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If the world will ever find peace
Good people will have to stop fighting. It is not enough for good people to be good. Being good has a blind spot. It makes you think That you are justified in fighting for what is right, In making war in defense of truth And to preserve your freedom. But freedom doesn’t need to be preserved. It lives within the heart of those Who can’t be persuaded Not to speak the truth Even when the enemy rages And the tyrant oppresses. So be good. Speak the truth. But also be kind. It is the way That leads to peace.
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Some news.
I am going overseas. I don’t know how I’ll get there. But I’ve never known how I’ll get there. And isn’t it strange that I could know such a thing? And yet I do. How long will it take me to get there? I don’t know. How will I support myself when I get there? I think I know. More on that to come. But in the end, God only knows. And how long will I be there? A year, a month, a day, A lifetime? God only knows. One thing I know. My path is a surprise. And the joy is walking it with Him Wherever he leads me. That’s enough. If I were to just act
And stop thinking quite so much I think I’d be better off. So long as our intentions are good, I don’t know that it matters that much What we do so long as we do. Do, do, do. In all things, do. That’s what bodies are made for. Do the best that can be done Under the circumstances And then move on To another do. I wonder if it’s the long-term That gets us thinkers into trouble. We try to make choices That we can’t yet make. I am sure there are some Whose problem is the opposite Who get themselves into trouble Because they don’t think quite enough. But for those of us whose addiction Is trying to work it all out beforehand, The antidote, it seems to me, is DO. Lessons from Raymond, the homeless man
Who helped prepare me for the road. To view previous lessons, find my playlist entitled: Raymond Lessons. Lesson 10: Keep writing. Tell a story. Disappear. This one surprised me. It came in the days that followed. Raymond had given me 2 books, One deep, the other bubble gum. Couldn't get past page 40 in the latter. Couldn’t put down the former. The author of the latter Was all over. But I could not find a single word About the author of the former, It was published in 1939, And the writer had disappeared from history To spite the fact that his book Was one of the most meaningful, Well-written, and moving stories I’ve ever read. And in those two books, Raymond’s message Came through crystal clear: Tell a story. Tell it well. Move the people, And then disappear. Don’t try to be great. Just try to tell a good story. It’s enough. I will gather the apples before they fall,
But not my apples, your apples, If you'll let me. You planted the tree with good intentions But we all know how that goes. And they'll soon go to waste. I'll also clean your windows, Mow your lawn, Walk your dog, If you let me. You planned to do it all, But we all know how that goes. I'll even take out your garbage If you let me, so long As I can rifle through your trash. You bought that stuff with good intentions But we all know how that goes. And I can make a living of your waste if you'll let me. And what's more, don't put it past me to wait Until you're bothered By the unused scrap of land And are ready to let it go for a song. I'll sing the song if you'll let me. And pound out a golden paper If you'll let me, if you'll let me. I am the care-free scavenger. My life is easy, risk-free, almost. Because I know how that goes. And I am willing to work and wait. You can create another version of the past
That serves a better future. When you do something you regret, Rewrite the experience in your mind. And give thanks for God’s grace In helping you to choose the better part Even though you did not choose the better part. Be descriptive in your re-writing, Enough that gratitude wells up For making the right decision. See it. Feel it. Resist the tendency to disbelieve. And you will actually create another reality. Yeah…out of fantasy. But your brain doesn’t know that it’s fantasy. It experiences those good feelings As if they really happened. If you do this consistently, Sooner or later, you’ll discover That you start doing the right thing So that you can experience more Of the feeling you felt In your made-up past. It is a strategy for the weak Who wish to be made strong through belief. Bookkeeping and accountability
Is very much like a cold water plunge. It brings me into immediate contact With a cold harsh reality That is at the same time Shocking and invigorating. Holy cow! What a reality check To face the unrelenting numbers. But I love it. Every expense, however minute, counted. Every dollar added up and carefully budgeted With single minded intent toward wise investment. It turns out that I don’t make as much money as I thought! And that makes me disinclined to waste a single minute. I can’t afford to. They are too prescious. Most of my life was laissez faire. I trusted God to provide And he did. But this new thing of facing the numbers Is also precious. The God of Truth Is also in the numbers. The cold water. He is in the miracles. But he is also in the math. He is in the wandering wilderness. And he is in the rocky soil we must plow When we reach the promised land. A fire’s lit within me
Where the broken waters flowed, A covenant to purchase All the land they have disposed, The barren wasted places That the Spirit only knows To feed the broken family That in my heart like flowers grow. I rejoice that the land is going back.
It is being claimed by the owls And by the finches, By the little birds And by the great big bears. For it appears that despite the grasping hands, That the pebbles fall between the fingers. For the time is up. The lease has been reclaimed And soon, it will be turned loose to the wild ones Who have no other place to go. But fear not, It’s just the land you haven’t used. You won’t miss it when it’s gone. You may even rejoice To be spared the taxes. For a curse is decreed upon the land. Hear it, oh people! I say again, A curse is decreed Upon the land. And now Behold the One who watches over sparrows Come to give homes to those Without holes. Behold, He comes With lightning in His hand. And there is no way to cling anymore To anything but that which you most cherish, So choose well. From frugality, comes generosity.
But think about it, If I am an extravagant landlord, I can't afford to give you a break When you lose your job And can't pay the rent. The same is true If I'm in debt. The bank is relentless And so must I be. Only the frugal landlord, The one who buys with cash Out of a fraction of his means Can afford to give the honest man a break When he really needs one. Only the frugal man can remain human Because he's free from the machine. This morning I was trying to decide what to write
And a thought came into my mind That had been brewing since yesterday: “Investment is more about valuing what you have Than it is about the acquisition of property.” Is that really right? I wondered. And then the second part came: “If you make good use of your present means, Property will fall into your hands.” And I was blown away, Fall into your hands! Incredible! I am drawn to the song of the heart, sung with others.
It’s been so many years since I sang. Perhaps I will find a choir. The thought feels like home. And yet I live in the boonies, Not many great choral groups nearby. If I do join a choir, I want to find Some people who take it seriously, Not professional musicians, but musicians, Not just a handful of parishioners Looking for something to do On a Sunday afternoon. I wonder, do you too love choral music? If so, what does it do for you? Am I alone in the sense of home I find in it? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. I am feeling rather practical today,
More like a merchant, less like a poet. I am intrigued by watching money, Seeing it slowly trickle in, Marking down the numbers Alotting the returns And pouring a portion of my means, Into the opportunities that wait. And what’s the point? To grow in wealth. How vulgar that once seemed. And yet, as the rivers flow into the Ocean, I am drawn unto this end, As if from the beginning it was And always has been my sacred pledge. And as the rich despised my poverty, The poor will hate my wealth. How strange. And yet, I cannot but follow The Voice That now prompts me to do it. My life, my fortune, is forfeit unto Him. In the early journey of the soul,
Spirits long to test the waters, To experience all they can. They want to try this And try that. They are curious. And they grow in light Then fall behind, then grow, Then fall behind. And it’s similar for old souls, They too want to know what’s out there But with a different motive. They no longer Believe that they can grow By experience alone. They forsake The thing they want to know For the unseen guiding hand. They say “not my will be done,” They let go of all their dreams In preference to the will Of the One they cannot see, And so grow brighter and brighter. They become ONE THING. And that thing gets added upon eternally. And isn’t it the same with earthly experience? As children, we want to be a fireman, And a pilot, a cowboy or a movie queen, A housewife, a doctor, and a veterinarian. But in the end, we must eventually choose. Or not. We can choose to remain children, Moving from this thing to that But never really growing Into the thing we’re meant to be. And it’s all ok. Some grow up fast. Some take a little longer. Some are old souls, giving again and again, Becoming more and more themselves. And others paint the planet With beautiful colors As they try this thing and that. It is the way of souls to be curious. And it is the way of old souls To be even more curious About the will of the unseen. We make do as best we can, don’t we?
And when we can’t, it’s over. And that’s it. That’s the story of life. People living, people dying. Some live well and some are lost In the problems they find along the way. But that’s all they are is problems. And all the problems are connected To the little life that’s ours here on this earth, Nothing lasting. Nothing eternal. So long as we can see it that way, So long as when we die, We are not bound to this earth By a thought that wants to stay, A bone to pick, a price to pay. For myself, I’ll fly away, Just like the old song says. I’ll fly away, oh, glory, I’ll fly away. When I die, Hallelujah, by and by, I'll fly away. It doesn’t seem so hard now.
It’s just a matter of time And patience And movement Toward the destination. No more marathons.
No more striving for the prize. It’s over. I’ve arrived At the place Where every want Has been supplied. So that finally I can rest In silence. Waiting in silence
For the word. Sitting. Listening. Looking steadily Into the unseen place. Children of the light
Dancing into darkness, Forsaking all For the shadow Of the ones Who’ve gone before, Paving the way For future generations, Not children of the body But children of the soul, They transcend The dark. They are the fathers, Mothers of us all. The hush of dusk settles in
And finds me at my dest Still working. And that feels good, Not because it’s virtuous To work till the sun goes down, But because I want to keep on working. As the sunshine touches
The uppermost tips of leaves With the day's first rays of microscopic bliss, And as the birds gather to the warmth Of the summer morning, Even so, I sense The hope of healing In the outermost corners of my consciousness And draw my focus upward toward the warmth Of the thought of a body renewed In strength and purpose and vitality. I flap my wings. I move my body Upward toward the light, I sing the song. I feel the vibrations fill my chest and abdomen. It pulses through my limbs and outward Shaking lose all darkness, So that in, in, flows the light Penetrating every organ, Every dark and damaged part. And I live in the future day of health. “Thank you for this healing,” I say So that its reality fills me even now. Money is at the same time cold and harsh,
And also beautiful. It is beautiful Because it is cold and harsh and plain. It is one thing in life that you can count on To remain the same. You bend to its reality Or crash against its solid frame. Two plus two is four. It is the terrible truth That most men can never wrap their minds around. One day we will escape into a math that bends reality. But that new reality will require a forsaking of the old. Until then, we face the horror of a truth we can’t escape. And that truth is both terrible and wonderful Depending on whether we humble ourselves enough To slow down and know the numbers Or race on toward the doom That awaits all those Who won’t. Never trust the praise of Mammon.
It says that it loves you for your hard work, When in reality, it covets or clings to your ability to profit. It claims to respect your responsibility, When in reality, it just wants a piece of your acclaim. It is a jolly mate at sea, A bosom friend In arms. And how it clings to its fellows When the rough seas of commerce Toss the collusion into upheaval. But how quickly it turns mutinous When one among its ranks No longer serves The gain. It is a barrel full of fat hogs Rubbing up against each other Each rolling, laughing, in the mud And clinging to the warmth of the other While despising anyone who will not play the game And hating even more those who've tried and failed. There is a gift in single minded work,
Especially when it is for a worthy cause. It is that you do not have to think About your problems. And there is a gift in believing That people are supposed to have problems. It allows you to go to work And let go of other people's problems. I would guess that more than half
Of our ideas are hairbrained. Only by trying do we find out if we're right. So step into the action. Do something, anything Based on a best guess And find out if you are right? |
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