God, the omni-everything being, chooses to press information from scripture onto his people in various ways. Humanists would rather call in mere education obsession, artists have it as a passionate muse; The children of God often experience it as well.
A single notion, however complex she may be, begins to enrapture the soul, screaming well into the night. Two blogs seem to be involved in it right now. A sense of, "I must put it to paper, to thought, to late night ponderings."
If the Lion of Judah shall be so gracious with this child, a reoccurring thought...nay, magnificent obsession has come upon me. Though men often demean, distort, lose track, and otherwise give up, I ask the prayers of those few readers to remember me.
oh when the saints go marching in...how i long to be with that number.
*adagio is a very slow musical tempo
**leitmotif is a frequently recurring bit of melody
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
The Meadows of Worship
For the past thirty-five minutes my hands have hovered over the keyboard. Each time a sentance was created it was deleted shortly after. Finally a paragraph splurged its way. It, too, was erased.
I wanted it to be profound. People would come onto this page and think, "My, that Adam is a modern Jonathan Edwards!"
What does God call that? Pride, I think. So I decided it best to let others take my place.
-------
...the hippies of the 1960s did understand something. They were right in fighting the plastic culture, and the church should have been fighting it too... More than this, they were right in the fact that the plastic culture - modern man, the mechanistic worldview in university textbooks and in practice, the total threat of the machine, the establishment technology, the bourgeois upper middle class - is poor in its sensitivity to nature... As a utopian group, the counterculture understands something very real, both as to the culture as a culture, but also as to the poverty of modern man's concept of nature and the way the machine is eating up nature on every side.
Francis Schaeffer, Pollution and the Death of Man
...philosophy and religion deal with the same basic questions. Christians, and especially evangelical Christians, have tended to forget this. Philosophy and religion do not deal with different questions, though they give different answers and use different terms. The basic questions of both philosophy and religion (and I mean religion here in the wide sense, including Christianity) are the questions of Being (that is, what exists), of man and his dilemma (that is, morals), and of epistemology (that is, how man knows). Philosophy deals with these points, but so does religion, including evangelical, orthodox Christianity.
Francis Schaeffer, He is There and He is Not Silent
When we are delighted with flowery meadows and gentle beezes of wind, we may consider that we only see the emanations of the sweet benevolence of Jesus Christ; when we behold the fragrant rose and lily, we see his love and purity. So the green trees and fields, and singing of birds, are the emanations of his infinite joy and bengnity; the easiness and natrualness of trees and vines are shadows of his infinite beauty and loveliness; the crystal rivers and murmuring streams have the footsteps of his sweet grace and bounty...that beauteous light with which the world is filled in a clear day is a lively shadow of his spotless holiness and happiness, and delighting in communicating himself.
Jonathan Edwards, quoted in Jonathan Edwards, A Life by George M. Marsden
------------------
May sweet necturn fall on us,
its stickiness whole with joy.
Sprouted from green fields
of which we've not seen,
filtered through stars we've
merely seen glimmers of.
I wanted it to be profound. People would come onto this page and think, "My, that Adam is a modern Jonathan Edwards!"
What does God call that? Pride, I think. So I decided it best to let others take my place.
-------
...the hippies of the 1960s did understand something. They were right in fighting the plastic culture, and the church should have been fighting it too... More than this, they were right in the fact that the plastic culture - modern man, the mechanistic worldview in university textbooks and in practice, the total threat of the machine, the establishment technology, the bourgeois upper middle class - is poor in its sensitivity to nature... As a utopian group, the counterculture understands something very real, both as to the culture as a culture, but also as to the poverty of modern man's concept of nature and the way the machine is eating up nature on every side.
Francis Schaeffer, Pollution and the Death of Man
...philosophy and religion deal with the same basic questions. Christians, and especially evangelical Christians, have tended to forget this. Philosophy and religion do not deal with different questions, though they give different answers and use different terms. The basic questions of both philosophy and religion (and I mean religion here in the wide sense, including Christianity) are the questions of Being (that is, what exists), of man and his dilemma (that is, morals), and of epistemology (that is, how man knows). Philosophy deals with these points, but so does religion, including evangelical, orthodox Christianity.
Francis Schaeffer, He is There and He is Not Silent
When we are delighted with flowery meadows and gentle beezes of wind, we may consider that we only see the emanations of the sweet benevolence of Jesus Christ; when we behold the fragrant rose and lily, we see his love and purity. So the green trees and fields, and singing of birds, are the emanations of his infinite joy and bengnity; the easiness and natrualness of trees and vines are shadows of his infinite beauty and loveliness; the crystal rivers and murmuring streams have the footsteps of his sweet grace and bounty...that beauteous light with which the world is filled in a clear day is a lively shadow of his spotless holiness and happiness, and delighting in communicating himself.
Jonathan Edwards, quoted in Jonathan Edwards, A Life by George M. Marsden
------------------
May sweet necturn fall on us,
its stickiness whole with joy.
Sprouted from green fields
of which we've not seen,
filtered through stars we've
merely seen glimmers of.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Insert Title Here
I have never been a man of greatness. Elementary-Adam was not a highlight for my teachers, the child whose parents recieve lavish adoration. Often subjects were difficult and I often lost interest. Numbers and letters seemed liked scribbles to me, utterly disconnected to any real existence. Very little sense came from "A" meaning a sound; "1" seemed an odd way to define having a singular apple. Needless to say, it took a while for the small bits of knowledge to sink in.
Football-Adam only became noteworthy my freshman year of high school. Yet the previous four years found a very shy and rarely aggressive kid being pummeled and humiliated - by players and coaches alike. Not to mention eighth grade year when, due to the small sized school, we practiced with the entire High School football team. Most notable giants were Jacob Higgins and "Buddha" Woody, 250+ gents who loved finding me on the opposite end (turned out Buddha thought I was a "cool" dude. Funny way to express it.) Allow me to provide a mental image of the opposite end.
"Alright, set up the defense!" Yelled Coach Tunnel. A star amongst these small town folk, his style of coaching involved two words: pain and dedegration. Occasionally he would give players the almighty "butt-slap," archaic even when Johnny Unitas* donned the uniform. Setting up the defense meant grabbing any free player and finding a position for him to hold. Regulated positions did not matter: A lineman could easily find himself at Linebacker or vice verse. More often than not, this player was neither lineman, linebacker or any sort of defensive player. He was thrown into an alien planet armed with plastic armor.
Then arrive the offense. When you are thirteen years old the world is a big place; you are a windshield splattered bug. It doesn't help when someone takes that bug and throws it at the windshield! Get the picture?
And I, this windshield bug, was constantly barraged and beaten by oncoming traffic. It doesn't fly far to say my self-esteem was quite low.
For much of my childhood I dreaded that final ending, sounding off like the hangman's call.
Then, like a glorious opening of a flower, my father came home with good news. No, fantastic, near-revolutionary news! We were moving again! Again? You might ask. Perhaps telling the beginning in the middle is an odd way about it, but shall we?
A few days after I was born my dad enlisted into the United States Navy. My mom cried. My grandparents cried. Chances are I didn't, since as a kid my parents say my voice was seldom found. It turned out to be quite earth shattering. See, my parents both grew up ten miles apart, each in what I call "Podunk" towns, or small towns. Rush Springs, Ok and Alex, OK probably sport 3,000 people combined, with twice as much intolerance for new things. (Case in point my brother, ostracized by the school system without a chance because his personality was different. Or so I'm told.) Each came from dry grounds (read poor), my mother being slightly better off, the real difference being the parents: Nanny Okla and Papa Lewis (dad's) loved my mother. Nanny Aline and Papa Bobby weren't too fond of my dad. I guess blazing around on a motorcycle didn't help.
Not to divulge into too many details, naval enlistment was, quite simply, the "evilest" thing to do, especially with two kids! One person was quoted to have said "You ain't takin' those babies!" (Not my mother, in case you were wondering.) After all was said and done, there I was, a bright eyed lump of flesh, in the middle of California. Six years I lived there. Until that day my dad's enlistment came up. Seeing as San Diego was "crime infested", it only seemed right to send our hides back to Oklahoma.
I know I'm jumping time here, but forgive me I have the habit of rambling. Four years later, returning to that revolutionary news, there was a new location on my plate. Gilbert, Arizona.
Since I spent much time in Oklahoma, allow me to simple headline my ventures. Freshman to sophomore found me as a football "star", yet I also attended classes on theater which invariably led me to becoming an actor. Here I met these weird "East Valley" Christians, through one I came to believe in Jesus as my savior. By knowing these folks I met Matt Picon, one of the more influential people in my life. He sustained me as friend and mentor, both enjoyable modes of relation. Then came Lizzy, then Jessica, then Mandy, for a while Stacey; then I met Liz. These five relationships were anything but quintessential as I had no car, money, and little savvy. It was also an era of "theological" learning, becoming familiar with terms such as Calvinism, apologetics, Reformed, and the likes.
Let's end with that. In each chapter of my life, be it football, acting, writing, singing, or dating I had been described, for the most part, as "full of potential." My teachers loved my writing and would greatly encourage me to continue. Cast members would always congratulate me and tell me "You can go places." One day, after four hours of practice, Coach Carol took me aside and spoke, "Adam, you know Jake and the other Varsity players? You know why they are good? Cause they work at it. You have a lot of potential. If you continue this pace, you can go places."
Yet I always seemed to stop; everything ended before developing. Maybe high school was the catalyst and now it’s gone or some relationship inspired me and that person is gone but...I always stopped at "You've got potential..."
It would make sense that my faith would inherit this same...unattractive quality. Since that night I whimpered out to God to my recent tears in be, much of it has seemed contrived...even flat out lying. Not lying against truth...but not being honest, genuine. Yet it’s not new. I remember memorizing arguments and "theological" equations in order to "know God." The sun setting never offered a perspective on God; it was just a sunset. The Bible, though I cried out "It’s the Word of God!" often leaves me wondering "Why am I saying that?"
I guess it all comes down to something very simple. There needs to be a genuine reason to believe. Should a man run to Jesus, if he does so unsure if he exists? Or don't we preach it to be a full "falling down" and admitting "I am really a sinner, unholy in your real existence. My unlawfulness can only be made lawful by the real blood your son really bled."?
So a decision was made. One decision, one night; I cannot bow the knee halfway to the ground anymore. If the God of scripture is real, he deserves my attention, intellectually, emotionally, poetically; all in all.
Those who believe, please pray. Those who don't...maybe you should join me. Someone asked, "What do you call yourself now? Christian? Agnostic? Atheist?" I responded, "I'm a human. One unafraid to step to the edge of the map and see if I fall off." I am sure, perhaps unreasonably so, that my questions will be answered, that my faith will be changed, enhanced, and enlarged.
but I'm still scared.
"The human mind wonders
"What is there?"
It should reach out and feel,
and open the books."
-Adam
Football-Adam only became noteworthy my freshman year of high school. Yet the previous four years found a very shy and rarely aggressive kid being pummeled and humiliated - by players and coaches alike. Not to mention eighth grade year when, due to the small sized school, we practiced with the entire High School football team. Most notable giants were Jacob Higgins and "Buddha" Woody, 250+ gents who loved finding me on the opposite end (turned out Buddha thought I was a "cool" dude. Funny way to express it.) Allow me to provide a mental image of the opposite end.
"Alright, set up the defense!" Yelled Coach Tunnel. A star amongst these small town folk, his style of coaching involved two words: pain and dedegration. Occasionally he would give players the almighty "butt-slap," archaic even when Johnny Unitas* donned the uniform. Setting up the defense meant grabbing any free player and finding a position for him to hold. Regulated positions did not matter: A lineman could easily find himself at Linebacker or vice verse. More often than not, this player was neither lineman, linebacker or any sort of defensive player. He was thrown into an alien planet armed with plastic armor.
Then arrive the offense. When you are thirteen years old the world is a big place; you are a windshield splattered bug. It doesn't help when someone takes that bug and throws it at the windshield! Get the picture?
And I, this windshield bug, was constantly barraged and beaten by oncoming traffic. It doesn't fly far to say my self-esteem was quite low.
For much of my childhood I dreaded that final ending, sounding off like the hangman's call.
Then, like a glorious opening of a flower, my father came home with good news. No, fantastic, near-revolutionary news! We were moving again! Again? You might ask. Perhaps telling the beginning in the middle is an odd way about it, but shall we?
A few days after I was born my dad enlisted into the United States Navy. My mom cried. My grandparents cried. Chances are I didn't, since as a kid my parents say my voice was seldom found. It turned out to be quite earth shattering. See, my parents both grew up ten miles apart, each in what I call "Podunk" towns, or small towns. Rush Springs, Ok and Alex, OK probably sport 3,000 people combined, with twice as much intolerance for new things. (Case in point my brother, ostracized by the school system without a chance because his personality was different. Or so I'm told.) Each came from dry grounds (read poor), my mother being slightly better off, the real difference being the parents: Nanny Okla and Papa Lewis (dad's) loved my mother. Nanny Aline and Papa Bobby weren't too fond of my dad. I guess blazing around on a motorcycle didn't help.
Not to divulge into too many details, naval enlistment was, quite simply, the "evilest" thing to do, especially with two kids! One person was quoted to have said "You ain't takin' those babies!" (Not my mother, in case you were wondering.) After all was said and done, there I was, a bright eyed lump of flesh, in the middle of California. Six years I lived there. Until that day my dad's enlistment came up. Seeing as San Diego was "crime infested", it only seemed right to send our hides back to Oklahoma.
I know I'm jumping time here, but forgive me I have the habit of rambling. Four years later, returning to that revolutionary news, there was a new location on my plate. Gilbert, Arizona.
Since I spent much time in Oklahoma, allow me to simple headline my ventures. Freshman to sophomore found me as a football "star", yet I also attended classes on theater which invariably led me to becoming an actor. Here I met these weird "East Valley" Christians, through one I came to believe in Jesus as my savior. By knowing these folks I met Matt Picon, one of the more influential people in my life. He sustained me as friend and mentor, both enjoyable modes of relation. Then came Lizzy, then Jessica, then Mandy, for a while Stacey; then I met Liz. These five relationships were anything but quintessential as I had no car, money, and little savvy. It was also an era of "theological" learning, becoming familiar with terms such as Calvinism, apologetics, Reformed, and the likes.
Let's end with that. In each chapter of my life, be it football, acting, writing, singing, or dating I had been described, for the most part, as "full of potential." My teachers loved my writing and would greatly encourage me to continue. Cast members would always congratulate me and tell me "You can go places." One day, after four hours of practice, Coach Carol took me aside and spoke, "Adam, you know Jake and the other Varsity players? You know why they are good? Cause they work at it. You have a lot of potential. If you continue this pace, you can go places."
Yet I always seemed to stop; everything ended before developing. Maybe high school was the catalyst and now it’s gone or some relationship inspired me and that person is gone but...I always stopped at "You've got potential..."
It would make sense that my faith would inherit this same...unattractive quality. Since that night I whimpered out to God to my recent tears in be, much of it has seemed contrived...even flat out lying. Not lying against truth...but not being honest, genuine. Yet it’s not new. I remember memorizing arguments and "theological" equations in order to "know God." The sun setting never offered a perspective on God; it was just a sunset. The Bible, though I cried out "It’s the Word of God!" often leaves me wondering "Why am I saying that?"
I guess it all comes down to something very simple. There needs to be a genuine reason to believe. Should a man run to Jesus, if he does so unsure if he exists? Or don't we preach it to be a full "falling down" and admitting "I am really a sinner, unholy in your real existence. My unlawfulness can only be made lawful by the real blood your son really bled."?
So a decision was made. One decision, one night; I cannot bow the knee halfway to the ground anymore. If the God of scripture is real, he deserves my attention, intellectually, emotionally, poetically; all in all.
Those who believe, please pray. Those who don't...maybe you should join me. Someone asked, "What do you call yourself now? Christian? Agnostic? Atheist?" I responded, "I'm a human. One unafraid to step to the edge of the map and see if I fall off." I am sure, perhaps unreasonably so, that my questions will be answered, that my faith will be changed, enhanced, and enlarged.
but I'm still scared.
"The human mind wonders
"What is there?"
It should reach out and feel,
and open the books."
-Adam
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