Wednesday, May 28, 2025

Unforgiven- Movie Review

Over Memorial Day weekend, I finally got around to watching Unforgiven, Clint Eastwood’s 1992 Western that I’d somehow missed all these years. I’ve watched Eastwood and John Wayne movies my whole life — the classic shootouts, the stoic lawmen, the cinematic myths that defined American masculinity for generations. But Unforgiven is different. It's not just another Western. It’s a slow, sorrowful reckoning with the genre itself — a dismantling of the legend of the gunslinger, and maybe a confession.

From the opening shot — a silhouetted figure on a Kansas plain, burying someone as dusk fades into dark — you can feel that this film isn’t going to glorify anything. It simmers more than it blazes. And when it finally burns, it leaves nothing untouched.

What struck me most is how the movie peels away the myth we've all bought into. There are no clean heroes here, no real triumphs. The violence isn't righteous — it's clumsy, chaotic, sickening. Even the "good guys" are compromised. Especially them.

Clint Eastwood plays William Munny, a man who has tried to bury his past sins under years of sobriety, pig farming, and the memory of a dead wife who tried to make him better. He’s not the man he used to be — a drunken killer — but the world won’t let him escape that past. It calls him back, not because he wants to return, but because someone needs him to be that man again.

What unfolds is a story about revenge, justice, and the cost of killing — not just to the victims, but to the soul of the killer. That line hit me hard: “It’s a hell of a thing, killing a man. You take away all he’s got and all he’s ever gonna have.” It’s not delivered like a sermon, just a weary truth. The kind of truth that only someone who's seen too much can say without flinching.

Watching Gene Hackman as Little Bill Daggett was another gut punch. He’s not the villain in the traditional sense. He builds his own house, smiles as he tortures people, talks about law and order while casually dismantling lives. Hackman gives the character a terrifying normalcy. He’s affable until he’s not. Brutal but rational. It was especially hard to watch knowing Hackman passed away recently — a legend in his own right, and he left it all on the screen.

Even the supporting characters are brilliant foils. The Schofield Kid — or Melk — thinks he’s ready for a life of killing until he pulls the trigger for the first time. That scene undoes him. It undid me. We spend so much time praising toughness, yet this film reminds us that the softest moment — admitting you're not who you thought you were — is maybe the bravest.

And then there’s W.W. Beauchamp, the dime-novel writer who chases legend wherever it leads — from English Bob to Little Bill, and finally to Will Munny. He’s not evil. Just naive. He craves myth, but all he finds is blood. He’s a stand-in for all of us who’ve romanticized the West, only to be confronted with what it really was: cruel, unjust, and very human.

By the end, Munny becomes what he was trying not to be. He picks up the bottle. He becomes death incarnate. He gives no speeches. He just kills. And we can’t cheer for him the way we might’ve in a more traditional Western, because we’ve seen what it costs him — and what it doesn’t give back. There’s no closure. No redemption. Just survival.

The final text on the screen is quiet, detached, and almost clinical — a note about his wife's grave, and a rumor he prospered in dry goods in San Francisco. That could’ve been written by the Schofield Kid, trying to piece together what happened. Or maybe by Beauchamp, chasing yet another legend. But the truth of Will Munny isn't something you can wrap up in a paragraph or a folk song.

What makes Unforgiven such a masterpiece is that it doesn’t give you what you expect. It doesn’t let you feel comfortable. It turns the mirror on us — the viewers who grew up idolizing the gunslinger — and asks what it is we really admire. It asks what stories we’ve believed. And what price we’re willing to ignore for the sake of a good legend.

I watched it at a good time in my life — older now, with more mistakes behind me than ahead, I hope. And maybe that’s why it hit me so hard. The idea that no matter how far we go, there are parts of ourselves we can’t outrun. That being "unforgiven" isn't about others — it's about what we carry in our own hearts.

This wasn’t just a movie. It was a reckoning.

“Any man don't wanna get killed, better clear on out the back.”

Song: Unforgiven (Clint Eastwood Movie)

Friday, May 23, 2025

Caleb’s Social Security Plan

Joshua 14:10–12

“Now, as you can see, the LORD has kept me alive and well as he promised for all these forty-five years since Moses made this promise—even while Israel wandered in the wilderness. Today I am eighty-five years old. I am as strong now as I was when Moses sent me on that journey, and I can still travel and fight as well as I could then. So I’m asking you to give me the hill country that the LORD promised me.”
— Joshua 14:10–12 (NLT)

What a stunning declaration from an 85-year-old warrior. Caleb, standing before Joshua and the people of Israel, makes a bold and faith-filled request—not for rest, retirement, or an easy inheritance—but for mountains to climb and enemies to face. He’s not interested in a rocking chair; he wants the rugged hill country filled with fortified cities and fierce Anakim giants.

That’s quite a social security plan:

  • Alive and well

  • Still strong

  • Able to travel

  • Ready to fight

  • Hungry to conquer

What a resume at 85!

Caleb was one of the twelve spies Moses sent into Canaan to scout the Promised Land (Numbers 13–14). Only he and Joshua brought back a faithful report, urging the people to trust God and take possession of the land. The rest of the spies spread fear and disbelief, leading to forty years of wilderness wandering as a consequence of Israel’s rebellion. Caleb, however, stood out then—and still does now.

The Bible calls him a man who had “a different spirit” and who “followed the LORD wholeheartedly” (Numbers 14:24). His legacy is not just that he believed, but that he held on—through wandering, waiting, and war—until God’s promise was fulfilled.

1. Caleb Trusted the Lord and Clung to His Promises
Caleb never let go of what God said through Moses. For 45 years, he held onto the promise like a lifeline. He didn’t forget it. He didn’t water it down. He believed God would do exactly what He said. In a culture that constantly shifts, we need more believers who grip tightly to God’s promises.

2. Caleb Persevered Through the Wilderness
Wilderness living was no picnic—harsh conditions, constant movement, manna every day. Yet Caleb endured. He didn’t bail when things got hard or grumble like many others. His faith was not circumstantial; it was anchored in God's faithfulness.

3. The Tough Times Forged a Rugged Man
Caleb wasn’t pampered; he was proven. Forty years in the wilderness forged a durable man. Trials didn’t diminish him—they defined him. Modern life often avoids discomfort, but the Christian life is more about endurance than ease. Hardship can hollow us or harden us—in Caleb’s case, it refined him.

4. Caleb Was Patient to Receive What God Promised
Some promises take a lifetime. Caleb had to wait until he was 85 to lay claim to the inheritance God had spoken over him. He didn’t try to rush the timing. He didn’t demand shortcuts. He waited—and when the time came, he stepped forward with confidence and humility.

5. Caleb Was Willing to Do His Part—Climb and Fight
Caleb wasn’t just asking for a plot of land; he was volunteering for battle. “Give me the hill country,” he says. That wasn’t a safe or easy request. The land of the Anakim was still occupied. But Caleb didn’t shrink from effort or danger. He knew God would fight with him—but he was willing to climb and fight too.

6. Caleb Respected Authority
Notice that Caleb doesn’t just take what’s his. He asks. He honors Joshua’s leadership. He doesn’t try to assert seniority or demand his rights. That humility matters. A warrior who is both bold and submitted is rare and powerful.

Lord, may I live life like Caleb. Give me a fire that does not flicker out as I grow older! Keep me strong in faith, willing to persevere through difficulty, and patient to wait for Your timing. Let me always be ready to fight for what You’ve promised—never resting on past victories or drifting into comfort. I want to be an old man one day, not coasting, but on fire for Your kingdom. Give me the hill country. Give me the strength to climb. Let my last days burn brighter than my first. Amen.

Thursday, May 22, 2025

When Journalism Fails: "Surface Level, Pre-disposed, Framed Outrage"

Note: It seems like national bash the press month... looks like I'm adding to the noise

Yesterday, I watched the Oval Office press conference between U.S. President Donald Trump and South African President Cyril Ramaphosa, streamed live on YouTube. I expected the usual topics—trade, crime, and bilateral relations.

Instead, Trump dimmed the lights—literally—and played a video of a 2020 South African protest, filled with disturbing images. It seemed designed to support recent claims of escalating tension, violence, and the early signs of genocide. Trump referenced asylum seekers, reports of farm attacks, and footage of crowds chanting hate slogans. When asked directly if what’s happening in South Africa is genocide, Trump replied, “I haven’t decided—but saving lives is cheap compared to the consequences.” It was a strategic hedge—keeping the controversy alive while avoiding commitment. It also bypassed a press he openly distrusts.

Ramaphosa remained composed. His diverse delegation included white South African golfers—raised under apartheid—who now embrace Nelson Mandela’s call for unity. Despite the dramatic opening, both leaders agreed by the end to focus on real issues like trade and crime. The event was chaotic, provocative, and unexpectedly hopeful.

Ramaphosa's staff also denounced the political party that is calling for racial violence against whites and said "these are the people who can never come to power". I didn't find any source that analyzed common ground between the two delegations.

Instead, I found a swamp of sensational headlines, shallow takes, and a complete failure to grapple with nuance. No one mentioned the golfers’ quiet but powerful rejection of racial division. No one connected the discussion to Elon Musk’s critique of race-based policy the day before. Few acknowledged the constructive outcomes. Instead, we got surface-level outrage. This is the information ecosystem we’re drowning in—a media landscape that buries complexity and amplifies bad ideas.

Not one major outlet reported that Trump also expressed concern for deaths in other conflict zones, noting he has sent representatives to assess how the U.S. might help stop the killing.

Trump’s Strategy: Provocative but Purposeful

This wasn’t just a press conference—it was a deliberate spotlight on South Africa’s land and crime issues. Trump knew the press wouldn’t cover these topics seriously, so he staged a moment they couldn’t ignore. Dimming the lights wasn’t theatrics for theatrics’ sake—it was calculated. His evidence—videos, hate chants, asylum seekers—painted a grim picture. Whether or not you agree with his framing, he forced attention on concerns that many feel are being ignored.

And the media took the bait. Outlets like CNN (“Trump’s Oval Office Smackdowns”) and Reuters (“political theater”) focused on optics, not intent. They didn’t ask why Trump distrusts them or consider the fears he’s amplifying. A few X posts—like @News24 noting the protest video was from a memorial service—provided context, but even they missed the deeper point: why Trump spotlighted this moment in the first place. Journalism should unpack both the fears and the political strategy—not just dunk on the spectacle.

Musk’s Critique and the Golfers’ Unity

A day earlier, at the Qatar Economic Forum, South African-born Elon Musk criticized his home country’s Black Economic Empowerment (B-BBEE) laws. These laws require companies like Starlink to give 30% equity to Black South Africans—an effort Musk called “racist.” He asked: “Is it right to replace one set of race-based standards with another?”

Musk invoked Mandela’s vision of equality—a theme echoed, intentionally or not, by Ramaphosa’s diverse delegation. The white golfers present—who survived apartheid—now reject its legacy, living out Mandela’s principle that “two wrongs don’t make a right.” South African officials countered Musk by saying Starlink had never applied for a license, framing the dispute as regulatory, not racial.

Yet the media ignored this powerful convergence. Musk’s comments and the golfers’ quiet testimony both pushed back on racial division. Together, they challenged B-BBEE’s race-based framework in favor of reconciliation. But most outlets waved this off—CNN and The New Republic dismissed Musk as a provocateur, while others hyped a diplomatic feud. No one linked the critiques or explored the policy debate. That’s a journalistic failure.

The Globalist-Nationalist Flashpoint

This wasn’t just about South Africa. It was a clash of ideologies.

Trump and Musk expressed nationalist concerns—fears that identity-driven policies can fuel division or reverse discrimination. Ramaphosa leaned globalist, focusing on shared challenges like crime (35.7 homicides per 100,000 in 2023/24, per SAPS) and the $21 billion U.S.-South Africa trade partnership.

The media didn’t see this deeper fault line. Instead, they fixated on Trump’s video. X posts critiqued Ramaphosa’s diplomacy but rarely acknowledged the bigger stakes. In ignoring the ideological conflict, journalists let terms like “genocide” and “racist laws” float unchallenged. That’s not reporting—that’s malpractice.

A Constructive End, Missed by the Media

Despite the fireworks, the meeting ended productively: Trump and Ramaphosa agreed to collaborate on trade and crime. Ramaphosa’s delegation, especially the golfers, reflected a South Africa striving for unity—not division. Land reforms haven’t led to mass seizures but could they?. Crime impacts all South Africans, not just white farmers- yes, but is the environment ripe for genocide? The pivot from provocation to pragmatism in the Oval seemed to be a win. 

Yet outlets like The Daily Mail (“humiliation”) and NPR (“ambush”) focused on drama. Even Trump’s choice not to 'pull in' Musk to the debate in the Oval—(who was present)—seemed calculated, a wise moment of restraint to avoid triggering partisan backlash. But the media missed that too. Drama sells, solutions don’t.

This is why leaders like Trump bypass the press. And it’s why the public is left with half-baked narratives, instead of full, messy truths.

Can We Learn to Think for Ourselves?

This mess proves we can’t rely on the media to separate truth from noise. Want to know what really happened? 

Watch the YouTube stream. Don't see it piecemealed on cable news or distorted on social media. 

Ask better questions:

  • Why does Trump stage moments like this? (Hint: it’s not because he’s Hitler, a racist, or a genius.)

  • How do the golfers’ presence and Musk’s critique line up?

  • What’s the real story behind South Africa’s challenges? (And why do we struggle with similar issues here?- hint- it isn't just race, it is also economic disparity)

The media won’t do this work. It’s on us —to think critically, demand better, debate opposing viewpoints with civility, and refuse to settle for narratives that are easy but incomplete.

Friday, May 16, 2025

Why the Legacy Media—Including Fox News—Has Failed (U.S)

Note: I have been actually writing on this for a long time- maybe I need to update the entire series from 2016 : Gospel Confrontation

Recent book releases and hard-hitting reports on the Biden administration have been a very shallow attempt to convince the American electorate that real journalism still exists—meanwhile most of the jaded public sees it as political stunt and money machine. Public trust in media is polling at an all-time low. While much of the outrage is justified, I’m wrestling with a deeper concern.

It’s the illusion of balance—and how it distorts rather than clarifies the truth.

We’ve been trained to applaud news that presents “both sides.” And in principle, that’s a good instinct. Who doesn’t want fair coverage or a diversity of thought?

But here’s the problem: not every issue is a 50/50 split. Some are 80/20 or even 90/10 in terms of expert consensus, data, or common sense. And yet, we continue to see point/counterpoint segments that give a 10% fringe position equal weight—presenting it as if we’re in the middle of a societal toss-up.

Maybe that 10% is right. Maybe it’s the prophetic minority with a truth the majority misses. But here’s the hard part: how do we make that case in 30-second sound bites, one flashy talking point, and four minutes of pharmaceutical commercials? This isn’t discourse. It’s distraction.

And the results are sobering: news is no longer about honest assessment of the issues. It becomes an echo chamber, feeding the assumptions of the audience. The left has its networks. The right has its networks. And the harder we cling to the illusion of neutrality, the more we quietly accept networks of propaganda masquerading as journalism.

As I have watched news over decades this problem has created a real polarized and charged divide. The pursuit of 'balance' has devolved into a distortion of truth by elevating fringe positions to equal footing with consensus views.

I think the distortion has 'taught' people how to talk (not think) and create slogans to support the whims of the heart- not discipline minds to 'common sense', wisdom, facts, and truth. It also has no mechanism to dissuade outright lies.

We need to ask: has the media become a servant of its audience’s bias rather than a seeker of public truth?

When ratings and ad revenue are on the line, it’s easier to affirm your base than challenge their thinking. Is it any wonder we now have news silos that function more like comfort food than a balanced diet?

Enter the Podcasters…

Long-form podcasts have offered a welcome shift—more time, more nuance, and often more honesty. But they’re not immune either. Without journalistic rigor or editorial review, many podcasters simply google a headline to support a pre-existing thesis. Throw a graphic on the screen and voilĂ —"research."

Is this better or just longer-form confirmation bias?

Free Speech ≠ Free Platform

As Americans, we rightly champion free speech. That includes ideas we find distasteful—even offensive. Civil disobedience has a place in the tradition of protest, and there are consequences for breaking laws, as there should be.

But here’s the line we often blur: freedom of speech is NOT the same as the promotion of bad ideas—especially by news platforms. When journalists elevate unsubstantiated claims, conspiracy theories, or pseudo-science in the name of “showing both sides,” they’re not informing the public. They’re legitimizing noise.

Is Neutrality a Myth?

This brings us to a more uncomfortable question: is unbiased neutrality even possible?

Maybe not in the absolute sense. But perhaps journalism isn’t about being void of bias. Maybe it’s about being transparent about perspective, committed to evidence, and courageous enough to challenge both the powerful and the popular.

There was a time when polls gave us insight into public trends. Today, they often feel like tools of manipulation or symbols of how out of step the media narrative is with the broader electorate. Who are we listening to? And who are we ignoring?

This isn't an easy topic- 
  • How do we weigh expert consensus without silencing dissent?

  • Can news escape the grip of audience-driven incentives?

  • Is there still a place for real journalism in an age of algorithms and ideology?

We’re suffocating in echo chambers. We’re consuming opinion as fact and mistaking spin for substance. The cost is more than confusion—it’s erosion of trust, loss of shared reality, and ultimately, a democracy without honest dialogue.

Finally, what makes this worse is that we really don't know how to talk to one another any more.... we don't know how to have reasoned, civil debate, we never say "I'm sorry" or "I was wrong"- we don't know how to agreeably disagree- we are lacking in love and long on opinions that we treat as life and death.

This is a vicious cycle...... driving us into the ground of dispair.

Tuesday, May 13, 2025

The Body of Christ and the Renewal of Hope

It’s no secret that we live in a time of deep discouragement. Even among Christians, hope often feels like a fading ember—more a memory than a present strength. We know the verses about hope, we sing about it, and we pray for it. But for many, hope doesn’t burn bright; it flickers under the winds of anxiety, fatigue, and uncertainty.

One of the great missteps in our response has been to treat the Christian life as an individual journey—me and my Bible, me and my quiet time, me and my God. And while personal faith is crucial, Scripture never presents it as sufficient. God has given us something more, something necessary: the Body of Christ.

Too often, the Church is viewed as just a place we go or a service we attend. Hebrews 10:25 warns us not to “forsake the assembling of ourselves together,” and that’s a good start. But assembling isn’t the goal—it’s the beginning. A true church is more than a crowd of believers in the same room. It’s a Spirit-filled, Scripture-centered community where hope is actively rekindled.

This is what the prophet Joel envisioned when he wrote:

“And it shall come to pass afterward,
that I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh;
your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,
your old men shall dream dreams,
and your young men shall see visions.

Even on the male and female servants
in those days I will pour out my Spirit.”
(Joel 2:28–29, ESV)

Joel pointed forward to a day when God would do something new—not just anoint a few prophets or leaders, but pour out His Spirit on the whole community of faith. And the evidence of this Spirit-filled people? They would dream. They would see. They would speak.

Centuries later, Peter stood before a crowd in Jerusalem and declared, “This is that.” On the day of Pentecost, the Holy Spirit came, and the Church was born. People from every background were united by one Spirit. And in that moment, Peter quoted Joel directly:

“And in the last days it shall be, God declares,
that I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh,
and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,
and your young men shall see visions,
and your old men shall dream dreams;
even on my male servants and female servants
in those days I will pour out my Spirit, and they shall prophesy.”
(Acts 2:17–18, ESV)

What Joel saw, Peter experienced. What was promised became present reality.

The early believers gathered—not only to worship, but to devote themselves “to the apostles’ teaching and the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers” (Acts 2:42). In other words, they gathered around the Word of God, empowered by the Spirit of God, to become the people of God.

This is where hope grows—not in isolation, but in community. When we gather with fellow believers who are filled with the Spirit and grounded in Scripture, something holy happens. We begin to speak prophetically—not in wild speculation or personal revelation, but by faithfully and boldly declaring the truth of God’s Word to one another. The centrality of Scripture is non-negotiable. It is the Word that gives life, and the Spirit who breathes that Word into our hearts afresh.

When the Spirit is active in a church, people begin to dream again. The young see visions—not just of career or success, but of kingdom purpose. The old dream dreams—not of nostalgia, but of the promises of God still unfolding. We remind each other of what’s true. We carry one another’s burdens. We confess sin, offer forgiveness, and speak the gospel again and again until it sinks deep into our bones.

Hope is not found in a program or a pep talk. It’s found in the holy mystery of the Spirit working through the Word in the lives of ordinary believers. That’s the church. And that’s the hope of the world.

If your hope feels dry, don’t just look inward. Look around. Press into the Body of Christ—not passively, but with expectation. Ask the Spirit to move. Open your Bible. Open your mouth. Open your life.

God still pours out His Spirit. And His people still dream.

Do It Again (Joel 2)

Sunday, May 11, 2025

John and Hope in Christ’s Return

Throughout my time reading the Bible, I often imagine the lives of its key figures—not just their stories, but their personalities, fears, and hopes. These thought experiments have helped me engage more deeply with Scripture. I especially resonate with Peter, and in 2020 I even wrote a series of fictional reflections on 1st and 2nd Peter called A Fisherman’s Tale.

Lately, however, I’ve found myself drawn to John—the “beloved disciple”—particularly as I prepare to teach a Sunday School series on the Book of Revelation. The more I consider his life, the more I see John as a man of profound hope—a hope rooted not in circumstances, but in the unshakable promise of Christ’s return.

The Complexity of Biblical History

Wading into biblical history can be difficult. Scholarly debate often divides along ideological lines—conservative and liberal, skeptical and confessional—and presuppositions tend to shape conclusions more than we care to admit. Even the dating of Revelation (written either around A.D. 65–68 or 95–96) is hotly contested. Was the author of Revelation the same John who penned the Gospel and epistles? Depending on the scholar, you’ll get very different answers.

I want to be clear—what follows is a synthesis of biblical and extra-biblical sources, filtered through tradition and study. It’s not dogma. It’s my best understanding—and it’s shared here in humility.

The Life of John: A Story of Hope

John and his older brother James were fishermen, sons of Zebedee and Salome. There’s a strong tradition that Salome was Mary’s sister, making John and Jesus cousins. It's likely that John was a disciple of John the Baptist before following Jesus. In fact, when Andrew first followed Jesus (John 1:35–40), I believe John was the unnamed second disciple with him.

The official call came soon after:

“Going on from there, he saw two other brothers, James son of Zebedee and his brother John. They were in a boat with their father Zebedee, preparing their nets. Jesus called them, and immediately they left the boat and their father and followed him.” (Matthew 4:21–22)

John is traditionally considered the youngest of the Twelve. He, along with Peter and James, formed Jesus’ inner circle. He was “the disciple whom Jesus loved,” but he also had fire in him—he and James were nicknamed Boanerges, or “Sons of Thunder.”

Their fiery nature is clear in Luke 9:

“Lord, do you want us to call fire down from heaven to destroy them?” (Luke 9:54)

Jesus, of course, rebuked them. But this gives us a window into John’s personality—a bold, passionate young man being slowly transformed by grace.

Their mother, Salome, also once asked Jesus for high positions for her sons:

“Grant that one of these two sons of mine may sit at your right and the other at your left in your kingdom.” (Matthew 20:21)

Jesus told them they would indeed drink His cup—and both did. James was the first apostolic martyr (Acts 12:1–2), and John endured a different kind of suffering.

A Faithful Witness

John’s devotion to Jesus is deeply moving. At the Last Supper, he leaned against Jesus' chest. At the crucifixion, he stood by the cross while others fled. Jesus entrusted Mary to him. He ran to the tomb on Easter morning—and believed.

John partnered with Peter in Acts 3 and Acts 8. He was imprisoned with him in Acts 4. According to early church tradition, John later ministered in Ephesus and was eventually exiled to Patmos under the reign of Emperor Domitian.

Tertullian, an early church father, claimed that John was once thrown into a vat of boiling oil but miraculously survived. Whether literal or symbolic, it testifies to his suffering and miraculous preservation.

On Patmos, John received and recorded the Revelation:

“I, John, your brother and partner in the tribulation and the kingdom and the patient endurance that are in Jesus, was on the island called Patmos on account of the word of God and the testimony of Jesus.” (Revelation 1:9)

What follows in Revelation is a vision unlike any other—cosmic in scope, mysterious, and often overwhelming. But through it all, a clear thread runs: hope.

“Then I Saw…”

One of the striking refrains throughout Revelation is John’s faithful observation:

Then I saw…
After this I looked…
Then I heard…
Now I watched…

These repeated phrases show a man committed to reporting what Christ showed him. John wasn’t trying to dazzle or confuse. He was obeying Jesus’ command: “Write what you see in a book…” (Revelation 1:11). And what he saw pointed to a glorious truth—

Christ is coming again.

It’s easy to get lost in the symbolism of Revelation. But we miss the point if we don’t recognize John’s perseverance in witnessing to hope amid tribulation. Revelation is not a code to crack; it’s a testimony of Jesus Christ (1:2), meant to bless and strengthen the church.

The Final Years

According to tradition, after Domitian’s death, John returned to Ephesus and lived into old age—likely the last surviving apostle. He died peacefully, around age 80, after over 50 years of faithful service. His tomb is believed to be near modern-day Selçuk, Turkey. A basilica was built over it during Emperor Justinian’s reign. Though it later fell into disrepair, John’s legacy has never faded.

He may have been the youngest when he began to follow Jesus—but he lived to become the eldest, a steady voice of truth and love.

Alive with Christ

John “drank the cup,” as Jesus said he would. He lost his brother early (Acts 12:2), endured persecution, exile, and perhaps even torture. But his writings—his gospel, his letters, and Revelation—breathe hope:

“And everyone who thus hopes in him purifies himself as he is pure.” (1 John 3:3)

And John is not sleeping in the grave—he is alive with Christ. One day, I will get to meet him.

Until then, I’ll keep learning from his life—a life marked by love, truth, endurance, and above all, hope in Christ’s return.

Album- The Book of Revelation

Saturday, May 10, 2025

A Liturgy of Lull


 A Liturgy of Lull

(a meditation between exhaustion and anticipation)

"Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go. ...
We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time. ...
Where is the Life we have lost in living?"
(T.S. Eliot- various quotes)


I. Cilantro

Join my feet
  in a beat
    and a song—

a perilous journey
    of precipice
      and fall.

Whispering silence
      echoes
in the dawn.

Fleeting shadows
stretch—
eternal
   and long.

Hollow joy clings
  to fading light,
timid thunder hums
   softly
     in the velvet night.

Quiet chaos
   dances.
Cold fire
    flickers—
      a truth undefined.

A fractured gaze
meets broken infinity;
silent screams
wander through
a muted maze.

Bittersweet thought
    drips
   from the edge of mind.

Frozen movement
   on a brittle ledge.

Dreams in flight.
Sleepy awakening.

Heavy light
   pierces
      the night.

Twisted clarity
in blurred lines.
Stark softness
   where chaos aligns.

Faded brilliance—
    a muted gleam.
Anxious calm
    within the waking dream.

Lucid haze,
  a restless state.
Fragile strength
  behind
     a bolted gate.

Dull wine
  whispers
     what will be—

waiting urgency,
   destiny’s decree.

Anticipated mutation:
      unseen
        unknown.

A shifting world
    within my soul—


    alone.

II. Ahi

Strange realities
    welcome this dawn
where I meet
  the shadow
    of my former self.

“I remember you,” I say.
      “Where did you go?”

...
"You know...
  you know...
    you know."

III. Sesame

The temptation:
flee.
withdraw.
retreat.
    Escape.

Into communal monasteries
of mysticism and austerity—

“Cleanliness... Godliness...”
   they say.

But barbarians
have tracked buffalo trails
    across the marble floors.

Rot.
   Refuse.
Decay
    with
      a touch of Copenhagen.

The end of the West
smells faintly
      like half price scented candles that never sell.

IV. Avocado

But running from the dark—
    doesn’t work.
Because I can’t
    get away
      from myself.

Sin clings
like a 5 o’clock shadow
   on an unshaven Monday.

Gravity draws me
down—
   to lie still
   and spoon.

I haven’t had bread
    in many months.
No lamp.
No light.

No rule.

Knowing
  and
    Doing—

Are estranged brothers,
    who no longer speak.

And nothing lasts.
   Nothing holds.

...
     Except:

the grace
beneath
  my shoes.

Ask me dangerous......

"In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

“That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.



I do not think that they will sing to me."

Tuesday, May 06, 2025

Love Drew Mama – A Mother’s Day Reflection

This past weekend, I watched my wife and our granddaughter lost in a world of glitter, glue, markers, and tape. They were having the best time—cutting, coloring, painting little handprints, and giggling like best friends on a mission. It was messy. It was magical. And it stirred something deep in me.

There’s something sacred about those small moments—something that speaks to the heart of motherhood. It reminded me not only of the years we spent raising our own children but also of the love that shaped generations before us: my mom, my grandmother… the women who loved fiercely, gave sacrificially, and prayed with hope and tears.

As I reflected on it, I thought of the biblical words in Genesis—“I will surely multiply your pain in childbearing.” And yes, there is physical pain in giving birth. But the deeper pain, the lasting ache, comes from a mother’s love. A love so strong, so invested, that it hurts. It’s a love that holds tightly while learning to let go. It’s joy and heartbreak wrapped in the same breath.

Mother’s Day matters because mothers matter. Their fingerprints are on our lives in ways we don’t fully understand until much later. Their prayers echo. Their sacrifices linger. Their love shapes us.

To honor that kind of love, I wrote a song called “Love Drew Mama.” It began with memories of construction paper and glue, but it ends in a place much deeper—a reminder that love not only moved her hands when we were young, it shaped her whole life. I tried to convey a play on the word "drew" using the drawing of pictures, but also 'attraction" a magnetic love, that draws us to long for home, ... and God's love drew my mom to her eternal home where I will see her again young, vibrant, and fully alive.

You can listen to the song and read the lyrics below. If it moves you, share it with a mother who loved you well.

Link: Love Drew Mama

Verse 1 Little hands with paper and glue Scissors snipping hearts in two Crayon halos, misspelled names Glitter stars and picture frames She smiled like it was work of art Hung it high and called it “heart” Pre-Chorus We didn’t know just what we made But love was in each line and shade Chorus Love drew Mama to kneel and pray To kiss our cheeks at end of day To fight the storms, to stand her ground To lift us up when we fell down Things she looked at later when alone Love drew Mama Love drew Mama home Verse 2 Then came cards with someone’s rhyme Printed words in scripted lines But what she kept through every year Was shaky pen and childish cheer A crooked “I love you” in blue Meant more than poems ever do Pre-Chorus She kept them in a weathered box But her real treasure wasn’t locked Chorus Love drew Mama to kneel and pray To kiss our cheeks at end of day To fight the storms, to stand her ground To lift us up when we fell down Things she looked at later when alone Love drew Mama Love drew Mama home Bridge Through labor pain and sleepless nights Through whispered prayers and tiny fights Through every joy and every ache She gave it all for her children’s sake Final Chorus Love drew Mama through all the years Through joy and laughter, pain and tears And when the glitter days were gone The light in her still lingered on She followed what she’d always known Love drew Mama Love drew Mama home

Sunday, May 04, 2025

Be Careful Lest the Light in You be Darkness

This is such a powerful passage- Dark Light? 

Luke 11:33-36 (ESV)

“No one after lighting a lamp puts it in a cellar or under a basket, but on a stand, so that those who enter may see the light. Your eye is the lamp of your body. When your eye is healthy, your whole body is full of light, but when it is bad, your body is full of darkness. Therefore be careful lest the light in you be darkness. If then your whole body is full of light, having no part dark, it will be wholly bright, as when a lamp with its rays gives you light.”

When reading the Gospels, we often assume similar wording across accounts refers to the same event. Yet, in Luke 11, Jesus speaks of the “eye as the lamp” in the context of confronting the Scribes and Pharisees’ accusations—a stark contrast to Matthew 6:22-23, where the same metaphor appears during the Sermon on the Mount, addressing possessions, treasure, and worry:

Matthew 6:22-23 (ESV)
“The eye is the lamp of the body. So, if your eye is healthy, your whole body will be full of light, but if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!”

Jesus likely repeated thematic teachings, as repetition reinforces truth. The metaphor of light, central to both passages, resonates deeply, pointing to God’s glory and human nature.

Light: A Scientific and Spiritual Marvel

In Genesis 1, God creates light before the sun and moon, dispelling darkness on the first day. This primordial light, distinct from celestial bodies, hints at a divine source. Even without Scripture, light’s properties compel us to ponder a purposeful intelligent design.

The Dual Nature of Light

Light’s enigmatic nature has fascinated scientists for centuries. It behaves as both a particle (photon) and a wave, a duality formalized in quantum mechanics. Albert Einstein captured this paradox:

“It seems as though we must use sometimes the one theory and sometimes the other, while at times we may use either. We have two contradictory pictures of reality; separately neither of them fully explains the phenomena of light, but together they do.”

Recent advancements have deepened this understanding. Experiments in quantum optics, such as those using entangled photons, demonstrate light’s non-local properties, where particles instantaneously affect each other regardless of distance. In 2023, researchers at CERN and other institutes explored light’s interaction with virtual particles in vacuum, suggesting light can influence quantum fields in ways previously thought impossible. These discoveries underscore light’s complexity, pointing to a universe finely tuned for exploration.

The Observable Universe

Astronomers Guillermo Gonzalez and Jay Richards, in their work on Intelligent Design, argue that Earth’s unique position enables scientific discovery. Our planet’s transparent atmosphere and location in the Milky Way’s galactic habitable zone allow us to observe distant stars and cosmic phenomena. This “privileged planet” hypothesis suggests the universe is not only fine-tuned for life but also for discovery. Recent exoplanet studies, like those from the James Webb Space Telescope (launched 2021), reveal atmospheric compositions of distant worlds, reinforcing the rarity of Earth’s conditions. The fact that we can see and study light from billions of years ago seems less like chance and more like design.

The “Missing Light” Mystery

In 2014, reports suggested that 80% of the universe’s light was “missing,” as observed photon counts fell short of expectations (e.g., RT News, July 12, 2014). Subsequent research has clarified this anomaly. The “missing light” is largely attributed to diffuse intergalactic gas and dust absorbing ultraviolet and optical light, re-emitting it in the infrared spectrum. Data from the Hubble and Spitzer Space Telescopes, combined with 2020s simulations of cosmic web filaments, show that this light isn’t truly missing but redistributed. For a theologian, this evokes imagery of God’s hidden glory, awaiting revelation, as in Revelation 21:23, where the Lamb’s light illuminates the New Jerusalem.

Spiritual Light and Darkness

Jesus’ warning, “be careful lest the light in you be darkness,” is haunting. How can light become darkness? The answer lies in the human heart:

Proverbs 20:27 (ESV)
“The spirit of man is the lamp of the Lord, searching all his innermost parts.”

God’s searchlight exposes our motives. The world often assumes humanity is inherently good, flawed only by circumstance. Scripture, however, diagnoses a deeper issue:

Jeremiah 17:9 (ESV)
“The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?”

Humanity’s paradox—building hospitals while waging wars—reflects a fallen nature. Good deeds often stem from God’s common grace, not innate virtue. Without divine intervention, our “light” risks becoming darkness, tainted by pride or selfishness.

The Shadows of Sin

Spiritual darkness manifests as rebellion against God’s light:

John 3:19-20 (ESV)
“And this is the judgment: the light has come into the world, and people loved the darkness rather than the light because their works were evil. For everyone who does wicked things hates the light and does not come to the light, lest his works should be exposed.”

Sin thrives in secrecy, but God’s light pierces all:

Psalm 139:11-12 (ESV)
“If I say, ‘Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night,’ even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with you.”

Christ, the True Light

Jesus, the “light of the world” (John 8:12), offers salvation and sanctification:

Colossians 1:13-14 (ESV)
“He has delivered us from the domain of darkness and transferred us to the kingdom of his beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.”

Through Christ, we are called to “walk in the light” (1 John 1:7), casting off works of darkness (Romans 13:12). In the New Jerusalem, God’s glory will replace all lesser lights (Revelation 21:23-24).

The Speed of Light and Grace

Physical light travels at 299,792,458 meters per second, a universal constant. Spiritual light—God’s grace—moves faster, reaching the sinner’s cry instantly. As a lighthouse guides ships, Christ’s light dispels our darkness, offering redemption.


Song Link: Dark Light

Prayer:
Lord, thank You for Your searchlight that reveals truth and Your lighthouse that guides us home. Cast out the darkness within me, and let Your light shine through me to a world lost in shadows. Amen.

Thursday, May 01, 2025

God, the Divine Pursuer: Reflections on Muggeridge

There’s a passage I’ve returned to over and over again — written by British journalist and Christian convert Malcolm Muggeridge. 

I first read it years ago, and it hit me like a floodlight. He titled it simply, "Is There a God?" But don’t be misled by the simplicity — what follows is one of the most honest, piercing meditations on belief I’ve ever encountered.
 
Why Muggeridge Still Matters

Malcolm Muggeridge (1903–1990) lived one of the most interesting lives of the 20th century — a war correspondent, BBC commentator, author, and eventually a surprising voice for Christianity. He was never a sentimental believer. In fact, part of what makes him so compelling is that he came to faith reluctantly, even begrudgingly.

Some of his more memorable quotes:


“The depravity of man is at once the most empirically verifiable reality but at the same time the most intellectually resisted fact.”


“Only dead fish swim with the stream.”



“I never wanted a God, or feared a God, or felt under any necessity to invent one. Unfortunately, I am driven to the conclusion that God wants me.

That last line is from the passage I keep coming back to. Here's what it means to me.

Muggeridge admits right away: he never wanted God. The pleasures of this world — nature, relationships, thinking, working — they were enough for him. He wasn't hunting for God. In fact, he would have preferred that God not exist at all.

God comes padding after me like a Hound of Heaven.

That line guts me. It's the recognition that no matter how comfortable we get, no matter how self-sufficient we feel, we are not the seekers. We are the sought.

I’m reminded of Martin Luther, who during a time of deep spiritual anguish was asked by his confessor, “Do you love God?” Luther replied, “Love God? Sometimes I hate Him.” It’s a raw, honest confession—one that echoes Muggeridge’s sense of being hunted down by a God he never sought, yet could not escape.

When Muggeridge wrote that God is pursuing him like a hound, it was known to be a reference to Francis Thompson’s poem, The Hound of Heaven. God is not content to let us be. He comes after us in our sunshine moments and picnics, casting a shadow. Not to ruin our joy, but to reveal how flimsy it all is without Him.

He describes how the divine light exposes everything — our vanity, our mortality, even our carefully constructed happiness.


Our distractions lose their flavor.


Our achievements crumble under divine scrutiny.


Even our highest joys can't withstand eternity’s gaze.

It's raw, almost painful. But deeply true.
 

One image that sticks with me is Muggeridge’s idea that, under God's direction, history becomes a kind of soap opera — full of bad acting, fake props, and threadbare storylines.

Now, soap opera might feel a bit dated as a term (though it's still around). But the idea still lands: our self-important dramas and manufactured narratives look ridiculous when exposed to eternal light. You could swap in reality show, Instagram story, or even political theater — the effect is the same. God sees through all of it.

Muggeridge also quotes Kierkegaard, who said that what we naturally love is finitude — the safe, manageable life. But when God confronts us with infinitude — eternity, holiness, ultimate truth — it undoes us. It pulls back the curtain on everything we try to hide behind.

We long for comfort and control. But God wants truth and transformation. No wonder we resist Him.
 
No Escape — But That's Good News

Muggeridge ends with a bleak honesty: “There is no escape.” We twist and turn, try to replace God with politics, pleasure, or philosophy. We’d rather follow D.H. Lawrence or Marx or Roosevelt — anyone but the real God.

But in the end, dead or alive, He is still God. And strangely, that’s where the hope lies. Not in our illusions. Not in our performances. But in the relentless, loving pursuit of the One who won't leave us alone.

This passage has meant so much to me over the years because it reminds me that faith isn't always tidy or desired — but it’s real. God isn’t something we add to an already full life; He’s the light that reveals what’s really there.

And in that light — even when it hurts — is the only kind of life that lasts.

I have pasted the original piece below:

"IS THERE A GOD ?


Well, is there? I myself should be very happy to answer with an emphatic negative. Temperamentally, it would suit me well enough to settle for what this world offers, and to write off as wishful thinking, or just the self-importance of the human species, any notion of a divine purpose and a divinity to entertain and execute it. The earth's sounds and smells and colours are very sweet; human love brings golden hours; the mind at work earns delight. I have never wanted a God, or feared a God, or felt under any necessity to invent one. Unfortunately, I am driven to the conclusion that God wants me.


God comes padding after me like a Hound of Heaven. His shadow falls over all my little picnics in the sunshine, chilling the air; draining the viands of their flavour, talk of its sparkle, desire of its zest. God takes a hand as history's compere, turning it into a soap opera, with ham actors, threadbare lines, tawdry props and faded costumes, and a plot which might have been written by Ted Willis himself. God arranges the lighting —Spark of Sparks—so that all the ravages of time, like parched skin, decaying teeth and rotting flesh, show through the makeup, however lavishly it may be plastered on. Under God's eye, tiny hoarded glories—a little fame, some money . . . Oh Mr M! how wonderful you are!—fall into dust. In the innermost recesses of vanity one is discovered, as in the last sanctuaries of appetite; on the highest hill of complacency, as in the lowest burrow of despair. One shivers as the divine beast of prey gets ready for the final spring; as the shadow lengthens, reducing to infinite triviality all mortal hopes and desires.


There is no escape. Even so, one twists and turns. Perhaps Nietzsche was right when he said that God had died. Progressive theologians with German names seem to think so: Time magazine turned over one of its precious covers to the notion. If God were dead, and eternity had stopped, what a blessed relief to one and all! Then we could set about making a happy world in our own way—happy in the woods like Mellors and his Lady Chatterley; happiness successfully pursued, along with life and liberty, in accordance with the Philadelphia specification; happy the Wilson way, with only one book to take to the post-office—one book, one happiness; happy in the prospect of that great Red Apocalypse when the State has withered away, and the proletariat reigns for ever more. If only God were D. H. Lawrence, or Franklin D. Roosevelt, or Harold Wilson, or Karl Marx!


Alas, dead or alive, he is still God, and eternity ticks on even though all the clocks have stopped. I agree with Kierkegaard that 'what man naturally loves is finitude' and that involvement through God in infinitude 'kills in him, in the most painful way, everything in which he really finds his life . . . shows him his own wretchedness, keeps him in sleepless unrest, whereas finitude lulls him into enjoyment.' Man, in other words, needs protection against God as tenants do against Rachmanism, or minors against hard liquor."

Here is an analysis of the poem, The Hound of Heaven

The Hound of Heaven: A Poem of Relentless Grace

Among the great spiritual poems of the modern era stands The Hound of Heaven, a work of profound beauty and theological depth. Written by English poet Francis Thompson (1859–1907), this poem has stirred hearts for over a century with its portrayal of God’s tireless pursuit of the human soul.

Who Was Francis Thompson?

Thompson’s life was marked by pain and paradox. Born into a devout Roman Catholic family in England, he showed early promise in both medicine and literature. However, his adult life spiraled into years of poverty, illness, and opium addiction on the streets of London. It was during these darkest days that he wrote The Hound of Heaven, a deeply personal reflection of his spiritual journey.

Despite his hardships, Thompson's poetic gift eventually caught the attention of the publishers of Merrie England, and his work—especially this poem—was embraced for its powerful imagery and spiritual insight.

What Is The Hound of Heaven About?

The title itself is striking. A “hound” suggests a dog trained to pursue with unswerving focus. In this poem, the “Hound of Heaven” is a metaphor for God—persistent, patient, and full of grace. Far from a predator, this divine pursuer is a loving Father who follows the soul with unwavering purpose, even as the soul runs from Him.

The poem explores the futility of fleeing God through earthly distractions, pleasures, and self-reliance. In the end, it is not wrath that catches the fleeing soul, but love.

THE HOUND OF HEAVEN- Francis Thompson

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
   I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
   Of my own mind; and in the midst of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
             Up vistaed hopes I sped;
             And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears,
   From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
             But with unhurrying chase,
             And unperturbèd pace,
     Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
             They beat—and a Voice beat
             More instant than the Feet—
     'All things betray thee, who betrayest Me'.

“All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.”
God tells the fleeing soul that all the things he turns to instead of God—pleasures, hopes, dreams, people—ultimately betray him. Why? Because he has betrayed his Creator. When the soul flees God, even good things lose their ability to satisfy. They become hollow.

             I pleaded, outlaw-wise,

By many a hearted casement, curtained red,
   Trellised with intertwining charities;
(For, though I knew His love Who followed,
             Yet was I sore adread
Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside.)
But, if one little casement parted wide,
   The gust of His approach would clash it to:
   Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue.
Across the margent of the world I fled,
   And troubled the gold gateway of the stars,
   Smiting for shelter on their clanged bars;
             Fretted to dulcet jars
And silvern chatter the pale ports o' the moon.
I said to Dawn: Be sudden—to Eve: Be soon;
   With thy young skiey blossom heap me over
             From this tremendous Lover—
Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!
   I tempted all His servitors, but to find
My own betrayal in their constancy,
In faith to Him their fickleness to me,
   Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.
To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;
   Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.
          But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,
     The long savannahs of the blue;
            Or, whether, Thunder-driven,
          They clanged his chariot 'thwart a heaven,
Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet:—
   Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.
             Still with unhurrying chase,
             And unperturbed pace,
      Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
             Came on the following Feet,
             And a Voice above their beat—
'Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me.'

“Nothing can protect you, because you refuse to give Me a home in your soul.”
It echoes the  theme: God desires to dwell with His people (e.g., Revelation 3:20, John 14:23), but if He is shut out, no other refuge will suffice.
It flips the roles. Just as we seek shelter in God, God also seeks a place to dwell—in the heart of the human soul. If the soul refuses to “shelter” God (through faith, surrender, love), then that soul has no true refuge from the storms of life, fear, guilt, or eternity.

I sought no more after that which I strayed
          In face of man or maid;
But still within the little children's eyes
          Seems something, something that replies,
They at least are for me, surely for me!
I turned me to them very wistfully;
But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair
         With dawning answers there,
Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.
Come then, ye other children, Nature's—share
With me' (said I) 'your delicate fellowship;
          Let me greet you lip to lip,
          Let me twine with you caresses,
              Wantoning
          With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses,
             Banqueting
          With her in her wind-walled palace,
          Underneath her azured dais,
          Quaffing, as your taintless way is,
             From a chalice
Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring.'
             So it was done:
I in their delicate fellowship was one—
Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies.
          I knew all the swift importings
          On the wilful face of skies;
           I knew how the clouds arise
          Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings;
             All that's born or dies
          Rose and drooped with; made them shapers
Of mine own moods, or wailful divine;
          With them joyed and was bereaven.
          I was heavy with the even,
          When she lit her glimmering tapers
          Round the day's dead sanctities.
          I laughed in the morning's eyes.
I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,
          Heaven and I wept together,
And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine:
Against the red throb of its sunset-heart
          I laid my own to beat,
          And share commingling heat;
But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart.
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek.
For ah! we know not what each other says,
          These things and I; in sound I speak—
Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.
Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth;
          Let her, if she would owe me,
Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me
          The breasts o' her tenderness:
Never did any milk of hers once bless
             My thirsting mouth.
             Nigh and nigh draws the chase,
             With unperturbed pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy;
             And past those noisèd Feet
             A voice comes yet more fleet—
          'Lo! naught contents thee, who content'st not Me.'

Naked I wait Thy love's uplifted stroke!
My harness piece by piece Thou has hewn from me,
             And smitten me to my knee;
          I am defenceless utterly.
          I slept, methinks, and woke,
And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep.
In the rash lustihead of my young powers,
          I shook the pillaring hours
And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears,
I stand amidst the dust o' the mounded years—
My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.
My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,
Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream.
          Yea, faileth now even dream
The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist;
Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist
I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist,
Are yielding; cords of all too weak account
For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed.
          Ah! is Thy love indeed
A weed, albeit an amarinthine weed,
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?

Yes, it is sensual. But not because the speaker is seeking physical or erotic love per se—it’s because he’s pouring spiritual hunger into the wrong vessel. It shows the misdirected but honest longing of a soul, trying to find love and rest in Nature when it was made for God.


          Ah! must—
          Designer infinite!—
Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?
My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust;
And now my heart is as a broken fount,
Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever
          From the dank thoughts that shiver
Upon the sighful branches of my mind.
          Such is; what is to be?
The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind?
I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds;
Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds
From the hid battlements of Eternity;
Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then
Round the half-glimpsed turrets slowly wash again.
          But not ere him who summoneth
          I first have seen, enwound
With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned;
His name I know and what his trumpet saith.
Whether man's heart or life it be which yields
          Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields
          Be dunged with rotten death?

             Now of that long pursuit
             Comes on at hand the bruit;
          That Voice is round me like a bursting sea:
          'And is thy earth so marred,
          Shattered in shard on shard?
          Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!

          'Strange, piteous, futile thing!
Wherefore should any set thee love apart?
Seeing none but I makes much of naught' (He said),
'And human love needs human meriting:
          How hast thou merited—
Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot?
          Alack, thou knowest not
How little worthy of any love thou art!
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,
          Save Me, save only Me?
All which I took from thee I did but take,
          Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms.
          All which thy child's mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:
          Rise, clasp My hand, and come!'

   Halts by me that footfall:
   Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?
   'Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
   I am He Whom thou seekest!
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.'  

Why It Still Matters

In a time when many are restless, hurting, or hiding behind distraction, The Hound of Heaven offers hope: God pursues not to condemn, but to rescue. His grace is not forceful but faithful. And even when we run, His love is faster.