I read Pilate’s part in the Sunday evening liturgy of the palms. That dialogue led me to reflect on Jesus’ amazing silence (Mk 15:5). Jesus responded calmly to his human judges (chief priest, governor, even tetrarch) but steadfastly refused to react to the streams of prosecutors and so-called witnesses. Even the seasoned Pilate was “impressed, really impressed” (The Message).
This behavior didn’t merely fulfill the pattern predicted by the prophet, though that was surely on the mind of Jesus. Isaiah 53:7 recalls the silence of the Hezekiah’s people on Jerusalem's wall before the messenger of Assyria’s king in 36:21. Isaiah elsewhere associates silence with the shame and suffering, whether just or unjust, as well as with self-restraint on the part of God or his spokesperson.
Jesus’ silence wasn’t merely passive. It was one more way of stepping toward his destiny and the deliverance of his people. By no means innocent like Jesus, I’m thankful his self-giving addresses that stark difference. By his grace, I may even learn to not so readily defend myself, and instead to entrust all to the just Judge.
Especially when he presents opportunities to share in his hardship: aligning with God’s character and cause this day, glad to belong to the Father and following the Spirit. Whatever the price, he is the prize. His table may be bare tonight - an altar stripped and washed in the Maundy Thursday tradition. But his story (and so ours) is far from over.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
of rants and indifference - which is worse?
Recent consideration of the long and bumpy road of Christian theological controversy has led me to wonder if the rants against the faith that I occasionally hear are an indication of troubled relationships with God rather than no relationship at all. It’s not just charitable thinking: The psalms and other scriptures are peppered with the honest, angry and bitter disappointments of sinners-becoming-saints, and even dissent and despair. Even the devil’s contempt and rage are duly noted. Such is the Bible’s mirror.
Utter indifference is a greater enemy – the malaise that won’t rise to the trouble of a cure, the relationship not valuable enough to reconcile, the sin not worth setting right by repentance. Snapping out of spiritual boredom may happen when one addresses pointed complaints to the Judge. At least the dialogue is restarted, and he is known for persuasive acts of sheer kindness.
Utter indifference is a greater enemy – the malaise that won’t rise to the trouble of a cure, the relationship not valuable enough to reconcile, the sin not worth setting right by repentance. Snapping out of spiritual boredom may happen when one addresses pointed complaints to the Judge. At least the dialogue is restarted, and he is known for persuasive acts of sheer kindness.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Third Sunday of Lent 2009 comments on John 2:13-22 - Jesus clears the Temple
Here's the core of last weekend's homily:
What is the meaning of this solitary recorded incident of violence in the life and work of the Prince of Peace?
Jesus previewed the Temple market in place of foreign worshipers, subverting the original vision of global blessing.
Here was the purported site of Abraham’s near sacrifice of Isaac, in Moriah. This was Jerusalem, the home of the priest-king Melchizedek to whom Abraham tithed. There are layers of history here: This was the hilltown David, Jesus’ ancestor, the psalmist-king, took from the later Jebusites to make his capital and fortress. Remember God’s counter-offer and covenant promise to David, to build him a permanent temple/house? God responded, “No, but I will build your house” i.e. lineage or dynasty (see 2 Samuel 7:11-16 esp.). Solomon built the first Temple, post-Exile refugees had rebuilt a lesser marvel, and Herod had refurbished and replaced it with a new “attraction.”
Jesus had seen it before, at least annually, across more than half of Herod’s ambitious building campaign since 19 BC. (So John dates this at 27 AD.) But instead of a magnet attracting the nations to the blessing of knowing and worshiping the Living God, the premises sustains a convenient trade in sacrifices that...stank – physically and ethically, because of its profitability for the Temple elite and the space it took from any Gentile would-be worshipers.
Jesus planned - He himself handcrafted the whip of cords he would use to stampede animals and drive out moneychangers. This was no sudden outburst of spontaneous rage, but an action calculated to get the close attention of the Jewish Temple authorities without arousing much interest from the Roman soldiers garrisoned nearby.
Jesus passionately and decisively confronts the stark reality and gaping gulf of his generation’s separation from God caused by sin. By contrast, my expressions of anger are usually spontaneous, sarcastic and passive-aggressive.
Jesus prophesied - This intervention was a prophetic denunciation of business as usual, a warning of impending destruction within a generation, and the promise of a greater center of worship and launch pad for global mission.
No one asked him why - only for authorization. A corrupt Temple leadership was caught with its fingers in the coffers, and everybody knew it. What everybody didn’t know was what this prophet had in mind for how to replace it with a permanent place of prayer for all nations. The Holy One had come to visit his own “house,” and nothing could be exactly the same anymore. His three days from crucifixion to resurrection would change everything.
Jesus lived the Law like no other. [Earlier we read the Ten Commandments and parts of Psalm 19 and Romans 7.] He recognized its original intent and freely committed himself to its fulfillment: to reveal God, to demonstrate what it means to belong to God. Jesus’ full obedience to the moral code and bodily sacrifice at the Cross in parallel to the ceremonial code has led to his reign in civil relations between those who receive his own righteous standing with God. His gift brings both an undeniable longing to obey God out of gratitude and the power to increase such compliance through the same indwelling Holy Spirit who accompanied his.
So, what is the meaning of this solitary recorded incident of violence and show-of-force in the life and work of the Prince of Peace? With fierce love, he joins the force of law (from Sinai) with the power of sacrifice in his zeal to fulfill both on that second mount, Zion.
What other God allows himself to be “consumed” on behalf of his worshipers? All other competitors to Yahweh would consume us! Who had more right to obedience? He who obeyed – zealously. Take his gift and yield to him; it’s the only way forward.
What is the meaning of this solitary recorded incident of violence in the life and work of the Prince of Peace?
Jesus previewed the Temple market in place of foreign worshipers, subverting the original vision of global blessing.
Here was the purported site of Abraham’s near sacrifice of Isaac, in Moriah. This was Jerusalem, the home of the priest-king Melchizedek to whom Abraham tithed. There are layers of history here: This was the hilltown David, Jesus’ ancestor, the psalmist-king, took from the later Jebusites to make his capital and fortress. Remember God’s counter-offer and covenant promise to David, to build him a permanent temple/house? God responded, “No, but I will build your house” i.e. lineage or dynasty (see 2 Samuel 7:11-16 esp.). Solomon built the first Temple, post-Exile refugees had rebuilt a lesser marvel, and Herod had refurbished and replaced it with a new “attraction.”
Jesus had seen it before, at least annually, across more than half of Herod’s ambitious building campaign since 19 BC. (So John dates this at 27 AD.) But instead of a magnet attracting the nations to the blessing of knowing and worshiping the Living God, the premises sustains a convenient trade in sacrifices that...stank – physically and ethically, because of its profitability for the Temple elite and the space it took from any Gentile would-be worshipers.
Jesus planned - He himself handcrafted the whip of cords he would use to stampede animals and drive out moneychangers. This was no sudden outburst of spontaneous rage, but an action calculated to get the close attention of the Jewish Temple authorities without arousing much interest from the Roman soldiers garrisoned nearby.
Jesus passionately and decisively confronts the stark reality and gaping gulf of his generation’s separation from God caused by sin. By contrast, my expressions of anger are usually spontaneous, sarcastic and passive-aggressive.
Jesus prophesied - This intervention was a prophetic denunciation of business as usual, a warning of impending destruction within a generation, and the promise of a greater center of worship and launch pad for global mission.
No one asked him why - only for authorization. A corrupt Temple leadership was caught with its fingers in the coffers, and everybody knew it. What everybody didn’t know was what this prophet had in mind for how to replace it with a permanent place of prayer for all nations. The Holy One had come to visit his own “house,” and nothing could be exactly the same anymore. His three days from crucifixion to resurrection would change everything.
Jesus lived the Law like no other. [Earlier we read the Ten Commandments and parts of Psalm 19 and Romans 7.] He recognized its original intent and freely committed himself to its fulfillment: to reveal God, to demonstrate what it means to belong to God. Jesus’ full obedience to the moral code and bodily sacrifice at the Cross in parallel to the ceremonial code has led to his reign in civil relations between those who receive his own righteous standing with God. His gift brings both an undeniable longing to obey God out of gratitude and the power to increase such compliance through the same indwelling Holy Spirit who accompanied his.
So, what is the meaning of this solitary recorded incident of violence and show-of-force in the life and work of the Prince of Peace? With fierce love, he joins the force of law (from Sinai) with the power of sacrifice in his zeal to fulfill both on that second mount, Zion.
What other God allows himself to be “consumed” on behalf of his worshipers? All other competitors to Yahweh would consume us! Who had more right to obedience? He who obeyed – zealously. Take his gift and yield to him; it’s the only way forward.
Friday, December 26, 2008
The Story I Shared at Our Christmas Eve Service -
Look what I can do! the son shouts, skipping through space, stars and planets shooting out the ends of his fingertips like Fourth of July sparklers. Their arcs merge into spirals; spirals became galaxies; galaxies arc off into forever.
The father laughs. Laughs at the sheer joy of the son, the joy of creating something out of nothing, the joy of being one. “Come over here a minute,” he calls to his only begotten.
They join hands, the father points to one of the newly spinning planets, shiny and blue. “I especially like that one,” he says.
“Thanks dad … I’m not done with it yet, though.”
“Oh? …What’s next?”
“What would you like?”
“Fecundity!” Booms the father. “Fecundity! Life! A Chia Pet of a planet with all kinds of stuff sprouting and spreading till it tends to wild. And creatures, lots and lots of creatures! Flyers, gliders, crawlers, hoppers, creepers, gallopers, scuttling scurriers across the sea floor, and something to keep it all growing aright. Make that a someone, not a something.
“Dad, you sure do like a lot of different stuff.”
“I love a lot of different stuff. Everything the same gets boring.”
And as the words are spoken, each thing comes into being on the shiny blue planet.
“Still not done yet, Dad.” says the son.
“I know, I know son … what’s next?”
“I’ve been thinking of something kind of like us, kind of but not exactly.”
So the two of them bear down onto the blue planet, finding a patch of damp earth beside a river.
“Go ahead, knock yourself out,” chuckles the father.
A little mud here, a little spit there, and pretty soon the son has sculpted a fine little mud pie man. The son stands mud pie man up on his mud pie feet: “Stand up mud pie man!” But mud pie man’s left leg breaks at the hip and down he goes.
“Let’s give him a name,” suggests the father.
“Adam’s a good one,” shoots back the son.
“It is good,” says the Father.
The son focuses on the hip, repairing the break. Once again, he begins standing him up, but the father stops him short: “You have to give him life before he can live.”
The son smiles, nods, and sucks so much air in through his nose it seems to peel the atmosphere right off the planet, and all the world waits, holding its breath, until the son blows it all right back over Adam. The breath comes out with a roar like a hurricane, but it hits like the light evening breeze. It takes form, shifting shapes, some curling into each nostril, some directly into Adam’s mouth. Some splits off and curls around arms, legs, and torso. Each wisp finds a way into Adam, whispering his name and the unspeakable name of the father as it goes, disappearing under Adam’s skin until he starts to glow.
“Spirit to spirit,” chants the father. “Live, live, live.”
“Stand up Adam!” shouts the son. “Let’s play!”
And Adam stands. He takes in his maker, his friend, and his friend’s father. He takes in his world, puts a toe into the river and smiles at the feel of flowing water. The son laughs. Adam laughs. The father laughs. . Laughs at the sheer joy of the son, the joy of creating something out of nothing, the joy of being one.
“Come on Adam,” says the son, “There’s all kinds of things we can do now.”
Not knowing any language yet, Adam just smiles.
“I can give you words, and teach you all kinds of handy things you’ll need: syntax and grammar, animal husbandry, botany and agriculture, and best of all, how to make the best tree forts ever. But you get to name all the animals. That may take awhile, my dad likes all kinds of things. So I made 3,000 different kinds of fruit flies. Good luck with that one.”
The father watched as they went off and played as friends.
“Oh, that’s good,” says the father.
Some time later the father and son are talking. It’s a slow conversation with long pauses before either of them speak, like each one is thinking through a game of chess that they’re playing, but on the same side against an absent opponent.
“So, Adam has gone down Death Avenue.” It was a statement, not a question from the father.
“I’m afraid so dad. I’ve lost a friend. Just turned his back on us. Said something about it being better to rule in hell than serve in heaven. As if he would rule there. I wonder where he heard that. And now he’s as good as dead and has taken the whole planet down with him. It’s all over except for the shrieking. Is there a way to bring him back?”
There was a long pause. The quiet interval being filled in with the hushed weeping of angels.
“Absolutely. There’s always a way,” says the father.
Long pause.
“You want to tell me?” asks the son.
Long pause.
“It’s you … you’re the way.” says the father.
“Uhh-huh. Can you flesh that out for me some, dad?”
Longer pause.
“Well, basically, that’s it in a nutshell.”
Even longer pause.
“Ok, let me get this straight, I’m the way that you’ll flesh out?”
“Yep, pretty much,” says the father.
“So I’ve grasped the plan and I don’t even know what I’ve said,” chuckles the son.
Together they sit down, heads leaning in towards each other. The father began whispering into the son’s ear while all heaven waits. He tells him something about what it would be like, strapped down by gravity, human ignorance, space and time; engaging in hand to hand combat with the devil and all the evil he would throw at the son; as well as the giddy winning feeling of plucking souls right out of that snake’s jaws; and most of all, a hill where it would all be finalized.
Signaling that all that needed to be said had been said, the father puts his hand on the son’s shoulder, “I’ll always be with you my son,” he says.
There was just one thing left, which was for the father to ask, without a shred of sentimentality or manipulation, the question on which that now less shiny blue planet, Adam and all his sons and daughters, now hung: “So my son, I will never coerce you - are you willing to go?”
“Dad?”
“Yes son.”
“Dying … does it hurt?”
“Yes, my son, but its a short lived pain compared to separation.”
“Ok, I’ll go. But you’ll be there for me, right?”
“From beginning to end my son.”
The father laughs. Laughs at the sheer joy of the son, the joy of creating something out of nothing, the joy of being one. “Come over here a minute,” he calls to his only begotten.
They join hands, the father points to one of the newly spinning planets, shiny and blue. “I especially like that one,” he says.
“Thanks dad … I’m not done with it yet, though.”
“Oh? …What’s next?”
“What would you like?”
“Fecundity!” Booms the father. “Fecundity! Life! A Chia Pet of a planet with all kinds of stuff sprouting and spreading till it tends to wild. And creatures, lots and lots of creatures! Flyers, gliders, crawlers, hoppers, creepers, gallopers, scuttling scurriers across the sea floor, and something to keep it all growing aright. Make that a someone, not a something.
“Dad, you sure do like a lot of different stuff.”
“I love a lot of different stuff. Everything the same gets boring.”
And as the words are spoken, each thing comes into being on the shiny blue planet.
“Still not done yet, Dad.” says the son.
“I know, I know son … what’s next?”
“I’ve been thinking of something kind of like us, kind of but not exactly.”
So the two of them bear down onto the blue planet, finding a patch of damp earth beside a river.
“Go ahead, knock yourself out,” chuckles the father.
A little mud here, a little spit there, and pretty soon the son has sculpted a fine little mud pie man. The son stands mud pie man up on his mud pie feet: “Stand up mud pie man!” But mud pie man’s left leg breaks at the hip and down he goes.
“Let’s give him a name,” suggests the father.
“Adam’s a good one,” shoots back the son.
“It is good,” says the Father.
The son focuses on the hip, repairing the break. Once again, he begins standing him up, but the father stops him short: “You have to give him life before he can live.”
The son smiles, nods, and sucks so much air in through his nose it seems to peel the atmosphere right off the planet, and all the world waits, holding its breath, until the son blows it all right back over Adam. The breath comes out with a roar like a hurricane, but it hits like the light evening breeze. It takes form, shifting shapes, some curling into each nostril, some directly into Adam’s mouth. Some splits off and curls around arms, legs, and torso. Each wisp finds a way into Adam, whispering his name and the unspeakable name of the father as it goes, disappearing under Adam’s skin until he starts to glow.
“Spirit to spirit,” chants the father. “Live, live, live.”
“Stand up Adam!” shouts the son. “Let’s play!”
And Adam stands. He takes in his maker, his friend, and his friend’s father. He takes in his world, puts a toe into the river and smiles at the feel of flowing water. The son laughs. Adam laughs. The father laughs. . Laughs at the sheer joy of the son, the joy of creating something out of nothing, the joy of being one.
“Come on Adam,” says the son, “There’s all kinds of things we can do now.”
Not knowing any language yet, Adam just smiles.
“I can give you words, and teach you all kinds of handy things you’ll need: syntax and grammar, animal husbandry, botany and agriculture, and best of all, how to make the best tree forts ever. But you get to name all the animals. That may take awhile, my dad likes all kinds of things. So I made 3,000 different kinds of fruit flies. Good luck with that one.”
The father watched as they went off and played as friends.
“Oh, that’s good,” says the father.
Some time later the father and son are talking. It’s a slow conversation with long pauses before either of them speak, like each one is thinking through a game of chess that they’re playing, but on the same side against an absent opponent.
“So, Adam has gone down Death Avenue.” It was a statement, not a question from the father.
“I’m afraid so dad. I’ve lost a friend. Just turned his back on us. Said something about it being better to rule in hell than serve in heaven. As if he would rule there. I wonder where he heard that. And now he’s as good as dead and has taken the whole planet down with him. It’s all over except for the shrieking. Is there a way to bring him back?”
There was a long pause. The quiet interval being filled in with the hushed weeping of angels.
“Absolutely. There’s always a way,” says the father.
Long pause.
“You want to tell me?” asks the son.
Long pause.
“It’s you … you’re the way.” says the father.
“Uhh-huh. Can you flesh that out for me some, dad?”
Longer pause.
“Well, basically, that’s it in a nutshell.”
Even longer pause.
“Ok, let me get this straight, I’m the way that you’ll flesh out?”
“Yep, pretty much,” says the father.
“So I’ve grasped the plan and I don’t even know what I’ve said,” chuckles the son.
Together they sit down, heads leaning in towards each other. The father began whispering into the son’s ear while all heaven waits. He tells him something about what it would be like, strapped down by gravity, human ignorance, space and time; engaging in hand to hand combat with the devil and all the evil he would throw at the son; as well as the giddy winning feeling of plucking souls right out of that snake’s jaws; and most of all, a hill where it would all be finalized.
Signaling that all that needed to be said had been said, the father puts his hand on the son’s shoulder, “I’ll always be with you my son,” he says.
There was just one thing left, which was for the father to ask, without a shred of sentimentality or manipulation, the question on which that now less shiny blue planet, Adam and all his sons and daughters, now hung: “So my son, I will never coerce you - are you willing to go?”
“Dad?”
“Yes son.”
“Dying … does it hurt?”
“Yes, my son, but its a short lived pain compared to separation.”
“Ok, I’ll go. But you’ll be there for me, right?”
“From beginning to end my son.”
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Silent night, holy night.
If you're a Bread of Life attender, you may have heard me pray for Tristan during prayers of the people. He was diagnosed three years ago with an especially nasty brain tumor. Christmas came early for Tristan this year. He died Wednesday morning.
I got the word later that morning as I was reading over the lectionary for Sunday's sermon. Here's a snippet from Isaiah 65:
For I am about to create new heavens and a new earth;
the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind.
But be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating;
for I am about to create Jerusalem as a joy, and its people as a delight.
I will rejoice in Jerusalem, and delight in my people;
no more shall the sound of weeping be heard in it, or the cry of distress.
No more shall there be in it an infant that lives but a few days,
or an old person who does not live out a lifetime;
for one who dies at a hundred years will be considered a youth,
and one who falls short of a hundred will be considered accursed.
They shall build houses and inhabit them;
they shall plant vineyards and eat their fruit.
Weeks before entering hospice, Tristan had been wrestling dark, dark dreams. Maybe they were just the percolations of understandable anxiety. Maybe they were his conflicted relationship with God taking shape. You could say Tristan and God had been having an extra special long-lasting lovers' quarrel. He had his share of anger towards God: an adolescent's anger over a dad killed by a drunk driver; an adult man's anger over missing out on the wife and kids he quietly but desperately wanted. No doubt there was more. Taken together, the reasons formed a wedge that leveraged Tristan away from the light and into a darker place. At night, when that place became tangible, he preferred not to sleep, ducking the dreams.
But a few days before he died, there was a change. He slept and smiled, sometimes even chuckled. When he woke up, he talked about the bright light in his dreams. Once, very near the end during a brief stint of consciousness, he asked his stalwart friend Bill, "do you see that light in here? how bright it is? He let Bill know that the quarrel was over, the darkness gone, peace had come.
The reach of God's arm astounds me. Over and through lifetimes of stubbornness, hurt and pushing Him away, God comes. Christmas looks back to Christ's manger, and forward to his throne, our here once and coming again king. Whether we see Him on that throne from this life or the next, its still a fact. And he'll be bringing all kinds of newness with him, just like Isaiah describes. No more tears, no more distress, no more too-short lived lives, no more wedges that leverage us into darker places. So rejoice. I'm sure Tristan is.
I got the word later that morning as I was reading over the lectionary for Sunday's sermon. Here's a snippet from Isaiah 65:
For I am about to create new heavens and a new earth;
the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind.
But be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating;
for I am about to create Jerusalem as a joy, and its people as a delight.
I will rejoice in Jerusalem, and delight in my people;
no more shall the sound of weeping be heard in it, or the cry of distress.
No more shall there be in it an infant that lives but a few days,
or an old person who does not live out a lifetime;
for one who dies at a hundred years will be considered a youth,
and one who falls short of a hundred will be considered accursed.
They shall build houses and inhabit them;
they shall plant vineyards and eat their fruit.
Weeks before entering hospice, Tristan had been wrestling dark, dark dreams. Maybe they were just the percolations of understandable anxiety. Maybe they were his conflicted relationship with God taking shape. You could say Tristan and God had been having an extra special long-lasting lovers' quarrel. He had his share of anger towards God: an adolescent's anger over a dad killed by a drunk driver; an adult man's anger over missing out on the wife and kids he quietly but desperately wanted. No doubt there was more. Taken together, the reasons formed a wedge that leveraged Tristan away from the light and into a darker place. At night, when that place became tangible, he preferred not to sleep, ducking the dreams.
But a few days before he died, there was a change. He slept and smiled, sometimes even chuckled. When he woke up, he talked about the bright light in his dreams. Once, very near the end during a brief stint of consciousness, he asked his stalwart friend Bill, "do you see that light in here? how bright it is? He let Bill know that the quarrel was over, the darkness gone, peace had come.
The reach of God's arm astounds me. Over and through lifetimes of stubbornness, hurt and pushing Him away, God comes. Christmas looks back to Christ's manger, and forward to his throne, our here once and coming again king. Whether we see Him on that throne from this life or the next, its still a fact. And he'll be bringing all kinds of newness with him, just like Isaiah describes. No more tears, no more distress, no more too-short lived lives, no more wedges that leverage us into darker places. So rejoice. I'm sure Tristan is.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
On getting slapped upside the head for no good reason.
Last night a friend sent me an article written by Francis Frangipane. I found it timely and powerful. It talked about how to be like Jesus when you take a shot from someone, especially when you're trying to do what you think to be God's good pleasure.
Here's my reply to the friend:
Hi
I read and want to say thanks for the email & article.
One paragraph especially struck me:
"Yet, let us beware. We will either become Christlike and forgive the offenders or we will enter a spiritual time warp where we abide continually in the memory of our wounding. Like a systemic disease, the hurtful memories infect every aspect of our existence. In truth, apart from God, the wounding that life inflicts is incurable. God has decreed that only Christ in us can survive."
I think it struck me because I feel like I've been the recipient of a few people's "spiritual woundedness time warp stuckness" this fall, and I feel the temptation to swallow all that crap and enter that time warp myself.
Line from a Dylan song:
"I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry face.
and every time I pass that way I always hear my name."
Its funny. No matter how far down this road I go following Jesus, its still the same hills that are hardest to climb, and this one is called return good for evil.
Thanks again.
Grace and peace
Matt
Here's my reply to the friend:
Hi
I read and want to say thanks for the email & article.
One paragraph especially struck me:
"Yet, let us beware. We will either become Christlike and forgive the offenders or we will enter a spiritual time warp where we abide continually in the memory of our wounding. Like a systemic disease, the hurtful memories infect every aspect of our existence. In truth, apart from God, the wounding that life inflicts is incurable. God has decreed that only Christ in us can survive."
I think it struck me because I feel like I've been the recipient of a few people's "spiritual woundedness time warp stuckness" this fall, and I feel the temptation to swallow all that crap and enter that time warp myself.
Line from a Dylan song:
"I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry face.
and every time I pass that way I always hear my name."
Its funny. No matter how far down this road I go following Jesus, its still the same hills that are hardest to climb, and this one is called return good for evil.
Thanks again.
Grace and peace
Matt
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)