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.