Saturday, January 5, 2013
I want to start a new blog called koinoniadaniel.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
One fifth of this adventure remains. Counting on my fingers, I want this fifth to be the thumb and not the pinkie. I want this to be the clincher. I want these weeks to be the most distinguished. With all but weariness, my summer here shall be finalized with the power of experience and the prayer for stamina.
Here is a poem I have worked on this summer:
Commissioned by the Roman guard, those men who built the cross,
so long ago when Jesus was a body in the crowd,
would never know the impact of that coming sacred loss
in mass-producing replicas of that same wooden shroud.
So many times I’ve heard it said in sermons here and there,
with so much pride, the reason why the cross our logo be.
“Isn’t that symbol like to our modern electric chair?
The glory of his death upon that alternated tree!”
“That is why we have these shrines, splayed up atop our steeples.
And this religion- unified. And our church here- you may now come.
Whether it’s hung upon the walls, the books, the necks of peoples,
because of it you need not worry that they may be Muslim.”
An easy way to move your goods in this consumer group,
is recreating that same cross that Pilate delegated
when Jewish priests-they delegated Pilate in their coup
to kill the King, the hard Truth, the Messiah predicated.
And still I think the symbol stands. Wherever it is found
is where attempts to muffle revolution are revealed-
where robes of high authority cast votes to cloud the sound
of Truth and how the kingdom rips apart our modern seals.
The path to usher Zion has been translated for all.
And what if, in theology’s thick mist, there was but one
green Gideon: It’s all we’d need to sound the trumpet call.
And we could start the era foretold by the risen Son.
But me, my symbol is the air that filled the tomb door gap
which Jesus breathed- the same air in my nostrils that abounds.
And me, my symbol is the ground, once having bouldered lap,
but angels threw it off so that the path to life was sound.
The cross is not the symbol of Jesus’ suffering. It is the gateway of his temporary submersion through death. Jesus who is God knew that He would boomerang back up.
In my opinion, the iconic image of Jesus’ greatest suffering was the constant misunderstanding that plagued his followers.
One kilogram of dirt, one kilogram of air, and one kilogram of diamonds have different market prices. But if I had to pick between them, I could do without the diamonds. In the Kingdom of God, rarity is irrelevant to value.
If God is love, abundance determines value.
When abundance determines value, we shall scrutinize the similarities, and not the differences, of the contents of this creation earth.
Look at the planets that abound from our discoveries. If we trod this earth, breathing this air, we all live in the rich part of town- as designated by God.
If I make a request to God for anything aside from the kingdom, do I concede to lacking an appreciation for the ten trillion blessings I already have?
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Tribes and clans were spread across Europe, Asia, and Africa. All were developing under God’s supervision. But Israel was His chosen ones. What was it that made them shine in God’s almighty eyes? To them he did reveal Himself, as noted by the scribes.
They were not a faultless group, beginning with Jacob, who stole his brother’s inheritance. And David was no angel saint. So what defines their true distinction? I think it is their candor. Look at the Egyptian pharaohs, who held the masks of gods. When maintaining a face of greatness, it is so easy to glorify a deceased ancestor or age. I can’t imagine who would make their lore detail the faults of Moses.
But now becomes an era of truth, where all the masks dissolve. And we can see so clearly now that congressmen are sinners too. So when one tracks the scribbled tales of every great landrace, the one that holds a light of truth- reveals the sin in man.
Friday, June 10, 2011
In the mornings I can watch the sun climb up banana trees. The clouds that cushion this event often declare some massive poignancy. But this morning, a wall of grey veiled the sun that was speckled with furrowed splotches reminiscent of scar tissue or stretch marks. Only in pen-hole gaps could the source of dawn be seen.
The birds here dash from all directions. These black birds have an oil-glazed coat that reflect a gleam of colors. Their bullet-hole eyes forever survey the green flowing landscape in search of excuses for flight. Sometimes their trajectory is nigh unplanned, they’ll dive right toward a wall, and they’ll have to maneuver away. They’re erratic like the grasshoppers they catch. And when they jump to soar their noisy wings flap like shaken rubber boots.
Sometimes I’ve moved and unbeknown disturbed a stalking crane. For such a large and noble bird, they land without much fear. I’ve seen rooftop edges in the horizon painted white with their droppings.
Some birds make unfortunate sounds, and a cluster can be cacophony. There’s ones that have a smoker’s cough. The laughing hawk is always amused at some private delight. The high-pitched weaver birds scream competing “chalps.”
For a country where English is predominant, there’s a communication barrier when conversing with the people. Here in this Ugandan culture, a word to label white people is Mzungu. But mzungu doesn’t mean white; it means wealthy. I treasure the moments of true relations that I can share with some of the people here. I do not enjoy it when people make an abrupt divulgence to the want for cash to pay for this or that. I feel as if some friendships are predicated on financial reciprocation.
The soil of this nation is more fertile that the best American loam. The weather is great. Democracy has been here for 25 years. I fear that my pity is now part of this country’s GDP. I’ve shed a layer of idealism, but my faith in God is stronger. He led me here.