Resentment. Can you see it? Can you feel it? You could be forgiven for missing it, for when it is small it looks nearly harmless, innocent even. . .something like a hamster with scales. You know it's not right or natural, but what the heck, it's not going to hurt anyone right?
Maybe at first you'll take it out and pet it. Maybe you'll give it some peanuts or galvanized nails or whatever it is a hamster with scales might eat. What do you know! It likes you. So you decide to let it out of it's cage. . .and what do you know! It follows you around. At first the clacking of it's reptilian paws unnerves you, but you soon learn to ignore it, and before you know it, only the sound of familiar music remains, maybe a Garfunkle or a Dylan.
But turn your head. Where did your scaley friend go? He left. But don't worry because his friend bitterness came to take his place. He's not so nice to look at with his razor sharp barb spines and dull, gray eyes, but hey, you've gotten used to a metal hamster so this can't be much different, right? But guess again. He is different. He's hungrier, so nails and crummpets don't cut it any more. He likes. . .meatier things. . .like your heart, with a side of your soul. He's also angrier and doesn't like to be stroked, he kind of just lurks around in dim corners, waiting for you to look away.
Look again. A looming minotaur with burning eyes. A heap of corpses. . .your own corpse. His name is rage and he is not at all pretty to look at. He knows how to do one thing and that thing is hate. Will you tell him stories? Will you let him meet your parents? He would swallow your stories and gore your parents.
So please, take a sledge and flatten that hamster while you can. Is he dead? Hit him again, make sure he doesn't stir.
Saturday, January 02, 2010
Monday, November 30, 2009
Well, I had fun with this one, that's about all that can be said.
Donovan Stiltwell felt at the top of his class. Early this morning, at a half past seven, it was he himself that strolled down to the five and dime shop to purchase himself a brand fancy new Chapstime wristwatch. The kind with hands and an adjustable strap. There were two time settings. The right time, for those who care to be on time in good time, and the wrong time, for folks who aren't afraid to take the world by the horns and TELL IT WHAT TIME IT IS.
Whistling his way to the front door, Donovan instinctively reached out for the ol' bowler and quickly halted, not THIS day, today was going to be dandy hair day. Quick as a nickle, Donovan flicked a small comb from his breast pocket and a hefty tin of beeswax from the other and, within minutes, had slicked, nicked, and flicked his way into a promising prospect of palpable promotions. Hair firmly in place, he hop-skipped his way down the street towards the leather factory. . .what would his friends think of him now?
Donovan strolled through a flap of plastic that led into the work room and almost bumped into a stoutly man in a plush, otter-fur sweater. "Mornin', Tate" he said.
Tate regained his composure and tipped his umbrella,"Mornin' Donovan, you look to be in a fine wine and dinin' mood this day, what's got you all up on your high horses,".
"Tate, this feelin' I'm in can't just be pincushioned like a raggedy ottoman, it's something that can't really be 'splained easy like. I feel as if I'm a bee on the wind, the shaft of an axe, the thumb of a mitten, you know what I mean? He motioned at an overhead ceiling fan.
"I think so Donovan," Tate replied with a nod, "kind of like when I step out o' the shower to find somebody done placed a dry towel ready for me to dry off with."
Donovan stared blankly at his friend and shook his head, "That ain't at all what I mean Tate, I swear sometimes it's as if a cecropia took up residence in that skull o' yours."
Suddenly Donovan flipped of his bowler and flinged it at Tate with an expert flick of his wrist. Tate barely had time to dive out of the way and he heard the hat embed itself deeply into the doorframe where his head had been moments before. Thinking quickly, he produced several menacing looking throwing knives from his sleeve which he hurled in rapid succession at Donovan who winced painfully as one found it's mark in his shoulder. Growling, he ripped the knife out and broke it in half, then darted at Tate who wasn't quick enough this time to avoid a knee directly into his stomach.
Tate dropped to the floor, gasping for air, "All right, enough my young apprentice, it is clear you have improved." Donovan bowed respectfully at the man as blood pooled on the floor next to him. "It will heal with time, deep wounds build character."
Donovan Stiltwell felt at the top of his class. Early this morning, at a half past seven, it was he himself that strolled down to the five and dime shop to purchase himself a brand fancy new Chapstime wristwatch. The kind with hands and an adjustable strap. There were two time settings. The right time, for those who care to be on time in good time, and the wrong time, for folks who aren't afraid to take the world by the horns and TELL IT WHAT TIME IT IS.
Whistling his way to the front door, Donovan instinctively reached out for the ol' bowler and quickly halted, not THIS day, today was going to be dandy hair day. Quick as a nickle, Donovan flicked a small comb from his breast pocket and a hefty tin of beeswax from the other and, within minutes, had slicked, nicked, and flicked his way into a promising prospect of palpable promotions. Hair firmly in place, he hop-skipped his way down the street towards the leather factory. . .what would his friends think of him now?
Donovan strolled through a flap of plastic that led into the work room and almost bumped into a stoutly man in a plush, otter-fur sweater. "Mornin', Tate" he said.
Tate regained his composure and tipped his umbrella,"Mornin' Donovan, you look to be in a fine wine and dinin' mood this day, what's got you all up on your high horses,".
"Tate, this feelin' I'm in can't just be pincushioned like a raggedy ottoman, it's something that can't really be 'splained easy like. I feel as if I'm a bee on the wind, the shaft of an axe, the thumb of a mitten, you know what I mean? He motioned at an overhead ceiling fan.
"I think so Donovan," Tate replied with a nod, "kind of like when I step out o' the shower to find somebody done placed a dry towel ready for me to dry off with."
Donovan stared blankly at his friend and shook his head, "That ain't at all what I mean Tate, I swear sometimes it's as if a cecropia took up residence in that skull o' yours."
Suddenly Donovan flipped of his bowler and flinged it at Tate with an expert flick of his wrist. Tate barely had time to dive out of the way and he heard the hat embed itself deeply into the doorframe where his head had been moments before. Thinking quickly, he produced several menacing looking throwing knives from his sleeve which he hurled in rapid succession at Donovan who winced painfully as one found it's mark in his shoulder. Growling, he ripped the knife out and broke it in half, then darted at Tate who wasn't quick enough this time to avoid a knee directly into his stomach.
Tate dropped to the floor, gasping for air, "All right, enough my young apprentice, it is clear you have improved." Donovan bowed respectfully at the man as blood pooled on the floor next to him. "It will heal with time, deep wounds build character."
For what it's worth, I'm not proud of this piece, it's an attempt at a birthday story.
Clad only in a cloth hewn from a mighty birch, the barbarian was an imposing figure. Festering, bleeding wounds covered his biceplical figure with the effect only heightening his already fearsome aura. Several arrows had imbedded themselves deeply into his flesh which he tore out scornfully, tossing them aside with equal abandon.
Wading through the waist deep sea of corpses, he strode atop a slight incline in the jagged rock and, lifting his fearsome battle axe into the air, he issued forth a fearsome battle cry. As the last note echoed, a sinister portal the color of pitch appeared suddenly before him, it radiated vileness and reeked of all sin.
The warrior stepped closer and challenged loudly, "I call upon all that is darkness and evil, grant me a demon so powerful, so terrifying, that all my enemies may wish they had never been born and the very heavens shake in it's presence," a bolt of lighting then arked from his upraised weapon into the churning sky.
The portal began to stir and shift until all at once, a small figure emerged in a puff of acrid smoke. Immediately the portal dissapeared and the dark clouds overhead dissapated until the sky was blue and the sun shone all around them.
The barbarian executed a mighty leap in the direction of the figure and slammed his axe down a hairsbreath away from it's face. "I am Ben, the barbarian, I have sacrficed much in bringing you here, stand on your feet demon, and tell me your name."
The quivering figure attempted to get on his feet only to collapse in a heap a few seconds later. It tried this four or five times and only eventually succeded by propping itself against a nearby stump. He looked hopefully at his new master who by now was standing slack-jawed and bewildered by his incredible misfortune. "Daniel," he whined, "Daniel is my name."
Ben mouthed the word Daniel several times before he could finally come up with something to say. "I left my family, traveled many thousands of miles, massacred legions of enemies and finally pledged myself to the dark lord only to be rewarded with this? A three-legged goat-boy named Daniel?" He fell to his knees and cursed loudly into the sky.
The Daniel smiled softly and limped his way over to the broken man. "There, there, Ben, don't give up hope for I have many awesome abilities with which to smite your enemies." He winked, then lost his balance and toppled once more into a nearby hedge. The barbarian raised his eyebrows, then began to slowly back away when a muffled "wait" emerged from the bush, "wait, I have many more tricks." In spite of himself, Shane did stop and look once more toward the mangy demon. "What, what could you possible do that would be even remotely useful to me besides dropping dead so I don't have to look at you anymore."
With a twinkle in his eye, Daniel heaved himself out of the bush and began to set up a small pile of twigs, then, upon finding two sticks of similar length and diameter and using short, brisk strokes, he produced a wisp of smoke and, eventually a flame. "Ta-da!" he said happily, "I can make fire out of nothing!"
Shane paused for a moment, then walked slowly over to the smiling half-goat and bent down next to him. Gently taking Daniel's raggedy tail, he produced a small tinder box from a pouch and, moments later, promptly lit the miserable thing on fire. "Ta-da," he said as the coyote slowly burned away until only the foul smell of burning dog remained.
Happy Birthday Daniel, may you be someday by summoned by a kindlier barbarian.
Clad only in a cloth hewn from a mighty birch, the barbarian was an imposing figure. Festering, bleeding wounds covered his biceplical figure with the effect only heightening his already fearsome aura. Several arrows had imbedded themselves deeply into his flesh which he tore out scornfully, tossing them aside with equal abandon.
Wading through the waist deep sea of corpses, he strode atop a slight incline in the jagged rock and, lifting his fearsome battle axe into the air, he issued forth a fearsome battle cry. As the last note echoed, a sinister portal the color of pitch appeared suddenly before him, it radiated vileness and reeked of all sin.
The warrior stepped closer and challenged loudly, "I call upon all that is darkness and evil, grant me a demon so powerful, so terrifying, that all my enemies may wish they had never been born and the very heavens shake in it's presence," a bolt of lighting then arked from his upraised weapon into the churning sky.
The portal began to stir and shift until all at once, a small figure emerged in a puff of acrid smoke. Immediately the portal dissapeared and the dark clouds overhead dissapated until the sky was blue and the sun shone all around them.
The barbarian executed a mighty leap in the direction of the figure and slammed his axe down a hairsbreath away from it's face. "I am Ben, the barbarian, I have sacrficed much in bringing you here, stand on your feet demon, and tell me your name."
The quivering figure attempted to get on his feet only to collapse in a heap a few seconds later. It tried this four or five times and only eventually succeded by propping itself against a nearby stump. He looked hopefully at his new master who by now was standing slack-jawed and bewildered by his incredible misfortune. "Daniel," he whined, "Daniel is my name."
Ben mouthed the word Daniel several times before he could finally come up with something to say. "I left my family, traveled many thousands of miles, massacred legions of enemies and finally pledged myself to the dark lord only to be rewarded with this? A three-legged goat-boy named Daniel?" He fell to his knees and cursed loudly into the sky.
The Daniel smiled softly and limped his way over to the broken man. "There, there, Ben, don't give up hope for I have many awesome abilities with which to smite your enemies." He winked, then lost his balance and toppled once more into a nearby hedge. The barbarian raised his eyebrows, then began to slowly back away when a muffled "wait" emerged from the bush, "wait, I have many more tricks." In spite of himself, Shane did stop and look once more toward the mangy demon. "What, what could you possible do that would be even remotely useful to me besides dropping dead so I don't have to look at you anymore."
With a twinkle in his eye, Daniel heaved himself out of the bush and began to set up a small pile of twigs, then, upon finding two sticks of similar length and diameter and using short, brisk strokes, he produced a wisp of smoke and, eventually a flame. "Ta-da!" he said happily, "I can make fire out of nothing!"
Shane paused for a moment, then walked slowly over to the smiling half-goat and bent down next to him. Gently taking Daniel's raggedy tail, he produced a small tinder box from a pouch and, moments later, promptly lit the miserable thing on fire. "Ta-da," he said as the coyote slowly burned away until only the foul smell of burning dog remained.
Happy Birthday Daniel, may you be someday by summoned by a kindlier barbarian.
Monday, November 09, 2009
I open my eyes as wide as I can. The world is a blurry mess, a kalaediscope of indistinguishable colors. The voice of Abraham Lincoln whispers that I forgot to put the seat down again and I swear a pale green unicorn just galloped past with two balloons tied to it's tail.
Wasn't there something I needed to do? Put marbles in a tree stump? Consciousness streams in and out and I stumble toward a bright light only to collapse in a stupor after a few, shaky steps. Seemingly simple phrases become impossible projects and I find myself relying on small, somewhat primitive barking sounds to communicate. I'd jump up and down in frustration but I have a suspicion the ground would give out when I landed. . .and I'm not sure I remember how to be frustrated.
Suddenly, a pungent waft of something beautiful passes under my nose and, through the gremlins asking me to take them to the zoo, I am able to make out a familiar dripping sound and stumble toward my salvation. Before me stands an ivory pitcher into which a curious yet somehow appealing black substance dribbles from what appears to be a bag of fur tied up neatly with twine.
My hands work independently. They reach for the pitcher and lift it toward my mouth. As the substance fills my senses, my eyes clear and I am standing in my kitchen looking down at my coffee stained shirt.
I am the proud father of an eleven day old girl.
Wasn't there something I needed to do? Put marbles in a tree stump? Consciousness streams in and out and I stumble toward a bright light only to collapse in a stupor after a few, shaky steps. Seemingly simple phrases become impossible projects and I find myself relying on small, somewhat primitive barking sounds to communicate. I'd jump up and down in frustration but I have a suspicion the ground would give out when I landed. . .and I'm not sure I remember how to be frustrated.
Suddenly, a pungent waft of something beautiful passes under my nose and, through the gremlins asking me to take them to the zoo, I am able to make out a familiar dripping sound and stumble toward my salvation. Before me stands an ivory pitcher into which a curious yet somehow appealing black substance dribbles from what appears to be a bag of fur tied up neatly with twine.
My hands work independently. They reach for the pitcher and lift it toward my mouth. As the substance fills my senses, my eyes clear and I am standing in my kitchen looking down at my coffee stained shirt.
I am the proud father of an eleven day old girl.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Take three with water.
Welcome all.
Blow the dust off a chair, grab a marmalade scone, and gather in close.
Today is tunic day folks. That's right, it's time to dig out that old tunic you've been reserving for a possible renaissance revival, put it on, and wear it with pride. Celebrate your tunic, give it kind words and be careful of the mustard please because tunic's don't respond well to a quick tumble in the washing machine. Feel the wind as it blows through the loosely sewn burlap, savour the cold air against your bare skin. Do you feel alive? Or do you just feel itchy.
Whatever, just be glad you can feel.
Does anyone remember leprosy? It cause's nerve damage in the arms and legs which in itself is not a huge problem, however, the problem occurs when you've just put your effectively dead hand on a red hot burner as you attempt to reach up for that last jar of pickles on the top shelf of your cupboard. You don't even realize what has happened until you see your hand fire. Do you still feel like a pickle now?
Can you smell the leaves? Can you feel the earth? Can you breathe? Tunic day aside, these are supernatural privileges folks! Every day we can do these things (and if it's not your habit to bend down occasionally and smell the earth, I highly recommend it) and thank God for allowing us to live another day to His glory. To see the beauty of the earth, to kiss our wives, to feel the abrasiveness of a tunic.
Blow the dust off a chair, grab a marmalade scone, and gather in close.
Today is tunic day folks. That's right, it's time to dig out that old tunic you've been reserving for a possible renaissance revival, put it on, and wear it with pride. Celebrate your tunic, give it kind words and be careful of the mustard please because tunic's don't respond well to a quick tumble in the washing machine. Feel the wind as it blows through the loosely sewn burlap, savour the cold air against your bare skin. Do you feel alive? Or do you just feel itchy.
Whatever, just be glad you can feel.
Does anyone remember leprosy? It cause's nerve damage in the arms and legs which in itself is not a huge problem, however, the problem occurs when you've just put your effectively dead hand on a red hot burner as you attempt to reach up for that last jar of pickles on the top shelf of your cupboard. You don't even realize what has happened until you see your hand fire. Do you still feel like a pickle now?
Can you smell the leaves? Can you feel the earth? Can you breathe? Tunic day aside, these are supernatural privileges folks! Every day we can do these things (and if it's not your habit to bend down occasionally and smell the earth, I highly recommend it) and thank God for allowing us to live another day to His glory. To see the beauty of the earth, to kiss our wives, to feel the abrasiveness of a tunic.
Friday, March 20, 2009
So who's tired of isolated lives, daunting mortages, and jobs that don't allow us to ever connect with anyones outside our houses.
If you answered yes to any of the above then we are probably on the same page.
About four years ago now I stumbled on Shaine Claiborne's book " The Irresistible Revoluion," I have read it several times since and, while certainly not agreeing with everything in the book, still think the basic vision he outlines makes alot of sense.
Claiborne is part of a what is called an intentional community called 'the simple way' located in of the poorest sections in Philidelphia. It is made up of number of like minded individuals who hae given up the american dream and replaced it with a desire to reach other people with the love of Jesus, being his hands and feet in an otherwise abandoned section of America's empire. They share meals, finances, vehicles, wisdom, friendship and, well, pretty much everything! From community gardens to garages to camps for kids. . .together they have created something out of nothing.
This is so contrary to our minds isn't it? We want our own homes, our own money, our own lives with little sections a day or two a week where other people can come in. . .but please don't stay too long! We live lives beyond our means because we live a society that says this is normal. We live isolated lives consisting of jobs, meals, and maybe some brief time with family. Where is the visible church? Do people see and know it by our love for one another?
I've been secretly wanting to be involved in something like this for awhile now, secretly because in the past, reception has usually not been altogether positive. People get strange ideas about communes, kool-aid, and god knows what else. To be honest I more Christians are actually interested but maybe are not ready for such a big step.
My wife and I are pregnant and, God willing, when out child comes, I don't want to bring him up with the notion that isolation is a virtue. Independence is a virtue. Selfishness is a virtue. But rather into the vital practice of community, sacrifice, hospitality and ultimately, a more abundant life.
"Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another, and so much more as you see the day approaching." (Hebrews 10:25)."
If you answered yes to any of the above then we are probably on the same page.
About four years ago now I stumbled on Shaine Claiborne's book " The Irresistible Revoluion," I have read it several times since and, while certainly not agreeing with everything in the book, still think the basic vision he outlines makes alot of sense.
Claiborne is part of a what is called an intentional community called 'the simple way' located in of the poorest sections in Philidelphia. It is made up of number of like minded individuals who hae given up the american dream and replaced it with a desire to reach other people with the love of Jesus, being his hands and feet in an otherwise abandoned section of America's empire. They share meals, finances, vehicles, wisdom, friendship and, well, pretty much everything! From community gardens to garages to camps for kids. . .together they have created something out of nothing.
This is so contrary to our minds isn't it? We want our own homes, our own money, our own lives with little sections a day or two a week where other people can come in. . .but please don't stay too long! We live lives beyond our means because we live a society that says this is normal. We live isolated lives consisting of jobs, meals, and maybe some brief time with family. Where is the visible church? Do people see and know it by our love for one another?
I've been secretly wanting to be involved in something like this for awhile now, secretly because in the past, reception has usually not been altogether positive. People get strange ideas about communes, kool-aid, and god knows what else. To be honest I more Christians are actually interested but maybe are not ready for such a big step.
My wife and I are pregnant and, God willing, when out child comes, I don't want to bring him up with the notion that isolation is a virtue. Independence is a virtue. Selfishness is a virtue. But rather into the vital practice of community, sacrifice, hospitality and ultimately, a more abundant life.
"Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another, and so much more as you see the day approaching." (Hebrews 10:25)."
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Elements of a healthy garden.
If you want a nice garden that doesn't kill children and nice animals, you might consider the following
Building a healthy soil, this may include:
-The frequent addition of organic matter (humus) including compost, manure, and the use of cover crops (crops such as winter rye and clover that are planted for the soul purpose of tilling under.)
-Ensuring a regular crop rotation is applied (not planting potatoes two years in a row for example), this discourages the build up of pests and diseases and encourages a balanced consumption of soil nutrients.
-Removing fertilizers altogether. Rich, healthy, soil does not require fertilization, in fact plants that depend on their regular application are weaker and tend to be more prone to disease. The exception is the use of "compost tea," which is the runoff from your home compost pile.
Maintaining diversity within the garden:
The larger the range of plants in your garden, the less likely it will be that a certain pest rises up to the point of declaring genocide. A healthy garden will contain a roughly equal portion of both pests and predators.
Yes, you may find aphids on your nasturtiams, hornworms on your tomatoes, and slugs on your hostas, but spray for these and you'll also kill the ladybugs that eat the aphids, the tobbacco wasp that lays it's eggs on the hornworm, and the frog which eats the slugs (frogs are especially sensitive to pesticides.
You may not have the most spotless leaves in town, but you'll be able to rest easy knowing your garden is a safe place for both creature and human.
Use native plants wherever possible:
Native plants are those that belong to this land. They are able to better withstand cold weather, drought, disease, and pests because they have been created to do so in a specific area.
That tea rose never seems to come up after a long, cold winter? Try replacing it with an equally beautiful native plant such as the wild lupine or purple coneflower. Or how about that spot in your yard that just gets a full eight hours of blazing sun, frying your every attempt at a display? Try sowing some swaths of black eyed susan, aster, or goldenrod. These plants will thrive almost anywhere and bring color and life to an otherwise water-consuming area.
Many insects sole source of food comes from native plants as well. An example can be seen in the monarch butterfly larva as they rely exclusively on the native milkweed for sustanance.
You can still have a beautiful garden this summer and following these easy steps may be a good way to start.
hugs,
ben
Building a healthy soil, this may include:
-The frequent addition of organic matter (humus) including compost, manure, and the use of cover crops (crops such as winter rye and clover that are planted for the soul purpose of tilling under.)
-Ensuring a regular crop rotation is applied (not planting potatoes two years in a row for example), this discourages the build up of pests and diseases and encourages a balanced consumption of soil nutrients.
-Removing fertilizers altogether. Rich, healthy, soil does not require fertilization, in fact plants that depend on their regular application are weaker and tend to be more prone to disease. The exception is the use of "compost tea," which is the runoff from your home compost pile.
Maintaining diversity within the garden:
The larger the range of plants in your garden, the less likely it will be that a certain pest rises up to the point of declaring genocide. A healthy garden will contain a roughly equal portion of both pests and predators.
Yes, you may find aphids on your nasturtiams, hornworms on your tomatoes, and slugs on your hostas, but spray for these and you'll also kill the ladybugs that eat the aphids, the tobbacco wasp that lays it's eggs on the hornworm, and the frog which eats the slugs (frogs are especially sensitive to pesticides.
You may not have the most spotless leaves in town, but you'll be able to rest easy knowing your garden is a safe place for both creature and human.
Use native plants wherever possible:
Native plants are those that belong to this land. They are able to better withstand cold weather, drought, disease, and pests because they have been created to do so in a specific area.
That tea rose never seems to come up after a long, cold winter? Try replacing it with an equally beautiful native plant such as the wild lupine or purple coneflower. Or how about that spot in your yard that just gets a full eight hours of blazing sun, frying your every attempt at a display? Try sowing some swaths of black eyed susan, aster, or goldenrod. These plants will thrive almost anywhere and bring color and life to an otherwise water-consuming area.Many insects sole source of food comes from native plants as well. An example can be seen in the monarch butterfly larva as they rely exclusively on the native milkweed for sustanance.
You can still have a beautiful garden this summer and following these easy steps may be a good way to start.
hugs,
ben
Sunday, February 08, 2009
'THERE'S PROBABLY NO GOD... NOW STOP WORRYING AND ENJOY YOUR LIFE'
No doubt you've heard of the recent campaign. Hundreds of buses accross England, Scotland and Wales in the upcoming months will be plastered with the above message in an attempt to "encouraged people to enjoy life instead of worrying about what happens afterwards." The project is inspired by none other then Richard Dawkins.
I find this statement intruiging on a number of levels. We are encouraged to enjoy our life, the implication being that a belief in God is irreconciliable with enjoyment. I am not sure who to blame for this prevading misconception. Have we as followers of Jesus neglected to radiate joy to those around us? Do we worry to much?
We are told that once God is forgotten, humanity can be free once again to embrace "life". . .yet what is life without God? How can we forget the One who holds up every natural law, every element, every sense of order, decency, and common grace in this present world. In this reasoning, the pilot, to truly be free, must forget about the plane he is flying. And he would be free of course. . .free to plummet straight to earth in a firery, avionic meteor.
And. .probably no God? Really? "There's probably no venomous snakes at the bottom of that dark pit, so stop worrying and just jump in." Even from a purely secular standpoint, this seems a pretty tenuous position to hold. There's probably no Judge, no hell, no accountability at the end of our life. . .probably? Do you really want to wait and see? I can tell you definately, there is a death, and we all better be darn sure about where we're going afterwards.
I am still not really sure what the end goal of this message really is? Is it really to rally the peoples of the earth under the banner of optimistic agnosticism? Or is it something more sinister, our dark foe disguised as an innocent campaign designed to distract people from the really important questions. To wave away God as not only irrelevant, but actually as a hinderance to a happier life.
Let me assure you friends, this is just another battle in the larger war. I can say without qualification that this campaign will not end with the discounting of Christianity, no more then when Friedrich Nietzsche proclaimed "God is dead." The gates of hell, though imposing, can go no further than God allows. Onward Christian soldier.
No doubt you've heard of the recent campaign. Hundreds of buses accross England, Scotland and Wales in the upcoming months will be plastered with the above message in an attempt to "encouraged people to enjoy life instead of worrying about what happens afterwards." The project is inspired by none other then Richard Dawkins.
I find this statement intruiging on a number of levels. We are encouraged to enjoy our life, the implication being that a belief in God is irreconciliable with enjoyment. I am not sure who to blame for this prevading misconception. Have we as followers of Jesus neglected to radiate joy to those around us? Do we worry to much?
We are told that once God is forgotten, humanity can be free once again to embrace "life". . .yet what is life without God? How can we forget the One who holds up every natural law, every element, every sense of order, decency, and common grace in this present world. In this reasoning, the pilot, to truly be free, must forget about the plane he is flying. And he would be free of course. . .free to plummet straight to earth in a firery, avionic meteor.
And. .probably no God? Really? "There's probably no venomous snakes at the bottom of that dark pit, so stop worrying and just jump in." Even from a purely secular standpoint, this seems a pretty tenuous position to hold. There's probably no Judge, no hell, no accountability at the end of our life. . .probably? Do you really want to wait and see? I can tell you definately, there is a death, and we all better be darn sure about where we're going afterwards.
I am still not really sure what the end goal of this message really is? Is it really to rally the peoples of the earth under the banner of optimistic agnosticism? Or is it something more sinister, our dark foe disguised as an innocent campaign designed to distract people from the really important questions. To wave away God as not only irrelevant, but actually as a hinderance to a happier life.
Let me assure you friends, this is just another battle in the larger war. I can say without qualification that this campaign will not end with the discounting of Christianity, no more then when Friedrich Nietzsche proclaimed "God is dead." The gates of hell, though imposing, can go no further than God allows. Onward Christian soldier.
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