I dare call it cowardice…

Richard Dawkins came up in a conversation I had with a colleague this evening. I will call her “April” out of respect for her privacy.

She is a “professing” secular humanist and ardent follower of a purely naturalistic worldview.

Nevertheless, we get along quite well and are able to engage in dialogue without resorting to unproductive bickering or intellectual one-upmanship.

April is rather well-read and capable of conversing on a range of subjects with a decidedly philosophical bent.

Our conversation was initiated by an editorial, written in a local paper she was reading, concerning the Theory of Evolution and the ongoing legal contentions taking place within the state board of education. Naturally, the topic strayed (dare I say “evolved”) into the broader realm of the “Science vs. Religion” debate.

As I was making a specific point (regarding an argument Dawkins made in a recent article), I noticed a curious expression on April’s face. An expression that indicated I had somehow offended her, yet I continued on. Wondering, in the back of my mind, precisely how I had gone “over the line” as I thought I was maintaining a more than adequate logical objectivity in refuting the ideas set forth upon their own merit.

Finally, I could tell that we would not make any headway in this exchange if I continued to disregard the sensibilities of the co-participant in this exchange. I stopped and inquired of April as to whether I had insulted her.

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I’ll keep them still…

“…drink up baby
stay up all night,
with the things you could do,
you won’t, but you might…”

It is very…  very…  late.

My day starts long after others’ have ended, I do more before 9am than most people do all day. I also weave more self-aggrandizing hyperbole into the mundanities of my life than your average drunkard.

I’ve only been at work tonight for a couple short hours but it will be a looong day today, essentially a triple shift (23:00 to 08:00, 09:00 to 16:00, 23:00 to 08:00), and I wish to take a moment in the quiet overnight hours.

So…  I stop by the cafeteria to build a coffee for medicinal purposes. That’s right, I said build a coffee. Raiding the voluminous pantry for cinnamon, cardamom, fennel, and whatever spices I can find to tickle my catastrophe. Lotsa cream and lotsa sugar, I like my coffee like I like my women: high-strung and strong enough to kill the average man.
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Needle in the Hay

“…sometimes they just get caught in the eye,
you’re pulling him through…”

“I want to do right,” he tells me, “but I don’t do it. I do the wrong things over and over, and I know what I’m doing is the wrong, but I want the wrong more than I want the right.”

His name is “Paul” and this was the first thing he said to me at the outset of our relationship.
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Pause, and deep breath.

Desirous to speak to the “universe of discourse” his words have wrought into existence, yet do I also wish to answer with clarity of Truth.

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What is all this juice and all this joy?

“…’tis Spring come out to ramble
the hilly brakes around,
for under thorn and bramble
about the hollow ground…”

I marvel at the yawp and bellow of new birth that abides in Springtime. The earth awakens from its long Winter nap of grays and brown, slate cold mornings and howling nights. Growth. Green. A million vermillion wildflowers scattered along the roadside, Bluebonnets waft in the breezes, low-hanging Wisteria envelops my yard and house in its savory perfume.

Spring emerges out of the fragrant mists and foggy dew o’ chilly mornings, shrubs and one-dry fields are enflamed with brilliant colors and burning deep greenery. The trees breathe wet and drop-dappled branches o’erhanging the firmament.

Of myself, I am brimming inward with wonder and hope and desire; my Spirit presses outward from within with such yearning. A fountain of fire, a leaping combustion, a shadow illuminated against a clear blue sky.

Ah me, sweet Author of eternity, that You should fashion such a universe within the infinite abundance of Your divine imagination and speak it effortlessly into being.
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Holy Friday (Death and Despair)

In the stillness of this night, I walk through a shady grove of cedar trees…  my mind races backwards in time, I think on a certain garden in Gethsemane.

Our LORD praying fiercely, His sweat becoming as great drops of blood falling down to the ground, agonizing of all that is to come. The Lamb of GOD.

It is a mild evening. Seasonably warm, with cool misty breezes rising up from the nearby valley, low clouds hurry past a full moon…  the dew is already wet upon the groaning earth. I wonder if the Earth groaned to receive the blood of its Creator.

I wonder, do His children?
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