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| On Jul 16, 2009, at 2:05 PM, steve phillips asked:
Hi Barry,
When I became a Christian back in the 70\'s someone gave me a tape of some of your Christian music and it came to mean so much to me. Just today I listened to a song of yours in which you said, \" I\'m not gonna sing about anyone but Jesus.\" I am curious to know how your relationship with Christ is today after all these years.
On Jul 16, 2009 at 4.41 PM, barry mcguire answered:
Hi Steve,
Rather than write an epilogue of my adventures in Christ, let me just say that we have discovered in the act of total surrender to reality, (The Truth) itself, that the journey (The Way) itself, IS the goal (Christ/The Life) itself. We have never known such peace, such assurance, we have never been filled with such expectancy, such hope, such knowing, that Christ IS living WITHIN every heart. The question is not, "Is Christ (The Life) IN us?" The question is, "Are WE IN HIM?"
Love you heaps my friend,
Barry
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| The Identity of Love:
Poem By: Brennon McGuire © 2008-Christmas Poem
Love has had its way
Ways with how broken sounds
How pain can sing
Loves truest song
-Love knows not
So, Love, knows all
As all come to not
Yet Love makes time for times scale
-Love knows dirt, feces, AIDS, and, Death
Love pushes all sentient to the brink of insanity
Love allows for the war of freedom
Love is no kind friend my friend, rather Love is an enemy
-Like the bitter taste of a broad spectrum anti-biotic
For, look! Babies are born only to blow candles out
Until, candles, take all of its breath, blown, until there is no more life to blow out
Love has always said though, to mourn at ones birth, to rejoice at ones death
-
Love knows not wakeful friends
For they, as we, the semi-conscious, can’t form even one cohesive sentence
For they, as we, are distracted with dreams, visions, Hollywood’s non-linear vintage
We are like old paintings, fitting awkwardly, as Love gazes onward
Love is not on our page
We are in Loves memory
As Love is known to re-write
Love has also been known to tear, rip, erase, even burn, when at ends with non
-Perhaps this is why Love likes to listen to a baby’s breath
To remember the time when Love was all there was
Perhaps to know the weakness of bitterness
For Love is a vice unto itself, no pomp, no pretense, no make-up, no, no’s All is yes
-
-So, watch, as, Love fly’s to the storms, off Africa’s coast
Where flies breed in open sores
Where fashion is the smell of death
Where the look of stick figures are without powder compacts
-This is Love
Perhaps not, or, ever-divine
Perhaps never a graceful being of mortal rules
Perhaps, that is the point, where we, all-ways let free to flight, as three is our Love
-One man, like one bird
One woman, like one nest
And, finally, the third, One death, One Love, and…
One friend, found of two, a tree, named three loving the sum of two.
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| I just received this email from a friend and it touched my heart so deeply, I had to post it for you all to read.
THE CAB RIDE
*Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. *One night I took a fare at 2:30 am, when I arrived to collect, the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once. But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself. So I walked to the door and knocked. 'Just a minute', answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.
After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pill box hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940's movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, nor any knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware. 'Would you carry my bag out to the car?' she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, and then returned to assist the woman.
She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness. 'It's nothing', I told her. 'I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated'. 'Oh, you're such a good boy', she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, and then asked, 'Could you drive through downtown?' 'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly. 'Oh, I don't mind,' she said 'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice'. I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. 'I don't have any family left,' she continued. 'The doctor says I don't have very long.' I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. 'What route would you like me to take?' I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, 'I'tired. Let's go now' We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.
'How much do I owe you?' she asked, reaching into her purse. 'Nothing,' I said. 'You have to make a living,' she answered. 'There are other passengers,' I responded. Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly. 'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she said. 'Thank you.' I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away? On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.
We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one. PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT 'YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID, ~BUT~ THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL. Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we are here we might as well dance.
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| Gidday mates,
Just received this on my incoming email and thought it so important, I wanted to blog it for all to read. So have a look at what John Fischer has written and I have a few thoughts to follow it up.
CATCH OF THE DAY
Love like Jesus
by John Fischer
I opened a newsletter this morning from my good friend Robbie Goldman who heads up Dry Bones, a ministry to homeless teenagers in downtown Denver, and found a sobering conclusion to our discussions this week about Christians leading with the hellfire and brimstone message. The lead story is all about Robbie and his staff's shock and awe over the behavior of Christian protesters at the Democratic National Convention in Denver earlier this summer where signs like "Ask me why YOU deserve HELL," and "WARNING: Baby Killing Women, Party Animals, Rebellious Women, So Called Christians, Liberals, Jesus Mockers, Porno Freaks, Muslims, Drunks, Homosexuals, Sex Addicts, Mormons… GOD WILL JUDGE YOU!" greeted them along with insults hurled from the holders of those signs, as in "Can you even read?" and "What planet are you from?"
"We watched the spectacle with a growing sense of despair and sadness," Robbie wrote. "I was sick to my stomach. The scene was one of the single most heartbreaking experiences of my life."
Examples like this may be extreme cases of misrepresenting Christ, but harboring even the slightest attitude of judgment or hatred is only a matter of being a few degrees away from this. It's headed in the same direction. To the degree that we let any of these feelings take hold, we might as well be a sign-holding screamer of insulting epithets.
"I walked away with my co-workers; some of us were crying. Others like me simply walked in silent shock. Above all the emotions – sadness, anger, shame – I felt something else that had a stronger pull. I was motivated and rejuvenated. More than ever I was convinced of my job, and your job, to love. We must re-define Christianity to a watching world.
"What if we became a group of people known for the way we love homosexuals? What if we became a group of people known for coming alongside those struggling with addictions? What if we became a group of people known for the way we embrace people of other religions and backgrounds? What if we became a group of people known for the way we love women who have had, or are thinking about having abortions? What if instead of calling these women murderers, we told them how much they and their children are worth? What if we decided right now, today, to adopt would-be-aborted babies? We tell young women not to have abortions, but are we willing to give them another option?"
Robbie concluded with, "I am convinced that when we love like Jesus, we are slowly but surely helping to prepare someone's heart for God to do His work. Love well, brothers and sisters. Re-define Christ for the people in your life with love and see what happens."
And I can't help but think that whoever carried that sign about the Baby Killers and Porno Freaks is in for a big surprise when he is eventually welcomed into heaven by all the people his sign condemned. There will be tears.
[For more on this subject, see: "The Separation of Church and Hate: Finding the Way to Real Cultural Change" and more of my related articles for Breakpoint.org at http://www.breakpoint.org/listings.aspid=159&display=Display+by+Author&authorId=1436]
[For more on Dry Bones, see www.drybonesdenver.org]
BARRY'S COMMENTS :
My Comments are just my personal thoughts, and with additional information, my world view changes from day to day. The truth of it is, we can know 99% about all there is to know, but the 1% we don't know will totally change our understanding of the 99% that we did know......"His mercies are new every morning as our Spirit is renewed daily." I'm not the same person today that I was yesterday, and I'll not be the same person tomorrow that I am today. As we die to ourselves daily, we are moment by moment transformed into the image of Christ, and we can say like Paul, "It is no longer I that live, but Christ that lives in me," as we will have become ONE with Him.
We know that Christ died for ALL of mankind. His blood has purchased the forgiveness of every sin committed by every sinner. The tragedy is, so few people know they have been forgiven, and how will they ever experience this forgiveness if they see and hear only hatred and judgement streaming from our eyes and lips. It doesn't matter how much scripture we can recite or what comes out of our mouths, if people can't see Christ in our eyes, everything else has the sound of clanging brass.
Since Christ has established forgiveness for all, how dare we judge anyone whom Christ gave His life to forgive. Our only mandate is to love one another, and to do good to those who do not yet understand they are forgiven.
Barry | | |
| Every sixty seconds we spend angry, upset or mad, is a full minute of happiness we'll never get back SO Forgive quickly, Kiss slowly, Love truly, Laugh uncontrollably, And never regret anything that made you smile.
Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we're here we should dance.
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