Living Among the Pines

The Pine Tree

Rain drops hang off long slender needles, made brilliant green by droplets no longer clinging to cloud.

The earth beneath the living statues is soft and covered in a blanket of brown needles.

Thousands, millions, the blanket has no pattern to the eye, to the giver they tell of history, of storms and snow, of wind and sun, passing days and months, years and generations.

The scent that rises from the moist blanket mingles with living needles and bark. The fragrance is beyond description but not experience.

Breathe deeply and fill your soul with peace and tranquility as almost blinding rays of sunlight reach you through branch, limb and needle.

Warmth escapes from hidden rooms beneath the blanket as the sun heats the earth.

The blanket beckons your wearied body, go ahead, multitudes of creatures have already felt the comfort.

The blanket is thick and soft, your hand presses down and the blanket gives to your desire.

Lay back and sense the blanket give and move to your weariness.

The scent, the warmth, the moisture, they approach and beckon to lay with you.

Soon you are wrapped in comfort that fills your very soul, yea, every cell.

From your repose, looking up, the living statues reach into and then become part of the heavens.

Sleep overtakes and you dream of heaven, a land of pines, smells, and sweet comfort.

The Voice From the Heavens

 

                                         

  The air brushed past my cheek like a feather, 

ever so slightly touching my skin.

No noise, just movement.

Again it moved across my face, my senses heightened, 

ready to discern the presence.

Now stillness, nothing.

Stillness for such a long time, still nothing.

Perhaps it never was, twas my wish, my dream, my hope.

Closed eyes, closed out world, listen, sense.

Lids shut, the air moves again past my face.

A glow, faint, sensed through closed eyes, then growing brighter.

Eyes still closed, every cell, every sense in tune and anticipation.

The glow, now as bright as the sun, fills me.

The air moves, growing stronger as it begins to push against me.

A noise, like the movement of wings comes near.

Now with each sound of movement comes the rush of air.

And then the Voice, a voice like thunder in the mountains.

The words, " Behold the dwelling place of God is with men."

The Seraphim speaks and I tremble. 

Is the cross an oxymoron ?

 These days, leading to Good Friday and Easter, the old hymn, "The Old Rugged Cross", is a favorite among congregations. And, I often wonder if we really think about the words of the hymns we sing. I believe that the cross is a paradox. I mean, there is a truth that is either veiled, or easily passed over. We lift our voices and sing, "I will cherish the old rugged cross", "I will cling to the old rugged cross." Do we really mean, cling to the old rugged cross? What about, cherish, do we really, cherish?

There are few objects that I cherish. My girls gave me a carved stone elephant from Zimbabwe, as a birthday present. I cherish that because of my girls. It is something I hold close and it is very personal. A family heirloom, a fine piece of jewelry, these are items people might cherish. To cherish is to hold close, to gaze upon, understand its value and worth, not necessarily monetary worth. To cherish the cross is to get close and personal. Experiencing the value of the cross means you have come close. Close enough to become appalled at the site, the site of blood, discarded clothing and lives.

I used to find it repulsive thinking about clinging to the cross. What person today would want to place their hands, or worse, their arms and chest, against a post used to execute human beings. The upright of the executioners tool was used over and over until it rotted. The blood of countless bodies would have run down the post and become one with the fibers of the wood. To even think of clinging to such a horrific object should be repulsive. Now, add that our faith, our belief in Christ, centers on the cross. Some would think we are rather barbaric.

If you will come close to the cross with me, if you will be open and vulnerable, you will be able to sing the hymn with honesty and an experiential truth. In order to do that we must accept the horror and humiliation of the execution. Denial will cut short the transformation. Jesus Christ, the Begotten of the Father, the Second Person in the Trinity, the Word and character of God in the flesh, was executed at a time and place recorded in history. His death was real and it was his sacrifice for the sin of mankind. Again, look past the scene and believe that his death was for you.

As you are close to the cross, you must listen to the words of Jesus. He speaks words of forgiveness for his executioners. He speaks words of comfort to his mother and a dear friend. A man, hanging by his side hears words of comfort and life as his earthly life slips away. Listen, as he speaks with parched dry lips for a drink. In his final minutes he cries to his father during his darkest hour, life spent, body broken, blood out poured, he utters his final words and dies.

Standing close, the scene of the execution and the words spoken begin to transform sensitive and contrite hearts. The truth of his sacrifice becomes your truth, the truth of redemption's cost becomes your truth. Your spirit begins to understand that what took place was  for you. Soon, the scene of death and horror seems to fade and peace moves in your heart. With the peace comes new vision, a new eyesight that now looks at the cross and rejoices in the beauty.