On the Observance of Days

It is amazing that a nation could twist holidays from a spirit of thankfulness and generosity to a mindset of gluttony and greed.

Astonishment would have reigned in the hearts of the early settlers and pilgrims of the New World had they known that Thanksgiving, a holiday conceived in the midst of trial and starvation for the purpose of remembering the providence of God, would be changed into a day of slothfulness and over-eating.

Disgust would have been the primary reaction of those tested people if they had heard that their posterity would not observe Christmas as a time to gather peacefully with family in the mindset of awe in regards to the selflessness of the Creator, but instead that their children would change this season to a hectic rush to buy and get in line before others. The hope of Christmas is no longer the restoration of mankind, but that your kin and company would observe even the most minute details of your wishlist.

The practice of Christmas used to be generous with the recognition that Christ is generous. Now the practice of Christmas is that after the turkey loses its head, you can lose yours.

But can Christians really complain about the “heathens” changing the Baby and the Manger to Santa and his Sleigh? Do we have the right to be angry when people say “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas” when we say “What do I want?” instead of “Look at what He has given?”

Certainly it is ludicrous for the “Politically Correct States of America” to demand the name “Winter Tree” to be bestowed on what everyone knows is a Christmas Tree, but does it really matter if they try to take away Christmas? Is that the real issue?

Christians in Rome were burned at the stake for nocturnal illumination and they said “Let it be so.” The Apostle Paul was imprisoned and chained to four guards in shifts for 24 hours a day, and he blest God for his captive audience of the soldiers. Christ Himself was falsely accused of treason, spat upon, beaten unjustly, and nailed to a tree all because of the hypocritical Pharisees and their jealousy, and He said “forgive them, for they know not what they do.” But we American Christians are persecuted above all because of the authorities and their intolerance of our practices, and we say “how dare you.” What penalty is there for saying “Merry Christmas,” anyways? The most severe punishment that comes to mind for greeting someone traditionally is a talk with one’s principle, but this retribution is strictly limited to schools. Jews were incinerated just because they were Jewish. James (according to Church tradition) was thrown out of the temple window, stoned, and then had his skull caved in with a club, just because he said that he loved Jesus. Paul was stoned (arguably to death), and yet he still ministered to those who had stoned him.

The important thing is not whether Non-Christians are respectful of Christmas or not, but whether they know that they are going to Hell because of their unbelief. Should we really be having meaningless debates on tolerance with intolerant people? Our goal should not be to win the argument on the issue of prejudice, but to win over mankind to Christ.

Even aside from this point we cannot truly and justly take offense towards non-Christians who wish to remove Christmas from the calendar, as we ourselves have fallen into sapping every ounce of meaning out of Christmas. Granted, families still sit down and read the Christmas stories, go to Christmas concerts instead of the movies, and put up their nativity in a viewable location. But is that what God wants? In the Old Testament God explicitly said that He was sick of His people’s lip service. He said that He didn’t want their sacrifices anymore, because their sacrifices were coming from a people with an unloving heart.

How we treat Christmas draws resemblance to the passage in Romans which states “Although they knew God, they did not glorify Him as God, nor were thankful, but became futile in their thoughts, and their foolish hearts were darkened. Professing to be wise, they became fools.” We demand the right to say “Merry Christmas,” but from what ideal does that fountain spring? Do we honestly desire to keep Christ the centre of the holiday season? From observance of holiday shoppers it is easily deduced that this season has taken the form of hecticism, not of generosity. Christ is not glorified when His children are caught up in petty squabbles of price, or when we become angry at fellow shoppers. If we truly want to keep Christ in Christmas, then we ought to show His love daily instead of honoring Him with our lips after the presents are opened and the cookies are eaten.

A Question of Labor

In years past, one was allowed to approach a company and offer their unpaid service in order to get experience in a certain area, and possibly to gain an advantage in a future application for employment at said company. One was also allowed to work at whatever age. Now, there are certain laws (such as child labor laws) which restrict these practices. These laws (of course) come from good intentions. However, they have mutated into something they should not be.
A few years ago, Faith Community Church would hire unpaid Interns for the Summer Children’s Ministry. The interns would arrive at the church at 9:00 a.m. and occasionally leave at 11:00 p.m. Their daily schedule would consist of two five day clubs (one in the morning, one in the afternoon), followed by decorating for Vacation Bible School (which could easily take up most of the evening). While this seems to be a case of a church taking unfair advantages of well-meaning college students, it is not. The desire of the interns was to work, and (in fact) they had to be forced to stop earlier than they desired by the church Elders. If they had not been stopped, the interns would’ve stayed well into the next day, working tirelessly.  Additionally, Faith Community would take a love offering from its congregation at the end of the summer, the sum of which greatly surpassed the salary the interns would have made if they had been paid minimum wage.
Presently, the Church is forced to pay its interns at minimum wage, as the interns are to be treated like “actual employees.” Because of this, the Church cannot hire as many interns as it once could, and the interns that are hired are forced to work less than before (8 hours a day) because “surely more time working would be inhumane.” Another result of companies being forced to pay minimum wage at the very least is the firing of employees who are not worth minimum wage, such as handicapped employees or the elderly. The inexperienced, too, are absolutely  unconsidered for most jobs, and college graduates with obscure degrees are forced to go into a profession which does not relate to their chosen Major.
The Government also insists on continuously raising the minimum wage, despite the obvious inverse proportion between its increase and the number of the unemployed. To illustrate this point, if a company had ten employees which it was paying at minimum wage (eight dollars per hour) and minimum wage was raised to ten dollars per hour, the company would be forced not only to lay off two employees to make up for the difference, but it would also be forced to make the remaining employees work harder.
To play the Devil’s advocate, isn’t forcing children to work indecent? Shouldn’t interns be rewarded for their efforts? After all, not all companies can take “love offerings.” Granted, it is unlawful to force children to work, but child labor laws apply until one is eighteen years of age. Childhood does not last until the age of thirteen, much less seventeen! While there are certain processes for working under the age of eighteen, these work permit laws cripple young adults who are not enrolled in a school (as a Work Permit is to be obtained through one’s educational institution), and drastically cut the income of families whose children work after school, or even on weekends. Regarding the second question involving interns, these volunteers are rewarded by gaining experience! This experience helps to ensure a more stable income in the future. There is no need to pay interns when they will be rewarded heartily in the future, especially as this lowers the amount of interns.
There are few things that can be done in this situation. The most powerful thing which may be done is to pray. In fact, Christians are commanded to “pray for all who are in authority, that [we] might have a calm and peaceable life.” (I Timothy 2:2) Other than this (which is by far the most important action), the youth can confront the lawgivers. We must reason with our local authorities. We can take the issue to those in power. However, we must not forget to do this in love. We are not to speak harshly, and we are not to vainly argue. This does not mean that we cannot have an impact. The youth must speak. We can ask others to join us in our labors; we can petition; we can present our views; we can change their minds. Although our government has devolved horribly, it still honors (however vaguely) the right of free speech. All we have to do is to be pointed in our goal; we cannot be complacent, or our battle will be lost before it has commenced.
One of the more important things for the young men and women of America to do is to act respectably. If we wish our view to be seriously considered, we must show that we should be taken seriously. Those in power would not (and indeed should not) consider the arguments of delinquents. Why listen to the desires of hooligans; why reason with one who stirs up trouble? We mustn’t act foolishly if we want to be treated like the adults that we must one day become. We cannot assume that with the gaining of height comes the gaining of maturity. We must strive to be sober-minded in our actions, and thus be good ambassadors for Christ; for the World watches us to see whether they may blaspheme the name of God (Romans 2:24). They will not respect the One we call Master if we act like heathens, and they will not heed the opinion of fools.

Burglar, Part I: The Nameless Child

    There was once a boy who lived in a land that moved. Sometimes the country was an island in the ocean. Sometimes it was a mountain amidst the plains. And sometimes it was a haven among the clouds.

    This boy did not have a name, and he didn’t see why other people would ever want to have one. The boy knew about names: he knew that they defined someone. One can often tell what sort of person someone else is just by their name. Therefore, the boy did not like names and was glad that he was not fettered by one.

    Regardless of this fact, the boy was called something. Almost all of the people of the Moving Country knew the boy, and so they all had a name for him. Some people called him Fleetfoot, some people called him Scratcher, and some people called him very nasty names which the author is uncomfortable taking note of. But the most common name of all for the boy was Young Lad.

This name, in fact, had its own derivatives. When Young Lad was being sneaky and devious, people would not want to shout out his whole title (as that would take a good deal of pronunciation and moving of the lips), so they would cry out “Y.L.!”, or “Whyll!”

    Young Lad wasn’t sure how he felt about this, as Whyll sounded a bit like Will, and that was a name. However, since Will was also a thing which meant determination, he let it pass.

    Young Lad, however, never really adopted his common title. He acknowledged people when they called him by any name, but whenever he introduced himself he would say something unique; something particular to that time of his life. For example when a baker made his acquaintance after the boy had been up all night staring at the sky, Young Lad introduced himself as “the boy who talks with the Moon.” When an adventurer asked the boy what his name was after the child had shown an astonishing amount of courage, Young Lad replied “I am the one who knows that life is more than myself.” He was a very poetic child (though hardly romantic). In fact, the boy could say such deep things sometimes that many questioned whether he was a child at all. To tell the truth, Young Lad had looked the same age for as long as anyone could remember. Even Havel, the old woodcarver, merely smiled knowingly when questioned on Young Lad’s origins. Havel was the oldest colonist, and a very wise man. He seemed to be at one with the earth, and could work magic with healing. He was a man of many hobbies, but his favorite was woodcarving and that is what he identified himself with.

    Havel was, in fact, most likely the closest thing that Whyll had to family. Whyll could be found at least one day a week in Havel’s woodshop, watching the old man’s face turn young again as he fashioned a figure out of an oak branch. Whyll felt at peace in the woodshop, as did all who went there. Something about the smell of woodshavings and the coffee that Havel was famous for relaxed the nerves, and slowed the heart.

    It is an interesting fact that, although Havel was the oldest person in the Moving Country, he was the only one who had a soul as young and joyous as Young Lad’s.

    Young Lad lived in an abandoned cathedral. He said that he felt safe there. He would pass long nights with one of the sacred candles close to his side, staring up at the pictures on the stained-glass windows. The cathedral was not necessarily homey, and would have spooked many a child. But Whyll wasn’t a normal boy; he was a brave lad. He was the kind of person who is absolutely astonishing and didn’t even realize it. Young Lad claimed that he had snuck into the cathedral and listened to the nuns sing when it still had services many years ago, but no one believed him because no one even remembered that the cathedral had housed nuns when Whyll mentioned the fact. Eventually it was established that nuns had lived in underground chambers of the cathedral which could be found by going through what had been thought to be an entrance to a bomb shelter. Not much could be found in these catacombs, save three headdresses and four dozen beds. These beds were Young Lad’s joy.

    “I may not have a proper house,” he would say, “but I have more beds than anyone in the whole village, and that’s the truth! Bed’s the best part of a house, anyways. I never have understood how people could stand to be in their cottages during the day.”

    A long while ago he had slept down in the catacombs, but had stopped for reasons no one knew. However, he had dragged a few beds from the cells to the organ-room, and it was there that he slept. He used the curtains which had covered the windows for sheets and blankets (and occasionally as a cloak). He despised hung curtains. He loved having the light in the cathedral, even if he wasn’t in it. He said that the light stayed in the cathedral after dark and whispered to him while he was sleeping.

    The nighttime did not frighten Young Lad. When asked if he was ever afraid sleeping in that dark, dusty cathedral at night he replied that it would be silly to be scared of something that had neither tooth nor claw, but was deep and soft and just a bit magical. Deep and soft, he called the night, because it had a deep feeling that made you think that nothing could be in front of you, and a soft feeling, like you were cocooned in a coat of blankets.

    Despite getting awfully dirty during the daytime, Whyll was very particular about washing before going to bed. It was after one of these washings (which were performed with a hose in the garden) that Young Lad realized that he must have misplaced his shirt. He hardly ever wore his shirt since it would get dirty in his exploring anyways, and usually only put it on before he went to bed or if he were going to see someone. He thought that it was very gentlemanly to be covered up when seeing people who were respectful, especially the “lady folk,” as he called them.

    “If God had wanted us to walk around without clothes on all the time,” Young Lad would say, “Then He wouldn’t have made us to look so ridiculous without them.”

    However, Young Lad never was proud enough to think himself respectful, and hardly ever wore anything beyond what was necessary when he was playing by himself in the Further.

    Regardless of this, Whyll was quite put out when he couldn’t find his shirt, since he was very worried that he wouldn’t be able to see Havel or Ms. Tea again, as they were the very most respectable people he knew, and he couldn’t possibly have a “decent conversation” with one of them when his torso was bare. So Young Lad hunted for his shirt. He searched high and low for his shirt, and for so long that his legs began to ache and his eyelids began to droop with weariness.

    “I suppose it’s time to be...not...awake…” he said with an immense yawn. In fact, his yawn was so gargantuan that a moth flew into his mouth and he inadvertently swallowed it whole and continued on his path without so much as a pause in his step. “After all, I shouldn’t be seeing too many respectable people while I’m unconscious.”

    Young Lad let out a small burp, and a puff of moth dust emerged from his mouth.

    The boy crawled into bed and shivered thoroughly, crawling deep into the mound of curtains which engulfed his mattress. Eventually he was completely covered, except for his eyes which stared at the moon through the stained glass until the boy went to sleep.

    Most people drift off into the land of dreams. Young Lad trod intently forward into it, as though he were a citizen of the place.

    Whyll awoke with a start, and looked straight into the eyes of the intruder whom he knew was there. It wasn’t hard, since the intruder had just slipped on the puddle that Young Lad had made from his bath drippings and slammed into the organ. Fortunately for the sneak, they had caught themselves. Young Lad leapt from his sheets, fell off of the mattress and face-first onto the ground when he had tried to jump when the curtain was still wrapped around his left ankle, retrieved himself, sprang up, and leapt towards the intruder. But the intruder was gone. No! Not gone: at the door. The Locked Door. Young Lad had never been able to open that door, and had named it thus. He ran after the trespasser shouting “Stop, burglar!” He rather liked the word burglar. It was then that the boy realized that the “burglar” was about the same height as he was.

    “Ah, a diminutive burglar!” He thought.

    He rushed and grabbed the invader around the stomach, and shouted his victory over the sneak. Which was when he found his shirt.

    “My my!” Whyll cried. “A diminutive burglar who wants to steal my clothes! I can’t have that, now! I can’t go seeing Wilder with naught but my skin!”

    “I didn’t want to steal your clothes!” Said the diminutive burglar, in a rather high voice. “And I’m not a burglar. I’m a girl.”

    “Oh ho! Trying to get me to run away, are you?” Young Lad replied suspiciously. “Assuming you are a girl (which you’re not, or at least, you don’t smell like you are) why would you want to take a boy’s shirt?”

    “Because...because I didn’t have anything else to wear...because my other clothes are all in...tatters...and...and...and…” The vertically challenged interloper could not finish her sentence, and instead burst out into tears.

    “By Jupiter!” Young Lad exclaimed. “It is a girl!” He began to back away slowly with alarm, as one would with a rabid and hungry coyote, but then noticed that the creature didn’t seem to have ulterior motives.

    “Oh dear!” Whyll sighed. “Don’t cry because you smell like a boy, now-”

    The girl began to wail.

    “Erm...I meant a very nice smelling boy…”

    A small pond of tears was forming between the girl’s knees.

    “Who has recently been walking amidst roses…”

    The girl’s hands, which were covering her face, began to act as a waterfall for her tears.

    “What a strange small naked burglar you are!” Whyll said. “You take my shirt and then burst into tears when I say you smell like a boy! Well of course you smell like a boy! That’s my shirt!”

    The girl looked at the fabric with surprise, and then at Young Lad in relief.

    “No wonder you smell so strongly of boy! That thing hasn’t seen soap in years!”

    The girl swallowed what seemed to be bile which had sprung into her mouth. After getting her lunch back down, the girl cleared her throat and spoke.

    “Is there something else I might be able to wear?” She asked.

Young Lad smiled and offered his hand.

    “Follow me.”

    “I’m sorry I stole your clothes,” the girl said. “I just didn’t know what to do. The things I had on before were barely threads anymore, and it was cold outside.”

    “That’s quite all right.” Young Lad said over the stream of hot water that was coming out of the kitchen spigot and practically scalding his hands. “It’s not the first time someone stole my clothes!”

    “Really?” The young girl asked in astonishment. She was now wrapped in one of the old red curtains of the cathedral. It was actually quite modest: there was quite a lot of surface area for one very small girl.

    “Really.” Young Lad answered. “Except last time it was for purposes of voodoo or something, so that was different.”

    The girl smiled, and Whyll turned round to dry his hands.

    “Better not make a sarcastic comment like that again!” He whispered to himself. “Otherwise it’ll be Veronica all over again.”

    “Would you like some tea?” Young Lad asked.

    “Oh, tea sounds wonderful!”

    “Excellent! I’ll get the water brewing then. I have some special herbs here which are said to ward off disease and frightful creatures. Plus it tastes delicious.”

    “My, do you have disease and frightful creatures you’re trying to ward off?” The girl asked in alarm.

    “Yes, actually. In fact they’ve been accosting me this very day.” Whyll replied. “Don’t worry, though; nothing harmful to you. Right then, would you like some cheese with that?”

    “Yes, please.”

    Whyll climbed up onto the counter, and opened a cupboard door. The girl couldn’t see inside the cupboard, although she got the feeling that it was a very deep storage space.

“Drat!” Whyll exclaimed, looking deeper into the cupboard. “I know it’s in here somewhere…”

“Oh, don’t go to any extra trouble!” The girl started, but Whyll interrupted her.

“It’s no trouble at all, I know it’s here somewhere.” He said, climbing all the way

into the cupboard. The girl heard a great deal of rustling around in the space, until Whyll finally emerged (his left hand with the cheese in it first), and set the lump of dairy (as well as a second lump) on the counter, then turned around and started the tea brewing. The girl looked at Whyll suspiciously, then picked up one of the lumps and began chewing it.

    “My, this is marvelous cheese!” The girl exclaimed.

    “Thank you! It’s from a good old friend. She says that it’s very well aged.” He turned around, and looked at what the girl was nibbling.

    “Is something wrong?” The girl asked.

    “Well, that’s actually my soap that you’re enjoying right now.” The boy said. The girl promptly spat the stuff out (“Into the trashcan.” Whyll noticed. “I never would’ve thought of that myself!”) and looked at Whyll sheepishly.

    “Sorry!” She said awkwardly. “It’s been awhile since I’ve tasted cheese, and I guess I didn’t remember that it wasn’t supposed to taste like that.”

    “From the looks of you,” Whyll said, “It’s been awhile since you’ve tasted anything.”

    The girl looked down, uncomfortable.

    “How about some bread to go with the cheese?” Young lad asked. “I happen to have picked up a batch just tonight!”

    “Oh, thank you!” The girl said, as she grabbed the second hunk. She looked at it quizzically. “This one is cheese, right?”

    “Yeah.” Said Whyll. “Wait!” He looked at it closer. “Yeah. Wait!” He picked it up and sniffed it. “Yeah, that’s cheese. Very aged cheese, hard to tell sometimes.”

    Young Lad picked up the soap with the tooth-marks pointing away from him and tossed the bar into the sink, where his shirt was laying. At the moment he, too, had a curtain wrapped around his torso, as he wouldn’t have been caught dead shirtless in front of a lady, at least in a civilized situation.

    “You decided that your shirt could use a dip, then?” The girl asked.

    “Hm? Oh, yes. It’s gotten especially dirty recently, to tell the truth.”

    “Ah, that’s right. You’re trying to stay healthy from disease.”

    “Yes, yes quite right.” Young Lad began thoroughly scrubbing his face (with soap, if you would believe it). “Don’t want the germs to have any foothold on my health.”

    “Do you live here alone, then?” The girl asked.

    “Oh, no! Not at all!” Young Lad replied. “I have rats, mice, cats…” Young Lad glanced at the girl and couldn’t tell if she looked interested or disgusted. Hoping it was disgust, he went on.

    “And I have a dog (oh, and he has fleas), and a community of cockroaches” (this boast was a bit of an over-statement) “and a dead squirrel, and- oh!” He said, getting quiet quickly. He leaned closer with an impish glee. “And sometimes...I hear voices.”

    At this moment he had hoped the girl either would’ve fainted or have run screaming from the cathedral, but instead her eyes lit up with hope.

    “Really?” She asked, an excited smile springing to her face. “I do too.”

    Young Lad looked at her with a blank expression. His schpeel would’ve worked with most girls. In fact, a list of so many unhygienic peculiarities would’ve sent any girl that he had ever met running long before he had gotten to the cherry-on-top of insanity.

    “You…” Young Lad started, and then cleared his throat. “You do?”

    “Yes! That’s why I was out in the cold, that’s why I’m so far from my village, that’s why my parents…” She stopped abruptly. After a bit she smiled (interestingly enough it was not a forced smile) and said “Perhaps we could indulge in the tea?”

    “Of course.” Young Lad said. He had not expected this girl to act this way, and was at a loss as to how to address her. Disoriented, he grabbed the jar of honey from the cupboard and set it on the counter.

    “Two teaspoons?” He asked.

    “Yes, thank you.”

    He mechanically lowered the spoon into the jar of the sticky stuff, raised it out, then lowered it into the cup. Stir, stir, stir. Like clockwork.

    Young Lad’s mind was elsewhere. He didn’t know how to approach the girl at this point. He didn’t know if he should try to get rid of her or if he should befriend her. He had never met someone so young who heard voices like he did. Or at least, he had not met someone like this in a very long time. Whyll handed the girl her tea.

    “You really hear voices?” Young Lad asked hesitantly. The girl nodded, contentedly gripping her steaming cup near her chin with her shoulders hunched up.

    “How long ago did it start?” Whyll questioned.

    “Two years, four months, and one day.” The girl answered abruptly. She looked up at him and smiled sadly. “My ninth birthday.”

    Whyll nodded and began stirring honey into his tea.

    “It changed everything, you know.” The girl said. “The voices made me see things that weren’t there, but it all seemed so real. When I told my friends what I thought I had seen, they just stared at me. Then when they told their parents, they locked me up in an asylum. The voices reprimanded me, and hurt me. When I was crying out in pain an old man heard me, and said that he knew what I was going through. He told me that the voices weren’t actually inside of me, and that they could only hurt me if I let them. He said that I could block them out, that I didn’t have to listen to them. That I had a voice of my own.”

    The girl stared into the cup of tea as if it was a Palantir showing her the scene once more. Young Lad listened intently. The girl looked up from her tea, and took a sip.

    “I broke away from the voices, and I broke away from the asylum. Then I ran. I ran like I could do nothing else, I sprinted as if it was my nature, I flew as if from a fire. I don’t know what happened to my village, to my country. I am a long ways away now, how far I do not know. Nor will I question. This is the life granted to me, and it is the one thing I cannot run from. To be on the outside looking in, to know things I can only just believe, this is my story. And it is not a story worth hearing, for my burden is not one worth bearing.”

    Young Lad looked at her.

    “You don’t have to run.” He said. “Pilgrims settle, even if they are far from home.”

    “I am no pilgrim,” the girl said sadly. “I am an outcast. I am not a foreigner in a strange land. I am a glitch persecuted in my own country.”

    “This is not your country,” Young Lad said.

    “It is my home.”

    “You have not seen your home yet, nor has it entered into your imagination.”

    “Boy, there is no place for people like us in this world.” She replied. It was not spiteful.

    “No place in this world.”

The Decline of Maturity

When I was ten years old, I would have been absolutely devastated for my friends to know that I still watched cartoons. The really terrible thing, in my mind, was that I wasn't even watching action cartoons, but foolish, humorous cartoons meant for seven-year-olds. I believe that this was a natural tendency. In the mind of every human this is a natural instinct to put away childish things. In this statement, childish things would be defined as any practice or possession meant for a person younger than oneself. For instance, a teenager's reaction to their parents suddenly trying to act more youthful (which may be by breaking out the old habits that they had in college, or by attempting to adopt the current lifestyle of the young) is embarrassment. This is because the attempt to act younger that you actually are is very basic foolishness, a foolishness which can be identified by anyone save (perhaps) the person who partakes in it.

Please do not misunderstand me. I do not mean to say that it is of the Devil to reminisce about the "good old days," or even under circumstances to act silly. For instance, if one is a grandparent, it is perfectly acceptable to play with one's grandchildren, and any intelligent parent would be grateful for this giddiness (unless, of course, this play is putting one's child in harm's way). However, if one is the age of a grandparent and insisted upon wasting their time playing with plastic figures, this would be looked upon as very awkward and foolish; pointless, really. This is obviously an extreme case, but I believe that extremes are quite often needed to view the intricacies of certain comparisons. 

Now, this example aside, I must let you know that I am not writing to criticize the elderly (as I have not seen any prominent evidence of the old pretending to be young), or even self-pitying men in a mid-life crisis (although that is extremely silly), as this is not my place. Indeed, what I have written already may be too much; for we are to respect our elders, despite what fool-hardy society might teach. No, my message, my criticism, is for my generation. Yes, the generation whose battle-cry is "Not for God, nor for community, but for myself!" This is the generation to whom I speak. The lazy, gluttonous generation who expects for life to be given to them without any hard work; who expect a promotion because, although they are below mediocre as an employee, at least they've been working at the same job for years! To those who go into absurd amounts of debt for their out-of-the-blue degree and expect this to be a certificate of a guaranteed job; yes, my cry is to you.

When did it become acceptable to continue in one's childhood? For my peers continuously announce that they are childish, in the things they watch, in the graphics they wear, and in their lifestyle of a need to be entertained. And as you continue in your childish way, why do you expect to be treated like an adult? Why do you try to jump so quickly into a thing so holy as love when you cannot be trusted even with trifles? O how little heartbreak would there be in this world if boys became men before they dove into a relationship! For in the way that they enter, so will they leave. If the deciding factor in a relationship is the physical appeal, why should a man stay when that physical appeal has dwindled, even though it had produced four children? And from whom are those children to derive their lifestyle from? Their father who was never there? Their mother, who has been in and out of relationships since she was sixteen? Is this love? We act as animals, staying with a "lover" for just one season. O how Satan has perverted that which is perfect! And what a brilliant plan it is. Tell me this, one-night-standers, after your practice of loving and leaving has gone through three generations, do you honestly think that our society will continue? You who say "If you love them, sleep with them and love will pull you through," I have something to say to you: "If you base love on the heart, which is called (among many other things) deceitful above all things and desperately wicked, how is this love to pull you through?" You will not stay with them, and if you do, you will be like a dead man walking.

This pitiful excuse of romance and family is not the only thing that my immature generation is affecting. Our immaturity causes us to cease to learn. We will not take responsibility for schooling that we feel we will not use. What avail is History? What use is English? I will not name their intellectual merits here (though there are many), as that is not relevant to the issue, but I will state what may be their most important use. These seemingly meaningless things teach us to be productive, a word which my father always uses around me.

"Be productive," he would say when he left for work. "Be productive." Those words were pounded into my mind, and although they have not affected as much as my father may have wished, they have certainly built me up. In recent years (months, in fact) God has been enforcing the fact that whatever I do, I must do it heartily, as to Him. This is because He is who I am representing. My generation also representing their parents. In their lazy, procrastinating way, they are putting on display their parents, most of whom are also slothful and unfaithful. Why give it your all in something as "meaningless" as school when your parents have shown you that you shouldn't give a rip about fighting for something as sacred as love? 

This kind of lifestyle thrived among the children of Israel for a time (Ex. 32:7) until God almost destroyed them all, with the exception of Moses. Yet we treat sex as a light thing. "Where is God's punishment, then?" You may well ask. "If He was so angry about it then, why aren't we being punished?" My answer? Look around you. Our society is slowly degrading. Fathers do not lead their families. Sons are not taught discipline. Mothers do not have enough authority to keep a teenager in check. Daughters are taught to dress like prostitutes to find love. Children are killed and worse. Lawmakers try to destroy holy matrimony. In short, our society has become one of murder, strive, deceit, and evil-mindedness. There was once a place just like that, known as Sodom. So let me ask you; 

Where is our punishment?

Rehoboam's Folly

Someone who seeks the counsel of advisers who simply itch his ears is not justified in his biased determination, regardless of whether those advisers are his peers or his feelings.
When Solomon first began his reign, his primary goal was to lead the Israelites in the way they should go, and he acknowledged the fact that he was completely incapable of doing this (a sign of humility). This humility, this contentment to be nothing except a vessel for Yahweh, did not last long. Much in the manner of high schoolers doing foolish things to gain popularity, Solomon rejected the command of the LORD, and began marrying foreign women (a thing which was explicitly warned against in the Law). In the days of Moses, Balaam (the infamous “man of God”) informed Balak (a king of Moab) that the most efficient way to make the Israelites stumble was to seduce them with foreign women. Thus, when tempted with the lust of the eyes, the men of Israel fell into sin and corruption. When the Israelites became intimately involved with the Moabite women, those women taught them of their god, the Baal of Peor. Before long, the People of God were sacrificing to the false gods of Moab, descendants from the sinful daughter of Lot. Because of their sin, a plague from God broke out among the people. 24,000 people died from sleeping with foreign women. Solomon was not unaware of this. He knew that God hated it when his people were unequally yoked, and Solomon knew why this was the case; because one cannot serve two masters. When one attempts both to serve God and to associate with pagan women, something must give way. Even so, even after understanding all of this, Solomon (disregarding God’s counsel) came to the conclusion that he was an exception to this rule. He decided that, even though his people mustn't marry inter-racially, it was entirely acceptable if he did. And so the scandal of decades began; gossip so heinous that the tabloids (had they existed in those days) would have blown up; a rumor so disproportionate by comparison that it would make Bill Clinton look like a saint. Solomon did not stop with a foreign wife. He married many foreign women, and in all likelihood worshiped all of their false gods: their baneful Baals.
Solomon had a child with one of his many wives; a child named Rehoboam (literally, he who enlarges the people). Rehoboam, the prohibited child of Solomon and an Ammonite. When Solomon died, Rehoboam became the king of Israel. Upon his coronation, his people approached him and informed him that they would serve him only if he would be a merciful king, as his father had become slightly despotic in his later days. In particular, they asked him to lower the taxes. Rehoboam asked them to give him three days to think about it, something a wise man would do. The people give their assent, and Rehoboam approaches his late father’s advisers; aged men with much experience in such matters. They tell him that if he serves the people and speaks good to them, that they will be his servants forever. However, something in their advice must have agitated Rehoboam; perhaps the idea of he, the king, being a servant to the people. Regardless, Rehoboam ignored their wisdom and sought the counsel of his peers, of the young men who had grown up with them. They informed him that he should not only keep the taxes at the same rate, but instead that he should raise them. His friends advised him to tell the people that he would be even more despotic than his father was, and that while his father had used whips, he would beat the people with scourges. And thus Rehoboam did; he followed the advice of his friends, the advice that he wanted to hear. Predictably, the people did not serve him. They rebelled. Ten of the twelve tribes seceded, following after Jeroboam, while only two tribes (Judah and Benjamin) remained under submission to Rehoboam. The king of Israel found his own counselors to assuage his itching ears, and so divided the Children of Jacob. From that point until the Captivity, the Northern Kingdom (Israel) and the Southern Kingdom (Judah) were always at war; stark enemies who would seemingly never reconcile. Because of Rehoboam’s pig-headed attitude of listening to what he wanted to hear, a schism was made between Israel and Judah which could not be ignored. Many lives were lost in the wars of the Northern and Southern Kingdoms. Much hatred was conceived. The fact is that unilateral decisions do not have to be made by only one person; they may be made by many people. However, unilateral decisions (unless made by a supreme being) will inevitably end up in conflict.

A Communion

The waves broke, having nothing else to do, on the jagged rocks.
I am standing on the top of the cliff, gazing into the dark void broken occasionally by the glowing rapids which are shooting upwards into a mist, which condenses on my lax face. I am not bored, although my expression might insinuate otherwise. In all honesty, I am more alive than I have been in the entirety of my existence. The sharp smell of the saltwater penetrates the pores of my nostrils; my brain is alert, my heart beating. I feel like it’s going to ram its way out of my torso. I redirect my gaze to the night sky. I am practically unseparated from the vastness of the cosmos. I am transfixed by the tail of the galaxy in which I reside. The simple complexity of the heavens takes my breath away as I get goosebumps all the way up of both my rams. I feel the presence of my God; His Spirit is showing me his omnipotence. I want to go with Him now, but as I cannot, I sink to the hard rock under my feet. I cross my legs and place the backs of my hands on my knees, palms outstretched to the Receiver of my prayers. Some would say that I am meditating, but that is not true. At this moment, I am not letting go of everything important; I am grasping for it. I am talking to the Creator, and this thought alone causes my heart to sink into my stomach in reverence and excitement. This practice is terrifying, humbling, and relaxing; a mixture that only a sage like God could produce. Oh, my words are inefficient; what can you call a person who created wisdom? For surely wise falls short. No, I must continue. Wise is not sufficient, but God Only Wise is nearer the mark. How do you praise with speech the one who created language? How do you worship with emotion the One who created feeling? It is a simple process of giving back what He has given to oneself.
I inhale deeply; the saltwater succeeds in making my blood flow harder, but fails in making me aware of my situation. I am removed from my surroundings; the tools that the Spirit has used to bring me to this solace. I feel my soul rising out of its prison, and I feel warmth on my heart, like a hot drink on a cold night. A smile flashes on and off of my face, like the grimace of a madman. I can almost hear Him speaking, but my little faith does not let me listen to His tangible voice. I call out to Him. I came to ask Him for something, but now that the moment comes, I can do nothing but praise Him with the scripture I know. I think of, but do not say aloud, the Psalms of David. I did not write these words, but at this moment they are mine; they come from my very soul.
My palms drop to the stones beside me and I realize that my Father was not being facetious when He stated that even these would cry out if Man would not praise Him. After all, how can creation help but glorify Elohim when it is acting as it should?
I am close to the edge of the precipice, but I can’t bring myself to care anymore. The vain theory that I am afraid of falling is eclipsed in the powerful arms of I AM. I can’t speak anymore, not even in praise to my Jesus. I am too overcome with the Majesty of El Elyon. I don’t feel the rocks poking into my legs, I don’t feel the cold piercing my very nerves, nor do I care about the strong mist soaking my garments. My, how the things of this Earth pale in comparison to the One who created it!
I wish that this moment could last forever, but I know that it must end. Half of the purpose of this encouragement was so that I, in turn, could encourage others. But I know that one day, that this moment will continue unceasingly. No indeed; not this moment, but a moment infinitely better than this. A moment where there will be no pain, or suffering. A moment in which I will be clothed in white. A moment which was coming soon.
The peace of God falls like autumn leaves upon my heart, and I smile in anticipation for the day when I will see my Savior face-to-face.

Beggar

A poem I started awhile ago about showing the love of Christ unconditionally.

A beggar sits on filthy ground,

His only friend a puny hound.

He calls to those who pass him by:

“There is no god up in the sky!”

The beggar stands up from the ground,

His cup it makes no clinking sound.

His stature slight, those ‘round him tall,

He stalks to richest of them all.

“Now listen here,” he says to him,

While failing light makes eyes grow dim,

“I have no food, nor soap, nor clothes,

While you have all, no, more than those!

“Please sir, give me just one small scrap

Of food, or water up to lap.”

The rich man scoffs, with chins to spare,

And grabs the beggar by the hair.

“Now this will teach you,” Rich man shouts,

Voice loud as a drunken lout’s,

“To never e’er approach a man.

For all your kind should be a ban.”

He throws the beggar man away.

The sky recedes to darkening gray.

The beggar nurses Rich Man’s punch.

When Rich Man leaves, a sickening crunch.

The beggar looks to where he’d stepped,

And after that the beggar wept.

For his dear friend, by Rich Man’s hand,

Was trampled into dusty sand.

The evil Rich Man stops and grins

At recent, deathly, evil sins,

While beggar cannot help but cry

For scroungy mutt, who heaves a sigh.

While injured dog breathes his last,

Unceasing tears for pup that passed

Proceed from beggar’s aging eyes.

His broken spirit will not rise.

Alas! To mend the searing pain

Of wounds and cur who just was slain,

A man approaches beggar’s lair,

His eyes reflecting loving care.

“My crippled friend, my mourning gent,”

The man speaks to the cripple, bent,

“Do not grieve, and weep no more;

This very day, come thru my door!”

“Kind sir, I fear I can’t do this.”

The cripple says, his eyes a’mist.

“I can’t impose, no not at all.

I don’t deserve a roof and wall.”

“Of course you don’t! But ne’er do I.

All men should mourn below the sky.

It’s what they’ve earned, their very wage.

Or perhaps, to dwell encaged.

“But God is good, who gives us gifts,

He makes us soar, our spirit lifts.

If He has given gifts to me,

Ought I encourage also thee?”

“Sir, my friend, my gentle master,

Be you a priest, rabbi, or pastor?

No normal man would ever call

Filthy men to enter his wall.

“Indeed, I shall accept your deal,

Thank you for giving me a meal!”

So Cripple went with Honest Man

To his abode, his friendly land.

For this is what Believers do,

They look past lack of clothes or shoe,

They look past race or creed or kin,

They welcome brother humans in.

We show the love of Christ fully,

That we might help others wholly.

For hiding Love is dumb indeed

When we’ve been called the poor to feed.

Cripple saw the Love of Jesus,

Knew that Love will never leave us,

And put his faith for all its worth.

“There is a God who made this Earth.”