Nothing without the Father

Hello friends, I have a few things I wanted to share with us from the time I spent with church this evening.

It has never really struck me about Christ being always in the Father as it did today. Everything Jesus did, He did through His Father. In essence, Jesus never healed anyone, it was God who was healing through Jesus.

Joh 5:19  Then Jesus answered and said to them, Truly, truly, I say to you, The Son can do nothing of Himself but what He sees the Father do. For whatever things He does, these also the Son does likewise. 

Joh 5:30  I can do nothing of My own self. As I hear, I judge, and My judgment is just, because I do not seek My own will, but the will of the Father who has sent Me. 

It made more sense to me when Christ on the cross wailed saying - "My God My God why have you forsaken me?" He wailed for in that moment, His oneness with God, His Father was no longer there. The life of the Father was no longer in Him. He mourned being a moment without His Father's indwelling life!

I think of it now and wonder, why don't we wail the same way? Are we living life each moment from the life of Christ?

Are we truly hemmed in? Do we abide? Is the life we live ours or that of Christ? Joh 15:5  I am the Vine, you are the branches. He who abides in Me, and I in him, the same brings forth much fruit; for without Me you can do nothing. 

I dearly pray as John prayed - Joh 3:30  He must increase, but I must decrease. 

That we stop living life led by formulas, equations, shadows, laws, emotions, notions, desires and start living directly off the indwelling life of Christ.

That we can learn to wait upon this Lord. Live His life instead of ours. That we can come to this point - Gal 2:20  I have been crucified with Christ, and I live; yet no longer I, but Christ lives in me. And that life I now live in the flesh, I live by faith toward the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself on my behalf. 

For we are nothing without Him as Christ is nothing without the Father.

Shalom.

 For I have died, and my life is hid with Christ in God. [Col 3:3]

Fathers and Sons

I had a very interesting evening yesterday. It was my nephew's birthday party and we had invited some kids from the neighbours over.

Children are quite a handful! And they are also quite different from each other. The quiet ones, the noisy ones, the shy ones, the proud ones. One thing that is sure, a little time spent with each gives you an idea on how to individually deal with each.

I had the opportunity to be called "Teacher". Not that it is something I aspire to but it was quite interesting while I was. I led the kids into several games; name games, cat and mouse games etc and I was quite spent at end of day.

I am not a father. I hope to be at one point; how soon? God knows.

In my culture, my brothers' children are as good as my children and so far, one can say I have two sons and a daughter, the latest being Nathan whose birthday we celebrated. Giving time to children while seemingly inconvenient does a lot to shape them and place them upon their destiny.

I asked one of my "sons" to always remind me to read him a Bible story. The first time I thought he would forget but yesterday, after all the festivities were done, he asked me to read. At this point he cannot readily do English but he tries and it is only a matter of time till he is good at it.

So I read, in the simplest ways possible the story of David the Lionhearted from Arthur S Maxwell's Bible Stories book. For now it would seem he knows that there was a war and the boy killed the giant. So boys who have God's help kill giants. This is the second time I am telling it. (Just now do I see the lesson for myself.)

I pray that by God's grace, this son of mine grows into these beautiful truths. I don't know how much time it will take, but if faithfulness is present I believe it will happen.

I am taking advice lately. From a lot of people but it is amazing how the advice which makes most meaning is that from men that are fathers. I have been dealing with some issues lately and yes talk to people about it but recently I talked to a father and the amount and quality of wisdom he presented me has given me a good amount of cud to chew on.

"There are no short-cuts" . He said. Yet all along I have been trying to use short cuts, pathways that have brought me to the common place of confusion again. When you hear a truth that cuts between flesh and bone you know it. And as he advised me on this issue, I sensed there was a route for healing.

I do not talk very often to him but when I do, I hear wisdom. Not sensationalism, but wisdom. He won't say much. He asks the right questions as an expert Doctor would to find out the problem and when he sees it, the rest is history.

I am thankful for sons, that are not mine, for opportunity to be a father but I surely thank God for fathers who have mentored sons, those that are theirs and those that are not theirs.

It is something not entered into by knowledge but I believe by the very heart that is cut after the cloth of the father in himself; Abba.

Pause.

Longing (Edited)

Razing through my mind
Are memories...
Serene meadows, big yellow sun flowers
Flashes of smiles chain me
I want more than intangible images.

Walks through the park at sunset
The sun hesitated to set-
When it did, the stars kept winking 
But my tummy is empty; my heart is starved
I want more than formless memories.

I need more than  blurred dreams
Dried rose petals,
More than long sleepless nights
More than the endless beat of rain upon corrugated heart.
I need more than the vapour of mystery love.

I long for the juice of fresh love
For the sweetness of a tender heart,
I do not need cotton candy- it is empty
I long for a heart that longs for mine
I long for a heart concentrated with true love.

Past pains rivet me, I'm writhing for an angel's touch
Longing for a soothing touch, a real smile, a honeyed kiss,
I am sure angels exist as devils do
And when you show up darling-
I want to spend my whole life with you. 

Nothing you find

See, you have found nothing valuable
It is all as good as stubble
No glory herein
And your actions do prove it.

Twenty weeks have passed here
And I have poured my libations-
Devotions seen and breathed
Actions now and tomorrow.

These you have looked upon
With grey and pink face
Black and white smirk
Devoid of direction.

Twenty weeks now set upon me
And I have not seen your Sun;
My libations still flowing
My prayers still chanted
Still you withhold your Sun.

Indeed, you have found no value;
For flowers, olive oil, whole grain have I poured,
Even the red blood and flesh that goes with it
You answer still with the black of night.

Trying to conceal

You sit,
Alone in the corner of the room
Looking out of the window
With your back to the conversation.

Your ears cannot pick up a sound
And your thoughts peal away in the recesses of your mind,
You have no care right now
Except that anvil in your chest...
(Its back to the conversation)

...And the hammer that beats upon it.
Yet you would that the sound muffle out,
That the silence of this stable
Can be as that of the grave.

But it hurts, with its bangs
It releases heavy pangs,
They cannot be dulled,
These sounds of burden.

Even though your tried, to conceal it, you tried,
You blew your nose, your flu-less nose;
And the sounds began to break
The pangs hurt the more,
Your anvil couldn't withhold it
And out came the tears.

Wasn't there then but I am now

Forgive me,
I knew but I did not care to care;
I did not invite consideration for a minute
To understand the kind of pain you were going through.

My eyes may have beheld the horror,
My ears hearing the screams,
But my heart seemed to slumber
In my own present safety.

Only now do I taste the bitterness
Of the memories that remain,
Oh that you would not remember,
Yet the images refrain.

Your words are as brief as an ode
Yet they raise this heart from the dead,
I wasn't there then
But I am now.

I will pray for you and the kin that you know
Ask the dear Lord, to send a comfort to your souls
You've been through the fire, indeed the valley of death
But the Shepherd has been with you, and will never go away.

 A Psalm of David.

Jehovah is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul; He leads me in paths of righteousness for His name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.  You prepare a table for me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; my cup runs over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I shall dwell in the house of Jehovah forever. 

De ja vu

You should have your own story. A unique story, different, separate, distinguishable from mine. I should be able to talk about you without referring to something or someone in the past or nearby. I should be able to refer to you sans the words like, as, ... I want to be able to tell a different story. To have  a unique history about you, independent of others.

A time comes when the small addictions of nostalgia need to be flushed down the drain; when hues, shades, scents and images that would have you reach for the bottle of remembrance and regret become totally fresh and lively. When everything becomes new, because of you, when everything is born again because of you. Dead to the past, dead to previous broken hearts, disappointments and the entire lot of baggage.

When there are no excuses because of what someone else did, or what you did not do. I should have my own story, you should have your own story. Coz 'nothing compares, nothing compares to you. [Sinead O'Connor]

I'm talking about something that does not simply ignore the past or pretend like nothing happened but when it  no longer means a thing, no longer makes your heart skip a beat, no longer brings tears to your eyes, no longer makes you shake your head in regret.

No need to look behind any more.

I just want to write

I just want to write. Simply write. Open the laptop, go to Word, and write. Get my notebook out and pen and just write. It's been ages since I wrote. I do not mean writing a simple verse or a short story once in 8 months, I mean write with my heart; pour out my thoughts like a libation. I just want to write.

Back then, I did. I wrote. Every morning, every evening, every night. Like a salah. More because back then "mon joug est dur et mon fardeau était lourd." My yoke was was hard, my burden was heavy. I needed to lay it down. I did not know how else to apart from write. I wrote because I did not talk much. Not to family, not to friends. Even when I talked to Him, I felt a burning in my heart and I still needed to write.

Is the burden lighter now? No. I am older, it gets heavier by the day but then the older I get, the less time I think I have to write. The more I chase things that I hope will be enough substitute for writing. And yes, these things are the normal things to do. Go out more often, meet new people. Enroll in a class, know how to do business. Join prayer class, learn how to pray. Join discipleship class, grow in the Lord.

Things to do. Writing not one of them.

Writing made me think. This was the one thing that would make me observe things around me. The lady in the park with the baby who would ask for help every evening at around 8. The old mzungu who would sit at the Cafe with the cigarette and the newspaper and a cup of coffee. The look of longing in my mother's eyes. These were untold stories. Not the ones meant for Nambi's show or CNN, but the ones that my pen needed to tell.

Not only would it get me thinking, it would change me. Once I got entangled within the lives of these people I asked questions; the why's, who's, how's and more. Perhaps I needed to have more conversation with my mother about simple things like getting a girlfriend. Maybe I needed to throw stones at the mirror before throwing them at anyone else?

I need to write. Wanting won't do. I need to start and let the river flow. I need to not be scared to write for lack of relevance. I need to write. I want to write. I must write or the waters that stir my soul shall calm down and stagnate the pools created in me. I shall write lest my being is set aflame with fires unhindered.

I wrote today, I hope I will write tomorrow.

The most beautiful.

How many ways  could I say that you're beautiful. 

You were like a sunrise last evening;
gentle on the eyes, 
soothing to the heart, 
more radiant by the second.

Eyes like eclairs, 
swimming in a sea of milk; 
smile like a lone diamond 
glowing in velvet night - 

Girl, I wish my heart could settle, 
but you looked celestial last night.

Conversation like a field of fire-flies, 
illuminating ebony plains, 
You set off a light show in my soul -- 
every minute instantly nostalgic, 
every second; a verse of haiku.

I've tried to remember something more beautiful, 
but girl, you were the most beautiful thing last night.

Grounded

I am sure you have those moments as well, you sit down in the empty spaces of your mind and think about how aloof your dreams are, how near your failure is, how nagging your guilt feels, how unreal your redemption seems...

You have to choose. There are two people separated by the train of thought. They both have the same face, same name.

But, only one man can leave the table. As long as the two still sit together, your dreams remain aloof, your failure is breathing down your neck, your guilt won't let go and you will want to ignore your redemption. One man cannot desire to do evil and agree with the other who desires good. One man cannot desire to serve God, while the other desires to serve himself.

One man, one thought, one vision, one purpose; only one man must leave the table of thought because a double minded man shall never be stable. So you must choose.

And we must choose. How do we stand and where do we stand?  All else is sinking sand except Christ the solid rock.



Matthew 14:27-31

But Jesus immediately said to them: “Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid.” 28 “Lord, if it’s you,” Peter replied, “tell me to come to you on the water.” 29 “Come,” he said. Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. 30 But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, “Lord, save me!” 31 Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. “You of little faith,” he said, “why did you doubt?”

James 1:2-8
2 Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters,[a] whenever you face trials of many kinds, 3 because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. 4 Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. 5 If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you. 6 But when you ask, you must believe and not doubt, because the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind. 7 That person should not expect to receive anything from the Lord. 8 Such a person is double-minded and unstable in all they do.

The Full Course Meal of Scripture

Several times, in our pursuit of our identity in Christ, we come upon questions and dilemmas from the Word that many times make us question what it is that God is saying. So often, we find things in the Word like "Rom 11:29  For the free gifts and calling of God are without repentance. " and then we find "Job 1:21  And he said, I came naked out of my mother's womb, and naked shall I return there. Jehovah gave, and Jehovah has taken away. Blessed be the name of Jehovah. " We ask ourselves, why is God being two faced?

Hitherto, my Bible reading was like the picture below;

I would take only what I wanted and cut out what I despised or felt uncomfortable with. I was not mindful of God, who in all things let the fullness of Christ come through. All the Bible is God's word. In fact Paul says to Timothy [2Ti 3:16,17]  All Scripture is God-breathed, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness, that the man of God may be perfected, thoroughly furnished to every good work.

In reading His Word, I have realised this, it is easy for me to extract a scripture and begin to preach a sermon on it, or pass on a message not mindful of the sea it comes from. This is what I mean; the Word is like eating a 7 course meal. The fullness of it cannot be explained in the appetiser or the soup or  the fish or the palate cleanser or the main course or the dessert! When all these things come together, they make a 7 course meal. Separately, they are individuals at the moment.

The working of the 7 course meal is such that "the guests taste a wide assortment of dishes, not to stuff or overwhelm them with food" and also, "It may take four to six hours to completely finish such a dinner, ".
The dessert is not the dinner. The dinner is complete with all the seven courses to the pleasing of the guest of the home. These small factions only make sense within the line up. Not that they would not taste good on their own.

Christ is fuller than the 7 course meal. Col 1:19  For it was the good pleasure of the Father that in him should all the fulness dwell; He is the dwelling place of the fullness of the Father. We can call the Bible the Spiritual 66 course meal for every book in it compliments the image of the Father. Therefore, it will surely take us more than six hours to complete if we are eating on purpose.

Some parts of the Bible are like what Paul talks about here "Gal 3:24  So that the law is become our tutor to bring us unto Christ, that we might be justified by faith. " There is a time for the law and a time for faith. One leads to another. Perhaps the fullness of Christ is in the main course? Who knows, but there are things leading us to this main course! Appetisers, soups,fishes, palate cleansers...

We must learn to see these things in their context lest we misuse or misunderstand this great banquet of knowing Christ. They are held together in God and all find their place in Him. So when I read a verse in a chapter, I ask myself, where does this fall in within the chapter; so I read the chapter. I may further prod and ask, where does this fall in within the book? Or further yet, where does the book fall in within the history of the time?

So the more questions I ask, the more answers I receive, the more fullness is opened to me by His grace and revelation. I find answers and rest. When the main course is done, then the desserts. All these come together for a beautiful banquet. If one is lost, the fullness is missed. May we continue to behold this marvelous Jesus, all the way from Genesis to Revelation and embrace the transformation into likeness with Him.

Baseline:
But we all, with open face beholding as in a glass the glory of the Lord, are changed into the same image from glory to glory, even as by the Spirit of the Lord.

Boxing day

Here, thinking about this like it was 21st Dec 2012, while you on the other hand whistle away like there's nothing serious.

A few good men.

There are a few good men now, it is not hard to see. Laws that jeopardise an entire country's sector credibility passed into law amidst comedy. There are a few good men left.

You hope that maybe just this once, there shall not just be a few good men to come to their senses and stand in the way of this great descent in unknown abyss.

When grown men clamour like children one day like they might for once do the right thing and then the next be stuffed with lolipops and then do the wrong thing, it is not wild to say that hope keeps dwindling.

History watches as a few evil men attempt to suck dry the future of one land with incredible possibilities. They may be few but the evil stupor is now across the land. Many of us, hands behind back, watch the endless spectacle saying to our selves "There is nothing we can do."

How much has been plundered? Year after year, shame upon shame... to the point where now, shame is not shame any more. Holes punched into accounts meant to help the whole mass of the nation, diverted to personal accounts; where a hospital would go up, in stead, a mansion does; where a school would go up, in stead, a few children go to high class schools outside the country; where a few women and men dress to mourn and are arrested by the Police for mourning, how long shall our eyes deliberately close to this?

“History had a slow pulse; man counted in years, history in generations” 
― Arthur Koestler, Darkness at Noon

We shall be judged, all of us. And we shall be judged, not for stealing a few millions, but for killing a few million country men by plundering that which could have been of help.

Impasse

Stories told by other souls that tell our own stories. 

The poem below is based on the lyrics of Brooke Fraser- Who are we fooling.

So we're here
Tip toeing round the edge of the end
Wondering who will be last to admit
That we're finally over.

We seem to be at an impasse
Both knowing what seems to be wrong;
We don't agree on where we should go
But together, we want to get there.

Have we tried to loosen the knots
To think perhaps once we're untangled we'll be better off
The hesitations and stalling can only but speak
We crave to leave the knots untied.

'Cause real love is hard love
It's all that's given
It's a break-neck, train wreck
Is it what's been given?

So we're here
At the  edge of the end
Still refusing to toe the line


Better or worse, but what else can we do?
And better or worse
Am I  tethered to you?  If it's not either of us
Tell me who are we fooling?

This beautiful tangle that's bruising us blue
Is it a beautiful knot that we can't undo?
Together we're one but apart
Tell me who are we fooling?


Together we're one, but apart tell me
Who are we fooling?

The Rain.... (Part Two)

It's like trying to remove the poisonous venom of a snake after a bite. Sometimes the writer's quill is pressed forcefully lest the heart of the writer die of poisoning. So the story continues...

No, it doesn't fall down mildly this time,
No, it doesn't come with a soft breeze,
It rains, it pours;
Forget cats and dogs - minuscule metaphors in comparison...

The drops strike.

They strike, they pierce.

It started like a normal day; clear skies, birds chirping, people were starting to move. It was a warm morning.

In the city, dirty puddles. Orange water. Potholed roads. Pick your step well, lest you literally soil yourself. So I walked, picking spots till safely on the pavement.

And then the spears. And everything disappeared.

They came down with the weight of one thousand Mjolnir hammers. Hard and fast. It rained, the cold enveloped my whole body, a bit of it, my soul. Where had the shelters gone to? There was no place to hide under, no place to run to.

No voice could be heard in this downpour. No singing this time. Heavy short breaths. Wiping the wetness from my eyes, so I could see; forward. I could not go back, I had to endure, till the mist dissolved, till the downpour died down, till I could start to make out what was reality.

Sometimes the rain, it hurts you.

The Rain

The movie was over. The proverbial "film star" had saved the day with the last shot of his bullet. The credits began to rain down, not in drip drops as rain would from clouds, rather like the slide of a water drop upon the smooth face of glass.

I paused for a moment and then got up to line up with the rest of the movie watchers who now made small chatter about the funny bits of the movie, the sad ones and all you would expect of a tête-à-tête after a movie. It was eleven a.m. One needed to go home.

Down the steps, the escalator and as I approached the mall's exit, a cold chill, a soft breeze, a light drizzle. 'How wonderful!' I thought. Just the other day I was watching Singing in the Rain. Never mind I had not just been kissed, I had not just said goodnight to the woman of my dreams; no, I had just been dreaming about the night sky and if there were stars tonight, if perhaps I could use it as an excuse to send her a text.

There were no stars tonight. From where I was, all I could see were street lights, and car lights. No stars tonight. The little invisible fireflies were in my belly. That's why I had that smile on my face. And now this beautiful late night rain.

I promptly removed my umbrella and with ease and adoration entered the delightful light shower. I couldn't wipe the smirk off my face as my feet landed into the little puddles of water scattered all over the pavement. How I would have laughed if a moon had I seen! For a moment home escaped my thoughts, and I dissolved in the moment.

Yet, in the midst of the joy, childhood escape, trickled in a heaviness. Not of holding the umbrella for long, not for the distance from home, not from the closeness of the labour of the day but rather the presence of double sorrow, and half a joy. All the while I did think of she who I do not know, could not tell whether she thought of me.

I wanted to text her straight away but feared I should awake her from her endearing sleep. After all I asked myself, on this eleven a.m, few minutes from the middle hour, could she tally awake for a droplet of gilded lullaby from me?

Unsure; wishing her here, to dance with in the rain, but only moving with thoughts and un-drawn paintings of perfect night with soft falling rain, I turned to the pages once again, inking them with these very words thinking perhaps one day, tis a story she reads and will indeed reply "That very night, I wanted to dance in the rain with you".

Why am I smiling

And why do I sing?

Why does September 

Seem sunny as spring?

Why do I get up

Each morning and start?

Happy and head up 

With joy in my heart

Why is each new task

A trifle to do?

Because I am living

A life full of you.

Gene Kelly (Singin in the rain)

Piano she played

Piano , set in lonely hallway, high ceiling, closed stained windows with pictures of cupids, hovering on stooping hooded figure. The silence, cold and dry emits dreary darkness in the lamp-less hall. It's covered with hues, blues, greens, reds, imprinted by the moon light passing through the windows.

A high note.

Hope.

The heart readies itself for elevation upon wings of anticipated bliss. The high notes rise and his cadence rises with them. High and sharp, they move quickly one to another, musical hopscotch leaving a danceable trail. So he taps his feet and bangs his thighs, and nods his head and snaps his fingers and so soon we have him upon that tide. Piano keys, they lift him high.

A low key.

Deferred

So the movement stops, there's a chill inside, it would seem that now, there was night to fear. And the fingers stopped, and the tap went down, and the head didn't nod, cold breeze came down. A slow fade, the notes were lower and lower and his head did droop, his heart resigned, the echoes died out.

And the lonely ones came. First the highs, then the lows. The keys interspersed among themselves as the pace picked up. Should I dance or be still, tap my feet, calm my head? It was all meted out, pretty fast, and to choose how to move left it I, to my bones. So I danced, yes I danced, in the highs, in the lows; yes the man, it was I, hiding nigh, 'twixt the shadows of the hall.

In the cadence of her notes, piano sounds found me out, out the shadows did I come out of the hallway to the night. Under night, silver light,found my rhythm, found my dance; for she played 'nchanting tones, they set me on fire, made me cold, in one sweep, untied my soul.

She played piano of the heart.

The Pilgrim Church

I am currently reading The Pilgrim Church by E.H Broadbent. Here's a brief background

"The author of this book, believing that the teaching given by the Apostles to the first Christians contained principles of permanent validity, gave himself to many years of exhaustive research in the realm of Church history, convinced that there has never been a generation without simple local congregations of believers existing who succeeded in maintaining these principles. His studies amply justified thw work involved, while exposing the Ecclesiastical Establishment of the centuries that persistently opposed the whole idea of local independent churches.

Known by different names in various countries, these communities kept the faith, frequently at great cost to themselves, but because of their virile witness to the basic truths of the gospel they were never completely extinguished, whatever they had to endure. The story makes clear the vital difference between mere institutional Christianity and the gatherings of evangelical believers who rejoiced in bearing only the name of 'Christian'.

Mr. Broadbent spent a great part of his life in travelling many parts of Europe, founding and establishing churches that held to the Apostolic principles. This record emphasises elements of truth that will not neccessarilybe found in the average handbook on Church history - and that the principles are workable is seen by the existence all over the modern world of local churches that are courageously observing them."

I am glad to be apart of this minor groups. It's a call to total faith.

Fall 39 for you

If I need to dive 39,
Stand at the edge of space,
Stare down at this peril
This peril that becomes knowing you
More than knowing, loving you
In loving, consumed by you
-
Won't I stand at that precipice
The darkness at the corner of my eye
Unknowing but lost in passion for you,
Won't I take the leap, fall 39
Abandon my safety, abandon the all
Fall fast, fall deep, fall in for you..?
-
Fall through and through till I'm undone,
Blazing like a comet across your sky
Heading for that ground,
I should call your heart
Risking life and limb, to save my heart
Falling 39, I come apart.

All

You know it's different;

When you stay up late,
Beyond your usual hours,
Holding a pen, inking your notebook,

When the dam can't hold
When the cracks start to appear,
And a flood comes rushing;

When you notice the painted sky,
Wait for the gilded sunrise,
Hear the morning's orchestra;

It's the star on her face when she smiles,
The glint in her eyes when she stares,
The fire in her voice when she speaks.

It's different;
Coz you remember it all,
Nothing leaves your heart,
You remember it all.