Hi Vince!

There are parts that fuel the run until my lungs rip in my chest, and bang with a tremendous force against its cage to be released. The insanity rushes through veins and arteries, faster, harder, muscles ache and quake. I swear I could throw up all my insides, intestines and all. There are parts that tremor with madness, the emotional overflow of frustration. But this is only part, only parts I leave on iron, on track, on sand, on hills. This part, this still unbelieving part, still frustrated, still lost, the part that still longs for times now long ago. Most of me knows, most of me believes in better, but I am no perfection. Still part lives in ignorance, still parts wants to grind my body to mush in a hope to crush the most. These parts are lonesome and evil. This is a confession of sorts, I suppose. Hey Vince, help me crush these parts before they crush the most, the whole. Confusion to most, I'm sure; clarity to some I believe. Thank you, Vbo, always part of the few, helping me as a whole.

This, I pray

There is a dissatisfaction that is deep

It itches in a place I cannot reach

I want to hurl my body inside-out

inspect the sinews of my heart

and between the wrinkles of my brain

East of Eden

A summary will soon ensue

Backwards I go

Forward I swirl

You put me in a whirl.

Will this only spin me

my life and destiny

out of control?

Mark Driscoll

The cross isn't just something that was done for us;

it was done by us.

without grumble, without complaint

The word "all" is a black-hole of a word. This word sucks in every object, motionless or breathing, every situation pleasant or intolerable, lovely or painful, to every person, friendly or downright mean. Can I really, in all situations, to all people, all the time, be without grumbling and without complaint? Really, God? (note how this question itself is a form of complaining).

If God were to answer that last question, he wouldn't. I don't think God spills his words uselessly. I believe He would not repeat Himself. He already said it. Paul already wrote it. I know it in heart. It sits on my desk, just not in my heart. What doesn't sit in my heart? The command: do all things without grumbling or complaining?

Well, yes, that.

But there's also something else going on here. Before words materialize in the air between you and eye, or before the lights hit your eyes, there's is a forgetfulness in my heart that has taken place. I have forgotten something essential. I have forgotten the gospel. My condition of wretchedness, my blameworthiness. It is the reality of the God-man Jesus that has fallen from sight. His glorious life lived, his body tragically pierced with more twisted villainous rugged metals, bones, woods, whips, fists and spears than I can properly envision, and his travel from heaven to earth, from earth to hades, and hades to heaven with a brief showing in Jerusalem, these are forgotten and lost. The gospel somewhere inside flickers faint when grumbles stir and ingratitude mount. I forget my new position thanks to my resurrected Savior.

This is at work in this body of death and fire-breathing mouth: the sin of forget. I forget my First Love, and remember my trivial complaint.

Lord, forgive my forget.

3AM

Whenever it's 3AM, I think of the song by Matchbox twenty: 3AM (Piano version).

However, this morning, I am thinking of Cathy Ames' psychotic nature, Cyrus Trask's lies, the tension between Adam and Charles Trask, and the amicable nature of Samuel.

Quite frankly, this book, East of Eden is scaring the crap out of me. Perhaps its the perpetual vision of cold, indifferent stares of pretty, soft-skinned girls and hardened men with darkened scars on their brow.

I just laid in bed for two and half hours reading this, and am wondering whether to finish this book or to damn it. I wonder how in the world this out-competed Elizabeth Eliot's Passion and Purity? I was enamored by that book, and couldn't put it down a few nights ago. Darn you, Steinbeck, and your gripping murderous mysteries. They are too thrilling--too tempting. I need to guard this mind and end this rant.

James 3

My tongue

My weapon

I kill glory restlessly.

Cain, Charles, and Albert

Never have I felt the sick power behind Cain's murderous blow (Genesis 4:8) until I read East of Eden (3:4).

"Cain spoke to Abel his brother. And when they were in the field, Cain rose up against his brother Abel and killed him."

"The punching continued eternally. He could hear his brother panting with the quick explosive breath of a sledgehammer man, and in the sick starlit dark he could see his brother through the tear-watered blood that flowed from his eyes. He saw the innocent, noncommittal eyes, the small smile on wet lips. And as he saw these things--a flash of light and darkness."

"The footsteps came close, slowed, moved on a little, came back. From his hiding place Adam could see only a darkness in the dark. And then a sulphur match was struck and burned a tiny blue until the wood caught, lighting his brother's face grotesquely from below. Charles raised the match and peered around, and Adam could see the hatchet in his right hand."

I do not dare say that Steinbeck's prose is some type of explicit exposition of biblical text. However, I do think that his vivid imagery and ability to capture such intensity has pierced my otherwise bland view of Adam's murder. It pronounces Cain's sin and makes my insides wrench when I think of how indifferently he denies his own blood slain.

I only fear that people like Cain, like Charles, like myself do exist. Murderous and hateful. Oh how I wish to slay every evil, hateful, murderous desire in my heart against my fellow man. Whether it be on the road in a commitment to rage, on a football field where prides collide and emotions roar, in the bedroom where fortified hurts protected for years come ripping through walls willing and able to hurt anyone with ears. Lord, keep me from reaching this hatchet of hate.

Why Johnny Can't Preach: The Media Have Shaped the Messengers

In this book by T. David Gordon, he takes the accumulated observation of many years as Christian and lesser years as a pastor and professor to critique today's pulpit. Coming from the unique perspective of a media ecologist he spoke how damaging our communicative outlets are: instant messaging, telephone, television, etc. These inadequate means of receiving and dispensing information have dampened the fire that ought to shoot forth from the preacher.

His argument may come off very blunt and harsh, but it is truth unveiled. Compassion I can get from other reads, but honesty is what I'll gladly take from this salty piece. Therefore, I have decided to take this book as an impetus to rekindle my need to read and my want to write.

I will use this blog to share what I'm reading and how they have so affected my thoughts and my life. Let us here begin.

I started East of Eden by John Steinbeck. I already feel the monstrosity that is Charles begin to frighten me whether by his alien form of aggression or the way that I may imitate him in secret. the nature of his bond with his brother, Adam, is one that intrigues me not because it is similar to the relation to my own brother but perhaps because it is so different.

It is illuminating to see how a man becomes what he is, as Steinbeck shows us how Cyrus is constructed: primarily by self-deception and his obsession over the military. His fanaticism, emotional unavailability: its wider effects on his children and Alice is something frightful. I have found myself wanting to raise my children in such a way, as brilliant athletes, militantly disciplining and shaping them to be "men". His depiction of a man that really put this in practice reminds me not to operate a family in such a way.

The most striking character for me is Samuel. After reading the first chapter about him, I remember telling myself: I want to be like that. I will let this be enough: Sam is the man.