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.
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