​They blindly imbibe in earthly pleasure
But that won't work for long
Because all earthly bliss
That does not unite us
In heavenly bonds
Will end.
And the end is close at hand.
And the day will come when you will need
The help of unseen helpers.
For that reason,
The best strategy is to forego momentary pleasure,
To forestall the impulse toward the profane
And wait upon deliverance
Unto the sublime.
And if you can't,
To seek the help of God.
But the prophets and the sages
Have been saying that for a long time.
And perhaps we now must reap what we have sowed.
Surely...the time has come.
And the message has gone forth.
And the end is at hand.
And perhaps in that
Some, if not many, will be redeemed through suffering.
But how black the night that comes,
How unspeakably terrible,
You do not know.
For the world will be wrapped
In what will appear to be endless night.
So that, in comparison,
All that which you believed to be evil
Will shrink increasingly
To ever paler shades of grey.
And some will run headlong
Into all that they feared with a will
And with loathing of the light.
And others will turn with yearning hearts
Toward the unseen place of glory.
And when the darkness has had its way
And the world with all its pomp
Has descended into the pit.
Then, with key in hand,
The mighty one will come and seal all those
Who do not love the light
Unto the thing that they desire.
I shudder to think of it.
But there is hope for them
Who have not killed the truth within.
And may heaven shed its mercy upon them
In whom still lives the love of light!
And deliver them from darkness!
One step at a time.
For there, just on the other side
Of that great night to end all nights
Shines the brightness of a world reborn.
And you do not know how bright it shines!
Its pillars rise heavenward
And glisten in the light
Of everlasting truth.
And for all those who can forego
The delights of earthly pleasure,
Or at least begin the journey
Toward the holy place,
There awaits unseen helping hands
Ready to lift them up and point the way.
And the time is now.
The clock has already tolled the hour.
And the only thing left to do
Is to turn the refiner's fire up
And discover who is who.

​To give good gifts is an art
And it requires the intervention of heaven,
And desire.
It's not enough to gift out of obligation
Though that kind of giving has its own beauty
When it's done thoughtfully.
But as for me, I desire to give good gifts
For no other reason than
That the gift is the ideal peg
For another's empty hole.
Such giving binds
The giver and receiver
With an eternal kind of love.
It engenders true and deep felt gratitude.
And lasting friendship
Of the kind that transcends the veil.
For this reason,
The hosts of heaven get involved.
For it is no small thing to give a good gift.
You might even say that it is a sacrament,
A holy exchange.
Dear God, help me to give good gifts.
Help me to love and to lend a hand to those who lack.
Help me to be the means of meeting another's need
In just the right moment.
For this is no small thing.
It is so easy to give poor gifts
And to throw away my portion
Without thought.
At the same time, dear God,
Help me to empty myself out
In such a manner that, from time to time,
I will also know lack that others can fill.
And by so doing, dear God,
Please bind us together
And forgive us of our mindless
Getting and giving.
Forgive me
Dear God.
I am so sorry that I did not understand until now
What it was all about.

​We thought that we could find it by looking back,
But we cannot. It lies in the future.
And we will never turn around.
We will never look back.
We'll keep on moving forward,
With our eyes upon the thing that's coming.
Even as the world comes to a screeching halt
Because they cannot imagine any future
Not of their own making.
And some will attempt to bunker down
And retreat into the past.
But they will find that they cannot.
For there is no amount of hoarding
That can prepare them for what's coming.
But for those who choose the future,
This is only the beginning.
And if the world has been free with it's substance
Unto carnal pleasure.
We will be more free with our substance
Unto the acquisition of friends in heavenly places
And faith, and everything we ever needed
Flowing out from the unseen cache
Of God's limitless storehouse.
And as for technology, we embrace it
Wherein it serves to point us to the light.
And when the towers fall
And the world is weeping for their loss,
We'll erect new ones made of faith
So that upon Mount Zion,
We will not miss a beat.

​Sometimes it feels as if I am on an endless Safari
In search of some wild prey which constantly eludes me.
And I don't know why I cannot let go
​To the beauty of the Serengeti.

There is no reconciliation
Accept in that final reconning.
But there are those who choose to recon early.
And when they do,
They are met by the vilest opposition.
They are despised for choosing truth and love too early
Because the world wants to go on reveling to the end
And settle up later.
But for those who choose to settle their accounts
Before it's everlastingly too late,
There is no turning back.
For the world will never love them for their loving
Nor laud them for the wealth of truth that they embrace.
And so, their consolation is not of this world.
Their hope is in that final day
When all will see the truth together.
And since they welcome it with gladness,
It is enough.

​Dear body of mine,
Though you cannot see,
There are hopeful reasons to stay alive.
Please trust me.
And carry me another day longer.
One day at a time,
One day at a time.
I promise there’s a new day dawning,
If only you can bear the cross of all
That shields your eyes
From hiding joys of impossible tomorrows.
Stay with me old friend.
Please don’t forsake me in my sorrows.
But trust me unto the unfolding.
I am at your mercy.
For we are partners in a work,
Yoked together for as long as we can stand the fire.
And I love you more than you can know.

​Keep your eyes forward.
Don't look back.
Let the dead past bury the past.
And love.
Love will resurrect all that
Which truly was yours, to begin with.

​Faith must come first.
So put it at the forefront,
Since results spring out of belief.
It's a matter of priority.
And faith is nurtured
In the dark brown fertile beds of peace.
And gratitude.
And trust.
So, you must relax into it.
It's a meditation.
And it takes time,
Not to say it takes a long time,
But that you must alot time for it
Before you start to work.
So that, when you begin to work
You do so peacefully,
Fully knowing that the work
Has already been accomplished,
And that your temporal labors
Are no more than tokens
Of a much larger set of unseen movements
Which have been set in motion
Through faith
To bring the work about.

​Sometimes a monster is not what’s needed.
And sometimes we come at a problem with a knife
When what we really need is a pillow.
And sometimes the giants fall
Like a rock
To the sound of silence.

​Get out before it's too late!
The fight is only beginning.
Get out before it is too late!
Or you will lose.
All will lose.
Get out before it's too late!
You don't know what you are facing.
For if you hurl yourself into this kettle
You'll discover when it boils
That all who fought in this last battle
Die like lobsters in the pot.

​Looking out upon the world through prison bars,
They wonder how it ends.
And I hate to tell them,
Since they don't yet know
What lies on the other side of pain.
But I do.  And we have not yet been forsaken,
Nor ever will be, though the world devolves into chaos.
But for now, the world that lies beyond
Is hidden from them.
I pity them for this.
And I do not mean life after life.
I mean the place that will rise from the ashes
Of all that we've burned with our ill-placed passion.
I wish that I could give it to them.
Perhaps that is what I am trying to do,
Here, with these failing words:
To shine a light on what might be if we believe.

​I have often been ashamed
Of my need to be alone.
And it's not to say
That I don't long for people. I do.
I need others deeply, perhaps too deeply.
But I also need my solitude,
Perhaps more than other people.
And I wonder if it is because
There are so many others with me all the time.
I cannot pick them up and put them down.
There are no superficial conversations.
And it all, they all, weigh upon me
All the time.
Their stories cling to me,
Reach down deep inside of me,
And turn me over and over wondering.
Solitude gives me time and space
To process that,
And to hear the songs
That rise up in response,
Songs for the people I love
But whom I cannot see just now.

​Words fail.
But we do our best
To speak the truth
To spite their treachery.
For only by the Spirit
Do we really know a thing.
And only by the Spirit do we speak
If we speak well.
And we do so knowing
That some will misunderstand,
And others will write them down
In an attempt to bottle up the light.
But we fear the coming years,
Long after we are gone,
When stony hearts will go to war
Over the interpretation,
Stones beating upon stones.
But we do our best.
They're all we have - words.
And we carefully pour over them
In an attempt to choose just the right ones,
So that, perhaps, someone listening
Can hear the whisperings
Just underneath all that can be said,
And know,
Not by words,
But by the Spirit,
Those truths which can't be spoken.

It is God who rewards the righteous,
Not the world.
So seek to please God,
Not others.
What a comfort,
That God is more easily pleased
​Than the world.

In the midst of temptation,
Know that the desire for immediate gratification
Comes because you have not sufficiently believed.
Carnal desire plays upon the need for comfort.
And never do we feel the need for comfort so acutely
Than when it appears that all is lost,
Or that the task before us is impossible.
It is then that the lesser man rises up
And begs to be satiated.
For the carnal part of us does not live for the age
It suffers in the present.
And if it cannot see clearly enough
The reality of future reward,
It may storm the mind
And take it by force,
For it is the mind that directs the body.
Mind is the master.
For this reason, we are told
That we must be of a sound mind.
And so, If you have a lofty goal,
And a future intent for which you work
And which requires faith and endurance,
Project your mind forward
To the desired outcome.
Exercise faith.
Imagine.
Believe.
And experience more deeply
The thing you can't yet see.
By this, the carnal mind will be appeased.
You may not believe me.
And I must admit,
It's harder than it sounds.
And it won't come without effort.
But it is better than the alternative.

I fear to check out
Lest another check in while I sleep.
For they can be hard to roust
Once they've taken possession of the house.

​I do one thing, this thing.
Just a reminder to myself,
To not be distracted by the gimmicks,
To focus upon the thing that I am good at,
The thing to which I am called:
To write.

I could serve hell forever
And it would drain me dry and ask for more.
It’s longings are insatiable.
Because it doesn’t want the cure.
It wants the patch, the poison.
It wants me for it’s errand boy,
But not to heal,
Not to heal.
Perhaps that’s why
There is a place for such.
For sure.
And it appears
That I am learning late 
The thing my fathers knew,
That hell cannot be reasoned with
Or even helped
In any consequential way
Without contrition.

I would rather act.
It seems better, almost, to do anything
That moves me toward the goal
Than to hesitate.
I suppose that I say this to remind myself,
For there were so many years
When I could not see clearly enough
To move anywhere but out.
And since the only out is death,
I move back in.
And I suppose I do so
Because I have something to say before I go,
And because there are those
Who depend upon me for support.
And finally, the thing I am
Is the thing I do.
What a comfort!
So dear God, please help me act today.
Help me to keep on moving toward the goal.
Help me to do the thing in the world
That I am called to do,
​I pray.

In the middle of the Atlantic Ocean,
Half-way between South America and South Africa
Is a Little Island called Tristan Da Cunha.
It is the most remote inhabited island in the world.
Only about 250 people live on the Island
And they rarely see anyone from the outside world.
Since they live so close,
And everyone knows everybody,
They are like a family.
And they share everything,
Well, perhaps not everything,
But they share.
It's a way of life.
And that is how it's always been, they say.
Many of the older folk remember the lean days
When ships would not come for months.
If one person got a bag of sugar,
They all had sugar.
If someone caught a bunch of fish,
Or slaughtered a beef,
They all had fish, or beef.
And supposing an old woman
Was headed to the cemetery
To visit her husband's grave,
She didn't call the florist.
She simply asked a neighbor
If she might cut a few flowers from her garden.
I suppose that such a way of life
Seems backward to those living
In the "get for yourself" world.
It did to some who visited there.
Long ago, a visiting sailor was remembered to have said,
"They are like a bunch of grown-up children."
I think he meant it as a slight.
But I believe it was the best compliment
He could have given them.
God help me to grow up
To be so childish.

​You want to change the world.
And you believe that you can do so
Through a change in policy.
But you are mistaken.
Your doctrine is something like:
If only those in power
Could use their power
To profit me and those I love,
Then we would be free.
But such thoughts reveal a misunderstanding
Of both power and freedom.
Power resides in the ability to suffer well,
And freedom is its consequence.
The man who complains
Because he's being denied his rights
Has lost his rights already.
The man who knows his rights
Quietly lives by them.
He does not complain
When the powers that be
Don't acknowledge his work,
Nor does he use their rejection or disregard
As an excuse to not show up for work.
For he does not work for them.
And if, in the end,
His labors buy him no more
Than a seat in the gas chambers,
He dies a free man.

​Let go...
Release into the acceptance
Of what you are so far,
For who knows what is good, but God.
And who knows how many revolutions must come
Before we are perfected.
Like clay upon the wheel, we turn
Round and round.
And he loves us where we are.
He loves the bright and burning
Coals within the flame.
And he loves the cold, the lost,
The hungry traveler
Far from home.
We are the same to him: beloved, cherished,
In the bosom of his deepest
And most holy intent.
For when it comes to the things of the Spirit,
Not all that glitters is gold.
Sometimes, the pearl of great price
Is found in the deepest, darkest,
Hours of our wayward, fearful, flights
Into the thing that we despise.
One thing for sure:
We will never find our way back home
By turning away in shame.
And so, let go...
Let God decide what is good.

​Peace is a gift, however it comes.
And thank God for it.
But today, I would like to rock your boat a little
By saying that not all peace
Is God's peace.
And not all peace will lead to Him.
For there is a kind of peace that leads one to trust
In earthbound hopes.
And this peace is called carnal security.
And it is fine as far as it goes.
After all, is it not good to be content and grateful...
For the job, the social status, the wife, the children, the car, the house?
Surely! And ingratitude is far worse.
But what happens when these are stripped away?
Only then do we discover that perhaps our peace
Was less founded upon the infinite
And more upon the finite.
And only when we are thrown
Upon the naked hand of providence
Do we know whether our peace was eternal rest
Or carnal security.
Likely both.
And only through pain
Can the lesser peace be sifted out
Till nothing but that peace which surpasses understanding remains.
And as for love,
God's love is no less elusive.
For only in betrayal do we discover
Whether our love remains when theirs dissolves.
For there is but one peace, one hope, one love
That is eternal.
And the path to obtaining it is a winding upward road
To the hill of a tailor-made Golgotha,
Tailor-made for each of us.
And isn't it terrible to say it outright like that?
I feel as if I have broken
With some unspoken societal contract.
But isn't that what we always said we wanted
When we sang:
I have decided to follow Jesus...
The world behind me,
The cross before me,
No turning back...
No turning back...

The time has come for each person
To traverse their own wilderness path,
And through that experience
To create their own sacred remembrances,
And thus keep alive the truth,
Not of what God did for a people far distant
And far removed by time and culture,
But of what he did for each of us.
And just as the children of Israel observed the Passover,
We too will remember, from moment to moment,
How God spared us
While thousands around us were slain
Because they would not suffer themselves
To be led out of what they thought they were.
And this is the Last Great Exodus
That Jeremiah was talking about
When he said:
"Therefore, behold,
The days come, saith the Lord,
That it shall no more be said,
The Lord liveth, that brought up the children of Israel
Out of the land of Egypt;
But, The Lord liveth, that brought up the children of Israel
From the land of the north,
And from all the lands whither he had driven them:
And I will bring them again into their land
That I gave unto their fathers."
And this Last Exodus
Will change the hearts of the people.
It will bring them to have hearts of flesh, and not hearts of Stone
Because it is not only a journey into a geographical place
But a journey into the very heart of God.

​I move forward toward the horizon of my tomorrows,
Not looking back upon what might have been
If I were something more, something different.
And I trust that the path that I have chosen
Is one eternal round,
And that, somehow, In the grand economy of God’s providence,
I will find each one that I have lost,
And that I love,
In the bright new hope
Of unseen futures.
For I have put my trust
In the promises of God,
Spoken at diverse times
And through unearthly means
To the marrow of my soul.
And the promises of God are real.
They can be banked upon
As surely as the revolutions of the cosmos.
So, come 'round, old fate.
I do not fear you.
I welcome the new
As it, surely as the rising of the sun,
Brings round the old renewed.