Not Sure Yet

Note – “Not Sure Yet” was just going to be the temporary title as I was writing this post. When I finished, it actually turned out to fit quite well as the real title. So I left it. . .

I was born into a Christian family. My parents are amazing; they used to read the bible and pray with my sister and me every night. For as long as I can remember, the Christian church has been a central part of my life. And so, I made it through high school and university without too much concern for my spiritual future. I know Jesus Christ. I have the infallible Word of God in the Bible. I know the Nicene Creed, the Lords Prayer, the Ten Commandments, and the top ten hard-hitting bible verses all by memory. I have spent more hours in church than most people twice my age. I don't have an amazing conversion story. There is no "I once was blind but now I see". I have always been able to see. . . Or have I?

When I finished University in 1999, I was offered a great job. It was exactly what I wanted to be doing, but there was a downside, the job was in Salt Lake City, Utah. At first it was a tough decision choosing between the perfect job in SLC or the less than perfect job (which paid more) in a much better location. In the end, God made the choice easy for me. On a visit to SLC before deciding on the job, God presented an open door to serve in a church in the downtown area. This was the confirmation that I needed (though it was still very difficult for my poor wife), so I accepted the SLC job. The church in Salt Lake was part of the Presbyterian Church of America (PCA), something I knew nothing about. All I knew is that they were bible-believing Christians, who loved God, and had a vision to reach out to the city.

I soon turned my attention to Presbyterians, to learn the finer details of their theology. I was surprised to be met by many things that I had never considered before: the total depravity of man, the limited atonement of Christ, predestination, and infant baptism. All of the beliefs were very solidly based on their interpretation of the bible. But at the same time they were different from my interpretations of the very same bible. Yikes!

What now? Could my understanding of God's word be limited, or perhaps incorrect??? It was more limited than I could ever have imagined. I'm not saying that I agree with all of Calvin's five points. In fact, I'm still wrestling with reformed theology, but we'll save that for another pot of coffee. The point is that I found many other bible believing, Jesus loving Christians who held beliefs that were quite different from mine, and I did not know who was right.

The correct answer of course is...Nobody is right (although, perhaps some are "more right" than others?). Here we are in this dark and sinful world doing our best to learn God's truth. As soon as we settle for having something completely sorted out, we have failed in our search.

But this was not the biggest challenge that faced me in SLC. I had to face the thing that Salt Lake and Utah is most famous for. . . The Mormon Church. I knew about the Mormon Church. How it sprang up from the teachings of Joseph Smith, how it took the language of the bible and twisted it into something completely different, how it's believers blindly followed a religion that was so filled with errors and omissions that it could not possibly be true. And yet, Mormons still clung to their beliefs every bit as much as I clung to my "true" Christian beliefs. I worked with Mormons, many of whom were brilliant engineers and very intelligent people. They knew that that had "chosen the right", and it was all confirmed by a strong "burning in their bosom".

Slowly, I came to realize that my somewhat blind Christian belief was no different than the steadfast belief of so many Mormons. They were taught their Mormon beliefs from childhood in the same way that I was taught my Christian beliefs. Could it be that I was brainwashed just like them? This was all a very painful realization, and I quietly teetered on the edge of loosing my faith completely. As I said before, I had no dramatic conversion experience to fall back on. I had many moments in my life when I had experienced God's presence, even miracles, but what if it was no different from the Mormon "burning in the bosom" or maybe I allowed my emotions to create something that wasn't really there, what if the bible was all made up and tampered with, what if, what if, what if. . .

I finally came to a very valuable conclusion: if Christianity is true and the Bible is the word of God, it can surely stand the test of my feeble mind. I allowed myself to question.

So I have been digging deeper for the solid rock that I believe underlies my Christian faith. I would love to say that God has answered my every doubt with a reassuring truth. But I know that it does not work that way. God is providing many answers, and he has helped to reassure me in the truth of his word. My head still swarms with questions and doubts, but He has given me the strength to keep on seeking and keep on knocking. I have a much better understanding of what it means for my soul to be thirsting for God. I long for a burning bush, a pillar of fire, a parted red sea, some kind of a clear sign that I am taking my life in the right direction. But I fear that even if I had those things, I would still manage to forget / doubt / question.

I believe that this struggle is a part of growing up and moving forward in my relationship with the one true God. I have a couple of requests for all of you who have faced this struggle (and I do believe that most have or will face this in one form or another). First pray for me (I don't like teetering on the edge) and second what books and authors have you read that have helped to shape / confirm / rebuke your beliefs?

I would like to end this post with an apology. To all of my great friends around the world who are thinking to themselves: "I had no idea you felt this way; why didn't you say something". Shame on me for not being more open and taking advantage of the support that I know I have had. But I have managed to get over myself enough to write this post and hopefully get a little help and support from all of my brothers and sisters wherever you may be.

JE

Some Quotes...

I've been reading a book called "Songwriters on Songwriting", by Paul Zollo. It is a compilation of interviews of 52 famous songwriters including Bob Dylan, Tom Petty, Paul Simon, Leonard Cohen, Pete Seeger and a bunch of others. It is filled with lots of really interesting quotes from the various songwriters. I am only about 100 pages into it, but here are a few of my favorites:

From Pete Seeger:
"The commercial people seem to have the Midas touch. Only not everything turns to gold; it often turns to garbage. And gold is a rather unsatisfactory thing to live by. People need food and love. They don't need gold."

"As a matter of fact, I'm convinced that musicians have got a more important role to play in putting a world together than they're usually given credit for. Because musicians can teach the politicians: not everybody has to sing the melody."

"Cezanne painted a red barn by painting it ten shades of color: purple to yellow. And he got a red barn. Similarly, a poet will describe things many different ways, circling around it, to get at the truth."

"I write a song because I want to. I think the moment you start writing it to make money, you're starting to kill yourself artistically."


From Willie Dixon:
"In fact, all blues are happy. All blues are the facts. The facts, whether they're good or bad, are the truth. Most people can't understand that. Of course, they've been brainwashed into believing that it's got to be down or it wouldn't be blues. But it's not so. It's got to be fact, or it wouldn't be blues."

"And when he goes to seek the roots of American music, he's gonna find the blues. These are the roots. And from these roots come the fruits. And the fruits are the music."

"That's a fact of life too, you know. The world has made everything else and still it can't make peace. And the reason it can't make peace is because of the evil, ignorance and stupidity. I have songs that explain these facts. And that's the blues."


From Bob Dylan:
"There's two kinds of thoughts in your mind: there's good thoughts and evil thoughts. Both come through your mind. Some people are more loaded down with one than another. Nevertheless, they come through. And you have to be able to sort them out, if you want to be a songwriter, if you want to be a song singer. You must get rid of all that baggage. You ought to be able to sort out those thoughts, because they don't mean anything, they're just pulling you around, too. It's important to get rid of all them thoughts."

"The melodies in my mind are very simple, they're very simple, and they're just based on music we've all heard growing up. That and music which went beyond that, which went back further, Elizabethan ballads and whatnot."

"No. They've got enough. They've got way too many. As a matter of fact, if nobody wrote any songs from this day on, the world ain't gonna suffer for it. Nobody cares...Unless someone's gonna come along with a pure heart and has something to say. That's a different story. But as far as songwriting, any idiot could do it. If you see me do it, any idiot could do it. It's just not that difficult of a thing. Everybody writes a song just like everybody's got that one great novel in them."

"Poets don't drive cars. Poets don't go to the supermarket. Poets don't empty the garbage. Poets aren't on the PTA. Poets, you know, they don't go picket the Better Housing Bureau, or whatever. Poets don't...poets don't even speak on the telephone. Poets don't even talk to anybody. Poets do a lot of listening and...and usually, they know why they're poets.
Yeah, there are...What can you say? The world don't need anymore poems, it's got Shakespeare. There's enough of everything. You name it, there's enough of it. There was too much of it with electricity, maybe, some people said that. Some people said the lightblub was going too far.
Poets live on the land, They behave in a gentlemanly way. And live by their own gentlemanly code. And die broke or drown in lakes. Poets usually have very unhappy endings."

"Do you play jazz? It never hurts to learn as many kinds of chords as you can. All kinds."

"On the piano, my favorite keys are the black keys. And they sound better on guitar, too."

"Yeah, because anything you do in A, it's going to be a different song in G. While you're writing it anyway. There's too many wide passing notes in G (on the guitar) not to influence your writing, unless you're playing barre chords."

"There's another way of writing a song, of course. Just talking to somebody that ain't there. That's the best way. That's the truest way. Then it becomes a question of how heroic your speech is. To me, it's something to strive after."

"Your life doesn't have to be in turmoil to write a song like that but you need to be outside of it. That's why a lot of people, me myself included, write songs when one form or another of society has rejected you. So you can truly write about it from the outside."

"Still staying in the unconscious of your mind, you can pull yourself out and throw up two rhymes first and work it back. You get the rhymes first and work it back and then see if you can make it make sense in another kind of way."

"Well, my songs aren't written on a schedule like that. In My mind it's never really been seriously a profession...It's been more confessional than professional...Then again, everybody's in it for a different reason."

"In America, there is a lot of repression. A lot of people who are repressed. They'd like to get out of town, they just don't know how to do it. And so it holds back creativity. It's like you go somewhere and you can't help but feel it. Or people even tell it to you, you know?"


JE

Two Stories...

As you can see, I have just posted two stories that I wrote this week. Obviously, I'm not much of a storyteller, but I had these stories running around in my head, so I thought it would be a good exercise to get them written out. I haven't really tried writing a story since elementary school. It was an entertaining process for me to write them; it probably won't be quite so entertaining for you to read them. If you actually manage to read all the way through either of them let me know what you think.

JE

The Jockey's Wife

Benny Dimble was a little man, but this was no mistake. He was his father's pride and joy. His father had been a famous jockey and he had passed all of his knowledge and love of horse racing on to his only son. Benny was smaller and lighter than his father and he already showed signs of being a great jockey himself. Benny's mother was also a small person from another jockey's family, though she did not love the racing the way her husband and family did, she did enjoy the horses and spending time out in the fresh air.

Benny loved going to the stables to train. It was great to be up on the giant race horses, speeding around the track. He loved the smells and the routine of feeding and grooming the horses. There was another thing that Benny loved about the stables and her name was Martha Appleby. Martha was a banker's daughter that had a fat white pony at the stable. Martha was there all the time, feeding and talking to her pony, but not doing much riding. Benny always stopped to talk to Martha if she was there. They always had good conversations and laughed a lot together. Martha was so different from the world that Benny came from. She talked about travel and romance, and had no idea who had finished first, riding which horse, in the race last Saturday. There was another thing that was different about Martha that Benny really liked: she was big. She was not really very big at all by normal standards, but compared to Benny and his family she was big. She was three or four inches taller than Benny and much rounder, and Benny loved her curves.

Benny's Father noticed the attention that Benny gave to Martha and it concerned him. He did not want to see his family's legacy as great jockeys end with his son. If Benny married Martha, the legacy would certainly end. Dimbles had become small and successful jockeys through careful breeding, just like the beasts that they rode to victory, and nothing could come from Martha Appleby but big fat children.

The next Saturday, Benny rode the favorite to first place in the flat race at the local track. During the celebrations after the race, Benny's father took him aside. He told Benny how proud he was of him, and how proud his Grandpa would be if he were there to see. He talked about the long history of the Dimble family and about how carefully he had chosen his wife to make sure that Benny could be a success. Then he took Benny to meet Emily Flimmer, the daughter of of one of his jockey friends. Emily was tiny, and skinny as a rail. Even her hair was skinny, straight and shoulder length, with a short fringe cut straight across the middle of her forehead. Her eyes were small and spaced far apart on her head, and her mouth was also miniscule, a little pucker in the middle of her face. Benny was not impressed. The two faced each other awkwardly for a few minutes before Benny excused himself to get a celebratory drink.

The next Monday, Benny and his dad were feeding and grooming the horses after training. Benny took the chance to tell his dad about his feelings for Martha Appleby and his lack of feelings for Emily Flimmer. His dad could see that he would have to take a stronger stance with his son, if the family name was to survive. The father laid down an ultimatum. Benny had to choose his family heritage, and marry a jockey's daughter, or he was on his own.

Benny moped around for the next few days, inwardly tortured by the decision he had to make. He did not want to give up his dreams of the adventure that a life with Martha might bring, but even more than that, he did not want to give up the life he loved as a jockey. In the end he made up his mind, for the sake of his future, and for his children's future, and for his father's blessing, he chose Emily Flimmer.

Things were never very exciting between Benny and Emily, but they moved along quickly enough thanks to the constant prodding of the two proud families. The next spring they were married. Life didn't change much for Benny. He and Emily moved into a small house, and ate the same grey food that he had eaten all his life, it had little taste, but he did not eat much, and it kept him skinny. There was not a lot of affection in their relationship, but they got on well enough, and Emily understood the jockey's life and knew the questions to ask, and kept up with all the latest jockey news.

Benny and Emily became good friends with their neighbor, a very outgoing Irishman with red hair. He was a farmer, a very big man, and he loved his food. He had never married, but threw large dinner parties for his many friends and Emily and Benny often attended. Emily especially loved the jokes and stories of the rosy Irishman.

There was a big change to come in Emily and Benny's life. Emily became pregnant. The baby was due at the end of the summer. It was a hot summer that year and Emily grew so big that she had to stay in bed. They didn't even go out for the going away party for their neighbor who was moving back to Ireland to be with his aging mother.

When the baby was born, it was a surprise for everyone. It was a difficult labor for Emily, but in the end it was obvious why. The baby was a monster, over nine pounds, and it had bright red hair.

The baby grew up happy and healthy. It seemed that by the time it was a toddler, it was already bigger than either of the parents. Benny and Emily didn't have any other children. No one ever mentioned the idea of the boy growing up to be a jockey and no one ever mentioned the red-haired Irish farmer that moved away the summer that the boy was born.

Benny and Emily stayed together through a dull marriage. Emily secretly thought about adventures with Irish farmers, while Benny thought about adventures with banker's daughters.

JE

The Wounded Soldier

In the fifth century England was divided into many small kingships. These kingships were constantly at war with one another, and with outsiders such as the Scots and the Picts.

In one such kingship lived a shepherd and his family. The shepherd was a middle-aged man who lived with his son, Aedan, who was in his early twenties, and his two teenage daughters Rosalind and Edith. His wife had died a number of years ago during a bad winter.

The shepherd loved his family. He was very proud of his strong son, Aedan, who took such good care of the sheep. He loved his eldest daughter Rosalind who stepped in and filled her mother's shoes when she had died. Most of all he loved his beautiful youngest daughter, Edith, who could bring a smile on the darkest of days.

The family was well aware of the violence that surrounded them. Their sheep had been stolen by raiders from the neighboring kingship and a couple of their neighbors had been killed protecting their land. It was commonplace to see the crimson colors of their kingship's soldiers riding past their cottage. They still tried their best to carry on their simple lives. They raised their sheep and chickens, drew water from their well, and collected fire wood, always with an extra glance over their shoulder expecting to see foreign raiders in the bushes.

Soon their expectations would be fulfilled. On a warm spring evening, young Edith went out to draw water from the well. The men were still away in the fields with the sheep, while Rosalind prepared the supper. A sharp scream brought Rosalind out of the cottage. She opened the door to a chilling sight. Edith was surrounded by six raiders, all dressed in the green robes of the neighboring kingship. They wasted no time in binding her arms and tying a sack over her head. Then they dragged her off into the trees while Rosalind stood paralyzed with fear.

The shepherd and his son came home to find Rosalind in tears. It took a while to get the whole story out of her, but they soon understood. The old man sat moaning with his head in his hands, while Aedan stormed about the cottage in a rage. Aedan vowed to join the king's army in the morning to bring back his sister and to avenge her abduction.

When Aedan arrived at the castle in the morning, he found he was not alone. There were several of his neighbors there also, all angry about things that had taken place in the night. The raiders had sent several parties into their kingship and taken animals, produce, and Aedan's sister.

The King was not a bad man. He was perhaps a bit greedy, but there were many others worse than him. He tried to provide protection for his subjects and in return he expected a portion of his subjects produce. Aedan had always hated it when the kings men had come to take their portion, and he hated it even more now that he felt the king had failed to uphold his end of the bargain.

When the king heard of the raids of the previous night, he was outraged. He wanted to take immediate action, and he sent out a call to arms to all of the households in his kingship. By evening a group of about sixty farmers and peasants had arrived at the castle, all prepared to fight. The king provided weapons and armor for the men, many of them obviously young and afraid. Aedan grasped his sword and swung it through the air. He was naturally athletic, and the weight of the sword felt good in his hands.

The next morning, the newly formed army set out to the northeast in the direction of the neighboring kingship. When the peasants joined with the king's soldiers and and horsemen, they were 200 strong all dressed in the crimson robes of their kingship. By late afternoon they came to the edge of the forest that marked the border of the kingship, crossing into the trees would mean passing into enemy territory.

The army was easily spotted by the lookouts of the neighboring kingship. The neighboring king quickly rallied his troops and prepared them to meet the invading army. The men were quickly armed and dressed in their green robes. That night the invading army had a restless night in the forest while the defending army marched to meet the attackers by morning.

Aedan awoke just after dawn on a cold, misty morning to the sound of shouts around him. Everyone was scrambling for their weapons and preparing for the fight. Overnight the defending army had reached the attackers and were waiting in a large field on the edge of the forest. They were to form ranks and prepare for attack.

The peasants and inexperienced soldiers were put in front, followed by the more experienced foot soldiers and finally by those on horseback. Aedan was near the front next to a skinny boy that he thought he knew from a neighbor's farm, but he looked quite different dressed in the clothes of a soldier. They were soon assembled, and at the captains orders, the army charged through the trees. It wasn't far to the edge of the forest where the neighboring army was waiting. Aedan could see the swords and spears of his enemies and he gripped his sword tightly and prepared to fight.

As they reached first rank of the enemy everything got very confusing for Aedan. A large man swung his sword so hard that it knocked the sword from Aedan's hand. The neighboring boy jumped forward at Aedan's right to protect him from the large man. The swing of the large man's sword came again, swiftly and heavily, from right to left. It cut the head clean off the boy and landed crushing blow on Aedan's right arm. Aedan fell, the headless boy on top of him. His arm burned, but he dared not move. He looked dead, covered in the blood of the headless boy. Aedan lay there for what seemed like hours as the battle raged around him, with metal clashing, blood flowing, and men falling. The fighting moved slowly away into the field, and finally disappeared all together.

The sun was low in the sky when Aedan finally gathered the courage to get up. He could see the bodies all around him, men and boys in green and red robes. They had all given their lives for a cause that they believed in. Perhaps some did not believe in the cause, and gave their lives for nothing. Aedan felt rotten. He had done nothing. He had fallen to the ground with a boy who had died protecting him, and neither of them got up again to fight. The blood that covered him was not the blood of his enemies, but the blood of one who died for his sake. And what about his sister whom he had come to rescue, was there any hope of finding her now?

Aedan stumbled his way through the bodies in the field which rose slowly uphill. At the top of the hill he could see activity, but he could not make out the uniforms of the men as they were silhouetted by the setting sun. They were setting up camp-fires, and seemed to be generally joyful. As he got closer he recognized one of them as one of his king's soldiers. He tried to shout out to the man, but he had no voice. Soon the man saw him approaching, and ran to meet him with his sword drawn. He quickly recognized Aedan, the shepherds son, and he was overjoyed. He put his arm around him and led him up to the camp. All the men congratulated him, and treated him like a hero. Aedan tried to explain what had happened, but no one seemed to listen. The accolades of the others just caused his shame to deepen.

The battle had been won by the men in the crimson robes. The men in green had retreated to their castle. In the morning they would head back to their land having sent a message to the neighboring king. Aedan wanted to ask about his sister but didn't know what to say.

It was a long and painful march back to the king's castle. Aedan's arm was in a lot of pain; he had a large gash, though the bone was not broken. All the time he was marching, he was trying to think what he would say to his father and sister about what had happened. After reaching the castle, the men were congratulated by the king with a fine meal, and a small reward based on their position. For a shepherd's son, this was a very small reward, but Aedan didn't care how much it was, it would not bring his sister back.

After the meal all the men were dismissed. Aedan trudged slowly back to his cottage. As he walked down the path that lead from the main road to his home, one of the sheep dogs bolted out to meet him. It leaped about in celebration, licked at his cold hands, and barked excitedly. Aedan saw the door of the cottage open, and three figures came out. It was his father, Rosalind and Edith. It seemed impossible, that Edith was home again, he certainly had not rescued her.

They rushed up to him and they all kissed and embraced. They sat down in the kitchen of the cottage, and as Rosalind took care of his injured arm, Edith told the story of her escape. She had been kidnapped not by men from the green kingship, but by Scotsmen disguised in green robes. They were a raiding party sent down to steal the riches of the English farmers. They had not come for prisoners, but when they saw the beautiful Edith, they could not resist.

When the leader of the Scotsmen saw that his men had taken a prisoner, he was furious, but decided it was too dangerous to let her go at the moment. They slowly headed northwest towards their homeland with wagons filled with plundered treasure. They soon saw that they were being followed by the crimson army that had set out to attack the green kingship. The Scots did not want to get caught in the middle of this fight so they got rid of everything that was not valuable enough to take with them, including Edith, and made a hasty retreat for home.

Edith did not understand why the Scots had let her go, she didn't realize that the kings army was coming her way. She gathered some of the food that the Scots had left and wrapped it in blankets. It took her a couple of days to get back home, but somehow, she did not cross paths with the advancing crimson army on the way. She had arrived home that morning before Aedan.
It was Aedan's turn to tell his story, and he could feel the shame rising up as he began the horrible story. As Aedan was berating himself, his father stopped him. The old shepherd was overjoyed that his children were all still alive, and he rejoiced for Aedan's cowardice.

Not long after this, a truce was made between the crimson and the green kingships. All three of the children eventually married and started families of their own. The old Shepherd lived a long and happy life, always in the fields with his son Aedan and the sheep. Aedan never lifted a sword again.

JE

Cover Songs

I have been preparing myself to start performing here in the UK. I have played at a few open mics since being here, but have not done any real "gigs". In the past I have always focused my attention on my own original material. I have had this deep rooted aversion to playing cover songs. Why spend all this time writing music if people just want to hear what they already know.

But that is the problem. People really like the songs that they are familiar with. When they know what is coming and what the words are, they can get into the song more and in turn enjoy the overall performance more. I started to think about concerts that I have been to in the past, and artists almost always play a cover song or two, and people always love the cover songs. And these are established artists playing covers even though they have plenty of their own material to draw from.

So, the tide has turned. I have been learning some cover songs. My goal is to do about 1/3 covers to 2/3 original. I think this combination will help people to enjoy my original songs more. I can hopefully keep their attention with the occasional familiar tune.

There has been a side benefit to learning these cover songs. I am playing chord progressions, and singing melodies that are different from my own natural song writing style, and I am already seeing the influence of other's songs on my own. For example, I am learning a couple of Bob Dylan songs (lots of words to remember). I recently wrote a song that started with the following line: "today the wind was with me pushing at my back". Heather asked if the new song was a Bob Dylan song. I didn't notice at first, but it does kind of have a Dylanesque ring to it (especially when you add in the melody).

Of course my writing has always been influenced by the artists that I listen to most, but actually playing and singing the songs of others seems to be even more influential. I do look at the influence as a good thing. I want to be careful not to be copying what others are doing because that would defeat the purpose of original music. I do believe that the influence is actually helping me to grow in new and unique directions that I could never accomplish on my own.

I heard about a writer that never read any other books or newspapers because he wanted his writing to be original and all his own. While I see the merit in this, I think it is a bit sad. I have been reading a book that is a compilation of interviews of song writers. In the interview of Pete Seeger, Seeger talks about song writers being links in a chain, and carrying on the songs, stories, and music of the ones that have come before. I think this is true not only by playing the songs of other song writers, but by allowing other writers to influence my own style and thus carry on their musical spirits in the new material that I write.

JE

Grease for the Wheels

As I mentioned in my first post. It was the blogs of some of my friends that helped me to go ahead with this crazy idea of putting my thoughts up on the internet for all the world to see. So I want to give some credit where credit is due. A few links to friends posts follow. All these posts really helped provide some grease to the rusty old wheels in my head...


For those of you that don't know, Shane Tucker was one of my best friends in high school, back in my Columbus, Ohio days. Shane is now a pastor working for the Church of Ireland Youth Department. He wrote this great article:
http://wwwdreamtoday.blogspot.com/2005/05/bohemian-christmas.html
Perhaps its because I was just in Prague that this article really spoke to me, but he touches on some great topics..."A very Ecclesiastes experience", "we are but wind passing through the fingers of God", and he even brings in a reference to Pulp Fiction. Great stuff! Also check out Shane's Dreamers of the Day website. Filled with good stuff about Christianity and the arts:
http://www.dreamtoday.org/intro.htm


Clint Roberts was one of my pastors back in SLC. I always appreciated his excellent teaching and his brilliant sense of humor. I think I like his blog even more than his teaching; the gloves come off in a way that isn't really possible in church setting. This particular article really stood out to me:
http://ccroberts.blogspot.com/2005/05/zeal-cant-make-up-for-ignorance.html
Again, this post probably appeals to me more because I am a recent escapee from the land of Mormons. I really loved the part referencing John Locke:
"As a Christian, Locke believed that faith was not merely wishful fancies, but included a responsibility to use the faculties God has given to make certain that you're as close to the truth as possible. A person has to come to know for himself whether his views be correct or not."
That's where I'm at right now, really trying to "use the faculties God has given" to get as close to the truth as I can.


Jonathan Hays is a friend from my SLC days. The strange thing is that he is currently living in Edinburgh, Scotland studying theology-something-or-other (what is it you are studying Jon?). Its only a five hour drive from here to visit him; we will be making the pilgrimage in July (much to the chagrin of our English neighbors who say there is no reason for anyone to go to Scotland). Crazy Jonathan (I witnessed some wild acts from him that will always stand out in my mind), seems to have done a lot of spiritualal growing, reading, studying, praying etc. in recent times. Take a look at this great post:
http://www.firstfloorflat.com/?p=270
Admittedly, I don't entirely agree with all of it, but Jon covers a lot of ground with this meandering post and I really like where he ends up.


There you have it, words of wisdom from across the globe brought together here at Wednesday Morning Coffee.

JE

The First Cup

In my old life, I had some good friends that I would meet with for coffee before work every Wednesday morning. The initial purpose of the meeting was to be a forum for us to discuss, collaborate, and encourage one another in our different artistic endeavors. We were artists of various forms: musicians, writers, photographers, philosophers. The other thing that we had in common was that we were all Christians. Christians and artists living in a place where being either of those things placed you out on the fringes of society. This fact helped to make our bonds grow stronger. Slowly the group evolved from our original high minded idea of artistic discourse to a group of good friends who really enjoyed talking about the strange journeys that we all found ourselves on. Some weeks we would still talk about our art, others we would talk about the more mundane details of our lives. Either way, it grew to become one of the most treasured times in my week.

Last fall I got a new job, packed my bags, and left that life far behind. I know that I will never have what I used to have in the days of Wednesday Morning Coffee. One thing life has taught me is that good things come and go, and you must enjoy them while you have them because they cannot last forever. I look forward to all of the new and exciting things to come in my life.

The end of the Wednesday Morning Coffee meetings has left a gap in my life. I still have thoughts and ideas running through my head. And an overwhelming desire to get those ideas out into the open where others can relate (or not) to them. And so, after being obsessed with the blogs of some of my old friends since moving away, I have decided to create this space. This web log has no real scope, just a place where I can share my thoughts and my life with my many friends who are now scattered all over this small world. I plan on publishing a new post every Wednesday Morning as I drink a cup of hot coffee. I hope all of you, my friends old and new, will check in and comment and thus keep alive the spirit of the old Wednesday Morning Coffee.

JE