Where did the Magi Originate?

Matthew 2:1-2:

Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, saying, "Where is he who has been born king of the jews?  For we have seen his star in the East, and we have come to worship him."

I'm positive that most of us have never mapped the travels of the Magi--covered the Wise Men from the east.  We'll start simply--one can deduce that being from the East, they might have travelled West!  "They saw his star in the east" doesn't necessarily mean the star was east of them.  If so, they might have travelled to India.  The word "east" in Greek also means, "The rising," meaning the wise men would have said, "We saw a star at its rising."  In the second revised edition of Werner Keller's book The Bible as History, the following is stated:

"We have seen his star in the east" (Matt. 2:2), said the Wise Men (KJV).  The translation is however incorrect, for the words 'in the east' are in the original en te anatole—the Greek singular-- but elsewhere 'the east' is represented by anatolai—the Greek plural.

The singular form anatole has, it is maintained, quite a special astronomical significance, in that it implies the observation of the early rising of the star, the so-called heliacal rising. The translators of the King James Version could not have known this.

When en te anatole is translated properly, Matt. 2:2 reads as follows: "We have seen his star appear in the first rays of dawn" (pp. 328-329).

So where did the wise men come from?  The book, "Jesus Through Middle Eastern Eyes" written by Kenneth E. Bailey says this:

Where is East?  The answer to that question depends on where the writer lives.  If an American is visiting friends from New Jersey and tells them that he or she came from "the West," the hosts might infer that the guest is from Pittsburgh.  If someone in the United States Navy is sent to serve in the "Western Pacific" he or she may be stationed in Pacific waters but a a British ship one hundred yards away is in the "Eastern Pacific."

So it is that Christians living in Rome might say something different than one living in a different region, such as in "The Holy Land".  Those from that region would refer to someone across the Jordan River.  Bailey says that this designation survives even today (p. 52).  Matthew, Luke and others would more naturally refer that those from the "East" are those from the east side of the Jordan River, in the Jordanian deserts which connect to the Arabian Deserts.  Furthermore, the wise men arrived with Gold, Frankincense, and Myrrh.  These unique gifts are and were well known to be harvested from trees that only grow in southern Arabia.

The earliest known written text outside the gospels about this particular event was written by Justin Martyr--A.D. 160.  Justin was a Palestinian Christian living in Caesarea.  He wrote about a conversation with a Jew named Trypho (p.53) who told Justin, "The wise men from Arabia came to Bethlehem and worshiped the child and offered to him gifts, gold and frankincense and myrrh."  Martyr doesn't labor the point or argue against Trypho, but instead states several times throughout the commentary that the wise men hailed from Arabia.  The location is supported by writings by Tertullian and Clement of Rome.  But these facts alone don't prove much...

Isaiah 60:1-5

Arise, shine for your light has come, and hte glory of the Lord has risen upon you.  For behold, darkness shall cover the earth, and the thick darkness the peoples, but the Lord will arise upon you and his glory will be seen upon you.  And nations shall come to your light, and the kings to the brightness of your rising.  The wealth of nations shall come to you.  A multitude of camels shall cover you, the young camels of Midian and Ephah; all those from Sheba shall come.  They shall bring gold and frankincense, and shall proclaim the praise of the Lord.

Kenneth Bailey writes:

Midian and Ephah are tribal lands in northern Arabia, and Sheba was the name for the part of southern Arabia from which the Queen of Sheba was the name for the part of southern Arabia from which the Queen came with "much gold" (I Kings 10:2).  Frankincense is unique to southern Arabia.  In verse 7 of Isaiah continues as he reports "all the flocks of Kedar shall be gathered to you."  Shepherds were also involved.  To the child came Arab wise men from the desert on camels bringing gold and frankincense.  And Shepherds visited the child, not the city...

I guess I'm not sure that these details matter in our celebrations.  They probably don't.  But I want you Christians to know some details so that Christians have a true story to stand on.

Bailey also claims that the wise men were almost always wealthy men (especially in Arabia), and they would not traditionally have travelled in two or three's.  In the time of Daniel the whole of the Chaldean wise men were summoned to interpret dreams, and to perform other tasks appointed to them.  Rich wise men were not singularly curious and they were interested in power and interested in prophesy and interested in knowledge and interested in astrology.  It would have been more typical that many men travelled together, because the prophesy was widely known.  Matthew and Luke (and Pharisees and Sadducees) would have known their reputation well.  Arabian wise men would have also travelled with animals and servants...rich men travelled with servants to perform any manner of tasks including protection, negotiations and scouting (p. 53-54).  And their gifts would not have only been "tokens" of wealth in worship--they would've flowered a prophesied king with these gifts.  They had reputations to uphold afterall.

Either way, I suppose this knowledge won't change your celebrations.  But I encourage all of you to shower each other with excellent gifts, with great feasts, with deep love, and with a majestic sense of worship for a King who saved you.

Jesus Christ and the Racing Donkey

I've told the story before. Two Christmases in a row.  I  can't repeat the same angles covered the last two years.  But my needs are the same.  I fervently want Christians to celebrate Christ's birth. I want you to know the story correctly, because by knowledge you'll be able to enjoy getting to know the middle eastern people, Mary and Joseph, and Jesus Christ himself.  


I want you to say, "Merry Christmas!" and I don't want you to tolerate "Happy Holidays." There are more holidays in February, including one goofy little day called "Valentine's Day." You and I don't call it a holiday do we? We call it what it is.  


Christmas--much more than a holiday for you, but you're not even sure why. You want...


You want the courage to celebrate Christ's birth...Christmas.


Or you want to be like everyone else. You want to give gifts and fill stockings, coo at magnificent chocolate and colorful blinking lights. And fireplaces will be stoked, even in Florida and California. Even the warm states whimsically sing about their desires for white Christmases, ham and hot chocolate. And at the right moment, you just might recite nostalgic poems about quiet mouses, milk and cookies and fake fat guys with greased up coats so they can slide down your chimney.


You want to believe a cute story about a Benevolent Caesar, a mean-hearted Herod, and a calm but hurried Joseph and Mary.  So, I've thought of a way to tell you what I want you to see.  You get to choose which story you want to celebrate though.  You can take the following story and run with Christmas the way its always been done...go ahead, it'll be warm and fuzzy and cute.  Or you can read the scriptures and know the truth.  


Here it is, a third way, a third year.  Next year, I'll do it again.

So Caesar says, "Be Counted!  But you, Jews, must go to the place of your origin!"

Caesar Agustus comes up with an idea to count people in his kingdom--a census, in part to help him figure out how many taxes can be collected.  So, everyone gets packed and ready to go.

A pregnant Mary and an adoptive father Joseph turned toward each other, each with worried expressions.  Joseph devises a plan.  They must leave, and they must leave tonight!

So in less than an hour Mary begins packing and Joseph sets off to make a deal for the fastest donkey in the Nazareth area. He finds his brother there.  Phillip his brother also needs a racing donkey.  They both find the perfect racing donkey for them...and it happens to be the exact same racing donkey!  They fight over this one particular donkey--one a little taller, stronger and sleeker than all the rest of the donkeys. It almost comes to fists, but the owner of the racing donkey facility broke it up and said, "Look, this really is about money." So Joseph was a bit more successful with his carpenter business and had a few more sestarius and an extra gold coin, and so his brother was out of luck.

So Joseph hopped on the donkey and made him run home...kind of a warm up for the journey the donkey would carry them through.

They got home and Mary, who'd solicited some help from another sister, Babette.  Babette had packed already, but her husband was slow, and so she came to help her pregnant sister.

Now Joseph was kind of competitive and he wanted to be the first of his family to be counted in the town of their ancestors, Bethlehem. For some reason it was important--he needed the leverage I suppose.

So he kind of rudely said, "Mary, we gotta go!" He got the donkey ready very quickly, then, went into the house to retrieve something.

So, since Joseph was not there to help Mary get onto the donkey, Babette cupped her hand so Mary could use her as a step to get onto the donkey.  Mary had mentioned that this racing donkey was quite tall.

But, what the ladies didn't know is that Joseph in his spare time had built a step stool.  When he got the racing donkey home he thought, "My new step-stool would work perfectly for Mary!"  He came running out of the house with the step-stool just as Mary was putting her foot into her sister's cupped hands.

"No no Babette! You're playing with our babies life doing that!" Joseph said.  "What if she falls?"  And to add some weight he added, "Our baby is God's son!"

"Oh Joseph, I'm a strong working woman, i've done this before, you know that...and stop being so melodramatic ya big goofball."

"Stop it Babette, I have made this step-stool, don't you see?"

Mary smiled at the two competitors, and put the step stool in front of the obedient donkey, stepped up and sat on the donkey.

"Joseph honey, we have to go."

"Right," replied Joseph, somewhat curtly.

And so they set off into the desert. Joseph, being in good shape was still no match for the racing donkey. Mary was a bit of a novice, but this racing donkey had been trained well. So when Mary noticed that Joseph was three or four hundred paces behind, Mary said, "Slowwww donkey," and the donkey slowed to an easier gait. Joseph caught up breathing hard.  He was kind of mad, and he wacked the racing donkey on the butt, and it lurched forward, but then stopped walking altogether.

"Slow down donkey! What the world man?"  Joseph was exasperated.

This was not the talking donkey told from the scrolls, so the donkey said and did nothing.  Joseph secretly wished the donkey could apologize.

Ten minutes passed.  Joseph sucked down half of one of the canteens before he was ready to go.  He gave the command and they all trotted off.  They should still be there first.  They only had a few kilometers to go.

"Oh no Joseph!" said Mary. She looked terrified. "I just had a terrible contraction."

"We better hurry."

So they picked up the pace, but Mary's contractions were already three minutes apart.

So they ran. The racing donkey was ahead of a running Joseph. Adrenaline streamed through Joseph, who was also very strong, and he ran faster than he'd ever run. The racing donkey seemed relaxed and was in good shape, and of course was a ways ahead of Joseph, but not too far.

All of a sudden...

"Oh no," said Mary to no one really, Jospeh was too far behind. Her water had broken all over the racing donkey.

"Gross," said Mary. "Giddyup racing donkey!"

So the racing donkey took off like a flash. Poor Joseph could only yell, "Wait wait!" but to his credit, he had something extra in his legs and really picked up the pace.

The donkey covered 7 kilometers like a flash of lightning. Mary was really happy about the racing donkey. So, they got to town and Mary started to talk to people on the edge of town saying, "My water broke all over this racing donkey here and I'm going to have a baby soon, and this baby is going to be God and so we need a room!"

But she was a woman, and she was talking crazy. A few people took pity on her crazy plight, and put a couple of coins in the water cup hanging from the racing donkey.

Meanwhile Joseph made it to town and fell over at the gate, dirt cased his lips. The wind had come up a bit and it was dusty out there. The racing donkey took off with the canteens and so what was he going to do?"

He found Mary and the racing donkey. Mary was crying.

"Mary, what happened, you took off like a shot lady!"

"My water broke," she said, tired. "And I hate this town, no one will give us a hotel room."

"Oh crap."

So Joseph, being a man, had more credibility, and began asking hotel owners for room...it was a patriarchal system, what were they gonna do?

"We are in the line of David!" yelled Joseph. "We are in the family of the King, we need a room!"

"I'm sorry," everyone said, "The Sprintolicum Camel Cup is tomorrow, and all the best camel racers are here. The town's just full of fans."

Mary tried to dry off the racing donkey, but the contractions were terribly painful, so she said down and tried to breath slowly. Her doctor Amin Pater Lamaas gave her some ideas about breathing.

One guy from a small inn far away from the racing grounds finally gave them something positive.

"I own an old cave," he said. "You can have that. There's animals though."

"No problem man," said Joseph, relieved. "I'm around animals all the time!  We just need to give birth to God tonight and we got a later start than I wanted, y'know how that goes."

"I do, I'll see what the town doctor is doing, and he can maybe help you!"

"Thanks."

"Oh, one thing," stammered the inn owner, "These Bethlehem December nights get kind of cold, take these blankets."

"You're very kind," said Joseph.  Mary simply whimpered.

So Joseph and Mary, and a goopy racing donkey headed to the cave. But Mary knew they couldn't wait for the doctor.  Jesus wanted to be born faster than the doctor could get here.  So Mary leaned back against a hay bale and said,

"He's comin'!"

Joseph reached out his hands and caught their son, whom they named Jesus, as he popped out of the womb. God births faster than most babies. Added to that, the boy, Jesus, never cried, not even once.   And the animals were silent.  Joseph and Mary were both amazed.

Meanwhile thousands, maybe thousands upon thousands of singing angels appeared in the barley fields where sheep slept and simple shepherds watched over them, while playing an competitive marble game.  These angels smiled deeply.  Their teeth flashed like lightening.  The angels clamored about joyfully, warming up their voices while taking their places on the celestial choir stands.  But the several weak and meek shepherds hated music, and the light from the Angels was very bright, which also irritated them.  Added to that, they had never seen Angels before, so they dropped down to the ground in fear. All-the-while, the Angels were sweetly singing o're the plain.  One big angel who called himself Michael (the shepherds, who weren't very learned, still thought to themselves that they remembered hearing about an Angel Michael from the readings in the Synagogue, and wondered if this Michael was the same Angel) tapped the shoulders of the Shepherds and said, "Don't be afraid, we're just a choir man!" The head shepherd (called the "Master Shepherd) looked up bravely at the angels.

"Go and find Jesus in the cave, he is God," said Michael the Angel. "These Bethlehemites didn't even care that this family was in the line of a very famous king, king David. And they couldn't care less that Mary's water had broken all over the racing donkey. So, he's in a cave nearby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. Shouldn't take long."

Meanwhile, all the animals in the cave, Mary, Joseph and Jesus, had grown golden halos over their heads. Mary and Joseph and Jesus's halos were more pronounced though, and you could see lots of colors in theirs.

Night moved toward early dawn.  Mary, Joseph and Jesus, the recently arrived shepherds, and three wise men, whose visit surprised and confused the small family, all bowed before the manger; and swayed side to side while the angel's concert continued over them.

But it wouldn't last long...danger by the name of King Herod and his mean Roman Soldiers would upset this peaceful little scene very soon, and Mary, Joseph, a desperately young Jesus, who shouldn't be traveling yet, would have to take up their gear and their racing donkey and flee to Egypt.

to be continued...

The End

Or you could believe what I read in Revelation 12 and in Luke 2. The angels were an army...a host of them there to fiercely guard the birth of Jesus Christ. Scripture also says in Luke 2, "And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should give birth." They got there in plenty time...days ahead even, and probably not in December.


You could also understand that the word "Inn" does not mean "Hotel." If you must know, it means "House." What you should know is that the stable was attached to the house and probably in an open room next to the "living" room, so that heat could be transferred throughout the building. Simple village homes in Palestine, and in homes in that general region often owned animals but did not have separate storehouses for them, but instead kept them in an adjacent room. Homeowners brought their animals in to be cleaned, and to prevent the theft of their animals.


Homes often had a room for guests, technically called a "prophet's chamber"  (see 1 kings 17:19). The main room was a family room where they cooked and lived.


You should believe that they, being in the town of king David, in the Lineage of King David, wouldn't be treated badly. The Middle Eastern culture took (and take) their lineages very seriously.  Furthermore, this was the first census where Jews were affected and so Mary and Joseph were not alone. They were there with family most likely. Furthermore, Elizabeth lived only a short distance away, and if it really came down to it, they could go there. Mary was there for three months for cryin-out-loud. They were there for days, and another guest of a friend or family member was in the prophet's quarters, and so they slept in the living room, next to the stable. And, there was no bed for a baby in the living room, so they used a manger from the stable. Maybe they had to make some room in the stable area? It was most likely very clean.


Either way, they were there for days--no rush--no racing donkey on whom Mary's innards spilled.  In fact, there was no mention of a donkey in the story at all.


And the angels were a fierce and loyal bunch...and ready for anything. And the shepherds were sick with fright and you would be too. But the angels were there to pronounce birth of the one who would bring peace to the world, and the Shepherds had needn't not be afraid--all that is true.


Read Luke 2, Matthew 1 and Revelation 12. Then celebrate.  Celebrate confidently, and celebrate with a mighty force.


God Bless.

The Library

Lapidary blue skies consumed the east and the west.
Skies of multiple universes,
mine being an eighty by one-hundred twenty-two plot.

A man walks by, reluctant steps
minding the trees
and the breeze
wishing ne'er the exercise.

I should expect my own
Beleaguered reluctance Would reach my soul
Only some years, and maybe even minutes
behind his.

I remember days when rooms full of luggers,
sheltered midwestern men,
hunkered round' and mocked.

As burlesque players might,
fomented foreign accents, New Englander's mostly,
because theirs was about the only accent
reasonably slander worthy,
those labored with hazy endings and round vowels.

"You won't get faa with that caa paaked in the yaad..."

No harm intended beyond guileless luggers, a table and some beer.

While others in malted colonial street bars of New England
hoodwinked stereotypically "those hicks" somewhere
on the crusted shoulders of I-Oh-Way.

No harm intended beyond ingenuous aquiline eyes,
some beer and a table.

Conversations somehow gave them ownership,
membership of some place,
consistent and yet continuously improvised,
There-in lay the bedrock of invention.

Simply, men closer to their independence
than most.

And Schlitz was the norm,
and a glass-full of bud wasn't more or less filling,
and that was fine.

My need for independence festers
and pours out of me like a wound.
I simply long to sit in still life
and carve shapes into the clouds.

I long for the wisp of a benevolent approver.

I found and tended the Geographer's Library,
and discovered the Cartographer's secret,

That all roads eventually lead to the want of home.

One can tell by some dark smiles
what is of joy and thankfulness
that only the honesty of experience
can bare.

And so it is with multiple universes
That some I have seen
leaves so much past.

It strikes me to think of
who deserve the nurtured
cigarette twixt the first two fingers,

Even the dying plant of summer
and the dry leaves of autumn
borne and died most for those who
dare to listen to them fall.

Lapidary skies
and dust like helium rise
in my wake
like a crematory and a dead man's bowl.

I found life in the Geographer's Library.
I flew in lapidary skies,
more free and joyful  than the reigns
of most men,
and contrails of spit, sweat and tears,
and tongue wagging happiness.

"I am trailed by so much history,"
said the geographer.
Far unlike the pendulum
and greater than the scale
The past far outweighs the present,
and only one second should be my future.

And there it is, my cartographer's rendering,
heavy.
Hindsight is not twenty-twenty,
but the map doesn't lie.

Withal I stand
on nothing more than now,
on feeble legs
in my plot,
in my feathered present,

And I breath free air
and raise my hands,
flaming cigarette twixt
my deserving fingers
and I dance,

Somewhere within the Geographer's Library.

Let Freedom Ring

Veterans Day came and went.  I remembered, certainly.  


But I got to thinking...


I'm sick of the rhetoric.  "Violence never solves anything," "Peace Matters," "Don't punish terrorists, kill Guantanamo."  There are more and I'm sick of it.  


I don't like war, I don't.  "Fighting sucks," is my understatement for the year.  I can't comprehend a fight behind the mask of an M-14.  I've been scared before but...


I'm for freedom.  I want you to have an opinion.  I want you to say you like this idea, and you don't like that idea.  I want you to believe what you believe, and I want you to like football and baseball, and I want you to not like sports at all.  I want you to worship, or I want you to choose to stay in bed.  


I want for you the freedom to support or criticize.


My classmate Anne, in high school long ago, wrote a prize winning speech called "Let Freedom Ring!"  The speech contained the mantra over and over again: "Let Freedom Ring," she said.


I believe that's who we are.


Leaders have motives and motifs behind their decisions... philosophies behind reasons.  Some reasons may be access to oil, to improve trade routes, to protect the American people from terrorism.  But in the end, the American people and their leaders wanted and want freedom for people.  


American history -- stories of wars between our own people, stories of how America was formed, massive numbers of American-Indian lives cruelly lost and changed--ugly stories.  


But... I can't help but believe that developing vast new cultures that have never been seen before, such as The United States of America beginning in the 16 and 1700's, take unimaginable sacrifice.  The sacrifice becomes even more amazing when we understand that people like you and I have been historically willing to face the sacrifice head on.  They've been willing to endure ridicule and criticism by so many of us, to protect freedom for those same people.  Rough stories can't change what good and strong people really wanted-- despite an imperfect history, we and our leaders desire and desired freedom.  And given enough time, we can now clearly see who of us desire freedom and those who mask oppression with pretty little bows--legislation that serves only to make us more dependent, to deplete our intuition, to internally defeat our own sense of freedom... and deplete the free nation's morale.  However, I believe I'm seeing a people beginning to stand against oppression again...against our own form of the Berlin Wall.  Many of us are speaking out.  You and I have witnessed our nation inspired by freedom and disgusted by oppression, and we should want that now--in some ways we should want that again.


My dad, and my dad-in-law both served in war and, while I could not comprehend their experience, I can boast in my pride of them and those who served with them.  I am grateful that they were willing to allow my freedom, the idea of freedom, and the freedom of others to land squarely on their shoulders.  They are heroes.  I'm thankful every day.  I wake up every day and breath free air because of them and people like them.  I don't want them to regret their fight, because in success, and despite failure, they fought for something--their leaders and commanders wanted freedom for a people, whether they be Americans or South Vietnamese.  In my opinion, my dad and my dad-in-law should be proud of their torrid days in dreaded jungles.  They came home to a silent, ridiculing nation, but they stood...they saluted their nation.  Only recently have some people, some journalists, regaled historical proofs that reveal their heroism, their purpose, and the mantra of leaders who desired nothing less than free people.


Even you and I have ulterior motives behind our decisions.  What I do might seem unwise to you, but be patient and I might surprise you.  That's what men did with freedom in the late 1700's.  Despite a few ulterior motives, so many of us have strived for the pursuit that freedom allows.  Leaders and their advisors decide by their presuppositions, in part for their legend, for their legacy...but also in part for the freedom of the people, by the people and for the people.  On the flip-side, when leaders seem to derail American's freedom, we are constitutionally obligated to contest them, to push them back, and to eventually push them away by our vote.  Demand your freedom...let freedom ring, people!  Because the true worth of our free America reveals a people--Americans rising to every occasion with millions of their own dollars, and pounds of muscle behind every hammer within our borders, but also in Haiti, the Dominican, in Africa, in Asia and in most places of the world.  Americans desire the best, under God, indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all.


Despite some strategic mistakes, despite McNamaras and others who defined kinks in the American armor, we wanted freedom for Europe in the World Wars, we wanted a vision for Korea, wanted freedom for the Vietnamese, want freedom for Iraq and the Middle East, we want to protect the Israeli nation and we want to give a new reality to Afghanistan.  

I know what you're saying--I've heard it a million times--"Every nation has their own culture, and we can't hope to make them be 'Little Americas.'"  But look closely...we don't want them to be us...we want them to be them, but a 'free' them.  They'll suffer the change as we did, but freedom works.

History shows that when one nation attacks another, the conquering nation intends to have the conquered nation for themselves.  However, the examples I gave prove America to be different.  American people want freedom for nations.  We want a freedom for nations in which they can exist on their own.  In fact, America's actions have inspired some form of elections in several nations in the last few years.  Our leader's words inspired an oppressive Berlin Wall to fall.

We can tell some horrific stories...but Anne said, "Let Freedom Ring" and Americans have expected and have gotten nothing less--until now, I believe.

I believe the mantra is changing.  Our leaders seem to dampen our freedom bell that was, until recently, heard around the world.

I know what freedom feels like--there's no explanation--take the joy of a Budweiser on a hot day and times that feeling by millions and there-in lies a free life.  


Freedom exists for a precious few nations, and we should want freedom for them.  We should expect nothing less.

Hiatus and more of Webster's Conundrums

They call it an "Hiatus."  I guess I've been on one.  I suppose writers suffer blocks of one sort or another.  


I was denied a proof-writing job and that might've contributed.  We all think we're better writers than we are, and we all think we're skilled enough not to be rejected, right?  Most of us will tell each other to get used to disappointment until it happens and then we can't figure out what advice works best.  I can tell you that proof-writing gigs don't come easy.  I had to know Chicago proofing style, and I didn't.  Amateurs like myself should break the books out as often as we do the pen.  Maybe I'm a better writer than proofer.  I'm learning.  There's a lot to know.  Someone out of the Windy City had a greater feel for punctuation than I do apparently.


I don't care about that much anymore though.  I've got more on the plate.  I've got financial situations and friends who are sick.  Of course there's the brooding twelve pound turkey who's death might serve my thankful family well next week.  And well, I took time out to learn how to make biscuits from scratch.  I suppose there's a Chicago Style biscuit to go with the Chicago Style proofing fascist, but mine tasted good anyway.  Soft, warm butter and some huckleberry honey took me to biscuit heaven and I'm originally from Southern California.  Chicago.  Pffffft.


I worked one night at my part time job, and I asked a man, "How's it goin'?"  He replied, "It's a day!"


I don't know what that means.  What does a day have to do with how one is?  He deflected, I get that.  He was probably just fine, but that's more than he wanted me to know.  Someone else replied with equal mystery, "All in a day!"


I don't get it.  All in what day?  Because my Sunday is different than my Monday.


Someone else answered my question about their day saying, "Jiggy."  Huh?  I've also heard, "Fair to partly cloudy," an equally deflective answer, understanding the fact that weather people can't give a clear answer about weather.


I said, "Hello," to someone who replied with two hello's back to me, "Hello Hello," he said as if there were two of me.  I've heard, "Not bad, not bad," as if there are two of them.  I've heard greetings go like, "Hey hey!"  Someone answered my question about their well-being with a "fine, fine."  Does repetition serve to superfluously convince me about your status?


I don't know how to answer the question except for, "I've been on Hiatus."  Except that's not entirely true.  I'm fully engaged.  


Webster says "hiatus" means, 

A gap or interruption in space, time, or continuity; a break.

Am I allowed to be sick of writing for a bit?


All in a day, I suppose.  All in a day the Lord has made.  Might as well be glad and rejoice in it.


So I'm happy to be writing again.


I was on hiatus because I didn't know how to answer the question.  "It's a day," what else can I say?

Fair Warrior

On Wednesday October 21st, 2009 I couldn't imagine one person smiling in Praise all day long.  On Thursday October 22, 2009 I didn't have to.


His skin, fair and frail... sensitive even.  I was with friends at the International House of Prayer in Kansas City and he was there.  His arms were thin; his watch crawled a third of the way up his arm.


His skin was so fair as to be red from his forearm down the sides to his palm and through the pinky finger.  He wore bright white fingernails. I'd seen as much on an infant.  I almost felt that he had only a short time ago been born.


He smiled as if he were woven into the basket of the arms of God, the womb of the groom.  I guess I don't know his life story, I don't know if he's experienced anything.  I imagine a man with arms stretched out that far has.


He was certainly not muscular; medium build I suppose...a small medium.  He wasn't fat, not lanky...not anything except fair.  His orange colored short sleeve shirt ran past his shoulder above his arms, arms marked not by muscle, but by sensitive skin.  A weight lifter's shirt holds tight to the arm, fixed and sure.


I'd take him easy.  Seriously, I'd break his arm if we arm wrestled.  You see, I have strong arms, chiseled even.  I can flex my pecs with the best of them.  Lose a few more pounds and I've got a wash-board stomach.


Yet his arm lifted toward God.  His hands gently swayed back and forth as if God held them and danced--as if God enjoyed the worship with his son.  In fact I can say for sure God did.  


His hands rose high on the pivot point called a shoulder for the better part of four hours--held in praise, held high like Moses himself holding Israel's enemies back.  I don't know what enemy languished by this young man's prayers and praise.


On Wednesday I had a lifter's view of strength.  On Thursday I knew much more strength's definition from God's dictionary.  On Thursday I realized I understood little of might and muscled praise, excpt by the example of a fair skinned warrior in a loose orange shirt.


My shoulders hurt not far after five minutes.


He could take me to be sure.  He broke me after five to seven minutes, beat me by four hours. I'd guess there's no way he'd harm me much though beyond his gentle and trustworthy example ... a slight but kind rebuke from a slight-bodied boy who's wash-board was found closer to the heart.  He'd never hurt me.  We're brothers, the bride of Christ.  By his fruit, by his faith I knew him and his strength.  I saw the ancient faith of Abraham in his mighty heart.  I saw one who knew in whom he believed, like Timothy.  I eavesdropped on one who would lead hosts of Christians, like Paul, simply by raising his hands for four or more blessed hours.


All that and he didn't look like much.  Last in the gym, but by God, first where it really mattered.


I'll find him in heaven one day.  Like with Paul and Peter, Elijah and others, I'll probably have a conversation with him, and I'll take notes.


Notes taken by a muscled follower from an interview with a fair warrior.

A Colorful Mish-Mash called Legacy

"Oh, it's my coloring book!  My Oma gave that to me," said Monique.

She wore a nostalgic smile on her face if ever there were a nostalgic smile.  I looked at the colored pictures and touched the color as if it was asking.

"I love it," I said.  "It's hard to explain, but all those lines and shapes were done by such a different you, and still the same you."

"Feeling introspective today love?" she asked.

"I suppose, but you're standing here right now and I'm looking at something a you I never knew did.  I have fun with the paradox."

"You're definitely feeling introspective," she said.  "But it is fun to remember."

Such a long time ago, but her five year old artistry was still there.  A mish-mash of blue and red, yellow and green mushrooms, fairies, princesses, puppies and flowers.

Dust the book for finger prints.  Maybe I'd hope to see five year old mirror image prints of a 30-something year-old woman.  I wouldn't hope for it, but maybe Oma's ("Grandma" in Dutch) prints are there too.

My mom found some old letters that she'd written to a friend when she was twelve.  Her children gathered one weekend and we found the letters on the table.  We enjoyed this hilarious form of history.  Mom is forever branded the gossip queen!  But her children touched the ink, her ink, and read words of their mother.

I've read letters from my Grandmother, written many years ago.  She's long gone, nary a ripple of her breath left, except the letters.  I've touched them, grazed over her finger prints.  We all know the scratches of pen to paper and I can hear that too...the scratches are left in the wind and the ink maintains it's dark sky blue, the blue you see a moment after dusk when the sun's almost ready to turn her lamp off.

I remember the smell of Grandma's house.  The letters used to smell like her house.  I guess maybe it's like wine though...there really is no apricots in Chardonnay, but you can smell them anyway.  I suppose they smell like my mom's house now.

I enjoy the life God's chosen for me, I do.  I can't say that's always been, but...it is now.  I'm writing today, it's me, it is.  I wonder though, are some of my letters out there?  You'll not find any fingerprints here.  I guarantee your computer doesn't smell like my house.

Who delights over an uncle?  I mean I love my Nephews and Nieces and I know they love me.  I have so much fun with them, and anyone who knows me knows that I'd do anything for them; I'd hang upside down on the ceiling if it would make them happy.  I'm elated by them, charmed by them.  I'm gratified by their happiness.  But let's be real; post funeral they won't find my letters and graze their fingers over the ink.  They won't read my favorite kid book "A Day At The Zoo" and listen for my six-year old voice memorizing every word.   They won't.  I believe I'll simply go away.

I don't feel sorry for myself, I'm lamenting and there's a difference.  I enjoy God's path for me.

Siblings remember and remember well, but no one has keepsakes of a brother or sister...not many anyway.  They'll keep something if they die young, but when they die at 40 or 50...they simply don't.  They sinply remember.  My children won't keep my things, I don't have any.  My letters won't find gleeful groups pining for another line.

Don't tell me it's not a big deal, we all think about it...we want legacies, we want a family line.  Many, if not most, if not all of you will live many years after your death by the hands of your children.

I am lamenting, not feeling sorry for myself.  I needed to say that again.  The sky is blue today and I and my bride are headed out doors and I love that!  Maybe we'll hop on the bike and head out toward a late season ride to everywhere, I don't know yet.

Sixty years from now no one will care about my Triumph Adventurer, except for the guy I sold it to that hopefully will keep the classic bike pristine.

Your children will look after you when your gone.  I suppose Angels will tend to me.

Who remembers an Uncle anyway?  Regretfully, I couldn't make it to all my uncle's funerals.  I loved them too.  I wanted so bad to be there, but I couldn't.  I have some photos, nothing else.  My Uncle's children and his bride have the rest. I don't have rights to my Uncle y'know?  I don't have anything and I'm not entitled to it because their children carry the articles of legacy.  I suppose someone will go through my home and hold a big garage sale.  Some of you are in the will y'know.  You won't keep the rest most likely, and I know the Angels won't care one way or another.  But will my nephews and nieces feel like they have the right?  The entitlements?

It's ok actually.  The life God's chosen for me comprises of catalytic adventures and I for one tremble gratefully by the hand of my Abba.

Oh but I love my family.  We gather together like tidal waves and oragami, sometimes we're a force to be reckoned with, sometimes we're delicate.  Actually sometimes we're delusional and sometimes we're amazing and sometimes we're emotional.  Sometimes we're reminiscent and sometimes we're aggressive and sometimes we're happy and sometimes we're soulful and sometimes we're joyful.  We always delight over each other in good and bad, and...we're always amazing.

Maybe I'll go before my parents do.  They'll keep some of my stuff.

I imagine though, that when I'm old, and my nephews and nieces have grown, and my three siblings have grown old with me, that there'll be chatter when I'm gone.  They'll remember for awhile.

Chatter doesn't smell like anything.  Does it need to?  Naw...we'll talk again in Heaven.

But I have some laments, I'm not feeling sorry...my children don't look like me and won't carry my things for me.  I don't have any.

And who delights over an uncle?  Maybe my nephews and nieces will be gladdened by memory of me.  Maybe they'll dust off my old treasure box.  I hope so, and don't call that arrogant.  We all hope so.  It's not self-righteous to desire gladness and not disappointment from friends and family.

I think it's more important though that I won't die alone.  I know my family and I will not die alone.  I am so grateful to God for allowing me that piece of the path.

I realized recently that all of life mirrors God.  Some of you don't believe that.  I can't help that you don't believe, but it's true anyway.  My mom and dad searched me and they knew me.  They followed me day and night.  They knew when I sat and when I rose.  They hemmed me in from either side and nary a hair could fall from my head without their knowledge.  They protected me and guided me.  Even when I strayed they were there.  They and many others banded me by prayer.  Even when I fell their hands raised me up.  Therefore even my darkness was not too dark for them.  Their hands held me fast...

I lament sometimes, I'm not feeling sorry for myself.  You've discovered I'm so very fortunate.

They're just things really; foolish to worry.  Foolish.

Of course I'll wait for you in heaven, of course.  Everything points toward God.

Talk about a legacy.  You and I will not live and will not die alone, on either side of eternal life.  The rest is dust.  But I encourage you to write...actually write something on a piece of paper.  Someone will graze their hands over your ink.  Write something and leave the shiny new computer closed.

Delight in each other...please.

Family--by rje

I do not feign my soul to keep

To hide in wiles of the deep.

I do not take my life so vein

Resplendent in the prospect wane.

In urushiol green the tine have passed,

A peaceful breath and natures last.

My eyes have seen the earthen mast

And driven forth in dreams and asp.

I yearn to reach the thinning skies

Where oft the eyes of effort lies.

To be more blessed by sanguine breeze

Atop the billows and swarthy trees.

And yet supine and undisturbed

The skies unbroken, not a word.

Acknowledge me this very night!

And break in veins to know my plight.

Each day I wake my hand is filled,

Each day alive and love is willed.

To till the earth and reach the skies

To greet the young, consult the wise.

If I should die before I wake

I pray your grace before them make.

I pray my soul be laid with thee.

I pray my heart be saved for these.

I believe in blossomed joy,

Of Heaven’s poignant mirth.

And I believe, bereft of she

A blackened hole of frightening girth.

But God dost know my spirit’s whim

Designed by time, willed by Him.

And I believe before I die

He walks beside the fire and I.

On the wall a portrait be

Pride of heaven joined by thee.

The bride and groom and sunlight’s glee

A sign you’re never leaving me.

Before I wake, Christ holds our soul

Our fallow breath, our whisper low.

The morning dew the cock does crow

And life again within us sown.

And so each morn I wake and write

Lest we forget love’s even sight

A story binds my nest to home

I shall not die alone.