Countdown to Oblivion

Stephen Harper

First, let me comment on the comments to Nothing ……. Seriously, guys, do you realize that by commenting it actually gives nothing …… weight. And I did want to respond to Mama Tried’s first comment. So, the renowned existentialist, Jughead, says to Archie, he says “hey, Veronica’s real cute” and Archie responds “Yeah, sure. My car looks neat, huh?” ………………… my car looks neat, huh? Man, does it get any more profound than that?

Times New Roman. You thought I was joking. I get this newsletter from a law firm in DC that deals with matters FCC. I don’t understand a word of it but sitting there with my magnifiers cradled on the precipice of my nose looking intently at its pages gives me an air of …. knowledge. This, for anyone that walks by. I usually strike the pose when I hear footsteps coming my way. Few realize that I’m holding it upside down and while browsing I’m thinking, “hey, I wonder if the guy what staples this thing together gets free legal advice. And if it’s another lawyer doing this does he suck as a lawyer that much he has to be relegated to stapling pages after law school?” Then I glance over at my own dismantled stapler and I am awash in shame and fear. But, I digress. One of the sections in said newsletter is titled, “Countdown to Oblivion”. Not original I know but then lawyers rarely are. However, it sure reflects the culture of a Times New Roman. We’ve all heard the noise that our culture is looking like the Roman Empire with the violence and the sex and the togas. Yeah, you heard right, togas. Did you know that if a man was caught wearing pants in ancient Rome he was beaten and his property taken away? I’m sure I read that somewhere. My question would be, what if he were caught wearing culottes? Part pant, part dress. Like to see that staple fumbling lawyer get his mind around THAT conundrum in front of Caesar. Depending on the Caesar of course. I mean Caligula might have thought it foreplay. But, I digress. I don’t see the culture reflecting Rome. I see me reflecting Rome. The curse of a blessed country (or a world power) is the stuff. Our priorities are altered exponentially by what we can possess. And our pain is diminished to what toys we can’t have. I need new carpets. Ours are old and worn and our bank account is vapor. I need a bigger bank account. And, geeeeese, it gripes me that I have to get one of my two cars fixed. Now, I’m not American bashing. You take a street urchin from Calcutta and transplant him to the US of A and within a month he’ll be crying that his half-caff double mocha from Starbucks doesn’t have enough ice and he will be upgrading to cable internet so he can download porn faster. No one is pure. No one gets out alive. My challenge isn’t to cram Jesus into my stuff like some errant puzzle piece. Jesus is always the piece that doesn’t fit. Frankly, that was my main attraction to Jesus. How did I get distracted from that? Even to have a little in this culture means having a lot. Having Jesus means having it all. What in the world makes me think that “filled to overflowing” has anything to do with new siding? I am the Times New Roman. It feels every bit as vapid as my bank account. The challenge isn’t the realization, it’s the crawling back. It’s tough to crawl with all that crap attached to you like the chain pulled by the ghost of Jacob Marley. But then He came to set the captives free. My mistake was thinking that this was a one-time deal. The more we have the more locks He has to pick. The b**ch of it is, He does it with a smile.

To Wander

It has come to my attention that I have not posted for a short while. WOW.
Well as Webster would define the word,,,,,,,
to stray
to move about aimlessly
or the one I like the best
to become delirious.
Trust me as far as I know none of the above apply. I have simply been doing all that is required of me.
I understand that in this day and age that is doing pretty OK.
I have started a blog about summer and my flower garden and worms. But it is not ready to post.
The heat is on and work is calling. And we have a house full.

My God bless you all.
Robert.

Serving Where Nobody Knows Your Name

I inhaled deeply and stepped into the church foyer. I moved along with the strangers also making their way toward the sanctuary door, comfortable beneath my cloak of anonymity. Men and women I did not know threw me nods, smiles, and “good mornings.” They didn’t know my name, nor could they see the shame I bore, yet I clutched my Bible tight against my chest as if to hide a scarlet letter.

A short and perpetually smiling woman just outside the door handed me a bulletin and since this was my second month attending the church, I was no longer surprised when she tackled me with a bear hug. In fact the embrace was like balm to my wounded spirit. Non-judgmental arms wrapped around a repentant soul. Thank You, Lord, for leading me here.

It was strange being unknown. In my old place of worship I had the notoriety of Norm on Cheers; yes, everybody knew my name. One couldn’t read through the bulletin without seeing it many times: For more information, contact Janet Rubin, See Janet Rubin regarding library donations, Chairperson: Janet Rubin… That was me—religious super-woman, loved an admired by all.

Until I fell.

So here I was, stripped of my choir robe, my titles, and my pride. Only wanting healing, understanding I was no longer good enough to serve. Still bleeding from my self-inflicted wounds as well as the ones left by people I’d called friends. The music, already playing, swept over me as I entered. A young man sang into the microphone—words that seemed written for me: All who are thirsty, all who are weak, come to the fountain, dip your heart in the stream of life…

And I found myself in front of the only person whose name I knew. Steve. Bare feet, long hair, and dangling earring. He looked more like a club bouncer than an associate pastor, but he’d been the first person I met when searching out a new flock to hang with, and his friendly manner had quenched most of the fear that came with venturing into a new flock. It had been Steve who’d answered the phone when I called, Steve who’d sent me pamphlets and a sermon tape in the mail, Steve who greeted with the warmest of smiles and hugs each week.

And today he did more than that. He bent his hulking frame over so his voice could be heard over the music. “Janet, can you do me a favor and help pass out communion today?”

I froze in my tracks. Pass out communion? That was a job for men, not women. Men in suits with titles like deacon or elder. Who was I to pass out the elements? Especially me. I probably shouldn’t even be participating.

I rose up on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “I would like to. I really would...”

Apparently, thinking I was finished, he slapped me on the shoulder. “Cool. Thanks.”

I shook my head. “No, I mean you guys don’t really know me, Steve. I’ve really screwed up. Sinned big time…”

He looked at me with what seemed amusement. “We all have, sister. That’s what Jesus died for.”

I hesitated. “You’re sure it’s okay? You don’t know what I did.”
He nodded. “It’s all about grace.”

The sincerity in his expression convinced me he really had no qualms about delegating the sacred task to me. Something in my spirit stirred, excited at the idea that I was not truly useless in the kingdom.

Two hours later I made my way down the aisle, passing a plate of broken crackers to men, women and children—strangers yet family. Me serving the Lord. And it felt okay. It felt better than okay. There was no glory for me. I was still unknown. And all at once I understood that serving was a gift.

When I was done with passing out the little cups of grape juice, I took some for myself. And when the pastor gave the go ahead, I ate my cracker, drank my juice, understanding for the first time what the point of it was—He bled, He died because I needed saving. Chiefly because I wasn’t good enough or clean enough.


And by His stripes my healing began.

The Image

The square blade disappears under the cover of flesh,
hiding its' presence for only a moment
as the metal invades a hand created for service to God...

Liquid of life drips then flows from
the cover of flesh
and stains the ground with powerless sacrifice...

the wind responds
and ushers in fresh vision
to soothe the feet of clay;
the image of the retracted hand tipped to sideways
...dislodging the perverted use of an everyday object...

the blood covers the wound in an instant,
and restores the flesh to created masterpiece...

...and the blood travels to the rest of the sinews and
bone of the one travailing in an earthsuit
and longing for heaven's gate to meet her where she is...

The hand lifts her gaze to meet the eyes from Galilee...

The hand of clay meets the divine palm,
and the sand of the beach feels like a cushion
as the two have a conversation
on a redemptive walk...

Nothing from Stephen Harper

I just opened up Microsoft Word to write nothing. Seriously, nothing. Janet Rubin threatened to do something to me if I didn’t submit something soon. I can’t remember what that something is but it must have tethered itself to the “fear stupid” portion of my brain. The “fear stupid” portion being directly underneath the “What’s That?” lobe. So, I sat there catching up on all my lapsed blog readings because …. well, I forget to read them on a regular basis. Some people are known for their humility, their character even their wickedness. I’m known for forgetting stuff. “oh, that’s steve. He mostly shakes hands, calls you by the wrong name and always asks what the date is”. But I digress. I forgot, I am also known for digressing. Anyway, read I did to be inspired. Who’s kidding who, read I did to steal. I needed an idea so I was going to piggyback on the wonderful posts from Art for the Heart. Turns out I can’t even crawl up on the back of those pigs. Not that any of those posts could be mistaken for a pig unless of course it was about a pig. Oh. Yeah, I didn’t catch ALL the way up on my readings. So, if you indeed wrote a devotional about us sending our personal demons into the metaphorical pigs of our lives to run screaming to a metaphorical or even a metaphysical sea or had a beautiful photo of the sun setting behind a ….. pig …. then I apologize for missing it. Well, maybe not for missing that particular visual epic because, y’know, it’s a pig. Big fan of bacon but aside from Arnold on Green Acres one can’t really point to a pig at any time in history as a reference of beauty, an inspiration for war or something that Michelangelo would have chipped in marble to be auctioned off for sick millions of dollars at Sotheby’s. And we all join in as I say “but I digress”. What am I getting back to? You guessed it kids, nothing. And that is my point. At 51 (or there abouts. My wife will correct me) I have traveled from knowing exactly where I am going to a grinding painful halt of nothing. I do my job. I even like my job. But it’s sort of like the guy that sets up the equipment for the bands. It’s the bands that give juice to the performance. The band that inspires the crowd. Sometimes you want to be the one that inspires. So, I do the lifting and I go home but I notice that I just sit. Nothing. I read, watch the tube and …. nothing. I could create a sitcom about nothing but Seinfeld already had it’s run. No piggy to back there. So, I opened Microsoft Word and typed in the default font, Times New Roman. And I’m thinking of writing about that. I am a Times New Roman. Pretty tasty subject, no? No. Well even if it is it’s going to have to wait to the next threat because this ain’t nothing. And doing something is exhausting. Peace.

The art of making " things."

So who is really an artist? Someone who just happens to know how to mix color and put it with all the technical knowledge on paper or canvas?
The photographer who happens to know how to work with a camera and film in the darkroom?
The sculptor who knows pulls and image from a block of stone or wood?
The writer who has a gift of words an d can create images in our heads by placing them on a page
of text?

Why not the welder who can run a perfect bead of steel and flux?
Why not a plummer who can run a system of pipes through out a building with out distubing anything it it's way. ?
Why not the auto mechanic who can create a smooth running engine from nothing but steel parts and rubber hoses. ?

Is one art and not the other? God has gifted us each with a special skill, Each is an art. But is one more art than the other?
What IS art?

Pray for the chidren in your lives.

The children in our lives. Need our prayers. Use your art as a way to effect change in their lives. Use it as a starting point for real frienship. As artist's we can change the future of their lives. God has called us to use our talents. We can change lives in many ways. Help the young people in our lives to be creators. Making art is a good thing. But making art and creating mentor friendships, is even better. Be a big brother or sister for Christ.
I love you guys. Amen.
Now I have to get to work.