Be who God created, only.
Knowing who I am and who who I am not.
Do everything the very best way I know how,
Working hard.
By this I give God glory.
And rest well.
Monday, December 31, 2018
Monday, December 24, 2018
Sunday, December 16, 2018
Who am I? Advent: Light to the Nations series - Christian Lindbeck (Luke 1;3;15)
Numbing noise,
lights,
flashing and
inconsequential,
pointing at
anything
and nothing.
Holy whispers
drowned
in fa-la-la's
and
ho-ho-ho's.
Culture seems
coordinated to
keep us from
pondering
who we are
and
why we are -
telling us
our most important
identity is
consumer
of goods.
Find a quiet place.
Shut the door.
And listen.
John, the desert
rock star,
knew who he was
and why.
Born to parents,
prepared through postponement;
patient
and prayerful.
His father's response to his
nascent birth
sprinkled prophecies
and promises
foreign as green smoke
curling and tumbling
from astonished lips.
The long-awaited child
learned obedience,
Torah
and Hebraic stories;
rocked to sleep
with lullabies of lions
and lordly lambs,
he grew.
In manhood,
his earthy charisma
gathered crowds
ready to idolize
but John said,
"Wait!
I am not he."
"Then who are you?"
the deflated ones
cried,
and fired off a
series of possible
roles for this
obvious gift
from God.
"I am not"s
dropped like
stones in a well,
echoing and
plummeting
down
to a far off
splash
of incomprehension.
"Then who are you?"
Again.
I am the finger,
pointing.
The arrow drawn,
the road sign
illuminated
to point the way.
Born for this,
and this alone,
he shunned fame
and adulation,
knowing
both were two sizes
too large.
And when Christ
appeared,
he served as His
emcee
and bowed off
center stage.
When followers
fell away,
he flinched not,
but cheered
from the wings.
He knew his calling
and clung to his role
with tenacity
worthy of the lowly
barnacle.
Set free from abundant choices,
his narrowed vision
allowed scalpel-like
precision.
Can I do the same?
Accept who and what I am
without comparison,
envy, or what ifs?
No facades or
impossible standards
to strive for;
the narrow door
the way to
a larger life?
Let me find a quiet place
to hear Your voice.
Let me accept who and
where I am with grace.
And help me let go
of all that I am not,
quieting the cacophony
of false prophets
who would make me
dance to some
other tune,
not of Your
composing.
Help me hear
Your holy whispers
and know peace
in the present.
lights,
flashing and
inconsequential,
pointing at
anything
and nothing.
Holy whispers
drowned
in fa-la-la's
and
ho-ho-ho's.
Culture seems
coordinated to
keep us from
pondering
who we are
and
why we are -
telling us
our most important
identity is
consumer
of goods.
Find a quiet place.
Shut the door.
And listen.
John, the desert
rock star,
knew who he was
and why.
Born to parents,
prepared through postponement;
patient
and prayerful.
His father's response to his
nascent birth
sprinkled prophecies
and promises
foreign as green smoke
curling and tumbling
from astonished lips.
The long-awaited child
learned obedience,
Torah
and Hebraic stories;
rocked to sleep
with lullabies of lions
and lordly lambs,
he grew.
In manhood,
his earthy charisma
gathered crowds
ready to idolize
but John said,
"Wait!
I am not he."
"Then who are you?"
the deflated ones
cried,
and fired off a
series of possible
roles for this
obvious gift
from God.
"I am not"s
dropped like
stones in a well,
echoing and
plummeting
down
to a far off
splash
of incomprehension.
"Then who are you?"
Again.
I am the finger,
pointing.
The arrow drawn,
the road sign
illuminated
to point the way.
Born for this,
and this alone,
he shunned fame
and adulation,
knowing
both were two sizes
too large.
And when Christ
appeared,
he served as His
emcee
and bowed off
center stage.
When followers
fell away,
he flinched not,
but cheered
from the wings.
He knew his calling
and clung to his role
with tenacity
worthy of the lowly
barnacle.
Set free from abundant choices,
his narrowed vision
allowed scalpel-like
precision.
Can I do the same?
Accept who and what I am
without comparison,
envy, or what ifs?
No facades or
impossible standards
to strive for;
the narrow door
the way to
a larger life?
Let me find a quiet place
to hear Your voice.
Let me accept who and
where I am with grace.
And help me let go
of all that I am not,
quieting the cacophony
of false prophets
who would make me
dance to some
other tune,
not of Your
composing.
Help me hear
Your holy whispers
and know peace
in the present.
Sunday, December 9, 2018
Exquisite Dawn: Advent : Light to the Nations - Tim Knipp (Isa. 8 and 9)
Backs turned to light,
walking in shadows
cast by their own stubbornness,
they slowly starve
to skeletal
caricatures.
When we scavenge
for life-giving nutrients
among the stagnant pools
existing outside of God's light -
in body lust;
in vain adulation
and superficial social reputations -
rage, voiced or mutely expressed,
scars our thin-skinned souls
like razor-wire.
Our world is bombarded
with twisted shards
of broken mirrors
reflecting rebellious frisson
as they fall
to slice and
impale.
Yet, in the distance
arises an exquisite dawn,
joy will blossom
in frozen hearts,
melting chains,
swords and implements
of destruction,
to be re-crafted
as vehicles of justice.
A child is birthed
in sweat and blood;
a one-of-a-kind King
whose kingdom will bring
balance to a world
off-kilter.
He will reign through
space and time,
unlimited by any restraints.
We will call Him
Amazing Friend,
Indisputable Sovereign,
Abba Father,
His Highness
of Harmony.
Hope in human form,
shaped as we are
yet more than us -
the missing puzzle piece
in perfect dimensions
to fill the gaping hole
torn in the fabric
of our world.
Perfect goodness personified,
He whom we have yearned for
is among us now in spirit
and will return one day
in the flesh
to eradicate injustice,
obliterate the oppressors
and set free
those who languish
in dark and pestilential
prisons,
both seen
and unseen.
Rejoice!
Rejoice!
walking in shadows
cast by their own stubbornness,
they slowly starve
to skeletal
caricatures.
When we scavenge
for life-giving nutrients
among the stagnant pools
existing outside of God's light -
in body lust;
in vain adulation
and superficial social reputations -
rage, voiced or mutely expressed,
scars our thin-skinned souls
like razor-wire.
Our world is bombarded
with twisted shards
of broken mirrors
reflecting rebellious frisson
as they fall
to slice and
impale.
Yet, in the distance
arises an exquisite dawn,
joy will blossom
in frozen hearts,
melting chains,
swords and implements
of destruction,
to be re-crafted
as vehicles of justice.
A child is birthed
in sweat and blood;
a one-of-a-kind King
whose kingdom will bring
balance to a world
off-kilter.
He will reign through
space and time,
unlimited by any restraints.
We will call Him
Amazing Friend,
Indisputable Sovereign,
Abba Father,
His Highness
of Harmony.
Hope in human form,
shaped as we are
yet more than us -
the missing puzzle piece
in perfect dimensions
to fill the gaping hole
torn in the fabric
of our world.
Perfect goodness personified,
He whom we have yearned for
is among us now in spirit
and will return one day
in the flesh
to eradicate injustice,
obliterate the oppressors
and set free
those who languish
in dark and pestilential
prisons,
both seen
and unseen.
Rejoice!
Rejoice!
Monday, December 3, 2018
Sunday, November 25, 2018
Burn, Redemptive Flame (Isaiah: Light to the Nations) - Tim Knipp (Isa. 5:18-21; 6:5)
A tapestry of travesties
woven of wayward threads;
a deeply disappointed
Father mourns the loss -
the severing of bonds,
the sickening snarl of sins
His children wallow in.
Carts loaded with rotting piles
of overripe lies and selfish deeds,
amassed debts to wrongs unaddressed,
greed rationalized
and putrid appetites.
Dragging our groaning loads,
we challenge God
to prove His
worth.
Double-edged words drip
from slack lips,
stab for weakness
and divvy up Truth
to serve it with a slab
of jellied lies.
We gobble it all down
indiscriminately.
Words unworthily shared
or miserly withheld
serve no one.
Words obfuscate and rattle
when they can be jewels
shimmering with
reflected brilliance.
Arrogance is an ugly scar
on an otherwise
beautiful face.
Closed ears
and closed hearts
refuse the possibility
of error
or a better plan.
In "us" we trust,
thank you very much.
It is I who am flawed
as well -
no better than any of us.
I am carting my own load of trash,
cursing words stain my tongue
and I wear oversized confidence
like camouflage fatigues.
So I kneel before
the Father,
knowing my unworthiness,
my shame;
and He touches
my lips
with redemptive
holy
flames.
woven of wayward threads;
a deeply disappointed
Father mourns the loss -
the severing of bonds,
the sickening snarl of sins
His children wallow in.
Carts loaded with rotting piles
of overripe lies and selfish deeds,
amassed debts to wrongs unaddressed,
greed rationalized
and putrid appetites.
Dragging our groaning loads,
we challenge God
to prove His
worth.
Double-edged words drip
from slack lips,
stab for weakness
and divvy up Truth
to serve it with a slab
of jellied lies.
We gobble it all down
indiscriminately.
Words unworthily shared
or miserly withheld
serve no one.
Words obfuscate and rattle
when they can be jewels
shimmering with
reflected brilliance.
Arrogance is an ugly scar
on an otherwise
beautiful face.
Closed ears
and closed hearts
refuse the possibility
of error
or a better plan.
In "us" we trust,
thank you very much.
It is I who am flawed
as well -
no better than any of us.
I am carting my own load of trash,
cursing words stain my tongue
and I wear oversized confidence
like camouflage fatigues.
So I kneel before
the Father,
knowing my unworthiness,
my shame;
and He touches
my lips
with redemptive
holy
flames.
Sunday, November 11, 2018
It All Belongs to Him; Isaiah - Light of the Nations: Tim Knipp (Lev. 25:8,14,23; Isa. 5:8; Luke 12:20a)
to where it began -
the land belongs
to God.
His plan is good,
to care for all -
the land belongs
to Him.
Ask not what the world
can do for you -
ask what you can
give for the world.
We accumulate things -
stacks upon stacks -
stealing from the desolate,
raping the land.
Woe to us.
We will smother in things,
they will drain our blood,
cold winds will whistle
through barren stubs
and His land
will groan
and quake.
Endless consumption
depletes His bounty;
blind allegiance to
"bigger is better"
topples nations,
leaving the vulnerable
to wither
and beg.
These, these,
the least of these
are those His heart
bleeds for.
Woe to us
when we shut our eyes,
grabbing wildly
for more and
one more.
His economy is just -
we do not deserve it all,
or even "enough"
when others
far weaker
have less than
enough.
As I peer into
the storehouse of my heart
I see dust collecting
on useless things,
seemingly substantial
but devoid of life.
I glance down
and see my fists,
knuckles white,
turned inward
and
clenched.
Open my hands,
digit by digit -
help me let go
of all that glitters.
Let it fall through
my fingers
as I lift them
in service to You
and those
You love.
Remind me again,
again and again -
it all belongs
to You.
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