When Love Comes to Town

I was a sailor, I was lost at sea

I was under the waves

Before love rescued me

I was a fighter, I could turn on a thread

Now I stand accused of the things I've said.

--U2

By summer's end, 1989, the following questions were weighing heavily on me:

-- Is there a God, or is the universe a result of chance?

-- If there is a God, does He care about me?

-- If He cares about me, how can I get to know Him?

-- What does God expect from me? What is my purpose?

One night while working at the Super Saver, I was unloading cases of frozen turkeys back in the meat department. I heard voices out in front of the cooler cases. Some of the guys were apparently chatting up a girl, a favorite diversion of my night-shift associates. Pretty soon Duane was coming back to find me, "There's some hot girl out here looking for you. I told her she probably had you mistaken for some other guy."

I went out in front of the meat counter, and standing before me was the cute red-haired girl from High School. She said that she saw my unique truck parked out in the lot, and had to come in to see if I was still the owner. She didn't think that I was even still in town. We talked for a few minutes about the fact that I ended up not moving to Arizona for college (This was another half-baked plan that I had come up with the previous year. I had been accepted to attend Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University in Prescott, AZ. They had a commercial pilot program that I was accepted to before my grades headed completely south. However, I had no concrete plan to pull it off, so failed due to lack of trying.) Before leaving the store, Nichole asked me to call her sometime.

I remember walking on clouds for the rest of the night. Not only did I enjoy the razzing by the other guys on the night crew about my attractive visitor, but I felt some sliver of hope about life in general for the first time in many months.

Part of me also wondered why Nichole would want me to call her. I'm not sure what she had ever found interesting about me, but at this moment I was a complete wreck. A picture of me from that fall would show a young man who didn't have much self-esteem. My hair was long and unruly. For some reason I care not to recall, I had dyed it fire-engine red during that summer. By this stage it had grown out to about half brown, half red. My skin condition was bad, the corner of my right front tooth was chipped off. At 5'9" and maybe 125 lbs., I was comprised simply of sinew and bones.

I didn't wait long to call Nichole. Her reappearance seemed to be a life-line thrown to me by the force I had been wrestling with over the past several months. We got together that weekend for a few hours. I was still looking for an apartment, and she offered to go along with me to check some out. During that Saturday afternoon I told Nichole that I was still unsuccessful in finding the answers to my questions about God. I believe she sensed a change in my attitude that day, from sarcastic skeptic to sincere seeker. She proposed a few things that she thought would aid me in my search for truth:

1. Nichole suggested that I sincerely pray- asking God to reveal His truth to me. I was intrigued by her logic, that if there were a loving God, He would certainly want me to know about Himself, and would be more than capable of communicating with me in this way.


2. She encouraged me to read the gospel of Mark (Perhaps figuring that it would be motivating to read a book written by a guy who shared my name? I realize in recollection that it is a short, and to the point account of the life of Jesus.)


3. She recommended a book called "Mere Christianity" by C.S. Lewis (I had read "The Chronicles of Narnia" as a boy, but never knew that Mr. Lewis was writing from a Christian perspective, or that he wrote non-fiction books defending his faith.)


4. Finally, Nichole invited me to visit her Church- to meet some people who sincerely lived out their faith, including her pastor, Dr. Bob Grayson, who held a PhD. in Biblical Studies.

I prayed intensely that night, calling on my 'unknown god' to reveal Himself, and to grant me the opportunity to genuinely know and understand Him in some small measure. During the next week I read the gospel of Mark, orienting myself on the person and work of Jesus from the perspective of an eyewitness. I remember laughing at the realization that I didn't have to start reading the Bible beginning with "In the Beginning", as I had tried unsuccessfully in the past.

A story that has captured my heart and mind ever since jumped out at me near the beginning of Mark, in chapter 2. A crowd had gathered to hear Jesus speak. Some men wanted to bring their paralyzed friend by, to have Jesus help him. When they got to the house, the place was packed, but the four guys refused to give up. They proceeded to lower their friend down through a hole in the roof. Jesus looked up at the men who had carried their friend, saw their faith, and said to the paralytic, "Son, your sins are forgiven." Sensing the internal objections by the religious teachers present, Jesus agreed that only God can forgive sins- and to show that he, indeed, has that precise authority, told the paralyzed man to do the impossible, "Get up, take your mat and go home." The paralyzed man did just that! Even today, I am amazed that the faith of the 4 friends made a difference in the paralyzed man's life. I am even more awed by Jesus' method for dealing with his critics, knowing their inmost thoughts, and being willing to address their doubts. I saw myself as both the paralytic, and the skeptic. Jesus knew how to deal with both!

Sometime during the next few weeks, Nichole gave me a copy of "Mere Christianity". I read it through in one sitting, the book being less than 200 pages in length, and completely captivating. I was dumbstruck to hear the very words of "the witch" being addressed head-on. My step-mother had said that Jesus was a good moral teacher, that he was nothing more than a man who had achieved superior enlightenment, something that each one of us could obtain. Mr. Lewis argued unequivocally that based upon the things he did and said, Jesus was very God, Lord and creator of the universe... or else he was a Liar or a Lunatic. Being merely a good, moral teacher would not fit in with the assertions and claims made by Jesus himself. Lewis' book helped me to identify many of my own misconceptions about Christianity and move beyond them, freeing me to truly deal with the real person and work of Jesus.

One of the final roadblocks that I had to deal with before accepting Jesus as "the way and the truth and the life" were Christians, those who professed to follow Jesus. I had this belief that Christians were a group of people that I didn't wish to associate with. I had heard a quote by Ghandi, "I love your Christ, but I hate your Christians.", and this seemed to summarize my feelings about the hypocrisy of the church at this time. Unfortunately, to me, tele-evangelists like Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker were the symbols of Christianity. Attending church with Nichole was eye-opening, in terms of discovering authentic disciples of Jesus. I will describe my first outing to Nichole's church, and the subsequent results of that visitation in my final segment.

Purple Haze

Purple haze all in my eyes

Don't know if it's day or night

You got me blowin', blowin' my mind

Is it tomorrow, or just the end of time?

--Jimi Hendrix

I barely graduated from High School in the summer of 1989, "I got my paper and I was free." But free to do what? I had no clue what I would do with the rest of my life, or even the next day. I didn't have any aspirations, goals or direction. My search for meaning and purpose had taken a serious wrong turn. I didn't have a road map, and, in typical male fashion, I was too proud (or stupid) to stop and ask for directions.

I found myself completely devoid of any positive influence or structure that summer. My dad and the witch moved to Missouri the April before my graduation, promising to drive back up in June for my commencement. They had landed an opportunity managing a retirement community in Springfield, which was a fantastic arrangement for them. I assured them that I would be fine finishing up school in Lincoln, and they should go ahead and take the position. Afterall, I was looking forward to the perfect summer, without a care in the world- and no parent-noids!

My dad offered to pay me to help them sell their house in Lincoln over the summer. I agreed to paint all the rooms (including my psychedelic black and white room), and refinish the wood floors to get everything ready to list (the floors being a task I'd absolutely never attempted before). Every night there was a party somewhere, and every day I tried to recover and work just enough to advance the house projects in some way - to justify my meaningless existence.

I received a bunch of cash from my grandparents for graduation, ostensibly for college. Instead it was utilized to fund parties, and for restoration work on my beloved truck- a 1949 International KB1. So, I was spending a good deal of my money on beer, weed, shrooms and acid, but in the spirit of entrepreneurialism - I was also trying to come up with a way to make that lifestyle profitable going forward. One of my buddies had set up a pretty nice boutique business by providing these items to the citizens of our community. I just needed to figure out a way to get enough money to launch my own venture.

I had a best friend from childhood, Jason, who had stuck with me, even in my worst moments. By graduation we had nothing left in common, really; our Boy Scout adventures were long past, and our evolving adolescent views on the world were taking us in completely different directions. I imagine he was repulsed by the way I was throwing my life away, and I thought he was too staid, simple and naive. In order to fund my summer business idea, I convinced Jason to lend me $1000 of his own graduation money, a fact that I still find inconceivable to this day. I came up with a grand tale, telling him that I was going to move an older couple (friends of the family) cross-country to Florida; packing up their things for them, loading a rented truck, driving it, and then unpacking it down there before returning home. I promised him he'd earn a 50% return on his money after the job was completed, and he reluctantly agreed to invest in my endeavor. I promised to pay him back the week after the 4th of July- when I planned on 'returning' from Florida.

I took Jason's money, along with the rest of my own, and bought a kilo of "Mr. Greenjeans" (2.2 lbs, roughly 35 ounces), which, at the time, I figured I could sell in 1/4 ounce amounts at $35 to $40 a piece, for a total of around $5000. After paying my friend back $1500, I planned on having $3500 left over by the end of summer. That would certainly be enough to buy another round, and put first and last month's rent on an apartment, right? Initially, it appeared that I had 2 lbs. of green gold tucked into my parents' deep freeze.

Of course, there ended up being a few glitches with my plan. One, I wasn't disciplined to limit my own consumption, and I also shared liberally with my friends. With all the partying going on at my house, there was a continual haze of smoke floating around which represented my profits. Problem two involved the simple economic principal of supply and demand. It seems like there was a lot of stuff available that summer, and mine wasn't selling very quickly. When I did find buyers, I either gave them discounts because they were my friends, or to entice them to buy more. So, the deadline I'd given to pay Jason back was quickly approaching, and the piles of cash that I'd dreamed of at the beginning of June hadn't materialized.

In order to escape the noose that I had wrapped around my neck, I found myself on the phone lying to my father. I told him that the transmission on my truck went out, but I could buy a rebuilt one from a friend, and install it myself. I promised him that I'd pay him back when we settled on the house remodeling, and he graciously sent me another check for $500. Over the 4th of July weekend, I sold several ounces of product to one guy for a significant discount, and I managed to scrape enough together to pay off my "investor". I could barely look Jason in the eye when we met up to hand over the money, and our remaining friendship pretty much ended from that point on.

Towards the end of the summer, I realized that my "Risky Business" scheme had netted me essentially zero. I hustled at the end of the summer to get my parents' house ready for sale, and then I proceeded to look for a job. I ended up hiring on to work the night shift at the 'Super Saver' grocery store, stocking shelves from 11pm to 7am. I had a lot of time to myself during those long, sober, nocturnal hours. I'd shown myself to be a lazy, lying scoundrel, deceiving my own father and childhood best friend. The fact that I never got caught didn't ease my mind. I felt there was something inherently wrong with me, and I remember pondering on multiple occasions the very concept of 'conscience'. What was it that made me act this way? And why did I subsequently feel 'guilty'? Is there an innate definition of Right and Wrong imprinted on man's being? Luckily for me, my petitions for a definitive response were not left unanswered for much longer...

Witchy Woman

In the months following Matt's death I set out to find meaning and purpose for why I was still alive. Never before had I really wrestled with the question of whether there was a God, but took it for granted that if there was, He didn't care about me. If all is meaningless, then what could possibly motivate me to make any choice that didn't enhance pleasure and minimize pain? And at 17 years of age, how could I conceptualize anything but immediate gratification? Over the next year, I found myself adopting this as my sole working philosophy for determining right and wrong- "If it feels good, do it".

The alternative to this self-gratification, seemed to be some obligation or commitment to a God who created me and cared for me. I knew instinctively that the outcome of this question would significantly impact how I should then live the rest of my life. Both paths seemed to have their pluses and minuses at the time, but I felt that I must know for sure, to maintain my sanity. I knew that I didn't want to live inconsistently with what I believed.

I didn't grow up going to church, or having any affinity for spiritual concepts. I cannot remember, as a child, very many people that struck me as sincerely having faith of any kind - let alone accompanying those beliefs with consistent lives. Perhaps my grandparents and great-grandparents had some religious affiliation, but that seemed far removed from my modern world. To be fair, if there were people around me who truly relied upon their faith on a day-to-day basis, they hadn't gone out of their way to discuss it with me.

As a teenager, I began to come into contact with a few people that clearly defined themselves as 'Christians'. I had a teacher in High School that I later came to realize was a sincere believer. She must have felt constrained in her position from being overt with her beliefs, since her influence in this area was always quite low-key and moderate. I had the wonderful opportunity to study writing and literature with her in a one-on-one situation for multiple years. One year, she gave me instruction in the subject of 'World Literature'. We actually read segments from the Penteteuch, in addition to gaining exposure to literature from a wide variety of other cultures and time periods (The Sumerian "Epic of Gilgamesh", Omar Khayyam's "The Rubaiyat", along with poetry and writings of Greece, the Far East, and Africa). It was a fantastic experience, but didn't cause me any great upheavals, as far as my spiritual outlook. Our readings from the Jewish Old Testament probably left me more confused about the Judeo-Christian God than anything else.

I also had a Boy Scout leader who was a professing "Born Again Christian", but his zeal and enthusiasm were, frankly, off-putting. The guys in my Troop also used to joke about this single, 30 something, man being a closet homosexual, so I was probably hesitant to seek special attention from him in terms of asking him private questions about his beliefs. Most importantly, however, I never comprehended what he was trying to communicate about how and why he followed Jesus. He used technical terms to describe God and his system of beliefs that were devoid of any meaning for me. He never tried to contextualize his message or simplify his concepts so that I might have a chance at comprehending. This language barrier became one of the primary struggles in my search for truth.

A third person I met in H.S. that professed to be a Christian was a cute red-headed girl that a buddy introduced me to one night after a Lincoln High football game. She was fun, outgoing, and easy to talk to, in addition to being attractive. I found out in the following months that she was very passionate about her belief in God, and that she read the Bible regularly. She spoke of Jesus as one might a dear friend, and there was no doubt in my mind that she was sincere, even though I thought her misguided or eccentric.

I considered myself a teen aged intellectual, and would try to challenge this girl's beliefs with questions, semantics, and philosophical riddles. Somehow, she took it all in stride. If she didn't know the answer, she honestly told me, but said she'd try to find out more relating to my questions. There was also a confidence on her part that she didn't need to have all the answers. She maintained a quiet assurance on the 'sine qua non', what she viewed as most essential to her faith. This girl was refreshing, intoxicating, and utterly frightening to me. At times, I would try to push her friendship away, because of what she represented to me. Other times, I would try to cause her to compromise, somehow rationalizing that she was wasting her life and that it was my job to make her see that.

Following my accident, the red-haired girl called to let me know that I was in her prayers. It was around this time that I told her that I was fully committing myself to my simple philosophy of seeking pleasure, and avoiding pain. We probably only talked a handful of times the rest of that school year, I think I was trying to avoid her. However, when I needed a date to to my work's Christmas party at the last minute, for some reason she agreed to accompany me. Most importantly though, we didn't come to any agreements over my faith issues. After I graduated (barely) that following June, she quietly went off to California for the summer, and I didn't imagine I'd ever see her again.

Another person that affected my thinking on spiritual things at this time in my life was my dad's 2nd wife. She was a really nice person, and always went out of her way to make me feel special. I was a teenager when my dad married her. As a gesture of our new life together as a family, she volunteered to help me decorate my bedroom in their new house. She got me this cool, funky black-and-white wall paper, which she then helped me hang. We painted one wall jet black, and she bought me some cool black furniture to complete the look. My room became a sanctuary for me in a world of chaos.

One thing that I found interesting about my step-mom, she unabashedly called herself a 'witch', and she usually followed that statement with a tongue-in-cheek cackle. What she meant was that she was a follower of Wicca, and she was very devoted to New Age spiritual teachings. She eventually became an ordained priestess in their organization.

My step-mom would often insist on cooking me a decent breakfast before heading out to school. We would spend an hour or so drinking coffee and talking, being the only two awake in the house- and I craved the attention. One specific conversation sticks out in my mind, and it must have followed a recent discussion with the cute red-headed girl. I asked the witch what she thought about Jesus Christ. My step-mom replied something to this effect, "Jesus was a great teacher who showed us the essence of God. Jesus attained his perfect state of Karma, and showed us how to become gods, just like he did. Most people misunderstand his words and intent, which is unfortunate. You could probably learn something from him, as well as other mystics who came before and after."

I left for school that morning with a renewed sense of interest in Jesus. The witch had a unique perspective that I hadn't heard before. If Jesus could become a god, maybe I could too? I needed to understand more about him, what he taught, what he really believed, and how he lived. This line of thinking sent me on the trail of finding out who Jesus really was. I will pick it up from there in my next installment...

Orange Crush

I have been pondering a lot lately on what the next steps might be for my life. This has caused me to reflect on some of the major milestones that have led me to where I am currently. The following is a retrospective look at a significant event that occurred during December 1988.

_________________________________________________

As I sat in the front row looking out the window, waiting for the service to begin, I observed how the sun looked like a tremendous ball of flames gazing steadily over the dormant December earth. Somehow that scene reflected the essence of my recent experiences. I was still trying to acquire words to describe my conflicted feelings - utter relief and elation intertwined with intense despair and grief.

I fidgeted in my seat, trying to stay calm as the bile once again crawled up my throat. I swallowed hard, and pulled a newspaper article from my jacket. My friend Wally saw my action, and gave me a concerned look followed by a faint, yet compassionate smile.

Passenger rescued from flames, Van Dorn Street crash fatal for Lincoln man.

A drive in the country by four friends turned to tragedy Thursday night when the car in which two were riding went out of control on a gravel road southeast of Lincoln, killing one man and injuring another.

Matthew Porter, 20, was fatally injured when he was thrown from the car he was driving as it flipped end over end. Two friends following the car that crashed pulled the seat-belted passenger out as the car caught fire, authorities stated.

Porter, of 2700 S. 74th, died Friday morning of injuries he suffered in the accident. The passenger, Mark Bogen, 17, was treated for minor injuries and released from Lincoln General Hospital, authorities said.

The day of the accident was routine. I went into work at 2:30 after finishing up at school. When I showed up, Matt confirmed that tonight Trent, Wally and I were going over to his house. Thursdays were usually “men’s night out” since Matt’s girlfriend, Julie, had class that evening.

I got to Matt’s house a little later than the other 3, since it was my job to clean up the shop after work. I was working part-time at the Quick Lube on 27th during my senior year at Lincoln High School. I even received school credits under their “Work-study” program. At this stage in my life, I was beginning to expect nothing more than a long career as a grease monkey. I was certainly receiving quite an education from the guys who were now mentoring me. In addition to learning to work on cars, I was experimenting with various drugs and alcohol, smoking, and developing a rather short-term, pessimistic outlook on life.

I grabbed a beer from Matt's fridge, and we played pool while listening to his already burgeoning C.D. collection. He was a huge fan of R.E.M., and he had been constantly playing their GREEN album over the past several months, and always talking about their ‘awesome’ concert he had seen in Austin the previous year.

I never heard Matt and Trent discuss a road race at Firethorn Golf Course that evening. I know that they always teased one another about whose car was faster, better handling, etc. Matt’s 280ZX was newer, but Trent had put a lot of work into his own Nissan, a beautiful 240 Z painted British racing green. Trent was never able to discuss the topic for legal reasons, and Matt can’t answer now, but the police officer explained to me sometime during the following week, “If Trent and Matt had set out that night to ‘commit a criminal act’, then Trent could be charged with involuntary vehicular manslaughter.” It didn’t make sense to me that anyone would want to add that on top of the existing tragedy, thankfully that matter was subsequently dropped.

After a few hours of partying, we left Matt’s place to get some cigarettes. We stopped at the convenience store on 70th street, then took Pioneer to 84th, heading back north to Van Dorn. Matt told me to “Buckle up man! We’re going to do some serious scootin’. ” He proceeded to crank up his stereo, and hit the accelerator. I complied with his order, and let the momentum of the vehicle slide me back in my seat. I didn’t realize at the time that he hadn’t followed his own seat belt advice.

Trent described to the police later that he and Wally watched helplessly as Matt passed Trents’s car and hit the transition from pavement to gravel at a high rate of speed. Matt’s car skidded sideways, rolled into the ditch, then somehow flipped end over end above a high voltage power box. They speculated that Matt, not native to Lincoln, didn’t know that the road turned to gravel, and unfortunately responded by hitting the brakes.

Trent and Wally ran towards the flaming wreck to pull me out from the car, which had eventually settled on the driver’s side door. My only specific recollections were that R.E.M.’s Orange Crush had prophetically been playing on the stereo as we hit the gravel, and next I was unbuckling my blessed seat belt, causing me to fall down into the driver’s side cavity. The remaining aspects of this sequence are lost from my memory; however, my sub-conscious has since attempted to recreate the nightmare on multiple occasions.

I sat in the field, in complete shock, staring at the wreckage as tires exploded in succession- followed by the gas tank. Wally and Trent searched frantically for our fourth comrade. They found him some 50 yards away from the car. Matt and I rode together in the ambulance all the way across town to Lincoln General. While the EMT's shredded my clothes to bits attending to my various cuts and contusions, I looked over to see that Matt was still barely alive. He didn’t die until 8 a.m., that next morning.

So, that’s how I found myself sitting in a small church in Glenwood, IA, surrounded by numerous people whom I’d only met the day before at Matt’s wake. Of course, I met Matt’s parents the prior day too. His mother kept commenting how miraculous it was that at least one of us had lived. How unfortunate, I imagined her thinking, that it was I instead of her own son.

The funeral proceeded, as I suppose most funerals do. The minister gave an account of Matt’s life, and how he and Julie were planning to marry when they finished college. He spoke of Matt’s passion for life, music and friends. As I and the other pallbearers led the processional from the church, R.E.M.’s “The One I Love” played over the sound system- a farewell to a son, a lover, and a friend.

For the rest of the afternoon, my bandages served as identification to everyone that I was “the guy” who had survived the crash. The scars on my head and hand still serve as a reminder to me of my good fortune.

I was thankful to be alive, to be sure, but I couldn’t help wondering why it wasn’t me resting in that coffin instead of my friend. My attitude towards life declined further during the following months. I became more reckless and self-destructive, and I barely graduated from High School.

This event, however, defined the beginning of my search for spiritual meaning and purpose. I hadn’t grown up attending church, or having any religious frame of reference. My few attempts at reading the Bible had been random, awkward and meaningless up to that point. For the first time in my life, I began wondering if there truly was a God, and if so, did he care about me? Answering these questions would become my mission over the following year. I will write more on this pursuit in the coming days.

Answering the Muse

I have been ruminating on a writing project for awhile now, and I'm finally getting motivated to move forward with it. When your muse shows up, and begins asking you compelling questions, I figure it is time to get to work!

Overview
The context for this piece of historical fiction will be the Bar Kokhba Revolt, or 2nd Jewish Revolt against Rome. In 130 A.D., the Roman Emperor Hadrian had offered some hope to the people of Israel that he would allow them to rebuild their sacred Temple (which had been destroyed in 70 A.D.) However, Hadrian subsequently announced that the Temple would be dedicated to his own god, Jupiter. Obviously, this was utter blasphemy to the Jews, and preparations moved forward to revolt - one that basically had been brewing for the last six decades, following their crushing defeat at Masada - the final episode in the 1st Jewish War with Rome. Did Hadrian change his mind, or did he mislead the Jews? He certainly wasn't naive enough to think they wouldn't mind having their Temple desecrated in this way.

The Rabbis and Jewish ruling party rallied around a man named Simon Bar Kosiba. He led the Jewish insurgency, and successfully overthrew the Roman occupation, setting up a free Nation of Israel for about 2 and 1/2 years (this would be the last independent State of Israel until 1948). In support for Simon Bar Kosiba, the esteemed Rabbi Akiva re-dubbed their military leader "Bar Kokhba", meaning "Son of a Star". This was pulled from Numbers 24:17, "A star will come out of Jacob: a scepter will rise out of Israel.", and was intended to identify their hero with the promised Messiah.

After suffering great embarrassment, the Roman Emperor called his most honored General, Sextus Julius Severus, away from Britain to restore the order of Rome upon the Middle East. The loses to both sides were heavy, but in the end, the Romans systematically destroyed the rebellion. Simon Bar Kosiba's final stand took place at a stronghold called Bethar, and many of his compatriot's died while hiding out in caves in the Judean wilderness. The Jewish Rabbis subsequently referred to their failed savior as "Bar Koziba", meaning "Son of a Liar". Of course, in retrospect, it's easier to to see that he was not God's intended Messiah...

Themes
This project is exciting to me for many reasons. First, the topic is somewhat obscure, but there is just enough primary source material to get started. Bar Kokhba himself is almost mythical. The messianic issue provides me a great context, as a writer, to present my understanding of faith, which applies today, just as it did in the 2nd Century. Would the real Messiah please stand up?

Also, I believe the Bar Kokhba revolt was probably one of the final breaking points between Rabbinical Judaism, and the Jewish followers of Jesus. Both sprang out of Levitical Judaism, and coexisted in some fashion after the Temple was destroyed in 70AD. Bar Kokhba's proclamation as 'Messiah' put the pressure on the Christians to take sides, either for their faith or their country. I see this inner conflict in my nation today, between Faith and Patriotism. The war in Iraq has further confused that issue for me. I'm proud to be an American, but if I have to choose, I choose Christ. So, I want to explore how these early Christians dealt with the "For God and Country" proposition offered to them.

My muse asked me the fundamental questions, "why did they think he was the Messiah?", and, "how did he come to be associated with this prophecy (Num 24:17)"? In this case, the name similarities were most probably manipulated to solidify national unity. I have to believe that this stemmed from the sincere hope that the glory of Israel would soon be restored. The muse then asked another challenging question, "Why, if they changed his name, is it referred to as the Bar Kokhba Revolt and not the Bar Koziba Revolt?" I think Christian writers like Jerome and Eusebius perpetuated the "Bar Kokhba" title, to warn against false messiahs. The subsequent Jewish writings, do in fact, refer to Simon as "Bar Koziba". However, the modern Israeli might have more affinity for the successful military hero, rather than the failed messiah- so that also has contrbibuted to the revival of the myth of Bar Kokhba.

Wrapping up for this morning, one of the things that truly amazes me about this story is that there weren't too many successful revolts against Rome. The Israelis' perseverance has always amazed me (how many Hittites, Amalekites, Moabites or Amorites do you know???). My time living in Ha Eretz, Israel, makes this all seem so relevant to me, and it compels me to add my perspective and personality, somehow, to this tale.

Inside, Outside, Upside Down

A friend of mine posted a sobering reminder of how fragile life is. She was deeply moved in response to the folks in Kansas who lost everything to Tornadoes this weekend. It seems like every region has it's own variation of unpredictable catastrophic destruction; Hurricanes on the Gulf, Tsunamis, earthquakes, fires... Quite simply, the world isn't a forgiving place to be. It's difficult not to become calloused to it.

How can I have sincere compassion and not lose my mind??? I know there isn't an easy answer to this question, one that has been wrestled with for all of time. To survive, I'll pray, I'll look for tangible ways to help others. I'll try to focus on the things that are important, and not worry about that which I cannot control.

Pondering all the ways that a person's life can be turned upside down in an instant also reminded me to thank God for what I have: my wife, my children, my home, my health, my friends, to name a few of the more important ones. I want to be like the Apostle Paul, content whatever the situation:

"for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who gives me strength." Phil 4: 11-13

I couldn't help it, but this topic also brought to mind a song by the Kingston Trio. Hopefully, it won't be taken the wrong way!

The Merry Minuet
They're rioting in Africa,
They're starving in Spain.
There's hurricanes in Florida,
And Texas needs rain
The whole world is festering
With unhappy souls.
The French hate the Germans,
The Germans hate the Poles;
Italians hate Yugoslavs,
South Africans hate the Dutch,
And I don't like anybody very much!

But we can be tranquil
And thankfill and proud,
For man's been endowed
With a mushroom-shaped cloud.
And we know for certain
That some lovely day
Someone will set the spark off,
And we will all be blown away!

They're rioting in Africa,
There's strife in Iran.
What nature doesn't do to us
Will be done by our fellow man!