Former Opponent, Now My President

John McCain's speech on Barack Obama's victory is as historic as the recently concluded race to the White House. How I wish the rest of the world would see him as a role model in accepting defeat.

2010 aspirants, kindly take note!

Uncommon Valor

Twice the speed of the bullet that cut through a few inches away from the nose of the bleeding young soldier, his grasp of reality came as a whirlwind ride. The fuming sound of an incensed battlefield sang alternate chorus to his numbing ear. The mud on his worn out boots replaces the shining new pair that he once had before enlisting as a front liner. A gap between his nervous breath is less obvious as one by one he witnessed his fellow soldier bid goodbye to the dance of death that commenced a few hours earlier. It’s just him and a few rounds of his rifle; he dropped his blade on the swamp just across the enemy lines.

He was fighting for freedom, and so does his enemy.

Daily we are faced with a similar plot, we may have never stepped on a real battlefield but a hundred emails on a coffee break would yield similar bloody results. We may not cohered a platoon of defenders to watch our back but we are sunk deep amidst an array of nine to fivers bound on a rat race. Who will be the best rat? The highest paid rat? The most successful rat? The most influential rat?

If we call it a rat race, aren’t we all rats?

How do you find the bravest soldier? Is he in the battlefield? Or is he in command? I say neither, for there is one place that war has seldom define and less audacious to discuss. It is a place where night time does not make any difference with day time, where food is as scarce as hope, where water runs dry as much as the body does. Most of the time this is the place where brave soldiers get to meet one person alone – themselves.

Ever heard of P.O.W.s who made it home? Most of them can not tell the difference between the uncanny prison cell and their comfortable home, for in their hearts a certain prison cell exists.

Yes, sometimes the bravest of the fighters are those who sit still, the greatest irony of fighting is when you need to be at peace with yourself, knowing that braving it out with all your strength would just prove fatally useless, especially when you are instructed to “Be still”

The Bravest One took the nails, He could have blown the mob into kingdom come with a gentle whisper, He could have made the Roman soldiers look like useless match sticks, He could have held His hand high and then came a new earth, He could have just said one word and the equation of life will change drastically.

But He did not.

He chose the nails. Why?

For us, we should have been there; we should have been the one fighting for our life, reducing the fruit of our sins. We can’t take a staple for one, but praise God; we need not take anything else because He took it all.

Amazing Artistry Across the Evening Sky

When I see the beauty of a sunset’s glory
Amazing artistry across the evening sky
When I feel the mystery of a distant galaxy
It awes and humbles me to be loved
By a God so high

Paul Baloche, Graham Kendrick

God so high, how high, its beyond space and distance. History may have taken great names with her, she might have changed great lives, but before God, history is just a blink of one moment of His faithful time.

The afternoon looms, with a pale warning of the night’s coming darkness. Everyone seems to be tired, the rest are enjoying the little strength left for them to hope, I’m caught in between.

The late Domino Harvey defined life as having three kinds of people, the rich, the poor and everyone else in between, could it be that there are three dimensions of life curved in a variation of wood labeled – destiny?

I don’t enjoy afternoons so much, it reminds of the coming darkness of night, I need to be reminded that it’s time to rest, the whole world sleeps at night, I might as well grab my own pillow and let the comfort of my soft bed consume my dilemmas.

It’s scary when enough’s not good enough. And when the well of inspiration perspired and dried up. It’s scary when you forget about tomorrow and the only timeline left in your agenda is now. It’s scary when the hours are numb, when the arrows are struck, when your fellows are foes and most of all when you follow the dark hole straight to the bottom of the food chain. Silently you realized you don’t have anything to eat, while everyone else can have you for dinner.

What can I do?

“Amazing artistry across the evening sky”, there’s something great about the evening sky after all.

“The mystery of the distant galaxy”, great minds would not quit labeling all the galaxies that they can think of, but the mystery is sweet when you owe it to one Great Creator.

“It awes and humbles me to be loved by a God so high”, a Great God not getting tired of oblivious pricks like the man in front of the mirror from where I’m standing – err! That’s me.

The last line of the song says:
“Now You’re making all things new by the power of Your risen life”

Praise God!

A Few Hours Past Tragedy

I just had the greatest day of my life walking out of a recent tragedy. It’s not my own though and I would clearly agree there’s no such thing as “greatest” and “tragedy” piling up on the same line. You seldom see people smiling after a great loss; you seldom share laughter with people who are supposed to be in pain.

But I am a few hours past that encounter; we just visited a friend who has just recently experienced so great a loss that the usual remuneration would be a trip to the dark corner of your room, and emptiness that would out sleep your guts, a fiery silence that would harness the greatest questions out of life.

Maybe it is just a straightforward testimony of how the grace of God is really sufficient for all of us. No matter how big the waves you are facing, no matter how loud the lion roars, nothing beats a still, silent heart in utter knowledge that “God knows”.

I remember this phrase from a book that I scanned a few hours earlier; it talks about the atrocities that Christians in China are experiencing. It holds in full account how lives are shattered because of faith. A few words from a missionary that I did not have the luxury of time to know speak something like this.

“After knowing how the Christian converts are being arrested and harassed and harmed; we just lift the burden with ease to God, and knowing that He knows we are comforted in overcoming this great tragedy”

“Lift the burden with ease to God”

It’s close to impossible right? Clearly it's grace that enables anyone to face opposition with ease, to counter chaos with silence, to render truth calmly amidst a rage of fallacy.

Praise God for the opportunity to witness grace at work in other people’s lives. How wonderful our God is, how vast is His wisdom and provision that His purpose never fails. His sovereign will defy all other life-long scientific proven truths. The One who defied gravity has done great things, more than enough, just in time.

Behold, I am the LORD, the God of all flesh: is there any thing too hard for me?
Jeremiah 32:27

A Hooligan’s Day Out

Shock and awe, a group of intrepid looking men with blood on the tip of their fingers lurks on the foggy street of an unknown neighborhood. Behind them is a miniature gasping for life, seemingly hopeless but not. For the sake of the macabre influence of this writing, the blood belongs to that fading voice.

“Lord, do not hold this sin against them”

Just a few hours ago, the streets are filled with death-hungry people, in each of their hands were stones of different sizes. The sentence was meted out, this person deserves to die. According to the “law of the people”, he was a blasphemer. When in fact his only fault was that the “learned” Jews could not stand up against his wisdom or by the Spirit by whom he spoke.

He was among the seven whom the twelve disciples chose as full of the Spirit and wisdom. And amidst the accusations being thrown at him, his face looked like the face of an angel as all who were sitting on the Sanhedrin saw.

“Lord Jesus receive my spirit”

With all faith, knowing that the God he serves who has promised will never fail, he left his murderers with a genuine “shock and awe”. He spoke forgiveness, every moment of his last breath were spent with the blessing of forgiveness to each fiery hands that made sure his bones would crush, his skull would break open, his flesh would bleed, to all of this things even death, the crowd succeeded except for one.

They threw stones with one thing in mind, they thought Stephen would recommend them to Satan with a broken heart, but the opposite thing happened;

He spoke in behalf of all of them.

“Lord, do not hold this sin against them”

I remember a grudge that I had with a college pal, he said I was not good enough to reach the cyber world in front of the whole cyber community. I did not spoke to him for weeks. It’s a lame comparison I know, but that’s how I am when it comes to holding grudges to people who would oppose me. Yeah right, compared to Stephen I’m a hooligan and I took a day out when I remembered his story. In fact writing about it became more of an obstacle when it’s supposed to be a lesson to be learned.

Come to think of it, I reached the cyber world, still lame though.

To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you
Lewis B. Smedes

Praise for His Grace in Place

Tomorrow is not here yet in as much as last night was gone. A beacon of hope struck the wholeness of the unwavering white flag, clogged in frivolous masculine defeat. “Let us run the race with gladness”, the preacher says, “just give me enough time to stand up from my wheelchair of doubts”, the stalker of dead lilies replied.

The unfamiliar gloomy corner vacated through the years of despair is now well lit with a sumptuous lamp post that stood proud as if eternity is but a nod in casual conversations.

Leaving an empty chair behind you does not necessarily mean you quit sitting and preferred standing instead, it might be that the rest of your life you were sitting and just in time before you die in disappointment you realized that standing is a better option.

I remember a poor boy’s face back in the suburb of the “sin city” who refused to take his eyes of me unless I gave him a few bucks for food. Being expertly sinful and undoubtedly prideful, I spared him a few of what I have in my wallet. (I am a jobless freak before, wandering the streets of Magsaysay Drive waiting for the result of a band competition which me and my other jobless freak friends joined)

He was happy indeed, but not any happier that I am since I got plus points on my public acceptance rating because I have the whole gang with me actually giving compliments over what I did.

Oh well, some 15 years later, I don’t have any iota of an idea where and who that boy is but the truth still remains, being crowned with praises from my friends did not even assure me of at least half of the joy that I have when I received greater things in life not because I gave the poor boy money for food but because Someone loved that poor boy that He made sure someone would provide for the kid’s food. Unknowingly, I was too busy praising myself I did not even now I was just and instrument of His love to that little boy. And someday soon I would receive that love by grace.

A few more steps and life would be over for most of us; those who remained unfazed can not curse the generation who quit just because they are stronger. The earth remains a gathering of one big estranged happy family, everyone would remain to refuse to share the space that his feet occupies in the belief that the earth is too big for everyone. Let all human beings do what they please. As long as there is balance and harmony within the rest of the tenants.

The majority of us organic sinners could stand a mortal debate to appease the argument that indeed it is possible to live in harmony with all under a thinning ozone layer.

One word, one Name and He is above the ozone layer, I should say. And beyond that, in fact the earth is His footstool, heaven is His throne.

On the argument that life can be lived easily in a corporate effort to make it easy can be easily flat lined by a two syllable, eternal, incomparable, truth. Infinitely valuable than all of man’s reason combined, who can make available to assuming earthlings a massive force greater than Einstein’s Mass and Constant raised to two, in a twinkling of an eye. Yes, He defied gravity just to prove that He is over all of our greatest norms of computations.

I could write the greatest combination of the most beautiful adjectives this life has come up with but I would still fall short of describing who He really is. In fact, what I just wrote above is a lame comparison to how the angels can actually describe Him.

And the bible says the angels can not stop calling Him holy just once.

Can I just end my blog with the most beautiful name that I’ve known, He is the exalted One!

Jesus!

Finest Last Hour

Approximately, I am breathing my 271,560^th hour on earth, exactly an hour ago, I don’t have any idea if this would be my last hour; give me another hour I would still be clueless. Is there anyone on earth who lived to tell about their last hour? That’s a mere impossibility, a dewdrop on planet Mars.

I know of One who did. Actually, it’s more of His followers who wrote about His last hour, who had full account on the finest hour that was set to alter even the human genome, it must have been the bloodiest obscenity witnessed both by His accusers and His friends. It must have been the most painful hour in the life of a mother, a mother who could only stare at her son, a mother who is the only one to distinguish between blood from tears by the look at her son’s eyes.

“Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachtani?”

It must have been puzzling for a Roman soldier to see the clouds turn dark as the earth shook; on the other hand, it must have been so sweet a sound of victory for heaven. The curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. History just had its major overhaul; heaven was opened to those who would believe.

What a beautiful scene, the most beautiful Name on the earth lifted high, His finest last hour has paved way to eternity with Him, and man in his sinful nature can now spend eternity with the infinitely pure God. The nails were not able to hold Him for good, the wooden cross was not sturdy enough to carry Him, and the tomb was too small for Him.

I could only imagine.

Can it be pure joy to witness Jesus being taken up in the air?

Sadly, time took its toll. What was once a headliner in Jerusalem has suddenly become a trivial issue more so an object of mockery. The cross was reduced from being a symbol to a logo. A rock star’s emblem. A tattoo on the arm.

Man and his tragic kingdom. Seemingly boundless but feeble. A decade of reading books made man assume knowledge. It’s the glorious pretension of a life valued in carnal means. It’s god with a small “g”. It’s the self secured agenda of survival, its technology at it’s finest. It’s a matter of sixty years or more for the vegetarians. From natal to fatal. We all have one shot each. The earth might stay for another hundred years, but you?

Finest last hour, care to have yours?

The angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples: 'He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.' Now I have told you."

Matthew 28:5-7

Defying wounds

Sorrow causes deep scars, and indelibly writes its story on the suffering heart. We never completely recover from our greatest grief and are never the same after having passed through them. Yet sorrow that is endured in the right spirit impacts our growth favorably and brings us a greater sense of compassion for others. 1

I remember watching war movies as a young kid, it completely reminds me of blood, sweat and tears that mark the courageous and separate the weak and hopeless from those who kill for freedom. Little did I know that those who took part in these real-life dramas have one thing in common, they are wounded not only by a raging bullet but by the sorrows of losing their loved ones and contributing to the lost of others too.

I could only imagine what goes on inside the head of those on the frontlines. Those who seldom run for cover but provide covering for their nation, those soldiers who take pleasure in being wounded and half-killed just for that opportunity to have their flag waved at the end of the battlefield instead of their opponent’s.

The war has ended for the majority and the world is left with veterans who are fighting a different war nowadays. A war to overcome the grief of living the rest of their lives in wheel chairs, to not be able to tell stories to their grand children because they would just either hate them or ignore them, to feel the neglect of the society they once fought for, and to witness their own nation being sold back to their former enemies by virtue of the greed of hierarchical thieves that permeate the ruling kind.

Today, as we fight for trivial opportunities to live an extra day, to gain that extra “hits” on our websites, to be forgiven by those we hurt, to take center stage in the cinematic portfolio of “ingenuities”, to speak good to those who enslave us in a 9-5 routine, to endure a long download time on the internet, to earn big cash in exchange for lost dignity on spotlight vis-à-vis a blabbering game show host, to spend the next precious minutes of our lifetime in the public court of humiliation, to have our blogs read by as much people - aren’t we soldiers ourselves? And if we are soldiers in our own ranks, are we prepared for our own wounds of sorrows?

I would like to emphasize on the above paragraph, “We never completely recover from our greatest grief and are never the same after having passed through them”, if this is true then we could safely proceed to the last sentence of the same paragraph, “Yet sorrow that is endured in the right spirit impacts our growth favorably…”.

Dear friend, it only takes a right spirit to burn the bridge of sorrow, besides it’s really supposed to be a bridge so you better take that one big step to move on and conquer the land of hope that is set before you. Yes, you will never completely recover but you have passed through them already and it’s high time to endure it.

Then the LORD said to Moses, "Why are you crying out to me? Tell the Israelites to move on.” Exodus 14:15

Notes:

1. L.B. Cowman, Streams in the Desert, 1997 Zondervan Corp, pp 108

In the eyes of a dying loved one

“When I die, I want you to move on with life, I want you to discover the joy of life in someone else’s arms, promise me you’ll take care of yourself”

“Why are you telling me that? Are you tired of living already?”

“No, because you’re getting tired of watching me live my last”

I seldom appreciate drama flicks from back home, more so the hapless clichés of a beautiful lady dying and leaving behind her teary eyed boyfriend, and if he’s not so lucky at all he gets hit by a car and dies a more horrible death.

I think, as long as there is a need to emphasize on the science of undying love, someone always needs to die. One great irony that I am really used to watching in my dire attempt to kill my boredom especially when there’s not much project to do and the books on my shelf becomes too heavy for me to take.

One day while staying late for work, I decided to grab a cup of coffee and turned the TV on (yes, that’s how freak of a workaholic I am, coffee makes me sleep after long hours of working). Then I saw this flick that I really would not find interesting at all on a normal blood pressure, but the coffee was too hot for me, so I was glued to the boob tube for the next hour watching a cancer stricken bachelor falling in love with the nurse who takes care of him. Eventually they were married, alongside with the usual conflicts; they got through for a couple of years. What makes me frozen in the brown sofa that I was sitting (I had my ear phones on since it was really very late) was the scene where the nurse cries in hopelessness as her prince is breathing his last, he even uttered a brave question, “how do you plan to move on?”, and in all honesty, she replied in tears, “I don’t know”.

How much love could anyone give to let someone else live? I’m very sure if there’s one thing on earth that the lady nurse would do is to love her man to the point of him living, but what could she do? She’s a mere mortal, that one day she would end up dying also. That’s the sick cycle of humanity, living, loving and dying.

I can not help but remember one great story of death and life. Suspended in mid-air, parched in blood, the darkening of the clouds is none compared to what His eyes are seeing, His whole mortal body is minutes away from giving up, before that final stare to His Father in heaven, He looks down on those whom He loved, “I want you to live forever”

Yes, each and everyone of us will die, good for you if you would have at least half of your friends on your social networking site gathering before your casket, and as long as we are living, we are continually loving someone else, but not long enough, for we do not live forever – yet. The one they call Christ, who died on the cross thousands of years ago offered one great gift, no need to toss the coin, no need to consult the other half of your doubts, no need to write an inspiring blog, it is simple. He sealed it with His own blood, BELIEVE AND YOU WILL HAVE LIFE!

Dilapidated Poetry

When life becomes time consuming, you began to lose time. When time becomes life consuming, you began to lose life.

After a while, no, more than a while of experimenting on a future expedition, a couple of laptops on perpendicular tables will not do the trick for now. The dim lit wall opposite a wooden chair will not make it to the sullen walls seen only on dreams.

When the books you used to read become foreign objects floating on a far horizon, you surely miss the goal of protruding wisdom, of sensible behaviors and of a lighted candle, all in exchange of the macabre, Swiss army knife solutions of your life puzzle.

It does not take a mob to figure out that your crashing your head on the concrete pavement; it only takes a mirror and a cup of honesty. Even the youngest orphan on the block could teach you a lesson on adulthood, if you would only listen to his dreams.

I seldom see a patriarch on his knees begging for fatherhood; on the contrary it is difficult to find a warlord begging for peace.

It is just a matter of missing the keys, that’s all.

The Unsuccessful Throne of a Fleabrain

An old fable tells of an elephant lumbering across a wooden bridge suspended over a ravine. As the big animal crossed over the worn-out structure, it creaked and groaned under the elephant’s weight. When he reached the other side, a flea that had nestled itself in the elephant’s ear proclaimed, “Boy did we shake that bridge!”1

The flea had done nothing; the elephant had done all the work, if there’s any contribution from the flea enough to shake the bridge is the weight of his pride.

If there’s anything in common about all human beings aside from their breathe is a sheet of paper lodged on their forehead with these words, “Look at me.” And with the digitized age, it became so rampant and as usual as a blink of an eye, it has been a ploy hidden under a comfortable cloth of community plumbing.

“Success begets amnesia and sabotages the memories of the successful”2, penned Max Lucado. And as we rise up with what we do best, all of us become qualified of a throne, but the problem with this throne is that there’s something about it that makes us fall. There’s an eject button hidden somewhere that when we become too comfortable with the attention we are getting, we find ourselves perched in mid-air, a few seconds away from hitting rock bottom. And we could only hold memories of our success advertising no one but ourselves.

“Riches and honor come from God alone, for God rules over everything. Power and might are in His hand, and it is God’s discretion that people are made great and given strength”3

Wow! What does that speak about? We are successful to make Him known, to reflect like mirrors the brightness of Jesus. Why are we good at what we do? Comfort and self-esteem? Not so much. Consider these as bonuses not the reason. We are good at what we do for God’s sake.

It is not about the farmer that there are good crops, it about the Maker of the farmer. It is not about a good lens that makes a good shot, it is about the Artist of the Universe. It is not about a good blog that words inspire, it is about the One who said “Let there be light” before all words come to be. It is not about us, it is about God. He makes us excel to make him known.

How I wish I quit being a fleabrain. Right now!

Notes:

1. Max Lucado, It's Not About Me, pp 149, Integrity Publishers Inc. 2004

2.Max Lucado, It's Not About Me, pp 149, Integrity Publishers Inc. 2004

3. 1 Chronicles 29:12

A Parrot’s Parody

With a fresh breeze of April’s north wind, I struggled to keep my feathers from being clipped. The sight of the laymen trying to catch up with my flawless acrobatic stunt from my cage to the veranda back to the apricot tree made them look like senile creatures in search for justice. Why can’t they overpower a parakeet?

Well I have to leave them the way they are. A hopeless generation of trials and errors. The view from the peak of this old tree is nothing less than microscopic, all I see are fugitives caught in a knight’s tale, they clothe themselves with iron-clad jeans and velvet dripped vest. Indeed it is so colorful I almost forgot I have better choice of colors than them. Just a while ago I was watching them from my cage, living at the mercy of their time management, I almost die of hunger before getting a few crumbs of whatever it is in that small yellow cylinder. They laugh at me every time I get the chance to say “good morning fellow!” four times in a row. What’s wrong with that? my boss taught me those words. How in the world would I know what that means?

The usual day for me is a series of left-right, left-right movement of what else but my beak? The kids would stare at me before going to school and throw a very humane encouragement at me, they are so gracious they always have that serious stare at the nare just below my cere before exploding into a theatrical caucus, “Ugly parrot looking like a mascot!” And then they would just dance their way off.

Those are small time unfavorable merits of being a flying creature with a healthy rostrum. Forget it. I’m at the top of my lungs now, it’s payback time. You can try to climb my peak but I would just let you a few inch near me and I would fly with the wind. I could go places that I could own, you can not put me in a cage anymore.

Enough of my farewell speech, I’m definitely ecstatic of a proud glide to the other side of this doomsday castle.

I see different flowers, more colorful than the one near my rust-filled cage. The smell of freedom is just so liberating I could hop in and out of these lovely trees.

Pause.

I’m dizzy. I’m dizz…

“It’s a hit, we got that stupid bird, don’t tell your brother we used his slingshot, he’ll be angry at us, you know him.”

“It is for freedom that Christ set has set us free. Stand firm, then and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery”
Galatians 5:1

The difficulties of our lives are not our cage, what binds us from going out is actually covering us from being hurt. Even the furnace of fire was an awesome display of God’s glory. The lion’s den, a stroke of His sovereign power. And the cross, it was not so pleasing to the eyes, the wood that was used for it was not even of the highest kind but it has a blade so sharp it cut the temple curtain from top to bottom.

Whatever and wherever you are right now, it is a canvass-perfect moment to display His glory!

The Thief That Was I

Inspired by Luke 23:26-43

Just above my sun-burnt forehead, the heat of the sun settles to the west and my body weary of a week’s travel starts to transform into a pain cushion that leaves no room for comfort. Even sleep was not in my agenda. Before me is a table covered with crumbs that were left over from a festive meal of edible grass and warm water. I should not be hungry anymore; I am filled to the bin. I made sure that the money from the purse that I have stolen from that old lady would buy me enough food for the day. I’m sure it did.

My palms are still covered with blood; I hope the blind man still has air to breathe even if it’s colorless. I did not mean to hurt him, the little boy with him was so angry with me but I could not hurt a little boy, how could I?

I was at their court to steal their livestock, nothing more. It’s as simple as that. I made so much noise after hitting the old man’s head with an iron rod, the people came running towards me, I have no time to spare.

Maybe that is why I am so tired; yes I was running like mad, I don’t know where I am heading I just need to leave the crowd and head for my life. Is it my fault that I was born to a poor family? At the age of five, I started stealing for food, my father was not home and my mother came looking for him. I remember that was the last time I saw them both.

It was more than thirty years and still I have to steal to earn an extra day, an extra foothold, another pair of sunrise and sunset, I lost count of the people I hurt and stole from.

Suddenly, I heard a voice, “I am thirsty!” I opened my eyes, it was all just a dream, my life was in front of me for a few minutes that my eyes were closed. And now I am facing reality, I hung helplessly on a wooden cross. In front of me is an audience who is mocking me…no! not me, I was wrong, I am not the object of their mockery, it is this man beside me. They called him the King of the Jews, why do all the people in this rotten hill hate him so much? I can’t see anything wrong with him.

His face is covered with blood, I can’t differentiate between the thorns and his eyebrows, his dry lips was covered with bleeding skin, it must have been where his beard and mustache was before the people stripped it like a wild grass. Blood, so much blood! The more blood drips from his body, the more the crowd slanders him. I looked at his feet, the nails that glued it to the wood almost shattered his feet. I am not sure what’s keeping him alive. I know how rough the wood is. I can feel it in my back. But his back is barely hiding his inner skin. I can’t stand the sight of it. With so much pain I am witnessing I can not feel my own pain.

But what is this that I see in his eyes?

Amidst the near fatal wounds exposed in the heat of the sun and with the loud noise of the crowd, I saw something in his eyes; it’s the last thing that you would see in places like this. In people like him on his death cross. A calming peace. Like a thousand voltage of lightning, his kindness struck my heart with unexplainable impact – it brought me to repentance. I was about to ask his name when the man on his other side, also on the cross spoke bluntly; “Aren't you the Christ? Save yourself and us!” I shouted back at my fellow thief “Don't you fear God since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.”

Then I turned to the man in between us, the Lamb of God, the Messiah; with a soft voice, with all the strength left in my body and with His kind stare that led me to repentance, I told Him these words “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

Before all the memoirs of my past sin turns into tears, I heard a Father’s voice, a Shepherd’s call, a Friend’s assurance – “I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise.”

I closed my eyes in blessed assurance, eternity now awaits me, I don’t know how, but this Man did it all for me. And now the blood the covers His whole body wrote silently these words in my heart “I did this for you my child”

Amazing grace, How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me

I once was lost, But now am found

Was blind but now I see

John Newton

The stones that missed their target

Aquel de ustedes que esté libre de pecado, que tire la primera piedra.1

A young woman was passionately caught in a sculpture of akarthasia, exchanging illicit vows with a stranger in the form of a collage of whispers and smiles. The room was poorly lit, and these two souls thought they had the world all by themselves, right across from where they share a guiltless act lays a lamp on a table desperately keeping its composure not to dance with the visual vibrato that its light is witnessing. And almost a glimpse of a moment before catching their last breathe for the night, the thunderous waves of footsteps from an unruly crowd banishes the dark alley of the narrow, dusty road leading to their small shanty. And before the young woman and her “friend” become aware of it, a group of scribes and Pharisees along with their apprentices where at the shanty’s doorstep. “Get her!” And before she could figure out why all eyes are on her alone, she was savaged.

One of the men who is well-built, standing more than six feet in height grabbed her by her soft petite arm, giving her no time to even pick up a piece of cloth to cover her nakedness. Another held her by her tired feet. Still another snatches the curly hair above her nape.

She was beamed from a dim-lit room to a well-lit lamp post on the public alley. With all the people shouting she did not know who to listen to, she did not know what they are grunting about but she was more than sure these people are angry at her. Why not? The young man she left was not her husband, and so is the man last night and the other night. Right now, the people started counting her faults one by one.

The only thing covering her flesh aside from her hair are her tears, still it was not enough to give her a descent clothing but its all she could do right now. She was thankful for the grainy soil that covered her knees; suddenly she noticed she was bleeding. It might be because she was banged on one of the concrete walls while being carried by the angry men, it does not matter where the bleeding came from, she can’t feel any pain at this moment.

The noise slowly subsides, as one of the Pharisees steps forward, he began to present her case to the Teacher.

“Teacher, they said, This woman has been caught in the very act of adultery. Now Moses in the Law commanded us that such women shall be stoned to death. But what do You say?”2

As if this Pharisee is all knowing and with utter concern about the law, he only asked the question for one reason only; to try to find a charge on which to accuse the Teacher who came back to the temple from the Mount of Olives. With a pulsating grin, the Pharisee was expecting a buzzer beating shot that he made rendering the Teacher utterly powerless. But the Pharisee was wrong, in all his life of knowledge of the scripture, he was never right about this Teacher.

“Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her.”3

Silence. Stones dropping down one by one on the ground, just a few inch away from each of the accuser’s feet. Until no one is holding a stone anymore. All the stones missed their target.

“Who is this man?”, the young woman asked herself. “I am very sure I have sinned, but who is this man with such powerful words?, no one ever treated me this way before. No one ever sided with a filthy rag, especially in a community of the elect and religious”

She has so many questions to ask herself, she did not noticed it was only her and the Teacher that is left on the once crowded court. And before she could utter one more challenge on her thoughts, she was totally silenced by the redeeming words that this kind Carpenter is about to say;

“I do not condemn you, go and sin no more”4

She was never this bare in front of anyone before, countless men have seen her inner most skin but this Man standing in front of her saw pass through all that, He saw her heart, He looked at her as a living soul and with the almost eternal hatred that she earned from all the people around her, she now has a sure eternal life ahead of her. She can’t wait to stand up and tell the world about Him. She knew from her heart, this is the last time that she would go in that dim-lit room again. She would stop walking in the dark and will have the Light which is life.5

I, even I, am He who blots out your transgressions for My own sake; And I will not remember your sins.6

Even the seemingly most blessed and clean life has some skeletons under the closet, all of us are filthy rags no one righteous, not a single one. 7

Our failures are not fatal. 8

God’s amazing redeeming power can take tragedies and injustices in our lives and turn them into precious eternal victories. 9

Notes:

1. Juan 8:7 Nueva Versión Internacional

2. John 8:5 NIV

3. John 8:7 NIV

4. John 8:11 NIV

5. John 8:12 NIV

6. Isaiah 43:25 NIV

7. Cedartone

8. Max Lucado, Six Hours One Friday, 1989, Multnomah Publishers, Inc.

9. Tommy Walker, He Knows My Name, 2004, Regal Books, pp 29

Desperate for Light

So much familiar with afternoons, it’s a sign that the evening is coming. It tells us that in a few moments the light of the sun will leave us with a mere reflection of its light on the moon.

Life has its afternoons, especially made for failure-prone creatures. For sinful-by-nature beings. For the self-loving, godless society. Afternoons are always here to remind us that days turn into nights; the strong would yield to a good night’s rest, the poet would write his last words and close the last page of his own resume.

How many of us have been through the same road for the nth time around? How many failures does it take to believe that it’s the last one? How much anger would it spell to realize the undeserved kindness of God aiming at our combatant heart? Is that your last stare? Is that your last glimpse? Does your tongue have enough to sting? How about your neighbor? Does he remind you that you are not alone? That sometimes it’s ok to be silent when they are talking? Who do you have to reason with? That person in the mirror? Isn’t it you? The same old you?

Oh yes, indeed time is inadequate for you to get your portion of the land of smiles and triumphs. The more you count time, the more you lose it. The more you gain access to friends, the more you become alone. Ironies of all ironies, it’s not about the numbers that would make you a better person or a lesser failure if we would go by our definition of man. It’s always the heart that dictates your direction, and a heart without God is aimlessly pursuing nothing.

How come there is still a road ahead for those who wane? It’s all grace that gave your feet the ground it stands, it’s all grace that provided words in your lips after your worthless promises. It’s all grace that shed light on your dark face. But where would you go after the long run when time catches up on you again?

When was the last time you prayed? No I mean the last time your heart talked to God? Prayers can be part of a daily routine, but not all prayers have heart. I can’t stop meddling with man’s futile attempt to live in peace yet end up the opposite. Who failed where and when?

I am not sure. One thing I am sure about is we are not called to fail. Though we are doomed to fail because we are not anywhere near God’s standard, Christ loved us best when we were a failure. He died for all of us even when we are yet sinners. And His grace abounds. Suddenly we become undeserving pricks that even if we fail a thousand times, God has a thousand and one ways of His kindness leading us to repentance.

Wake up sleeping soul, the Lord is mighty to save. There are great battles to be won for His kingdom, and those battles that you can not win for yourself, He already won it all. Don’t even try to outsource your own will to alter His love. It’s there forever regardless if you are or if you are not.

Now evening falls, you become desperate for light. Just try to get some sleep. That’s all you can do when the sun sets in.

About your failures! Never mind if you think you are unable to take another step after all these, for either He will strengthen you to make you able, or He will call a sudden halt, and you will not have to take it all.1

Sleep. Just sleep.

Notes:
1. Frances Ridley Havergal, Streams in the Desert, pp16, Copyright 1925 by the Zondervan Corp.

Love Minus Zero/No limit

Bob Dylan, Copyright © 1965; renewed 1993 Special Rider Music

My love she speaks like silence,
Without ideals or violence,
She doesn't have to say she's faithful,
Yet she's true, like ice, like fire.
People carry roses,
Make promises by the hours,
My love she laughs like the flowers,
Valentines can't buy her.

Once labeled as a great American poet, Robert Allen Zimmerman (Jewish name: Zushe ben Avraham) has been a major figure in popular music for five decades. His music started more than ten years before I breath the first air on my nostrils.

On my early childhood days, growing up on a poverty stricken suburb, it’s very unusual for me to grow up with his songs reverberating on the four corners of our house, all coming from an old turn table which I used to play with my sesame street toys. Even after a good spanking from tatay, I had the signs of stubbornness at a young age, I still put my two inches Bert and Ernie toys opposite each other and just be amazed as they go round in circles. Eventually messing up my tatay’s” LP.

In the dime stores and bus stations,
People talk of situations,
Read books, repeat quotations,
Draw conclusions on the wall.
Some speak of the future,
My love she speaks softly,
She knows there's no success like failure
And that failure's no success at all.

Only a few of his followers know his real name, but to the rest of us he is known as Bob Dylan. As far as I can remember, I often loath hearing his songs, which for me was nothing but noise. And at a young age, though exposed to reading English books, I could not fathom why a singer could write songs almost the size of a book.

Yes, for me he was just a singer then. One of those whom I hear over the radio, almost everywhere. But I was not aware, parallel to me growing up on different challenges of life, this complicated crooner is shaping up the history of music.

The cloak and dagger dangles,
Madams light the candles.
In ceremonies of the horsemen,
Even the pawn must hold a grudge.
Statues made of match sticks,
Crumble into one another,
My love winks, she does not bother,
She knows too much to argue or to judge.

Fast forward to the years where there was a bulging fascination in my heart to poetry, I slowly began to appreciate the stroke of his pen, the imagination of beauty that Bob has, that I believe no one else among his echelon could match.

Pure art, that’s the best way I could describe his songs. Long before I started listening to Steven Curtis Chapman’s anointed lyricism, I was already deep into Bob’s lyrical genius.

The bridge at midnight trembles,
The country doctor rambles,
Bankers' nieces seek perfection,
Expecting all the gifts that wise men bring.
The wind howls like a hammer,
The night blows cold and rainy,
My love she's like some raven
At my window with a broken wing.

To my surprise, on one of John Piper’s book that I just recently finished (Don’t waste your life) He quoted Bob’s song in the early chapter. Which only proves that Bob Dylan’s music traverses different cultures, anyone does not need to be someone to be able to appreciate his music. His contributions to popular music and the words he penned for five decades has inspired people from different races.

On my way to sleep, I just got reminded of this song, searched for the complete lyrics and while reading and listening to it. I got inspired to write about his music.

So if you’re into definitive poetry and music, key in these words on the search box of YouTube and Google and just try to check out a few of his songs – Bob Dylan.

Blog # 50: Leaving 2007 with 8 fingers

I was thinking what would make this blog entry different, if not special from the rest of my entries this year. So the title says so. Yes. This blog entry is done with 8 fingers only. A few hours ago on a dinner gathering with my fellow brethren, the boys challenged each other’s strength on the hard court. We ended up playing a friendly game with a few locals that where already on the court when we arrived. I wish to describe the action-packed court hustle we had but my left hand is in pain. I could not type so much words like I could this past year.

This is the simplest way I could describe it, I was not expecting the blind pass from my team mate and before I knew it, my pinky finger got hit and it almost broke in two. It’s so painful I could not feel it hehehe. Not after the game when its already dinner time, my finger is already red in pain. One of my friends have to strap two of my fingers to give the injured one a rest. Free from pressure. No movement. But out of a stubborn will to catch up with this blog entry on new year, here I go again.

Well have to end this entry before I end up having to say goodbye to my small finger too. It’s still in pain as I end this blog.

Welcome 2008, it’s a pleasure to write one last entry this year with eight fingers left.

I hope to weave the next words with ten fingers already. Tomorrow morning, they plan to have another game. This time, I have to sit it out on the bench. And gaze at the athletic animation that the rest of the gang could share.

I still thank God though, my right hand is still intact and is more than able to hold my cam’s shutter to capture great moments that my brethren are celebrating.

Kindly pray for my left pinky finger, I miss typing with my both hands.