A Navy SEAL was attending some college courses between assignments. He had completed missions in Iraq and Afghanistan. One of the courses had a professor who was an avowed atheist and a member of the ACLU. One day the professor shocked the class when he came in, looked to the ceiling, and flatly stated, "God, if you are real, then I want you to knock me off this platform. I'll give you exactly 15 minutes."
The lecture room fell silent. You could hear a pin drop. Five minutes passed and nothing happened. Ten minutes, and the professor proclaimed, "Here I am God. I'm still waiting."
Finally, it got down to the last couple of minutes when the SEAL got out of his chair, went up to the professor, and cold-cocked him; knocking him off the platform. The professor was out cold. The SEAL went back to his seat and sat there, silently. The other students were stunned and sat there looking on in silence.
The professor eventually came to-- noticably shaken-- struggled up, and yelled at the SEAL "What the... what the hell is the matter with you? Why did you do that?"
The SEAL replied, "God was busy today protecting America's soldiers who are protecting your right to say stupid stuff and act like an moron. So He just sent me."
(NOTE: This is a commonly forwarded email. I do not know if it happened in actuality, but it's worth a good laugh.)
4.25.2012
4.11.2012
'Tis Only A Season
Once again, I know this blog is moving incredibly slowly and casually. I do hope this hasn't annihilated any readers. I've tried to keep things moving a bit. Some posts have been my work and some are cited as from others. The effort is not as futile as meets the eye. I've made some technical changes to the site several times. I've also created a Twitter account (@UnambiguVision) for your convenience. Be sure to Follow! Finally, I have written nearly a dozen half-written essays of epic proportions. I have never really had writer's block until now. Writing, speaking, and running a good site takes time and energy that my body doesn't have right now. I will keep this site moving as I can and I hope you'll remain a reader! I have an inkling it gets better! Yet, I make no apologies.
Why?
There is a season for everything.
Solomon tells us in Ecclesiastes chapter 3:
kConsider, my friends, that this might not be my season for writing or speaking out to a larger audience. This might instead be my season of rest, mending, growth, building, and healing.
Remember that Joseph spent a season in prison before his season of freedom and leadership. Moses spent 40 years in the wilderness before freeing Israel for a season of rejoicing. Paul and John both spent time in the desert seeking God before their respective seasons of ministry.
Yes, this may be my time of testing, learning, and preparation. Who can say for sure? God works in mysterious ways.
I will put my trust and hope in Him. I will not fret. After all, 'tis only a season.
Why?
There is a season for everything.
Solomon tells us in Ecclesiastes chapter 3:
1 There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under the heavens:
2 a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
3 a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
4 a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
5 a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
6 a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
7 a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
8 a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace. (NIV)
kConsider, my friends, that this might not be my season for writing or speaking out to a larger audience. This might instead be my season of rest, mending, growth, building, and healing.
Remember that Joseph spent a season in prison before his season of freedom and leadership. Moses spent 40 years in the wilderness before freeing Israel for a season of rejoicing. Paul and John both spent time in the desert seeking God before their respective seasons of ministry.
Yes, this may be my time of testing, learning, and preparation. Who can say for sure? God works in mysterious ways.
I will put my trust and hope in Him. I will not fret. After all, 'tis only a season.
4.07.2012
Archives: When I Think About Easter
When you think of Easter what pictures conjure up in your mind? The Easter Bunny? Colorful eggs? Chocolate eggs? Dressy church attire? Fluffy yellow chicks?
For me, I see two wooden logs perpendicularly joined. On them, a shadowy figure hangs- by the tendons in His hands and feet. The pain is gut- wrenching. His eyes are half open, looking up occasionally to the bleak sky. His lower lip, dry and flaky, quivers as He struggles to survive as any human would. His tan skin, tamed by the desert sun, now a deathly pale. The flesh of His back, cut and exposed, cannot rest against the log, His body aches as if fever has taken Him. Nothing can ease the pain. No position, no movement, nothing. His head, made to be crowned, is crowned. Crowned with thorns and draped with cuts and matted, bloodied hair. Below him, several people weep. But He does not mind them, not with the pain, and certainly not with the purpose of this pain. Blood drips from His body slowly. The trickling of the blood is a constant reminder as to why He bears this immense pain. The wailing below does not distract Him. He mumbles, only loud enough for a man below to hear, “Father , forgive them, for they know not what they do”. How sobering is it that a man in such pain can only think of others? Others: the only reason, He, a fleshly man of supernatural being allows this? Others: the reason He resists to use his unlimited powers!
He makes it to the finish- but not alive. No, death was the finish for Him. He ceased to struggle against it. He allowed His own death. While two others being punished beside Him have their legs broken, this man has His heart speared. The blood from His immortal heart spurts from His ribs and falling to the ground below. It falls in an instant in time, yet, falls in slow motion. For the moment it splattered on the ground was the most piviotal moment in history.
How could such royal, holy blood be allowed to shed? Others: it is that word again! Others! This stout, sinless heart- now a sagged, lifeless organ, shed its own blood for others. There has to be a sin in this! Who are we as mortal men to cause the blood of this immortal man to be shed? At the last hope that He may retain life spurts from His ribs, a flash of light streaks the sky. Seconds later a voice booms and moans in response to the light. It seems as if the sky is crying. Crying for joy that such heathen, imperfect men as we can now find salvation through the gift of this immortal man’s life! Yet, the voice booms in deep sadness. Shame on us that we pitiful men had to require this royal, holy blood to be shed.
As the clouds scatter, several men gather below. These mortal men were the followers of this immortal man who was now dead. They had become well disliked, but they continued to follow this man. How must they have felt seeing their leader, whom they knew was immortal, in a deceased state? A sagged, bony body with pale, bloodied skin. Cuts exposed from His flesh and flies feasting on his dried, crackled blood. His hair matted, and bloodied and His lips bare and dry. His eyes shut tight and his brow slightly furrowed- as if He died wincing at the pain. As they wrapped Him and carried Him to a tomb, these men wept as children. Their insides cringed and their souls sobered as they put Him in a tomb and covered it with a large, heavy rock. A rock no man could move, and only levers could move.
For three days, His followers were mocked. Mocked that their King was no king after all. Mocked that their dead Savior was no savior after all. Did he not have a purpose? How could he be immortal if he is dead? Had they wasted their time with Him? Three days had passed and gloom was still on their idle faces and racing minds. But their spirits were lifted on this third day. The rock to the tomb had been removed and the swaths of bloodied cloths He had been wrapped in remained! This was not the work of a human. Who would want a naked, rotting, bloodied body? Who would carefully separate the dried patches of blood and skin from the cloth on this dead, naked man? Supernatural, was it not? His followers were reminded that this King of theirs, this Savior of theirs was, indeed, immortal and of a purpose on this earth. He had risen Himself and was alive! The blood was shed, they were saved by His grace, through their faith and yet....He was alive! He was a King! An immortal King. A Savior! A supernatural Savior. Indeed, this was proven by Him rising again- rising alive AFTER the price was paid. This man did this for us ALL but He did this on one condition: that an individual believes in Him, confess it to Him, repents, and accepts the gift of eternity- paid for by His blood.
Surely, if He DIED for us, we can LIVE for Him! What a gift! Who is this man to give such a selfless gift?? This man was Jesus. The spurting of Jesus’ blood from His ribs, His allowing it, and His ceasing to use His supernatural powers until His own blood was already shed is what conjures in my mind when I think of Easter.
For me, I see two wooden logs perpendicularly joined. On them, a shadowy figure hangs- by the tendons in His hands and feet. The pain is gut- wrenching. His eyes are half open, looking up occasionally to the bleak sky. His lower lip, dry and flaky, quivers as He struggles to survive as any human would. His tan skin, tamed by the desert sun, now a deathly pale. The flesh of His back, cut and exposed, cannot rest against the log, His body aches as if fever has taken Him. Nothing can ease the pain. No position, no movement, nothing. His head, made to be crowned, is crowned. Crowned with thorns and draped with cuts and matted, bloodied hair. Below him, several people weep. But He does not mind them, not with the pain, and certainly not with the purpose of this pain. Blood drips from His body slowly. The trickling of the blood is a constant reminder as to why He bears this immense pain. The wailing below does not distract Him. He mumbles, only loud enough for a man below to hear, “Father , forgive them, for they know not what they do”. How sobering is it that a man in such pain can only think of others? Others: the only reason, He, a fleshly man of supernatural being allows this? Others: the reason He resists to use his unlimited powers!
He makes it to the finish- but not alive. No, death was the finish for Him. He ceased to struggle against it. He allowed His own death. While two others being punished beside Him have their legs broken, this man has His heart speared. The blood from His immortal heart spurts from His ribs and falling to the ground below. It falls in an instant in time, yet, falls in slow motion. For the moment it splattered on the ground was the most piviotal moment in history.
How could such royal, holy blood be allowed to shed? Others: it is that word again! Others! This stout, sinless heart- now a sagged, lifeless organ, shed its own blood for others. There has to be a sin in this! Who are we as mortal men to cause the blood of this immortal man to be shed? At the last hope that He may retain life spurts from His ribs, a flash of light streaks the sky. Seconds later a voice booms and moans in response to the light. It seems as if the sky is crying. Crying for joy that such heathen, imperfect men as we can now find salvation through the gift of this immortal man’s life! Yet, the voice booms in deep sadness. Shame on us that we pitiful men had to require this royal, holy blood to be shed.
As the clouds scatter, several men gather below. These mortal men were the followers of this immortal man who was now dead. They had become well disliked, but they continued to follow this man. How must they have felt seeing their leader, whom they knew was immortal, in a deceased state? A sagged, bony body with pale, bloodied skin. Cuts exposed from His flesh and flies feasting on his dried, crackled blood. His hair matted, and bloodied and His lips bare and dry. His eyes shut tight and his brow slightly furrowed- as if He died wincing at the pain. As they wrapped Him and carried Him to a tomb, these men wept as children. Their insides cringed and their souls sobered as they put Him in a tomb and covered it with a large, heavy rock. A rock no man could move, and only levers could move.
For three days, His followers were mocked. Mocked that their King was no king after all. Mocked that their dead Savior was no savior after all. Did he not have a purpose? How could he be immortal if he is dead? Had they wasted their time with Him? Three days had passed and gloom was still on their idle faces and racing minds. But their spirits were lifted on this third day. The rock to the tomb had been removed and the swaths of bloodied cloths He had been wrapped in remained! This was not the work of a human. Who would want a naked, rotting, bloodied body? Who would carefully separate the dried patches of blood and skin from the cloth on this dead, naked man? Supernatural, was it not? His followers were reminded that this King of theirs, this Savior of theirs was, indeed, immortal and of a purpose on this earth. He had risen Himself and was alive! The blood was shed, they were saved by His grace, through their faith and yet....He was alive! He was a King! An immortal King. A Savior! A supernatural Savior. Indeed, this was proven by Him rising again- rising alive AFTER the price was paid. This man did this for us ALL but He did this on one condition: that an individual believes in Him, confess it to Him, repents, and accepts the gift of eternity- paid for by His blood.
Surely, if He DIED for us, we can LIVE for Him! What a gift! Who is this man to give such a selfless gift?? This man was Jesus. The spurting of Jesus’ blood from His ribs, His allowing it, and His ceasing to use His supernatural powers until His own blood was already shed is what conjures in my mind when I think of Easter.
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