Are You a Threat?

There's a story in the bible about seven dudes who are called the sons of Sceva.  According to the story Sceva was a Jewish chief priest, and his sons seemed to be attempting to impress him by casting out a demon.  The story is found in Acts 19:11-16, and takes place during Paul's ministry.  We are told that it was well known that Paul was doing some pretty intense stuff.  Miracles like casting out demons and healing were happening regularly.

Because Paul did such, "cool" and, "impressive" things, and because he talked about Jesus, it looks like the Sons of Sceva put two and two together: Paul talks a lot about Jesus and he does miracles like casting out demons, therefore in order to cast out a demon we must have to mention Jesus.  So that's what they did.

The story goes that the Seven Sons of Sceva approached a man who was demon-possessed, and addressed the demon, saying these words: "I command you by the Jesus whom Paul preaches to come out!".  Different versions arrange the words differently from time to time, but the idea and command is the same.  The demon, in what I imagine was a terrifyingly confident and mocking voice, replied with this: "Jesus I know, and Paul I recognize--but who are you?" The story then tells us that he leaped upon them, and beat the living daylights out of all seven of them.  All seven.  The bible literally says they ran out of that house, "naked and wounded".

Whenever I used to read this story, or heard pastors talk about it, the focus always seemed to be on the method.  Everyone always seems to bash the Sons of Sceva for not knowing how to properly perform an exorcism, or for not having enough confidence, authority, and faith in Christ.  Up until recently I believed that this stuff really was the root of the problem, and spent my life living in fear that if I ever came across someone who was demon-possessed I might not have the confidence, authority, or know-how to, 'scare away' the demon.

But is that really the issue with the Sons of Sceva?  Were they really just not schooled enough in the, "Art of exorcism"?

About a month ago I was reading a book called Love Does by a man named Bob Goff(excellent read, highly recommend it).  In one of the chapters he very briefly mentions the Sons of Sceva, and alludes to the fact that he thinks the root of the problem is exactly what the demon said: it had no idea who they were.

They had done nothing for the enemy to take notice of.

Christians talk a lot about Spiritual Warfare.  And we do it in a lot of big words.  We make it sound like a very complex, intense, CRAZY thing that only happens when we are praying for people who are demon-possessed, or when we hear about huge catastrophes happening around the world.  Or, we just straight up say its only happening between the angels and demons, and that we have nothing to do with it except that we're the prize they're all fighting for.  While I do not at all refute the fact that so much of spiritual warfare takes place where we can not see it, and that it is indeed happening when exorcisms are performed or when children are being slaughtered by ISIS, I don't think this war is only happening when it is plainly visible.  And I don't think that any human at any point in time is just a bystander.  If anything, those catastrophes and exorcisms are skirmishes and diversions that result from the main part of the war: Everyday life.

Every single day we are faced with decisions.  Every single day we have opportunities to speak words of either love, hate, or indifference(which, for anyone who has been ignored or treated as irrelevant, can be just as bad--if not worse--than words of hate) to each and every person we interact with whether it's a coffee barista, a co-worker, our kids, or our spouse.  Each decision and word takes a step in one of two directions: the direction of the enemy, or the direction of God and His love.  There is no in between.  I think this is one of the reasons that Jesus has such a hard time with people who are, "Luke-warm"(Revelations 3:14-21). 

If Satan and his demons are as real and evil as we claim to believe they are, then we can be sure of the fact that they are an army hell-bent(no pun intended) on the complete obliteration of all love and goodness, and they most definitely communicate with each other.  And if Satan is as cunning and smart as the bible claims him to be, then you can be sure he makes it a priority to identify his biggest threats in the war.  I'm sure that list has plenty of exorcists on it, and no doubt there are more than a few pastors on there.  But do you know who I think makes the top of that list?  Loving mothers and fathers.  Nurses who work extra hard just to make sure their patients are comfortable AND getting healed.  People who go out of their own way to be kind, gentle, patient, giving, and loving.  People who live a lifestyle that stems from--and, as a result, proclaims--love.  These people won't be found seeking out demons to exorcise or arguing with athiests.  They'll be found in their kitchens making meals for friends who are low on income.  They'll be seen having actual conversations with the homeless guy on the corner that everyone else just throws money at or ignores.  They'll be overheard laughing with people, crying with people, and singing with people.  They are the real threats to Satan's battle strategy: they are the ones who make conscious decisions every day to love people.

Now, if someone like that did come across a demon-possessed person, I can't say for sure whether or not the demon would listen to them.  Honestly I can't.  There's a lot about exorcisms, demons, and the spiritual side of things that I truly DON'T know.  But I'd be willing to bet quite a lot of money that the demon would at least recognize who that person is, and it would probably be feeling anxious.

The issue with the Sons of Sceva wasn't that they, "did it wrong".  The issue is that they weren't a threat.  They didn't live lives that were concerning to the enemy or disastrous to his plans.  He wasn't worried about them, and he certainly wasn't afraid of them.

The title of this post has become a question that I now try to integrate into my life and ask myself every single day: Are you a threat?  Are you a living, loving, frustrating threat?

Letter to The Government

So a while ago I wrote a letter to the government that accompanied a bill that had to be paid.  According to my bank account, the CRA received our payment over a week ago, but we still haven't had the pleasure of finding a letter of reply in our mailbox.  I have a great fear that this letter never made it past the eyes of whoever opens mail at the CRA, or even that the letter was thrown out upon seeing that it was of no monetary value to the government.  Because of this fear I have posted the letter here on the internet, in hopes that someday it might reach the eyes it was intended for. 

In the meantime, feel free to give it a read!
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To Whom it May Concern,

Hi there.  I apologize if you are reading this as an everyday labor man/woman whose job is simply to open letters and pass them on to the right person or file them or deposit the checks sent in or whatever.  This letter is not meant for you, though you are more than welcome to read it and even get a good chuckle from it as well—if they let you do that kind of thing in big important government offices. 

If you are the sort of person this letter is intended for—the kind who wears fancy suits and talks about the sorts of things educated people talk about—please do not be offended by any of the above comments.  I do not write this letter to attack you.

As a matter of fact, I am beginning to realize that I have simply written this letter to make you laugh.  In all honesty my original intentions were to be quite rude and belligerent about owing the government money that they shouldn’t have given me in the first place, but as I sat down to write I’m pretty sure I heard a twinkle shoot from my eye and a smile crack my lips.  Why?  The hell if I know. 

But I digress.

You probably want to know what in the world this letter is about and whether it’s worth your time to continue reading.  I can assure you that it probably isn’t in the grand scheme of things, but I imagine you’re usually reading normal, boring, regular government things all day or doing math or something.  So perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing to take a five to ten minute break and continue reading.  Or two minutes.  Maybe you’re a better reader than I assume.  Sorry about that.  Maybe you hate reading and by just sending you this letter I have offended you.  How un-Canadian of me(though may I suggest that if you hate reading you should really look at getting a different job…I mean…you DO work for the government...not exactly a position to be found void of tasks that involve reading). 

As I was saying, we’d all love to know what the point of this letter is, and why I’ve used several precious sheets of paper to get it to you.  Though if we want to talk about a wasteful use of paper, we should probably talk about you(damn, what a good segue!  You’ll see what I mean in a moment).  But in order to talk about you, we’ll have to start at the beginning of the story…

My wife and I were married in July of 2013 at the very irresponsible ages of twenty and twenty-one.  It was an exciting time full of joy, laughter, and adventures in obtaining a marriage certificate—license—permit—thing.  Because we were—and are—so irresponsible, we both decided to be in university and college at the same time as being newly married.  This actually turned out to be an advantage because we got plenty of OSAP grants.  In order to get those grants, however, we needed proof that we were married.  In order to prove that we were married, we needed our marriage certificate-license-permit.  We were told it would take six weeks to arrive in the mail, to which we both irresponsibly—and somewhat ignorantly—replied, “No big deal!”

Our marriage thing finally arrived in the mail sometime in October of 2013.  The key thing to remember is that we were married in July of 2013, and we were told it would arrive in six weeks.  Another key piece of knowledge is this: had my darling wife not paid a visit to our local MPP(whose name is The Honorable Liz Sandals by the way.  Super helpful lady.  She is awesome) we would probably still be waiting!

Now, what does this have to do with an employee of the CRA?  Excellent question!  You get ten points.  Points can be redeemed at the home of my wife and I at any time.  They are redeemable in the form of food, drink, and laughter.  It’s a three in one combo.  And no I’m not kidding.  We live at the address listed above.  Basement apartment.  Side entrance.  If you need help with directions my number is ________________.  It would also be nice if you called ahead to let us know you’re coming.

Moving on.

After all the work of signing roughly ten separate documents,—some in the church where we were married, some at home—sending off an envelope to an office in good ole T’under Bay, and then talking directly to officers of government to get the process sped up and fully legalized, you would think that someone from the Office of the Registrar General would mention to someone in the CRA that Jessica Joy Liggins was now Jessica Joy Golle, and that they need to stop sending her HST returns because only one person per marriage can get those.  But, lo and behold it did not happen!  And come tax season my wife and I received several letters informing us of several cringe-inducing sums of money that our irresponsible selves owed to the very responsible and professional government.  To most, it would be a small amount of money.  But like I said, we are an irresponsible newly married couple of students who sometimes wonder if we’ll make the rent. 

But that’s not why I’m writing this letter.  That part doesn’t bother me.  I expect the government not to care about how responsible or irresponsible my wife and I might be, and I expect the government to take relatively unreasonable amounts of money from people—no offense…you just have a bit of a track record with…everyone.

What bothers me is this: my wife’s tax return resulted in her owing money to the government.  Fine.  My tax return resulted in the government owing ME money.  AWESOME!  We filed our returns at the same time, and I sent no letters reminding the government to make sure they sent me my money.  Not even once a month.  I trusted that, although they are notorious for finding ways to tax you at every turn, the government honors their debts when they have them.  And you did!  For that I thank you.

Then there is the story of my wife’s return(this is where you get to see the segue about paper).  Almost every two weeks since we have filed our returns, we have received an individual letter for each amount owing to the government.  There were three amounts.  As of last week, there is now one. 

As previously stated, I am not bothered by owing the government money; I expect it to happen.  But when it is a struggle to find the funds to pay the amounts off before they collect an amount of interest equal to the original balance, and when the government takes sweet, precious time in paying me what I am owed by them, I find it agitating to receive a letter every few weeks reminding me that I owe our trusted government money.  Believe it or not, I only need you to send me one remittance voucher.  The rest got torn up and thrown in the recycling.

You may or may not be familiar with one of the most unanswered and over-posed questions in the galaxy.  There has even been a movie titled after it.  It is uttered on almost every corner of the continent by many a disgruntled and uncomfortable child.  It is groaned, moaned, whined, yelped, mumbled and screamed.  And the reply of every parent is almost always accompanied by a long and irritated sigh.  The question, as you may have guessed, is this:  “Are we there yet?”

I am writing this letter because I feel much akin to the sighing, steering-wheel clenching, teeth-gritting parent, who is doing all in their power to simply not explode every time the question is posed—which is, as previously stated, about every two weeks.  It is with great relief that I am pulling the vehicle to a halt at our destination and replying to the question with a bedraggled, “We’re there.”

Along with this letter I have sent the final payment, and hope to receive no more letters until next tax season, at which time my wife and I will probably be even more irresponsible and have less to show for it.

As I said earlier on, dear reader, I wrote this letter to help you laugh in the midst of a busy schedule and no more.  I understand the world is not perfect, and not everyone sets out to make payments upon receiving the first letter.  But I sincerely hope you did laugh, and if not then I sincerely hope you get a better sense of humor.  And if neither of those then I sincerely hope you breathe a sigh of relief with me for a moment as we can both say, “We’re here!” (the wording of that is different because it’s a metaphor for life…in case you didn’t catch it…ok I’m done now).

With all sincerity and the greatest of loves,

Isaac James Golle

Park Benches

What were park benches made for?  When one thinks of going to the park, it is of personal experience that one thinks of playing games, barbeques, exercise, walking the dog, and other such activities.  Granted one needs to rest periodically throughout such events, and one most certainly sits down whilst enjoying a delicious picnic.

But are both purposes not served by the ever loved and appreciated picnic table?  And is not the grass softer than wood to plop one's rump on?  Most certainly the grass is better for laying and sprawling out, or for curling up amidst a lover's passionate embrace.  One could argue that if the weather is particularly wet, then the grass will most certainly be as well.  But would it not be the same for a park bench equally as exposed to the elements?

What, then, possessed some soul to believe that creating a bench specifically for the purpose of parks was a, "damn fine idea"?

Perhaps, dear reader, park benches were made as a sort of, "lookout point".  Granted, they are not always placed in locations of great vantage--some are even hidden and provide a view of almost nothing--but they are always placed within eyesight of something.  And therefore, they always provide the opportunity for some-such-thing to be observed.  Sometimes for only a few minutes, other times for a few hours.

I ask you, dear reader, next time you are out, take a look around at the various benches in various places--for they do not always have to be parks--and take note of what you will see.  Most likely the reader will see lonesome but somehow contented individuals, often with legs crossed perhaps a cigarette, pen, or camera in hand.  Or perhaps all three.

And perhaps then one will begin to see the reason for which park benches were created: one of the most important things of all.

Prioritized Problems

I seem to have stumbled across a problem.  Mind you, it's not a bad problem.  On the contrary, it's quite definitely a good problem.  Some will argue that, "good problem" is a completely contradicting statement, and I'm sure those people will come out with a completely convincing argument.  Good for them.

I like to write.  Someone who doesn't fully understand love might say that I love to write.  Sometimes I say that I love to write.  And whenever I feel an overwhelming plethora of emotions all centered around the same core of emotions start to build up, I do my best to let them out through writing.  Other times I get this tingly energy that travels from my brain to my fingertips, and the moment I sit down to clack away at computer keys it's like an addict getting their fix.  Those are the moments I hear myself saying, "I love to write". 

The problem is, I only get those moments when I've had plenty of quality time with my mind.  Some people call that, 'day dreaming' but I long ago decided that, 'day dreaming' is a prejudice term and so I call it, "thinking".  The problem with thinking is that I need a solid several hours of thinking about similar things in order to even contemplate writing any of it down.  Up until the past 7 months or so, I've had that.

I've had time to sit up until the late hours of the night analyzing grammar and all its silly rules.  I've had time to realize ridiculous paradoxes about writing.  I've had time to talk to myself about the insults hidden in terms such as, "You are a Gentleman and a Scholar".

But lately, I haven't had time.  I haven't had time because I recognized a very simple fact: I love people more than I like to write.  There most certainly are certain people that I certainly love more than certain others, but in general, I love people.  I love spending time with people.  I love laughing with people.  I love being with people.  I love learning from people.

And I've been learning lots.

There was a time in my life when I would have frantically gone to incredible efforts to write about all that I was learning.  I would listen for key phrases and come up with comparably deep metaphors in relation to all my musings, and then place them as neatly as possible on paper sheets and computer screens, hoping that someone else in the world would enjoy them.

It took me a while to learn that I learn much more as a sponge, not a filter.  I learn better when I listen rather than passing the message on.  I learn better when listening to people I love and loving people I love.  So naturally, I've been spending all my free time with people I love instead of writing.

The problem is, I like to write, and it's distracting.

The Speech

Today's post isn't written by me.  It's written by an 10 year old boy who I have done part-time respite care/work with on and off over the past year or so.  He had to write a speech in school, and this is what he wrote:

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Today I am going to talk about Isaac.  Isaac is my best friend in the whole world!  one of the things I love to do with Isaac is spend time with him.  The first time I met him was when we got the tav from him.  This was five years ago.  I remember how fast my dad went on the road.  Guess how fast he went?  I am not going that speed ever…well not in fields.  He went 60.  My dad did have his helment on.  I was too young and too afraid to ride on the tav then.  Now every Monday Isaac picks us up around six o'clock and we go to his house to do some activities.

Isaac is fun to play with in free time.  We like to scare Isaac by making him think there are ghosts in his car.  We go for mud drives in the woods.  Isaac is cool because we can wrestle with him.  Isaac is cool because we can have snowball fights with him.  Isaac is helpful when he has time to shovel our driveway.  Isaac is helpful when he can fix our T.V.  Isaac is helpful when he can help out with the A.T.V.  Isaac is just a friendly guy.  Isaac is friendly he is never grumpy or upset.  Isaac is always making me laugh.  Isaac is always happy and always talking.

Me and Isaac go for rides in the woods.  I like to go fishing with Isaac.  Rock climbing is an adventure with Isaac.  A favourite past time is hiking in the woods with Isaac.  My brother and I like to jump on the trampoline at Isaac's house.  Biking in the rain is messy but fun with Isaac.  AS you can tell I have so much fun doing fun things with Isaac.

When it is raining we play chess or video games.  I like playing chess and video games with Isaac because he goes easy on me when we play chess…and I usually win.  I can't think of one game that I lost!

It is nice to have an adult friend.  Isaac has his own car now and license so he can drive me over to his house.  Sometimes Isaac picks me up from school.  Isaac can fix our T.V. and that is one thing my other friends can't do.

Do you want to have an adult friend?  If you do have one what do you do with him?  I have quite a few adult friends.  So many that I can't name them all.  But I'll try: Isaac, George, Uncle Wally, Layton and Jacob…Isaac's little brother.  I don't know him as well as Isaac...

Quite Content

I get this feeling sometimes.  I'm not really sure what to call it, and yet I know several words which perfectly describe it.  It's a feeling that makes me feel as though I can't control it, but all of my being is perfectly alright with that.

It's a feeling that only comes once in a while, and even when I don't feel like feeling this feeling at all, just the memory of it locks my heart in place.  It doesn't overwhelm, but it certainly overtakes.  It doesn't force it's way in, but it is definitely undeniable.  It isn't grand, but it is undoubtedly not in the least bit minute. 

It's warm, bright--but not overbearing--pleasant, calm, content, joyful, beautiful, and above all; deep.  Oh, how very deep.  This feeling wells up like a soft and warm spring flowing from the very basic cores of my soul.  It comes from somewhere greater.  Somewhere beyond my own heart and yet so intimately intertwined with it.  This feeling beams--but not too brightly.  This feeling is made of stuff that poets and psalmists have longed after for years, and yet has been captured in the simplest and sweetest of lullabies.

Whenever I have set out to describe this feeling, I have become overwhelmed with what can only be compared to a sense of unworthiness, as though I am encountering and digging into something much greater and complex than I or any other human being shall ever be able to fathom.  All I can muster is to associate it with words such as, "right" and, "beautiful".

Many will think I am looking to describe the feeling of love, but I, in my poetic state, feel as though the word never quite does justice to the feelings I get when I look into the eyes of Jessica Liggins.  The word, "love" does not quite describe the feelings felt when I am privileged to hear the pure and unadulterated laugh of Jessica Liggins.  Nothing quite does it when I use, "love" to encapsulate how I feel when she reaches out to hold my hand or places her delicate head on my shoulder.

Perhaps the word, "falling" flits across my mind, but even still to say, "falling in love" seems too weak of a phrase.  It is possible that I will never find a perfect word to describe these feelings, but that is perfectly alright. 

For now, I know I feel them sometimes, and if that is all I ever know, I shall be quite content.

'tis the Passion.

It's the holidays.  More specifically, it's the Christmas season.  As a christian, I suppose the typical thing for me to do would be to go on an obnoxious rant about the way people respectfully--the proper word is probably closer to fearfully--say happy holidays instead of Merry Christmas because they don't want to offend anyone.  Even as I write about the prospect of it, my mind begins to buzz with all kinds of pointers and, "hard-hitters".  Ultimately, however, to spend the Christmas season arguing about trivial matters like what we choose to call this holiday is to completely contradict anything the Christmas season stands for.  So take heart, dear reader; you will not be bombarded with religious ramblings today--at least not by myself.

To be completely honest, I had not planned to write anything for the next several weeks.  It is, after all, the holidays, is it not?  Surprisingly enough, it is that very thought which motivated me to write. 

Nay, not motivated, for that seems too weak of a word.  Perhaps a word like, "drove" or, "demanded" would describe the feeling better.  The thought that, " 'tis the season" and that such a fact should count as valid reasoning to not write, demanded of me that I write.  The breathtakingly beautiful and unbelievably wise Jessica Liggins would insist that this demand stems from my unrelenting desire to defy the laws of social norm and what-not, and in actuality she would probably be exactly right.  My total distaste for social formalities, norms, and, "traditions" would not allow for a break in writing during the holidays simply because taking a break is what one does around this time of year.

I would like to suggest, however, that though this may be the reason on the surface, it is not at all good reason to write.  For if my purpose to write is simply to, "Stick it to the man" then a poor adolescent-minded soul I would be.  I also probably wouldn't have much more to say than what has already been said repeated several billion times over in not-so-clever various ways.

No, dear reader, something much deeper is at play here, and I believe that something is passion.  Passion does not reside within the boundaries of social norm.  Passion does not follow rules.  Passion does not take holidays. 

It is my understanding that if one has a passion, then one will stop at nothing to pursue said passion.  It is also my understanding that when people take holidays and go on vacation they are attempting to get away from whatever is they have been doing up until that point, presumably because it bores them or drains them. 

The reader will understand then, that in my line of thought for me to take a break from writing because it is holidays, is a very appalling thought indeed.  Every part of my being screams at me that this is a betrayal of my passions, for writing is one of the select few things on this earth which make me feel alive.  That I even considered taking a break demanded of me that I do just the opposite. 

'tis the season to be jolly, and a jolly fellow indeed I am when given the grace to write something--anything--which might be enjoyed by at least one person somewhere--regardless the time of year.

Merry Christmas everyone.