It was so good to get home today and enjoy some time away from work. I was able to enjoy some time at the pool with my wife, read a book on C.S. Lewis, George Whitefield, and George Herbert, sit under the oaks, maples, and pines, enjoy a home-cooked meal, see my boy come home from work and have to look up to him (because he’s taller than I), and of course, play with my dogs.
When outside, I felt someone or something watching me. I finally saw him. He had seen me long before I saw him. A young buck was browsing behind the house.
Lady was keeping watch over me to make sure we were safe. She’s such a killer.
Two headlines: I read several articles today in order to get more indicators of where we are as a culture. In no particular order of reprobation, they are linked below. Warning: you may want to sit down to read, possibly with some Alka-Seltzer nearby. The first article is of a so-called ‘trans’ person who is pregnant. He’s now a cover model on a ‘fashion’ magazine. (P.S. Remember, dear reader, there’s absolutely no spiritual/theological warfare being waged here. Completely neutral. You know, part of all the ‘tolerance’.)
The second article is about banning the Bible. You know, because the forces of darkness waging combat against the truth are so ‘tolerant’. I’m sorry, did I say “the forces of darkness waging combat against the truth”? I meant, of course, the ‘tolerant’ mobs with multiple piercings, inked skin, and purple and green hair, those saints screaming at you for your Christian beliefs.
Of what are they so afraid? Of the sword of the truth. As they should be. They’ll never conquer it. Just ask John Wycliffe, John Huss, Martin Luther, John Calvin, Charles Spurgeon, Martyn Lloyd-Jones, Paul, Timothy, David, et al.
Drag Queen Story Hour and genital mutilation are fine, but not those Bibles. Get’em out!
I cannot make this madness up. The adults have left and the urchins are running things.
Just a thought: There is another way. There is a way to come to your senses after being captured by folly to do the will of the Prince of Darkness. It’s the biblical way. (That’s why darkness hates the light; that’s why the mobs want to quench the Bible–all in the names of “safe-spaces,” warm hugs, love, and of course, ‘tolerance’.)
Solomon wrote in Proverbs of man’s folly, of his suppressing what he clearly sees about God and of God’s wisdom: “For the simple are killed by their turning away, and the complacency of fools destroys them” (Proverbs 1:32, ESV).
Doesn’t that sound just like today? Almost as if God knew what He was talking about when He inspired Solomon to pen those words.
The offer of hope & encouragement: Solomon writes his very next sentence with the gospel offer, the only way of redemption:
“but whoever listens to me [wisdom, God’s way] will dwell secure and will be at ease, without dread of disaster” (Proverbs 1:33, ESV).
In Christian ministry, I talk with a lot of people and try to reason with them. And so very often the people are scared. They see that the world has seemingly gone mad. Bananas, absolute barmy. It’s clown world.
Many folks identify with the speaker in one of Pink Floyd’s iconic songs:
And if the cloud bursts thunder in your ear You shout and no one seems to hear And if the band you’re in starts playing different tunes I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon “I can’t think of anything to say except… HaHaHa!”
There is another way: There is another way, of course. It’s to return to the sacred story of Scripture, to come back to the garden from which we were banished because of our following the serpent rather than following God.
It’s the way of Christ, the second Adam, the last Adam, the Lamb slain for sinners.
But if you don’t come, we get what we want–a world without God’s mercy, God’s kindness, God’s grace, God’s benediction, without God’s good purposes of favor upon creatures.
And that, dear reader, is not what you want, I pray.
Will wickedness shut its own mouth? No.
We are told the way wickedness has its mouth shut (Psalm 107:42). It is by way of judgment, by the Judge of all the earth. And that is the One before whom we all must appear and give an accounting.
Someone has a birthday in a few hours. She’s kind of special to me. Her name is Carrie Jane. Wisely, I cannot seem to recall the precise number of years old she is, but who’s counting, right?
She is not the literary type like I, but the Bard said it better in his sonnets than I ever could–of what it means to love another when so much changes, when tempests howl, when age exacts tolls upon our frames, when we gray and slow and eventually cease–but through all that, how the invisible power of love sustains.
The funniest thing happened recently. My bride and I were riding my motorcycle in the hills where we live. We stopped for a bit to grab a bite to eat at a Mexican restaurant in a small town an hour’s ride from home. By that point, we had been riding for several hours. Our butts had been enduring the vibrations of the mountain roads and of the engine for more than enough miles. Finally, however, I pulled off at a small town at a Mexican restaurant that had a lot of cars in the parking lot. It must be good, I thought to myself, as I pulled in and we took off our helmets. I mean, look at all these cars.
“Let me see your helmet,” she said. “Hold it up for me.” She looked at her reflection in the back of the helmet so she could pull her hair up and look decent for our casual meal together. It was so funny to me. Guys would never think like that. I didn’t give a moment’s thought to my hair. But that was just the point. She thought about her hair, how she looked, how she would appear. I thought only of fajitas and salsa.
We went in, enjoyed some very good chips and salsa, chicken fajitas, etc. and had food left over to take home to one of the kiddos who loves Mexican food as much as we.
We ate, were full, and it neared time to go.
“I’m going to run to the restroom real quick,” I said, and I left my wallet on the table for her to pay if the waitress might happen to reappear while I was gone. When I was washing my hands in the restroom I looked in the mirror above the sink as I lathered and rinsed my hands. I had “helmet head.” My hair was board-straight and it was obvious I’d either been born with hair that looked like a stand-in for the 1980s hair band A Flock of Seagulls or I had indeed been in a motorcyle helmet for several hours. (Some might argue both; we have our own crosses to bear.)
We got home. I put up the bike. We were both really tired. We chatted for a bit. I gave the leftovers to my boy who put the to-go box in the microwave and ate while still playing online games with some of his friends.
I played with my dogs, and knew I’d not be up late. I was worn out. And I had an early morning ahead. I had a drive back to my hub from which I work, several hours away from home.
When I got to said place today, I caught up on some reading, looked over some material for a course I’m co-teaching online, went to the track for some time in the sun (it was a beautiful day in the 80s here today), listened to my favorite history podcasts, listened to some tunes I’ve probably sung thousands of times (I’m sure Dickey Betts hates how I do air guitar and butcher his amazing guitar skills on “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” and “Jessica” but so it goes), and watched a fellow soldier complete the “Murph” workout over by the pull-up bars, as he did air squats, pull-ups, and push-ups, and ran the regimen that is common for some soldiers to do in remembrance of Murphy.
And I reflected:
My wife literally caught her reflection in order to fix her hair up before we entered the Mexican restaurant in the small mountain town.
Several times during the motorcyle ride, I looked in my bike’s mirrors to reflect upon the road behind. I could see the hills we’d ascended and descended; I could see my bride behind me, and feel her legs straddling me as we gained more miles.
When we crossed the lake in our neighborhood, I caught the reflection of the last hours of the gloaming on the water, and saw red and yellow and green canoes on the rippling water.
When we got home and later that night lay down, I reflected on the blessing of my day, of the ways the clouds slid on the invisible winds, of the ways the air carried scents of grasses and hay and even chicken coops and pastures of cattle.
I reflected upon my Sunday school class, upon those men and women who love the Lord, and whose lives demonstrate said commitment.
I reflected upon my book of the week–a truly wonderful read by Doug Wilson entitled Mere Christendom–and of how I knew I’d finish it tonight, and wouldn’t go to bed at a decent hour like I should, and how 0400 would come early.
But they were as a whole encouraging reflections. They expanded the connotations of such a noun. And I hope they encouraged you, too, dear reader.
After Sunday school and church today and a lunch at our favorite local pizza place, I put the wifey on the back of the motorcycle and we went off for several hours of riding and burned a tank of gas in the hills this Memorial Day weekend.
Lots of motorcylists were out, along with topless Jeeps.
From Ellijay and up Fort Mountain’s one side, then down the other.
From one of the scenic overlooks, here are a few pictures.
Rode down into Chatsworth on the west side of the mountain and stopped at a good Mexican restaurant. Then back home afterwards.
Would it not be sad if life didn’t speak to us? What if the heavens were silent?
When I was on a walkabout down south, I crossed a bridge over a muddy creek I’ve crossed many, many times. Still the slow muddy creek ran. Raccoon and deer prints were stenciled in sand and clay. Herons waited like gargoyles on their skinny limb-legs.
Drove north several hours. Prayed and thanked God and families for my brothers and sisters who died while still serving in uniform during a ceremony commemorating those who laid it all down.
Got home. Piddled in the yard. Went to the pool with the bride as she sunned her pretty skin and I read more of a novel called The Overstory that I’m appreciating.
Came home. Piddled some more. Raked and picked up limbs and tended to some honey-do requests. Some deer walked up after I had used the weedeater.
The clouds overhead played with me. Sometimes they came between the sun and me. The leaves would appear a different shade then. Then the clouds would move and I would notice a fallen limb, with its grain running a pattern, or a dogwood that held blooms from April, or the deer’s nostrils pulsing black and bloodfilled as she smelled me, smoky from burning limbs I’d picked up earlier.
Speech was occurring, you see. Speech. As if there was a speaker. As if creation bespoke its author.
Come Get Your Satan Wear: Just in time for spring and summer wear, Target and other retailers have partnered to sell pronoun-peddling t-shirts with images of Satan/Baphomet.
Satan is smiling.
If you doubt it, below are linked a couple of articles about it:
Whew! Glad we have those now. I’m sure Target will also be partnering with evangelical Christian comapanies to sell t-shirts with the gospel of Jesus Christ on them later this week. Just wait.
There will surely be swimwear with images of a dad, a mom, and children, and a Bible, or of a traditional biblical family entering the doors of a church with a white steeple on a sunny Sunday morning.
Because there’s no agenda being put forth to all the moms who shop at Target each week. No message at all. Purely neutral.
Nothing to see here, folks. It’s all a perfectly level playing field. No theological worldview message being put in your minds and on your bodies via t-shirts and fashion. No message whatsoever.
But At Least We Still Have Baseball, Right?
After you get your Satan wear at Target, you can take your family to a Dodgers game and enjoy the celebrations, Yay! American as apple pie. A baseball game.
There’ll surely be no theological/worldview message promulgated there. It’ll be neutral, too, like Target:
Here are a couple of links before you load the kiddos into the minivan:
No message whatsoever here. Men are supposed to dress as women and praise Satan during Pride Night at the baseball park, don’t you know?
Perfectly neutral. No religious message whatsoever. At least the good’ole American pastime of baseball remains wholeshome.
Satan is smiling.
But at least there’s no theological warfare occurring. It’s all neutral, don’t you know? Nothing to worry about. Just enjoy your pronouns and go to the baseball park and don your t-shirts, and tell yourself: “It won’t affect me and my family.”
Was able to celebrate the graduation of our oldest niece recently. She’s off to nursing school/university now. Such a smart young lady with a good mind and tender heart. Her parents have done a wonderful job. It was so encouraging to see her offer the closing prayer and benediction at her school’s ceremony. That is a testimony in and of itself.
En route to see her and some of the family, was also able to snap a few amateurish photos of turkeys, the lakes and rivers, etc. hither and yon.
And my friend Jim shared some of his beloved feathered friends.
When the world’s news seems gloomier by the minute and the forces of spiritual darkness seem to be relentless, it is good to be reminded that there’s still good about, that the simple joys are the best joys, and that daily faithfulness in the small things may end up not being so small after all. For me, just looking at the simple beauties around encourages me–whether those beauties are my kids, my nieces, the clouds over the river, the hills of TN, the birds of spring, or the undulating ways turkeys browse amidst May grass.
Atheists ‘praying’? Yep. To whom? Confused yet? Exactly.
And in Texas, too.
The Age of Absurdity continues to unfold.
A self-negating proposition, praying to no one and nothing, this is the absurdity of the atheistic position. And yet, here they are, in all their contradiction and absurdity.
I can’t make this stuff up. Man’s folly knows no limit, it seems.
I don’t know if it will persuade any atheists out there, but there is another way.
In fact, it involves prayer, too. But it’s not prayer to no one and/or nothing. Rather, it is prayer to the one true and living God, maker of heaven and earth.
To quote from one of church history’s greatest confessions:
Question: What are the requisites of that prayer which is acceptable to God and which He will hear?
Answer: First, that we from the heart pray to the one true God only, who hath manifested Himself in His Word, for all things He hath commanded us to ask of Him; secondly, that we rightly and thoroughly know our need and misery, that so we may deeply humble ourselves in the presence of His divine majesty; thirdly, that we be fully persuaded that He, notwithstanding that we are unworthy of it, will, for the sake of Christ our Lord, certainly hear our prayer, as He has promised us in His Word.
MIND & MATTERS 