Life Game

        I have watched and participated in many games in my life.  But today I wanted to talk to you about a game that cannot be seen.  This is a game of high stakes, swift consequences, and eternal results.  "Who are the participants?" you might ask.  Naturally, there are two teams competing in this game. 

        The first is the Black  Devils.  This team is coached by Satan himself.  The “players” on the team are his demons and the ungodly…murderers, slanderers, rapists, and idolators, cheaters, liars, and thieves. 

        The opposing team is the Crimson Crusaders.  This is God’s team.  God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit make up the entire coaching staff.  The players are Christians and the angels. 

        The conditions of the game are very rough, the terrain very difficult.  This game is played on a neutral battlefield, the earth.  There are no referees.  The weather conditions are often uncertain.  Sometimes, it will rain and the field gets sloppy.  Other times, the game takes place on a beautiful day.  But there is one thing for sure…the game never stops for inclement weather…it continues in perpetuity. 

        There are no halftimes, intermissions, timeouts, or breaks.  The spectators in the stands are all on the side of the Black Devils, for if you are a member of the Crimson Crusaders, you don’t sit in the stands…you play.  

        Both the Crimson Crusaders and the Black Devils have exquisite uniforms. The armor of the Crimson Crusaders includes:

                      Belt of Truth

                      Breastplate of righteousness

                      Shield of faith

                      Helmet of Salvation

                      Sword of the Spirit

                      Feet fitted with peace

They wear red to symbolize the blood of Jesus Christ, their savior.  They are heavily equipped by God, but sometimes it takes them a while to figure out how to properly use their uniform. 

The Black Devils’ armor includes the

                                     

Belt of Lies

                      Breastplate of evil  

                      Shield of doubt

                      Helmet of destruction

                      Sword of the Flesh

                      Feet fitted with fire

The Ball is the souls of the spectators.  When the Crimson Crusaders score, God always gets a celebration penalty.   When the Black Devils score, the pyrotechnics in Hell light up the underworld. 

Both teams are strategic in their gameplans. 

The Black Devils use any means necessary to confuse, frustrate, anger, disrupt, or thwart the Crimson Crusaders' players or the coach’s plan.  Satan runs trick plays, takes cheap shots, and uses any means necessary to win.  He doesn’t value sportsmanship or class.  He watches game film, and tries to recruit more players. 

He tries to exploit weaknesses by sending in his best demons to attack us at our most vulnerable points.  He uses VICE, FLESH, and PRIDE to his advantage. 

On the other hand, the Crimson Crusaders have a much different strategy.  This is God’s strategy.  The first thing that He does is give people a choice to be on the team or not to be. 

Secondly, He sacrifices his best player.  He retires Jesus Christ to the Hall of Fame just when the battle is getting started.  But he sends in as a replacement the Holy Spirit, which has won numerous 6^th man awards as the best substitute there ever was.

He equips us with a good pep talk—The Bible, which is powered by LOVE, HOPE, and TRUTH.  He also allows his team the freedom to come up with their own strategies to fight the Black Devils.  He builds our practice facilities and calls them “church.”  He builds our understanding of the nature of the game through prayer, and he uses our faults, adversity, and difficulties to strengthen us for the fight. 

          But the Crimson Crusaders must realize that the numbers are stacked against them in this game of life.  They must realize that the enemy is strong, and not one to be taken for granted.  Their enemy is working everyday to change the world.  To gain a victory, it’s going to take work.  It’s going to take sacrifice.  But it starts with your decision…will you play for the Crimson Crusaders or the Black Devils?  Whom will you serve?

Magic Man

There stands a man, who,

Waves his illusions at us,

He tilts his cap and bows,

As we are mystified,

Enthralled at the sight. 

The props, they confuse

And hide their gentle dares,

But it is us they lead,

Our eyes turn and burn,

Enraptured at the sight.

But it is he who stands alone,

His secret safe within,

And by the lies he justifies,

Seeming right, yet losing all the while,

His illusions false as he dies.

Isaiah 14:12-20

¹² How you have fallen from heaven,
   morning star, son of the dawn!
You have been cast down to the earth,
   you who once laid low the nations!
¹³ You said in your heart,
   “I will ascend to the heavens;
I will raise my throne
   above the stars of God;
I will sit enthroned on the mount of assembly,
   on the utmost heights of Mount Zaphon.
¹⁴ I will ascend above the tops of the clouds;
   I will make myself like the Most High.”
¹⁵ But you are brought down to the realm of the dead,
   to the depths of the pit.

¹⁶ Those who see you stare at you,
   they ponder your fate:
“Is this the man who shook the earth
   and made kingdoms tremble,
¹⁷ the man who made the world a wilderness,
   who overthrew its cities
   and would not let his captives go home?”
 ¹⁸ All the kings of the nations lie in state,
   each in his own tomb.
¹⁹ But you are cast out of your tomb
   like a rejected branch;
you are covered with the slain,
   with those pierced by the sword,
   those who descend to the stones of the pit.
Like a corpse trampled underfoot,
 ²⁰ you will not join them in burial,
for you have destroyed your land
   and killed your people.

The Waning Night

The bitter, waning night

Staring in the face of those I shamed,

Even myself, as my dull eyes lift,

Turning toward heaven’s ever-burning light. 

And though I know the rich hues,

Burning down in blinding light,

The night, corrupt with thorns,

Arrows shooting at my eyes, my sight. 

The sordid light has cast away,

For now, the burning light,

Darkening my sight, amber is the pale moonlight,

And beams of fright affix the sadness of my plight. 

But it is tonight

That I will scrape and pull the thorn

Out of my side, and turn my eyes

Toward heaven’s holy light.

For God is with me, as I take flight,

Yes, He is here tonight,

As I turn the light, the word, my cherished light,

And curse the bitter, waning night. 

The Last Vestige of the South

I never understood why my father felt the way he did about the Blackbelt until today.  This is when my emancipation began and the part of me that I had lost touch with, the place that I once was, had at once come running back to me.  Up until now, I was mostly a city boy who identified with the ramblings and frantic hurriedness of Big City U.S.A.   But that was before I was fully indoctrinated into the gospel of Alabama’s most authentic place, and the last vestige of the South. 

I got my first taste of the Blackbelt when my parents were fortunate enough to purchase an antebellum home in Canton Bend, far into the piney woods and thicket of “L.A.”—lower Alabama.  I was but nineteen and green as a turnip when they moved into the Bethea-Strother house, built circa 1844 and just a few miles west of the Alabama River.  It was a charming homestead on a quiet stretch of farmlands on Highway 28, a two-lane road that you’ve probably never been on. 

To accentuate the home, my dad quite naturally began to decorate it with period antique furniture, distinctly representative of his own personal eccentricity, yet resolutely loyal to Blackbelt life.  He vowed to buy nothing but American-made furnishings—the work of John Henry Belter of New York was his usual preference.  He dove headlong into the history of the region, reading coffee table books and listening to old sages tell stories of their unique way of life.  And he was fascinated. 

The doors of my curiosity remained shut, however, and I failed to appreciate with as much fervor as my father how meaningful this way of life truly was.  What I did realize was that there was something different about the Blackbelt than any other place I had been to in my life.  There was a drumbeat that was all its own—a slower, more purposeful cadence—and the people there were unique.  They left their doors open, sat out on porches, and hummed old Southern songs. 

They talked different, acted different, and appreciated more.  They noticed the small things— the hawks flying at night, the calming sounds of the cicadas echoing in the blackness of evening.  They told stories of haunted houses and the ghosts that occupied them.  Their houses creaked and brought back memories of antebellum life and the Civil War. Many of the houses had majestic names: Gaineswood, Sturdivant Hall, Rosewood, and Thornhill, to name but a few.  There was a certain history and identity there that was present in the here and now.  There was always a story to tell about the house, about someone who lived and died there, who grew their crops there and raised children who, too, toiled on the land.  There was a certain openness, a freedom and a calmness to the land that was unexplainable.  Tragically I failed to appreciate it, because I was just a city boy. 

My parents lived in the Bethea-Strother house for four years, until they decided to buy Kirkwood, another antebellum home in Eutaw, Alabama.  I believe it was there, at Kirkwood, that my father found his soul and the one place he could truly call home.   As I continued to enjoy city life, I shared neither his enthusiasm nor passion for the Blackbelt.  It was a place that was boring, mundane.  All of the action, I believed, resonated in the city and thus I remained a stranger to this place, allowing myself only superficial glimpses into its true integrity. 

As my dad puts it, the Blackbelt is a stretch of plain that swoops down like a sickle from just beyond the Mississippi line to the edges of Montgomery.  It is named such for its black, fertile soil that dominates the landscape.  But as it is unpacked, it is much more defined by the people and places than it is by its geographical limitations.  It is a place for artists and writers teeming with talent, of storytellers and fisherman and hunters.  It is an open range set in the middle of a wilderness.  It is a place where you will see deer, or even a raccoon or opossum.  It is a place where people still make things with their hands and grow things and start businesses.  Quilt-makers from Gee’s Bend and catfish farmers are the most famous of them all. 

It is a place that welcomes and invites.  People write letters to one another, spend time together, and swing in hammocks.  “Town” is scattered with small businesses—a hardware store, a soda shop, or an ice cream parlor.  It is the home of the small town lawyer, the town doctor, and the apothecary.  Yearly events might involve a pilgrimage of old homes or a gathering at the river.  It is a place where Christmas still means something and where one can hear the echoes of children singing Silent Night in the halls of an old church.   It is a place where faith is important and where the preacher might miss you if you are gone. 

After selling Kirkwood in the fall of 2009, my parents bought a turn-of-the-century farmhouse in Marion.  It was the third home of its kind that my parents owned, but it was not an antebellum.  Being antebellum requires that it was built before the Civil War, which commenced in 1861.  Yet there was a certain feel about the place that felt more right than ever before.  Maybe it was because I was older, I told myself, but there was something drawing me there—a force that I could not seem to stop nor that I cared to. 

A couple of weeks ago, they invited me attend a shrimp boil that was held at the Perry County Historical Society Building in downtown Marion.  I drove down from my home in Birmingham that Saturday afternoon, and as I began my journey I could not help but notice how differently I suddenly felt about the Blackbelt—how its story was becoming alive and palpable.

I pulled into my parents’ house just off of Highway 45, and as I circled to the back of the house, the sun was illuminating through the pecan trees as if it were speaking to me.  I parked my truck and sat and thought about how perfect a day it was.  I strolled around and peeked into the dilapidated barn in the backyard that looked like it might fall if a strong wind picked up.  I walked past the well that provided drinking water for almost one hundred years.  I opened the screen door and knocked as my mama yelled my name in a way that told me she hoped it was me. 

Slowly, our friends gathered together at the house and we sat and visited for a little while before it was time to go.  We loaded up the cars and caravanned to the shrimp boil around four-thirty. 

When we arrived, nothing could have prepared me for what was about to happen.  We were early, and thankfully I had the opportunity to drink in the surroundings as they came at me like a charging wind.  Just off the foyer, to my right, was the main dining area, where tables and chairs had been set up for at least one hundred people.  As I entered the room, the smell and feel of the South took me over, and for the first time in my life, I felt I was home again.  I saw the American flag hanging on the wall, and I paused to reflect on how much the South helps to define our country as the greatest place in the world. 

It was as much about the place itself as it was the feelings it evoked in me.  The ceilings were at least twenty feet high, and the walls were made of plaster.  Old pictures in antique frames were hanging proudly on the wall.  I thought for a moment about all of the memories I missed at the Bethea-Strother Home, and at Kirkwood, and how I longed to see those houses once again. 

I noticed that a small Bluegrass band was readying itself to entertain us and my heart began to leap in anticipation.  The smell of the place was a mix of shrimp and potatoes and corn on the cob and the oaky aroma of old houses. 

When we finally sat down to eat, the band started playing as people began to shuffle in and take their seats.  As I listened to the music, I slipped off into somewhat of a trance, nodding but not really listening to what anyone else was saying. While the music hummed and I set myself into its rhythm, I could not understand what I was feeling, but I knew that it felt good and that this truly was the South.  It was like mama was calling me in from the fields for supper.  It was as if the whole aura of the Blackbelt had grabbed hold of me and swore to never let me go. 

As I drove home that night, I sat in calmness as I barreled up Highway 5 between the pine trees that lined the roads like Confederate troops on the road to Appomattox.  I thought about the South, and what it means, and how much I am thankful to be a Southerner.  I hoped that it wasn’t lost, that these last vestiges of the people we once were would somehow continue to live and survive for a while before the city takes over.   

And tonight, as I sit in front of my computer and write these words, I cannot help but think of the Blackbelt and what it is to me now, and how much I want to be there for the rest of my life. 

Early Monasticism

The three key elements of monastic life are 1) union with God through prayer, 2) separation from the world, and 3) communal life.  A precursor to monasticism was asceticism, which, though not widespread, was practiced during Christ’s lifetime.  One of the first men to practice asceticism, or retreat from the world, was John the Baptist.  John was a member of a group called the “Essenes” who lived in the wilderness of Judea. 

Most Christians living in the centuries after Christ did not escape to barren lands or retreat from civilization.  Instead, they practiced their faith within the confines of the Christian community.  It was not until the fourth century A.D. that monasticism, or separation from the world and the community, was fully established.

During the reign of Roman Emperor Constantine, many aesthetics sought refuge in the Egyptian desert, living as hermits in caves and the like. Antony the Great was an aesthetic who stands out as a man of influence, who set an example of self-control and denial to attain a heightened level of virtue.  His life was one lived in solitude, in a set of hills near the banks of the river Nile. 

A contemporary of Antony, Pachomius, united these aesthetics into communities of faith in an enclosed area with huts and other necessities for survival.  Here, believers were able to separate themselves from the world in solitude while feeding off the energy from the Christian community.  Prayer, worship, and manual labor were performed weekly, if not daily, in the community.  This type of early pre-monasticism was called the cenobitic life. 

Although Constantine did much to support and encourage Christianity during his reign, it was not until after the fall of the Roman Empire that monasticism reached a greater stature.  Athanasius, Bishop of Alexandria, reached Rome around 340 and wrote the Life of Antony, which described the life of the great aesthetic and eventually spread throughout Western cultures. 

Aestheticism began to flourish both in and outside of Rome.  Two major transmitters of the cenobitical life were Augustine of Hippo and John Cassian.  Augustine believed in and lived the cenobitical, common life.  His influence and insight spread throughout Italy in the late fourth and fifth centuries.  Cassian moved to Constantinople around 400 and then to Rome.  He was instrumental in the founding of pair of monasteries called St. Victor in Marseilles.  Cassian also wrote Institutes and Conferences, which were guides for monastic living that stemmed from the traditions of Antony the Great.

Cassian, a follower of Antony, also began to express the permanence of cenobitical living.  Sanctification, therefore, would be accomplished in stages, starting with the community and ending in desert isolation.

The greatest influence on monasticism was made by Benedict of Nursia (480-547 A.D.)  As a young man, Benedict received his early education in Rome.  There, he was so appalled at the vice and debauchery of his fellow students that he eventually escaped to Subiaco to live in a cave for three years.  He was supplied with food and other necessities by Romanus, a monk from a monastery nearby. 

Although a committed Christian, Benedict struggled greatly with the sin of lust.  His self-inflicted cure for this vice was to roll naked in a briar patch to purge the temptation from his body and mind.  Once liberated from this sin, Benedict was able to more fully concentrate on the life he truly desired.

The Holiday Thief

As we converge on St. Patrick's Day, we are often distracted by dancing leprechauns, green beer, and ticker-tape parades.  With the secularization of this holiday, we have essentially trampled over the life of St. Patrick by failing to honor the true measure of this man.  Who was he and what did he stand for?  For a short account of his life, visit http://www.catholic.org/saints/saint.php?saint_id=89.

St. Patrick was responsible for bringing the message of Christ to Ireland.  Because of him, thousands were converted to Christianity and many of his followers became saints themselves.  He used the metaphor of the three-leaf clover (or shamrock) to tangibly portray the essence of the Holy Trinity.  We use the shamrock to symbolize "getting lucky" in varied and vulgar ways. 

Why is it that our holidays-- Christmas, Easter, St. Patrick's Day-- have become so secularized and dichotomous?  Why do we even consider Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and leprechauns on these days which should be our most sacred?  It is because Satan has used these things to distract us from the true meaning of our holidays in an attempt to steal them from us.  He wants us, through our distraction, to forget the lives that gave reason for the holidays in the first place.    

Jesus says in John 10:10 that "The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy."  We cannot continue to let the thief steal the things-- and the people-- who have been the most precious to us.  And so tomorrow, give thanks to men like St. Patrick who had the courage to stand up for the faith and spread the Gospel of Christ to a place that lacked hope and the message of salvation. 

Freedom

Dating can be hard, and break-ups can be even harder.  When we find ourselves caught in the middle of the wilderness after a big break-up, where do we turn?  Often, there are ten thousand thoughts running through our minds. 

Should I call her?

Should I not call her?

Who is she with?

What is she doing?

What if I run into her?

We consult our friends and other secular authorities to find answers to these crucial questions.  We want answers, yet what we should be seeking is the truth.  It sort of reminds me of the exchange between Tom Cruise and Jack Nicholson in the movie A Few Good Men.  Nicholson is on the witness stand and Cruise is baiting him incessantly.  Cruise emphatically says, "I want the truth!"  Nicholson replies, "YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!" 

The question is, "Are we ready to handle the truth or are we so caught up in finding answers that we become blind to it?" I realized that much of the time (although at times he can and he does), Jesus doesn’t give us direct answers like “You should call her.”  Instead, he tells us, “I’m everything you need.”  He loves us so much that he often doesn’t tell us what to do.  He gives us his word and allows us to make decisions on our own.  That is why reading the Bible is so utterly important to our lives.  It is so crucial when we begin to ask why.  The first thing we should do is turn to God’s word, not to get answers to our problems, but to get the truth. 

Unfortunately, God doesn’t speak specifically about dating, but he talks about how we should handle our interactions with other people and life situations that come at us like bugs hitting the windshield.  God calls us to “love one another” (John 13:34-35, 1 John 4:7, John 15:17).  God calls for us to “live at peace” with one another (Romans 12:16-18).  God says that we should be patient in our decision-making (Psalm 40:1).  God says that he will meet all of our needs (Philippians 4:19).  God says that we should carry each other’s burdens (Galatians 6:2).  God says that we should pray continually (1 Thessalonians 5:17), forgive one another (Luke 6:37), and be merciful to one another (Luke 6:36).

Are we ready to let the truth set us free?