Spotted Sheep

^{Matt 18:12} “What do you think? If a man owns a hundred sheep, and one of them wanders away, will he not leave the ninety-nine on the hills and go to look for the one that wandered off? ¹³ And if he finds it, truly I tell you, he is happier about that one sheep than about the ninety-nine that did not wander off. ¹⁴ In the same way your Father in heaven is not willing that any of these little ones should perish."

1 Peter 2:25 "For you were like sheep going astray, 

but now you have returned to the Shepherd 

and Overseer of your souls."

Mark 6:34 Jesus came out, saw a great multitude, and he had compassion on them, 

because they were like sheep without a shepherd, 

and he began to teach them many things.

John 10:11“I am the good shepherd. 

The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.
  12The hired hand is not the shepherd who owns the sheep.

 So when he sees the wolf coming, he abandons the sheep and runs away. 

Then the wolf attacks the flock and scatters it. 

 13The man runs away because he is a hired hand

 and cares nothing for the sheep.

14“I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me— 15just as the Father knows me and I know the Father—and I lay down my life for the sheep. 16I have other sheep that are not of this sheep pen. I must bring them also. They too will listen to my voice, and there shall be one flock and one shepherd. 17The reason my Father loves me is that I lay down my life—only to take it up again. 18No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have authority to lay it down and authority to take it up again. This command I received from my Father.”

Actual "Jacobs Lamb"

If I'm going to get lost, I want to get lost like a sheep

Green

My tongue is what they loath to speak.

My heart receives them bend and break

All at the hands of angry fathers--I am worn

By son’s unloved, a weight I have born.

When I look out to the sun and sea

I see where my mom and dad did meet.

I am home in the house of a thief,

I am branded in the stead of another.

I am scorned and yet a brother.

I am one with the sea;

it is land who hates me.

Oceans have no politics

 it is bend and break, give and take,

we can all be swallowed in the sea.

I am home where there is no air,

Not long to last but equal and fair.

White, and green,

deep in the sea,

Native and Me. 

Well folks!

So there's another blog out!

God's Freckle is a new blog started by Kyle and me.  Right now it's only got one entry, but the back ground is cool.  

Check it out and find out what we're talking about.

Naked Jesus

 I’ve been looking at pictures of Jesus; lots of them actually. He’s usually a froundy sort, long well kept hair which is not affect in the least by wind (he must calm that stuff). He doesn’t seem to find the humor in his expression that I do.

I walked up to a statue of him in the cemetery once. He was standing on a green marble block, which sat on an ugly green slab of concrete with an even uglier bouquet of fake roses. He stood there, looking up. The God, who came down, looked up, stretching his arms out with the palms also facing the sky. His eyes were heavy, looking very tired and underwhelmed.  His arms were growing a black mildew or moss on the undersides. It loomed on the backs of his hands while his palms remained a brilliant white. That was about all you could see of him. He stood covered head to toe in a matching white robe, draped and covered to the point of reducing Jesus to a shapeless man-like figure, his little feet and sandals poking out the bottom.

For a while now Jesus statues have held a special interest to me only because they’re not like anything else in art.  Marble statues, and other art, from Roman/Greek culture glorify the human.  That the human form is perfect and so drawing it bare and proud, (much to the dismay of every homeschooled family learning art history.) In the opposing corner of the art era is a horde of very well clothed saints and Christ depictions. It’s odd that The Perfect-Man Jesus is drawn with the sake of modesty in mind.  It’s as though he’s ashamed of the way we used to walk around. Like he doesn’t know what’s under all that fabric.  

I wonder what he thought of being human. I doubt he was annoyed at his “earthy figure,” with all its troubles of acne and sweat and nakedness. It sounds silly but do we assume this? That somehow the church of the redeemed humanity is more opposed to God’s highest creation.

Gods have come down to earth before, but only God came down as man.   Not just looking like a man, but human through and through.  Naked and cold, with runny noses, and body odor, the perfect man was born. So instead of this God we paint a man, cloaked in fabric up to his ears, usually miffed or angry, with perfectly still hair, and sometimes glowing out of his head. Are we afraid that if God was truly human that he couldn't do what he said he did?

My favorite Jesus is Michelangelo’s Pieta. There the man who was perfect, resting in the arms of his mother in death. He is the God who died for those he was killed by. He is the God born of a woman. His human body was broken, that we didn’t have to be.  Pieta is the image of Christ laying down a crushed human body, tortured to death, and given to the creation He loved.

Tolerance

Tolerance

Means

DISAGREEING

But what happens when we

Disagree

On

TOLERENCE?

What happens when

We disagree

About what to do

When we

DISAGREE?

Are we tolerant

When others

Stand for truth

WE DON’T?

Tolerance?

It’s not what we do together when we get a long,

It’s what we do when we don’t.

Who we will be

When Truth is in question

Or when Truth is not a question

But more than one answer?

Meeting the Rev.

For some reason today I found myself remembering a person who's name I don't remember. That doesn't happen often, I'm actually pretty good with names. For some reason the minuscule impression he left in my life has managed to be something I always want to remember.

It was a rough night for Kahalui Church of the Nazarene. 60 students sat on the floor of the church which for the first time in years was packed wall to wall. There before us stood a woman, the pastors wife. Her long black hair swung about her as her body followed her thrashing arms pointing madly from her open bible to the powerpoint.

Hell.

"Every time you go without telling your friends about Jesus you're telling them to just 'go to Hell!'"

Everyone was crying...except of the seniors who glared from the back row, watching they're younger siblings cry.

Hell,

we were in it.

I walked out side, praying with everything I had that something good could come of this. I slunk around the dark halls of the Sunday-school, looking for an escape from the hate which screamed out of loud speakers.

I found myself before the door I hadn't gotten around to until now. A piece of construction paper with the words "Prayer Room" were scrawled with a crayon and hung crookedly on the open door. Inside was about as inviting, apparently it was the preschool room and was furnished accordingly. Nazarene curriculum printouts and tear outs were hung around the wall--jeez I hated that stuff... Crayons sat in the middle of a giant kiddy table which took up almost the whole room.

I sat down at on of the proportionality challenged chairs, my legs unable to fit anywhere were forced in all directions. I sat there for a moment running my hands through my hair. I wanted to cry, or scream, or do something! Everyone wanted to do that much, but what?

I thumbed around in my bible, hoping something would happen--keep my mind off--comfort--entertain? Nothing seemed to be happening and after considering a read in a few darker prophets I gave into the call of the box of crayons next to me.

A little while later someone darkened the door. He was older than middle aged, salt and pepper hair grew in a frizzy ring from ear to ear, leaving a white freckled circle on top. His face, I can't really remember, rather average, and a neglectful amount of stubble nearing a beard. He was in legitimate pastoral attire, at least deacon/saint/offering-guy material.

Sitting down on the far side of the table, he opened his own warn bible. Out poured a collection of church bullets and odd papers, most filled with scribbled notes. He lovingly cleared the pages, uncovering the KJB text bellow. I'm afraid I started to stare as he read, thumbing from book to book, chapter to chapter. Every once in a while would pause reading a moment and then closing his eyes he would take a deep breath, rocking back and forth slightly he would often whisper, "thank you Jesus."

Carefully he took out a pen from his shirt pocket and, after a quick search, found an unused paper to write on. He jotted down a few references all with their own "thank you Jesus." After a time he seemed to awake. He looked across the table kindly, reminding me that I had stared.

"Will you give this to pastor Bob? He has been on my mind." He said, his voice was slow and deep, with a slight quiver. I took the paper and he stood, leaving me and the room.

As I left to find my pastor (Bob) I knew I would remember that night.

Rest, Set, GO(D)

So here we are. Everything went wrong, and everything happened in it's perfect time. I'm in the most chaos I have ever been in, and yet I see far down the road I plan to walk. I have made plans and I have watched them go down in flames, and then, I have made them again. What has made this ebb and flow survivable? What consistency lies in the heart of this panic? What hope is there in my loss after my failures?

Faith is the expectation in one thing: the relationship of Christ who dwells among us.

--Soren Kierkegaard (paraphrase)

I was wrong and then adjusted only to be wrong again. I failed and recanted only to repeat the battle. But I stand on what can not be right or wrong. It asks questions that have meaning beyond the answer. It stands and knocks, while we are a far way off it runs toward us. It is the voice in the desert and in the land of milk and honey. It is Yes and Amen, it is nearer than anything and so far from our perspective.

If I can be sure of one thing,

perhaps even wrong,

I will be sure that I am loved,

and watch the world bear that weight.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it ws the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity; it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness; it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us; we were all going directly to Heaven, we were all going the other way."