Wrenches.

There’s a satisfaction in turning a wrench or a screwdriver or ratchet that just isn’t found anywhere else.  It seems that whether the task is simple or complex, I derive a singular and unique pleasure from working with simple tools.

I bought a motorcycle a few weeks ago and just now I was spending a few moments adjusting the right side of the handle bars.  The next project is to sort out an oil leak.  The previous owner had a shop fix an oil leak; I’m inclined to believe they may have taken money for services NOT rendered.  That’s the way it goes sometimes.

This morning we enjoyed a sermon on mature masculinity.  Many points were made, among which was the fact that our masculinity is measured within the context of our interactions with and concerning females.  How do I treat them, talk about them, and think about them?  It was much needed for many of us, for myself particularly.  It gave me much to think about in addition to the countless other topics that I consider each day.

This bike doesn’t make me more manly.  Like so many other things, it just is.  The guns I own do not make me more manly, they just are.

I’ve not written anything recently and perhaps I’m a tad rusty.  Or at least many of my thoughts over these recent months are not as ordered and fully articulated as I would like them to be for sharing with others.  I hope to tidy up a bit and see if I can get some thoughts out.

I enjoy turning wrenches, running my saw, or wielding my axes and hammers.

I hope to get my hands dirty and mind tidied a bit.  You’ll know if either happen any time soon.

Preciousness.

So I just got back from the vet.  I am not a perfect pet owner.  And my dogs are certainly not people.  They live outside and do what they want.  They sleep on our front porch and bark at night just to be sure we know they’re keeping the forest creatures at bay.  I pet them daily and they greet me morning and evening.  I don’t really play with them.  I work a lot, but when we’re working in the yard, they’re with us.  If one of them were to run off and not return, I wouldn’t really be devastated.

But this morning the vet told me they both have heart worms.  It is a recent infection.  It’s fatal if untreated and she said that even now if they’re out running about there is a chance they could just drop dead.

And so two hours ago they were just dogs I was taking to get rabies shots, but now I face not only the dilemma of lacking $1400, I am also left considering why it is that we hold life to be so precious.

Completely unrelated to this little story is the movie currently playing on the screen, “Blood Diamond.”  I’ve already gotten teary eyed a few times... not the first time I’ve seen it.  I know how it ends and I hate it.  The romantic in me wishes the love story ended happily ever after, but it does not.

For those of you who catch the reference, theology aside, I wish love would win in the end.  Life is precious.  I’ve known a number of judgmental, self-righteous hypocrites over the years.  Hell, I’ve been one myself and still have relapses.  

No human is dirty.  There are no untouchables.  And I know I’ll make myself a hypocrite a million times over before I’m dead and gone for having made this statement.

Why is life precious?  Why do I suddenly have a burden for these dogs that I did not previously have?  They’re just dogs, right?  I have problems of my own.  Moral, ethical, philosophical dilemmas that they know nothing of or ever will.

I’m tired.

Released.

Do you remember the Shawshank Redemption?  There was an old man who had been in prison for decades.  Finally, he had served his time.  He was released and tried to reenter society.  It was not long before he hanged himself in his small apartment.  It was tragic!  I remember crying hard the first time I saw this when I was younger.  I didn’t really understand the depths of my emotions then and I don’t know if I do even now.

I was recently released from a voluntary imprisonment.  It would have been a decade this July, but I received an early release.  I was floundering, totally adrift at sea for about a week.

I’ve adjusted a little since then, but I still have a “lost” feeling about me.  It’s like I know there is some question to be answered, I just haven’t discovered the question yet?

I haven’t written in some time and that may not be good.  But what is good?  

Freedom is much more frightening than enslavement.  You have no choice as a slave and are not allowed much room for error by your master.  The freed man has choice and great room for error.  The slave has goals set for him.  The free man must set his own goals.

What are my goals?  Am I even free to set them?

Recently, I’ve made many new friends.

Years ago I wrote a poem about my friendships.  It was a grey poem, fated and gloomy.  It was about the transitory and fatal quality of my own friendships.  I do not know if it was pessimistic dribble or some ill-fated prophecy of times to come.

We are told we must have friends.  We must be social.  Being lonely and alone is bad.  But what is bad?  What if it’s good for me to be alone?  What if there are those of us who are designed to be desert dwellers for some time and then meet our end?  

I’m reading a book write now that I am enjoying, but not because of some derived ecstatic pleasure.  I feel that some question may result from it and thus my enjoyment.  I’ve never thought much about creativity.  Now I am beginning to.  Am I supposed to be creative?  If I am, then how, where, why?

What about all the systems I am in?  Will they permit it?

I’ve always reckoned that to be creative you must be a genius, public, prominent, and displayed, which I certainly am not.  But maybe there is private creativity that will never be appreciated by anyone.  Maybe creativity is simply being fully and completely oneself.  

I don’t have answers because I don’t even know the questions.

I have a new friend.  And we chatted creativity recently, briefly.  I’ve always written myself off as being uncreative, but maybe it’s some type of self-indictment that I’ve not been fully myself.  I do not want to be someone else, I want to be me.  I don’t want to be told who I am, but rather I want to be myself.  I want to be insanely me.

But you know what?  I want to be insanely me with others who are insanely themselves!  I think the only reason to be a desert dweller is because you’re the only one insane enough to be yourself in a society of men who are sanely others.

I’m suspicious of people who might claim their own insanity, but I’m not sure they are, I think they may be self-deluded impostures.  

Perhaps I’ve just said nothing.

At least nothing has now been released.

Supplanter.

Boredom generally overtakes me, not owing to a lack of anything to do, but due to the lack of proper location.  If I were at home right now, then I would have plenty to do.

Yesterday I was bored enough to look up the meanings of names.  James means supplanter.  Edward means wealthy guardian.  Bradley means wide meadow.  I have no clue what it means to put them all together.

I don’t know if I have ever supplanted anyone.  And I am pretty sure I’ll never be the wealthy guardian of anyone.  All I can figure is that Bradley is prophetic for where I will die or be buried or something.

I say all that for no reason at all.

However, last night I did watch “Far and Away” with some friends.  If unfamiliar to you, it is a tale of two Irish immigrants come to America seeking land and fortune.  It is a good movie.

There is one scene midway through the movie where the two main characters experience a little bit of sexual tension.  And so, in a moment of genius, the Irish scrapper gets into a few fights to release a little built up frustration.  And he turns out to be a bare-knuckle boxing champ.

I shall now attempt to turn this all spiritual.  

Recently, I was talking with a friend about Lent and fasting.  And that conversation seems somehow to relate to this Irish fighter.  The LORD says in Isaiah 58 that he doesn’t really like the fasting that is taking place.  He says that true fasting is a time to “loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the straps of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free,” to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and house the homeless. (I know I’m not citing properly, but God, as the author, doesn’t care if I don’t do the APA or MLA thing)  Anyway, sorry for that there!

So here is this young Irish fella who is frustrated because of unreleased sexuality.  He turns to boxing.  Now we may be inclined to pass judgement on such a violent remedy, but he was able to begin earning wages and make it a productive venture.

And isn’t that what God is saying about fasting?  Don’t fast for stupid religiosity, but rather be productive in helping the helpless while you abstain from food or drink or whatever it is that you deny yourself having.  And that makes sense. 

If, for forty days, I am refraining from $5.00 FrappaDappaLatteCinos, what am I doing with that money?  Buying new, overpriced wardrobe accessories?  Or the latest Passion “Worship” albums?  Or new trendy Chuck Taylors or Toms like all the other Christians? Or do you take the money and feed a hungry man?  Or give it to a friend struggling to make rent?

If I seem harsh, that’s just fine.  How about I think of my crap?  Excuse me, stuff.  Crazy surround sound system?  Slick digital gadgets?  More running shirts than I could possibly run in at any given time?  And hey, I’m terrible at self-denial!  I can often be heard to jokingly say, “I do what I want!”  How often we find truth in jest?!

I think the point of this is that I need to find a bare-knuckle boxing club.  My own fight club.  I’m not the type to just up and practice self-denial for its own sake; I’m not that strong.  I need some side motivation.  I need to know that I am helping someone or doing something productive.

We shouldn’t practice self-denial just for the sake of being a modern day Pharisee.  We must practice it because self-denial teaches us to hold lightly, if at all, the things of this world and be ever ready to cast them down.  We must brutally pursue Christ, otherwise we are unworthy to be called his own.  I must learn to deny myself, to be disciplined, such that there is some eternal benefit from the act of denial.

If you see me clinch my fists, you know I’m about to start denying.  I expect this line will make no sense to anyone, unless of course you’ve played battle ball with me or heard tales of such...

Oh yeah, this is not great writing.  My apologies

Virginity.

Saturday, I was pretty bored at work.  I started reading random articles online.  I came upon some articles concerning courtship or biblical dating; consequently, I was led to an article concerning the amount of knowledge one should seek concerning the sexual past of a potential spouse.  It was an article that held my attention to its end.  The final line of the article was thus: “Jesus was a virgin. His Bride wasn’t. He loved us anyway.”

The line stopped me.  Jesus was perfect, free of sin.  I was not free of sin.  Scripture teaches that I was a whore.  I was an enemy and hater of God.  Christ loved me despite my past.  In fact, one could say he loved me even because of my past.  Jesus himself said that he didn’t come to love perfect people.  He didn’t come to save spiritual virgins.  He came for the very men and women who had gone full throttle after the idols of their own hearts.  Hosea was told by God to take a wife of whoredom, a prostitute.  And isn’t that exactly what Christ did?

And so this line hits me doubly hard.  It hits me with the gospel force of the salvation Christ came to bring.  It also hits me with the force of the gospel lived out in the relationships we have with one another.

It reminds me that the only virgin, spiritual or otherwise, was Christ.  It reminds me that sexual virginity must take a back seat to spiritual virginity.  When I approach any relationship, I must recall that Christ has loved me despite my lack of chastity.

As I consider relationships with others, particularly courtship or dating, I must keep the gospel at the forefront of my heart’s and my mind’s activity.  It is bold faced hypocrisy if I demand of others what I have not done in myself.  The sexual past of a potential spouse is not without importance, but it is nothing in comparison to the profundity of the gospel and it’s implications in relationships.

What is more important: my sexual past or the way I regard it now and the way I look to the future of my physical body?  Is it more important to me that a possible wife be a virgin or that she understand the weight of her spiritual infidelity to God?  Oh, how often I ask the wrong questions!

“And you, who were dead in your trespasses and the uncircumcision of your flesh, God made alive together with him, having forgiven us all our trespasses, by canceling the record of debt that stood against us with its legal demands.  This he set aside, nailing it to the cross.  He disarmed the rulers and the authorities and put them to open shame, by triumphing over them in him.”  Colossians 2:13-15

If Christ has not held the sins of my past against me, then who am I to hold someone’s past against them (or they against me)?  I do acknowledge that sins are not without consequences, one of which being the baggage we carry with us.  The time must come when that baggage is dealt with, but not before its time and certainly not without the gospel as the context in which we deal with it.

Chastity unto Christ must be the most important consideration when looking at a potential husband or wife.  Is this person pursuing holiness and living for the glory of God?  If the answer is an undeniable yes, then fret not over the baggage of the past.

“Jesus was a virgin.  His Bride wasn’t.  He loved us anyway.”

Be humbled.

Humility? I'm not so sure...

My own lack of humility has been forefront on my mind since Sunday.  I have tried just now to put my thoughts into some lucid expression of language and have twice failed.  Let us hope I do not now strike out.

I’m just not humble.  I do things and say things and write things that may appear humble, but I think mostly they’re just a mask to hide my own haughtiness.  I recently signed a correspondence “Humbly, James.”  Really?!?!  Are you serious?

If any of you want to know the truth, I like being recognized.  I like being patted on the back and hearing an “AttaBoy!”  So ridiculous is my arrogance that I recently rose up within my spirit when someone paid me an honest complement.  I essentially said in my foolish self, “Who are you to condescend to pay me this complement?  Don’t you know who I am?”  I hate how wicked this heart can be and how often it is at very unexpected times.  I cannot begin to call myself humble because I know what is within this man.  No matter how humble my actions or speech or type-written words may appear, I still, like Adam my first father, think I deserve something more.

This morning Christ addressed me in Luke 14:7-11.  I want to be noticed.  I cannot read that passage and say, like Christ, shame on those who seek honor.  If I am true, then I must read that passage and indict myself.

I think a great example of this is in the next chapter of Luke, the prodigal’s older brother.  He spent his whole life standing around waiting for his father to honor him, to give him a goat for a party.  And when the little brother is celebrated when found, the older brother steps up and essentially says, “Look out how humble I’ve been, never demanding a thing, where’s my goat?”

It’s crazy how I can be the older brother and the younger brother all at once and the same!

And what can cure an arrogant heart?  Nothing!  It must be broken.  I cannot produce humility within myself, because the moment I do, I have grounds to boast.

Who is the humble man?  Jesus, who is the Christ.  He humbled himself to the point of an ignoble death among criminals.  The Son of God, free of human limitations and confines, became human.  He suffered, infinitely, for the sake of doing the will of another.  And he did it not grudgingly, but set himself like flint towards the glory of accomplishing the Father’s will with great joy.

And here, at the foot of the cross, is where the breaking must begin.  I cannot count the grains of sand, yet they are still exceedingly less than all the goodness done unto the Father’s children by Christ on his cross.  Even the breaking of my hard heart is a great mercy and good done unto me by Christ Jesus!

Humility is impossible for me; I cannot do it.  “Wretched man that I am!  Who will deliver me from this body of death?  Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!”  Romans 7:24-25

Please, don’t call me humble.  If you do, I will likely shrug it off and “humbly” disagree.  Inwardly, I concur, thus puffing myself up yet again.

Or at least hold off on calling me humble until the Spirit has done a good deal more of breaking the hardness that persists.

Tax Collection.

Tax Collection.

I think I’ve mentioned before that I tend to bottle things up inside and rarely release that pressure that builds up.  Last night, the pressure released.

Some pretty routine stuff took place, including a traffic stop.  I produced my license, papers, etc. and then I continued along my way.  However, about 30 seconds after rolling my window up and proceeding home, the pressure relief valve kicked in and that which was within escaped quite readily.  Those of you that know me well understand why such a simple event could  be the catalyst to release.

I was simply overwhelmed with my own sinfulness.  I have nothing to plead before the throne.  There are no bargaining chips up my sleeves.  I am the prodigal, good as dead with the pigs, hoping desperately for mercy.

And this comes to mind: ““He (Christ) also told a parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and treated others with contempt: “Two men went up into the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector.  The Pharisee, standing by himself, prayed thus: ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other men, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even like this tax collector.  I fast twice a week; I give tithes of all that I get.’  But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even lift up his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’  I tell you, this man went down to his house justified, rather than the other.  For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.””  Luke 18:9-14 ESV

Tax collectors were hated, especially by those who were self-righteous.  I raised myself up as a Pharisee.  I raised myself up as the prodigal’s older brother.  Yet the Lord, in his mercy, justifies the tax collector and not the Pharisee.  The Lord has arrested me in my own self-righteousness.  I have worshipped vain idols and been convinced of my own deserving worth.  

Men might argue with me saying, “You’re too hard on yourself.  Give up your self-recrimination and embrace the goodness within you.  I say you’re valuable and deserve good!”  

I object.  

I know there is something within me that is terribly wrong.  

I want to love people and find not only that I do not and cannot, but that I often nurture a hatefulness and contempt for the very people I want so dearly to love.  I see the right thing to do, yet do that opposite wrong.  Do not tell me I am good; do not reason with me.  A man who comes to me with consolations such as these does not know a reason that will prevail upon me.  Do not attempt to convince the tax collector that he is not what he knows himself to be; it is the Pharisee who is deluded, not the tax collector.

I am a prodigal son who is employed as a tax collector.

So, I broke down.  I beat my breast.  I cried out, “Mercy!”