Impending,
Upending,
The most holy chamber's veil rending;
Climaxes soon the life of Son of Man.
Upsetting,
Regretting,
Execution's fallout soon besetting;
Disciples feel Sanhedrin's awful ban.
Revealing,
Unsealing,
A Death breaks sin's iron ceiling;
God-man does what no other person can.
Broken,
Spoken,
Bread and wine a covenant token;
A Meal shared now saves fallen man.
Awaiting,
Hesitating,
Master's death impact now bating;
Followers know not what to plan.
Wait.
Watch.
Expect.
Something wonderful is about to happen.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Monday, May 23, 2011
Osama, Part 2
Osama bin Laden's dead, and there was cheering and fist-pumping.
Why is that?
I want to look at a few reasons why there was a celebration of sorts when the news of bin Laden's death was announced early this month. Let's begin...
Why is that?
I want to look at a few reasons why there was a celebration of sorts when the news of bin Laden's death was announced early this month. Let's begin...
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Osama, Part 1
Osama bin Laden is dead.
How does that make you feel?
Are you elated? Satisfied? Ambivalent? Proud to be an American? Conflicted? Devoid of emotion?
If so, you're in good company, based on what I've seen posted on forums and comment boards and op-ed pieces.
There seems to be a mood at once celebratory and sober. Even as we cheer the "bringing to justice" of a man who demonstrated just what evil looks like to our generation, we begin looking over our shoulders for a reprisal attack. Even as we feel pride in the precise actions of a SEAL team, we wonder what the right response is to the killing of another person.
There doesn't seem to be much unconditional satisfaction in this event.
I'd like to look at this moral ambiguity in more detail, from a Christian perspective, over the next few evenings. For now, I'll merely point out that it seems to exist.
We'll explore the cheering and chest-thumping in the next post.
How does that make you feel?
Are you elated? Satisfied? Ambivalent? Proud to be an American? Conflicted? Devoid of emotion?
If so, you're in good company, based on what I've seen posted on forums and comment boards and op-ed pieces.
There seems to be a mood at once celebratory and sober. Even as we cheer the "bringing to justice" of a man who demonstrated just what evil looks like to our generation, we begin looking over our shoulders for a reprisal attack. Even as we feel pride in the precise actions of a SEAL team, we wonder what the right response is to the killing of another person.
There doesn't seem to be much unconditional satisfaction in this event.
I'd like to look at this moral ambiguity in more detail, from a Christian perspective, over the next few evenings. For now, I'll merely point out that it seems to exist.
We'll explore the cheering and chest-thumping in the next post.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Happiness
I have found the secret to happiness.
I was talking to a co-worker the other day, and the conversation finally turned to the subject of what gave us pleasure. We had already decided that talking politics was a surefire way to lose whatever happiness or peace of mind we might have had. Talking religion, even though we didn't directly speak about that, is the same kind of subject - you are almost certain to be more agitated after the conversation than before it, and not in a good way.
Since we're both grandparents, we both agreed that playing with the grandchildren is a good way to get a smile plastered back on our faces. More than that, it will probably be a crooked, goofy-looking smile, if our experience is any guide.
So - what is this secret of happiness, and how does it relate to playing with your grandchildren? And what if you're too young to have grandchildren; what's the secret for you?
I was talking to a co-worker the other day, and the conversation finally turned to the subject of what gave us pleasure. We had already decided that talking politics was a surefire way to lose whatever happiness or peace of mind we might have had. Talking religion, even though we didn't directly speak about that, is the same kind of subject - you are almost certain to be more agitated after the conversation than before it, and not in a good way.
Since we're both grandparents, we both agreed that playing with the grandchildren is a good way to get a smile plastered back on our faces. More than that, it will probably be a crooked, goofy-looking smile, if our experience is any guide.
So - what is this secret of happiness, and how does it relate to playing with your grandchildren? And what if you're too young to have grandchildren; what's the secret for you?
Friday, April 2, 2010
Second Person Plural - Endgame
Endgame
You are staggering up the rocky path to the Place of the Skull, carrying the patibulum across your shoulders.
The crossbeam is rough, and is agony as its splintery surface rubs against the wounds from the flogging you had undergone before this death march. As you take step after painful step, you lose your footing and fall to the path. The crossbeam slips from your grasp, and the Roman soldier walking behind you lashes you with his crop. You try to rise, but the blood on your hands makes them slip on the worn stones of the trail. You fall face first, and lay there for a moment, even as the whip slashes your bloody ribs and back.
Finally, power from some inner reserve gives you the strength to rise to a standing position. You reach down, and try to pick up the patibulum. The soldier has other ideas. He drags a man from the crowd flanking the road, and forces him to pick the beam up and place it on his own shoulders. You follow this unwilling conscript, thankful for the relief.
Finally, you and the other members of the execution party reach the summit of Golgotha. The pits where the stipes of the crosses will be sunk are ready for their gory pillars, the wedges to stabilize the crosses set to their sides.
The man carrying your crossbeam drops it near you. The soldier roughly motions for him to move away. He looks at you, imploringly. You try to say something, but all that comes from your parched throat is a croak.
Your clothes are pulled off you, leaving you naked in the bright sunlight of mid-morning. You look down at your body, your arms, your legs. You have been flogged relentlessly, and your skin is a tapestry of bleeding wounds and torn flesh. Blood runs down your face from the thorns that crown your head. Even as you look down, you begin to weave from side to side, almost ready to fall.
Hands grab you by the arms and legs, and you're dropped like a dead man onto the hard stone, next to the stipes. The soldiers have been lashing the crossbeam to the upright, and you're dragged across the wood to have your arms spread wide on the beam. The upright is under your back, and every move is agony.
As your arms are pulled to the left and the right, soldiers grip your hands and arms as nails are poised above your wrists. The points bite into your flesh, and then the first stroke of the hammer hits the head. You can't help yourself as you scream in pain, as the point of each nail drives through your wrist and into the hard wood of the crossbeam. The blows from the hammer finally stop, and you're left in shock with blinding pain shooting up and down your arms.
Your feet are placed to each side of the upright, and more nails are placed against your heels. You try to steel yourself for the blows you know are coming, but you're unable to keep the agony within you. As you scream with each strike of the hammer, the soldiers laugh and make jibes at you, sticking out their tongues and spitting on you.
Finally, the hammer falls silent. The troopers grab the cross and heave it into the hole, letting it drop to the bottom with a sharp jerk. Your wrists and feet are shocked by the blow, but by now, the pain is so encompassing that it's all you experience. It's everything, it's your world, and it's becoming impossible to separate one source from another.
You look around at the people standing in knots on the summit. To your right, you see another prisoner, a thief, writhing in his own crucifixion agony. To your left is another man slumped down from his cross. The Romans are squatted at the foot of your own cross, grabbing at the robe you had worn until just minutes ago.
You are lifted up and exposed to the wind and the cries from the birds that spiral around this hill of death. Through the fog of pain, you wonder how long you will last. The air is getting cooler; the sky is beginning to darken as clouds mount up on all sides.
You glance down and see your mother standing with one of your disciples. Tears are streaming down her cheeks as she clutches the arm of the young man. She reaches out toward you. In a whisper, you tell her that this is her son. To your disciple, you say that this is now his mother. You can say no more, as you wheeze and cough, trying to draw in each breath against the weight of your body hanging from the spikes through your wrists.
Time passes. One of the Romans puts a sponge on the tip of his lance, pours some vinegar on it, and thrusts it at your mouth. You lean out toward the sponge, licking the bitter liquid, desperately trying to moisten your throat. The exertion forces you to cough once more, and your breathing begins to roughen.
With pain lancing through your limbs and your chest, you grab for each breath. Your eyes widen. Arching your back, you cry out, "It is finished!" And the world whirls away into blackness.
You are staggering up the rocky path to the Place of the Skull, carrying the patibulum across your shoulders.
The crossbeam is rough, and is agony as its splintery surface rubs against the wounds from the flogging you had undergone before this death march. As you take step after painful step, you lose your footing and fall to the path. The crossbeam slips from your grasp, and the Roman soldier walking behind you lashes you with his crop. You try to rise, but the blood on your hands makes them slip on the worn stones of the trail. You fall face first, and lay there for a moment, even as the whip slashes your bloody ribs and back.
Finally, power from some inner reserve gives you the strength to rise to a standing position. You reach down, and try to pick up the patibulum. The soldier has other ideas. He drags a man from the crowd flanking the road, and forces him to pick the beam up and place it on his own shoulders. You follow this unwilling conscript, thankful for the relief.
Finally, you and the other members of the execution party reach the summit of Golgotha. The pits where the stipes of the crosses will be sunk are ready for their gory pillars, the wedges to stabilize the crosses set to their sides.
The man carrying your crossbeam drops it near you. The soldier roughly motions for him to move away. He looks at you, imploringly. You try to say something, but all that comes from your parched throat is a croak.
Your clothes are pulled off you, leaving you naked in the bright sunlight of mid-morning. You look down at your body, your arms, your legs. You have been flogged relentlessly, and your skin is a tapestry of bleeding wounds and torn flesh. Blood runs down your face from the thorns that crown your head. Even as you look down, you begin to weave from side to side, almost ready to fall.
Hands grab you by the arms and legs, and you're dropped like a dead man onto the hard stone, next to the stipes. The soldiers have been lashing the crossbeam to the upright, and you're dragged across the wood to have your arms spread wide on the beam. The upright is under your back, and every move is agony.
As your arms are pulled to the left and the right, soldiers grip your hands and arms as nails are poised above your wrists. The points bite into your flesh, and then the first stroke of the hammer hits the head. You can't help yourself as you scream in pain, as the point of each nail drives through your wrist and into the hard wood of the crossbeam. The blows from the hammer finally stop, and you're left in shock with blinding pain shooting up and down your arms.
Your feet are placed to each side of the upright, and more nails are placed against your heels. You try to steel yourself for the blows you know are coming, but you're unable to keep the agony within you. As you scream with each strike of the hammer, the soldiers laugh and make jibes at you, sticking out their tongues and spitting on you.
Finally, the hammer falls silent. The troopers grab the cross and heave it into the hole, letting it drop to the bottom with a sharp jerk. Your wrists and feet are shocked by the blow, but by now, the pain is so encompassing that it's all you experience. It's everything, it's your world, and it's becoming impossible to separate one source from another.
You look around at the people standing in knots on the summit. To your right, you see another prisoner, a thief, writhing in his own crucifixion agony. To your left is another man slumped down from his cross. The Romans are squatted at the foot of your own cross, grabbing at the robe you had worn until just minutes ago.
You are lifted up and exposed to the wind and the cries from the birds that spiral around this hill of death. Through the fog of pain, you wonder how long you will last. The air is getting cooler; the sky is beginning to darken as clouds mount up on all sides.
You glance down and see your mother standing with one of your disciples. Tears are streaming down her cheeks as she clutches the arm of the young man. She reaches out toward you. In a whisper, you tell her that this is her son. To your disciple, you say that this is now his mother. You can say no more, as you wheeze and cough, trying to draw in each breath against the weight of your body hanging from the spikes through your wrists.
Time passes. One of the Romans puts a sponge on the tip of his lance, pours some vinegar on it, and thrusts it at your mouth. You lean out toward the sponge, licking the bitter liquid, desperately trying to moisten your throat. The exertion forces you to cough once more, and your breathing begins to roughen.
With pain lancing through your limbs and your chest, you grab for each breath. Your eyes widen. Arching your back, you cry out, "It is finished!" And the world whirls away into blackness.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Utopia -- Moving on from all that...
Today I read a post at SmartPlanet.com about how IBM is reinventing the idea of Utopia for Disney at EPCOT. In the comments I read that the reason that dystopian visions have become so prevalent is because our country has banned prayer from public schools since 1963. This loss of prayer, according to this commenter's thesis, is directly behind all the social ills that we see besetting our society. More specifically, it's because of the lack of emphasis on a future utopian "life everlasting" that we have fallen into dystopian patterns now.
I'd like to take a contrarian stance on this, and propose that the reason we seem to have a fascination with dystopian ideas is directly related to the notion of a future utopian life in the here-after. More to the point, I'd like to propose that the more we put our emphasis on that afterlife, the more likely we are (based on available evidence) to disregard the world we have around us right now.
I'm going to develop this hypothesis over the next few days; I'm not going to lay the whole thing out in one post. I want to see if I can get a lively discussion going in the comments section. Consider it an experiment in readership cultivation.
Let's just put one proposal out there right now, and see what comes of it.
I don't believe there's any physical, independently verifiable evidence, or any experience that many of us share in our daily lives, that unambiguously confirms the existence of either life after death, or an eternity after some judgment day. Testimony is not sufficient to verify this, by the standards I just laid down. Intensity of personal belief in these things is not sufficient. The strength of one's convictions is no validation at all. Suicide bombers have great strength of conviction; do any of us have that much strength of conviction as Christians, to put it to the test? Perhaps a few do -- I'll have more to say about all that as these posts appear, but not right now.
So -- what do you say, reader(s)? Any comments? Any atheists out there? Want to join in the conversation?
This is the first of several posts that will examine the ideas of afterlife, utopia (and what it means, plus what it could mean), and what it takes to hold these beliefs as true.
I'd like to take a contrarian stance on this, and propose that the reason we seem to have a fascination with dystopian ideas is directly related to the notion of a future utopian life in the here-after. More to the point, I'd like to propose that the more we put our emphasis on that afterlife, the more likely we are (based on available evidence) to disregard the world we have around us right now.
I'm going to develop this hypothesis over the next few days; I'm not going to lay the whole thing out in one post. I want to see if I can get a lively discussion going in the comments section. Consider it an experiment in readership cultivation.
Let's just put one proposal out there right now, and see what comes of it.
I don't believe there's any physical, independently verifiable evidence, or any experience that many of us share in our daily lives, that unambiguously confirms the existence of either life after death, or an eternity after some judgment day. Testimony is not sufficient to verify this, by the standards I just laid down. Intensity of personal belief in these things is not sufficient. The strength of one's convictions is no validation at all. Suicide bombers have great strength of conviction; do any of us have that much strength of conviction as Christians, to put it to the test? Perhaps a few do -- I'll have more to say about all that as these posts appear, but not right now.
So -- what do you say, reader(s)? Any comments? Any atheists out there? Want to join in the conversation?
This is the first of several posts that will examine the ideas of afterlife, utopia (and what it means, plus what it could mean), and what it takes to hold these beliefs as true.
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