Musings on the Church and Its Branches

The modern Christian church is well known for its splintered nature: the Roman Catholics, the Anglicans, the Lutherans, the Calvinists, the Orthodox, the Pentecostals. It is well known how Christians have hurt other professing Christians because of differences in doctrine, killing in the name of the God of love. Families, communities, and churches have been broken apart because of differences of opinion on scriptural interpretation and church organization. While there have been efforts towards reconciliation or working together for a common goal, the church has remained segmented, often at animosity with other parts of the body of Christ.

Paul wrote in 1 Corinthians 1:10-13 against church division, and what happened in a minor scale in the church of Corinth has happened on a major scale in the church at large. People were claiming Paul as their head, others Peter, others Christ. They splintered off, believing that the pieces of each could not coexist. Today, the church is doing the same. Some say they follow the original apostles, some the Pope, some Luther, some Calvin, some the Holy Spirit. We are no better than the church in Corinth. We have made their struggle one that has encompassed the Church in her entirety.

I do not know how to solve the differences; I am no better than a whistle blowing as a house is burning. But I believe it is better to recognize where we are in the context of history than to ignore or dismiss it because the past may enlighten how to proceed for the future. Lord, have mercy on your church.

Haikus for Spring

Surprisingly, I've taken a recent poetic turn in my writings. I wrote a sonnet, a couple limericks, and a few haikus. I rather liked the haikus and so thought to share them. After some polishing, I may publish the sonnet but only time will tell I suppose.

The cherry tree blooms,
Signaling the come of spring
And love's arrival.

The wind moves through grass
Like love in a maiden's heart,
Playfully gentle.

The blossoms soon fade,
Falling like pastel raindrops
On your hair and face.

Sound the Bugle

Prompted by my sister, I am posting some of my older writing. "You have the blog to post your writing, right?" she asked me. And she's right. Predominantly, my finished works are Lord of the Rings fanfiction so here is a piece of writing that I am particularly proud of. The way I wrote several pieces was to take a song and break up the verses and choruses with related story bits. This song is from the movie "Spirit: Stallion of the Cimmeron" and, if you read, you'll figure out who it's about. Enjoy! I sure did.

Sound the Bugle

Sound the bugle now - play it just for me 

As the seasons change - remember how I used to be 
Now I can't go on - I can't even start 
I've got nothing left - just an empty heart 

Rising from where he had fallen, Boromir looked around him anxiously. "Frodo?" he called quietly. Not hearing anything, Boromir turned around, hoping to see the Ring-bearer. "Frodo," he repeated, "forgive me." Desperate for the hobbit to hear him, he yelled, "Frodo, I'm sorry!" The steward's son fell to his knees crying bitter tears. What anguish of soul he felt. He had betrayed the very person he had sworn to protect. Not only betrayed but had accused him of thoughts of betrayal, had even cursed him and fellow halflings. How could he have done it? Boromir mourned even more bitterly knowing that Frodo would never see him in the same light, possibly never to remember the noble knight of Gondor with whom he had set out on the journey at the beginning. In his grief, a thought flitted through his mind. He had disgraced Gondor. He, the eldest son of the steward of the White City, the city of kings, had fallen and taken the honor of that city with him. A new feeling of horror and revulsion pierced Boromir’s breaking heart, leaving the pieces now empty of all hope and pride.

I'm a soldier - wounded so I must give up the fight 
There's nothing more for me - lead me away... 
Or leave me lying here 

There was nothing left for him now. Without honor, what was a soldier? A warmonger. A murderer. Every part of his being cringed from these ideas. Yet this was what he had done to himself. Hearing the sounds of battle, Boromir was roused from his hopeless reverie into action. He rushed forward with a yell, eyes blazing, sword unsheathed. Perhaps in this his final battle. Yes, it would be his last. In death, there was always honor for a soldier. He would remain here forever to sleep without waking. In death, there would be no condemnation, no agonizing disbelief. He would fade away. The company would leave his body to be taken by the oncoming orcs and they would be right in doing so. For what honor should be given the body of a traitor than to be taken by the enemy?

Sound the bugle now - tell them I don't care 
There's not a road I know - that leads to anywhere 
Without a light I fear that I will - stumble in the dark 
Lay right down - decide not to go on 

As he was fighting the Uruk-hai, Boromir's mind was not following the motions of his body. Instead he was thinking of home. How could he return to Minas Tirith now? Disgraced and dishonored. His father would be harsh with him, he knew, but Denethor would get over it, thinking it some mistake on the part of the fellowship and not any fault of his son's. But Faramir . . . Boromir could not bear to think of what his brother would think of him. His dear brother, the embodiment of all the honor and grace and wisdom of the kings of Gondor to Boromir, would be crushed. To his brother, his idol, a fall from his pedestal would be a blow that nothing could heal. In his mind's eye, the steward's son could see Faramir's eyes fill with inexplicable shock to hear of his brother's doings. Those eyes that had always expressed the younger son's inner emotions. Boromir could not face him, those eyes, with the guilt that now lay darkly and heavily upon him. Even if he said nothing, Faramir would know of it. He had always been perceptive and could read what his brother was feeling no matter how Boromir tried to hide it. Pain in his chest immediately brought him back to Henneth Anuin. He looked down to see a black feathered arrow protruding from his breast. Looking up, he saw the assailant and continued to fight the orcs closest to him. How could he have been so blind as to miss the archer in the group? Truly, he was no longer worthy to be called the Captain of Gondor. No captain would have allowed such a thing. But that title had been stripped from him the moment he had attacked Frodo. He cared no longer as many more arrows pelted him. He would fall here then, far from all those who had retained their honor, amid those who knew not what honor was at all.

Then from on high - somewhere in the distance 
There's a voice that calls - remember who you are 
If you lose yourself - your courage soon will follow 
So be strong tonight - remember who you are

Preparing for his death blow, the steward's son watched, in a haze, a man ram and engage his assailant. When the fight was finished, he was finally able to see his savior. To Boromir's utter shame, it was Aragorn. He who claimed to be the heir to the throne of Gondor. He who had nothing dishonorable in or about him in any way. He would be the one to find the disgraced son of Gondor. Slowly he spoke to the Ranger of the North. "They've taken the little ones!" Again he had failed, failed to keep those innocent halflings from falling into the hands of the orcs. "Stay still," Aragorn told him. But Boromir could not rest. "Frodo! Where is Frodo?" All his thoughts were now focused on the one he had wronged the most. "I let him go" was the reply. Pain ran through him that came not from the arrows. "Then you did what I could not. I tried to take the Ring from him." He could not look his leader in the eyes. Aragorn answered, "The Ring is beyond our reach now." "Forgive me," persisted the dying man, "I did not see. I have failed you all." Comforting the fallen man, the Ranger said, "No, Boromir. You have fought bravely. You have kept your honor."

Ya you're a soldier now - fighting in a battle 
To be free once more -Ya that's worth fighting for

Barely hearing Aragorn's answer, Boromir continued. "It is over. The world of men will fall and all will come to darkness, and my city to ruin." All the despair that had welled up in his heart broke forth in his statement. He could see it now. The White City in ruins and its people afraid and enslaved. Through his nightmare, he could hear Aragorn speaking. "I do not know what strength is in my blood, but I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall.  Nor our people fail!" Did he truly just hear what he thought he heard? "Our people." Truly, this Ranger deserved to be the hero of the White City, its true hero. Never would he know how much those words rang brilliantly within the fallen man. "Our people." From this man, this seemingly beggar and renegade of the North, he has returned his honor. "I would have followed you my brother, my Captain," yes "my King." And so passed the great Son of Gondor, his honor yet gilding him as shining mail.

Memorial Day Musing

"I thank God for my life, / for the stars and stripes. / May freedom forever fly; / let it ring. / Salute the ones who died, / those ones that gave their lives / so we don't have to sacrifice / all the things we love;"
~ "Chicken Fried" by Zac Brown Band

After years of going to the memorial service of my grandfather's Veterans of Foreign Wars post (VFW), a phrase has stuck with me: "we honour the victorious dead." I find myself thinking of this statement at various points throughout the year. The "victorious dead," an odd phrase referring to those who died in during their time of service. This is especially pertinent for this VFW post that honours a WWII Japanese American captain who jumped on a grenade to save the rest if his regiment. Kazuo Masuda never lived to see the victory he helped to win but he is honoured still for his sacrifice. And so are all who have fallen in the line of duty. Today*, we pay you do honour and respect. We who enjoy the benefits of your sacrifice declare you victorious, even in death, and thank you for the tomorrows we enjoy at the cost of yours.

For those who serve now and those who served and lived, we honour you as well for putting yourselves on the alter of freedom on our behalf. In defense of loved ones and strangers, you have risked all. For that, we are forever in your debt.

Finally, I'd like to personally thank Jichan, Uncle Chris, Jeremy, Mr. Cristetto, Scott, and Luke for fighting, in the past and the present, in my defense and all that I hold dear. I will never be able to fully express my gratitude or repay my debt. So I thank you from the bottom of my heart and promise to never forget what you have done for me.

*I meant to publish this on Memorial Day but didn't get around to posting it til a day later.

On the River and the Road

I really should get around to writing when I am not requested to if I really want to be a novelist but such is the way life is at the moment. This is a poem I wrote for an event at school that was held on the feast day of St. Christopher. Professor Gaelan Gilbert, who organized the event, asked me to write something with the theme of travel since it was the end of the semester and people would be travelling and since St. Christopher is the patron saint of travelers.

On the River and the Road

I read “The road goes ever on and on.”

Great wisdom did it sound, in truth, so I

Upon the threshold stood and looked anon

To see if some small path I could espy

Run forth from hearth to meet expansive sky.

But all was dark and overgrown, much more

Like some great wilderness from times gone by.

I dared not venture forth, alone and poor;

'Tis dangerous to step outside one's door.

On route far off, a man with burden great,

Two beams of wood upon his bended back,

I watched him stumble, fall beneath the weight

Behind a hill. I ran for fear his pack

Had overwhelmed its bearer and through lack

Of strength, the man now lay alone and hurt.

However, I was taken quite aback

To see not man nor beams upon the dirt,

Instead, to find a child very much alert.

The clouds drew cloaks of grey o'er Phoebus' face

And threatened storms with rumbling thunder drums.

I tried to lead the child to a safer place

But he continued on the road, past slums

And farms, past ruling king and man who plumbs,

With something like warm kindness in his eye.

But then he came to where the road becomes

A shore upon the riverbank. Nearby

The ferryman with ugly face rose high.

Upon his shoulders climbed and sat the child.

The man began to cross the river broad

As winds convulsed the waters as if wild.

With every step, the storm grew loud and cawed

While he seemed to lean longer on his rod

'Til midway through, it looked as if they'd sink.

Yet he still walked and reached the shore. I, awed

By strength of will and faith pushed to the brink,

Was left on further shore alone to think.

But lo, the child turned 'round with hand outstretched,

A hand, I saw, which had been scarred by nails.

His eyes drew mine with love and sorrow etched.

The ferryman returned amidst the gales,

Extending to me a hand that never fails.

I took that hand and found myself alone

Beyond the threshold, on the road, with dales

And mountains growing clear 'neath sun that shone

Anew betwixt the clouds that soon were flown.

So there I stood without my haven’s door,

Exposed to all unknowns that could befall,

Whate’er that man or Nature had in store.

Fear gripped my heart with thoughts of pain and gall.

But then a wind blew past my face, a call,

A whisper spoke my name within the breeze,

Which calmed and courage brought to my heart small.

I found I need not be at such unease
When unseen hands will hold in troubled seas.

Only the Good Die Young

I've been writing! Well, again this was an assignment but it is still an excuse for writing. I hope you enjoy them.

Only the Good Die Young
On March 14, Jeffery Langford of Ravensborough died at dawn.
He came to the hospital with a gunshot wound.
The doctors said that he should pull through.
Unfortunately, Jeffery reacted badly to some medication.
They never discovered what it was.
He got shot protecting someone.
A girl, I think.
She was alone.
He jumped.
Bang.

My Lord, He Wanders Where He Wills, Alone - A Sonnet

For Renaissance British Lit, my professor had us try to write a traditional sonnet. This is my attempt. I don't think it turned out too horribly, though, the end needs some work I think. Otherwise, I'm pretty happy with it.

My Lord, He Wanders Where He Wills, Alone
My lord, he wanders where he wills, alone,
With little thought to what his love may say.
By night, the stars call, “Come, we’ll show the way.”
He heeds their siren cries; his soul is flown
To heights that only gods can navigate
And runs as free as goats upon the mount.
Enraptured like Narcissus at the fount,
My lord longs to resume adventures late.
So I, his love, am left abandonéd
By his pursuit of planetary odes.
I have no skill that can compare, which bodes
Great ill, for as I lay upon my bed,
I languish like the nymph called Echo who
For love could nothing but repeat to woo.