your lungs, a token

from one who holds authority

accept naught but dear mercy

and hold it in your soul

though body is deep beneath

the ocean floor.