Vol II: #59 Pure Theology

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My heart is often sick when I listen to people discuss matters of doctrine or theology. The illness begins when I hear an oft repeated phrase, one that has echoed throughout Christianity, “You can’t be a Christian if…” What a disease. What a plague. For, there is nothing more Christian than judging the hearts and minds of our fellow Christians. I’m guilty and so are you. Lord, help us.

The saddest part of Christian history - among many candidates- is how we persecute each other. It’s one of the weeds the Lord allowed to blossom in His church. And, it’s proof our Lord cares less about perfect theology and doctrine than we do. Or, it demonstrates His mercy. That in our false beliefs He still covers our mistakes. Either way, He is full of compassion and grace for us, His self-righteous kids.

Whatever we believe and live, there is one question more important than the rest- more important than baptism or prophecy or the roll of an evangelist or who is qualified to lead. The greatest question we must answer is who do we say He is? Because everything good depends on the answer. HE is the Christ, the anointed, the Holy One, the Son of God. This is what our lives are built on. This is the foundation of the Church, that His word is good and true. And, it’s a truth we must encounter through knowing Him. When we know His voice, we know He is good. That we are good and He loves us. All the eloquent scripture becomes alive and we find ourselves.

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Abstract: Matthew 16:16

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At some point, the words on the page must rise from their home. 

The Word must become more than words,

The verses and quotes no longer flat or dry. 

For great as the words are, our Father alone satisfies our hunger and makes the heart drunk with hope. 

We can never know the Christ in two dimensions only,

But it every way possible.

This is our great opportunity,

To dive into His depths and discover this Messiah,

The God of love and glory. 

Then, let us be as Peter: Sit. Listen. And know He is good. 

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Vol II: #58 The Courage of Stephen

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For reasons I can’t explain I’ve thought a lot about Stephen this year- the first martyr. The Bible says he was a righteous man initially tasked with feeding the poor. He fed the poor and much more. He also performed “signs and wonders.” Like all good Christians, Stephen was found to be at odds with the non-believing Jews. They said he preached about the destruction of the temple and rebellion against the laws of Moses. Standing before a Council, Stephen gave his defense. I assume he thought he could wow them with his understanding of the Torah. He was wrong.

Our hero didn’t help himself when he called the Council “stiff-necked” and “uncircumcised of heart.” If I know anything about New Testament, I do not want to stand before a Jewish Council. It doesn’t end well. Jesus was crucified (who remained silent.) Peter was flogged, as were others. Paul spent so much time in front of various Councils, they should’ve given him a guest pass to use the back exit. My guess is Stephen hurt his cause by insulting his accusers. Read the room buddy, am I right? Poor guy.

The idea of martyrdom is stark and unkind. Today we become heroes for simply appealing to our tribe in the face of persecution…like being forced to wear a mask. Gimme a break. What Stephen did he did alone, without camera phones or instant celebrity status. He made his defense of faith and God with the knowledge of what was to come. (Thankfully, Paul was a witness to the event and was able to add it to his account in Acts.) What a boss. What an example of courage. It’s a type of bravery I want. And when I say I wish I had his courage, I’m not wishing to be martyred. I’m saying I want to stand when I know I’m going to lose.

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Vol II: #57 Word Of Our Testimony

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This week felt like a storm. At times, it raged and blew and I was covered in darkness. And still, in other moments, my week was refreshing and a welcome break from the norm. One particular highlight I will share is time I took to read though some old blog posts. The Lord is good to me all the time- when I’m stubborn and unkind, when I’m proud or insecure, and when I’m content and grateful. He is a wonderful cliche.

What I’m most grateful for is how this blog became a living document of my walk with the Lord. It’s ugly and beautiful, sometimes well written, and occasionally arrogant. It’s honest and admittedly in need of editing. And yes, I want to pull down a few posts- mainly to protect myself. But I won’t. Walk In The Woods is my testimony, which has power. Who will access this power? I don’t know. Maybe it’s just for me. The Lord knows I need reminding of who He is and what we’ve done together.

My blog is also a gift to myself. It’s worth attending to as part of my life and self-expression. When I began to write in July of 2020, I didn’t know I would labor and love this process as much as I do. And, I’m thankful it’s what the Lord told me to do. He knows me better than I know myself, so whatever He wills for me is better than my will for me. This blog is a record to prove that point.

“And they overcame him because of the blood of the Lamb and because of the word of their testimony, and they did not love their life even when faced with death.”

- Revelation 12:11 NASB

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Abstract: Damn These Boxes

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Aimlessly surfing,

from one page to another,

all the same stories and faces,

little hope and no love to be found.

War, injustices, and everyone is pissed off.

Time to unplug, to sit and listen,

for the voice of Hope, the one made of Love.

Damn these boxes.

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Abstract: He Remains

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In the shadows sat the chocolate colored dog,

and it shivered as if cold and alone.

Though the door was unlocked and open wide,

he remained chained to the comfort of the furthest dark corner.

Fed and warm, this animal suffered from pain not obvious or impending.

His new master waited with an open hand,

and whispered words of love and affection.

Tail tucked between his skinny back legs,

the canine whimpered, unbelieving and scared.

The master remained.

Though the hurting animal punished his new master for the sins of the old,

He remained.

The new is not like the old,

He remains.

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Abstract: Just A Man

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I cried when Prince died,

and sobbed when I saw the gut-wrenching news about Tony.

And when General Powell passed on, I hung my head.

Nearly all my heroes are dead.

Maybe I’m too old or too proud to prop any man up,

higher than a man should be,

but only a few remain,

those who hold my wonder and stir excitement in my veins.

Today, I sat feet away from a man they call Poppa Bill,

and listened as he answered earnest questions from earnest hearts,

but his presence did not stir any of my own.

He’s just a man, as any other.

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Vol II: #56 Drawings Updated

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My website has limped along since July of 2021, a year after posting over 300 blog posts and poems. This will be just my 56th blog post which puts me on track to publish about a third of the content from the previous year. It is not a bothersome fact. Life and the Lord demanded my attention and I do not regret attending to it or Him. Ever. Regardless, I pay for the pleasure of posting my thoughts and views, and so I endeavor to make the most my digital home.

When school ends in early May, I will ramp up my posts including…drawings! (You may find my latest posts at this LINK.) Yes, drawings and more drawings to come. I’m thrilled. Victory in this area of my life is long time in the making, and is an absolute gift from the Lord.

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Abstract: River

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I am a River,

Breaking and diving,

always churning through the rocks and weeds and dry places.

My twists and turns like eternal scars,

a record of where I’ve been.

I am a full of life.

What I hide beneath the surface is meant for those willing to pull up a chair, cast a line,

and suffer patience.

As with all great things,

I am worth the wait.

He’s my source, my forever spring,

or else I will run dry,

self-loathing and desperate,

with anger for everyone, but especially me.

I am a force,

graced with power and purpose,

that no man may define.

For I remain un-damned,

my energy yet untamed behind man made walls,

focused to their end.

I am a River.

I am me,

A force and history of what Faith can be.

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Vol II: #55 No Lie Is Worth Being Separated

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This week, in a conversation with friends, I heard my roommate say it was coronavirus that killed his father. This verdict is true only as part of a larger whole truth. And I was left to wonder. Was it a tactful or blind response? My roommate’s father was diagnosed with blockages around his heart in mid-December of 2020. Those blockages required immediate by-pass surgery only a week before Christmas. Unfortunately, Mr. Roommate’s father was back in the hospital by Christmas night. Two weeks later, he died.

Was coronavirus a contributing factor? Yes. But, Mr. Roommate’s father was in terrible health due to a history of poor health choices. He ate low-nutrition carbs, fried meats, and drank large quantities of wine and brown liquor. As if that wasn’t enough, I’m fairly certain the man never exercised or ventured outside for longer than it takes to walk to his car from the house or house to the car. Everything about his lifestyle made him a prime candidate for heart disease.

I reiterate my confusion. Was my roommate trying to turn a complicated story into a simple answer? Perhaps. But, I don’t think so. Given previous conversations, my assumption is coronavirus is an easy villain to blame. It’s a monster he can’t control, and requires no responsibility on his part. Should he admit his father’s fault, my roommate would be required to examine his lifestyle- a task he is unwilling to do at the moment.

If I were you I’d wonder why I bothered to write this. For starters, no one reads this blog. The few who do are trust worthy. Secondly, this is my blog. I will discuss what I please. And I can take down whatever post I like or delete them.

My final reason for writing this blog is to examine the blind spots in my heart. I want to ask the questions. What do I believe about my life that is an utter lie? What is obvious to everyone else, but not to me? For now, I do not know. All I know is I do not want to live my life propped up by false narratives, walls I put up to protect myself from the truth. I see how lies keep my roommate (and others I know) in the dark. The darkness foster’s resentment and depression and pulls us from the Lord. And no lie is worth being separated from the Father and His kind heart.

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Abstract: Too Wise To Say No

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He breathed into us,

a little gift of Himself,

forever locked deep in the ventricles of each and every person.

Through corruption and invention,

wars and wisdom,

It’s still there.

Buried under our fears and experience.

We can’t kill it, because we can’t harm what is His.

We can ignore and relegate that token,

beneath our responsibilities and layers of maturity,

listening to all the voices designed to shape us into nothing,

letting go of the child He always is.

Yes, we choose slow paths to deaths door,

Enslaved to the seasons and demands.

Take heart, or rather,

grab your chest and feel the rhythm still at work in your veins.

Our Father’s goodness remains.

What He gives, He never steals back,

And all that was once good, can be made good again.

You are not too old,

too broken,

too stupid or ugly,

Not too poor, uneducated,

or unsophisticated.

There is no sin of your past,

no guilt unsaid,

That keeps us from Him and the gifts He gave us,

back in the beginning,

before we were too wise to say no.

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Vol II: #54 Each & Every Time

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I sat in my ill-padded green chair and scribbled impressions in my sketch pad. My drawings tried to capture the zealous energy bouncing off the drab concrete walls. In combination with shouts and flailing bodies, it was a chaotic but not uncommon scene at BSSM. These moments are filled with anticipation and expectation, and I assume people encounter Jesus in these meetings. And if they do, it matters not if the encounter is a slight boost to get them through the evening or a life-changing exchange of faith for pain.

For my part, I do not encounter the Lord in such ways. The God I know is gentle and kind and quiet. His hand is always open and His commands sound like invitations. I am loved in His arms and always safe. I know my Father and He leads me.

After six months, with less than two to go, one more ugly fact remains unburied. Some religious professionals think they know best for the rest of us. And, they will likely never understand me. I don’t jump when they say jump or fall over myself at the sight of Bill Johnson. My age, experience, and faith have produced confidence in my ability to hear and respond to the Holy Spirit without the input of “leadership.” My external behavior is often weighed and misjudged. I find humor in these misunderstandings. They preach about being strong, bold, and courageous, yet do not recognize it when they see it. They believe courage is shouting the gospel on an airplane. I think it’s following the Holy Spirit.

To this last point, one of my revival group pastors totally shit on me during our meeting this evening. She judged the look on my face- which she deemed to be troublesome- and decided to interrupt my moment with the Lord. (And what a sweet moment it was.) From what I could make out between shouts and songs, she believed I needed to join in the human circus. I disagreed. My attempts to explain my perspective fell on deaf ears and I left soon after.

Since my retreat from the drab gray room, I’ve argued with Sarah and myself over the last six hours…in my head. These imaginary exchanges include tact, anger, outrage, and frustration. The most simple truth is I feel attacked. Belittled even. I want to defend myself and push her away. The end is months away, and my only goal is to finish. I had hoped to stroll without incident down the final stretch. Unfortunately, the enemy is not going to relent in his plan to turn me against the church.

I believe Ms. Sarah was used to get at me, at my most vulnerable spot. So, I forgive her. She didn’t know what she was doing. To hold her feet to the flames would only tie a rock around my heart and sink it into the depths of resentment and shame. I choose to love her even in her immature approach to our conversation. How many people have and will endure my immaturity and pride? More importantly, how much more has the Lord forgiven me? Each and every time.

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