Christ the Truth

The 1963 Baptist Faith & Message describes Scripture as "the record of God's revelation of Himself to Man," while the 2000 revision of the BFM describes Scripture as "God's revelation of Himself to Man." Scripture=truth vs. Christ=truth. I heard the controversy surrounding this distinction in my days at East Texas Baptist University and was confused at the subtleties.

In those years, Craig Nash began challenging me to understand truth as embodied in relationships and community and not in systematic doctrines. A reading of Brian McLaren's A New Kind of Christian echoed these sentiments, rebuking the modern tendency to use the Bible as "God's encyclopedia, God's rule book, God's answer book, God's scientific text, God's easy-steps instruction book, God's little book of morals for all occasions." Neo, in the book, noted that "the only people in Jesus' day who would have had anything close to these expectations of the Bible would have been the scribes and Pharisees."

Brian McLaren, and others, capturing the essence of "postmodern" theology, have encouraged a view of the Bible as narrative, not as a benign story, but a book whose writings were fostered to call together and help create a living community, who would seek, and in a way, embody, truth itself. This as opposed to a book to which we can go for "rock-solid answers" and a checklist for right and wrong, good and evil.

As a little kid, I enjoyed carefully moving from one large, craggy stone to the next as I stepped across small creek beds in the woods of Atlanta, Texas. As a teenager, I found myself doing this more than once in Brokenbow, Oklahoma, while fly-fishing. Then, in graduate school, I relished the opportunity to stone-walk down the shore of a small river in Saxon, Washington, on the family land of my friend, Melissa LaMonte. Sometimes, in the stepping, I fell off-kilter into the deep, rushing cold water, getting my socks and shoes wet.

In the midst of all the hustle and bustle of theological reflection, I have grown curious and excited but have also been knocked a bit off kilter. I have been in this off-balanced position for at least four years now as I have sought to find a foundation for truth on which to place my weight. I'm okay with getting my socks a bit wet, and, in fact, I have many times, only to step out again, off-kilter, still not knowing which rock is sturdy.

I need a nice firm stone on which to place my weight. Earl Palmer, my pastor at University Presbyterian Church, Seattle, speaks of this dilemma, and he resolves it by speaking of Christ as the foundation of truth, the embodiment of truth, the ultimate truth.

But where is Christ? Someone help me to place my weight down. I know by grace I have been accepted as his own. I know by faith I can trust in his grace. But, what do I do with the Bible? And, if not through systematic study, how do I understand God at all. And, this whole trinity concept has had me stumped since I first heard of it as a child. If Christ is living and present, is that the same as the Holy Spirit's living presence?

What language do I use to talk about my faith? What concepts can I hold to comprehend the reality of my faith? What can I know about truth that I can put my weight on?

My only answer is Jesus Christ. But, I'm not sure exactly what to do with that answer. And, though I have a sense as to how to approach the Bible hermeneutically, I'm not sure what to do with it once the original meanings are extrapolated; that is, how far do you go in extrapolating truth from this book? What does it mean to walk in truth and love? How do I reconcile the mystery and complexity of God's revelation of truth with that which is meant to be known? Where do I place my weight?

Battered, Broken, Bruised: 3 Stories

In fifth-grade I was playing "keep-away" with two of my cousins, Joni and Sarah, at my Aunt Sissie’s house. I just remember Joni throwing the tennis ball over my head and running really hard backward to get it. I ran hard into a brick wall, the side of the garage. I fell to the ground in pain but quickly arose, not wanting my girl cousins to see that I was hurt. I placed my hand for a moment atop my head to rub the pain and quickly went pale as I realized that my hand was covered in blood. Joni and Sarah screamed and walked me in to my Aunt Sissie, and she quickly called my Aunt Judy and Mom to come over. I just remember two things at that point: the feeling of loss that my new Yankees baseball cap was ruined; and, my Aunt Judy slapping me in the face and telling me not to go to sleep. I saw Dr. Matt Hogan in the hospital that day for my minor concussion. No stitches were needed, and I eventually went home to rest.

I played my very first tackle football game in seventh-grade. I was so proud to finally be on the Atlanta Rabbits football team. We were playing the Liberty-Eylau Leopards. Like every other "skinny white boy," I was a wide receiver (there are almost no passes thrown in junior high) on offense and a rover, or strong safety, on defense. A rover stays behind the defensive line just in case a running back was to get through. In junior high, no running backs get through the line; they only run around it. However, I was in my first official football game ever, and something extraordinary was doomed to happen. A running back got through the line on my first defensive play. He was huge. I stood in the tentative and fearful position of a junior high rover, hoping to succeed by displaying a proper form tackle, or at least the attempt at one, for my coaches. At the last minute, I turned sideways a bit, probably in fear, and he plunged his facemask into my arm, just below the shoulder, snapping it in two. After being unable to get up and Greg Fouche eventually helping me over to the sidelines, Coach Golden yelled at me and told me to get my "sissy ass back on the field for the next play" if I wanted to ever play again. Rethinking the decision to have an intelligent dialogue with Coach Golden, I went over to Coach Williams, an excessively kind black man who was also my history teacher. Coach Williams, after feeling my arm, quickly turned and scanned the bleachers for Dr. Tim O'Kelley (Aaron's Dad), knowing that he would be there watching Aaron play. Dr. Tim was already on his way down. The game was in Texarkana, about thirty minutes from my hometown, Atlanta. Dr. Tim graciously followed me and my Mom to the hospital, where my arm was set and placed in a cast (wrist to shoulder).

The final story I will tell here is of a camping trip mishap in tenth-grade. Clay May was one of many of my friends that had gone to Rocky Point on Lake Wright Patman to camp for the night. Clay had convinced me to bring my Dad’s small canoe and a bike, and we decided to design our own triathlon. We canoed about three-fourths of a mile out to an island and back, without any rest, then road our bikes approximately four miles on hilly trails, and finally ran a couple of miles to finish it off. We were tired and had brought little to eat or drink, except chips and Coke. Later, we played a commando game, where we chased each other on bikes through the dark park. The goal was to return to the home base without being caught. Aaron Lofton was after me on his bike, and I was peddling hard on mine. I saw a short-cut to our camping spot through the woods, so I jumped off of my bike and ran hard. I had disappeared from Aaron’s sight, but my desparate run was cut short by the side of a concrete picnic table. My shins hit, and my whole body flipped over the table. The back of my head and my arms and back hit the concrete corners as I landed awkwardly on the other side. I fell off and lay on the ground, nearly unconscious, for over twenty minutes, trying to muster the breath to yell loud enough for someone to hear, but I couldn’t. I could see the campfire in the distance. At some point, they began looking for me, and one of them found me. They carried me back to the tent and laid me on a cot. I remember waking up the next morning, my whole body sore and in great pain, to the smell of breakfast. I slowly and intentionally forced myself to stand up just outside the tent, noticing that Larry May, one of my Sunday School teachers, had shown up to cook us all breakfast. He turned and said, "Good morning, Blake," and I collapsed unconscious. The next thing I remember is waking up in his mini-van with all of the guys over me telling me that we were on the way to the emergency room. At the ER, Dr. Tim was waiting. He told me I was extremely dehydrated and that I needed an IV. Almost crying in fear of a needle, I pleaded against it and told him to bring me a couple of gallons of water to drink instead. He just teased with me with great intentionality, and, as he stood on one side of me, he had a nurse sneak up on me on the other side and give me the IV. I was very mad at him, and as he walked to the other side of me to listen to my complaint, he directed the nurse to go to the other side, where she gave me a second IV. I was livid... but well soon enough.

The Gentle, Powerful Nudge

The passing breathstroke of wind on my heart.
A fire birthed, burning, churning inside.
With the beauty of life, and death.

Pain and joy,
Coursing through my clinched veins, relishing...
Grace. In all its measures. In all its meanings.

Beauty. Kindness. The birth of forgiveness,
Romancing death into the possibility of peace...
Ushering light into a bitter dark cave.

Leaves blown off of me, a tree.
Into a million pieces of quivering....
Possibility. Gentle balance of my heart,
Beating… and feet stepping. Stepping.

Movement. Wonder.
Into the flow of heaven.
Into the promise. Bathing, in the residue of hope.
Into the peace and the presence of heaven, here now, radiant.


This is simply a poem edited from my old blog, "Attempts." It speaks of the wonderment of how the gentle yet powerful nudge of God has a way of transforming us. When we feel cold and dead, his breath may pass over us through a friend, a song, or an idea. His eternal presence radiates in our being, and we are moved by it. From cold deadness to abundant life. Again, again, again. We must learn to live so many times.

Passing into Truth & Grace

Ephemeral, transitory, mystical.
Changing each day, each year, these lives
While life unveils and while I cry... and sigh... and die.

Ideologies and emotions:
Convictions;
Dividing my conscience.

Chasing and escaping,
Must I give up my self?
Self is gone. It is not here. It never was.

I am seeking this truth that I embrace.
And I am pleasured by the rare experience of passing through it.
Not to reach...
But to be washed in again, again, again.
To grasp not, but to endure.

A rush. Not to be in control,
But to truly experience...
My own mystery, my own grace.

To give and carry and embrace,
To know not by degree but by essence,
The sacred sound of marching, the sweet silence of being.

(February 2004)

The Seattle Experience

I have lived in Seattle since September 2nd, 2002. Since that day, I have gained an immense amount of appreciation for the physical and cultural beauty of Seattle. And, as a "local," I have come to have favorite spots. I love having favorite spots.

For instance, Seattle offers an amazing selection of food. I never had sushi, authentic teriyaki, or phad Thai before I moved here. Now, they have become three of my favorite entrees. As well, though I was a coffee lover before coming, I now believe that it must be difficult to truly appreciate great coffee without living in Seattle, Washington, the coffee capital of the world.

I though it would be fun to blog some of my favorite spots, from my favorite bookstore to my favorite place to walk aimlessly:

Elliott Bay Book Company is in the Pioneer Square (historic downtown) district of Seattle and is the oldest bookstore in the city. It is all wooden from floor to shelves to ladders to ceiling. There is a cafe underground and two floors of books(and endless nooks and crannies) to enjoy. The selection is incredible and the atmosphere is soothing.

Teriyaki Madness in Kirkland, which actually isn't Seattle but a city on the Eastside, the official label for those suburban cities on the eastern border of Lake Washington, which denotes the eastern border of Seattle. I work at Northwest College Counseling Center in Kirkland, and I love to eat at Teriyaki Madness on my lunchbreaks. It was my first experience with authentic teriyaki, and it is better, by far, than any other I have tried.

The International Fountain at Seattle Center is a magnificient place to sit and think. I worked at The Children's Museum, which is in Seattle Center, almost directly under the Space Needle, from January to July 2003. The fountain is just outside the doors of the museum, and there was nothing more I loved to do on my lunch breaks, especially on sunny days, than sit on the edge of the great circle outlining the boundary of the fountain's reach. They play loud music and the water dances to the beat.

My favorite pizza restaurant (yes, restaurant) is Olympic Pizza and Spaghetti House II. It is in the Wallingford district. Karla actually used to work there in college. By far, the best pizza that has ever touched my lips.

My favorite park to run in is Discovery Park, a 540 acre piece of land just a block from my home. It used to all be Fort Lawton but in the middle of this last century, it was downsized. The best 540 acres of it got passed on to the city and eventually became Discovery Park, which has incredible views, including an amazing bluff overlooking the Puget Sound, and a host of running, walking, and bike trails. I will miss it when I leave (as I will the rest, I'm sure).

My favorite Thai place is a hole-in-the-wall in the U-District (that's University District). Thai Tom, it is called. It's on "the Ave," or University Way, one of the coolest strips in the city. There are only a few seats in Thai Tom, but it's worth waiting for one. Chicken phad Thai is the way to go, make it about three stars of heat, and you've got yourself one of the best Asian dishes that exists.

My favorite place to look at the downtown skyline is Kerry Park atop Queen Anne hill (in the Queen Anne district). If you've ever thought that the Space Needle is one of the tallest constructions in Seattle, then you have probably seen a picture of the city from the view of Kerry, which makes it seem so. Actually, the Needle is one of the shortest figures in the skyline.

My new favorite Mexican food restaurant in the area is Chevy's, which is actually in Lynnwood, which is a city north of Seattle. It is the closest thing to Tex-Mex in the Northwest I have experienced yet. I ate there for my first time last weekend with Karla and her sister Peggy to celebrate Peggy's successful defense of her masters thesis in nursing (she is graduating the same day as me from SPU).

My favorite place to get coffee is, perhaps, the original Zoka's Coffee Roaster and Tea, which is in Wallingford. Next up... perhaps, Peet's Coffee and Tea in Fremont. Or maybe the Starbuck's at Madison Park. The Tully's on Queen Anne is also very good. Ah, but Cafe Apassionato in Queen Anne is run by the nicest old Turkish couple. I also love to get coffee at the big Starbuck's in Kirkland and the new Zoka's, known as UZ (University Zoka's), which is just outside the U-Village in the U-District... over by the UW (University of Washington) [you get used to the frequent use of "U's" here].

I love Chiso for sushi in Fremont for atmosphere, but the service was horrible when I took Karla last weekend. Bento Sushi isn't as nice, in terms of atmosphere, but the price and service is much better. Comparable sushi. I hear Ototo Sushi in Queen Anne blows them both out of the water, except for atmosphere (it is more like a diner), but I have yet to go there (although I have eaten sushi from Ototo that we ordered from SPU).

I am convinced that the greatest preaching in the world happens at 8:30, 10:00, 11:30, 5:00, and 7:00 on Sundays at University Presbyterian Church in Seattle. Dr. Earl Palmer is my pastor here, and I love him. UPC is an amazing church. There are few things that I will mourn more than being absent from events at UPC, where my faith has grown immensely.

Elliott's on the waterfront is a great view and great seafood... just pricey (but I sure did love taking you there when you came to visit, Daniel... that was a fun evening). I hear Ivar's on the waterfront is comparable. If you just want a really great salmon caesar salad for a reasonable price, count on Greenlake Bar and Grill (thanks for going there with me and Karla, Josh and Kathy! that was a very memorable afternoon for me).

Walking down to the Ballard Locks (ship locks) near my house used to be my favorite place to go down to on free afternoons for reading or talking on my cell phone. The air and sounds are crisp and exciting. Ships and sailboats going in and out, folks yelling out commands as they navigate their boats. Seagulls singing, tourists "ooo-ing" and "ah-ing," and me, sitting on the ground with chills over it all.

If you want incredible duck stew, or any kind of noodle soup or stew, for that matter, you can't beat Orrapin Noodle, a Thai restaurant, on Queen Anne. The atmosphere is amazing, and it is small and quaint. They treat you well, and you're welcome to eat at a floor table country Thai style.

For an amazing picnic, you can't beat Gas Works Park, just north of Lake Union, where you can watch the city move and Kenmore Air takeoff. The ground may be toxic, but what it loses in being a detriment to your physical welfare, it gains in its beauty, sheer hip-ness, and activity.

I love milling around at Pike Place Market. There is no where else that I would rather walk about aimlessly and eat free slices of fresh fruit. Where else can you watch frozen fish fly through the air, listen to heavenly accapella music, listen to incredible drummers with nothing but primitive sticks and buckets, and watch hackey sackers break world records against the backdrop of Elliott Bay, bustling with sailboats, yachts, cargo ships, and seagulls.

There is no doubt I will miss the sights, sounds, eats, and people of this amazing place. I know I'll be back at least once a year, because Karla's family is in the area, and, who knows, I could end up here again. But, for now, we will be leaving, Karla and I, heading for San Marcos, Texas, and the promise of Hill Country living. Wherever I am in life, Seattle now has a piece of me, and there is no doubt... I will miss this place.