A Kingdom Called Melody

If your life consisted of one song to sing, what would it be? If it were but one word in a great play, how would you say it? If it were a single note in a great melody, how would you play it?

If your life consisted of naught else but this, how would you sing?

Imagine your whole life was spent confined to just one room; you, alone, but for a lone piano to furnish the space, as well as a few sparse instructional manuals. You have no purpose, then, but to play, to learn, to master. One single commitment as you can see nothing beyond the confines of this small existence.

Then, after the passing of the years, you are released. You know nothing but black and white keys, octave by octave of your only friend, know no voice but the hammer against strings to produce something of a symphony. Upon release, you are given one commissioning.

To play. To play before the peoples, your song, your life’s song.

And you play. Would you play only a half-hearted mustering, some lacklustre attempt at your life’s only pursuit? Or would you play some melodious sonnet, something beautiful, something to be remembered throughout eternal ages?

Friends, brothers and sisters, you have been given one song. One word in a play in its writing. One note in a celestial orchestra.  One word can shake mountains; one song can move nations; one note can break the darkness.

In your mouth, there is some jewel of song that no other man can bring to this symphonic offering. Are you going to let your song be muffled? Sing out of key for earthly idols that are fading? Forget your one word in this  great play?

Turn your ears outward. Hear the world in disarrayed cacophony. Hear that crying. These sons and daughters who sing a song of wailing so mournful because they are confined to the worst orchestra devised in history. This is the orchestra called Desperation, conducted by Poverty and Injustice and Lies. Will you stand to let your song be quenched by her? Or will we rise in a dawn of song that breaks the Night upon her back?

Brother, sister, let us gather as one. We each have a song in our mouth, and the ability to sing it well or waste it. One chance, one short stint, one life. One song, one word, one note. When wailing disparity clouds the atmosphere, our song is defeated. But I hear joy coming, I hear the atmosphere changing.

I hear the sons and daughters of man rising with one song in their mouth, one song rising from the ashes and signalling the dawn. A song he and she will spend there lives singing, for there one small part in the act. I can start to hear the notes, even amidst the present distress. Notes called Mercy, Justice, Love.

Friend, will you join us in our song, a song to drown out Desperation? Will you sing out, and let the skies erupt with a new kingdom of melody? Will you spend yourself making our intent loud, that Injustice shall not reign?

We have one song, one word, one note. And but one life to sing it. So, will you stand on the edge of eternity, open your ears, and hear an atmosphere more tinted by love and joy than when you started?

Will you sing your song, and sing it loud?

All Of Me, Daddy

I don’t know why I never got it, why I thought you were a monster from up on high,

Judging me and watching and waiting, just for me to stumble.

Why did I believe those lies?

Those lies whispered in my ear,

When all those years I couldn’t cry “I love you, daddy,”

You cried over your child here below,

Cried just to see his face.

Cried for him just to turn once more, and step into your arms.

Goodness knows the pain You felt, or the clothes torn on my behalf,

To see me open Your door and step on through

Into the love story with you, with you.

All those years I lived a prodigal,

A reckless boy in a foreign land,

Missing my Father who loved me recklessly more.

I waited too long, too long in shame spent up,

But now I see You whole, all Your love.

As I give You all You want, all of me.


While I cried here below, 

I didn’t feel the tears You poured on me,

Just to see me smile at You, 

And smile at Your song.

And my deafness could not contain,

The depth of Your longing call,

As You contended for my heart.

You tore Your curtains on my behalf, You tore them right in half.


This is my belonging and my undoing,

As I look upon Your face,

For You are not angry for who I am,

Or spiteful for what I did.

All that time I was lost at sea,

All You wanted was all of me.

All You wanted was all of me.


I thought You loved them more,

The Saints from of old, or the pious man up in his room,

I thought I had to earn it, or pay away the debt,

I thought this was a fight of tooth and claw,

I believed the lies.

The lies of that red dragon.

Because all the while You wanted me.

You longed and You waited and yearned to see,

Me running up Your path, to embrace Your love.

All You wanted was all of me.


And this is my homecoming, I sit at Your table again,

And I look across at children I thought You loved more,

And now I know, You don’t pick favourites.

You love me for all I am, more than I could know. 

And You smile and You laugh with me,

You love me through, all of me.

And all this I missed along,

All of You loving all of me.


So many days in seasons gone by I would wallow in shame, unable to get rid of that image of a monster Father waiting for His intolerable kids to mess up so He could judge them. I knew He loved, loved so much, but deep down I couldn’t believe it. So I would mourn and cry in the caverns of my heart, unable to look in the eyes of my Father.

And all the while He cried, cried for my false expectations and the lies I believed about Him.

Every day, He longed with tears for me to come to Him, to see Him for the loving daddy He is and to laugh with Him again. So this summer has been an undoing of everything I held before, from the guilt and the shame before a judging God. The walls came down, and through the ashes I saw a loving daddy who ran through the dirt to take me home, to take me to His table.

For grace is a collision on a prodigal road.



Human right. 

A right which is believed to belong to every person.

Human rights, in contemporary usage, has become a rather fashionable term off our lips. Bandied about in the media, endowed in our minds by countless news stories, quick from our hearts in a fit of rage at the latest acts of tyranny to scream loud in our ears. Rights, or the lack thereof, are quick to consume the mind with anger at supposed wrongs; either that, or cynicism for the man too soon grown weary from the failure of their keeping.
Human rights, that little phrase that so easily provokes the man on the street and a nation to disgust. An emotive catchphrase that carries laurels of piety; as if, when spoken, we are indeed being very just and kind human beings, sympathizing with the oppressed we happen to share the world with.
Human rights, a couple of words. Just a few syllables, when uttered, that makes us seem really rather ethical. Quite proud of ourselves for being nice.
Human rights. Our great get out clause.
We put admirable confidence in this system of rights; we like to think, in our complete support of this beautiful law that gives every man, woman and child the equal, intrinsic entitlement to be the full person, that we are, ourselves, just. By it we have an excuse to say “boo” to the tyrant and “hurrah” to the saint. Human rights, the phrase, gives us ever so much confidence and safety from our ivory watchtowers to claim we are good, right and civilized human beings.
So we claim to love human rights. Then why don’t we live it?
We claim that no one shall be held in slavery or servitude. So, surely, every purchase we make is totally ethical? So, in our utter dedication to the human rights we adhere to, we are surely disgusted at fashions produced by economically enslaved girls in India? And we flee from high street retailers who source their cotton from Uzbeki citizens forced to reap the harvest for a despotic regime?
Then, we claim that everyone is entitled an existence worthy of human dignity, and supplemented, if necessary, by other means of social protection. Of course, it is easy watching the screens and the images and the message to be moved to disgust or anger or sadness at poverty, the most degrading form of inequality, but to be moved to action? To shout out against the injustice casting shadows across our world? Maybe that is taking our hallowed human rights too far.
To subscribe to a nice list of justices and injustices is a pretty comfortable way to justify our goodness. But to really love those people we claim to protect? Now that, friend, is messy. Love, in its most radical form, is dangerous.
But is there any other way? Can you really say that you love simply by believing in the foundational goods a few rights offer?
“The inherent dignity and of the equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family is the foundation of freedom, justice and peace in the world.”
Maybe, its time we stopped turning a blind eye. Maybe its time to take off our legally attached blinkers, written onto our hearts as an escape from actually acting upon the shameless injustice we see.
Perhaps its time we started living our human rights, not just saying them.
And that, my friend, is how the world changes. Your list of human rights shows me nothing. But when we start to live like every brother and sister we see actually has a right, not because of legislation but because we are family, that’s when the world revolves to a different beat.
For to immerse ourselves in dead legislation is nothing short of slavery. But reckless love? Now that is true freedom. That is the right every human is entitled to give and receive.


The nighttime sees a hundred moths drawn to a small pane of glass, a square jigsaw piece against an unassailable brick wall. This window permeates light, cast off into every recess from a hanging light on the inside of the building. It is to this light that the moths are drawn, craving to draw close to that glimmering goal. The nearness of this light seems so tangible, so near; yet, to the despair of the courting insects, it is a goal that cannot be attained.

For they cling to the glass that promises light and life, yet it fails to yield their desire to them. Through it they gaze upon their sole desire, yet one non-visible wall stands in their way. A window that cannot be shattered tantalizes those willing victims with a promise, yet it cannot be acquired for the chasm that lies between.

So I look upon these moths, in their season of craving, bouncing against that stubborn pane. Their fight to reach the light always ends in failure, for their pithy efforts cannot breach the cold wall between them.

And then I see us. I see you and I, running against the mournful glass walls that cannot be shattered. There is a light, and we reach for it with open hands, yet our fingers fall short against the smooth disappointment of our own transparent defenses.

That eternal light that I so wholeheartedly crave I fall short of reaching, for it dangles in an intangible glass jar, or behind a hidden window. I see, I want, and in animal desire I reach. Yet the pane holds me back, a pane of crystal that cannot be shattered.

So why, when we try so very hard, can the light not be found? Why do our moth hearts never find what they crave?

I then see upon the impenetrable window the watermark of man’s making. The glass pane is the product of the human heart. The transparency is artificial. And who operates this factory producing such obstacles for us seekers?

Shame. Deceit. Guilt.

And this is our condition. The light cannot be grasped because of the invisible walls the heart builds that our limbs will always fail to knock against. We see the hope of eternity, yet we hide ourselves from it under a veil of shame, of deceit, of guilt. The light is so close, but those walls so unbreakable, that we bow down our heads and walk away.

I am but a moth, therefore. I crave for one eternal salvation, one unending hope, and one unflickering light. But between me and them stands one seemingly impossible wall built from my own inept judgments, from the heart-built ruins of falling short, of failing.

Can we but despair?

The Father from which that beautiful light is cast sees this and offers a substitute. He sees that the chasm of glass is far too great for human fists to shatter, so He gives Himself to us that it might be broken. He casts wide His arms and shatters the very gates of Hell that the wall might be broken and that the light might be reached by the moths.

The window that leaves my heart despairing can be triumphed, then. A wall of my own making can be brought to ruin by accepting, simply, love in its greatest form. A love that shatters the inhibition of moths to the dust brings them up to life as sons and daughters.

There is one solution to our condition then. To ignore the lies that the heart produces and hides in the form of shame and deceit and guilt, for that brings only despair, and accept that you are loved in Truth.

This Truth is simple: you are loved not because of what you do or have failed to do, but because you were made to be loved for who you are.

So do away with the ancient glass wall, and run to the light with love in your heart.

Roadside Gods

Upon this fair Isle sat in a golden sea there is weeping in the streets. Every high street houses a citadel full of golden trinkets, and each man and women is a priest and priestess serving at the altar. We bring our golden offerings to the table and in exchange the gods that look us across the foot wide gap of a vanishing heaven gratify us for our sacrifice.

Day by day we spend the heart over and over again. Handing over our stored up wealth like contraband to sacrifice for our gods’ returns, we get for our commitment the pleasure and unity we so crave.

Every street has a temple. We walk the threshold day by day, and we are a priesthood living in a metropolis of our own making. Offering to fanciful gods of the air, we can contain Religion in something easy for us to handle, something tangible, something consumable. This is not a Religion worshiping the transcendent or invisible; rather, it is worship of the consumable.

This city, then, is full of hungry believers devouring there Religion. The Religion of that handed across the counter, that which is in fashion, the vogue and vague.

Meanwhile the streets house the outcasts, the mean streets that play back alley to the great cathedrals of this civilization. Those who cannot afford the luxury of their brother’s borrowed worship, or their sister’s fond sacrifice to the gods above.

The skies borrow the favor of the gods to clothe the many children who flock to the temples, feeding from the homeless and the wretch.

These are counterfeit gods.

They come to worship before these deities because they speak of Worth and Beauty. But how can this be when they, themselves, are doomed to the dust? Worth and Beauty must, therefore, be found elsewhere.


The children of this earth grow discontent when the golden temple days of the former gods pass away. They look to a lasting kingdom, not the kingdom inherited from their forefathers. And they look for a saviour.

What the world can never give, what appetite can never cease to be satisfied, what can never be fulfilled, is found in one eternal Father alone. Breathing the world He loves into existence, and from it He now calls the discontent, the broken, the sinner, calling them home.

So we, who cannot satisfy ourselves on the passing desires of this worlds little gods, look up. We look to a place we can call home.

And to us that Father dispenses Justice and Righteousness, that the children He so loved may run forth into the day. So we run on, and with us we take the hope that this world, the great and the least, the broken, the beggar and the thief, may know life.

Losing Beauty

Beauty walks the roads of this Earth in many masks, haunting her children as she goes. To the fashionable she leaves some fleeting impression, a fading mark of her passing, and for the ugly she simply leaves sentiments of dissatisfaction and worthlessness in her wake. Upon the paths she travels she is drawn from coast to coast, wayward to the slow decaying of the cliffs from the advancing sea. There is no part of the world unopened to her, and no man she has not touched.

When we look upon her, what mark does she leave? It is some opinion, some lasting impression, some soon dying judgement. She leaves a standard against which we may judge lesser creatures, or our fellow man walking the same path. She, in her eternal guise, changes not, but day by day our perception of her is changing like the seasons. In our life’s Summer we perceive her in the light, remembered briefly but for the dimming of the twilight.

For this world is in its Autumn, browning into the night.

The falling of the leaves thrown down into the mire signal the closing of Summer’s beauty, the aftermath of the long days tumbling into dim nights. Beauty seen there in the first light of days past seldom impresses in the closing into night, where only darkness searches the hearts of man and woman.

In the Autumn, Beauty is seen but as a mere reflection as in a mirror, her steps marked by the shifting of the shadows. Humanity crafts her fashions, the arts and the frilly garments, from this short-sighted perception of the fading. We cannot grasp the true extent of Beauty through the dim outlook of these eyes of flesh. What we see as beautiful in one day is cast into dust the next, replaced in its dying wake by the next promise of blissful satisfaction which is doomed to die the same fate as its predecessor.

We see this in every industry that man commits himself to. In Art, movements that hold hope for goodness pass into forgetting upon entry. In Fashion, that which we deem to hold the essence of Beauty is thrown into the whirlwind and spit out into the graveyard in the passing of the calendar. In Politics, in Economics, in our attempt at Religion, the changing tastes of our eyes and hearts cannot capture the breath of Beauty given to us.

So where can we find true Beauty in this world, fundamental values that shape each one of us?

Let me present this as a new set of questions.

What separates the beauty of the girl clad behind the veil of makeup and the beauty of the slum born daughter cast into the throes of slavery, who the world looks upon as ugly? What difference is there between the Western man clothed head to toe in the world’s newest fashions and brandnames, and the pilchard boy crumpled over a sweatshop table, hardly knowing the idol value that one will place on his productivity? What separates ‘us’ from ‘them’?

Can you truly, in your hearts deepest movements, think ourselves more beautiful than they?

For we are one family, one global community. When we stop looking at the dying Autumn wake of Beauty’s passing and look instead to her source, that which does not change, we behold a promise, a right, something which can be denied no man or woman.

Each and every one of us, every created person on this Earth, you and I, are fundamentally beautiful.

Society, dictated as she is by passing tastes, may tell you else wise. But shut your ears to her lies. Whether ‘rich’ or ‘poor’, ‘pretty’ or ‘ugly’, ‘sinner’ or ‘saint’, there is an eternal value of Beauty placed upon your head. A Beauty so central to your being that you are loved without measure for it. A Beauty bought at a price.

He was despised and rejected by mankind,
    a man of suffering, and familiar with pain.
Like one from whom people hide their faces
    he was despised, and we held him in low esteem.

Surely he took up our pain
    and bore our suffering,
yet we considered him punished by God,
    stricken by him, and afflicted.

A man cast from Heaven’s eternal Beauty int a world dying to it, is the same man who shed blood and arose from the pits of Hell with the keys of love in His hand. A man who became rejected and despised that His beautiful children might truly be beautiful. That they would truly know love, each and every one of them.

And if, fundamentally, every one of us shares that same undying Beauty, our entire worldview changes.

It means we stop looking to our own selfish gain, chasing after Beauty’s fleeting steps, instead giving ourselves to the broken, the beggar, the poor and the slave, for they are no different to us. Blessed are those who see Beauty in the heart, instead of the changing edifice of beauty in the flesh, for it is they who give themselves to an eternal cause over a dying one.

We who were once slaves to the changing winds of a society judging the beautiful, cast off the chains and rise into freedom, freedom from judgement, from pain and from iniquity.

And now, set your eyes to true Beauty, in the many places it manifests itself, starting with yourself.

A Tether Observed

In some borderland countryside on the fringes of the living rests a newly born foal, born into the revolving world by her tiring mother. Light blazes upon the stricken farmland from a foreign sun, barely visible from the confines of the stable in which this mammalian couple now reside. Burning through the decaying slats of a crumbling outbuilding, this sun is the only light they know. This is the small world the foal knows in entirety, no more than her mother knew before her or the long and forgotten ancestral chain before them.

From this new infancy, the foal is tethered to a unmovable fixing, right around the neck, unable to escape the chains of her unfortunate precinct. Her life is resolved to this only task: to count the slowly wandering revolutions of her waking, like the revolutions of a clock ticking the hours to the culminating night.

She knows not pleasure from pain, for what else can she know but the life she now lives? What other light does she see but those penetrating the walls of her small existence, silhouetting the flies and dust against the rotting borders of her housing? This is the life she is committed to, without chance of gracing truth, only that which she knows.

But in the shadows of that reality, what is truth? Truth is found in the gruel that she calls food placed before her each day by hands she does not see, and that is her feasting. Truth is found in her purpose season by season, counting the motions of her stumbling around the insular confines of that block. From the weakening eyes of this growing foal, truth, in summary, is the only thing she sees, the life lived in a small, small world far from home.

Looking into this short sighted world we call home, chains rise from the ground where no one can see out of the system. Brute chains that hold back man like animals, tethered in our very own stable realities.

Without beauty to call your own but that which you make for yourself in the streets built for pilchards and beggars. No dignity and no privacy for this stricken heart in the exposed back alleys to the reaches of man. My only pride, purposeful resolution found in the approval of the eyes of mice and men, bought for the blood money of a created face, a fake persona, slowly collapsing armour imitating strength with eyes fearing the backwards rolling dawn of a night that approaches. Confidence found in a flesh that is daily failing, fading, weakening to dying. All this is everything for everyone but nothing at all to my eyes cast on the setting shadows of a world in spiraling catastrophe.

These are the building blocks of a stable falling under a burning sun.

Yet for all this, the transient earth for some vague reasoning in this wandering mind holds the appeal as of a pure jewel, a place of note. A place into which I am born an orphan, where salvation from the pits comes only from the purposeful fate paved by the self. So you trust in the changing and the fading. Flickering shadows born on the winds by a midnight moon. Falling into a future that is already obsolete.

But this world’s offerings are poor for the orphan, the exile and the sojourner who call it home.

Some find their purpose in Beauty, or Power, or Love. All things worthy to be given over to purpose. But to each is given a skeleton drying in the desert, thirsting unto death as it slowly passes under the winds of renewal. In a world where taste and opinion changes daily, the things of the passing here fade to nothing.

So I turn to look outside the world, for in the world all those things of value really hold no value when spiraling to nothingness they pass away.

We see but dimly in a mirror, something partial, something fading, but in God I see a wholeness. The world as known is born to pass slowly dying to a wretched sleeping, but eternity is in the arms of God. When slowly falling into the trudging coils of a clock tolling the end of an age, we look up.

He who stood before Creation, with eternity in His hands, calls His people out to a home above.

Calling a people out of the falling temples of man, to live in truth forever with Him. In one act of undying mercy, He bears the consequences of our dying, and breaks the tether to that temple stable forever. So it is to this end that we cast ourselves into God’s arms, eternal arms that can alone hold us against the passing of the hours.

Children, lets rob the temples of man of their glory and run headlong into eternity.