"The writer of stories has one advantage over those who entertain with clever wit or vivid poetry. 

Wit depends on surprising combinations of ideas, 

and poetry requires an imagination that can appreciate its brilliance. 

But stories drawn from ordinary life speak to everyone, 

because everyone recognizes the people and experiences they portray. 

We may not all share a poet's imagination, but we all understand the realities of everyday life.

The same principle applies to preaching. 

A sermon may display deep theology, elegant language, or remarkable insight, 

but if it never connects with the ordinary experiences of life, 

it will remain beyond the reach of many listeners. 

Jesus, the Master Preacher, did not merely explain heavenly truths—

He clothed them in the familiar scenes of everyday life: 

seeds and soils, shepherds and sheep, fathers and sons, vineyards and fishing nets. 

He brought eternal realities into the common experiences of ordinary people.

The preacher's task is not to dilute truth but to embody it in everyday life. 

Doctrine must descend from the mind to the heart. 

People understand grace when they see forgiveness, 

faith when they witness trust in suffering, 

and repentance when they recognize the story of their own wandering. 

The greatest sermons are not those that merely impress the intellect, 

but those that help people recognize themselves and, through that recognition, 

see Christ more clearly."

“Few can reason, but all can feel.” 

The idle and the gay relieve the restlessness of leisure, and diversify the round of life, 

by a rapid series of events pregnant with rapture and astonishment.

 

It is no surprise that the mind is charmed by imagination and drawn to pleasure. 

But that we willingly listen to the groans of misery, 

delight in scenes of profound anguish, 

chill our hearts with imagined fears, 

and fill our eyes with fictional sorrow 

seems a paradox of the human heart—

believable only because it is universally experienced. 

Many explanations have been offered for why the mind to riot and delight in this kind of intellectual luxury. 

Some believe we bear our own troubles more patiently 

after seeing lives marked by even greater suffering, 

just as the faintest twilight seems bright after emerging from deep darkness. 

Others, with greater subtlety, suggest we willingly take on imagined sorrows 

in order to savor the awareness of our own...

It would exceed the limits of this paper to examine these views in detail. 

Let it be remembered, however, that we are often more drawn to scenes 

that stir our passions and curiosity 

than those that merely delight the imagination. 

So far from being indifferent to the sufferings of others, we become, for a time, 

forgetful of our own. 

Nor should those who pride themselves on wisdom 

be too quick to condemn works 

that engage both the imagination and the heart. 

They teach us to think by teaching us to feel; 

they stir the mind through powerful emotions 

and keep thought from growing stagnant 

by introducing fresh ideas and perspectives.

 Anna Laetitia Barbauld.

 "Below is something my son wrote in 2008 after the death of an old man named Fred and what it taught him.

"It’s not a glowing account of neighborhood impact and world conquering reach. It’s the proclamation of triumphant victories discovered in not being the heroes you thought you were going to be. It’s the peace found in hiding in the shadow of God’s hand, while He gets the glory.

You Wouldn’t Let Me Be the Hero

I am not sure what exactly drew me to you

I know what it wasn’t...the smell, your teeth, your unwashed clothes.

I remember seeing you in the gym, the way you would not work out, your meandering path through the machines, your lack of work out attire etiquette.

We were from two different sides of humanity’s moon, mine had more light, yours seemed to be full of shadows.

You always seemed like the kid on the far corner of the playground. The one at the empty table....like one person on the seesaw.

Was it fate that made us neighbors?

Destiny, purpose or plan?

Or was it simply a cosmic serendipity?

Whatever the case...somehow I became your pastor. Not in the typical way people claim a person as theirs, but in an off handed, distant way...Kind of like a young boy nurses a crush on the star cheerleader.

We simply lived in the same streets, walked the same sidewalk, breathed the same exhaust, shared the same songs, heard the same words and watched the bus come and go.

I reached out to you like a kid tries to rescue a soaked cat; more scratches than purring...pulling on the tail in some delirium of compassion. Your indifference didn’t fit my ideal of salvation. Maybe you didn’t need me...

You wouldn’t let me be a hero.

I couldn’t play my messiah card, none of my evangelistic spells seemed to work on you. No Jedi mind tricks...sometimes you’d just walk away mid-sentance.

Your house scarred me, like someone vomiting; I didn’t want any of it on me, but I didn’t want you sick either. You caught me in my own squeamishness and quirkiness,

it’s hard to be a surgeon if it involves being that close.

I knew you were dying...what is someone to do with someone who doesn’t want to live?

How do you save someone who doesn’t want to be saved? How can you be a knight in shining armor, when the damsel gives you the finger?

You just wouldn’t let me be the hero.

I saw the trucks coming, the lights shining, the sirens announcing your departure. I reluctantly came to watch them carry you out...naked, dirty and broken. They ignored me...just like you did.

In the end, I couldn’t help you the way I thought I was supposed to do. I just watched them as they tried not to look at you. Covering you with a flimsy blue paper blanket, hauled off to nowhere, nobody to call and say you were leaving...nobody crying...just paid employees following you to the hospital.

I went back to mowing the weeds, picking up the garbage; and in the end...in the mass of refuse...wondering if any of it really mattered to anyone else.

But in the conclusion of it all...I am glad the crabgrass is smaller; the discarded carts are aligned neatly in a row and the trash is a little less littered. But most of all I am hopeful that at least one old dead man knows

that I remember his name."

Pastor Eric.

 

Which church, Which Bible, Which doctrine???

 I was fortunate to have  moved around a lot when I was a young Christian, and because of that, I attended many churches. 

I found each church always had a core group of true believers actually living out the faith in ways that I saw as Biblical. 

They were always loving, caring, active, living simply, and free of extreme dogma. 

In addition I was fortunate to have a fella hand me a Christian Classic to read as a devotional; 

 It created a hunger in me, and from that day forward I read the Bible as well as the Christian Classics and biographies which broadened my spiritual horizons, caused me to question my narrow and pinched beliefs and helped me immensely by grounding me in the faith, 

but also recognizing the height, depth and width of Christian thought. 

 If you had asked Henry Drummond to what school of thought he belonged, he would have told you that 

"He never wore ready-made clothes." 

I like that.

"The classical instance of the contemptuous rejection of ready-made clothing was, of course, David's refusal to wear Saul's armor."

I learned when I felt bound or "cribb'd, cabin'd, and confined"  by a teaching, 

I needed to search it out and find out what the teaching was that robbed me of Christ's liberating words of life. 

I also learned if I find some special phase of truth powerfully attracting me, I must, without shunning it, 

pay increasing attention to all other aspects. 

'The Lord has yet more truth to break from out His Word!' said John Robinson; 

and I must try to find it.'

To illustrate that - 

"Mr. Goodman is a splendid fellow; but he fell in love with one lonely little truth one day, and now he never thinks or reads or preaches of any other."

Reading the classics of faith and biographies also motivated me because the heroes of the faith were men and women of action!

They involved themselves with the marginalized, the downcast, the oppressed, the addicted, and the afflicted. 

I soon realized that a faith consisting only of Christian study and doctrine was but half of our calling. 

The other half—however it is expressed—

is serving the least, the last, and the lost, "cheek to jowl," up close and personal. 

There, in the lives of those we serve, is the true school of Christ. 

 Divisions among the Christian faith

"Our age is far sadder than those before it—

not with a noble, tragic sadness, 

but with the dull exhaustion of boredom, weary minds, 

and deep discomfort of both soul and body.

I believe the root of this darkness is our loss of faith. 

No generation in history—whether savage or civilized—has so completely fulfilled the words, 

"having no hope, and without God in the world," as modern Europeans.

A Native American or Tahitian islander often possesses a stronger sense of a divine presence surrounding and governing life 

than many educated people in London or Paris. 

Even those among us who still believe 

are largely divided into two hostile camps: Catholics and Protestants. 

Were it not for the restraining influence of unbelievers, 

each side would gladly destroy the other. 

Catholics have done so whenever they held power; 

Protestants, in turn, wait with satisfaction for God to destroy Rome with volcanic fire.

This bitter division among people who profess 

the same God 

and the same Scriptures 

has become a great stumbling block—

one that few overcome except through the fortunate influence of their early upbringing."

The quote above is an abridged version of John Ruskin. Here is the original - 

“On the whole, these are much sadder ages than the early ones; not sadder in a noble and deep way, but in a dim, wearied way, - the way of ennui, and jaded intellect, and uncomfortableness of soul and body. 

 The profoundest reason of this darkness of heart is, I believe, our want of faith. There never yet was a generation of men (savage or civilized) who, taken as a body, so woefully fulfilled the words, “having no hope, and without God in the world,” as the present European race.

A Red Indian or Otaheitan savage has more sense of a Divine existence round him, or government under him, than the plurality of refined Londoners and Parisians; and those among us who may in some sense be said to believe, are divided almost without exception into two broad classes, Romanists and Puritan; who, but for the interference of the unbelieving portions of society would, either of them, reduce the other sect as speedily as possible to ashes; the Romanist having always done so whenever he could, from the beginning of their separation, and the Puritan at this time holding himself in complacent expectation of the destruction of Rome by volcanic fire. Such division as this between persons nominally of one religion, that is to say, believing in the same God, and the same Revelation, cannot but become a stumbling-block which they can only surmount under the most favorable circumstances of early education.   

God rarely gives us strength for imaginary troubles;

He gives it for present duties.

The following reflection captures that reality with uncommon clarity and a memorable personal example of how fear strangely disappeared when real crisis demanded action.

“There is one thing which seems to me to have always and invariably hampered and maimed me, whenever I have yielded to it, and I have often yielded to it; and that is Fear.

It can be called by many names, and all of them ugly names—

anxiety, timidity, moral cowardice.

I can never trace the smallest good in having given way to it.

Face to face with it, it has a strength, a poignancy, a paralyzing power, which makes it seem like a personal and specific ill-will,

issuing in a sort of dreadful enchantment or spell, which renders it impossible to withstand.

Yet, strange to say, it has not exercised its power in the few occasions in my life when it would seem to have been really justified.

Let me quote an instance which will illustrate what I mean.

I was called upon once in Switzerland to assist with two guides in the rescue of an unfortunate woman who had fallen from a precipice, and had to be brought down, dead or alive.

We hurried up through the pine-forest with a chair, and found the poor creature alive indeed, but with horrible injuries—

an eye knocked out, an arm and a thigh broken, her ulster torn to ribbons, and with more blood about the place in pools than I should have thought a human body could contain.

She was conscious; she had to be lifted into the chair, and we had to discover where she belonged; she fainted away in the middle of it, and I had to go on and break the news to her relations.

If I had been told beforehand what would have had to be done,

I do not think I could have faced it;

but it was there to do,

and I found myself entirely capable of taking part, and even of wondering all the time how it was possible to act.”

 

"Imagine two men walking through the vilest streets of a great city.

One is filled only with selfishness and the love of self-indulgence.

The other burns with compassion,

perhaps searching for a lost child,

or longing to rescue some man or woman

whose blazing sin has made those streets a very hell.

Why is it that one man absorbs the evil through which he walks, steeping himself in its corruption,

while the other comes out with garments all the whiter for having passed through the fire?

Is it not what Jesus meant when He said,

'These signs shall follow those who believe...

if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not harm them'?"

Phillips Brooks.

This reminds me when my son worked with an organization to rescue pre-teen girls captured in the child trafficking trade

where he was required to go into the most vile and depraved parts of Thailand in search of girls.

They were only to be found in brothels, strip clubs and houses of prostitution where danger and sin ran its course without restraint.

The deadly potion and the venomous snake loomed at every door,

and but for the mission of charity and the protection of Christ,

one dare not go there and hope to come away unscathed.

 

HOW DO WE UNDERSTAND GOD?

In the following quote, the author's point is

that God is known most deeply not by mastering ideas about Him,

but by living in fellowship with Him.

Theology has its place, but living communion with God is the source from which true theology should grow.

"We believe this is Mr. Mansel's first, and perhaps deepest, mistake. Seeing that we have no complete theory of God, he concludes that we have no real knowledge of Him.

Yet the simplest facts of life teach otherwise.

Do we possess a complete theory of any human being? Certainly not.

Yet our relationship with others is far more than a collection of ideas about them.

Indeed, rigid, "fixed ideas" about people often reveal a narrow mind.

Mr. Mansel makes the same mistake about God.

He treats our ideas of God as though they reveal Him,

when they often conceal Him.

We have no shortage of notions about God,

but genuine experience tears through these hardened concepts.

When we come to Him with a loving heart and an awakened conscience, many of our fixed ideas dissolve like mist before the morning sun.

To know God is not merely to possess ideas about Him,

but to live in direct communion with Him.

This is precisely where knowledge is deepest,

though complete explanation is impossible.

We know the mystery of personality, and we know love and hatred,

yet no theory can fully explain them.

So it is with God. We know Him better than we know ourselves,

yet cannot construct a complete theory of Him

because we stand beneath Him, not above Him.

We can recognize Him, trust Him, and learn from Him,

but never fully comprehend Him.

It is therefore a mistake to suppose that true knowledge depends on constructing a philosophical or theological system.

Our deepest knowledge comes through shared life and experience; complete theories belong only to

the simplest and most abstract sciences."

 

I've read many pieces on "Baby Boomers." But this is the best one yet --

"We are often called “the elderly,” but that quiet label hides a truth most people rarely pause to consider: we are the last living witnesses of a world that no longer exists.

If you look closely, you might notice gray hair, slower steps, or the quiet patience that time alone can teach. But if you truly listen to our stories, you will discover something far more extraordinary. We are not simply older people moving through the final chapters of life. 

We are the survivors of one of the most breathtaking transformations in human history — a generation that walked from the slow, deliberate rhythm of an analog world into the dazzling speed of a digital one without ever losing our sense of humanity along the way.

Our journey began in a very different place.

Many of us were born in the 1940s, 1950s, and early 1960s, when the scars of World War II were still fresh across Europe and Asia and the world was slowly learning how to hope again. Cities rose from rubble. Families rebuilt lives after years of uncertainty. Childhood unfolded in ways that would feel almost unrecognizable to younger generations today. 

Our toys were simple: marbles played in dusty yards, hopscotch drawn on cracked sidewalks, checkers and cards gathered around kitchen tables while the smell of dinner filled the house. When the streetlights flickered on in the evening, it was the universal signal that childhood adventures were over for the day and it was time to go home.

There were no smartphones, no streaming videos, no endless scroll of digital distractions. Instead, we built our memories in the real world — with scraped knees, laughter echoing down neighborhood streets, and friendships that formed face to face, without the mediation of screens.

Music became one of the defining soundtracks of our youth. The 1960s and 1970s arrived like a wave of color and rebellion. We watched culture shift around us, carried by electric guitars and voices that dared to question the world. 

For many of us, gatherings like the legendary Woodstock Festival of 1969 symbolized something powerful: the belief that peace, music, and community could reshape the future. Hundreds of thousands of young people stood together in muddy fields, listening to artists who poured raw emotion into towering speakers known as the Wall of Sound. Those concerts were not merely entertainment; they were moments when strangers felt like a single generation singing the same hope under an open sky.

Education looked different then, too. Our notebooks were filled with handwritten notes carefully copied from chalkboards. Research required patience, long hours in libraries, and stacks of heavy books rather than a quick internet search. We learned to slow down and think through ideas because information did not arrive instantly. Mistakes were corrected with erasers and ink, not with the click of a delete button.

Love carried a different rhythm as well. We fell in love while vinyl records spun on turntables and cassette tapes clicked softly inside plastic players. Music became the background to first dances, long conversations, and dreams about the future. Those relationships grew into marriages, families, and lives built step by step through the 1980s and 1990s — decades that saw technology begin to reshape the world around us.

Yet nothing compares to the bridge our generation has crossed. We are the only generation to have experienced an entirely analog childhood and a fully digital adulthood. 

We remember waiting days — or sometimes weeks — for handwritten letters to arrive in the mail. We remember rotary telephones and party lines where neighbors could accidentally overhear conversations. Communication required patience and anticipation. Today, we can see the face of a loved one across the ocean instantly on a screen small enough to fit in a pocket.

The world changed in ways few could have imagined. We watched humanity land on the Moon in 1969, a moment when millions of people sat in living rooms staring at black-and-white televisions as Neil Armstrong took humanity’s first steps on another world. 

We saw the rise of personal computers, the birth of the internet, and eventually the arrival of smartphones that placed entire libraries of knowledge in our hands. Machines that once filled entire rooms now exist on devices lighter than a paperback book. We moved from punch cards and mechanical tools to artificial intelligence and global networks connecting billions of people instantly. And through every shift, we adapted.

Our bodies carry the marks of the times we lived through as well. We grew up during fears of polio and tuberculosis, illnesses that once terrified entire communities before vaccines helped bring them under control. We witnessed the global challenges of pandemics and health crises across decades, including the recent silence and uncertainty of COVID-19, which reminded the world that resilience is still required in every generation.

Science itself transformed before our eyes. We saw the discovery of the structure of DNA in 1953, the decoding of the human genome at the turn of the century, and the early steps into gene therapy and advanced medicine. Transportation evolved from simple bicycles and steam engines to hybrid vehicles and electric cars gliding almost silently through city streets.

Few generations have witnessed such sweeping change. And yet, despite everything that evolved around us, certain things remain unchanged. We still understand the joy of a cold glass bottle of lemonade on a hot afternoon. We still remember the taste of vegetables picked straight from a garden. We still know the value of a long conversation that unfolds slowly without a keyboard or screen interrupting it.

Our memories stretch across decades. We have celebrated births, mourned losses, watched friends depart, and carried their stories forward. Those of us who remain share something rare: the experience of standing at the crossroads of history, holding memories from a world that younger generations know only through photographs and stories.

But we are not relics. We are living bridges. Our perspective reminds the modern world that progress does not have to erase wisdom. The speed of technology does not have to replace patience, kindness, or reflection. We remember what life felt like before everything moved so fast — and that memory carries quiet lessons worth sharing.

So when someone calls us “elderly,” we can smile. Because behind that word lies something extraordinary. We are the generation that crossed two centuries, witnessed eight decades of transformation, and walked from the age of handwritten letters to the era of artificial intelligence.

What a life we have lived. What a remarkable story we continue to carry. And if you belong to this generation, take a moment today to look in the mirror and recognize something powerful. 

You are not simply growing older. You are living history. You are part of a generation that will always remain one of a kind. And perhaps, in the quietest and most meaningful way, you are becoming legendary." 

 

I've always wondered why it is, or what it is, that causes the almost overwhelming feelings I have when working with those in crisis? Are the emotions purely spiritual or are they a mix of natural feelings? I'm not sure what the final word is on the subject, but when I studied the human hormones and neurotransmitters I see what the feelings are. Now they are clearly evident in the descriptions below -- 

Dopamine - Dopamine is often called the "feel-good" neurotransmitter or hormone. It plays a central role in the brain's reward system, contributing to various positive feelings and driving behaviors that lead to rewards.

Helps you want and pursue;

Gives the feeling of anticipation, motivation, accomplishment, 

and “yes, that felt good — let’s do it again.”

Euphoria or Reward "Rush": 

Intense dopamine surges can produce feelings of elation, excitement, 

or a powerful sense of reward. 

This includes the anticipation and pursuit of something desirable. 

Happiness, Positivity, and Alertness: that contribute to

emotional responses that contribute to overall well-being. 

Dopamine boosts interest in ideas, learning, exploration, making you feel engaged.  

In short, dopamine helps turn positive experiences into motivation for more of them, supporting feelings of pleasure, drive, excitement, and focus that make life feel rewarding.

Serotonin

Often associated with contentment, emotional balance, and calm, as well as impulse control.

Serotonin supports longer-term well-being and behavioral flexibility. 

Serotonin can modulate dopamine release.

Endorphins - Sometimes called the "helper's high," 

serving others can elevate mood and increase feelings of well-being. 

Endorphins primarily help the body cope with stress and discomfort.

They produce feelings of well-being, bliss, or a “natural high.”

Endorphins stimulate feelings of gratitude, emotional tears, experiences of triumph.

They lower stress, reduce anxiety, and promote a positive state of mind, helping you feel calmer and more resilient.

Oxytocin - Oxytocin produces bonding, trust and emotional warmth, genuine emotional connection.

It plays crucial roles in social bonding, and emotional regulation. 

Oxytocin is particularly tied to interpersonal connection and trust. 

It fosters feelings of closeness, trust, and emotional connection.

It enhances feelings of safety with others, promotes empathy, compassion, and prosocial behaviors like cooperation and kindness. It can make you feel warmer and more open. 

Norepinephrine - Closely related to dopamine, it supports goal-directed behavior, decision-making, and the ability to handle challenges. 

It can produce feelings of confidence and determination. 

It helps you wake up, focus, and engage with the task in front of you. 

Alertness & Energy

it enhances performance under pressure, contributing to feelings of exhilaration or accomplishment after demanding tasks.

The “good feelings” from norepinephrine are more activating and energizing than purely pleasurable — think focused excitement, clarity, and readiness rather than calm contentment or euphoric bliss.

Gaba – Gaba acts like the brain’s “brake pedal,” reducing excitability. 

Gaba produces relaxation and calm, emotional stability and a sense of safety, 

and handle stress without becoming overwhelmed. 

It quiets racing thoughts, reduces mental chatter, and produces a soothing, centered feeling.

My conclusion is: all these hormones are released when ministering in whatever our calling is; for me, it's to the poor, downtrodden, oppressed and those in crisis. It is deeply emotional and now I understand how they all work together to equip us for the work. 

I chose this painting because the teacher is dressed in armor, the Lord is pouring out His anointing, without which, nothing on the spiritual level is accomplished. 

 

 The following quote isn't exactly orthodox Christianity because it focuses on self-reliance, and Christianity teaches radical dependence on God, not self. But I like a lot of the practical elements of the quote, especially - "we cannot foresee dangers no matter how vividly they are described to us," I preach at the jail weekly and every person there can relate to that. 

“We all have to learn that no one can help us except ourselves. 

Other people can sympathize and console, try to soothe our injured vanity, 

And try to persuade us that the dangers and disasters ahead 

are not so dreadful as they appear to be, 

and that the mistakes we have made are not irreparable. 

But no one can remove danger or regret from us, 

or relieve us of the necessity of facing our own troubles; 

the most that they can do, indeed, 

is to encourage us to try again.

But we cannot hope to change the conditions of life; 

and one of its conditions is, 

as I have said, that we cannot foresee dangers. 

No matter how vividly they are described to us, 

no matter how eagerly those who love us try to warn us of peril, 

we cannot escape. 

For that is the essence of life—experience; 

and though we cannot rejoice when we are in the grip of it, 

and when we cannot see what the end will be, 

we can at least say to ourselves again and again, 

"This is at all events reality—this is the business of life and faith!" 

For it is the moments of faith, endurance, energy and action 

which after all justify us in living, 

and not the pleasant spaces where we saunter among flowers and sunlit woods. 

Those are conceded to us, 

to tempt us to live, to make us desire to remain in the world; 

and we need not be afraid to take them, to use them, to enjoy them; 

because all things alike help to make us what we are.” A. C. Benson

 

John  Ruskin was considered the brightest mind of the 19th century, and what a joy it is to read his thoughts on just about anything! And he wrote on almost everything!

In this quote he considers that life's confusion, suffering, and seeming lack of purpose are not meaningless. 

Rather, they serve a deeper purpose in shaping the soul.

THE UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER

So much of life,

in spite of its glimpses of joy and light, 

seems so aimless, so perplexed, 

so unaccountable, with its mysterious satisfactions, 

its disproportionate sorrows. 

But the best and noblest of men have seemed to see in it 

a chance of having something done for our spirits which can be done in no other way. 

It is a discipline, when all is said and done. 

But there is something deeper than that. 

"Depend upon it," said old Carlyle, 

"the brave man has some how or other to give his life away."

We are called upon to make an unconditional surrender. 

It is a surrender to a great and awful Will, 

of whose workings we know little, 

but which means to triumph, 

whatever we may do to hinder or delay its purpose.

But sooner or later we must yield our wills up, 

and not simply out of tame and fearful submission, 

but because we see at last that His Will behind all things is 

greater, 

purer, 

more beautiful, 

more holy than anything we can imagine or express. 

There is no peace without that surrender, 

though it cannot be made at once;

there is in most of us a fibre of self-will, 

of hardness, of stubbornness which we cannot break, 

but which God may be trusted to break for us, 

if we desire it to be broken. 

If the light is clouded, and the joy is blotted out, and the energy burns low, it is a sign not that we have failed, 

but that the mind of God is bent still more urgently upon us. 

What we may pray for and desire is courage, 

to live eagerly in joy and not less eagerly in sorrow; 

to be temperate in happiness 

and courageous in trouble.

John Ruskin, A Study in Personality.

 

The Holy Ache - Epithymía

She was there

when the ruach of God

stirred the dust,

a whisper of desire,

a holy ache,

woven into the soul.

Before the fall,

before the shame,

before the grasping,

there was longing.

A pull toward the Other.

A hunger not of lack,

but of love.

In the cool of the evening,

they walked with God.

Naked.

Unashamed.

Every ache was an invitation.

Every desire,

a direction.

But we forgot.

We traded wonder for knowledge,

mystery for mastery.

We left the garden,

not just with thorns in our heels

but with a dislocated hunger

gnawing in our bones.

Now,

we chase shadows in neon temples.

Scroll.

Swipe.

Consume.

We feed on illusions

and call it satisfaction.

Even our prayers feel

packaged.

Predictable.

Safe.

We do not wait anymore.

We click.

And so desire,

that once holy ache,

becomes compulsion.

We light incense to the

gods of dopamine

and name it freedom.

We ask the algorithm to soothe us.

We drink,

not because we thirst,

but because we cannot bear the silence.

But still,

something stirs.

A deeper ache,

a quieter hunger.

It comes in the stillness,

between breath and breath,

between grief and grace.

It comes when the addict

lights a candle instead of a pipe.

When the lonely one

lifts bread to her lips,

not to fill the stomach,

but to remember love.

Every ache is an altar.

Every hunger,

a bell,

calling us not to indulgence,

but to the slow Eucharist

of being known.

We lift our hearts.

We bring our ache.

We say with trembling lips:

Lord, I am not worthy,

but only say the word.

For this is no shameful thing,

to long,

to yearn,

to ache.

It is the soul’s memory of Eden.

It is the ember of glory

still glowing beneath the rubble.

And so I offer this ache

not to the market,

not to the screen,

not to the dragon

in the pixel,

but to the One

who kissed dust into life,

who became flesh

to bear our ache in his own.

O Beloved,

I have desired with desire,

not always rightly,

not always gently,

but I bring it now

as offering.

Let it burn holy.

And one day,

when time is torn

and all things made whole,

when the ache gives way

to the Answer,

we will feast.

And longing will sing.

And the fire of our ache

will become

the flame of communion,

joy without end.

—

Holy One,

in the depths of our restless longing,

teach us to hold desire with grace,

not as a hunger that devours,

but as a flame that illuminates the path to you.

Turn our compulsions into worship,

our restless ache into patient hope,

our shadowed cravings into the bright fire of love.

Come, kindle in us a desire for justice,

a yearning for mercy,

and a holy ache for your kingdom.

Until that day when all longing is fulfilled,

walk with us in the silence between breaths,

and let our hearts be restless only for you.

Praise be to you,

Jesus.

Creation groans.

Our hearts yearn.

For your return.

Amen.

Rev’d Jon Swales, 2025

Artwork: The Expulsion of Adam and Eve

Arthur Trevethin Nowell, 1897

When Secretary Walsingham arrived at retirement age,

he retired to the country to spend his days in quiet.

Some of his former companions came to see him,

and tried to cheer him in his melancholy.

He answered,

"No, I am not melancholy, but I am serious;

and it is very proper that we should be so!

Ah, my friends, while we laugh everything is serious about us.

God is serious, who exercises his patience towards us;

Christ is serious, who shed his atoning blood for us;

the Holy Ghost is serious, who strives against the stubbornness of our hearts;

the Holy Scriptures are serious books;

they present to our thoughts the most serious concerns in all the world;

the holy sacraments represent very serious and awful matters;

the whole creation is serious in serving God and us;

all in heaven are serous.

How then can we be merry and trifling?"

 Let’s discuss a Biblical topic – Vomit

I came across this verse and knew it had to be important because of its deliberate repulsive image.

Is. 28:8 “All the tables are covered with vomit and there is not a spot without filth!”

This is such a repulsive image, meant to shock us, meant to stop us so we can use our imaginations to consider how this message could apply to us?

There are other verses where vomit is used to grab our immediate attention. In Jer. 48:26 - Concerning Moab.

"Moab also shall wallow in his vomit..."

This is intentionally humiliating imagery.

The nation that once boasted of its greatness would become an object of shame. A drunkard lying in his own vomit is a picture of complete disgrace, self-inflicted ruin, and public humiliation.

Using such shocking imagery covers several truths -

Pride ultimately degrades the one who embraces it.

Sin contains the seeds of its own humiliation.

Those who exalt themselves will eventually be brought low.

Jesus said - "For whoever exalts himself will be humbled,

and he who humbles himself will be exalted.”

I'm sure other verses come to mind using these startling and jarring words of warning.

The Bible breaks through our polished and sophisticated handling of Gospel truth, draws back the curtain, and lays bare or sins.

 I’m reading “Florence Nightingale: A Biography” by Annie Matheson free online by way of “The Project Gutenberg.” In chapter 8 is the call to Florence Nightingale to run the hospital during the war. 

“Dear Miss Nightingale, —You will have seen in the papers that there is a great deficiency of nurses at the hospital of Scutari. The other alleged deficiencies, namely, of medical men, lint, sheets, etc., must, if they ever existed, have been remedied ere this, as the number of medical officers with the army amounted to one to every ninety-five men in the whole force, being nearly double what we have ever had before; the deficiency of female nurses is undoubted; none but male nurses have ever been admitted to military hospitals. It would be impossible to carry about a large staff of female nurses with an army in the field. But at Scutari, having now a fixed hospital, no military reason exists against the introduction; and I am confident they might be introduced with great benefit, for hospital orderlies must be very rough hands, and most of them, on such an occasion as this, very inexperienced ones.

I receive numbers of offers from ladies to go out, but they are ladies who have no conception of what a hospital is, nor of the nature of its duties; and they would, when the time came, either recoil from the work or be entirely useless, and consequently, what is worse, entirely in the way; nor would these ladies probably even understand the necessity, especially in a military hospital, of strict obedience to rule, etc....

There is but one person in England that I know of who would be capable of organizing and superintending such a scheme, and I have been several times on the point of asking you hypothetically if, supposing the attempt were made, you would undertake to direct it. The selection of the rank and file of nurses would be difficult—no one knows that better than yourself. The difficulty of finding women equal to the task, after all, full of horror, and requiring, besides knowledge and goodwill, great knowledge and great courage, will be great; the task of ruling them and introducing system among them great; and not the least will be the difficulty of making the whole work smoothly with the medical and military authorities out there.

“This is what makes it so important that the experiment should be carried out by one with administrative capacity and experience. 

A number of sentimental, enthusiastic ladies turned loose in the hospital at Scutari would probably after a few days be mises à la porte (Ushered out) by those whose business they would interrupt, and whose authority they would dispute.

“My question simply is—would you listen to the request to go out and supervise the whole thing? 

You are the only person who can judge for yourself which of conflicting or incompatible duties is the first or the highest; but I think I must not conceal from you that upon your decision will depend the ultimate success or failure of the plan.... Will you let me have a line at the War Office, to let me know?”

Of course, history records she said yes. 

In choosing the nurses to go with her she once wrote to Sir Bartle Frere of “that careless and ignorant person called the Devil,” and she did not want any of his careless and ignorant disciples to go out with her among her chosen band. 

Nor did she want any incompetent sentimentalists of the kind brought before us in that delightful story of our own South African War, of the soldier who gave thanks for the offer to wash his face, but confessed that fourteen other ladies had already offered the same service.

 

Indeed, the rather garish merriment of that little tale seems almost out of place when we recall the rotting filth and unspeakable stench of blood and misery in which the men wounded in the Crimea were lying wrapped from head to foot. 

No antiseptic surgery, no decent sanitation, no means of ordinary cleanliness, were as yet found for our poor soldiers, and Kinglake assures us that all the efforts of masculine organization, seeking to serve the crowded hospitals with something called a laundry, had only succeeded in washing seven shirts for the entire army!

Miss Nightingale knew a little of the vastness of her undertaking, but she is described by Lady Canning at this critical time as “gentle and wise and quiet”—“in no bustle or hurry.” Yet within a single week from the date of Mr. Herbert’s letter asking her to go out, all her arrangements were made and her nurses chosen—nay more, the expedition had actually started.

The following passage reminds us that the deepest joys of life are not destinations but invitations.

Whether our hearts are drawn by beauty, truth, love, or God Himself,

we are meant to keep moving beyond every earthly satisfaction toward something greater.

The true pilgrim is not the one who has arrived,

but the one who continues seeking with humility, hope, and reverence for the different paths of others.

FELLOW PILGRIMS

"Everything depends on whether our love—

whether for nature, art, spiritual things, God, humanity, or the fellowship of others—

leads us toward something higher and still unfulfilled, or whether it becomes satisfied.

If our desire is fully satisfied, we fail.

But if it remains forever reaching beyond itself,

we are on the right path, though none can say where it leads—

through wilderness or paradise, across stormy seas or unseen realms of air.

If the artist rests in beauty itself, or the mystic lingers in spiritual ecstasy, they have left the pilgrim's road and must begin the journey again through weariness and tears.

But if they continue earnestly, not knowing the end,

never mistaking the delight of the moment for the greater joy that shines beyond the furthest horizon,

then they belong to that happy company who have embraced the true quest.

Such faith produces patience, gentleness, and deep affection for fellow travelers—

especially for those whose eyes reveal a longing to see beyond the shadows of earthly things.

Above all, we must refrain from judging others,

questioning their motives,

or despising their aims.

Each person has a path prepared for them.

Nor should we force upon others the convictions that seem most beautiful to us.

We should speak our truths faithfully,

for they may help another along the way.

But our chief method must be perfect sincerity,

resisting any attempt to overpower or divert honest souls from the path they have chosen." Arthur C. Benson.

 

Do I need to go to church?

Much of Christian fellowship is built not on dramatic acts of self-denial, but on hundreds of small, almost invisible sacrifices that teach us to love one another.

When we engage with others in church, here are some of the sacrifices we make.

• Listening when we would rather be doing something else. 

• Staying after a service to talk with someone who needs encouragement. 

• Attending meetings, Bible studies, or events that require effort. 

• Helping someone move, visit the sick, or provide a meal. 

• Changing plans to meet another person's needs. 

• Giving rides. 

• Waiting for slower people. 

• Accommodating schedules that differ from our own. 

• Listening to long-winded stories. 

• Enduring repeated complaints. 

 

• Bearing with personalities that irritate us. 

• Introducing ourselves to strangers. 

• Sitting beside someone who makes us uneasy. 

• Entering difficult conversations. 

• Serving in areas where we feel inadequate. 

• Admitting we were wrong. 

• Accepting correction. 

• Letting others receive recognition. 

• Asking forgiveness. 

• Remaining silent when we want to defend ourselves. 

• Singing songs we would not choose. 

• Accepting different styles, traditions, and personalities. 

• Yielding our opinions for the sake of unity. 

• Allowing others to have their way in nonessential matters. 

• Carrying another person's burdens. 

• Rejoicing with those who rejoice when we are struggling. 

• Weeping with those who weep when we feel tired.

 

• Continuing to care when caring is costly. 

• Giving financially. 

• Sharing possessions. 

• Opening our homes. 

• Supporting those in need.

 

• Being accountable to others. 

• Receiving advice. 

• Allowing others to speak into our lives. 

• Working as part of a body instead of acting alone.

 

Perhaps this is one of the greatest hidden sacrifices. 

Love continually interrupts us.

 Nearly every meaningful relationship requires a continual dying to self. Most of these sacrifices are small enough that they scarcely feel heroic, yet they are often the very things through which Christ is formed in us.

As one writer observed, the great test of Christian love is not whether we would die for our brethren, but whether we can patiently live with them. 

The person who talks too long, arrives late, asks for help at an inconvenient moment, or sees things differently from us becomes an opportunity to practice the kind of love that 

"does not seek its own."

These little sacrifices are the hidden currency of every healthy church, family, and friendship. They are often unnoticed by men, but never by God. "Through love serve one another" (Galatians 5:13). The service is usually found in the small things. 

"Eros once lit the stars—

a holy ache in the fabric of things,

pulling cosmos from chaos,

and Adam toward Eve.

She moved through gardens

with oil on her hair

and honey on her lips.

She called in the night,

not with noise,

but with longing.

A whisper,

a calling.

Come.

She was there

when Adam first turned toward Eve—

not to name,

not to tame,

but to behold.

Flesh of my flesh.

Bone of my bone.

The first liturgy of wonder

spoken in the language of touch.

But now—

we live in the age of forgetting.

The world has been mapped,

measured,

monetized.

Desire is tagged and tracked.

Every ache is answered

with an advert.

We no longer seek—we scroll.

We no longer ache—we click.

We no longer rise at midnight

to search the city for the One—

we settle

for mirrors and phantoms.

Even love

has lost its scent.

No longer spiced with mystery,

or slow as song,

but made instant,

hollow,

and safe.

Eros—

once the fire that drew Moses to the bush,

once the cry of the psalmist

panting for streams of living water—

has been reduced to appetite

and buried beneath shame.

But eros is older than shame.

She is the breath of transcendence—

a trembling of the soul

toward beauty,

toward communion,

toward God.

She is the pull

between lovers who have waited,

who have vowed,

who have weathered storms

and still reach for one another

with reverence.

But she is also there—

in the clasped hands of friends

who share soul-deep laughter

and carry one another’s pain.

In the artist’s ache to name the unnameable.

In the silence shared by pilgrims

beneath a darkened sky.

In the fierce joy of solidarity,

and the holy solitude

where longing turns to prayer.

She is tenderness that knows

both wound and healing,

both ache and joy,

both fire and fidelity.

In covenant,

she becomes holy flame—

not transaction,

not performance,

but presence.

Body and soul,

offered and received

in trust,

in truth,

in time.

And beyond the veil of flesh—

she becomes sacrament.

A glimpse of divine desire,

a shadow of the feast to come,

a whisper of the Bridegroom’s voice

in every act of love

that honors the other as mystery.

But the dragon still whispers

from within the pixel and the algorithm.

He sings songs of disembodiment.

He names our ache “weakness”

and sells it back as illusion.

He tells us to grasp,

to gorge,

to objectify.

He disenchants.

He digitizes.

He devours.

And so the chaos deepens.

Bodies become currency.

Desire becomes commerce.

Love becomes contract.

And Eve is left

scrolling through shadows,

longing to be seen again.

But I remember Eden—

not as a myth,

but as memory.

A place of first touch,

first gaze,

first ache—

where eros and agape

walked hand in hand

through a garden not yet guarded

by shame.

And I remember the Song,

hidden deep in the Scriptures,

where God is not only Shepherd

or King

but Lover.

Where the voice of the Beloved

calls not from the temple,

but from the thicket,

where desire meets delight.

Christian faith

was never meant

to be managed.

It was meant to burn.

To ache.

To kiss the feet of the Beloved

with tears and oil.

To say with trembling lips:

I found the one my soul loves.

So let eros wake in me again—

not to consume,

but to commune.

Not to possess,

but to praise.

Not to flatten,

but to follow.

Let her fire lead me

through the silence,

through the wilderness,

through covenantal tenderness

and mystical prayer,

through friendship and faithfulness,

through longing that never needs to be named,

to the place where the veil is torn

and the Lover still speaks

in the language of longing.

Arise,

she says.

Come away.

And I—

soul stirred,

flesh sanctified,

spirit singing—

go.

- Rev’d Jon Swales,  as part of a collection called ‘Desire’