We Dammed the River, and We Damned Ourselves: on the danger of stagnation

     That morning was short. Much shorter than I had expected. I was an hour and a half late, giving me that much more time to understand what was happening, that much more time to prepare. It was a spurious vow. You see, it didn't really matter. I was leaving and I wasn't coming back. This all happened on Friday at 5:30am. I left my family, friends, home, dogs, and church for a place where I knew nothing and desired nothing of. College.
     You see, I've spent nearly the last 8 months pouring my life into San Francisco. I love that city. I've been meeting new people and constructing a brilliant cathedral of relationships. A safe haven for myself to come to for rest, and a place where I hope others feel welcomed as well. It was good. I spent the three weeks before I left trying to say goodbyes and spend time with people before I left. It felt like I was on the way to my own execution. Giving away my things, realizing that I would no longer need them where I was going. Awkwardly avoiding the word "goodbye," as if that would somehow mean I would still be around in the months to come. I won't be. I remember on the mere 6-hour drive how odd it was to think that I wouldn't need to budget to make sure I had enough gas to get home. I wasn't going home. A wall of tears built itself and crumbled in that moment.
     The evening before, several individuals and myself assembled to depart. One friend of mine was leaving for Japan; I was headed off to college in Southern California. Friends had come to see us off rightly. They did just that. All night long I contemplated what would happen when I was gone. I had loved these people too quickly. In a few months, they had become some of the dearest companions. I wouldn't trade them for anything. I was leaving all of this, and I wouldn't get it back. It would never be the same and will never be repeated. It isn't fair. I was doing something right there. I felt like God had called me to be there, with those people, at that time. And not only did I love every second of it, but I knew that I had been able to help others. That doesn't happen all that often. It was good. Now, it was gone.
     All of this was on top of leaving my family, the room my brother and I had shared for the past 19 years, and the dear group of friends I spend Sunday nights with (among other precious comrades). Too much. Too much to lose all at once. Don't you understand? It was good. Things made sense. I was growing and changing for the better. Life was how it should have been. I was continually filled with joy.
     When I arrived on campus, that is what consumed my thoughts. I knew that God had called me to be at Biola and had provided the means for me to be here now. So what. Apparently God didn't notice what was happening in my life. I guessed He had missed my happiness. It was good. I'd follow where He wanted me to be, but I didn't have to be satisfied with it. I only came to Biola because I knew He'd put me there whether I liked it or not, so I might as well comply. Why would I be here? Everything good was gone. I spent my time missing those whom I love. I would prize what had been good, what I had enjoyed. Trying to imagine how fast I would be replaced at home didn't do me well. Everything changed, though, when the school's president began to speak. He spoke on the fact that mankind was made to live in tents.




    You see, we seek to control what we were never meant to. We've dammed rivers, believing that somehow if we can stop the flow, we can stop the change and establish ourselves as being in the place of power. It's not that lakes are bad, but making them is. All of us are fools. The levy is bound to break. There's no stopping this River. We are called to come and drink, but we can't keep it for ourselves. Jesus NEVER called anyone to sit and be content. He called all of us to follow Him. It requires movement. It necessitates change. It was then that I started to realize that I hadn't left my home. My home isn't the house of my childhood. My home isn't San Francisco. My home isn't Biola University. My home isn't even heaven. My home is Jesus. Where He goes, I find rest. So where I go, I must seek Him and nothing else. There isn't time to look back and miss the old. Waiting is a bitter thing. Stagnation is the Angel of Death. Nothing life-giving resides in those vile puddles. We are called into motion.We are not called to seek after what is good. We are called to what is best. Life, and life abundant. So I do not mourn what I have lost. It was good; but I do not trade best for good. I long for God to redeem those things of the past and make them new. I long to have those things in the finest. Until then, however, I cannot lament a loss. I simply look forward to those very things made better. Wine cannot be fine without age; metal must be purified through the flames; seeds must be buried before they spring forth with life; and men must face change before they can change. Flow river, wash me clean. I follow simply, silently.

Pursuing Joy

I never thought it would be this way. It seems that the message of Joy is that she will sweep over you with happiness and wrap you in warmth. It isn't true. The truth is, I've had to learn to follow her. She's always in the strangest places: huddled in an alleyway, jumping in the puddles, working in the slums. Of course, if She hadn't found me in the first place, I never would've known. A hundred lifetimes couldn't have prepared me for what Joy is. Mirth unimaginable. G.K. Chesterton put it this way,

"...we sit perhaps in a starry chamber of silence, while the laughter of the heavens is too loud for us to hear.
Joy, which was the small publicity of the pagan, is the gigantic secret of the Christian. And as I close this chaotic volume I open again the strange small book from which all Christianity came; and I am again haunted by a kind of confirmation. The tremendous figure which fills the Gospels towers in this respect, as in every other, above all the thinkers who ever thought themselves tall. His pathos was natural, almost casual. The Stoics, ancient and modern, were proud of concealing their tears. He never concealed His tears; He showed them plainly on His open face at any daily sight, such as the far sight of His native city. Yet He concealed something. Solemn supermen and imperial diplomatists are proud of restraining their anger. He never restrained His anger. He flung furniture down the front steps of the Temple, and asked men how they expected to escape the damnation of Hell. Yet He restrained something. I say it with reverence; there was in that shattering personality a thread that must be called shyness. There was something that He hid from all men when He went up a mountain to pray. There was something that He covered constantly by abrupt silence or impetuous isolation. There was some one thing that was too great for God to show us when He walked upon our earth; and I have sometimes fancied that it was His mirth."

She is evasive. The greatest light hidden in the greatest darkness, ever waiting to be released, burning into the world. And this is why I pursue her. This is why I love her. Once we had met, there was no turning back. I think about her often, though perhaps not often enough. She looms in every building and peers from every tree. For though she can be found there, it is not her home. I can find her nearly anywhere. Only once I've found her, it seems she's slipped away again. The ethereal glow of her touch ever stronger than the last, only never satisfying. She always calls for more of me; and so I yield. Her beauty is unmatched. I've never found another, nor shall I, who can call me like this siren with such titanic power. Speaking in the voices of children and thunder; and so I answer. Her hand reaches out to me, offering both promises of life and of death; and so I follow. A life is but a bottle of perfume to be broken over the feet of her Father. One day, Joy will bring me home. The pursuit will be over, and the race shall be run. Glory.

Nominare

I felt like I was going to explode if I didn't write something, so here's what came out:

I love you from an empty heart.

Burning in the deepest parts--

Words unformed relay desires;

I pray these embers turn to fires.

For all things noble, all things sane,

They seek to steal You, take Your name;

And all things wicked, wretched, fine,

Have made me wander with the blind.

Scarred hands and feet, pierced side and brow

Are truly but Your love avowed.

Yet still I sit and ponder ways

To make You love this monstrous face.

I’ll prove my worth and make You see

I’m more than what You thought I’d be.

I’ll fight and give and run and wait,

If only I shall bear this weight.

But no. Your grace is far too vast.

You knew my fervor wouldn’t last.

And yet You bless me just the same

Through heights and depths, through flood and flame.

You took my sin and wore my shame;

And for it all, gave me Your name.

Angel

I wrote this a few years ago, I think it's still my favorite of all my songs

Father used to say “Son, this world is troubled.

So you must find the way, but do not be befuddled

When you can’t see the path beneath your feet— Cry out my child, for you’re incomplete.

And if you pray, you will find deliverance this very day.”

So I found a path in the undergrowth, ‘twas a road less taken

And I wondered as I wandered through that yellow wood- Oh had I been mistaken?

Then I looked up to the skies, searching for the eyes that sought me out

Though all I saw was stars and fireflies, still I cried out

Angel fly away

Angel take me away

Angel’s wings brushed up against my face. I felt their power; I met their grace.

How did father know what I would face? I found his gift within this glorious blaze.

I turned my gaze unto the west- a weathered oak with scars upon its flesh.

Set deep within its bark, those years ago my father left his mark when he cried

Angel fly away

Angel take me away

Angel fly away

Angel take me away

My Master, My Father

I'm a son, not a slave
I'm an heir to a grave
Yet this tomb is not filled with bones--but with grace

Ambrosia is a bitter cup
That steals the soul, but fills the gut
It makes a man to run for years
And lose the life he once held dear


I'm a son, not a slave
I'm an heir to a grave
Yet this tomb is not filled with bones--but with grace

The sun, the sea, and dear old gravity
They seek my wings
They long to keep my flight in check
But they ain't seen nothin' yet

I'm a son, not a slave
I'm an heir to a grave
Yet this tomb is not filled with bones--but with grace

Though I may burn, and then burn out
I'll fall to ash without a doubt
You'll find therein a molten mirth
It lies within the phoenix' birth


I'm a son, not a slave
I'm an heir to a grave
Yet this tomb is not filled with bones--but with grace

Brother, Sister

listen to it here!--http://www.youtube.com/user/PartywithSaul?feature=mhee#p/a/u/1/roiCXQX82Pc


Brother, sister, there is healing in the river

So come down and be delivered from your chains

Son and daughter, there is mending in the water

He will use the holy solder to fix the lame

Friend and foe, tell everybody that you know

That there’s redemption in the flow from all our pasts

Peasants, kings, and everybody in between

Sell all your homes and all your things for what will last

 

This paradox is more than I 

can comprehend but I will try 

because I know in grace I’ll thrive 

and truly be alive 

for the first time

So come on down, let out your breath and we can drown

And we’ll come up with shining crowns upon our heads

And there in Zion, we’ll behold one like a lion

Blazing brighter than orion, and we’ll be wed

This paradox is more than I 

can comprehend but I will try 

because I know in grace I’ll thrive 

and truly be alive 

for the first time

Broken Binds Us

Every once in a while, I find a piece of art, literature, or music that I wish I'd written. I find something that resonates so soundly with me that I feel as if it was my soul that composed it in the first place, and I just reflect upon my own work. Apparently copyright laws don't see things this way. Regardless, this song is one of those. It's called "Broken Binds Us" by Adam Pasion

Aren’t we all so broken, each and everyone?

Our sailboats are sinking in the mist of a setting sun

Need we be further familiar eyes

With the hopelessness of paling water in rising tides

Let me lay my hands on you, let me feel your pain

We’re all bruised and broken left out in the rain

Let me draw you in, let me pray out your name

Let us search you through and through—don’t be ashamed

Believe in, believe in me, as I believe in you

Will Iove heal your heart if I believe in you

In the depths of sorrow we feel alone

But isn’t brokenness what binds us

The song that we all know

It’s the cup that we all drink of until we’re full

It drips down into the belly, seeps into our soul

Believe in, believe in me, as I believe in you

Will Iove heal your heart if I believe in you

In this great big world, see how we relate

We are all in, on our way to, on our way from this lonely state

In this great big world with all its sticks and stones

We are anything but alone

Believe in, believe in me, as I believe in you

Will Iove heal your heart if I believe in you

 

Let us be broken, for it’s the only place from which you can rebuild

Ground down to fine dust, pour Your water in and mold us with Your hands