The Mystery and the Longing

    Why are you weeping?
    The mystery and longing of this morning
    revealed and unrecognized, misunderstood
    “if you have taken him...”

    Ordinary extraordinary from the grave
    reach out but do not grasp
    further on further into mystery
    truly risen into unsettled perfection
    flesh and wonder spirit rise

    Why are you weeping?
    The mystery and longing of this day
    now named and recognized, realized
    “I have seen the Lord.”

(John 20:11-18)

An Easter Morning Meditation

    How can I celebrate the resurrection when Iran is under bombs?
    When Venezuela is being plundered?
    When Gaza is little but rubble?
    When Ukraine is burning?
    When citizens are shot in the street?
    When immigrant children are ripped from the arms of their mothers?
    
    I don’t know. I don’t know.
    But he is risen.
    Indeed.

A Meditation on Holy Saturday

    Yesterday’s jagged thunder and lightning fled but the wind remained, and it was cruel. I tried to find my way to the tomb and to silence from unnecessary words.
    Stumbling down broken steps
    through susurrant pines
    and buildings with blackout security precautions
    and private property cameras.
    I heard screaming ambulance sirens
    on hidden highways.
    I smelled marijuana.
    I walked by braying dogs at cemetery gates and death and Hades followed.
    I tried to find my way to the tomb and to silence.

A Good Friday Meditation

    Good Friday and the world has slipped from time. I spent the day walking in the wind and in the rain. Walking late and overtime in the cold.

    They took charge of Jesus, and carrying his own cross, he went out to the place of the skull. Look into the dust of it. The scent and tang of earth upon the air. Dust to dust.

    “Happy Easter!” someone shouted from their porch as I passed. Golgotha.

    Why do they…? Why do I…? But prove all things by the strength of love. This love. Digged deep and love laid low.

    “He is risen!” I replied but it was too early. And there was no one there where they crucified him.

(John19:17-18)

Yeehaw for the GOP (a song)

Here's a low-fi recording of a goofy little song I wrote as I was out and about the past couple of days. I hope you'll like it. 

You’ll go to war with everyone, you’re ready to invade
bombing schools and burning mosques is how this game is played.
Burn the oil, blot out the sun make it darker everyday
it’s the end of time, the final reel and Jesus is on his way.

Take advice from fools and cross against the lights
you’re just a graveyard bully who’s pickin’ another fight.
You deliberately misunderstand the doctrine that you claim
Everything you touch turns into another round of shame

Yeehaw for the GOP
for God and country.
Yeehaw for the GOP
Ain’t that somethin’
Fox News lovin’
modern Know Nothin’s
God’s Own Party, yessiree.

You don’t want the immigrant, the woman, or the gays
You only want the schools where the teachers bow to pray
Dismiss the prophets, malign the mystics these books you’ll never read
ignorance is the way to your nationalistic creed.

Lincoln’s party has devolved from what it used to be
I remember how you sang, “Let us die to set men free.” 
Building prisons, camps, and jails, and all of them for profit,
Deregulation is your way to bigger bank deposits.

Yeehaw for the GOP
for God and country.
Yeehaw for the GOP
Ain’t that somethin’
Fox News lovin’
modern Know Nothin’s
God’s Own Party, yessiree.

Jesus ain’t no Democrat, I know this to be true
but how could anyone see the Lord above when they look at you?
Mister Rodgers was a Republican, a man I could respect.
If more of you were more like him, I’d hug and kiss your necks.

Yeehaw for the GOP
for God and country.
Yeehaw for the GOP
Ain’t that somethin’
Fox News lovin’
modern Know Nothin’s
God’s Own Party, yessiree.

Desperate Signals

    Please. Hear me.

    We are captives of a brutal peace. Another spectacle made of blood, suffering another forceful assault. Anther succession of mortal explosions and the corporeal fire that burns even the air. A proud legacy of street-level violence. Machine gun mounted motorbikes and government guns on pickup trucks flying vulgar presidential banners fire into the gathered crowds. Public protester executions. Beheadings and gauntlets. Gassing socialists with illegal chemicals. Hacked thousands flee as refugees.

    There is an inequitable Armageddon at the door – the imbalance of munitions and humiliations over hunger and rotting sickness. We’ve scuttled past the strong war warnings to push the clock forward – the symbol of our destruction.

    We are traded for betrayal. And the same fate for many undefined sins against the state and houses of dynamite. Times of trouble such as never was such a wasteland. Repeated. Desperate rejections of this regime. We are begging in waves. The blood of ten thousand. The day after and again repeated. The fallout of chaotic response.

    The artillery ambitions and strategies of the resource savages – those who buy and sell the world beneath and cap the sky above have brokered evil in this place. Millions of tons of debris, the rubble of ruined lives and unexploded ordnance. We know the wickedness of their weapons. We know the vanity of their lives. We are nothing but physical potential forces to be added up, accounted. The ledger of our lives allows only a little fight. The military turned in and the open energy of our vitality transferred out.

    All military economies are thus. No neighborly peace, no negotiated truce behind locked doors. Savage battle is how things are done here in the crucible of war. Exploitation and salted earth. No cease fire for bitter arguments. Cold blood despots make sick peace jokes. The catastrophe of intimidation power. Normal procedures are followed for murder – in secret, unacknowledged or publicly documented. Either way there should be no flesh saved.

    We are besieged. This is the plain and forecasted truth with dangers exposed. The infrastructure of invasion turned inward. All choke points secured. Cut off by simultaneous offenders. It is an open secret. The poisonous promotions of violence and horror. It’s a game to them. “Shooter, shoot her!” comes a faceless command from the demons of common criminality and civil battery.

    From the ramparts of history, we’ve been raised – to live and die within the walls of a conquered city, but we are silenced in this day. Four years already and three years more. And then? Our desperate signals sent out, stand up nation to nation. Land or sea. Still there is no response and the days are unshortened.

    Please. You know the answer.

A History of American Exceptionalism – Part 1

    Great force pirates raided coast towns, year after year, decade after decade. Terror in France, Italy, Portugal and Spain. As far as Britain, Ireland in the 1800s. Now Algeria, Libya, Tunisia and Iceland. All across the North African Atlantic.

    But currents were shifting to some unpromoted American paradise.

    Consider the victims killed and surrendered. A brutal menace and sporadic crime. Ragged political division from Mediterranean misfits. Powers traded. Scourged on choppy waters. Trading in Holy Human Bondage. Paying tribute, but never debts. Fugitive and furtive. Chastised but unpunished.

    Recent attention has been drawn to two new forces: Straight death and Twisted videos. The soul of American Evangelicals wrestled into submission. Forced downside into conditional rejection. Their soul sold for a pittance. Traded for unexceptional power. Drinking from putrid puddles. American commerce.

    The plan failed. Hypocrisy crept back in. Barbarity increased.

    Refuse conditionalism. Forever forced. Burning. Forever burning. Incense and refuse.

What more do you want me to tell you? Rarely has one voice spoken thus. Welcome to the last word. Language is too poor for power – Killing joy and exaltations. Who would receive it?

A Daily Resistance – March 29, 2026

     … give me a trained tongue, that I may continue, even with a weary word…

    The Sons of Violence are marching in the street. The distractions of tomorrow’s world are here today. The lines of war are drawn, redrawn, erased, and mapped. The threat reemerges. Tensions between China and Taiwan. Between China aggressions, and Iranian loss, and Russian expansion. Israeli annexation action. Tortures abroad and at home. Violent pyrotechnics and pyro-techniques. Ignite!

    … I was not rebellious. I will not turn back…

    Today they are pushing. Even now they’re striking. Dead of night dissidents dragged out without seeing the nationalist kill/steal numbers. What did we see? What did we say? Nothing and nothing. Blacked out. Redacted. Those files will also not be released.

    … give my back for blows, pull my beard. Insult and spit in my face…

    We have no legal framework for the common depression and unproductive desires of our fellow Americans. Citizens and Secondhand wage slaves. Bought and sold. Corporate interest and interest rates rule. Military industrialists will have it all. Past examples carry forward. Past examples argue against truth. Doctors tried for treason for setting a broken leg. Insurrectionists demanding the head of the Vice President.

    … I have not been disgraced. I will not be put to shame…

    I have all the ache and fatigue, of living. The nervous chills – without the fever. Death and explosion. Destabilized. Life is over. Sorry pounding at the door.

    … Who are my adversaries? Let them confront me. Who will declare me guilty?

I Have Noticed and I Have Seen

    When wisdom has become the least of these (after a long period of low demand), heart and knowledge. Clean. Free. Clear. But nothing’s yours. And nothing is mine. Discretion and understanding have become a menace. Simple observation is not encouraged.

    What about us? Here where we live and breathe. Where we buy our groceries and go to church.

    We must be unoppresed – free to lift ourselves from every yoke. My head without, my soul still hungry. Goodness and all the day’s security. Dark-dwelling in the house of the Lord. The hungry, cast out. The naked, thrown down. I notice my own flesh too.

    When will we see the word as written?

    We are teachers without questions. We are leaders without strategy. A nation with a soul for greed, for power. We are investigators without a clue. We are travelers without a map. These are all variations of the same story. News without media. Politicians without honor. Is this the family you’ve always wanted?

    Do whatever you need to do, but keep in mind that I am not a theologian, not professionally. Neither am I a doctor, a priest, or psychologist. But I have seen the finger writing on the wall.

The Absolute Grounds

    The absolute grounds have shifted and we have fallen.

    The threat of arrest and/or assassination – we’re in this together. All of us implicated. All of us complicit. My discouraged mind dissents. My hovering hand falters, my wounded heart … my heart… Oh, God, my heart. A serious exchange for a tedious response.

    Trapped by inaction into inaction. Submission.

    No. No. This cannot be real. This is not the reality I recognize. But this war continues with or without us. Drags us down into the abyss. We are wrong. We are wrong. We are made guilty.
    
    Daily missile attacks. No access to food or water. Flash bang. The head jerks backward. Eyes roll. Alarming video released to the press. I cannot talk about it. Transformed. Unlived. I need… I need… I can’t even say any more. The words have been stolen. Abducted. Murdered in the street.

    A serious exchange for a tedious response. Don’t try to force it. There’s no accounting. Shortened time. Fault lines. High explosive gunpowder, blueprints and plans. Twenty-five minutes too far. Shot down. Crash and fire. Fire! Fire! A fire, a fire…

    American troops. Iranian mothers. Gazan children. Israeli ambassadors. My son. My daughter. My brothers and sisters everywhere. Knocked out. Upside down. We’ve lost the horizon. We’re going to crash. We are going to die. 

Wake Up Dead

We wake up dead at once
not a course correction,
but coarse correction, dammit!

These are just words, no doubt
and no one is listening to the half truth tongue
of the Orange Deluder, Satan.

How many lost friends, still trapped in foreign airports?
Unfriendly times and closed-circuit spaces
with no fortune, no future.

How many of us are trapped in the devil’s realm?
Polluted water under an old bridge

Choke the air
Torch the rivers
the soil and the sky are poison.
The moon is red with menstruation.

The pine tree appeal to heaven
where your spirit connects to infinite knowledge
in the flag waving heavens of heavens

Kairos tripped unstable, untrustworthy.
The lying spirit of God gives us pressure
gives us pause. Gives us doubt.

Insectoid mouths with seven unholy words
Seven mountain buzzwords
and dog-whistle, code-word thinking.

Mark the unholy alliance of this reality
and the shadow valley
an abandoned stadium, a drifting destroyer.

Begging for a deal. Badly
Negotiating with death,
from the right, from the left
death from above, from below.

Who can know the secrets of mindful walking?
Who can speak the horrors of daily waking?

We wake up dead at once.
Even not believing, I believe
O God! I believe. Help my unbelief.

That Which Is Lacking

    He wiped the sleep accumulated crust from his eyelashes and yawned over his first cup of coffee. He’d slept late and long on this, his day off, and felt refreshed. The weariness of the work week fallen away. “The sun rises, the sun sets,” he thought “and in between I need to write.

    Other things needed to be done as well, of course. It was his day off from work, yes, but there was still work to be done. Laundry and grocery shopping. Vacuuming and dusting. The cats would need fed and the litter box cleaned. All the daily and disgusting chores of ordinary life. Still he was writing and that was a pleasantness to be enjoyed.

    He was writing and had written much already, the bulk of the project already completed, but his editor wanted more. Always more. Of the writing of books there is no end.

    But his notebook was lined and crossed with false starts and thoughts going nowhere. Dangling participles and sentence fragments. A void of returning problems. Problem. There was only ever one problem. All editorial effort, all creative confusion came down to this: There is nothing new...

    The blank page

    He flipped through the pages of his notes, looking for a way in. A way into the words.

    “Mysterious alarm…” No.

    “Toxic potency…” Not quite.

    “Rumpled heartbeat…” No. “Rumpled heartbeat? What is that?” He crossed it out and wrote again. “Rapid heartbeat…” But still no.

    His cell phone rang, interrupting his lack of progress, a call from his editor. “Good morning, Lester,” he answered. “It’s a bit early to be calling to check on me, isn’t it?”

    “No, no, no” the editor pleaded. “You misunderstand. I don’t want to… But if you could give me an idea, an estimate… how many pages?”

    He sighed. “That which is lacking, Lester, cannot be counted.”

Preadvised and Disremembered: A Memoir and Confession

     I was doting on old associations, old friends and ex-wives, thinking that I had not advanced among my peers. Neither first in any domain nor new thought. I was too long preadvised toward the same old gospel with the same old averages and I went into the gateway for a bad cause. I went about the city established and forgot the boy. Night came with alcohol and I disremembered all I had ever been.

    I went on living and laid down with old excuses. Living and laid down with the devil of mysteries. The Devil king of Babylon praised the gods of gold while I was practicing with stones and no doubt. I read too much of the vain and learned writers, candid writers. I was Hercules in Egypt. I was Horus among the Romans. Lost.

    The labels warning about the health risks standing in front of divinity were there for anyone to see. The hazards associated with the consumption of too much gin. Worn threadbare. Operating machinery after drinking. Head first. But I went on undeterred. If I should disobey orders and ask for Cancer, at least I would know that it wasn’t consumption.

    Later, when accused of imbalance, with every kingdom in desolation, every city, every house eliminated, bacteria and dysbiosis, inflammation under the influence, and the oxidative stress of pagan free radicals I would come to question the warnings ignored.

    Body specific. And Divinity recedes into memory. Focusing on what I had missed. The esophagus eliminated. The liver removed. No doctrine. Dabbling in doubt for nearly fifty years. The boy I was was lost; the father I became, agnostic. But my mouth, still confessing Christian. All social aspect and interaction. Invited to summer places, he followed on without argument for modern errors. Always preaching the same thing: He that believeth…

    It doesn’t have to be philosophical question. It doesn’t have to be the power of God. I’m just looking for the open door in this land of murder, bloodshed, and the uproar of fire. A thousand years of hope untapped. A broken heart crossed out.

The J. Carterman Catalog

 A Vague Paranoia

    Raul left home when he was eighteen. Worked his way across the country – ranch hand, taxi driver, deli-clerk. Whatever. But no matter where he went, no matter what he did, there was a sense that something, somewhere was just about to go wrong. A look from a coworker, a headline in the newspaper, an unidentified sound. It all amounted to the same. With one eye over his shoulder and one foot on the wheel, Raul was forever on the move.

    A Vague Paranoia  (No. J83752) – one hundred percent natural anxiety. Hand woven. The deep wine color infuses the whole ensemble with a splash of personality.

An American Irritability

    “There’s nowhere to go,” Sam thought to himself. “Nothing to do.”

    He closed his laptop and sipped his lukewarm coffee and sighed. The music, if you could call it that, on the radio grated at his nerves. The people in the café crowded too close. They smelled of cigarettes and sweat and garlic. Garlic, gah!

    This European vacation was a mistake.

    An American Irritability (No. J 73114) – hand painted on silk. Mother-of-pearl buttons at center front and cuffs. 

Mild Seasonal Despair

    It was the smell of wet, rotting leaves and cigar smoke that reminded her of her father. His leather jacket. His cheap aftershave. His many varieties of moods for a variety of weather. He could shift and swing with the wind. He could sing all the song s on the radio. But he was gone - twelve years gone. ‘And,’ she told her therapist, ‘this winter has gone on so long I’ve forgotten the sun.

    Mild Seasonal Despair (No. J99341) – breathable fabric. Size S – XL. SOLD OUT.

Now For War

    Now an apocalypse of our own making.
    Now an apocalypse we can use.

    We are bombing schools for the cause of Christ
    And the Christ, Inc. shareholders approve
            (but deeply regret the inevitable, but very necessary, tragedy)
    of bombing hospitals.

    Appointed, anointed
    and the self-aggrandizement
            of worms who are not men
    to light the signal fires in Iran
    to cause Armageddon
            explosive encounters
    to mark the return of Jesus
            false face actor of a
            grotesque eschatology,

    crude bones unsubstantiated
    and the groping swagger
            of insatiable egos
    flaunting the marks of its colors

    burn gold, silver, and precious oil
    your greater condemnation
            revealed in fire

    the Earth groans murder
    under the villainies of your theology
    the fires of signal men shriek faster
    and strip flames from the doors of hell.

    Now for war.

The Euphrates House

    There is an empty house across the street from my home. Empty but not abandoned. Not exactly. There are never any vehicles parked in the driveway. And there are never any lights in the windows. The yard is mowed just often enough to prevent the city from issuing a citation, but I’ve never seen anyone pushing a mower. The porch is collapsed and a few windows are broken, but it’s not condemned.

    I’ve been curious about the place since I moved in here about four years ago. I’ve never seen any yard decorations. No Christmas lights. I never hear music from the place. Never hear laughing squealing children. There’s no dog crap in the yard, so I don’t think there are any pets. The stray cats that congregate under the collapsed porch can’t count as pets.

    I’ve been curious so today I decided to investigate. I don’t know why the urge came over me… I walked up and down the sidewalk staring up at the house, seeing the places where the siding’s come loose and started to fall away, seeing the seedlings growing in the gutters, seeing the falling soffits. From the sidewalk I could see a single set of human footprints in the snow (unshoveled from the walk and driveway…) led to the front door and, presumably, entered the house. No prints exited or led away from the house. At least not from the font door. So I walked around the corner and back up to the house through the alleyway behind the house. No footprints at the back door either. Just a small mound of snow covered, discarded appliances.

    Call me a snoop. Call me a sneak. You’re probably right.

    I went back around to the front of the house, steeled up my nerve, and approached the house. Climbing carefully over the collapsed porch, I stood at the door and knocked. “Behold, I stand at the door and knock.” The words of scripture came inappropriately to mind and I chuckled. I knocked again. But there was no answer. After waiting a few minutes and watching cars drive up and down the street, I knocked on the door once more.

    The front door sagged on its hinges and collapsed inward. The topmost hinge pulled away from the frame and fell downward. It then swung open, limping on the bottom hinge.

    “Hello?” I called into the house. “Um.. I’m sorry about your door.” I could hear my voice echoing around inside the empty, silent house. “Hello?” I stepped inside and called out again. “I knocked and your door... it sorta collapsed.”

    The air inside the house was warm (but I couldn’t hear any noise from a furnace) and had the antiseptic, phenol smell of old time Bandaids. I took another step into the house. Call me a snoop. Call me a sneak. You can add trespasser too, I guess. Just then a jump-scare cat yowled and leaped down from somewhere unseen and I nearly screamed. The cat ran past me and out the door.

    Fully inside now I could hear something new – the sound of running water. From the basement, perhaps. A slow churning. Ancient and deep. A border, a boundary dividing order from chaos and life from death. The power of water is untamed. Hard. Strong. Rivers and dragons. “Sounds like someone’s left the bath running,” I called out, but there was no answer.

    I turned back to the door and swung it back towards closed. Broken as it was, it didn’t catch, but I closed it enough to keep out at least some of the winter wind. Committed to my intrusion now, I shrugged off my coat and hung it on a hook on the wall. “Forgive us our trespasses,” I muttered.

    I wandered further into the house. Living room, hallway, closet, kitchen. All the rooms of an ordinary house laid out in the ordinary way. All empty. No furniture. No photos. No plants.

    Strange, discomforting thoughts entered my mind. The spirit does not die after the death of the body. It persists. It lingers long in a dismal existence. Distressed and murdered souls in the basement. Is this Asphodel? Or the Pit of Tartarus? Gloomy wandering in and out of the ethereal plane. Incurably damned.

    The windows were obscured with some sort of yellow-gray grime. The light filtering through was uneven and unpleasant. Dust hung slowly in the air. Immortality will be granted at a future time under certain conditions. Attracting unwanted attention. The dust will return. Every time.

    I shook my head to clear the nonsense. But the thoughts continued. There is an increasing demand for narcotics and revenge. Who has woe? Who has sorrow? Contentions? Complaints? Wounds without cause? Who had redness of the eye? Your eyes will see strange things. Your heart will hear perversions.

    “Hello?” I called out again. That’s when I saw the stairway door – down to the basement. A light switch was mounted there on the wall at the top of the stairs. I flicked it and light from somewhere appeared. “Hello?” I no longer expected an answer, but still I called.

    And then I decided to see what was in the basement. Stupid decision, I know. I’ve seen the horror movies. I’ve listened to the true crime podcasts. I know how these things go. I know what happens, but still I began to descend the stairs.

    But two or three steps down I halted. Frozen. Suddenly afraid.

    ‘I cannot be cowardly here,’ I said to myself. ‘I will go down the unbelieving stairs.’ I moved again. Slower. ‘What went on in this house, what abominable secrets are in the basement.’ another step. ‘Murder? Sexual assault?’ Another stop. ‘Some sort of sorcery with black candles and circles drawn with salt?’ Down the stairs, one step at a time. ‘There are idols down here.’ I could feel it, every step. Closer. Deeper into the lie. God, it was getting hotter

    The basement was empty and unfinished. Bare walls, exposed concrete. Nothing. No furnace. No ducts. Why was it so hot in there? I wiped the beaded sweat from my forehead with my sleeve. “Hell…” I started to call out once more, but my voice choked.

    In the uncanny light of the empty basement I saw four doors, framed directly into the far wall. Massive, solid doors. And strung across each door were heavy, iron chains secured with filigreed padlocks. Curious, I took a step toward them.

    That’s when the jump-scare cat stepped out of a shadow and mewed at me. At least I think it was the same cat that frighted me at the front door. I didn’t have a chance to look at it closely as it ran out the door. But here it was again in the basement, blocking my path.

    “Hey there, little guy.” I said. “Are you the only one here?” The cat looked at me quizzically but said nothing. Why would he? He licked his paw and cleaned his ear.

    I took another step toward the chained doors and reached to examine one of the locks. And suddenly the jump-scare cat was joined by a great company of cats. Mewling, yowling, stretching, pawing, clawing cats with flicking tails and proud whiskers.

    “What the…” I began to say. The cats swarmed at my feet, rubbing themselves against my ankles, clawing lightly at my jeans. “What’s going on here?” I reached down to pet a black and white mottled cat with slightly crossed eyes. “What is this?” The cat allowed me to stroke his head a few times but then nipped at my fingers with his teeth. A warning? But of what?

    What was locked behind those doors? What mystery? What horror? Where did those doors lead? To some mystic, windswept valley in the light of a garish colored sunset. Did I hear the sound of long-haired Tibetan warriors mounted on horseback?

    Suddenly, as I stared at the doors, I heard the sound of a far distant trumpet, a ram horn shofar blown across the great expanse of the sky and the chains barring those four doors began to rattle. The cats scattered into shadow and I fled the house, staggering incautiously up the stairs, and bursting through the broken door.

In the Cloud of a Living God

    Begin in the valley and the street
    among advertising agents and
    slick political pietists
    Liars. All of them.

    Songs of peace are
    shouted down by calls to war -
    war arrows over red hot coals.

    That’s where I live
    in the ephemeral world.
    Cursed. Wretched.

    I am a tourist here

    In the cloud of a living God
    on a mountain of fire
    where certainty flees
    into the silence of light.

    Where are we
    and what is this?
    Vivid here and
    trembling there.

    Part pilgrim,
    part stammering
    stumbling disciple

    Who am I?
    And what am I
    becoming?

A Dispensationalist Shepherded Tone

 

    “My brothers, my sisters these are the prophesied days. The end is near...”

    The superposition of sine waves separated by octaves. Start low, rising higher.

    “Look to Israel regathered. God’s time clock. The infallible sign. Only a breath away...”

    Continually rising. Higher, higher, ever higher, never higher.

    “The rapture is imminent. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe today. Two thousand years. Maybe today...”

    Ever increasing intensity. Perpetually sustained anxiety.

    “You’ve seen the signs – You have heard of wars and rumors of wars – Russia is on the move. China is assembling an army of millions. Germany will invade. Nation against nation. Kingdom against kingdom. Famines and earthquakes in divers places. Plagues and pestilence and devastating disease...”

    Reaching for resolution. Reaching. Reaching. Rising. Reaching.

    “Mussolini is the Antichrist. Kissinger is the Antichrist. Gorbachev is the Antichrist. Saddam is the Antichrist...”

    Rising. Rising. Still Rising.

    “The future is now. It’s later than it’s ever been. The signs have been fulfilled in our our lifetime. This generation. Now. The dawn is rising…”

    Imminent but never here.

A Daily Resistance - February 9, 2026

    Take these unresolved fragments: 

     I’m writing – but who’s reading? Singing, but who’s listening? And will it be remembered?

    Have you seen the news today? Have you heard the reports of an estimated 200,000 women, pregnant with Iranian infants, children – bayoneted, suffering tormented, demented attacks, buried alive with gouged out eyes? Stripped and kidnapped of political power. Deplorable American worship. Naming it thus was always justified.

    Is it vanity to want to be remembered? To make a mark? To leave a legacy?
    Is it vanity to want to be recognized? To matter?

    An uncontrolled psychosis far from normality – still too close to the moon. Beneath the shadow of this failed republic. The violent fragments of American cities explode and fling themselves into the fire.

    In a hundred years who will remember my name?
    In fifty – who will care?

    Have you seen the news? Autospeak machines that speak of wars and secret empires. Speak of a superior race and the toxic price of infrastructure.

    I am lost in the smoke and haze. I am swallowed up and lost in the chaos of our times. Swallowed up and devoured along with the great mass of women, children, and men. All consumed. All forgotten.

    Trumpet radio announcement vile screeds. Shackling perversity to God’s own firepower Repudiate his racism or stand with him condemned. Stick out your chest and raise your chin. We see you. We know.

    Still – I am writing.
    Still – I am singing.

Our Earth We Now Lament To See

 

    I found this hymn by Charles Wesley in our methodist hymnal (#449) today. I came home after church and quickly recorded my own little version of it. Wesley's words, my melody. 

    Our earth we now lament to see
    with floods of wickedness overflowed,
    with violence, wrong, and cruelty,
    one wide-extended field of blood,
    where men like fiends each other tear
    in all the hellish rage of war.

    As listed on Abaddon's side,
    they mangle their own flesh, and slay; 
    Tophet is moved, and opens wide
    its mouth for its enormous prey;
    and myriads sink beneath the grave,
    and plunge into the flaming wave. 

    O might the universal Friend
    this havoc of his creatures see!
    Bid our unnatural discord end,
    declare us reconciled in thee!
    Write kindness on our inward parts
    and chase the murderer from our hearts!

    Who now against each other rise,
    the nations of the earth constrain
    to follow after peace, and prize
    the blessings of thy righteous reign,
    the joys of unity to prove,
    the paradise of perfect love!
    

I Contain Multitudes – I Am Legion

     Here it is – Like Whitman, I contain multitudes. I am Legion.

    “That’s not funny, Carter. I’ve always said you were Satanic.

    Yeah, yeah, yeah. Give me my influences. Give me my heroes. Le t me name them:

    Archibald MacLeish – librarian poet
    Madeline L’Engle – universalist author, Christian author
    Burroughs – both Edgar Rice and William
    William Booth – the only General I would follow

    Howard Zinn – historian
    Marc Chagall – dreamer, poet, painter, fool

    “You’re a fool, Carter. Everything you say only confirms it the more…”

    Gustavo Gutiérrez – Dominican liberationist
        and
    Roger Corman – the king of cult

    “You go too far.”

    Give me scream queens. Give me Elvira,
    Give me Neil Young and Nick Cave.
    Give me Camus and Kierkegaard
    Give me the blessed Saint Francis and Sister Death

    “Stop. Stop. You’re only embarrassing yourself with this… contortion. This confession.”

    Kropotkin. Cash. Dylan.
    Brian Wilson. John Coltrane and John Yoder (though, I acknowledge the danger)
    Umberto Eco, and Echo and the Bunnymen

    “I don’t even know these names. No one cares.”

    Poe, and King, and Dick
    Sartre, Beauvoir, Silverstein
    Give me Black Francis screaming into the void

    “You need to stop. This is unhealthy.”

    Give me Martin Luther King Junior

    “He was an adulterer”

    I know, but give me Tillich.

    “Pornographer.”

    I know, but give me…

    “No. I will give you nothing.”

    Give me Jesus.

    “Jesus! The Blasphemy you breathe…”

The Pentecost Machine

    My wife and I went out for dinner this evening. She recently discovered that she likes the burgers and fries at the Family Diner that’s just a few blocks from our home. So we’ve been there a number of times in the past couple of months – enough times to sample of variety of their meals. But there was something new there tonight.

    Just inside the door, to the left of the hostess stand, next to the Claw game was a Pentecost Machine. “Whoa!” I exclaimed as we entered. “I haven’t seen one of these since I was a kid”

    “What is it?” she asked dubiously eyeing the mechanical man inside the glass box. He was dressed in the baby blue suit jacket, white shirt, and black tie that I remembered. He wore the same large, black rimmed glasses and held a floppy, dog-eared leather-bound Bible. “It’s a Pentecost Machine – a kind of mechanical genie, like Zoltar in the movie, Big. That’s Johnny Pentecost in there. You drop in a quarter and he gives you prediction about the future from the book of Revelation. It prints out on a little card.”

    Just then the animatronic preacher inside the glass began to move. “The Antichrist now walks among us. Do you know the number of his name? Insert twenty-five cents to find out.”

    “Just like I remember,” I told her. “A church we sometimes visited in Logansport, Indiana had one in the fellowship hall of their building. I thought it was awesome but my dad sneered at it and said that ‘parlor games and carnival amusements don’t belong in church.’ He was right of course, but I was always disappointed that he wouldn’t let me drop in a quarter.”

    “Behold the things to come!” the mechanical voice boomed again. “A sure word of prophecy, only twenty-five cents!”

    “I think I’ve got a quarter in my purse,” my wife said. “Do you want to fulfill your childhood dreams?” I laughed and nodded. She dug in her purse and found a quarter for me. “Go nuts,” she said. I dropped the quarter into the slot. The machine lit up and came to life. I could hear the servo motors whining and could smell the burning rubber odor of faulty, old wiring.

    “Gomer – which is Germany – will send tanks and armored vehicles, submarines, and helicopters to invade Israel. Ezekiel 38.” A printed card, slightly smaller than a playing card dropped into the slot below the figure. I fished it out and put it in my pocket.

    My wife rolled her eyes at this and I laughed. “These things were really popular back in the day. Do you have another?” She didn’t bother to roll her eyes again, but I knew. I knew… She found another quarter and handed it to me. “You have fun. I’m going to go find a booth.”

    “Sure. Sure,” I nodded. “I’ll catch up,” I said and dropped in the quarter.

    “Your VISA card is the mark of the beast, 666. VI is Roman numerals for 6, as is S in Greek and the letter A looks like the Babylonian cuneiform for 6.” Another card dropped out.

    I didn’t have any more quarters, but I had a fiver and the hostess was willing to make change for me. I dropped in another quarter.

    “Vladimir Putin will invade Cyprus when Europeans have a crisis to manage,” Johnny Pentecost said and the card dropped down into the slot.

    “Putin?” I wondered. “I would have expected Brezhnev or Gorbachev. When was this thing made?” I examined the casing for a model or serial number. I even pulled the machine away from the wall a bit so I could look at the back – but the hostess gave me an evil eye. I apologized and pushed it back into place and dropped in another quarter.

    “There are eighty-eight reasons that the Lord Jesus Christ will return in the year 1988,” Johnny Pentecost told me. And a card dropped into the slot.

    And then another. And another. Card after card after card. They began spilling out of the machine onto the floor in a heap. They wouldn’t stop.

    “Hey!” My wife said from behind me as I was gathering and shoving cards into my jacket pocket. “Should I order for you?”

You Promised

     Somewhere out in the eastern borderlands, far beyond the trek and ken of warlord kings, in a place cut off and separated – somewhere out in the steep shadows of a valley filled with death, outside and beyond the land of the living – Elijah, the Tishbite, the outlandish outsider, the temporary inmate, foreigner, prophet drank dirty water from a shallow brook.

    “Yah, my God,” he mumbled as he wiped his beard. “I’m hungry. And you promised.” He scanned the sky. No clouds. No birds. Nothing. “You promised.”

    Gone was his proper confidence. He was hiding. Self-discipline and hard work prepared, but here he was: alone and hungry.

    He knew the rebellion. The insult and dishonor of kings, the jealously of queens. False priests and cash for blessings schemes.

    “You promised. You promised,” he muttered.

    Anonymous whispers, rumor and scandal alliance. “Cut him off!” came the echo. “Cut him down!” The alarm. The horn.

    He heard it now. The alarm. The horn. The squawk and caw. Caw. The prophet looked skyward. Two ravens circled above. “You promised,” he sighed. One of the obsidian birds landed to his right. It hopped towards him twice and dropped a hunk of bread at his feet. The other landed to his left, hopped three times towards him, right up to his feet, and disgorged a ragged hunk of rancid meat.

    Elijah snatched up the bread and bit into it. He eyed the carrion flesh as he chewed. “You promised,” he said again around a mouthful of bread. He swallowed and took another bite. He could smell the cloying smell of rot. What had it been? Rabbit? Goat?

    Pig?

    “Yah, my God,” he mumbled. He swallowed the last morsel of bread and sighed. “You promised.” He knelt down and picked up the rotted meat.

A Daily Resistance – February 3, 2026

    What do we read in the news today? What word? What progress?

    Suspect. Defendant. Convict.
    Without a glance. Without a document.
    Without evidence. Without proof.
    The vivid memory of the cycles of violence
                                        and future cataclysm.

    Nothing changes. Nothing moves. The victors’ fortunes rise while their victims disappear into the hysterical foam of seething waters.

    Shriveled dogs gorged on the blood of murderers and the right purse and proper accounts. Mired in the base exchange of insults and orders. We were warned of deception and of injury. Jesus prophesied of compromised conquerors. The day finally comes.

    Christian shadows moving to the rhythms and tempos of accelerating drums. Faster. Laughing. Faith. Obedience. Ragged obedience to brawlers’ boasts. They are but blind slaves to willful ignorance.

    The wartime pounding of nationalists drums. You saw the changes – in North Africa, and the Middle East, entire suburbs of Eastern Europe. South America and the Caribbean within our hands. You have seen them – delinquent and drunk with wine. Impotent. Incontinent kings and pundit gladiators, pain and blood – manifestly inadequate for their supposed manifest destiny.

    Do not be distracted by the unholy trinity: racism, militarism, materialism – those brilliant baubles, dazzling lights in the sky. I’m asking about the survivors. You tell the story but ignore the facts.

    Close your drugged up eyes
    sleep just long enough to wake up
    somewhere else
    never wake up whole
    never wake up home.

A Fifth Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll: All Means All

     He showed up again, as he does, coming in after I’d come home from work. I was long and tired. The bone spur on my foot has been bugging me recently, causing arthritis in my hallux, exacerbated by damage to the nerves between my toes. But today was tolerable. Mostly. The pain and discomfort didn’t slow me. But showered and dressed in jeans, and a t-shirt, and a skull printed cardigan I felt better. Almost human again. I saw his face in the window with his slightly bulging, hyperthyroid eyes – and that drooping, lazy left eye turned slightly downward.

    He came with geologic and atmospheric convulsions. The sky trembled and the earth rumbled. Hah. Not really. There were no earthquakes, no lightnings. Sometimes his being here feels bigger than necessary. Slightly dangerous. But really he’s just Gunner; he’s just a guy I know with a slightly drooping eye. He doesn’t particularly care for me. He is generally dismissive of me and just about everything I say. I acknowledge it for what it is. He doesn’t worry me. Not too much. I have my reasons for letting him stick around. They are my reasons and nothing of his. And that is enough for me.

    “Be serious,” he said and I knew we’d begun. I didn’t yet know what it was we’d begun, but I knew we were off. “Be serious,” he said again.

    “What’s on your mind, my brother?” I asked him.

    “It’s just that exactly,” he said. Seriously. “I am not your brother. You are a heretic, of course. And not a Christian of any stripe. I know this. You know this. What I don’t understand is why you continue to deny it.”

    “Because it’s not true,” I sighed. “Do you want coffee?” He waved me off but I poured him a cup and he accepted it. And asked for sugar…

    “We come from different traditions,” I began. “Different Christian traditions, but…”

    “No buts,” he interjected. “You’re lost. In your natural body and in the fatty folds of your mind, you are lost.”

    He has in the course of our brief acquaintanceship called me foolish, silly, inept, and satanic. He’s used that one repeatedly. It’s become one of my favorites of his accusations. He could call me contumacious, but I doubt he knows that word. Maybe it’s a little pretentious that I know it… “In essentials, unity; in nonessentials, liberty; in all things, charity,” I said sipping at my own mug of coffee. Outside the wind was ripping around the walls.

    “No. No. Nope. Nothing of Augustine,” he said setting his coffee aside. “Catholics don’t count either.”

    “Well it’s not Augustine. It was…

    “I don’t really care who said it. It’s wrong. What fellowship does light have with darkness? What harmony can there be between Christ and Belial?”

    “And I take it that I am Belial in this telling?”

    “What else would you be? You openly embrace socialism. You belong to a denomination that endorses women pastors and generally accepts abortion. You defend Christless Muslims and the gays and trans… There’s nothing of Christ in you. By the way,” he said picking up the coffee again. “What’s with the skulls. On your sweater. And I saw the cow skulls in the garden out front. You live in death. Christ is life and you live in death.”

    “Ah, just a bit of Memento Mori, I guess.”

    “It’s devilish, is what it is. I keep saying that you are full of inconsistent demons.”

    The wind was slashing through the trees in the backyard. Whistling like one of Gunner’s imagined demons. It’s been so cold this week. And colder still toward the weekend. After another sip of my coffee I said, “No question. No doubt. No fear for you. You are confident -cocksure- that you’ve got theology pinned down, staked out. Lines drawn. Boundaries permanently delineated. Truth fully and finally realized twenty centuries after he said that the truth would set us free.”

    He nodded. Smug. Sure.

    “And I am not. Not sure. Taking truth from myth and wonder from mystery. I believe. I believe and I doubt.”

    “Exactly. This is your error. One of your many errors. But they all stem from this don’t they? You are full of doubt and disbelief.”

    “Well, unbelief, maybe. But not disbelief. Tell me – does all mean all?”

    “What? I’m not interested in word games with you. You twist. You wrest. And none of it’s true.”

    “No game. Does all mean all? Does everyone mean everyone? Whosoever?”

    He set his coffee down again and prepared to respond. But I stopped him. “Nevermind. I just realized what time it is and I need to start preparing dinner. My wife will be home soon. Can we finish this discussion tomorrow?”

    “Yeah. Sure. I forgot – you’re the domesticated one in this house, aren’t you? I bet you do the laundry too.”

    “As a matter of fact I do, but that’s not really either your concern or relevant to the discussion at hand.”

    I asked him to leave. I was tired and uncomfortable. I didn’t need his harassment. But I asked him to meet me again the next day on neutral ground. I invited him to join me for lunch at the Family Diner just up the road.

    There, seated in booth number 24, I waited for him. He slid into the booth and said “Now… What were you trying to say about all not meaning all?”

    “No,” I said. “Not yet.”

    “But,” he stammered.

    “Wait. Just the silence if you please.” The waitress came by and took our orders and we sat in silence for a few minutes.

    We’d each started into our meals when he spoke again. “What were you saying about all not being all?”

    “You’ve got it wrong, brother. All is all. Tell me – will all who call upon the name of the Lord be saved? Or will you deny the testimony of scripture?”

    “No. Stop. You’re twisting. You’re wresting again…”

    “You believe in the universal effects of Adam’s sin, but not of Christ’s redemptive work? All died in Adam’s sin, and all are made alive in Christ. Right? Right? Universal sin. Universal life. All means all.”

    “What?” he sputtered, spitting out a bite of his cheeseburger. He coughed a few times and then choked up a response. “Universalist. Unitarian. I knew it.”

    “Listen,” I said. “I’ve told you before, I’m a Methodist. You know this. And for the rest – I don’t know. I believe. I doubt. And all means all even if I don’t know what that means.”

    He slammed down the last third of his burger and said, “Hell is a place, dude. A place where the fire never goes out.” He snatched up the last of his french fries, dunked them in ketchup and added, “Hell is a place where the worm never dies.” He shoved the fries in his mouth and stood up from the booth. “Remember that.”

    And with that he left the restaurant, leaving me both checks, of course.

He Shall Enter and Flow

 

    The Arab seeks Russia's help, lest all be lost. Russia could be expected to offset rising challenges, far worse than the ambitious plans of rival alliances, especially when their weapons are used in the struggle. 

    And he shall enter and flow, pass over, pass through, overflow the river, overflow the land. 

Should I Be Afraid?

    Perhaps the most interesting of men will come after me – let him. Let him come with his ancient cross. Let him come with his camera. His incapacitating taser. Let him. Let him follow me, stalk me through Midwestern cities. Should I be afraid?

    Should he come with merchandised angels. With pulp marketed biblical kitsch. Keychains. Personalized gospel ashtrays. Plastic figurines of twenty-first century American evangelical saints complete with kungfu grip and detachable assault rifle fun. Should I be afraid?

    Inordinate affection for all kinds of evil. Teenage idolatry brings destruction.

    See him again – like some great patriot – Alexander the Great on the shore, square jawed, crew cut, blue eyes - leading an army of the devoted and faithful towards world domination. Leading them to the water, to the rock. Living turns and leads inward. Should I be afraid?

A Daily Resistance – January 30, 2026

    Chunks of filthy ice that look like crows at the side of the road.
    Hunks of stone that once were human hearts.
    A rude rumble of thunder in a snow gray sky.

    The old order will not be returning. Do not mourn for it. It was never noble. It was never great. Leaving the world and its resources to benefit a privileged few. Sacrificing justice to further enrich the already wealthy. Crowd house upon house while the two thirds world goes unhomed. Starve the world and laugh.

    No more monsters in the dark.
    Masked agents of anarchy disguised as law and order.
    Christian nationalists in an exaggerated Jesus Christ pose.

    Volatility and alarm bells. Satanic politicians of every stripe stalking from the shadows of the financial sector. No healing. No health. It doesn’t matter. None of it. Empires rise and fall. Every one and all. Crash and ash. But what will rise? More of the same?

    Toxic tear gas in sleeping neighborhoods.
    Smashed school windows and obscenities.
    Zip-tied children taken away.

    Why should we be beaten anymore? Why persist in this rebellion? The whole head is injured, the heart afflicted. From the sole of the foot to the top of the head there is no soundness—only wounds and welts and open bloody sores, not cleansed or bandaged or soothed.

    We could be better but who would believe the message?
    Men and women of sorrows – will not hide our faces.
    We will open our mouths.

Isaiah 53

A Daily Resistance – January 29, 2026

    Explain yourself. What do you think you’re doing here? Pitiful literary pretensions. With your stupid short stories, your insipid poetry, your pathetic attempts at hymnody…

    I don’t know. I don’t know.

    Why are you writing? Why are you writing this? Any of this? It doesn’t matter anyway. No one reads any of your shit. You’re nobody. Nothing.

    Because each day has enough worry of its own, and…

    What is it you expect to accomplish?

    I am stretched across time and space. Without words, I am lost. Breathe in. Write out.

    Do you think you’re helping? You’re hopeless, aren’t you?

    Though he slay me, yet will I trust him.

    But you don’t really mean it, do you?

    So he will kill me. I have no hope. It is the same, isn’t it?

    Poser. Miserable puke. It’s nothing but pretense and posturing. With your pathetic faith and your performative suffering.

Matthew 6:34 Job 13:15 (in different versions)

A Daily Resistance – January 28, 2026

    Time is faster here, closer now, and principles are passé these days. Unwanted baggage. There’s no sense in staying within the lines. There is no rule of law. No order. No procedure. Precept upon precept? Please… Line upon line?

    Listen -

    Criticism is the crime now. Dissent is depravity. We have a moral obligation to stand here. To stand against.

    Listen to him - “I’m going to get what’s mine. And you, you are going to get what’s coming to you. Keep your cameras down. Keep your recorders off. We have the death card, Ace of Spades, to leave on your car, on your corpse, on your windshield, on your widow.”

    Listen – “The raised voice will be erased. No more questions. No more complications. There is nothing to say. Nothing to know.”

    They will loose the radical. They will fire another round and lose the receipts. Just watch.

Isaiah 28:13

A Daily Resistance – January 27, 2026

     Here’s a thought – unorthodox to be sure, heretical maybe. At this point I’m not sure it matters.

    Maybe God should allow all these fine MAGA folks a chance to return to the Garden of Eden – let them have another shot with the Tree of the Knowledge, another bite of that apple because they can no longer distinguish between good and evil.

    But, comes the objection, doesn’t that come with the threat of death? This is a fair objection and I will answer it. Yeah, I suppose it does. Eh… so what? They’re already dead on the inside anyway.

Awake, My Soul - A Basement Hymn

 Here's another hymn recording - with words by Thomas Ken (1637 - 1711) and music by me. 

Awake, my soul, and with the sun
thy daily stage of duty run;
shake off dull sloth,
and joyful rise
to pay the morning sacrifice. 

All praise to thee, who safe has kept
and has refreshed me while I slept; 
Grant, Lord when I
from death shall wake
I may of endless life partake. 

Lord, I my vows to thee renew; 
disperse my sins as morning dew; 
guard my first steps
of thought and will
and with thyself my spirit fill. 

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;
praise him all creatures here below; 
praise him above,
ye heavenly host;
praise the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost

A Daily Resistance – January 26, 2026

    Here it is – they double down on half pay. Here it is – they double down on double cross. They lie and hold for commercial. Another lie and pause for laughs. We understand but will not speak the language of monsters and masters.

    Words spoken over our heads, words aimed at our life, our liberty, our peace. Threats and intimidation. Believe and submit. A chill in the mind. Cold wind. Cruel words. A silence of voice. A bound mouth. Submit and disperse. Unarmed agitators and sidewalk citizens will be shot. You saw nothing. You believe what you’re told. Break down your obedience.

    Or face the hose. Or we let slip the imperial dogs. Flick the baton, snap the whip. Burn the city down – we will rule the ash.

    If you see the oppression of the poor and record the denial of justice in the province, in the state, in the city – do not be shocked at the sight. One official watches over another. Checks and balances and regulating authority. There are higher officials over them all – and none of them care.

    The words of the preacher are wrenched from the word. Wretched now. Worthless vanity. Worthless and void. “Blessed are the Peacemakers” becomes the recruitment campaign for the Department of War. Propaganda is truth.

    We are watching not waiting. Wanting not wasting.

A Daily Resistance – January 25, 2026

    There are six things the Lord hates. Make it seven detestables. Deplorables.

    Haughty eyes.

    You’ve heard it yourself – the tone, the shrill, the shriek. You know the smug dynamic tough guy vibes. You know him – the American Vulgarian brandishing his piety like a goddamn hammer. The governing authority without credibility. Zero.

    A lying tongue.

    Wicked. Perverse. Depraved in front of the cameras of the White House press room

    Hands that shed innocent blood.

    I’ve had enough of staring down the line. Jumping impossible hurdles. I’ve had enough of the barrel and the bullet. A funeral test. A failure trial. These are debts that can never be repaid.

    A heart that devises wicked schemes.

    Another Midwest shooting. Another state sponsored murder. Another extrajudicial execution on a Minnesota street. Antinomian disregard. No jurisprudence. No moral law.

    Feet quick to rush into the evil of the American nightmare

    Your absurdities have become atrocities. Another every day. Without regret. Without remorse. You delight in the cruelty. Pleasure in our pain.

    A false witness pouring out lies one after another as if we didn’t see the videos ourselves.

    Jesus said “blessed are the peacemakers” – but this is not you. You are lawlessness and chaos. You are death and destruction. Without a profession of doubt you’ll never realize your mistake.

    A person who stirs up conflict in the community.

    Don’t ask for reverence. Give me no more confessions of faith. I no longer believe.

(Proverbs 6: 16-19)

Greater Things - a Basement Hymn

 Here's another lofi, basement recording of a hymn - with words by Albert Orsborn (1866 - 1967) and music by myself. You'll have to excuse the fact that I managed to cut off my head for most of the video. 

But you didn't come here to look at me anyway, did you? 

What a work the Lord has done
by his saving grace;
let us praise him every one,
in his holy place.
He has saved us gloriously,
led us onward faithfully,
yet he promised we should see
even greater things.

Greater things. Greater things.
Give us faith, O Lord, we pray
faith for greater things. 

Sanctify thy name, O Lord,
by thy people here.
For the altar or the sword!
Save us from our fear. 
When the battle rages fast;
help us in the fiery blast,
let us not be overcast. 
Prove thy greater things. 

Every comrade, Lord, we pray,
thou would richly bless;
lead us forth into the fray,
one in holiness.
One in faith and harmony,
one in perfect charity;
then we know that we shall see
even greater things. 

Sunday and a Child's Message

 

    Today's writing should be read as a follow up, companion to yesterday's: I Can Hear it in the Wind 

Sunday and a Child’s Message

    Sunday – and the morning rises cold. Sunlight streaming, warmth retreating. More light than heat in the east this morning. But I am up. Awake and cold.

    Sunday – another day, another week, in the longest of years. Would this be a day of safety and security? Or, given our recent history, a dreadful day of struggle for survival? An age of cruelty and we wonder what we are becoming. Unsociable. Unwanted. Unwelcome.

    What would be revealed today? My sickness. My wounds. Nothing unexpected.

    Sunday – half empty faith with too much knowledge and too little experience
    Sunday – half empty faith with too little knowledge and too many experiences.

    And here it is: I know nothing with certitude. I know nothing with a knowingness.

    No more words of boasting. No more bounding bold claims. I needed to worship and to write. And to listen to whispered words.

    Sunday – in the pew. A child’s message is slipped into my hand. A child’s message written in block letters and blue marker:

    Be Kind.
    Be Courageous.
    Be Curious.
    Love, L.

    Sunday – things change and change again. But never in a straight line.

I Can Hear it in the Wind

     Saturday – I want to walk, get up, get out, get moving. Do something. Go. But it’s cold with the snow and the wind over the frozen ravine cuts into me. I’ll go as far as the top of the hill, maybe a little more. You can see the highway from there. Call it just over a mile. Enough move the blood.

    It’s been a year, maybe a little more, of war and smoke filled streets. Blood. Evacuation order without notice, without warning. Eviction orders and arrests without warrants. Fire on the hillside, in the neighborhood of beige and gray houses. God and silver and precious oil – wood, and hay, and stubble – let it burn. They all will burn. And the fire will reveal what it’s all worth.

    I can hear it in the wind: What is this new-found fascination with truth? With fact? The cold war is here. Freezing. There’s no time for careful deceptions – for photoshopped photos, AI manipulations, or hand-forged letters. Get out. Get gone. The ICEman cometh. This is the way. This now. You thought you could change the world? Get out. Get lost. One day you’ll understand the long-term value of verbal abuse.

    Pull the coat a little closer. Walk a little faster. It’s colder than I thought.

Let Us Sing of His Love Once Again

 

Here's another lofi, basement recording of a hymn-  words by Francis Bottome 1823-94, music by me. 

Let us sing of his love once again
of the love that can never decay
of the blood of the Lamb who was slain
till we praise him again in that day.

There is cleansing and healing for all
who will wash in the life-giving flood
there is perfect deliverance and joy
to be had in this world through the blood. 

I believe Jesus saves. 
I believe Jesus saves. 
And his blood washes whiter than snow.  

Even now while we taste of his love
we are filled with delight through his name
but what will it be when above
we shall join in the song of the Lamb!

Then we'll march in his name till we come 
at his bidding to cease from the fight
and our savior shall welcome us home
to our mansions of glory and light. 

I believe Jesus saves. 
I believe Jesus saves. 
And his blood washes whiter than snow.  

So with banners unfurled to the breeze
our motto shall holiness be
till the crown from his hand we shall seize
and the king in his glory we see. 

Let us sing of his love once again
of the love that can never decay
of the blood of the Lamb who was slain
till we praise him again in that day.

Here I Am – The Story of Me

    I am again worn out, ground down tired. A jigsawed puzzle missing pieces. Neverlast. First time, last time blind. Struck from behind by unseen hands. A humble opening of deliberation and doctrinal concern.

    I am once more hardly born, escaping, yet expecting to be remembered. Drifting first to myth then vulgarity. Off by a mile or more of deathbed prophecy. But put the story in context. Tell them who I am. Tell them I belong here.

    Here I am – confessing into the dark - the story of me. Though not remotely viable. Complicated and asking for help. More than ornamental. Less than helpful. Striking at confrontation. Reveling in the little and revealing little more. You can’t ask for more than that. I just don’t have it.

This Is not the End

    And here we were, tied to them, hands behind our back, face down in the dirt. Streams of snot blown from our nose. Tied to the turncoat betrayals, to the obstructionist shareholders burning down the house, to the controlling voices parroting Nazi slogans and championing collective punishment against American citizens.

    Can you imagine it? See it solid? Feel the binding cuffs cinched tight and the ball gag shoved deep? Suck it. Our adrenaline, their Adderall. Our conscience – trampled. Overruled. We ain’t doin’ that constitutional, due process shit anymore.

    Sell and buy. Bought and sold. All there for the taking. Soulless. They have no doctrine of American poverty. They don’t build. They don’t create. Buy and sell. Trading up Turning and selling out. Ruled by moneylenders and creditors. Exactors and tyrants.

    Our supplication, our salvation burning through the burring chemical fumes and acrid haze. Our eyes plucked out bloody and thrown down. More missiles fill the sky. Chaos and housing complexes collapsing.

    What’s the problem here? What’s the warfare now? Encircled and besieged at the outer edge of hell with klaxons and alarums every night. Degradation without catharsis. We are living among the dead on the red line limit while the war machine throttles through urban streets.

    Righteous Branch and Jesse’s Rod, Son of Man and Son of God, where are the shining lights? Where is the rising brightness? The hope of glory? Where is the Morning Star of Dawn?

    All these things must come to pass. Do not ask for an end. This is not the end

Do You Even Pray? - The Troll Returns

    The troll rolled up at my house a few seconds after I got home from work myself. I knew it was him by the roar and rumble of the damaged muffler on his pickup truck. He pulled up to the sidewalk just past my house and I saw that bumper-sticker of his, “Luke 23:46 Still Applies!”

    “Hold up there, Carter,” he bellowed as he stepped out of his truck. “I’ve got a question for you.”

    ‘This should be fun,’ I thought to myself as I got out of my car and turned back to him. “What’s up, Gunner?”

    He stepped quickly up my driveway. “I just want to know, do you pray, Carter? Do you?”

    I sighed and closed my car door. “Listen,” I said. “You can come in and insult me all you want, but I need you to help me with something.”

    “What?” he asked taken aback. He actually took a step backwards as he said it.

    “Simple. Just what I said. You can come in and sneer and snarl at me all you want, but I promised my wife that I’d put up some shelves for her and I need some help holding things level. If you want to continue your… discussion, you’ll have to help me with that project.”

    I pushed the lock button on my key fob and the car alarm honked twice, then I walked to the front door. “Are you coming?” I asked him.

    “I’ve been watching you,” he said as soon as we were inside the house. “You’ve been holding out. I’ve been listening and you’ve been keeping secrets.”

    “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah,” I said. “Let me change my clothes and get my tools and we can continue the fun.”

    “Here you are, struggling in deep water,” he shouted up the stairs to me as I changed out of my work uniform. “Fire burning, smoke grenades exploding all around you. War. Disaster. Unrest. All of your modern scientific life. And all I can say is, why not just accept the providence of God? Why not just let God open your mind?"

    I came back down in jeans and a t-shirt. “Keep going,” I said. “I’m just going to grab my tools.”

    “Strong delusions,” he said. “You’ve believed the lies. The lies of the government, the lies in your church – which we should talk about. You need a better church. A Bible believing church…”

    “Right. Hold that,” I said, handing him the shelf.

    “God’s laws are resolute. Not open to debate,” he continued.

    “Uh-huh,” I nodded as I measured and marked the studs with a pencil.

    “Admit it,” he said.

    “Hold that,” I repeated.

    “Admit it. You don’t even know what the truth is.”

    “You’re probably right,” I said, handing him a handful of screws.

    “So again: Do you even pray, Carter? Answer me this. Do you actually believe that God hears and answers prayers? Tell me you’re not one of those…”

    I drew the line. “Is the bubble in the middle?” I asked him and handed him the level.

    “Are you even listening to me?” he asked but I was already running the drill to secure the brackets to the wall and I couldn’t hear him.

    It’s the smugness that gets me. The unwarranted confidence that God hears his prayers as an unquestioned absolute. And not only hears but responds. Answers. And answers positively. Does he pray for and miraculously find a parking spot in the grocery store parking lot? Do I pray? Sure I pray. Of course, I pray. But does God hear? Does God answer? I don’t know; it’s a blur and a wonder. I pray like a man giving up the ghost.

    I finished with the drill and wiped a bit of plaster from the wall. Together we secured the shelf to the brackets. “That looks pretty good,” I said.

    “Oh, yeah. That’s going to be pretty secure there,” he said.

    “Yeah,” I nodded. “She’s going to be happy. Thanks,” I said and showed him the door.

An Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll 
Another Conversation with a Real Troll: I Will Not Fight the Argument
A Third Conversation with a Real Troll: Supermarket Wrestling

This Should Not Happen

    Lament, lament
    the suffering of our name
    it is too much, too long

    Counted as rebels, disloyal
    made to wander and to die
    not welcome turned away

    How can we survive
    passed out, collapsed
    weak water heart remembers

    We have waited
    we have waited
    but we are so small

        (Amos 7)

Atmospheric Echoes

     I was traveling to Newark when I heard the first reports of the unidentified aerial phenomenon. Strange visions in the sky – coming from major metropolitan centers. I’d been on the bus for six hours and I still had two more hours to go. A long trip toward what? Work or consolation? I would have taken whatever was available. Starting over was starting over.

    In the early days of saucer sightings (Ezekiel 1, 2 Kings 2) there were numerous cases of a UFO or other UAP causing anxiety among the saints, far from home. Lonely. This happens far less often today – with advanced technology and complete memory recovery systems. Radar and full restoration still being perfected. Reports this week of shooting objects in the sky over Beijing. Random images maybe, but the reports made something of them.

    “Marvel not at these atmospheric echoes,” came a voice.

    I stared out the window at the lights in the distance and counted the minutes. How long had it been since… How long would it be until… These were calculations I couldn’t complete. I no longer understood the calculus of human interaction. Addition became division and she was gone.

    UFOs often create electrical force disturbance affecting not only people and animals but sophisticated electronics as well. Injury and short circuits. Rashes. Burns. Depression. Sleeplessness. Heartburn. Aerial sickness. Even radiation poisoning requiring prolonged hospitalization. Death and hell. Extremely dangerous. Technological overload. God and technology reversed and reordered. This could kill you in two to three days and, what is worse, corrupt the data. Context requires more detail, of course (160 GB – do not exceed capacity).

    “What it carries can give you new purpose in life,” came the voice again.

    I dug in my rucksack for my notebook. My notes. Conversational sketches. Character outlines. Parents and stuff. Histories and obscure words forgotten. With pen and paper I could write anywhere. Low-tech. Simple. At home (home no longer), on the bus (for another hour), in Newark. Put down the words, any words, all the words. Order would come later.

    In March of 1978 a man from Beijing reported a secret rapture – not preceding (better than “preventing” as the KJV has it) a “beam of light.” Hit me. Hit me. A hit waiting to happen. In 1977 a dog died in Salto Uruguay. Coincidence? How many others were carried away and never seen again?

    “Rise now. Right now,” said the voice again. “All over the world the prospect of being taken to heaven rises higher and higher. Are you one of the chosen?”