The Glorious Befitting of the Religion of Christ

Only in Christianity is the whole person and experience of mankind revealed and felt. The mystery of man begetting himself to another generation, father to son, passing down everything that he is—this great mystery is seen in the Father begetting the Son. And yet, the circle of the family is completed, and the sanctity of the sexes fulfilled when the holy mother brings forth new life by the birth of the baby Jesus. But this life is new life, life that can only come from God, showing us that our instinct that this life is not what it should be, nor all that there is—this instinct for a greater type of existence and life is a true instinct for there is new life in and by God.

At the cross we see all our pains, and sicknesses, and sorrows, and sins, and finally our death shown in such a way that only could come from man. Never more clearly are our sufferings realized then by gazing at this bloody cross. And yet, at the very same time, right alongside this great tragedy, we see the obedience, the faithfulness, the heroism that man was made for. The heroism that is shadowed by a soldier dying by obeying orders, or the fireman rushing into the face of certain death to save a burning child, the sacrifice of one for another—this heroism is fulfilled and translated at the cross. By gazing at the passion, our suspicion that man is both a tragedy and a hero is confirmed. Our instinct that makes us homesick even when at home, this instinct that man was made for something else  different from this life of pain is completed.

But yet, just as our sorrows and pains and death are experienced and seen at the cross, even more at the resurrection of the dead do we find our hopes, our desires for peace and long life, our joy—only here do we find our dreams fulfilled. Here our greatest desire is shown to be true and to be something that will be met. Death will be overcome by Life. The Light will extinguish the Darkness. In the end, past all our sorrows, past all our sickness, and even in the midst of our deathbed, Evil will not prevail, but our hope of a life beyond this life of tears will come to pass, a greater existence awaits.

And finally, at the Ascension of the Worthy One, our fears that chaos rules all things, and that we are alone, and that we are merely creatures of dust floating on a dust ball guided only by chance and at anytime our arbitrary existence can come to an end—these fears are shown to be the only truly false instincts we possess. For there is a King above all things. There is a Being of Will who sits on the throne of creation and who guides all things by his Will. And beyond this reality of sovereignty, rising above it like glorious smoke from ashes, is the awesome truth that this Being is Love. So finally our greatest need to be loved is realized, and the only worthy Object of our Love revealed.

None of the religions of history or of today can even begin to hold a candle to how Christianity fulfils the being, existence, and holistic experience of man. Even if all religions were false and there truly were no God. Even if we truly are alone, and our desires and dreams are meaningless. Even if that were the case, still on a qualitative level, none of the other religions can even approach the mountain on whose mountaintop sits the Great Religion of Christ.


Poem: Crystal Lake

Of all the posts I have done up to now this is the first that I must admit does not seem to fully fit the theme of the blog. I simply wanted to share this poem that I wrote years ago and so I have placed it here. I hope you enjoy it and are caused to reflect. Thank you for your time.

Crystal Lake 

The wind blew slightly, and the sun shone brightly in the crisp blue sky on that warm spring day.

Whether April or May, I could not say, for I was lost in her eyes, near the Crystal Lake.

Now it could have been me dreaming or it may have been the gleaming of the lake upon her pearly face;

But her countenance began to change, not just in mood, but in shape, changed by the shimmer of the Crystal Lake.


The sunshine into my soul was beaming, reflecting off the water streaming down her ruby cheeks.

Water which a story told, more than through her lips of rose, to my heart of stone that message still speaks.

But through those pedals also came a tune, born from her “ivory lute”, revealing what her pure mind still thinks.

Causing my rough hands to tremble, hands of a starsturck rebel, which could only brush the streams from off her ruby cheeks.


And as the wind blew her hair of gold, she—just like the goddesses of old told to mortal hearts the words of the wise—-

So to me did she then teach, not through elegancy of speech, but through the glisten of her emerald eyes.

She taught of my true nature, of the eternal value of my wager,

and how I had lost her through my alibis.

This all told so very gently, by a whisper given slightly,

through the green sparkling from her emerald eyes.


Now one memory fills my thinking, one place my spirit is forever drinking—given away by my stone stare.

Poem: What is a Man!

What is a man!

O, how wondrous is a man, a vessel of so many experiences, beliefs, and decisions!

Eyes which have looked upon the world with awe and amazement, and which have shed tears of sorrow at the tragedy beheld.

Ears which have heard sounds for the first time, and which have been closed at the most important times.

Hands that have conquered the large world of one’s own backyard, and then have taken from the forbidden tree to eat its fruit thereof.

Fingers that have wiped away the tears of many eyes, and have brought tears to many more.

A spirit so heroic it would charge to certain death upon command, so wicked it can not give itself for the sake of another.

A mind so creative it can build a world, and so deprived it can forget it.

A will so strong it can never be conquered, and so weak it can never conquer itself.

His laughter echoes through the hall of ages, and his cries water the desert.

His thoughts tower far above the earth, sinking him beneath it.

He realizes beauty for the first time through the smile of a girl, and ugliness through her lies.

He remembers the beginning of time, and so quickly disregards the end.

He spends his youth longing for older age, and his old age longing for youth.

Oh how wondrous is a dead man—a broken pot from which spills so many experiences, beliefs, and decisions!

Is he a tragedy, or a comedy? A love story or a murder mystery?

Perhaps there is no genre that can define him, for he is a man. A mixture of predator and prey—both angel and beast; the only one who can decide to rise above, and the only one who chooses to fall beneath.


Praeter unum, qui superat, et resurrexit, et ascendit


Poem: The New Hollow Ones

This poem is inspired partly by T.S. Elliot’s “The Hollow Men.” He was a great man who had an interesting life. Though my poem cannot touch his poem, I hope I can at least continue to do what he did: revealing the nature of the culture that surrounds us. Rest In Peace, Mr. Elliot.

The New Hollow Ones

(From the Elliot observatory)

We are the ones that believed the lie.

We were told that there is no meaning to life, no reason that we are here.

There is no God. We are merely insignificant specks of dust floating in a random universe that has no concern for us— a relativistic world where everything is fading away.

Life is fleeting. All we have are the moments—the moments of laughter and pleasure; moments of thrill and joy; moments of indulging our appetites—and then nothing.

We came out of nothing; we will return to nothing; we are nothing.

We were told we are just animals who are slightly more evolved than others, creatures whom are pulled by our genes to an inevitable conclusion, which some poets have termed “destiny,” but we know now it’s merely genetic impulses.

Look into our eyes and if they seem empty, it’s because they are. We are the hollow ones.

We don’t believe in morality unless there’s something in it for us. We don’t believe in sacrifice unless we can get it on sale. We live for temporary gratification in whatever form it might come in—the more flavors to choose from the better.

We are our own authority. We are independent and free, free to do whatever we desire. It’s healthy for the soul (if there was such a thing).

We believe that being young in heart means chasing after our childhood dreams and we refuse to grow up and to become like our parents. We live to escape responsibility.

We are addicts. Entertain us. But good luck we get bored easily, and there is nothing more loathsome and offensive, nothing more abominable than boredom.

We have no transcendent desires—we’re the hollow ones. We don’t believe in empathy. We don’t believe in anything except our own sense of self-esteem.

We are the hollow ones. Do not speak to us of hope, that belonged to a long-dead, barbaric age of superstition—we are beyond that. We know there is no rhyme or reason. The universe simply doesn’t care.

We are the hollow ones, the ones that believed the Lie.

“Hollow, Eerie, Lonely, Plucked!”

                                    —The Scarecrow

Poem: Sangre De Cristo Mountain

I am posting today one of my poems. But I believe a brief introduction is necessary to grasp the atmosphere of the poem properly.

Matthew Arnold was an English poet who lived in the 19th century. If you know anything about European and English history you would know that this was the time when the Industrial and Scientific revolutions were taking off and with this explosion of new society came more and more a rejection of traditional Christianity.

Arnold, living in this time, found himself in a unique situation. Raised as a Christian, he was connected to the older world where Christianity still held some strong sway among the masses and was the worldview underlying many assumptions. But he was watching this world pass away into a new society that he sensed rising up around him. Continue reading