kenneth

I can never measure up to Him, but I thought that was the whole point. You see, one dreary day when I was weary and wasting away, the Son of man took my hand and lead me away, only to say, “Follow me.” And even though I’m convinced, I’ve been wondering why ever since because my small, clumsy steps can’t even hope to fit His footprints to love my enemies, speak with power, challenge the popular, embrace the outcasts, shed tears in public, shake off accusations, never bow to sin or never break God’s law. I’m sick of when I struggle. I’m frustrated when I fall, but he who is without sin wouldn’t need Jesus at all. My motives and skills just kill any hopes and whims of ever measuring up to Him, but now I know that’s the whole point because cursed is every one that hangs on a tree, so when I see Christ bleed, knowing it should be me, I now see my need for Him. Since the Word was made flesh, let me confess over mic checks that the Word was God, the Son of man in the clouds painting the night visions of Daniel, but the truth is sometimes too hard for us to handle. I don’t understand His plan from every line, precept and angle, but since my eternity changed by the nails through His feet and hands, I under (over, through, to, front, back, side to side, let me ride, never hide, in, out, all about) stand behind any mic across the land that the Son of man is more than just a man, a man of sorrows, a man from above, a man who, in love, laid down His life for His friends, and how many of us really have them? I just need the Friend Who sticks closer than a brother. Copyright 2008. Streetlight Publications. "And if Christ be not risen, then [is] our preaching vain, and your faith [is] also vain. Yea, and we are found false witnesses of God; because we have testified of God that he raised up Christ: whom he raised not up, if so be that the dead rise not. And if Christ be not raised, your faith [is] vain; ye are yet in your sins." (I Corinthians 15:14-15, 17)

Yes. It's based on a difficult episode that I faced at a party when I was a teenager. It overall deals with the issues of respecting women (i.e. lust, domestic violence) and whether or not we will do the right thing to help someone in trouble even if it means risking our own lives or well-being.

I was a clueless high school senior pressing my Prufrock spine against a barbeque-scented chair and staring at every pair of tight jeans or a short skirt wiggling past me through nicotine clouds in a nocturnal lounge. My Casanova buddies were doing the Electric Slide with tipsy ghetto queens, luring them into slow drags and promising an exciting one-way Voyage to Atlantis. I was neither a lover nor a fighter but merely a watcher, which can sometimes be the worst among those categories. Old people used to tell me that crazy things occur after midnight, but we were already bewitched since 10 p.m. Three hours later made hardly any difference. I was worrying about how my mom was going to swoop down on me with a leather-belt vengeance for ignoring my curfew again. I stepped outside to the pay phone, rehearsing believable excuses, when I heard intoxicated tones stirring a few feet away from me. I turned around just in time to watch a torn woman yelling at her belching boyfriend who was spitting up slurred insults. My seared conscience whispered in my ear, "This is none of my business," as I crept towards the front door like an intimidated Levite passing on the other side of a wounded traveler. He suddenly barked, "Shut up," reduced her to the status of a female mongrel and laid the thunderclap of his trembling hand against her tear-stained cheek. A part of me wanted to look both ways like Moses and bury this wannabe Ike Turner in the Southeast Texas sand while another part of me knew that I could not shake off the impact of bullets torpedoing from a possibly concealed 9mm. Looking back on this adolescent episode, I wonder to this day who was the bigger coward: either the boyfriend drunk with grapes of wrath or me for tiptoeing back into festive shadows silhouetting wall-to-wall grins? Copyright 2007. Streetlight Publications.

Fifty years from now, I know that I will look back on my life with regrets. I will lean back in my rocking chair and flirt with my wife, silver hair draping her shoulders while she reads me another psalm as I watch a new world walking by our porch, just waiting to bury and forget about us. I know that I will cringe remembering those crossroads where high blood pressure jobs and peaceful sunsets after another day of headaches got lost because I was not wise like Frost. I almost bet that the money I have then will be even less than what I have now. I have seen grandparents pass on without remembering my name or even being able to call me the wrong one anymore. My son or daughter may have to shut me behind closed doors so that their kids won't have to see good 'ol Grandpa like this. I'm not trying to draw tears, only a conclusion. A hoary head is a glorious crown if it is found in the way of righteousness. The Carpenter's nail-pierced hands build broken bonds and smooth out splintered lives, covering my every sin, mistake or wrong direction I take. I will not be surprised if this is the perfect frame that fits my future portrait, but maybe that same young world walking by, pursuing those highs which brought my generation low, will stop and notice my wrinkled face glowing with a peculiar peace from Him Who carries His children from first tooth to gray hairs, so despite the rights that I have wronged in my life, may it testify that God cared. Copyright 2008. Streetlight Publications.

This one made me chuckle. I'm a high-school teacher, so I just might print this out for my students and give it to them the next time they complain about their iPods, cell phones or whatever new technical device is being invented this week as we speak. I'll just give them an Etch-a-Sketch or a Rubik's Cube and say, "Well then, here, play with this!" Anyways, thanks for your words.

You definitely made me think. As a fan of introspective verse, I loved the way that these words hold a mirror up to the reader's heart and conscience. Thank you for the thoughts. Peace (John 14:27).

After our discussion on inner lights and the Light of the World, the young lady then asked me, “Well, if that’s the truth, then what’s the solid proof for me to believe in the Fall?” I simply inquired, “Do you believe that you are divine?” “Of course I do,” she said. “There you go,” I had to tell her, while watching a faded fig leaf falling from her ancient apron. Copyright 2008. streetlight publications.

Slaughtered lambs were burned on crude altars, pointing me to moans on Golgotha. Soldiers scourged this Rabbi lifted up, bearing wooden beams and human woes. Stripped before the scoffers’ smirks and stares, what enables Him to face the shame permeating through the Father’s wrath? Spectacles revealed since Genesis seem to taper under shadows here. Watching Him suspend between the thieves, could this be the justice we deserve? Stained with crimes that He did not commit, is this justice in its truest form? Now abandoned, wrenched by jaws of hell, crying out, “Lama sabachthani,” dregs are pressed into a guileless mouth, scorched with everlasting bitterness. Never have I seen a lovesick Man crushed beyond the nails and mocking crowds. God in flesh alone would break His heart, stretching out His arms for thieves like me. Lord, will You remember me today hanging next to perfect love defined? Copyright 2008. streetlight publications.