“A voice is calling: clear the way for the Lord in the wilderness; make smooth in the desert a highway for our God. Let every valley be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; and let the rough ground become a plain, and the rugged terrain a broad valley; then the glory of the Lord will be revealed, and all flesh will see it together; for the mouth of the Lord has spoken." Isaiah 40:3-5

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for so long, truth was based on the validity of a person’s argument. reason was our god, and we sacrificed logic at its altar. processions of debate passed by the temples of philosophy, each theorist bowing their head in reverence as they passed. we had found the pathway to God. it was in our minds all along.

but something changed. logic was cold and heartless. it had no life. and besides, facts are not as sturdy as we once thought. we excavated our hearts, in search for something else to guide us to God. instead of forming arguments, we began painting canvasses, composing symphonies, and writing poems. we cast down the idols of knowledge and reason, and crafted a golden ark to carry on four ebony poles. we would worship beauty, and carry its shape with us as we left the barren stone city of reason. multitudes passed through the rusted iron gates into a deep forest, wrapped in vivid cloths and dancing with the frenzy of change. beauty was our pathway to God-whatever had beauty, relevance, and the ability to inspire us became the path, the truth, that we followed. the sky, once grey and cold, warmed to a steady and endless sunrise. we have followed this road for some time now.

i hypothesize--no, i dream (for reason is outlawed now--we think only in wonderment and pictures)--as i lay on my back inside a scarlet canvas tent. argumentation and poetry have both led us to the same place: ourselves. we left the city for the woods, but our feet still tread the same soil surface. we tired of logic, but as we wander down this path of subjective charms, i begin to doubt. just how long can this last?

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Contemplation on Travel

people are disoriented by consistency.
every once in a while, they hope to
solve their riddles and plug their doubts
by hopping in a car and driving.
hence vacations.

it’s like they think they can put distance
between them and themselves.
then they arrive at their senses.
paradise is never found in a change of scenery.
in any journey, there is only procrastination.

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splitting seams and flitting dreams,
butterfly ambitions in a field of doorways
that i did not sculpt.
i want a million roads
through a million galaxies,
with a million fellow pilgrims.

towards one destination.

my next year is an uncharted organism.
we are dissecting it.

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God’s grace is not a leash. dragging a dog towards Paradise is not an accurate depiction of salvation. God’s lavish sacrifice removes the leash, the noose, of sin from our necks, but it does not replace this leash with just another chain, no matter how weightless, holy, beautiful, or easy to bear. no! God’s grace is the removal of all chains and bondage, and is exquisite enough, powerful enough, to beckon us into Eternal Life. we will not be dragged into Heaven, but will come praising, crying, and dancing.

God’s grace is so divine, His sovereignty so supreme, His power so absolute, and His mercy so profound, that He can make a sacrifice that exceeds humanity’s capacity to understand or justify it. He gives us a choice, to love Him or to deny Him. He gives us the grace to believe, through faith, or the freedom to eternally slay ourselves into the Enemy’s hands, but He still gives us, through His over-abundant mercy and justice, a choice.

Christ’s death on Golgotha was not to make us robots, responding to the syntax of grace in a preprogrammed equation. His sacrifice transformed us from decrepit, depraved androids into humanity as crafted in the fresh green of Eden. Robots, no, for that is what we are in sin. a psychological, emotional, physical mechanism that yields only what it is: more sin. without Christ’s divine interference, we are automatic animals, lifeless and choiceless.

oh, this sacrifice! it is worth so much more than to transform sin machines into grace machines. it is to amputate the automation of autonomy and the gradual dying of sin--and though we die in surgery, He raises us up in holiness and righteousness. He strips out the circuits of depravity and implants His perfect organic body. he drains out the poisonous alloy in our veins, and pours in the rich blood that flowed out of Him at the place of the skull. this is grace.

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sometimes when she looks at me,
i feel the expansion of air between us
as it fills a vast balloon of ache.
we have an aquarium between us.
it refracts lies into our intentions,
as we press the illusions of our hands together.
goldfish swim between our fingertips,
and we find an ocean were we hoped
there was only skin.
i want to erase our bodies,
disintegrate the walls of our flesh,
and lie together in the empty woods,
spirit with spirit, heart with heart.

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all hearts shall cry the holy name,
of Him who made all hearts to cry,
Whose glory took on shape and came,
to sunken globe as holy spy.

this glory lifted on a hill,
whose logic only children win,
has taken every cry to fill
with God’s great heart in place of sin.

and though this feat was red and dark,
though God Himself has crawled through hell,
the blood that flowed from the nail’s deep mark,
has dripped and gather’d as Calvary’s well.

as deep as sorrows we may find,
so deeper still is God’s great well.
all weary sinners and loathsome kind,
may drink of life and live to tell.

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Romance of Orbits

my love for you, dear sun,
is the grey-birthed shadow that bends and runs,
as you drift across the sky.
in the morning as you appear,
it stretches freshly out behind me here,
as if to draw you nearby.

my shadow pulls its rope--
and you always answer, climbing your gentle slope,
as my eyes run along your path--
until at noon when you are closest,
and it’s shifting form is lost beneath my toes,
when as an eclipse i most feel your warmth.

from such a height you fall,
gaining speed, and crashing toward horizon’s call,
my shadow heaving fiercely.
as you drop my shadow grows,
spreading across the world; and you lawn down,
in the shadow-birthed grey with me.

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fragments:

desperation is a sign of inadequacy. inadequacy is normality. people should not feel so afraid of being normal.

in sunlight and summer breezes,
i throw my head out the open window
and watch through the rearview mirror
as it rolls and bounces down the road.

everyone is in a bubble, it just varies the size and shape. i might as well choose Jesus, Inc. over Bud Light.

this world of mine is a mystical rainy slimed-up dance through thunderclouds and deep woods.

what’s more important: to be right, or to do right?

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