This post is being penned in a sea of sorrow. Somehow, the words to express my fear and shame for the actions of men who claim murder "in the name of religion" are far from me. For the first time since the Turkish Republic was founded in 1997, Christians have become martyrs. The chilling thing to note is that this will not be the last time we hear of these gruesome tales.
Please pray for everyone involved. We have been told "They will know us by our love." Please pray that is true and that we, as Christians, will not rush to take up whip and chain against a religion that is already confused and lost in a state of rebellion to the One True God.
Father, we look for mercy where there should not be any, knowing full well that Yours is a plan well beyond understanding. We do not look for clarity, but for peace. Further, we pray for the families of the killers, that they might not take joy in the death of others, but that You, in Your Divine Light, might make them vessels for Your Holy Kingdom. Affect them, God; quicken them.
God, if You so will it, we pray that Your judgement might come down with the weight of Your Mighty Right Hand upon the oppressors of Your People. Save us, God, from the distribution of the wicked. We pray for the Christians in the region, that You might put out Your Hand of Protection and hedge them in. Spare their lives, God, in Your goodness.
To find the original story, please go here: http://www.compassdirect.org/en/display.php?page=news&lang=en&length=long&idelement=4836
4.27.2007
4.19.2007
The Letdown
It has been a few days since my last post, but this little nugget is about the event on Sunday.
We got to the cafe right around 7, I signed in, gave a copy of my writings to Amy -- the organizer -- and began the long wait until I could get on stage and spit a few verses. (That's ghetto for "say a few poems" for all of you ebonics-illiterate types.) Ryan and Beth were with me, so we all sat up front, waiting. My stomach was in my mouth, as there were about 200 people there. The venue grew so large we had to move to the theater adjacent to the cafe. After about 10 minutes I realized I was not anxious, but excited to drop some knowledge on so many people.
I had two peices in mind. One is on the beauty in grafitti, and the second is a response that defends the clergy. (The original work is called Go_'s Work, by Talaam Acey. I think you can pick it up on iTunes. He posits the idea that modern-poets are closer to God than those in His service. Take a listen.)
Anyway, we waited. And waited. And waited. The people there ranged dramatically in talent. After a while, we were told they didn't have room for me, though more people continued to go up and share. I felt letdown, as though the organizers were telling me my words were worthless.
Dont get me wrong. I know they are not. I've been given a great gift and I know it will be used for the Good of the Kingdom but in that very moment I wanted to bellow my poetry at the top of my lungs and pierce the ears of all who came with my quick wit, wordplay and deep knowledge of the Spirit and the written word.
But needless to say, we left the theatre when it was all over and I was quiet. Ryan and Beth asked if I was ok and I, in all honesty, let out the aggression that was pent up inside of me in a healthy, righteous way. I wanted to cry. I nearly did and I didnt care about it one way or another. On the car ride home, Ryan and Beth listened to my graffiti piece and gave comments.
I am glad they always have my back. Their encouragement meant, and means, a lot.
We got to the cafe right around 7, I signed in, gave a copy of my writings to Amy -- the organizer -- and began the long wait until I could get on stage and spit a few verses. (That's ghetto for "say a few poems" for all of you ebonics-illiterate types.) Ryan and Beth were with me, so we all sat up front, waiting. My stomach was in my mouth, as there were about 200 people there. The venue grew so large we had to move to the theater adjacent to the cafe. After about 10 minutes I realized I was not anxious, but excited to drop some knowledge on so many people.
I had two peices in mind. One is on the beauty in grafitti, and the second is a response that defends the clergy. (The original work is called Go_'s Work, by Talaam Acey. I think you can pick it up on iTunes. He posits the idea that modern-poets are closer to God than those in His service. Take a listen.)
Anyway, we waited. And waited. And waited. The people there ranged dramatically in talent. After a while, we were told they didn't have room for me, though more people continued to go up and share. I felt letdown, as though the organizers were telling me my words were worthless.
Dont get me wrong. I know they are not. I've been given a great gift and I know it will be used for the Good of the Kingdom but in that very moment I wanted to bellow my poetry at the top of my lungs and pierce the ears of all who came with my quick wit, wordplay and deep knowledge of the Spirit and the written word.
But needless to say, we left the theatre when it was all over and I was quiet. Ryan and Beth asked if I was ok and I, in all honesty, let out the aggression that was pent up inside of me in a healthy, righteous way. I wanted to cry. I nearly did and I didnt care about it one way or another. On the car ride home, Ryan and Beth listened to my graffiti piece and gave comments.
I am glad they always have my back. Their encouragement meant, and means, a lot.
4.12.2007
This Coming Sunday
I have a busy weekend ahead of me with Ryan and Beth, Matt and Niki coming down. I am doing a lot of work for hula as well, so I don't plan on having much in the way of free time. However! There is an open mic night at the cafe my church owns (it is adjacent to the building) and I think I am going to go, drop a few verses and check out the talent. If anyone is in the LA area, feel free to go. I will be doing 2 pieces, I think: one on graffitti and its influence on pop-culture, and another in response to a poem I heard that said poets are closer to God than the modern clergy. There is no cover or whatever. Just good people edifying others in words, song, etc. Here is a copy of the flier:
The cafe is part of Oasis Christian Center, located one block west of Highland on La Brea. Any questions? Hit me up. This shindig starts at 7p on Sunday.
The cafe is part of Oasis Christian Center, located one block west of Highland on La Brea. Any questions? Hit me up. This shindig starts at 7p on Sunday.
4.11.2007
When I Was Small...
This post is for Aziner, who asked me to expand on something noted in a comment.
I love and loathe the smell of diesel gasoline. When I was small, 9 actually, we were living in a rundown, dilapidated home in Camden, NJ. Honestly, I do not remember the sun ever shining, but found a continual gray layer of soot, or something hanging about. Maybe it is just in my mind, but even the day we waged war with our "super-soaker 35s," I cannot recall the sunlight. We were a large family, 6 of us including my mother, and we shared the home with another family, they being the primary owners.
The things I remember from that house are like a multitude of shadows against the nape of my neck: rats in the kitchen, what seemed like thousands of black, plastic trash bags full of dirty, mildew-ridden clothes, a pot-bellied stove to keep us warm at night as we four children huddled onto the pull-out couch and slept abreast of one another, a very leaky roof and the creak of an old floor beneath my little feet. My father lived an hour away in a beach house with his girlfriend at the time; when we saw him on the weekends, it was like sanctuary.
Imagaine our surprise when my mother told us we were moving to California. The first time she said it, we were astonished and overcome with joy. We got pulled out of school, packed our bags and.... nothing happened. We stayed at home. We waited and watched and fell silent in letdown. It happened this way three times. Each time we went back to school, I fought to gain the respect I once had, before the California Dream had taken my petty life and wrung from it the hope of a boy.
Then, in the Spring of 1991, my mother said it the fourth time. "We're moving to California." My older sister laughed. I smirked. We giggled and thought to ourselves, "yeah right." The next day, we came home to my mother waving Greyhound tickets in her hand. They went from Camden, NJ to Anaheim, CA with 15 stops in between. The trek was going to take 3 1/2 days and we were leaving late that night. For the remainder of the day, we packed up our meager belongings, throwing things away and giving up toys we had spent the entirety of our young lives accumulating. I gave away all of my baseball cards, with the exception of some of my favorites, tucked between the pages of a book I read quite often: Hatchet by Gary Paulsen.
That night, we stood bundled up and shivering in the darkness. The man we lived with, whose name I cannot even now recall, pulled us up to the bus-stop and drove away in silence. There were no long good-byes. Only hope. And fear. And this crazy idea in the head of my not-so-sober mother. We never told my dad we were leaving.
The next three days were filled with bumps in the road, very little sleep and vacant eyes looking out of dirty windows. I can recall the smell of diesel gasoline at every single stop, the motor running and headlights on. The horribly cramped bathrooms. Changing my little brother, who was only 14 months at the time, on the seats of the bus. The silver, metal TVs nailed to the chairs in the lobbies. We pretending to watch them, when, in reality we could not afford it. Noticing how the telephone company changed now and again at the pay phones along the road. Gazing at the box that said "Maile Freil. Anaheim, CA" We didn't even have an address. I can recount to you the men my mom rode along-side of, their crisp and gnarled faces, their slurred words in the darkness, the fear of my sisters next to me.
Even then, when I was so young, I was given this.... responsibility. My kid brother Keoki is only 11 months younger than myself and I can remember encouraging him to move forward, to board the bus, to eat his food, to drink water. My mother relied on me and Pua to keep everyone in order, to prepare the make-shift meals, to be on time. I was this Lord Protector. It was more than a side-kick role with my sister. We were partners. Parents.
When we rolled into CA, my uncle was there to meet us. We were dirty, scared and tired. He kissed us, all of us, right on the head and got us into his home, a hot shower and clean clothes. It was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.
Since then, I rode a Greyhound once -- back to NJ, without a parent, when I was 11. I had my younger siblings and we visited my father. Again, I would not trade those memories for another, as it was an education in what not to do with the children I may someday be blessed with.
So every time my nose picks up that diesel smell in the fog, I think of a Greyhound bus, a cold morning somewhere in the Midwest, a lost family running toward a vague and inconspicuous future. It is haunting, but not unwelcome.
I love and loathe the smell of diesel gasoline. When I was small, 9 actually, we were living in a rundown, dilapidated home in Camden, NJ. Honestly, I do not remember the sun ever shining, but found a continual gray layer of soot, or something hanging about. Maybe it is just in my mind, but even the day we waged war with our "super-soaker 35s," I cannot recall the sunlight. We were a large family, 6 of us including my mother, and we shared the home with another family, they being the primary owners.
The things I remember from that house are like a multitude of shadows against the nape of my neck: rats in the kitchen, what seemed like thousands of black, plastic trash bags full of dirty, mildew-ridden clothes, a pot-bellied stove to keep us warm at night as we four children huddled onto the pull-out couch and slept abreast of one another, a very leaky roof and the creak of an old floor beneath my little feet. My father lived an hour away in a beach house with his girlfriend at the time; when we saw him on the weekends, it was like sanctuary.
Imagaine our surprise when my mother told us we were moving to California. The first time she said it, we were astonished and overcome with joy. We got pulled out of school, packed our bags and.... nothing happened. We stayed at home. We waited and watched and fell silent in letdown. It happened this way three times. Each time we went back to school, I fought to gain the respect I once had, before the California Dream had taken my petty life and wrung from it the hope of a boy.
Then, in the Spring of 1991, my mother said it the fourth time. "We're moving to California." My older sister laughed. I smirked. We giggled and thought to ourselves, "yeah right." The next day, we came home to my mother waving Greyhound tickets in her hand. They went from Camden, NJ to Anaheim, CA with 15 stops in between. The trek was going to take 3 1/2 days and we were leaving late that night. For the remainder of the day, we packed up our meager belongings, throwing things away and giving up toys we had spent the entirety of our young lives accumulating. I gave away all of my baseball cards, with the exception of some of my favorites, tucked between the pages of a book I read quite often: Hatchet by Gary Paulsen.
That night, we stood bundled up and shivering in the darkness. The man we lived with, whose name I cannot even now recall, pulled us up to the bus-stop and drove away in silence. There were no long good-byes. Only hope. And fear. And this crazy idea in the head of my not-so-sober mother. We never told my dad we were leaving.
The next three days were filled with bumps in the road, very little sleep and vacant eyes looking out of dirty windows. I can recall the smell of diesel gasoline at every single stop, the motor running and headlights on. The horribly cramped bathrooms. Changing my little brother, who was only 14 months at the time, on the seats of the bus. The silver, metal TVs nailed to the chairs in the lobbies. We pretending to watch them, when, in reality we could not afford it. Noticing how the telephone company changed now and again at the pay phones along the road. Gazing at the box that said "Maile Freil. Anaheim, CA" We didn't even have an address. I can recount to you the men my mom rode along-side of, their crisp and gnarled faces, their slurred words in the darkness, the fear of my sisters next to me.
Even then, when I was so young, I was given this.... responsibility. My kid brother Keoki is only 11 months younger than myself and I can remember encouraging him to move forward, to board the bus, to eat his food, to drink water. My mother relied on me and Pua to keep everyone in order, to prepare the make-shift meals, to be on time. I was this Lord Protector. It was more than a side-kick role with my sister. We were partners. Parents.
When we rolled into CA, my uncle was there to meet us. We were dirty, scared and tired. He kissed us, all of us, right on the head and got us into his home, a hot shower and clean clothes. It was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.
Since then, I rode a Greyhound once -- back to NJ, without a parent, when I was 11. I had my younger siblings and we visited my father. Again, I would not trade those memories for another, as it was an education in what not to do with the children I may someday be blessed with.
So every time my nose picks up that diesel smell in the fog, I think of a Greyhound bus, a cold morning somewhere in the Midwest, a lost family running toward a vague and inconspicuous future. It is haunting, but not unwelcome.
4.10.2007
I Want Not Clarity, Father, but Trust in the Darkness
How often I have found myself on my knees, begging the Holy One for clarity while my hands felt the walls about me, my eyesight failing, my mind growing with anxiety and fear! How easy it is to be the boy who crawls through the dark, all knees and elbows, head bowed and tired with the personal fright of the things to come -- those terrible things unseen and daunting in the black abyss of the unknown.
But the voice calls to me. "Be strong and courageous."
We are not asked to look for clarity, but to trust in God's reliability. My buddy Jeff has a tendency to say, "God will not rip you off," and it is true. Why would the loving God of my Salvation let me wander about the darkness while those things lurk about without giving me the Hand of His Protection? He would not!
Brennan Manning, in Ruthless Trust, puts it this way:
"Craving clarity, we attempt to eliminate the risk of trusting God. Fear of the unknown path stretching ahead of us destroys childlike trust in the Father's active goodness and unrestricted love.
We often presume that trust will dispel the confusion, illuminate the darkness, vanquish the uncertainty, and redeem the times. But the crowd of witnesses in Hebrews 11 testifies that this is not the case. Our trust does not bring final clarity on this earth. It does not still the chaos or dull the pain or provide a crutch. When all else is unclear, the heart of trust says, as Jesus did on the cross, 'Into your hands I commit my spirit' (Luke 23:46).
If we could free ourselves from the temptation to make faith a mindless assent to a dusty pawnship of doctrinal beliefs, we would discover with alarm that the essence of biblical faith lies in trusting God." (Manning 6)
As opposed to that child, all knees and elbows, as I said, I would prefer to be the blind man who stands with regular breathing, hands at his sides, ready to walk into the fire if that is where his Lord leads him. Better still, to stand in my ferocity and welcome the darkness, knowing it cannot prevail. For though I cannot see in the dark, where my God lives there can be not but light.
The light will live in me, even if I stand in perfect darkness. Should the trees close in, I will not cry out. I will fear, but I will trust.
But the voice calls to me. "Be strong and courageous."
We are not asked to look for clarity, but to trust in God's reliability. My buddy Jeff has a tendency to say, "God will not rip you off," and it is true. Why would the loving God of my Salvation let me wander about the darkness while those things lurk about without giving me the Hand of His Protection? He would not!
Brennan Manning, in Ruthless Trust, puts it this way:
"Craving clarity, we attempt to eliminate the risk of trusting God. Fear of the unknown path stretching ahead of us destroys childlike trust in the Father's active goodness and unrestricted love.
We often presume that trust will dispel the confusion, illuminate the darkness, vanquish the uncertainty, and redeem the times. But the crowd of witnesses in Hebrews 11 testifies that this is not the case. Our trust does not bring final clarity on this earth. It does not still the chaos or dull the pain or provide a crutch. When all else is unclear, the heart of trust says, as Jesus did on the cross, 'Into your hands I commit my spirit' (Luke 23:46).
If we could free ourselves from the temptation to make faith a mindless assent to a dusty pawnship of doctrinal beliefs, we would discover with alarm that the essence of biblical faith lies in trusting God." (Manning 6)
As opposed to that child, all knees and elbows, as I said, I would prefer to be the blind man who stands with regular breathing, hands at his sides, ready to walk into the fire if that is where his Lord leads him. Better still, to stand in my ferocity and welcome the darkness, knowing it cannot prevail. For though I cannot see in the dark, where my God lives there can be not but light.
The light will live in me, even if I stand in perfect darkness. Should the trees close in, I will not cry out. I will fear, but I will trust.
4.06.2007
A Few Lines of Poetry for Your Minds
These have all been written recently. As always, all comments welcome, even if you hate them.
A Light Quilt and Rainbow Eyes
My words, like fingerprints, have been wiped clean
from your touch, scent, tears --
I cannot light a candle of thought to guide your steps
Nor does the rainbow in your eyes need pruning.
My gardener-gnarled hands have dirt beneath the nails --
The soil from your insides is rich, dark, smooth.
But it is only residue of a time without hands
Suddenly, suddenly, the tattered light of broken
smiles and broken promises
is stitched together in a quilt of perfect color
And its premier, crystalline rays radiate the warmth
of your frame, small one,
and I am glad to lay beneath the covers of your skin,
untouched and trembling --
until you find me with a gasp, and I am undone
at your beauty and the peace of your rainbow eyes.
The Soldier's Death
The night atmosphere,
the quiet ferocity in the air,
the Defender's call --
those perfumed mortar shells
and sonatas of bombings, of brine
and bile
the last hill worth dying on,
where blood seeps into the dirt
and the earth is dark with fury.
He yells to the wind with whithered
mourning
a last gasp,
some spittle
and the soldier's face goes blank.
The Adventurous Type
With hammer and steel,
I will come to you --
I will chip away at your wall,
your fortress of solitude
until you see my ocean eyes --
and smile; unafraid.
brave.
because you, my love,
are worth adventuring for --
and I bring to you my bread,
my bones
my blood.
That Man
I fear that I have thought of you -- laid out beneath a canopy of stars, or the thatched roof ceilings of poor, brown Spanish-speaking folk, more than you have of yourself. Did you know that, when the sunlight catches your eyes just right, I think I can see the future in them? Or that you have this Cassiopaeia constellation of freckles beneath your cheekbone, just above that scar you can't stop talking about -- you're so proud of it, though I can't remember why.
Lying on the rooftop and looking at the sky, I remember how the frost left your lips in gasps last Autumn and you told me life isn't worth living without hot tea and good friends in perfect silence and I said you're crazy. And maybe you are. But maybe, maybe, I am the mad one -- because your life seems much simpler with its compass and knapsack, its bedrolls and shaggy hair while this land-locked prison keeps me working for wages I fear I'll never see.
I remembered once you told me your favorite smell in the world was good, clean dirt:
and I laughed right in your face.
I regret that now and I'd take it back if I could -- I wish my heart were as pure as that brown earth beneath your fingernails, but alas, I am as human as anyone and you're quiet, jagged smile has already forgiven me.
A Light Quilt and Rainbow Eyes
My words, like fingerprints, have been wiped clean
from your touch, scent, tears --
I cannot light a candle of thought to guide your steps
Nor does the rainbow in your eyes need pruning.
My gardener-gnarled hands have dirt beneath the nails --
The soil from your insides is rich, dark, smooth.
But it is only residue of a time without hands
Suddenly, suddenly, the tattered light of broken
smiles and broken promises
is stitched together in a quilt of perfect color
And its premier, crystalline rays radiate the warmth
of your frame, small one,
and I am glad to lay beneath the covers of your skin,
untouched and trembling --
until you find me with a gasp, and I am undone
at your beauty and the peace of your rainbow eyes.
The Soldier's Death
The night atmosphere,
the quiet ferocity in the air,
the Defender's call --
those perfumed mortar shells
and sonatas of bombings, of brine
and bile
the last hill worth dying on,
where blood seeps into the dirt
and the earth is dark with fury.
He yells to the wind with whithered
mourning
a last gasp,
some spittle
and the soldier's face goes blank.
The Adventurous Type
With hammer and steel,
I will come to you --
I will chip away at your wall,
your fortress of solitude
until you see my ocean eyes --
and smile; unafraid.
brave.
because you, my love,
are worth adventuring for --
and I bring to you my bread,
my bones
my blood.
That Man
I fear that I have thought of you -- laid out beneath a canopy of stars, or the thatched roof ceilings of poor, brown Spanish-speaking folk, more than you have of yourself. Did you know that, when the sunlight catches your eyes just right, I think I can see the future in them? Or that you have this Cassiopaeia constellation of freckles beneath your cheekbone, just above that scar you can't stop talking about -- you're so proud of it, though I can't remember why.
Lying on the rooftop and looking at the sky, I remember how the frost left your lips in gasps last Autumn and you told me life isn't worth living without hot tea and good friends in perfect silence and I said you're crazy. And maybe you are. But maybe, maybe, I am the mad one -- because your life seems much simpler with its compass and knapsack, its bedrolls and shaggy hair while this land-locked prison keeps me working for wages I fear I'll never see.
I remembered once you told me your favorite smell in the world was good, clean dirt:
and I laughed right in your face.
I regret that now and I'd take it back if I could -- I wish my heart were as pure as that brown earth beneath your fingernails, but alas, I am as human as anyone and you're quiet, jagged smile has already forgiven me.
God's Friday
I know that today is typically known as Good Friday, but the etymology of the word points moreso toward God's Friday, hence the title of this blog. Also, I am aware that it is not usual of me to blog twice in one day, let alone four times in a week, but the need has arisen. Instead of painting a vision of the crucifixion with my own words, I will let the Word speak for itself, with prophecy given about 1000 years before the birth of Christ.
Psalm 22
To the Chief Musician. Set to "The Deer of the Dawn." A Psalm of David.
1 My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?
Why are You so far from helping Me,
And from the words of My groaning?
2 O My God, I cry in the daytime, but You do not hear;
And in the night season, and am not silent.
3 But You are holy,
Enthroned in the praises of Israel.
4 Our fathers trusted in You;
They trusted, and You delivered them.
5 They cried to You, and were delivered;
They trusted in You, and were not ashamed.
6 But I am a worm, and no man;
A reproach of men, and despised by the people.
7 All those who see Me ridicule Me;
They shoot out the lip, they shake the head, saying,
8 "He trusted in the LORD, let Him rescue Him;
Let Him deliver Him, since He delights in Him!"
9 But You are He who took Me out of the womb;
You made Me trust while on My mother’s breasts.
10 I was cast upon You from birth.
From My mother’s womb
You have been My God.
11 Be not far from Me,
For trouble is near;
For there is none to help.
12 Many bulls have surrounded Me;
Strong bulls of Bashan have encircled Me.
13 They gape at Me with their mouths,
Like a raging and roaring lion.
14 I am poured out like water,
And all My bones are out of joint;
My heart is like wax;
It has melted within Me.
15 My strength is dried up like a potsherd,
And My tongue clings to My jaws;
You have brought Me to the dust of death.
16 For dogs have surrounded Me;
The congregation of the wicked has enclosed Me.
They pierced My hands and My feet;
17 I can count all My bones.
They look and stare at Me.
18 They divide My garments among them,
And for My clothing they cast lots.
19 But You, O LORD, do not be far from Me;
O My Strength, hasten to help Me!
20 Deliver Me from the sword,
My precious life from the power of the dog.
21 Save Me from the lion’s mouth
And from the horns of the wild oxen!
You have answered Me.
22 I will declare Your name to My brethren;
In the midst of the assembly I will praise You.
23 You who fear the LORD, praise Him!
All you descendants of Jacob, glorify Him,
And fear Him, all you offspring of Israel!
24 For He has not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted;
Nor has He hidden His face from Him;
But when He cried to Him, He heard.
25 My praise shall be of You in the great assembly;
I will pay My vows before those who fear Him.
26 The poor shall eat and be satisfied;
Those who seek Him will praise the LORD.
Let your heart live forever!
27 All the ends of the world
Shall remember and turn to the LORD,
And all the families of the nations
Shall worship before You.
28 For the kingdom is the LORD’s,
And He rules over the nations.
29 All the prosperous of the earth
Shall eat and worship;
All those who go down to the dust
Shall bow before Him,
Even he who cannot keep himself alive.
30 A posterity shall serve Him.
It will be recounted of the Lord to the next generation,
31 They will come and declare His righteousness to a people who will be born,
That He has done this.
The prophecy in these verses are clear enough. However, what some people do not know is that Jesus pointed those around him to this psalm. In Matthew 27:46 or Mark 15:34, while dying on the cross, Jesus lets out: "My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?," the first line of the psalm. It is not far-fetched to realize that, due to the low literacy rate of the day, most scripture was memorized. Further, it was not known by "Psalm 22" as we Westerners know it today, but by the first line of text. Hence, Jesus was showing his captors that they helped to fulfill prophecy!!! Those around him would be reminded that, "The congregation of the wicked has enclosed Me./ They pierced My hands and My feet;/ I can count all My bones./ They look and stare at Me./ They divide My garments among them,/ And for My clothing they cast lots.
This is not to say that Jesus did not feel a wrenching of the heart at the separation of the Trinity... I can't even begin to imagine the pain of God being outside of His one-ness, but I do see how Jesus pointing those to scripture in His final hours makes perfect sense. He gloried, as we should, in bringing glory to our Great Father.
I don't know how to end this blog, so again, I will let the Word speak in my place:
Luke 24:49-51 (New King James Version)
49 "Behold, I send the Promise of My Father upon you; but tarry in the city of Jerusalem until you are endued with power from on high."
50 And He led them out as far as Bethany, and He lifted up His hands and blessed them. 51 Now it came to pass, while He blessed them, that He was parted from them and carried up into heaven.
Psalm 22
To the Chief Musician. Set to "The Deer of the Dawn." A Psalm of David.
1 My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?
Why are You so far from helping Me,
And from the words of My groaning?
2 O My God, I cry in the daytime, but You do not hear;
And in the night season, and am not silent.
3 But You are holy,
Enthroned in the praises of Israel.
4 Our fathers trusted in You;
They trusted, and You delivered them.
5 They cried to You, and were delivered;
They trusted in You, and were not ashamed.
6 But I am a worm, and no man;
A reproach of men, and despised by the people.
7 All those who see Me ridicule Me;
They shoot out the lip, they shake the head, saying,
8 "He trusted in the LORD, let Him rescue Him;
Let Him deliver Him, since He delights in Him!"
9 But You are He who took Me out of the womb;
You made Me trust while on My mother’s breasts.
10 I was cast upon You from birth.
From My mother’s womb
You have been My God.
11 Be not far from Me,
For trouble is near;
For there is none to help.
12 Many bulls have surrounded Me;
Strong bulls of Bashan have encircled Me.
13 They gape at Me with their mouths,
Like a raging and roaring lion.
14 I am poured out like water,
And all My bones are out of joint;
My heart is like wax;
It has melted within Me.
15 My strength is dried up like a potsherd,
And My tongue clings to My jaws;
You have brought Me to the dust of death.
16 For dogs have surrounded Me;
The congregation of the wicked has enclosed Me.
They pierced My hands and My feet;
17 I can count all My bones.
They look and stare at Me.
18 They divide My garments among them,
And for My clothing they cast lots.
19 But You, O LORD, do not be far from Me;
O My Strength, hasten to help Me!
20 Deliver Me from the sword,
My precious life from the power of the dog.
21 Save Me from the lion’s mouth
And from the horns of the wild oxen!
You have answered Me.
22 I will declare Your name to My brethren;
In the midst of the assembly I will praise You.
23 You who fear the LORD, praise Him!
All you descendants of Jacob, glorify Him,
And fear Him, all you offspring of Israel!
24 For He has not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted;
Nor has He hidden His face from Him;
But when He cried to Him, He heard.
25 My praise shall be of You in the great assembly;
I will pay My vows before those who fear Him.
26 The poor shall eat and be satisfied;
Those who seek Him will praise the LORD.
Let your heart live forever!
27 All the ends of the world
Shall remember and turn to the LORD,
And all the families of the nations
Shall worship before You.
28 For the kingdom is the LORD’s,
And He rules over the nations.
29 All the prosperous of the earth
Shall eat and worship;
All those who go down to the dust
Shall bow before Him,
Even he who cannot keep himself alive.
30 A posterity shall serve Him.
It will be recounted of the Lord to the next generation,
31 They will come and declare His righteousness to a people who will be born,
That He has done this.
The prophecy in these verses are clear enough. However, what some people do not know is that Jesus pointed those around him to this psalm. In Matthew 27:46 or Mark 15:34, while dying on the cross, Jesus lets out: "My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?," the first line of the psalm. It is not far-fetched to realize that, due to the low literacy rate of the day, most scripture was memorized. Further, it was not known by "Psalm 22" as we Westerners know it today, but by the first line of text. Hence, Jesus was showing his captors that they helped to fulfill prophecy!!! Those around him would be reminded that, "The congregation of the wicked has enclosed Me./ They pierced My hands and My feet;/ I can count all My bones./ They look and stare at Me./ They divide My garments among them,/ And for My clothing they cast lots.
This is not to say that Jesus did not feel a wrenching of the heart at the separation of the Trinity... I can't even begin to imagine the pain of God being outside of His one-ness, but I do see how Jesus pointing those to scripture in His final hours makes perfect sense. He gloried, as we should, in bringing glory to our Great Father.
I don't know how to end this blog, so again, I will let the Word speak in my place:
Luke 24:49-51 (New King James Version)
49 "Behold, I send the Promise of My Father upon you; but tarry in the city of Jerusalem until you are endued with power from on high."
50 And He led them out as far as Bethany, and He lifted up His hands and blessed them. 51 Now it came to pass, while He blessed them, that He was parted from them and carried up into heaven.
The Start of a Season
Baseball is back!!! We (the Yankees) are into our third game of the season and I can already see that it is going to be a tough year. Mussina is pitching today and he has already given up 2 runs in the first innning; he is supposed to be cool under pressure. Then we have Jeter; one of the best players in the league, but he hit a line drive today that got turned into a double play. Petite played yesterday and didn't do as well as expected. At least we got rid of Sheffield.
On the up-side, its really only the first week of the season and there are over 100 more games to get into the swing of things. A-Rod is looking promising and I think Cano will develop his Defensive skills a little more and swing the bat a little harder. Oh, and Matsui is no longer injured, so expect great things there.
Plus, I can always check out my other teams (Angels and Astros, as Matt and Ryan are huge fans, so I'm a fan by association.) Things for the Angels are beginning to look up and the Astros, well, there's always next year. Anyway, I know a lot of folks don't like the Yanks because they have a tendency to buy players -- hopefully they will take stock of Matsuzaka (from Boston) and pick him up when they can to add some depth to their starting pitching rotation. That would burn the Bostonians' blood as well. (Yay!) Only time will tell, though.
On a similar topic, Ryan, Beth, Matt and Niki are coming down and hopefully we can catch an Angels game, a couple of hot dogs, some cotton candy and squeeze in some heckling. The smell of cut lawn is in the air and ballcaps are coming out! Man, I love the Spring.
On the up-side, its really only the first week of the season and there are over 100 more games to get into the swing of things. A-Rod is looking promising and I think Cano will develop his Defensive skills a little more and swing the bat a little harder. Oh, and Matsui is no longer injured, so expect great things there.
Plus, I can always check out my other teams (Angels and Astros, as Matt and Ryan are huge fans, so I'm a fan by association.) Things for the Angels are beginning to look up and the Astros, well, there's always next year. Anyway, I know a lot of folks don't like the Yanks because they have a tendency to buy players -- hopefully they will take stock of Matsuzaka (from Boston) and pick him up when they can to add some depth to their starting pitching rotation. That would burn the Bostonians' blood as well. (Yay!) Only time will tell, though.
On a similar topic, Ryan, Beth, Matt and Niki are coming down and hopefully we can catch an Angels game, a couple of hot dogs, some cotton candy and squeeze in some heckling. The smell of cut lawn is in the air and ballcaps are coming out! Man, I love the Spring.
4.05.2007
El Soldado en Mi -- The Soldier in Me
Recently, I have been waging a war within myself. The fierceness I know that lives in my heart was somehow subdued over the course of the last three years and it is time for it to be rekindled. As a man of God, I would hope that my strength can be lent to others, that my wild and fierce eyes would bring about hope to those who lack it and that my courage would permit me to speak plainly with an honest mouth and open heart.
I have been reading a lot of Pablo Neruda lately and found a poem that worked heavily upon me; the words I am about to pen are not mine, but they feel like mine. This is found in Residence on Earth and is from a poem called Sonata and Destructions. The Spanish version, which I will print first, is called Sonata Y Destrucciones.
amo lo tenaz que aun sobrevive en mis ojos,
oigo en mi corazon mis pasos de jinete,
muerdo el fuego dormido y la sal arruinada,
y de noche, de atmosphera oscura y luto porfugo,
aquel que vela a la orilla de los campamentos,
el viajero armado de esteriles resistencias,
detenido entre sombras que crecen y alas que tiemblan,
me siento ser, y mi brazo de pierdra me defiende.
or in English,
I love the tenacity that survives in my eyes,
I hear in my heart my horseman steps,
I bite the dormant fire and the ruined salt,
and at night, dark in atmosphere and fugitive mourning,
he who keeps vigil at the edge of camps,
the armed traveler of sterile resistances,
prisoner amid growing shadows and trembling wings,
I feel that I am he, and my arm of stone defends me.
I have been reading a lot of Pablo Neruda lately and found a poem that worked heavily upon me; the words I am about to pen are not mine, but they feel like mine. This is found in Residence on Earth and is from a poem called Sonata and Destructions. The Spanish version, which I will print first, is called Sonata Y Destrucciones.
amo lo tenaz que aun sobrevive en mis ojos,
oigo en mi corazon mis pasos de jinete,
muerdo el fuego dormido y la sal arruinada,
y de noche, de atmosphera oscura y luto porfugo,
aquel que vela a la orilla de los campamentos,
el viajero armado de esteriles resistencias,
detenido entre sombras que crecen y alas que tiemblan,
me siento ser, y mi brazo de pierdra me defiende.
or in English,
I love the tenacity that survives in my eyes,
I hear in my heart my horseman steps,
I bite the dormant fire and the ruined salt,
and at night, dark in atmosphere and fugitive mourning,
he who keeps vigil at the edge of camps,
the armed traveler of sterile resistances,
prisoner amid growing shadows and trembling wings,
I feel that I am he, and my arm of stone defends me.
4.04.2007
The Immovable Man
I know that people often speak of what a godly woman looks like. The immediate reference is Proverbs 31. "She is a Proverbs 31 woman," people say of women strong in the spirit and humble in heart. However, we sometimes fail to see what a godly man should look like. Oft-times, I have found that to be true. "I want to be like David, or Jesus, or Abraham," I have found myself saying, but sometimes it is hard to see a clear example of what that looks like.
Then, about a week and a half ago, I decided to begin going though the Psalms. A friend of mine is doing the same and I had never really thought about it. So, I dove in head-first, gleaning as much knowledge and running through as many Psalms a day as there are hours of daylight. I do not say this to boast, only so that you understand that God has given me a passion for His Word recently, so I must speak of it before it eats me alive.
At any rate, I came across Psalm 15 and felt God speak to me through it. This is what He said, "Keith, this is the type of man I have called you to be: You are to be fierce, strong, compassionate and immoveable. If you let me, I will make you such." I know His words were not audible, but my spirit heard them as clear as day. Here is Psalm 15.
Lord, who may abide in Your
tabernacle?
Who may dwell in Your holy
hill?
He who walks uprightly,
And works righteousness,
And speaks the truth in
his heart;
He who does not backbite
with his tongue,
Nor does evil to his
neighbor,
Nor does he take up a
reproach against his
friend;
In whose eyes a vile person is
despised,
But he honors those who
fear the Lord;
He who swears to his own
hurt and does not
change;
He who does not put out his
money at usury,
Nor does he take a bribe
against the innocent.
He who does these things
shall never be moved.
(NKJV)
Then, about a week and a half ago, I decided to begin going though the Psalms. A friend of mine is doing the same and I had never really thought about it. So, I dove in head-first, gleaning as much knowledge and running through as many Psalms a day as there are hours of daylight. I do not say this to boast, only so that you understand that God has given me a passion for His Word recently, so I must speak of it before it eats me alive.
At any rate, I came across Psalm 15 and felt God speak to me through it. This is what He said, "Keith, this is the type of man I have called you to be: You are to be fierce, strong, compassionate and immoveable. If you let me, I will make you such." I know His words were not audible, but my spirit heard them as clear as day. Here is Psalm 15.
Lord, who may abide in Your
tabernacle?
Who may dwell in Your holy
hill?
He who walks uprightly,
And works righteousness,
And speaks the truth in
his heart;
He who does not backbite
with his tongue,
Nor does evil to his
neighbor,
Nor does he take up a
reproach against his
friend;
In whose eyes a vile person is
despised,
But he honors those who
fear the Lord;
He who swears to his own
hurt and does not
change;
He who does not put out his
money at usury,
Nor does he take a bribe
against the innocent.
He who does these things
shall never be moved.
(NKJV)
4.03.2007
Getting to the Beauty of it all...
An ipu (pronounced ee-poo) is an ancient Hawaiian instrument used to accompany the `olapa, or dancers. During the Hula pa ipu noho, or sitting hula with the ipu, the thin-necked gourd was used by each dancer as they rang out with chant and movement, keeping time and signing with the instrument. This is different from other forms of the kahiko, or classical hula, where the ho`opa`a, or chanter, kept time and rang out in voice: the ho`opa`a was, in essence, the storyteller utilizing voice and instrument, while the `olapa told stories through the incorporation of movement, usually done instrument-free with the exception of sounds coming from the kahea (call) of the voice, and the rhythmic thumping of hands and feet. (There are other exceptions as well, but they will not be discussed in this blog.) Even in the Hula pa ipu noho, the dancers are still considered `olapa, this is important, but there is not usually someone keeping time for everyone. In this instance, everyone keeps time.
I tell you this because, this passed week, I had to make my own ipu from a gourd my Kumu Hula, or teacher, gave to me. When she told me that I would be making the instrument, I became excited at the idea. However, after class, I walked out to the bag of gourds and was astonished at what I saw: I expected to see bright and golden gourds with perfectly formed heads, eloquent growth lines in red and rust color, shining in the morn. Instead, each gourd was gray and black, flaking off old skin and looking rather decrepit. They had excema. I sighed to myself, knowing that this would take more work than originally thought.
A few days later, I did what many have done before me: I sat at the Pacific and scrubbed my gourd in the serenity of sunlight and sand. My bucket full of saltwater, I kept the gourd, its rounded body (kino) resting against the nook in my knee, while the smaller head (po`o) was clutched under my hand. My left arm worked the scrubber back and forth across the surface, careful not to scratch the beauty laid beneath the ashes. For the next hour and a half, my mind was occupied with bringing to the surface the thing I knew to be long hidden beneath. The black and gray quickly fell to the ground with the initial scrapings, but some portions were hard to remove. It was as if the gourd itself hated to relinquish the old self it knew it to be. It had no idea of what was hidden beneath all of the dead weight, waiting to come up like the dawn.
Maybe God works on us the same way: He takes us, is careful with our heads, but inevitably scrubs on us until He sees the beauty originally intended.
I let the ipu dry in the sunlight and moonlight for 24 hours on my porch. The next day, I went back to it, inspecting its growth lines and taking a bit of pride in the work accomplished. But it was far from over. Next, I gripped the neck of the gourd to see how high my hand fit, used a large rubberband to create a circumference to cut around, outlined it with a sharpie and took out the jig-saw. Honestly, this was the most terrifying part, as I prayed that all of my hard work would not be in vain. I hoped beyond hope that I would not crack the gourd, crush it, cut it poorly, etc. In the end, however, the gourd proved itself to be stronger than I initially had thought possible, coming out of the whole thing in two nice parts. I had an open end and a cut top when the dust settled.
When I looked inside the gourd, I was suprised, again, at what I saw. Where I expected to see a hollow opening throughout the gourd (as I was able to hear some "stuff" shake around in its belly when it was closed) I found a silvery film that further protected the dead and dying insides of the instrument being formed.
Before I could go further, I had to create the tools to scrape out the insides. I used:
* a sponge.
* an old spoon.
* a metal hanger.
* duct tape.
* a segment of an aluminum broomstick handle, smashed at one end to a sharp, flat point, with
* a hammer.
I spent the next 2 hours scraping out the inside of the ipu, clearing the walls of grime and old growth. I also sanded the rim and thinned the walls of the gourd, so as to produce a cleaner, fuller sound. At the end of the night, my ipu was complete. Again, I was reminded of God's work in us, as He continuously gets into us and scrapes away the sin that clings, unwilling to leave, creating a thick growth on our hearts and minds. Our skins are thinned -- this makes us produce a more honest and full sound when we come to God, making us transparent and ready to interpret the heart of the Father.
The last and final thing to do is to seal it with kukui oil. This, of course, is to protect it. It creates boundaries, keeping the good stuff in and the bad stuff out. I'm sure you can figure that out for yourself.
I tell you this because, this passed week, I had to make my own ipu from a gourd my Kumu Hula, or teacher, gave to me. When she told me that I would be making the instrument, I became excited at the idea. However, after class, I walked out to the bag of gourds and was astonished at what I saw: I expected to see bright and golden gourds with perfectly formed heads, eloquent growth lines in red and rust color, shining in the morn. Instead, each gourd was gray and black, flaking off old skin and looking rather decrepit. They had excema. I sighed to myself, knowing that this would take more work than originally thought.
A few days later, I did what many have done before me: I sat at the Pacific and scrubbed my gourd in the serenity of sunlight and sand. My bucket full of saltwater, I kept the gourd, its rounded body (kino) resting against the nook in my knee, while the smaller head (po`o) was clutched under my hand. My left arm worked the scrubber back and forth across the surface, careful not to scratch the beauty laid beneath the ashes. For the next hour and a half, my mind was occupied with bringing to the surface the thing I knew to be long hidden beneath. The black and gray quickly fell to the ground with the initial scrapings, but some portions were hard to remove. It was as if the gourd itself hated to relinquish the old self it knew it to be. It had no idea of what was hidden beneath all of the dead weight, waiting to come up like the dawn.
Maybe God works on us the same way: He takes us, is careful with our heads, but inevitably scrubs on us until He sees the beauty originally intended.
I let the ipu dry in the sunlight and moonlight for 24 hours on my porch. The next day, I went back to it, inspecting its growth lines and taking a bit of pride in the work accomplished. But it was far from over. Next, I gripped the neck of the gourd to see how high my hand fit, used a large rubberband to create a circumference to cut around, outlined it with a sharpie and took out the jig-saw. Honestly, this was the most terrifying part, as I prayed that all of my hard work would not be in vain. I hoped beyond hope that I would not crack the gourd, crush it, cut it poorly, etc. In the end, however, the gourd proved itself to be stronger than I initially had thought possible, coming out of the whole thing in two nice parts. I had an open end and a cut top when the dust settled.
When I looked inside the gourd, I was suprised, again, at what I saw. Where I expected to see a hollow opening throughout the gourd (as I was able to hear some "stuff" shake around in its belly when it was closed) I found a silvery film that further protected the dead and dying insides of the instrument being formed.
Before I could go further, I had to create the tools to scrape out the insides. I used:
* a sponge.
* an old spoon.
* a metal hanger.
* duct tape.
* a segment of an aluminum broomstick handle, smashed at one end to a sharp, flat point, with
* a hammer.
I spent the next 2 hours scraping out the inside of the ipu, clearing the walls of grime and old growth. I also sanded the rim and thinned the walls of the gourd, so as to produce a cleaner, fuller sound. At the end of the night, my ipu was complete. Again, I was reminded of God's work in us, as He continuously gets into us and scrapes away the sin that clings, unwilling to leave, creating a thick growth on our hearts and minds. Our skins are thinned -- this makes us produce a more honest and full sound when we come to God, making us transparent and ready to interpret the heart of the Father.
The last and final thing to do is to seal it with kukui oil. This, of course, is to protect it. It creates boundaries, keeping the good stuff in and the bad stuff out. I'm sure you can figure that out for yourself.
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