thegreatknock

Loudness.

Disregard.

Charisma.

Passion.

Position.

Fame.

Ignorance.

Cowardice.

Cleverness.

Pleasantry.

Assumed superiority.

Standing at the front of a room.

Sitting at the head of a conference table.

Writing in the blank space of a blog or a comment field.

Scoffing.

Intimidating.

Power.

Sometimes it’s nice to visit an old relative and say hello.

Hello, xanga (smile).

Sometimes, while driving around town, I listen to music and it makes me see with new eyes. Take this morning, for example. I locked away Daphne and Gracie, hopped into the Jeep after stashing all the work necessities in the back (and a few non-essentials, such as the disc golf discs), and pulled away to go to the office. As I reached the highway, I realised a song my heart wanted to hear, and clicked the wheel round til it reached Rich Mullins. One button-push later, “Calling Out Your Name” begins to hammer out the speakers…

Well, the moon moved past Nebraska
And spilled laughter on them cold Dakota hills
Angels danced on Jacob’s stairs–
Yeah, they danced on Jacob’s stairs

There is this silence in the Badlands
And over Kansas the whole universe is stilled
With the whisper of a prayer
The whisper of a prayer

And I see the hawk burst into flight
And in the east all the horizon
Is in flames
I hear the thunder in the sky–
See the sky about to rain–
And I hear the prairies calling out Your name

Listening to this as I flew past familiar hillocks and grass leant on by the old Tennessee wind, knowing they were not the prairies described, yet they felt new. And it made my heart breathe deep.

Sometimes, too, the music makes me cry. When the first song ended, I paused the music to revel for a few minutes before starting another song by this, probably the greatest poetic lyricist I’ve ever heard…

Aidan, you’re young
But, Aidan, you’re growing
Fast
Me and your mom and all the love we have
We can only take you so far–
As far as we can–
But you’ll need something more
To guide your heart
As you grow into a man–

Let mercy lead
let love be the strength in your legs
And in every footprint that you leave
There’ll be a drop of grace
If we can reach beyond the wisdom of this age
Into the foolishness of God
That foolishness will save those who believe
Although their foolish hearts may break
They’ll find peace
And I’ll meet you
In that place where mercy leads

Oh, this song made me cry! Only a few small tears, but cry I did. Cry for the beauty of a foolishness which saves by the awesome power of God. Cry for the mercy which ought to lead us, step by step, to overcome the world. Cry for the church which contents itself with the wisdom of this age–with its tactics of complaint and resistance and advertisement, rather than sacrificing, enduring, overcoming, winning. Tears for the peace of Christ, which He gives, so unlike the peace of this present, dark world; for less activism and more grace-persistent, loving activity; for foolish hearts to break, for my foolish heart to break.

They were but a few tears, but they were enough to move me. Add a cup of hope, stir, and such moments can move many, many more, I do believe.

(reprinted from Easter 2006, by the author)

The echo still resounded, “Let there be Light!” This Light beyond all light which transports the soul from the black of evil to the bright shine of goodly glory had come, had spilled all over the earth and over the hearts of men, exposing all, radiating all, loving all, burning all. Some seared souls arose against that Light and resolved themselves that this Light would have no part of them! They shook angry fists to the heavens from which that great Light shone; they spewed blasphemous rage. They sought to destroy the Light.

With a sigh, the Light absorbed their derision and rejection. The Light faded with the weight of infinite sorrow shrouding its glory moment by moment. At last, the very Daylight died. There was morning and there was evening: the first day.

Rage. The earth itself did tremble and rupture, and the dead began to crawl from their graves. Look! Look to the heavy curtain of the universe, veiling all things from the unapproachable Light which would consume them! The glorious Light, the Holy of holiest Light, which men could not enter lest they die–the marvelous Light did not kill the foolish trespassing Man, but true to the nature of Light, it only exposed the reality: that the trespassing Man was already dead! The curtain sways as all things slip into tumultuous darkness, heaving groaning despairing dark. The curtain sways, and suddenly is torn! Men avert their eyes, lest they too die…fall to their knees, grieving that they should stand so close to the Holy Room…and then they raise their eyes. They look, in faith, they look and can see as the Light wills them to see!

Silence elsewhere. Men strike hands in sinful pledges, women seduce, children revolt, parents despise, fathers abuse, mothers tantrum, sons lust, daughters envy. It is as any other day. There was morning and there was evening: the second day.

Night passes and begins to ebb away. A slow blue burns the edge of the horizon, burning itself into a watery light which creeps farther and farther heavenward, ascending as only the Light can ascend! At the same moment, watery tears yet fall from the cheeks of those precious few who loved the Light which left them two days hence. Will they be left alone in darkness? Darkness still within them, darkness all around–O, will the Sun also rise?

Unknown to them, the earth again moved–this time, but a single great boulder, a stone which stood before the shadowy cave. A hundred men who doubted the Light (but also doubted Death enough to stand as guards against the imperishable Light) look in awe for a moment and are struck down. They lie as though dead.

It is the breaking of the Dawn! Light passes among them, and among many more, thousands upon thousands more, Light passes among you and I…the Light burns on, loves on, restores on, proclaims on, satisfies on, sears on, frightens on, rages on! The Light remains and darkness cannot overwhelm Him! O God! What Light!

It was morning and it is forever morning: the Third Day.

Click the title above to check out our new website. Why Know is no mo’, our new name is On Point. Not bad (smile).

Last night, we held our annual banquet here at the Chattanooga Trade Center, with this year’s speaker, Dr. Benjamin Carson. Dr. Carson did a wonderful job–he communicated much wisdom learned both from his childhood struggles and from more modern trials in the operating room. A very nice man, he.

While he shared much I could reflect upon (and probably will), I was musing over one tidbit just now: Dr. Carson’s mother, in case you do not know, decided to kill their TV and require her two sons to read books (2 per week) and write reports on each book. Little Ben hated this at first (he joked last night that he and his brother called it “child abuse”), but within a few months he loved reading. And he said his morale was boosted greatly as he began to earn things that none of his classmates knew. He said he realised this impact from his reading, even as a young boy.

I loved to hear the simplicity of that, that kind of honest pride in knowing things. While it can lead to gross pride, the simple desire to learn and know more can be simple, pure, and sweet–it’s something we are made to do (John 10:10). But I think about our culture today, with its countless media sources and outlets from televisions to theaters to cell phones and computers, and I wonder if we haven’t grown into a culture where young people don’t care about knowing more (or even just other) things than the next person–to them, it’s more important to know exactly what everyone else knows. How many conversations are begun, “Hey, did you hear…” How many times I have observed young people hear the first few seconds of a popular song, and turn to look at one another for that glance of recognition: “You know this song, too? Oh, I know this song–in fact, I can sing all the words, watch this.” They are content only to know the same gossip, rumors, speculations, and useless superficial knowledge that their peers possess.

But do they love learning? Do they dig deep into knowledge? Most importantly, do they know, do they press on to know the Lord? For in the light of Him, knowledge knows its limitations and is humbled. But who will show this generation how?

listening to music that makes me want to go out hiking
in the heat of the day
along dry streams where flies buzz and spiders dangle,
feeling the occasional cool pocket
of breath
along the stream bed–
feeling the sun slant through still, still branches,
going sometimes blind
studying the rocks to find the surest footing
along an uncertain path,
steadying
myself
by holding onto trees who’ve known every one of these rocks
for much longer than i have–
steering my course up along this empty waterway
with no destination in mind,
glad to have
a plain direction–

feeling in the roughness of the wilderness,
the holiness of the ground

I love stories. Telling them, hearing them, reading them, discussing them, polishing them, turning them, painting them, singing them…really, is there anything which cannot be done with Story? It’s a marvelous invention.

Has Story always been? since man begun,
His thoughts and deeds, hopes, fears, have all been sung
In poetry and prophecy, and told
Through novels new and ancient plays of old.
Perhaps the only thing as old as God
Is Story…

I write stories from time to time. In days past, I would write them in pieces or over instant messages, just making them up as I went along (which I’m sure genuine authors would chide me for, saying I ought to govern my creations more strictly than such wandering accounts). I wrote one a few weeks ago about the noise in my office wall–when the wind blows hard, a strange metallic creak goes through the wall, and this inspired my story:

A story written over IM… January 7, 2009

Something metallic rattles over my head, like the wind is in the ceiling or wall. I could probably write a good story about it, but the truth of it is far more amazing than even I could imagine. And if I had time, I would surely tell it.

You see, it isn’t the wind that is causing such a ruckus. In fact, it is a story locked up within the wall.

You know how this building was purchased some months ago by Yerbey Construction? Well, during the second week of September, a work crew came to begin the process of gutting the old place. They walked in and found a mess of old two-by-fours, wiring hanging from a sunken ceiling, lights broken, small standing pools of water from the recent rains.

So they rolled up their sleeves and started throwing all the old useless things in the dumpster out front.

Well, one such worker–a lean, scratchy fellow named Carl–moved to a little-used corner of the space: the corner just outside my office, in fact. And pushing soggy warped boards aside, he uncovered there something unexpected.

It was small, rather old, and it showed its age. Still, he could tell it wasn’t useless, and this caused him some dilemma. ‘Should I throw this away, too?’ he asked himself. ‘I mean, surely I can’t leave it here.’

He called the foreman over: ‘Um, sir? Can you give me a hand with this?’ The foreman, who was large with a large head and nose, and who was not the nicest sort of fellow, growled a little and came round from another part of the building.

Carl showed him the Story, trying very hard to pretend like he knew what he was supposed to do. But no need–the foreman himself had never seen such a thing before. He grunted in surprise, then grunted again to call for their electrician to come check it out. The electrician came and murmured to himself a bit before concluding he had no idea what the Story was, either. So they called the plumber, considering how the Story yet sat in a small puddle of water. The plumber came. And simply shrugged.

The carpenter, not wanting to be left out of the free break time everyone seemed to be getting, came over, too. He was always left out of the bigger decisions of the crew, but wouldn’t be left out this time–so when he saw the Story sitting there, he saw his opportunity to prove himself.

‘Why, that’s a load-bearing chisel slack-joint,’ he said to them all with all confidence. ‘Sure, it’s important. We need to tack that puppy up here out of the way, between the joists, like so,’ and taking a pencil to mark a ridiculous X on the beam, he nailed the Story to the joist.

All the workers shrugged a little at this, but as the unknown Story was someone else’s problem now, and not theirs, they were content to move on to other habitual tasks of gutting a building. So they turned and did not see the Story move slightly.

They laboured here a few weeks, feeding wiring, mounting sheetrock, applying paint, and so on. And the little story, still affixed to the joists, was locked up inside.

So now whenever the Story moves, the joists creak and the metal supports groan. I figure the Story needs to be heard, and I guess it will keep groaning until someone listens to It.

I stopped there–what do you all suppose happened to the Story?

A man I admire very much, as much for the coolness of his name as for the patient humility of his faith, is visiting this week in nearby Dayton. His name is Brother Augustine Asir and he lives in Chennai, India. I count him a distant friend even though I’ve spent a scant few weeks with him, first in the summer of ’99 and then again in 2005.

One of the kindest words of encouragement I’ve ever heard came from this man. In 2005, I was so blessed to have the opportunity to preach twice to groups of believers there, first to a small crowd of elderly folks in a home and then to group of believers in our borrowed flat. Both times, I spent many hours preparing some thoughts from passages of Scripture only to be led to change plans in the hour before I was to speak…but when the speaking came, I had such confidence, power and peace when I opened my mouth that not a word fell to the ground. And I felt joy. Joy like I feel when I read the prophet’s echo, “Is not My Word like a fire, like a hammer which breaks stones to pieces?!” or when I read Paul’s words to Timothy, “But the Word is not imprisoned!” Joy solid like stone.

It was after the second occasion, the one in the small flat (incidentally, after a long night and day of throwing up and general illness), that Brother Augustine came and encouraged me. He came and spoke to me as a sort of spiritual grandfather, eyes peaceful and glad, face lined with dark wrinkles, crowned with his white curly fuzz. He told me then that I had served well, that the Spirit works mightily in my speaking, that He is strong within me.

My father has encouraged me much over the years, and my wife encourages me wonderfully as well. But along with their good words, I remember his. They’ve stayed with me, as a kind of spiritual blessing…these words from a grandfather in the faith.

Thanks, Brother!

I am studying the Gospel of Matthew, and this morning began working through chapter 3 and a bit about John the Baptist. A little later, I saw a Piper sermon in my Inbox about John the Baptist–called John the Witness in one of the other gospels. In Piper’s sermon, he speaks of how God is going to use us to share the Light…

The Word and the Life and the Light are coming into the world. But they are not going to conquer this darkness the way a bolt of lightning brightens the night. They are going to conquer it by lighting millions of cold, dead human torches with the oxygen of the gospel and the mysteriously spontaneous combustion of the new birth. And that gospel will come through human witnesses.

Such a beautiful way to put it! Another reference to John the Witness came up earlier this week in Oswald Chambers:

The key to the missionary message is the propitiation of Christ Jesus. Take any phase of Christ’s work—the healing phase, the saving and sanctifying phase; there is nothing limitless about those. ‘The Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world!’—that is limitless. The missionary message is the limitless significance of Jesus Christ as the propitiation for our sins, and a missionary is one who is soaked in that revelation.

The key to the missionary message is the remissionary aspect of Christ’s life, not His kindness and His goodness, and His revealing of the Fatherhood of God; the great limitless significance is that He is the propitiation for our sins. The missionary message is not patriotic, it is irrespective of nations and of individuals, it is for the whole world. When the Holy Ghost comes in He does not consider my predilections, He brings me into union with the Lord Jesus.

A missionary is one who is wedded to the charter of his Lord and Master; he has not to proclaim his own point of view, but to proclaim the Lamb of God. It is easier to belong to a coterie which tells what Jesus Christ has done for me, easier to become a devotee to Divine healing, or to a special type of sanctification, or to the baptism of the Holy Ghost. Paul did not say ‘Woe is unto me, if I do not preach what Christ has done for me,’ but ‘Woe is unto me, if I preach not the gospel!’ This is the Gospel—’The Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world!’

O be encouraged, you who are the Light! Take the Word of God to the world, regardless of darkness; for we are captives set free, even in this world of chains, and we know that “the Word of God is not imprisoned!”