"Your Sins will find you out"
It seems to me that committing sin is like walking up to a sleeping bear and promptly whacking it on the nose. As you might imagine, that's not a wise thing to do. The bear is larger than you, unless your a sumo wrestler. He's got more claws, more primal rage, a little tail. Whats even less wise is making a habit of striking that sleeping bear again and again. Because one day, you'll steal a computer from an off-kilter computer scientist. Momma bear just woke up and she doesn't like the idea of.. you. Out there compromising the security and privacy of others. Your brains and brawn's will need to match your boldness if you plan to get out clean. Yep, Mr. Mac-Burglar, you'd better destroy that computer quick because I'm setting my hellhounds on you. Instead of using my extra energies to move airwaves subtly influencing ears, there will be a flux of electrons as I light up the wires to vnc, ssh, mstsc, traceroute, or tulip until I've found your location. With the serials numbers of the computers I'll be sniffing every local web-based trade service you'd be slightly probable to use. Literally, I've got a script right now asking craigslist every hour for new entries on all the stuff you stole from my wife and child and I. Watching Ebay is next on my list.
"If your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off"
Ok, I'm not all that upset, and I have no intention of taking the law into my own hands. I simply mean to to assist in the investigative work. As I thought about all this more, and feelings of loss and anger at being wronged set in I realized that this is what I do to my God all the time. I disregard his word, put other things before him, betray him, and distrust him. On all these accounts I am a repeat offender, even a habitual offender.This one time loss seems to be trivial in light of what I've done to him last week, and week before. And yet I still don't feel as moved as I should to figuratively "cut off" my weaknesses.
Yet from the pent up punishment of all those days and days he has made an escape route. Tonight and tomorrow, while I hunt this pitiful hagfish (and I do not fool myself, I know I'm still one) I will be praising you.
2.25.2013
1.13.2013
Civil Wars
Every man wants to become something, but we seem to give enough of ourselves away so that we are spoiled from becoming anything.
A man sat in a room with a eye for receiving spiritual answers to some questions. While an illumineer satisfied the mans appetite, the inquisitor's son wandered down a ill-lit street. The man with the questions didn't know his son had even left the room.
A man sat at a table with many others, sharing pitchers of sunset colored beer. A time ago, he would have called it a mistake. Now, his ex-wife and kids are the mistake.
A man phones an old friend after cashing a paycheck. That morning he thumbed through a brochure that romanticized a film career. Tonight, he'll be higher than the space needle, having philosophical conversations he won't remember.
The grumblings of a disquieted spirit turn into a roar as night matures. All day I've been bothered by my own inconsistencies. I know that we often give little pieces of ourselves away to things that mean to do us no good. We tend to fantasize about being something great. A great artist, lover, spiritual guide, or fighter. Except, little distractions and lustful's become addictions that, like drugs, impair some part of us needful to achieve that great goal we're after. Perhaps we're not hypocrites, perhaps we're not slime balls, perhaps most would pass us off as merely humans. (No doubt to quiet their own civil wars). But these little contradictions can be our greatest hindrances to be what we mean to be in life, and thus cannot be tolerated. Though I've fallen once, or a thousand times, that mountain still lies ahead of me, and by God I am somewhere on it. Frankly, I don't much care how far from the bottom I've gotten, only how far from the top I am. This idea turns my midnight roar into more of a hoarse battle cry. Whatever I've got to put foot over foot or hand over hand so that I do not become a nothing man.
A man sat in a room with a eye for receiving spiritual answers to some questions. While an illumineer satisfied the mans appetite, the inquisitor's son wandered down a ill-lit street. The man with the questions didn't know his son had even left the room.
A man sat at a table with many others, sharing pitchers of sunset colored beer. A time ago, he would have called it a mistake. Now, his ex-wife and kids are the mistake.
A man phones an old friend after cashing a paycheck. That morning he thumbed through a brochure that romanticized a film career. Tonight, he'll be higher than the space needle, having philosophical conversations he won't remember.
The grumblings of a disquieted spirit turn into a roar as night matures. All day I've been bothered by my own inconsistencies. I know that we often give little pieces of ourselves away to things that mean to do us no good. We tend to fantasize about being something great. A great artist, lover, spiritual guide, or fighter. Except, little distractions and lustful's become addictions that, like drugs, impair some part of us needful to achieve that great goal we're after. Perhaps we're not hypocrites, perhaps we're not slime balls, perhaps most would pass us off as merely humans. (No doubt to quiet their own civil wars). But these little contradictions can be our greatest hindrances to be what we mean to be in life, and thus cannot be tolerated. Though I've fallen once, or a thousand times, that mountain still lies ahead of me, and by God I am somewhere on it. Frankly, I don't much care how far from the bottom I've gotten, only how far from the top I am. This idea turns my midnight roar into more of a hoarse battle cry. Whatever I've got to put foot over foot or hand over hand so that I do not become a nothing man.
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