Nonsensical Ramblings of Mark

I preached at the Monroe County jail last night and it was a wild night. Not "wild" in the California surfer dude sense of the word, but wild. We hadn't had a night like that in a long time and I am not sure what was up, but I may write a post about that later. I was first introduced to this concept of defining evil as a violation of purposed by Ravi Zacharias and I do not know if it originated with him or with someone else, but it fit perfectly into the parable of the rich fool in Luke 12:13-21. You and I are made in the image of God and, as such, we have a purpose: to bear his image to the world. Basically we are to act in a manner that shows the world what God is like. The word "image" here is the same word as "idol" and, quite literally, we are created to be the idols of God. Not that we are to be worshiped like an idol is, but we are to be a perfect representation of God to our world. When we do anything other than that, we commit evil and we s...

I think I was a sophomore or junior in high school. I am not exactly sure, but this was a rather unusual assembly for us. There was a band there that was playing some Christian rock and roll and, being 1985 or 1986, this whole “Christian rock” thing was coming into its own. At any rate the band was pretty good and it seemed like everyone was picking up what they were throwing down. I remember one number in particular that rocked pretty hard and there were more than a few of my fellow schoolmates that hollered their appreciation. Yet that was not the song that arrested my attention that afternoon. No, the one that took me by surprise was centered around the parable of the Prodigal Son and had a refrain that went something like this: Then he ran to me, took me in his arms Gave me a hug and said, “My son’s come home again…” Of course, being the refrain of the song, it was sung multiple times. Each time I heard it the words meant more and more to me until, well, let’s just say ...

A while back I listened to a Rob Bell podcast about a funeral director named Caleb Wilde who had a positive death narrative like the one I have been trying to develop. It was a very good listen and I think that Wilde has hit upon some key areas and fleshed them out to a greater extent than I have. Maybe, being a funeral director, he has had to, but maybe he is just more perceptive than I am. At any rate, he made a statement where he said that we are "uncomfortable" around death because it is something that we are not familiar with. I can see where he is coming from with that perspective. I mean, the physical death of a cherished one is relatively rare in my life - especially as youngish as I am. The death of those I cherish will accelerate as I get older, but up to this point I have only grieved hard a couple of times. On the other hand, though, I find a perspective different than that of Wilde. I see death every day. I don't think the difference that I have with the f...

Waiting is an act of love.  I have long legs and I can walk fairly quickly fairly easily. My wife, well, she was not as blessed in the long legs department as I was. When we are walking I need to be conscious of the pace of my gait as I have a tendency to leave her behind. In no uncertain terms, I need to be conscious of her. I need to remember her, subject myself to her ability and desire. I must purposefully slow myself down so that we can walk together in comfort. In other words, I need to love her. There are so many times that I think I see so clearly. I see so much in that person's life and that person's situation and I think I know exactly what they need to do to be a better human or even a better servant of God. I make judgments about their progress or perspective and I can get impatient. Those are the times when God puts the brakes on and tells me to wait. Not just for them, but for Him. He is perfectly perfecting those that are truly his and I cannot hurry him al...

So kiss me and smile for me Tell me that you'll wait for me Hold me like you'll never let me go I'm leavin' on a jet plane I don't know when I'll be back again Oh, babe, I hate to go  - Leaving on a Jet Plane, John Denver I used to travel a whole lot more than I do now. There may come a time when I am, again, on the road.  But now, right now, I am apart from those I love the most in this world. Every morning I step out and separate myself from them in one way or another. And they do the same. Out of my sight I cannot hear them nor can I call for them. They won't answer. I won't either. We don't need a jet plane to separate us. Time and any measure of distance does that. Kiss me. Smile. I am leaving you now and I don't know when I will be back. I don't know if I will be back. There is One that does. And he requires that I trust him with the secret things that are his. 

Every day, more and more, I realize that I am not home yet. Creature of earth that I am, son of a man that I am, I have been given just a glimpse of a wonderful place. I have seen it in my wife, my sons, my church - this Place of Peace. This Person of rest. This Light that shines undimmed forever.  Today I am left here wondering. Unsure of when I will see the light. I know it is there; He is here. But my frail heart of dust and flesh wants to reach out my fingers to scrape it and open my eyes take it all in. I want it to satisfy my hunger, heal my cold, and dry my eyes. I want it to hit me in the chest and leave a mark so that I can hike my shirt up and see it, once bleeding, and now scabbed over.  Oh Jacob's glorious limp! Every step a reminder of the night he wrestled with his God! Dad, your faith that you've given me, that holy thing that burns sometimes so hot that it makes me shake, will it constrain me? Will it set me free? Will it allow me a moment's peace ...

Just now. I went back just now. I was 10 again and descending the stairs of my Grandma McKinley's house after a semi-restful sleep with my brothers in our sleeping bags in the red room. The carpet was soft on my feet and the thick banister shielded my sight into the living room. I smelled the toast and eggs that she made for us in the morning. It was there that I learned to pepper my eggs. There that I learned my dad liked his toast nice and burnt. It was there that I learned that all the adults liked to get up early. It was simultaneously so ordinary and such magic. I had no idea what to make of it. I didn't judge. I never did. I just breathed and twirled it all around in my head. There it is again. I need to breathe deeply now. I want to go back there now. I want to toss my blonde hair from my eyes and stare at the cups of coffee on the table. I want her to call me Mark-o again.  I don't know why. I just do.