Sunday, May 11, 2025

John and Hope in Christ’s Return

Throughout my time reading the Bible, I often imagine the lives of its key figures—not just their stories, but their personalities, fears, and hopes. These thought experiments have helped me engage more deeply with Scripture. I especially resonate with Peter, and in 2020 I even wrote a series of fictional reflections on 1st and 2nd Peter called A Fisherman’s Tale.

Lately, however, I’ve found myself drawn to John—the “beloved disciple”—particularly as I prepare to teach a Sunday School series on the Book of Revelation. The more I consider his life, the more I see John as a man of profound hope—a hope rooted not in circumstances, but in the unshakable promise of Christ’s return.

The Complexity of Biblical History

Wading into biblical history can be difficult. Scholarly debate often divides along ideological lines—conservative and liberal, skeptical and confessional—and presuppositions tend to shape conclusions more than we care to admit. Even the dating of Revelation (written either around A.D. 65–68 or 95–96) is hotly contested. Was the author of Revelation the same John who penned the Gospel and epistles? Depending on the scholar, you’ll get very different answers.

I want to be clear—what follows is a synthesis of biblical and extra-biblical sources, filtered through tradition and study. It’s not dogma. It’s my best understanding—and it’s shared here in humility.

The Life of John: A Story of Hope

John and his older brother James were fishermen, sons of Zebedee and Salome. There’s a strong tradition that Salome was Mary’s sister, making John and Jesus cousins. It's likely that John was a disciple of John the Baptist before following Jesus. In fact, when Andrew first followed Jesus (John 1:35–40), I believe John was the unnamed second disciple with him.

The official call came soon after:

“Going on from there, he saw two other brothers, James son of Zebedee and his brother John. They were in a boat with their father Zebedee, preparing their nets. Jesus called them, and immediately they left the boat and their father and followed him.” (Matthew 4:21–22)

John is traditionally considered the youngest of the Twelve. He, along with Peter and James, formed Jesus’ inner circle. He was “the disciple whom Jesus loved,” but he also had fire in him—he and James were nicknamed Boanerges, or “Sons of Thunder.”

Their fiery nature is clear in Luke 9:

“Lord, do you want us to call fire down from heaven to destroy them?” (Luke 9:54)

Jesus, of course, rebuked them. But this gives us a window into John’s personality—a bold, passionate young man being slowly transformed by grace.

Their mother, Salome, also once asked Jesus for high positions for her sons:

“Grant that one of these two sons of mine may sit at your right and the other at your left in your kingdom.” (Matthew 20:21)

Jesus told them they would indeed drink His cup—and both did. James was the first apostolic martyr (Acts 12:1–2), and John endured a different kind of suffering.

A Faithful Witness

John’s devotion to Jesus is deeply moving. At the Last Supper, he leaned against Jesus' chest. At the crucifixion, he stood by the cross while others fled. Jesus entrusted Mary to him. He ran to the tomb on Easter morning—and believed.

John partnered with Peter in Acts 3 and Acts 8. He was imprisoned with him in Acts 4. According to early church tradition, John later ministered in Ephesus and was eventually exiled to Patmos under the reign of Emperor Domitian.

Tertullian, an early church father, claimed that John was once thrown into a vat of boiling oil but miraculously survived. Whether literal or symbolic, it testifies to his suffering and miraculous preservation.

On Patmos, John received and recorded the Revelation:

“I, John, your brother and partner in the tribulation and the kingdom and the patient endurance that are in Jesus, was on the island called Patmos on account of the word of God and the testimony of Jesus.” (Revelation 1:9)

What follows in Revelation is a vision unlike any other—cosmic in scope, mysterious, and often overwhelming. But through it all, a clear thread runs: hope.

“Then I Saw…”

One of the striking refrains throughout Revelation is John’s faithful observation:

Then I saw…
After this I looked…
Then I heard…
Now I watched…

These repeated phrases show a man committed to reporting what Christ showed him. John wasn’t trying to dazzle or confuse. He was obeying Jesus’ command: “Write what you see in a book…” (Revelation 1:11). And what he saw pointed to a glorious truth—

Christ is coming again.

It’s easy to get lost in the symbolism of Revelation. But we miss the point if we don’t recognize John’s perseverance in witnessing to hope amid tribulation. Revelation is not a code to crack; it’s a testimony of Jesus Christ (1:2), meant to bless and strengthen the church.

The Final Years

According to tradition, after Domitian’s death, John returned to Ephesus and lived into old age—likely the last surviving apostle. He died peacefully, around age 80, after over 50 years of faithful service. His tomb is believed to be near modern-day Selçuk, Turkey. A basilica was built over it during Emperor Justinian’s reign. Though it later fell into disrepair, John’s legacy has never faded.

He may have been the youngest when he began to follow Jesus—but he lived to become the eldest, a steady voice of truth and love.

Alive with Christ

John “drank the cup,” as Jesus said he would. He lost his brother early (Acts 12:2), endured persecution, exile, and perhaps even torture. But his writings—his gospel, his letters, and Revelation—breathe hope:

“And everyone who thus hopes in him purifies himself as he is pure.” (1 John 3:3)

And John is not sleeping in the grave—he is alive with Christ. One day, I will get to meet him.

Until then, I’ll keep learning from his life—a life marked by love, truth, endurance, and above all, hope in Christ’s return.

Album- The Book of Revelation

Saturday, May 10, 2025

A Liturgy of Lull


 A Liturgy of Lull

(a meditation between exhaustion and anticipation)

"Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go. ...
We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time. ...
Where is the Life we have lost in living?"
(T.S. Eliot- various quotes)


I. Cilantro

Join my feet
  in a beat
    and a song—

a perilous journey
    of precipice
      and fall.

Whispering silence
      echoes
in the dawn.

Fleeting shadows
stretch—
eternal
   and long.

Hollow joy clings
  to fading light,
timid thunder hums
   softly
     in the velvet night.

Quiet chaos
   dances.
Cold fire
    flickers—
      a truth undefined.

A fractured gaze
meets broken infinity;
silent screams
wander through
a muted maze.

Bittersweet thought
    drips
   from the edge of mind.

Frozen movement
   on a brittle ledge.

Dreams in flight.
Sleepy awakening.

Heavy light
   pierces
      the night.

Twisted clarity
in blurred lines.
Stark softness
   where chaos aligns.

Faded brilliance—
    a muted gleam.
Anxious calm
    within the waking dream.

Lucid haze,
  a restless state.
Fragile strength
  behind
     a bolted gate.

Dull wine
  whispers
     what will be—

waiting urgency,
   destiny’s decree.

Anticipated mutation:
      unseen
        unknown.

A shifting world
    within my soul—


    alone.

II. Ahi

Strange realities
    welcome this dawn
where I meet
  the shadow
    of my former self.

“I remember you,” I say.
      “Where did you go?”

...
"You know...
  you know...
    you know."

III. Sesame

The temptation:
flee.
withdraw.
retreat.
    Escape.

Into communal monasteries
of mysticism and austerity—

“Cleanliness... Godliness...”
   they say.

But barbarians
have tracked buffalo trails
    across the marble floors.

Rot.
   Refuse.
Decay
    with
      a touch of Copenhagen.

The end of the West
smells faintly
      like half price scented candles that never sell.

IV. Avocado

But running from the dark—
    doesn’t work.
Because I can’t
    get away
      from myself.

Sin clings
like a 5 o’clock shadow
   on an unshaven Monday.

Gravity draws me
down—
   to lie still
   and spoon.

I haven’t had bread
    in many months.
No lamp.
No light.

No rule.

Knowing
  and
    Doing—

Are estranged brothers,
    who no longer speak.

And nothing lasts.
   Nothing holds.

...
     Except:

the grace
beneath
  my shoes.

Ask me dangerous......

"In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

“That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.



I do not think that they will sing to me."

Tuesday, May 06, 2025

Love Drew Mama – A Mother’s Day Reflection

This past weekend, I watched my wife and our granddaughter lost in a world of glitter, glue, markers, and tape. They were having the best time—cutting, coloring, painting little handprints, and giggling like best friends on a mission. It was messy. It was magical. And it stirred something deep in me.

There’s something sacred about those small moments—something that speaks to the heart of motherhood. It reminded me not only of the years we spent raising our own children but also of the love that shaped generations before us: my mom, my grandmother… the women who loved fiercely, gave sacrificially, and prayed with hope and tears.

As I reflected on it, I thought of the biblical words in Genesis—“I will surely multiply your pain in childbearing.” And yes, there is physical pain in giving birth. But the deeper pain, the lasting ache, comes from a mother’s love. A love so strong, so invested, that it hurts. It’s a love that holds tightly while learning to let go. It’s joy and heartbreak wrapped in the same breath.

Mother’s Day matters because mothers matter. Their fingerprints are on our lives in ways we don’t fully understand until much later. Their prayers echo. Their sacrifices linger. Their love shapes us.

To honor that kind of love, I wrote a song called “Love Drew Mama.” It began with memories of construction paper and glue, but it ends in a place much deeper—a reminder that love not only moved her hands when we were young, it shaped her whole life. I tried to convey a play on the word "drew" using the drawing of pictures, but also 'attraction" a magnetic love, that draws us to long for home, ... and God's love drew my mom to her eternal home where I will see her again young, vibrant, and fully alive.

You can listen to the song and read the lyrics below. If it moves you, share it with a mother who loved you well.

Link: Love Drew Mama

Verse 1 Little hands with paper and glue Scissors snipping hearts in two Crayon halos, misspelled names Glitter stars and picture frames She smiled like it was work of art Hung it high and called it “heart” Pre-Chorus We didn’t know just what we made But love was in each line and shade Chorus Love drew Mama to kneel and pray To kiss our cheeks at end of day To fight the storms, to stand her ground To lift us up when we fell down Things she looked at later when alone Love drew Mama Love drew Mama home Verse 2 Then came cards with someone’s rhyme Printed words in scripted lines But what she kept through every year Was shaky pen and childish cheer A crooked “I love you” in blue Meant more than poems ever do Pre-Chorus She kept them in a weathered box But her real treasure wasn’t locked Chorus Love drew Mama to kneel and pray To kiss our cheeks at end of day To fight the storms, to stand her ground To lift us up when we fell down Things she looked at later when alone Love drew Mama Love drew Mama home Bridge Through labor pain and sleepless nights Through whispered prayers and tiny fights Through every joy and every ache She gave it all for her children’s sake Final Chorus Love drew Mama through all the years Through joy and laughter, pain and tears And when the glitter days were gone The light in her still lingered on She followed what she’d always known Love drew Mama Love drew Mama home

Sunday, May 04, 2025

Be Careful Lest the Light in You be Darkness

This is such a powerful passage- Dark Light? 

Luke 11:33-36 (ESV)

“No one after lighting a lamp puts it in a cellar or under a basket, but on a stand, so that those who enter may see the light. Your eye is the lamp of your body. When your eye is healthy, your whole body is full of light, but when it is bad, your body is full of darkness. Therefore be careful lest the light in you be darkness. If then your whole body is full of light, having no part dark, it will be wholly bright, as when a lamp with its rays gives you light.”

When reading the Gospels, we often assume similar wording across accounts refers to the same event. Yet, in Luke 11, Jesus speaks of the “eye as the lamp” in the context of confronting the Scribes and Pharisees’ accusations—a stark contrast to Matthew 6:22-23, where the same metaphor appears during the Sermon on the Mount, addressing possessions, treasure, and worry:

Matthew 6:22-23 (ESV)
“The eye is the lamp of the body. So, if your eye is healthy, your whole body will be full of light, but if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!”

Jesus likely repeated thematic teachings, as repetition reinforces truth. The metaphor of light, central to both passages, resonates deeply, pointing to God’s glory and human nature.

Light: A Scientific and Spiritual Marvel

In Genesis 1, God creates light before the sun and moon, dispelling darkness on the first day. This primordial light, distinct from celestial bodies, hints at a divine source. Even without Scripture, light’s properties compel us to ponder a purposeful intelligent design.

The Dual Nature of Light

Light’s enigmatic nature has fascinated scientists for centuries. It behaves as both a particle (photon) and a wave, a duality formalized in quantum mechanics. Albert Einstein captured this paradox:

“It seems as though we must use sometimes the one theory and sometimes the other, while at times we may use either. We have two contradictory pictures of reality; separately neither of them fully explains the phenomena of light, but together they do.”

Recent advancements have deepened this understanding. Experiments in quantum optics, such as those using entangled photons, demonstrate light’s non-local properties, where particles instantaneously affect each other regardless of distance. In 2023, researchers at CERN and other institutes explored light’s interaction with virtual particles in vacuum, suggesting light can influence quantum fields in ways previously thought impossible. These discoveries underscore light’s complexity, pointing to a universe finely tuned for exploration.

The Observable Universe

Astronomers Guillermo Gonzalez and Jay Richards, in their work on Intelligent Design, argue that Earth’s unique position enables scientific discovery. Our planet’s transparent atmosphere and location in the Milky Way’s galactic habitable zone allow us to observe distant stars and cosmic phenomena. This “privileged planet” hypothesis suggests the universe is not only fine-tuned for life but also for discovery. Recent exoplanet studies, like those from the James Webb Space Telescope (launched 2021), reveal atmospheric compositions of distant worlds, reinforcing the rarity of Earth’s conditions. The fact that we can see and study light from billions of years ago seems less like chance and more like design.

The “Missing Light” Mystery

In 2014, reports suggested that 80% of the universe’s light was “missing,” as observed photon counts fell short of expectations (e.g., RT News, July 12, 2014). Subsequent research has clarified this anomaly. The “missing light” is largely attributed to diffuse intergalactic gas and dust absorbing ultraviolet and optical light, re-emitting it in the infrared spectrum. Data from the Hubble and Spitzer Space Telescopes, combined with 2020s simulations of cosmic web filaments, show that this light isn’t truly missing but redistributed. For a theologian, this evokes imagery of God’s hidden glory, awaiting revelation, as in Revelation 21:23, where the Lamb’s light illuminates the New Jerusalem.

Spiritual Light and Darkness

Jesus’ warning, “be careful lest the light in you be darkness,” is haunting. How can light become darkness? The answer lies in the human heart:

Proverbs 20:27 (ESV)
“The spirit of man is the lamp of the Lord, searching all his innermost parts.”

God’s searchlight exposes our motives. The world often assumes humanity is inherently good, flawed only by circumstance. Scripture, however, diagnoses a deeper issue:

Jeremiah 17:9 (ESV)
“The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?”

Humanity’s paradox—building hospitals while waging wars—reflects a fallen nature. Good deeds often stem from God’s common grace, not innate virtue. Without divine intervention, our “light” risks becoming darkness, tainted by pride or selfishness.

The Shadows of Sin

Spiritual darkness manifests as rebellion against God’s light:

John 3:19-20 (ESV)
“And this is the judgment: the light has come into the world, and people loved the darkness rather than the light because their works were evil. For everyone who does wicked things hates the light and does not come to the light, lest his works should be exposed.”

Sin thrives in secrecy, but God’s light pierces all:

Psalm 139:11-12 (ESV)
“If I say, ‘Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night,’ even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with you.”

Christ, the True Light

Jesus, the “light of the world” (John 8:12), offers salvation and sanctification:

Colossians 1:13-14 (ESV)
“He has delivered us from the domain of darkness and transferred us to the kingdom of his beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.”

Through Christ, we are called to “walk in the light” (1 John 1:7), casting off works of darkness (Romans 13:12). In the New Jerusalem, God’s glory will replace all lesser lights (Revelation 21:23-24).

The Speed of Light and Grace

Physical light travels at 299,792,458 meters per second, a universal constant. Spiritual light—God’s grace—moves faster, reaching the sinner’s cry instantly. As a lighthouse guides ships, Christ’s light dispels our darkness, offering redemption.


Song Link: Dark Light

Prayer:
Lord, thank You for Your searchlight that reveals truth and Your lighthouse that guides us home. Cast out the darkness within me, and let Your light shine through me to a world lost in shadows. Amen.

Thursday, May 01, 2025

God, the Divine Pursuer: Reflections on Muggeridge

There’s a passage I’ve returned to over and over again — written by British journalist and Christian convert Malcolm Muggeridge. 

I first read it years ago, and it hit me like a floodlight. He titled it simply, "Is There a God?" But don’t be misled by the simplicity — what follows is one of the most honest, piercing meditations on belief I’ve ever encountered.
 
Why Muggeridge Still Matters

Malcolm Muggeridge (1903–1990) lived one of the most interesting lives of the 20th century — a war correspondent, BBC commentator, author, and eventually a surprising voice for Christianity. He was never a sentimental believer. In fact, part of what makes him so compelling is that he came to faith reluctantly, even begrudgingly.

Some of his more memorable quotes:


“The depravity of man is at once the most empirically verifiable reality but at the same time the most intellectually resisted fact.”


“Only dead fish swim with the stream.”



“I never wanted a God, or feared a God, or felt under any necessity to invent one. Unfortunately, I am driven to the conclusion that God wants me.

That last line is from the passage I keep coming back to. Here's what it means to me.

Muggeridge admits right away: he never wanted God. The pleasures of this world — nature, relationships, thinking, working — they were enough for him. He wasn't hunting for God. In fact, he would have preferred that God not exist at all.

God comes padding after me like a Hound of Heaven.

That line guts me. It's the recognition that no matter how comfortable we get, no matter how self-sufficient we feel, we are not the seekers. We are the sought.

I’m reminded of Martin Luther, who during a time of deep spiritual anguish was asked by his confessor, “Do you love God?” Luther replied, “Love God? Sometimes I hate Him.” It’s a raw, honest confession—one that echoes Muggeridge’s sense of being hunted down by a God he never sought, yet could not escape.

When Muggeridge wrote that God is pursuing him like a hound, it was known to be a reference to Francis Thompson’s poem, The Hound of Heaven. God is not content to let us be. He comes after us in our sunshine moments and picnics, casting a shadow. Not to ruin our joy, but to reveal how flimsy it all is without Him.

He describes how the divine light exposes everything — our vanity, our mortality, even our carefully constructed happiness.


Our distractions lose their flavor.


Our achievements crumble under divine scrutiny.


Even our highest joys can't withstand eternity’s gaze.

It's raw, almost painful. But deeply true.
 

One image that sticks with me is Muggeridge’s idea that, under God's direction, history becomes a kind of soap opera — full of bad acting, fake props, and threadbare storylines.

Now, soap opera might feel a bit dated as a term (though it's still around). But the idea still lands: our self-important dramas and manufactured narratives look ridiculous when exposed to eternal light. You could swap in reality show, Instagram story, or even political theater — the effect is the same. God sees through all of it.

Muggeridge also quotes Kierkegaard, who said that what we naturally love is finitude — the safe, manageable life. But when God confronts us with infinitude — eternity, holiness, ultimate truth — it undoes us. It pulls back the curtain on everything we try to hide behind.

We long for comfort and control. But God wants truth and transformation. No wonder we resist Him.
 
No Escape — But That's Good News

Muggeridge ends with a bleak honesty: “There is no escape.” We twist and turn, try to replace God with politics, pleasure, or philosophy. We’d rather follow D.H. Lawrence or Marx or Roosevelt — anyone but the real God.

But in the end, dead or alive, He is still God. And strangely, that’s where the hope lies. Not in our illusions. Not in our performances. But in the relentless, loving pursuit of the One who won't leave us alone.

This passage has meant so much to me over the years because it reminds me that faith isn't always tidy or desired — but it’s real. God isn’t something we add to an already full life; He’s the light that reveals what’s really there.

And in that light — even when it hurts — is the only kind of life that lasts.

I have pasted the original piece below:

"IS THERE A GOD ?


Well, is there? I myself should be very happy to answer with an emphatic negative. Temperamentally, it would suit me well enough to settle for what this world offers, and to write off as wishful thinking, or just the self-importance of the human species, any notion of a divine purpose and a divinity to entertain and execute it. The earth's sounds and smells and colours are very sweet; human love brings golden hours; the mind at work earns delight. I have never wanted a God, or feared a God, or felt under any necessity to invent one. Unfortunately, I am driven to the conclusion that God wants me.


God comes padding after me like a Hound of Heaven. His shadow falls over all my little picnics in the sunshine, chilling the air; draining the viands of their flavour, talk of its sparkle, desire of its zest. God takes a hand as history's compere, turning it into a soap opera, with ham actors, threadbare lines, tawdry props and faded costumes, and a plot which might have been written by Ted Willis himself. God arranges the lighting —Spark of Sparks—so that all the ravages of time, like parched skin, decaying teeth and rotting flesh, show through the makeup, however lavishly it may be plastered on. Under God's eye, tiny hoarded glories—a little fame, some money . . . Oh Mr M! how wonderful you are!—fall into dust. In the innermost recesses of vanity one is discovered, as in the last sanctuaries of appetite; on the highest hill of complacency, as in the lowest burrow of despair. One shivers as the divine beast of prey gets ready for the final spring; as the shadow lengthens, reducing to infinite triviality all mortal hopes and desires.


There is no escape. Even so, one twists and turns. Perhaps Nietzsche was right when he said that God had died. Progressive theologians with German names seem to think so: Time magazine turned over one of its precious covers to the notion. If God were dead, and eternity had stopped, what a blessed relief to one and all! Then we could set about making a happy world in our own way—happy in the woods like Mellors and his Lady Chatterley; happiness successfully pursued, along with life and liberty, in accordance with the Philadelphia specification; happy the Wilson way, with only one book to take to the post-office—one book, one happiness; happy in the prospect of that great Red Apocalypse when the State has withered away, and the proletariat reigns for ever more. If only God were D. H. Lawrence, or Franklin D. Roosevelt, or Harold Wilson, or Karl Marx!


Alas, dead or alive, he is still God, and eternity ticks on even though all the clocks have stopped. I agree with Kierkegaard that 'what man naturally loves is finitude' and that involvement through God in infinitude 'kills in him, in the most painful way, everything in which he really finds his life . . . shows him his own wretchedness, keeps him in sleepless unrest, whereas finitude lulls him into enjoyment.' Man, in other words, needs protection against God as tenants do against Rachmanism, or minors against hard liquor."

Here is an analysis of the poem, The Hound of Heaven

The Hound of Heaven: A Poem of Relentless Grace

Among the great spiritual poems of the modern era stands The Hound of Heaven, a work of profound beauty and theological depth. Written by English poet Francis Thompson (1859–1907), this poem has stirred hearts for over a century with its portrayal of God’s tireless pursuit of the human soul.

Who Was Francis Thompson?

Thompson’s life was marked by pain and paradox. Born into a devout Roman Catholic family in England, he showed early promise in both medicine and literature. However, his adult life spiraled into years of poverty, illness, and opium addiction on the streets of London. It was during these darkest days that he wrote The Hound of Heaven, a deeply personal reflection of his spiritual journey.

Despite his hardships, Thompson's poetic gift eventually caught the attention of the publishers of Merrie England, and his work—especially this poem—was embraced for its powerful imagery and spiritual insight.

What Is The Hound of Heaven About?

The title itself is striking. A “hound” suggests a dog trained to pursue with unswerving focus. In this poem, the “Hound of Heaven” is a metaphor for God—persistent, patient, and full of grace. Far from a predator, this divine pursuer is a loving Father who follows the soul with unwavering purpose, even as the soul runs from Him.

The poem explores the futility of fleeing God through earthly distractions, pleasures, and self-reliance. In the end, it is not wrath that catches the fleeing soul, but love.

THE HOUND OF HEAVEN- Francis Thompson

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
   I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
   Of my own mind; and in the midst of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
             Up vistaed hopes I sped;
             And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears,
   From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
             But with unhurrying chase,
             And unperturbèd pace,
     Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
             They beat—and a Voice beat
             More instant than the Feet—
     'All things betray thee, who betrayest Me'.

“All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.”
God tells the fleeing soul that all the things he turns to instead of God—pleasures, hopes, dreams, people—ultimately betray him. Why? Because he has betrayed his Creator. When the soul flees God, even good things lose their ability to satisfy. They become hollow.

             I pleaded, outlaw-wise,

By many a hearted casement, curtained red,
   Trellised with intertwining charities;
(For, though I knew His love Who followed,
             Yet was I sore adread
Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside.)
But, if one little casement parted wide,
   The gust of His approach would clash it to:
   Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue.
Across the margent of the world I fled,
   And troubled the gold gateway of the stars,
   Smiting for shelter on their clanged bars;
             Fretted to dulcet jars
And silvern chatter the pale ports o' the moon.
I said to Dawn: Be sudden—to Eve: Be soon;
   With thy young skiey blossom heap me over
             From this tremendous Lover—
Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!
   I tempted all His servitors, but to find
My own betrayal in their constancy,
In faith to Him their fickleness to me,
   Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.
To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;
   Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.
          But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,
     The long savannahs of the blue;
            Or, whether, Thunder-driven,
          They clanged his chariot 'thwart a heaven,
Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet:—
   Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.
             Still with unhurrying chase,
             And unperturbed pace,
      Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
             Came on the following Feet,
             And a Voice above their beat—
'Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me.'

“Nothing can protect you, because you refuse to give Me a home in your soul.”
It echoes the  theme: God desires to dwell with His people (e.g., Revelation 3:20, John 14:23), but if He is shut out, no other refuge will suffice.
It flips the roles. Just as we seek shelter in God, God also seeks a place to dwell—in the heart of the human soul. If the soul refuses to “shelter” God (through faith, surrender, love), then that soul has no true refuge from the storms of life, fear, guilt, or eternity.

I sought no more after that which I strayed
          In face of man or maid;
But still within the little children's eyes
          Seems something, something that replies,
They at least are for me, surely for me!
I turned me to them very wistfully;
But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair
         With dawning answers there,
Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.
Come then, ye other children, Nature's—share
With me' (said I) 'your delicate fellowship;
          Let me greet you lip to lip,
          Let me twine with you caresses,
              Wantoning
          With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses,
             Banqueting
          With her in her wind-walled palace,
          Underneath her azured dais,
          Quaffing, as your taintless way is,
             From a chalice
Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring.'
             So it was done:
I in their delicate fellowship was one—
Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies.
          I knew all the swift importings
          On the wilful face of skies;
           I knew how the clouds arise
          Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings;
             All that's born or dies
          Rose and drooped with; made them shapers
Of mine own moods, or wailful divine;
          With them joyed and was bereaven.
          I was heavy with the even,
          When she lit her glimmering tapers
          Round the day's dead sanctities.
          I laughed in the morning's eyes.
I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,
          Heaven and I wept together,
And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine:
Against the red throb of its sunset-heart
          I laid my own to beat,
          And share commingling heat;
But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart.
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek.
For ah! we know not what each other says,
          These things and I; in sound I speak—
Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.
Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth;
          Let her, if she would owe me,
Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me
          The breasts o' her tenderness:
Never did any milk of hers once bless
             My thirsting mouth.
             Nigh and nigh draws the chase,
             With unperturbed pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy;
             And past those noisèd Feet
             A voice comes yet more fleet—
          'Lo! naught contents thee, who content'st not Me.'

Naked I wait Thy love's uplifted stroke!
My harness piece by piece Thou has hewn from me,
             And smitten me to my knee;
          I am defenceless utterly.
          I slept, methinks, and woke,
And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep.
In the rash lustihead of my young powers,
          I shook the pillaring hours
And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears,
I stand amidst the dust o' the mounded years—
My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.
My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,
Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream.
          Yea, faileth now even dream
The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist;
Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist
I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist,
Are yielding; cords of all too weak account
For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed.
          Ah! is Thy love indeed
A weed, albeit an amarinthine weed,
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?

Yes, it is sensual. But not because the speaker is seeking physical or erotic love per se—it’s because he’s pouring spiritual hunger into the wrong vessel. It shows the misdirected but honest longing of a soul, trying to find love and rest in Nature when it was made for God.


          Ah! must—
          Designer infinite!—
Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?
My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust;
And now my heart is as a broken fount,
Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever
          From the dank thoughts that shiver
Upon the sighful branches of my mind.
          Such is; what is to be?
The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind?
I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds;
Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds
From the hid battlements of Eternity;
Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then
Round the half-glimpsed turrets slowly wash again.
          But not ere him who summoneth
          I first have seen, enwound
With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned;
His name I know and what his trumpet saith.
Whether man's heart or life it be which yields
          Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields
          Be dunged with rotten death?

             Now of that long pursuit
             Comes on at hand the bruit;
          That Voice is round me like a bursting sea:
          'And is thy earth so marred,
          Shattered in shard on shard?
          Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!

          'Strange, piteous, futile thing!
Wherefore should any set thee love apart?
Seeing none but I makes much of naught' (He said),
'And human love needs human meriting:
          How hast thou merited—
Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot?
          Alack, thou knowest not
How little worthy of any love thou art!
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,
          Save Me, save only Me?
All which I took from thee I did but take,
          Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms.
          All which thy child's mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:
          Rise, clasp My hand, and come!'

   Halts by me that footfall:
   Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?
   'Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
   I am He Whom thou seekest!
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.'  

Why It Still Matters

In a time when many are restless, hurting, or hiding behind distraction, The Hound of Heaven offers hope: God pursues not to condemn, but to rescue. His grace is not forceful but faithful. And even when we run, His love is faster. 


Tuesday, April 29, 2025

Ask Me Dangerous

We live in a world of shallow talk. We scroll, we nod, we say “I’m good” — but rarely do we ask, or get asked, anything that might disrupt the carefully curated masks we wear.

I’ve often thought about that old Lynyrd Skynyrd line:
"Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies."
It’s catchy — and sadly, accurate for most of us. We avoid asking because we don’t want to hear. We avoid answering because the truth might crack the mirror we’ve built around our image. And somewhere along the way, we've agreed to a kind of unspoken pact — don’t dig too deep, and I won’t either.

But then I read the Bible — and I see something different.

God asks questions.
Not because He doesn't know the answers — but because we don’t.
To Adam: “Where are you?”
To Elijah: “What are you doing here?”
To Nicodemus: “Are you a teacher of Israel and yet you do not understand these things?”
To the woman at the well: “Where is your husband?”
To Peter: “Do you love me?”
To Pilate: “Do you say this of your own accord?”

These are not safe questions. They are not polite.
They are dangerous.
They pierce. They expose.
And in the hands of God — they heal.

I’ve been thinking about why we avoid these kinds of questions with each other.
Maybe it’s self-protection.
Maybe we’ve grown too used to performance and pretense.
Or maybe it’s fear — that if I ask you something real, you might turn the spotlight back on me.
Mutual Assured Destruction: I won’t ask you anything that matters if you won’t ask me.

But what if the truth really could set us free?
What if asking dangerous is the only way to actually know and be known?

That’s the heart behind this song — “Ask Me Dangerous.”
It’s a confession.
It’s an invitation.
It’s a challenge to myself and maybe to you:

Stop playing safe.
Start asking dangerous.
And be brave enough to answer.

Ask Me Dangerous

Verse 1 I know the script, I wear the mask, Every glance — a practiced task. I’m the duke of polished lies, A thousand faces, none are mine. Pre-Chorus But it’s just noise, a mirrored screen, Hiding truths I’ve never seen. Chorus Ask me dangerous, Don’t play safe with me. Pull that question like a knife — Cut beneath what you can see. Ask me what I’m running from, Ask me who I tried to be — Ask me dangerous, And the truth will set me free. Verse 2 We trade small talk, we dodge the weight, Circling truths we’re scared to face. But I’m unraveling in this quiet storm, Waiting for someone to break the form. Pre-Chorus So don’t hold back, don’t let it fade, Shatter the walls I’ve learned to raise. Chorus Ask me dangerous, Don’t play safe with me. Pull that question like a knife — Cut beneath what you can see. Ask me what I’m running from, Ask me who I tried to be — Ask me dangerous, And the truth will set me free. Bridge There’s a fracture running through my bones, In every crowd, I stand alone. Will you risk the spark, or cut the wire? Help me light the truth — face the fire. What would you ask… don’t hold back. And don’t let me just add God in the gap. Chorus Ask me dangerous, Don’t just skim the sea. Ask the questions that could break, And pull the real from me. Ask me what I’m made of, Ask me who I’ll never be — Ask me dangerous, Ask me dangerous, And the truth will set me free.


Friday, April 25, 2025

The Blood Libel Myth and Its Modern Echoes: A Review Inspired by Malamud’s The Fixer

Note: final post inspired by a reading of "The Fixer" by Bernard Malamud- one that I just happened to pick up randomly in a stack of free books at the Hayden, Colorado library...what are those odds?

Bernard Malamud’s The Fixer vividly portrays the devastating impact of the blood libel myth—a dangerous conspiracy theory that accused Jews of ritually murdering Christians, often children, for religious purposes. Set in Tsarist Russia, the novel draws on the real-life case of Mendel Beilis, falsely accused in 1913. Through this lens, Malamud reveals how false narratives can be weaponized to frame and scapegoat individuals or groups, a pattern that tragically still echoes today.

The Blood Libel Myth: A Historical Conspiracy Theory

The blood libel originated in medieval Europe, beginning in 12th-century England with the case of William of Norwich. Though entirely baseless, the accusation spread for centuries, fueling violence, persecution, and deep societal fractures. The 20th-century Beilis trial exposed how such myths could be reinforced by state interests, media manipulation, and institutionalized bigotry. In The Fixer, Yakov Bok becomes a symbol of this injustice, enduring false accusations, imprisonment, and torture—all rooted in prejudice.

The enduring power of the myth lies in its pattern:

  • False Accusation: A fabricated claim, often tied to tragedy, targets a vulnerable or unpopular group.

  • Amplification: Institutions or influencers spread the claim, granting it false credibility.

  • Framing: Evidence is manipulated or manufactured to fit the narrative.

  • Destruction: The accused suffer violence or exile, while society internalizes the lie.

This cycle contributed to countless tragedies—pogroms during the Black Death, the Kishinev massacre, and systemic antisemitism.

Modern Parallels: The Arc of Targeted Hatred

While the blood libel itself may seem antiquated, the pattern it exemplifies remains potent. In today’s hyperconnected world, conspiracy theories and coordinated hate campaigns follow similar arcs—only now they spread faster and wider through digital platforms.

False Information and Framing

Across the political spectrum, we've seen false or exaggerated narratives gain traction. From conspiracy theories like QAnon to disinformation campaigns about public figures or corporations, the tactics remain similar: fear-mongering, cherry-picked “evidence,” and emotional manipulation.

While many point to examples like anti-vaccine misinformation or election denialism, others highlight how certain media campaigns target businesses or individuals—such as attacks on Elon Musk and Tesla—as part of a broader strategy to discredit or deplatform perceived ideological opponents.

Targeted Destruction

Those caught in the crossfire—whether election officials, scientists, CEOs, or marginalized groups—face doxxing, swatting, harassment, and reputational destruction. These aren’t isolated incidents but systemic phenomena, driven by narratives that oversimplify complex issues into binary conflicts. The chilling effect is real: people grow fearful of public engagement, and civil discourse suffers.

Societal Consequences

This cycle polarizes societies, corrodes trust, and weakens institutions. As in Malamud’s novel, the personal toll is enormous—social isolation, anxiety, and a sense of powerlessness. And disturbingly, many of these campaigns are profoundly irrational. Hate spreads not by reasoned argument, but by emotional contagion. The poison of lies clouds judgment, reducing our ability to think clearly, discern truth, or even engage in civil disagreement.

Rationality itself becomes a casualty.

A Warning and a Call to Action

The Fixer reminds us that the damage done by lies and hate—whether ancient or modern—can leave deep, lasting scars. We must remain vigilant:

  • Verify and Challenge: Seek credible sources and confront falsehoods with clarity and reason.

  • Support the Targeted: Offer legal, emotional, and public support to those unfairly attacked.

  • Foster Resilience: Educate ourselves and others in critical thinking and empathy.

  • Balance Responsibility: Encourage platforms and institutions to limit the spread of harmful content while safeguarding free expression.

  • Prayer: I know this one seems useless or ineffective, but I find myself praying often for people who seem to be under constant attack and I pray they will be sustained in the storm.

People of faith—especially Christians—have a biblical responsibility to stand against gossip, slander, and false witness. The same Scriptures that call for truth in love also warn repeatedly against stirring division through careless or malicious words. Yet how often do we hear sermons about gossip? How often do we see Christians becoming passive in the face of viral falsehoods, hoping “someone else” will defend the truth?

This silence can be complicit. And in today’s world, it’s no longer enough to quietly disapprove—we must be willing to speak clearly and courageously.

The blood libel teaches us that unchallenged lies metastasize. By recognizing modern parallels—regardless of political alignment—we can work to stop the cycle before it harms more lives. Malamud’s Yakov Bok survives, but at great cost; our responsibility is to learn from that pain and stand for truth before the cost becomes our own.

Thursday, April 24, 2025

Framed to Maximize Outrage: A Forgotten Paperback and a Civilization in Crisis

Last week, I traveled to Hayden, Colorado to visit my daughter and son-in-law. It’s a quiet town nestled in the Yampa Valley—unassuming, peaceful, and easy to love. One afternoon, we stopped by the local library, where a table of worn paperbacks was labeled “Free to Good Home.” I picked up one I’d never heard of before: The Fixer by Bernard Malamud. The title was intriguing, and the spine was cracked in a way that suggested it had been read more than once.

I didn’t expect much. But as I flipped through the pages at various times and places (morning coffee- Denver airport), I was surprised—not just by how well-written it was, but by how uncomfortably relevant it felt. Set in 1911 Kyiv, The Fixer follows Yakov Bok, a Jewish handyman falsely accused of a ritual murder in a case eerily modeled after a real-life trial - the Mendel Beilis case.

What begins as a tragic historical novel quickly becomes a mirror reflecting modern dysfunction—framed accusations, tribal narratives, and outrage engineered to divide.

Later, I learned the book had been banned in some circles—too graphic, too unsettling. But maybe that’s why it hit me so hard: not because it was inappropriate, but because it was too appropriate.

The Anatomy of Outrage

In The Fixer, a grieving community is manipulated into rage. The accusations against Bok are framed to maximize emotional reaction and political utility. A corrupt system doesn’t just allow it—it demands it.

 As I read, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we’re living out a modern version of this script in 2025.

Consider the public treatment of figures like Elon Musk. From outrageous attacks on Teslas and dealerships to constant venomous posts against him on his own platform, X, narratives are selectively shaped to generate maximum outrage

A 2024 Media Research Center study showed that 60% of Musk-related news was negative, disproportionately emphasizing scandal over success. Much like the authorities in Bok’s case, today’s media culture often seeks not the truth, but the narrative that draws the most attention—and outrage.

We see this dynamic playing out globally. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict, for example, is reduced online to tribal soundbites, with nuance sacrificed for slogans. Social media amplifies emotion over reason, collapsing centuries of complexity into 280-character pogroms.

A Civilization in Crisis

What we’re witnessing isn’t just poor journalism or platform dysfunction. It’s a deeper sickness—a civilization losing its grip on truth. 

In one scene in The Fixer, a priest’s pseudo-religious theories (so called 'blood libel myth') to a baited crowd are treated as gospel, leading to state-sponsored persecution. Today, conspiracy theories and ideological dogmas do the same—dressed in the garb of activism or authority.

Whether it's the nationalist fervor of the Black Hundreds in Kyiv in 1911 or the hashtag crusades of digital tribes today, the root is the same: illogical and unrelenting scapegoating

And the results are equally devastating. 

As Proverbs 18:17 reminds us, “The one who states his case first seems right, until the other comes and examines him.” But we’re losing that second examination. We’re losing the tools of discernment, or as long form podcasts remind us.... the follow-up question that few in legacy media are willing to ask.

That’s why I keep returning to the metacognitive tools I’ve developed over the years—things like the Bias Barometer, which helps me weigh claims with Scripture and logic. It's not just about staying informed—it's about staying sane, and faithful.

A Call to Rise Above

Malamud didn’t write The Fixer just to expose antisemitism. He wrote it to show what happens when society replaces truth with tribalism. The book ends with Bok totally worn down by the unjust accusations and campaign of destruction—he stays strong and steady but at what cost? Yes, in the end truth shows a promise to win... "freedom exists in the cracks of oppression" but that isn't the world I want to live in... come Jesus come.

In this age of algorithmic outrage, the church has a rare chance to be something different. Not louder. Not trendier..... Truer. The gospel isn’t a tribal chant—it’s the invitation to grace and truth. But we must choose it, daily, in how we respond to the noise.

Let’s challenge poor ideas with reason. Dismantle tribalism with love. And remember that even a forgotten paperback from a small-town library can be a timely prophet. The cycle may be old—but our response doesn’t have to be.

What are things we have forgotten that are foundations and cornerstones of our civilization? I think the biggest ones are God, the value of human beings, and the beauty of the gospel message. I'm tired of the cold dark air.... let there be light!