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| Still Sad?Crying out in quiet desperation without you . . . or something like that. I suppose that music means something to me, or perhaps it’s just because I have it playing so often. At any rate, what I’m trying to say is that when I’m thinking or walking around the house, songs often pop into my brain (that’s just me, isn’t it? no one else here has a similar problem.) I don’t mind it usually, but I also realize on further reflection that this is a sign of what’s in my heart: i.e. I have, in a way, sought consolation in this music. When I’m in the car and feel that I need some noise, this is where I turn. Now that I need sound advise, now that I need wisdom, this is some of the best stuff that my head has given to me, and, honestly, it scares me. “It’s just another trivial fact of life,” you might say. “Don’t worry yourself, Jojo; only preachers and super-Christians need to firmly rely on Scripture.” “That’s really more than you need, all that stuff in the Bible. I’m doing just fine without it, so why would you need more?” the modern church tells me. “We’ve got all these shiny new programs; we’ve got many more attendees than you have; look how much our church has grown and then look at your shriveled up shell of a life. Why should I listen to you?” I am very fond of history, as you may know. I thoroughly enjoy reading biographies of Luther (who can be a controversial figure)or M’Cheyne (whose biography has not been cracked open yet) or Teddy Roosevelt (who was a hero of a different bent, in a different area of culture) or Chesterton (who’s oft-quoted but usually forgotten or ignored in history). Why? They’re old dead guys who don’t matter to us anymore, right? As I am rather passionate about this subject, I shall refrain from here delving too deeply into it. Note, however, that any interested in further pursuing this topic may do so here or via e-mail or IM or something. My interest in history is that it is “more than dates and dead people,” as a man named Stephen Mansfield asserted. My interest in history is that these great men whose deeds and characters have been recorded for us have something to teach us. The trouble comes, however, when I blow this good thing out of proportion and fail to “keep the main thing the main thing” (which is, of course, the main thing). The dilemma is in dedicating myself to the task at hand, the duty which God has given to me “for such a time as this,” and balancing this with my pursuit of what I know to be right. The problem is that I must “seek God while He may be found,” while He has placed me in the gracious depths of despair where I might feel my need of Him Late in that last sentence is a phrase that has come to mind often of late: “the gracious depths.” In a recent sermon (these may be found at ChristChurchNewAlbany.org/Sermon-Audio) on Psalm 130, if my memory serves me, a distinction was made between depths given in mercy and depths given in judgment. When God is gracious, He turns our comfortable lives on their heads, and it hurts -- but this is done out of love. John Piper once said “Behind a frowning Providence, He hides a smiling face.” Now, that’s a comforting thought. Jonah once ran away from a mandate directly given by this God of Heaven and earth, but God literally put Him in the depths, and His will was accomplished. The depths of judgment don’t often seem to look different from the outside, but I suppose that the real difference is where the one in trouble looks for a remedy. Will he feel the sword of God pointed at His chest and turn to “curse God and die,” as Job’s lovely shrew of a wife exhorted? Or, instead, will He look on this frowning Providence and seek the God whose face looks down upon Creation in love? Will He cast Himself upon this sword of God because God alone is worthy of admiration and love. He is still the altogether lovely One, even if He has a blade at my breast. His love does not fail. His face will still shine forth in the midst of a world which seems to have conspired to overthrow His rule. His mercy and justice must prevail (cf. Psalm 2). I may not be very comfortable in my emotions, I can’t sleep on my bed in ease, but I can say with Job Naked I came from my mother’s womb,
And naked shall I return there.
The LORD gave, and the LORD has taken away;
Blessed be the name of the LORD.” | | |
| Christ: My Rock, My Hiding Place, My AllI noticed that I have only written in passing of my sleeplessness, my grief, and later my agony in the past couple weeks. I have lived an incorrigible sinner, leading a double life for the past several years. It was off and on, of course (hence the "bipolar" thing in the last post), but it was real hypocrisy. I changed, at various times and in various rates, between "hating and loving the [sin] because I hated and loved myself." I was able to face with nearly everyone with a suppressed rage, and thought that I was able to hide my lust and greed and selfishness well enough from those whom I wished not to know. "Always calculating." Counting the cost of discipleship, and choosing my current desires in its stead. I have found it easy to be reading weighty works if I could make it a hurried perusal. This way I don't have to step back and consider what it says about my steps. I have found it equally unchallenging to run around pursuing my interests and never to look at my portrait on the wall. I never realized that my face decayed with every step I took toward this horrific end. "Practical Deism" has been the banner over my life for the last couple years. I loved to talk, to write, to think about the greatness of God: you see the portrait at the top left of your screen, that's A. W. Tozer. He is best known, at least in my limited circle, for his books on The Pursuit of God and The Knowledge of the Holy. I thought that I'd say that it has been something other than helpful to me: no, indeed, but it is not salvation. I am very comfortable with a religion, with a God, that doesn't cost me anything. That is the type of weblog preaching and the type of corporate praying I have done. It took God's gracious and discerning servants to point this out to me. I didn't notice my foolishness. I failed to see the multiple planks in my eyes. Prying into the eyes of my brother (and my sister) was easy until a couple months ago. "Weak is the effort of my heart, and cold my warmest thought!" Seeking shelter under Mt. Sinai will lead only to despair. I have felt that despair. That's why I couldn't sleep. God has not given me over to pursue the lusts of my heart, to grab hold of the lusts of my eye, or to lie in peace in my foolish pride. NO! Praise God! He sent His Heavenly Hound, and He awakened me to the reality of my current state! I look to Christ: He is the cleft in the rock; He is my Prophet, revealing the will of the Father, my Priest, "who ever lives and pleads for me," and my King, whose unsearchable riches are given freely to those who seek!! Christ is the satisfaction of the soul! Why would I settle for less? I sat upon the pedestal of my heart, and Christ has cast me down in love. How can I willingly betray that? "When I see Thee as Thou art, I'll Praise Thee as Thou art!" "Jesus, my Shephard, Brother, Friend! My Prophet, Priest, and King! My Lord, my life, my way, my end -- accept the praise I bring!" | | |
| Joseph Digresses, or Joseph Can't make any Complete ThoughtsI tried to post a couple minutes ago, but my connection was terminated (a bit of that, like the lack of actual, textual links, was because of my lack of computer literacy). The only thing that I'd had typed was that there is an elderly black man on another library computer sitting perhaps twenty yards from my plastic chair (being a student has its drawbacks regarding comfort, but very few on further consideration). (I imagine I can be hard to read because I've grown accostomed to being verbose: I've got to work on that if I want to write and have more than a couple readers.) Back to my story. (I like stories! I have a little Scottish in me, you see! I also had an affinity for the Knight of the Round Parentheses, an old internet acquaintance of mine, and this affection has become rather apparent in my few and feeble attempts at composition. . . . WHAP! Stop it, Joseph! Stop it! No more magniloquent language! ER, big words! Boogars, I did it again!) Again, back to the story. There was an elderly black man who sat in the library (until my last digres-- interruption) who sneezed. You may be thinking (in that distinguished British accent you envelope, er, cover up with that fake American one that everyone thinks is real), oh, great, another really boring story coming from Nowheresville, MS. Congratulations, Mr. C.! You have now been formally stripped from any claim to Celtic ancestry! Thanks, bud. But no, this guy sneezed and kept saying "Bless me!" "Bless me, again!" I think he kind of missed the point of the whole exercise. Although, come to think of it, I am not exactly sure what that point is. I recall, have heard, that it began as a pagan ritual based on the idea that when someone sneezes, he releases a demon. More than likely, this is an old-wive's tale. Look at the title. I think a decent substitute might be, Joseph Could Really Use Some Adderall (sp?). You know, this post began as a serious look at a serious topic: death and the frailty of human life. I was at Grace's weblog (grace_not_linda) when I encountered a gripping dilemma about the ICU experience of a sweet young girl, apparently of the age of no more than five or six. Please visit her 'site. Please pray for this family in the midst of trial. Most of the time we come across a story like this, it is for our instruction. It is a tale which happened months or even centuries ago and warns us not to waste the few years we have to roam this small, this strange planet. If you are like me, it may stir you for a short period of time, but it is also quickly brushed to the side of those tedious but necessary tasks. "The tyranny of the urgent," my beloved pastor calls it. Do not forget your brothers, my friends. Do not lose sight of the real in favor of the mirage. Do not, in the words of Rich Mullins, "lose the eternal for the things that are passing." Do not forget the spiritual battle which rages on this tiny speck of dust on which we stand. | | |
|  | Currently Watching
To Kill a Mockingbird (Collector's Edition)
By Gregory Peck, John Megna, Frank Overton, Rosemary Murphy, Ruth White (II), Brock Peters, Estelle Evans (II), Paul Fix, Collin Wilcox Paxton, James Anderson, Alice Ghostley, Robert Duvall, William Windom, Crahan Denton, Richard Hale (II), Mary Badham, Phillip Alford, William H. O'Brien, Nancy Marshall, Gil Perkins
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Random Thoughts on Radiant LightI feel weird trying to pick titles; it's not my specialty, I think. I ought to be studying for my tests, but the world of politics with a nuclear Iran and a warmongering President (over the line?) is just too interesting to set aside for six days per week. In addition, I just want to write sometimes. I'm now of the main campus of my community college, so I don't feel the longing for old friends, yes, even online interaction, from some of you the way that I often did last semester. Besides, I did spend a few hours at the speech and debate tournament last weekend. As an aside, I never got to see my younger brother speak; I never got to see a debate round; I never got to see more than a glimpse of a speech round; I got to speak very little with my old friends. However, I ran into the Gutekunsts (Nate is on xanga somewhere, but I don't have his address handy.) at the mall. Later, a few others trickled in. This occurrence was a particularly strange one in light of the fact that I saw Tyler Hudson (who sang in a quartet during the mall Southern Gospel exhibition) only a week prior to this. Anyway, on to the topic at hand: life. A few times a week I pause from my continual running around, from my perpetual worry about the future, from my firm and steadfast gaze at self, and I think about the weightier things of life. I now remember the God about whom I speak so often when I am at church, the BSU, or around certain friends. I hate the hypocrisy that I have felt so painfully, so piercingly, of late. I hate that I can't change the things about me that I hate. Yet, I have a sovereign, all-powerful God Who reigns from on high. I have a Helper Who rules through all the worlds alone. I have a Savior Who is the Friend of sinners. I have been sent the Paraclete Who is to cleanse me from the guilt and the power of sin. (This last one was pointed out magnificently in the incredible hymn "Rock of Ages." What a thought! Even when the world may been on the brink of the "Fourth World War" (I'd like to ask the author of that book when exactly the Third took place, by the way.), the Almighty sits on His throne, the gracious work of Christ completed. Although the Church is in a pitiful state, growing, yet feeding its sheep milk or even complete falsehoods, the God Who used Balaam's donkey to verbally rebuke him may at any time command the rocks to bring forth His praise. The One Who knows our thoughts as well as our deeds can condemn those who are outside of Christ to die this very instant in eternal death, and yet He would remain the Just Judge. Those black robed kings who sit in this nation may decide that the practice of real worship is wrong in private as well as public (with a mere extension of its mighty arm and of its current path). This is very comforting to a weary pilgrim in a foreign land. The battle which seems to be more difficult and tiresome, exhausting and dreadful, is the battle with Apollyon; it is the battle with myself. I have recently had a series of lows in my bipolar universe. I have felt a little of the weight of my guilty and helpless estate (if indeed I am outside of Christ), and this has almost driven me to despair. I know, however, that it is at these times of guilt and self-revelation that I must look to God Almighty. It is at these times that the look is most painful. I feel like Martin Luther in his cold, stony room shouting at the demons around him. Few, if any on earth hear the agony of his suffering. This battle can scarcely be overstated from where I sit. Guilt hurts! | | |
| Oh, the Profs.I still attend a local junior college, so we don't call the instructors professors, although some have earned doctorates unless I am mistaken.
Earlier this morning I wondered what to do. I was faced with a dilemma. We couldn't break out the bagpipes and play "This is Your Time" or anything like that, but it still bothered me more than a little bit.
The situation was a little like this. I sat in my O.T. Survey classroom, and I could almost feel my palms grow moist with my sweat. On the board a few words were written. These words were not in bold print; they were not highlighted; they may not have been noticed by most student. These words were few, but the mean something to me. These words were Total Depravity, Limited Atonement, Irresistable Grace. (If you are not familiar with them, they are a few of the points of Calvinism.)
Only twenty-five minutes later, about halfway through the kind old Southern Baptist’s lecture, he said that because Christ was tempted, anyone can see that He plainly strayed from the Father. (More specifically, Christ evidently didn’t always walk in close communion with our Father God.) Only thirty seconds before this, however, Mr. S. Said that Christ led a sinless life.
How could this be, I wondered. Surely, if Christ led a sinless life, it means that He never “missed the mark.” God the Father has all perfections infinitely in Himself. There is in Him no shadow of turning. Who is like unto You, oh God? How can anyone who, or anything which, doesn’t commune with You have any claim to perfection?
This question was brought to the fore of my mind: how should I react when I disagree with my teacher? I mean, I know that I must respect him as he has been placed in my path; he is my authority. Biblically, I must be respectful. “Obedience is immediate, complete, and without arguing or complaining.” (WSC). At what point might I respectfully object? Have I already failed? Did I do it again?
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