Drunken, Fallen

I feel crushed and distressed. Here’s why: America is only the second nation on earth founded by God. Israel is the other. Like Israel (see Jeremiah 13), America was destined for glory, honor, and renown and we have experienced that. Because they rejected God’s laws, God caused them to become drunk. I see that happening to America today. Drunkenness speaks of the loss of reason. Who would have dreamed that Americans would accept homosexual unions as normal, the legalization of marijuana, and welcome assisted-suicide. But it is happening at 100-proof speed. What happens to the drunken? They fall.
I heard a world famous evangelist say that America will not turn back to God. Why not?! If Christians would abstain from the nector of humanistic thought, the cocktail of freedoms-run-amuck, and the brew of socially-acceptable PC, and declare the truth of the Bible unapologetically and unceasingingly and ubiquitously, America would be saved.
America belongs to God based on three agreements:

The legal argument: King James I chartered the document which claimed the New World for the spreading of the gospel ( second provision of the Virginia Charter)

The spiritual argument: Robert Hunt, chaplain of the Jamestown colony, planted a cross at Fort Henry, claiming this land for God and his purposes

The civil argument: The Mayflower Compact, the first civil government laws, established the land as biblically-established and ruled under God

These three historical incidents gave this land, now called the United States of America, to God. We cannot take it away from him without disastrous consequences.



My eyes were closed

It happened in less than a second

I saw him seated on a white throne  to my right

and above me about three yards away

His hands were on the armrests of the throne

It was so clear that I could see the lines in his knuckles

His hair came down onto his shoulders

and blended in with the chalky hue of the throne

His head was turned slightly toward me and

His eyes were on me

He didn’t move or say a word

But I felt he communicated to me

I immediately knew he had absolute authority

He was kingly

and this image is permanently impressed into my imagination

Jesus Christ the same yesterday, today, and forever

I see such lack of civility in America today.
I don’t mean Antifa wearing masks and sporting baseball bats, or angry Black Lives Matter mobs, or women wearing pink Unmentionable hats marching on Washington.
I mean the failure of people to be courteous in public, neglecting to ask about your well-being and your family at gatherings, ignoring phone calls and text messages. If it is only the baristas at Starbucks saying “My pleasure” or only customer service representatives saying “Have a good day,” then, folks, we are lost.

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I’ve driven across our country so much lately, and I observe – and worry. The landscape, the cities, the roads and stores haven’t changed. But we’ve all changed. We are wearing black. We are driving black and grey cars. We’ve become severe on the inside. But it is still inside. I fear the cold dark that could spill out.
Only a spiritual renewal can save us. We are holding onto our cultural heritage like a gorilla hanging glass Christmas ornaments. Let the colors of the soul splash onto society: spontaneously praying together from the heart, passionately cherishing others, calling every person a neighbor, and valuing every American as someone who was worth Christ’s sacrifice.

Palming the Universe

You are beautiful, O God

above all artistry or design

You are décor never before imagined, spendidly alone

You were – before anything else was known

outlasting every thing or being or ideal

More than real, more than alive

beyond any picture or symbol, color,

sound or sight.

You eclipse all light.

Undefined by any wavelength of any extreme

you blow away the spectrum.

You outweigh all gravity

bear up every weight

fill every micron of space

hold all in one place—

palming the universe.


Yet, you painstakingly

watch out for your own, you care,

Aware of our pitiable states and woes

You interpose, intervene

Weaving random strands of broken dreams

into seams of amazing art

You can thread through

the tiniest needle of the most feeble will,

to make new the shreds of lives frayed, hearts torn apart

But that’s not what makes you so loveable:

You wade through our stench

bear up under our crudeness

filter away our hypocrisies

dig through our clay and bedrock mule-headedness—

all with one intent:

to find your divine imprint,

your deposit of treasure,

your aroma of resurrected soul,

to refine, then hold

against your breast and breathe

‘This is mine, all mine.’


You touch me with the tip of some celestial artist’s brush

The scent of something sweet sits  in the air

You hush me on my lips like wings when fiery angels rush

While tears pool at your feet and drench my hair

I’m dumbstruck like a concert fan who wants an autograph,

You strum my senses, I suppress a sob inside a laugh

Now I’m alone, with an eternity inside a breath

When, suddenly – you’re gone,

I’m left with just a yearning and a lesser fear of death.




Revelation Four Revisited


I looked, and saw in heaven an open door

I heard a voice – I’d heard once before –

It sounded a piercing trumpet blast

saying “Come up here and learn

what will come to pass.”

Instantly I was in the Spirit

gazing at a throne and Him sitting on it.

More brilliant than a gemstone

of transparent quartz, called jasper

and carnelian, a flesh-tinted jewel with a wax luster.

A radiant emerald-like glow

arcked him like a rainbow

Twenty-four thrones surrounded him

and twenty-four elders sat upon them

in white garments from the neck down,

a gilded crown on each head

From that royal seat lightning flared

Thunder claps split the air.

Facing this throne in heaven

were lampstands, aflame –

Seven of them all told – named for

The seven-fold Spirit of God

Spread before this One was a sea, like glass,

and in the middle of the throne

and encompassing it

four creatures, fully alive,

replete from front to back with eyes

One like a lion, another like a calf

The third – regal – with the face of a man

The last like an eagle with full wingspan

Each of the four living beings

Had three pairs of massive wings

which hosted an army of eyes

They were seraphim, which took no respite

Respected neither day nor night

All the while they cry

“Holy, Most Holy, and Holier still

Is Jehovah Adonai.”

Once the living creatures had given tribute and acclaim

even pageantry to Him who sits in heaven

To the ever-living, enduring One,

The elders got up from their places

Collapsed, faces prone before him

Pressed to the crystalline floor

Before His unrivaled throne

and worshiped Him,

who alone exists in perpetuity, time without end

Then, hurling down their crowns at his feet, said

“You, Lord are solely deserving

of eulogies unending, homage unmatched

and supremacy unchallengeable

For you hand-crafted the entire universe, all this

And by your will and for your exquisite pleasure,

it exists.


The Mockingbird will sing for countless hours

his stage a wire a pole a nest a tower

He tells the world all sounds he’s ever heard

And leaves the listener to fill with words

His acapella repertoire of power


He’s something of  a crier on a hill

His news is never noisy never shrill

He brings his audience a melody

From nature or man’s machinery

Its whistles, hums and jingles, warbling trills


He acts like they’re the sounds we’ve never known

But not for gossip not for show alone

He sings like they’re original creations

Like he’s the bard of aviary nation

His song continues when his strength is gone


He sings like it his job, until he stops

He sings when he is silent till he drops

He sings like it’s his part to tell his story

He sings until he stops for Lori

The Mockingbird, original, yet not.


I  must spend half my free time looking for houses and property in North Carolina. I dream of the life I might have had if we had moved there in 2016. But, that life is a mirage, appearing now and again to a thirsty soul. I drink water, but the mirage remains. “Two roads converged in a yellow wood, and I looked down one as far as I could to where it disappeared in the undergrowth.”(Robert Frost). My eyes keep straining down that path, I wonder what friends and faces it would have brought. What satisfaction I might have had teaching again, being needed again, having my siblings near me again.

I want a piece of land. A place to wander. A crying spot. A place to reflect while I break small sticks into fragments. Dirt to filter through my fingers. My ‘Trip to Bountiful,’ so to speak. A place for hymn-singing, and humming with the accompaniment of insects buzzing.

A life without brothers and sisters around . . .  It breeds a loneliness that perhaps people with small families never feel. There are slots in the soul, carved out like paper doll spaces. Some boy shapes, some girl shapes. Empty spaces which emit a hollow cry now and again. A longing to connect to a natural relation, a blood line that is never broken. Sure, we’ve had disagreements and disappointments, failures and forgiveness. I know the chain of complex connections has been rerouted and re-welded time and again, but the chain still clanks and jingles out a familiar sound: I’m here.

It’s no accident I was born into a big family. You can say we didn’t have electricity or TV but our lives were meant to be, and destined to mix. In some ways I’m looking back toward a more hopeful past than I am for building a brighter future. A cloudy sunset looks better in some ways than a clear sunrise. Why, I don’t know. Seems I can choose my past but others are choosing my future. Getting old means being set aside. Memories swell and hopes shrink. I’m just being honest. Without God, there would be despair. But I can never despair. Despite all my mistakes, regrets, angry outbursts, tears, and repairs, I can still have hope. I pray I will mean something to many people, and a great deal to a few. More than anything, I want my life to have meant something to my saving God, Jesus the man I want to be like at the end of the day.

I went to an “all-church prayer meeting” at the end of the year. We didn’t pray though. We didn’t have to, because we had prayer representatives. We listened and nodded. Representative pray-ers.

When I was in high school we had an all-white student council, even though around 10 percent of our population was black.  The students complained and we ended up having a black representative on the student council and a black cheerleader.

But it wasn’t an easy seat to obtain that seat. They had to hold a sit-down in the student commons before we would listen, but listen we did. Henceforth, we had black representatives and black girls on the cheerleading squad.

But when she cheered, the black students all cheered; the white students all cheered too.

So, if we have to have a prayer representative, let them lead us in our cheering. Don’t let them cheer alone.

Anytime we let a representative pray for us, we are not really praying. It is called “thinking” if we are only listening and assenting.

Let’s lift our voices and pray together to God. We represent our selves, bare our own hearts, shed our own tears if it comes to that.

We aren’t gathered to listen to one person pray. We are gathered for God to hear all of us praying. Then, no one will be self conscious.

Huddle up, and all — cheer!