Black Dragon

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Annie Proulx asks, “For who has not heard music at the end of the day, [the most impressionable time] the quarter-light infused by somber harmonies that say everything that has ever been said?”

Yet even after glimpsing –and thereby eternally believing– this revelation, I still chase the black dragon of writing; believing in even stronger than moments that cannot be expressed in words, the ones that only can. There is a profound statement that mystifies the ages in the opening to John’s gospel, and meditating on ‘Christ as God’s word’ carries me to these far reaches of human belief: that not only can we define the indefinable, but it is our duty as writers to pursue the journey. Read More

Temptations, Beans, and Molasses

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I am perplexed by how much my fellow people are letting the culture of our times pervade their thoughts and ways of life.  Currently it is much in vogue to accept people for “who they are,” manifested (certainly in Colorado, where I live) as making marijuana legal and highly visible; to market the mass consumption of commercial drones; to let people choose to end their own lives by doctor-allocated poison, as long as two physicians sign off that they are indeed helpless cases.  We are creating a culture of acquiescing to base desires because we have been traumatized by the fear of the other side that wants to destroy all personal freedom.  But is it wise to fashion a world based on antithesis to what we hate or do not want, akin to a wild teenager doing that which his parents told him not to do for the sole reason of defying authority?  I’m afraid that will not lead us to a more balanced spiritual existence — and thus a happier one — but will just give us loads of self-diagnosed “good people.” Read More

Deliverance

Deliverance.  I was at a loss about what to write since it feels that these days the womb baby takes up all the space and pushes out anything he/she deems superfluous.  But fortunately God squeezed in one word for us to digest like our trusty folic acid.  Apt for us both, as my post from Pentecost Sunday, A Conversion, describes the pivotal hour of life in this body in which I was delivered from evil; and the baby will be, any day now, delivered into this world. Read More

Swing

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It wasn’t the cult that made me do these things.  I am as unaffiliated as the man stranded on the island who built a swing.  We all thought he was out of his wits –or maybe that’s all that was left—but here we are all on the same universal pendulum and no one ever says a damn thing about how fuckin crazy we all are not to jump off.  Minds and cells all jostled from a lifetime of the up-and-down, back-and-forth, yet we still convince ourselves we know what is best.  Go down swinging, that’s how we like it.  What do I care about a guy who got it right in his dizzied brain?  How was I supposed to know that jumping is the only way off this nightmarish ride?

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Violent City

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What I must learn about Colombia is that the journey was God-driven.  My speech was taken from me in those intimidating streets except when I was supposed to (and needed to, at this point) speak about my Lord.  I wrote that letter to Catalina, not knowing who on earth she was but a sister in heaven; but God gave me the words as well as the scripture from Deuteronomy chapter thirty, and she turned out to be a Medellín prostitute.  It’s not easy.  Humbling, to be writing to a lost soul who was both selling herself and who was myself: we are all sinners and our sins equal in the eyes of the Most High.  How does God work the perfection?

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