A short satire, if you will.

A man named John Paul Marcus. He usually takes his morning stroll down fifth street every morning. He chooses fifth street not because of the architecture, not necessarily because there are lots of beautiful women who are always hanging their clothes out to dry on the lines that stretch from building to building, and not at all because his best friend Christina-whom he really does love but has never found those words to captivate her heart and explode her world with the music of love-works on that street. He chooses fifth street because of all the food cart peddlers. There really is an array of choices on fifth street. Anywhere from Polynesian to Mexican and from Venezuelan to Chinese, and everything in between. John, however, in this array of elaborate choices really did not like the fancier choices. He did not like the mystical Chinese foods or the Indian foods that really tastes all the same anyway. He did not like the Italian food because it upset his stomach and the Iranian and Middle East food just did not make sense. John mostly just enjoyed the regular, Americanized hot dogs. They had so much meat, to make you strong and a good stability. The only problem is they had a lot of fat around them. Hot dogs always had a lot of excess, useless things that you thought you had to eat along with the hot dog but really you never needed in the first place. John loved hot dogs, though. He sang songs about hot dogs, he wrote about hot dogs, and he talked about hot dogs all the time. They really were his life.

One day, however, John realized that he gained a lot of weight (for the sake of him being embarrassed the number shall remain anonymous). John realized that he had just been stocking up fat and not really gaining any kind of significant growth anywhere that mattered. He had been eating hot dogs for so very long that hot dogs were all he knew. But one day, while he was meandering down fifth street he noticed a peddler he had never noticed before. His attention was grabbed by the sign that said "FOOD OF ZION". John had never heard of Zion before, but was quite intrigued.

The man working there was handsome. Every hair straight, and the perfect color for his complexion. His face looked grizzled but well shaven, that he had been through a lot but still had came out strong. His clothes were plain looking enough but they seemed to fit him well. Almost as if they were made for him specifically... but the normality of the style would seem odd to have tailored. So John inquired, "Do you guys have a menu?"
"We have the finest bread around. It will give you life and energy like you've never imagined"
John liked bread. That's what hot dogs came on.
"Do you like bread, son?"
John was astonished, "Well yes, I was just thinking I like bread."
"Well you'll love ours. The more you eat the better it tastes! Naturally, the more you will want it. And I guarantee there is not a more filling bread in the
"What do you mean the more I'll want? So you're saying you're going to sell me an addictive substance? No wonder nobody comes over here." Just as John said that, a beautiful lady that seemed to be barely held together came shuffling towards the booth. Her head bowed down, she put a hand on the booth and let out a sigh of relief. She slowly but steadily lifted her head, and as she did, her tired visage gave birth to a satisfied smile bringing with it more sighs of relief.
"I need some refreshment. I'm so tired and life is just so hard right now." With her plea, the peddler reached into his cart, pulled out what looked like a baguette, the kind you see in pictures. The kind you see in advertisements that you know your bread will never look that good. She walked away, eating and humming with her bread in one hand and her other hand in the air like she just scored a touchdown.
"That's what you're selling? I'll take two!" John exclaimed. "How much is it?"
"It's free. The only condition is that you give up your other vices. Those hot dogs, that have made you gain so much weight, leaving you sluggish and depressed, and made you repulsing in the sight of Christina. I'm the only food you can have. And I will know if you're partaking in something else, because one of us will leave a bad taste in your mouth. Neither will be truly satisfying.
John thought about this for a moment and decided it was all he needed. He was sick of hot dogs, thinking they were going to make him feel better when in reality he was just gaining fat he neither wanted nor needed. This excess bubble in his life was slowing him down.
"I'll do it. No more food. Just the bread." John said, acknowledging what he really needed. The peddler handed him a small piece of bread. John looked very confused at his piece of bread, but the man insisted,
"This is all you can handle right now. Just try it". And so John did. He took a small nibble and already he felt like a different person. He forgot what hot dogs tasted like and even the mentioning of the food kind of made him queezy. Like it was some far off distant memory he couldn't remember from amnesia. So his new routine began.
He woke up the next morning and walked quite speedily down to fifth street. He knew that when he got there the man would be waiting and he was. And John asked him for some refreshment. Every day this went on and on as John would come and get some bread. Each time the peddler giving him more. Until one day, John woke up late and forgot to take his stroll down fifth street. He thought nothing of it and made a mental note to remember to go tomorrow. But he never did. John went a couple days and just did not have the time to go, even though most of his day was really spent playing video games. He even stopped going to work.
One day, John heard a knock at his door. He peered through the peep hole and it was the peddler, holding a piece of bread. John became frantic and started trying to clean the apartment, never really getting it clean but just moving stuff around. He kept moving the mess around as the knocking went on and on, until it eventually got so quiet it stopped. He didn't really realize it had stopped until hours later. He woke up one morning and the electricity was out. No power to play video games and no job to go to anymore. He slept until he couldn't sleep anymore and then decided to go for a walk. A walk down to fifth street. He forgot how much he missed taking walks and so he returned to this routine of his. Until one day he passed the peddler's bread cart. He stopped by and asked the man how he was doing, what he thought of the weather and how about them Yankees?.
"What do you need today, my son?" the peddler asked.
"I don't need anything. I'm alright. Thank you, though." John replied, as he thought about his old job... his dirty apartment... how he missed Christina... and how he could not remember the last time when he ate he was truly satisfied.

Let us pray for Norman.

I work at Steve and Barry's in Tanglewood Mall. At least, for the time being until the store closes. I was never supposed to work here. I was never supposed to stay with this company. But God's great plan brought me back from my job at the Gap Inc. and back to the company I never thought I'd come back to.

Every day when I go on break I take my laptop and walk down to a small seating area in front of Santa Claus where I can use Belk's unprotected wireless internet. I listen to music that can uplift my battered spirit from the day of working retail. Usually Jason Morant is praying with me singing "My life is a love song for you" or Jonny Lang is re-assuring me "You're not alone, and I'll be there... just remember my love remains" in between the random "Happy Holidays!" echoed by the Jolly man in the Red Suit (Which irritates me, because he should be saying Merry Christmas. He's not Hannukah Claus people, and definitely not Kwanza Kringle).

I sit down with my Chic-Fil-A sandwich and fries, with my coke (No ice, please. Thank you), and my laptop. God has different plans. An older black man on a stability stroller comes my way, sitting down opposite me on the couch facing the one person chair where I reside. He has a plain wooden cross on about the size of a child's hang on a thin black strand. He also is wearing a hat that says, "JESUS". His name is Norman Veney. He shows me a letter he received from George Bush in reply to a prayer support sent to our President. Mr. Bush graciously wished Mr. Veney the best, in hopes that God blesses Norman and watches over him. At the bottom there is a signature, not photo copied, not printed from a machine but what looks like an authentic signature upon this smal letter of gratitude on White House letterhead.

We talk a great deal about our walks with God, me ministering to people with music in Lynchburg and many other things. Norman asks me if I have change for a $20 bill. Sadly, I do not but I ask him how much he needs (hoping it's not more than the $9 I have in my wallet). He says $9 is absolutely enough. He takes my $9 and hands me a $20 bill explaining, "I want to bless you, man. Praise God for young folk like you. Praise God for young people like you." By no means do I need his money... but by no means do I need to refuse his grace. Or God's.

We talk some more and I ask him what how I can be praying for him. He humbly requests that I request that God can change the anger in his heart for sin and the death of this world can be replaced with love for people. That he can tell the people he meets about our Lord of Peace, and our Healer of Wounds. And that he has no problem keeping a job, but he would really like to get a job. He needs a job. By no means is he poor. But he knows he doens't want to be irresponsible with the life God has given him. He would love to work at the Virginia Hospital in Salem. Or MacGuire's in Richmond. He said maybe he should write George Bush a letter asking him to get him a job. He would glady be a janitor. Anything. He already does a daily bible study at the Hospital in Salem. He knows that he needs to only remain faithful in the things that God has given him and God will always bless him more.

Let us pray for Norman. Norman, the gracious man that blessed a 21 year-old kid who has a nice car, 3 guitars, a portable computer, clean (fairly) clothes, and a warm bed. For no other reason than God told him to bless me. Praise God for men like Norman who nnever see their own circumstances but know that God has called him to love God first, and love people unconditionally and all the laws of the prophets and all of life's worries will fall in place after that. After his testimony of how God delivered him from alcohol. And how God delivered him from cigarettes. How God delivered him from crack. How God delivered him from hate.

And as he slowly stands up, his right leg immobilized (but it clearly not being any concern of his for God is good and this is only a thorn in his side) I can hear Jonny Lang and Michael MacDonald singing, "I gotta take the time to say I wanna be thankful! For every little breath that I take, I gotta be thankful! Any one of these so easily could have been me, and if it had not been for grace and mercy who knows where I'd be?"

Praise Yahweh. Our Peace. Jehovah Shalom.

Silence is Golden

From the period of Thursday, 11:55pm until Saturday, 12:01 I did not talk to a single human being. Other than a very few amount of songs my computer cycled through mindlessly (which could have been hardly described as a conversation) I heard not once the voice of another person. After not hearing another person's voice for long enough I stopped talking myself. Immersing myself in conversational and social silence. The only things that remained were Donald Miller's Blue Like Jazz and the Word of God.

There have been many times where my Bible has jumped from its pages-that yes, quite frankly do have a certain sustained quality of being alive-and spoken to me(ok, not audibly for you super serious skeptics). This was different. It's one thing to think the words in your Bible are speaking directly to your life as if you were receiving a lecture from a good friend who had been watching your actions and decided that it was time for an intervention. It's a completely different feeling to have the notion that you are actually conversing with the Apostle Paul. Sitting down with him, snacking on some crackers while he sits across from you telling of journeys he has recently been on. You can see the weather lines in his face from stress as the Thessalonians chased him out of town on his second trip. You can see his joy when he talks about Philippi and his friends there. "It' s a glorious place... they have some problems, but I love them" he says.

Malachi's decrees for me to be faithful to my wife will still be ringing whenever I actually have a wife. His words have scared me enough to wonder how can I NOT be faithful to my wife? The wife I don't even know, the wife I long to know someday.

James is pleading with me now, to be a more patient friend. To be more patient as a boss. To be more patient as a brother, as a son, and as a husband. These trials I'm going through are only temporary, but how I react in this delicate time will shape the man I'm becoming. The man I'm always becoming. The man that will live out the rest of my life. James says I need that man to be strong, and I need that man to have an encouraging tongue. One of praise and not of degredation. A tongue of joy and not of hate. A tongue that worships God and not money or lust.

Paul, Malachi and James. Good friends of mine. You should have a chat with them. They'd love to talk to you.

I think we all need to hear these things sometimes.

God's message to me this morning:

God promises every man futility and failure; he guarantees every woman relational heartache and loneliness. We spend most of our waking hours attempting to end-run the curse. We will fight this truth will all we've got. Sure, other people suffer defeat. Other people face loneliness. But not me. I can beat the odds. We see the neighbor's kids go off the deep end, and we make a mental note: They didn't pray for their kids every day. And we make praying for our kids every day part of our plan. It doesn't have to happen to us. We watch a colleague suffer a financial setback, and we make another note: He was always a little lax with his money. We set up a rigid budget and stick to it.
Isn't there something defensive that rises up in you at the idea that you cannot make life work out? Isn't there something just a litttle bit stubborn, an inner voice that says, I can do it? Thus Pascal writes,

All men seek happiness. This is without exception. Whatever different means they employ, they all tend to this end . . . This is the motive of every action of every man. But example teaches us little. No resemblance is ever so perfect that there is not some slight difference, and hence we expect that our hope will not be deceived on this occasion as before. And thus, while the present never satisfies us, experience dupes us and from misfortune to misfortune leads us to death. (Pensees)

It can't be done. No matter how hard we try, no matter how clever our plan, we cannot arrange for the life we desire. Set the book down for a moment and ask yourself this question: Will life ever be what I so deeply want it to be, in a way that cannot be lost? This is the second lesson we must learn, and in many ways the hardest to accept. We must have life; we cannot arrange for it.

-The Journey of Desire by John Eldredge

There seems to be a certain something in the air. It's communication. There seems to be so little in this world that is worth talking about. That's why people don't have meaningful conversations. Not cause we don't care. The people we care about usually drive us to talk about anything we can unleash our tongues on. As I sit at Panera watching these relationships go on, I can't help but wonder if it's just the season we are in. My coffee seems to be keeping me company, but it's much like the conversations I find. That first sip is sweet to the taste like I've been traveling through the kind of snowy trail Robert Frost might write about and finally I've arrived at the destination of a warm bed that has been calling my name. Some section of the middle is actually bittersweet. It changes how long or how potent the middle is on how much I need it or how much I truly enjoy it.

Sometimes this is the longest section of my cup of coffee-or my conversations for that matter-sadly, however, I believe this part is becoming exponentially smaller with every cup. Some time after finishing the mundane conversational topics that need to be addressed, right around when you tilt that cup up to your lips and realize that there is a white bottom to your cup that is a different tone than the sweet caramel color you've given your coffee with the sugar you've added for adventure and the 2% milk for substantiality, the shock hits you that you're no longer drinking your cup but finishing it. I never really knew how to finish a cup of coffee politely. It always looks like some athlete fueling his body with wate or Gatorade. Almost like the gong has been sounded that this leg of the race is over and there will be a short recess while the troops regather for battle, whenever the battle may come.

So I'll keep sipping my coffee, holding on to those first sweet tastes as long as I can and remembering their freshness long after my tongue has relaxed.