Bible Verse of the Day

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

...it was good.

Kilojoules are little units that measure how good a particular food tastes. Fudge, for example, has a great many kilojoules, whereas celery, has none. - Incidentally, celery is not really a food at all but a member of the plywood family, provided by Mother Nature so that we would have a way to get onion dip into our mouths at parties...

I'm responding to the recent uproar about what goes into processed foods - especially meat. Horse flesh, donkey flesh, goat flesh, water-buffalo flesh! (astounding one that), maize, etc. (Thinking: I've always known that modern bully beef contains ox lung, grain, etc but that's never stopped me from enjoying a bully beef sandwich with spices, tomato and lettuce.)

Now be aware that I'm not seeking to offend anyone's feelings about these occurrences; or sway your free choice in any way - I'm merely offering some additional 'food'-for-thought...

Apparently the use of processed meats is most common in the fast-food industry. And I hear the comments: "I'm never eating a burger again!" or "Well you won't find me buying sausage, again!" or "How can anyone eat a burger primarily filled with chickens fed on fish meal?" - that is, of course, our personal choice and preference - whether we stick to it remains to be seen... - these 'additives' (or call them what you will) control the monetary price we pay for those commodities - see where I'm going here? - the perceived price you will pay on your health by eating them is still a matter of debate.

Let's us just give a thought to all the millions who have little or no money, already in dire ill-health for not having eaten for weeks - they would jump through hoops for a chunk of unprocessed donkey meat, or just a bowl of the actual raw fish meal. I think I'm blessed to be able to afford a processed burger now and again (with all the trimmings, of course - lol). I, for one, am hard pressed to declare emphatically that I'll never ever eat something unpleasant to my mind at this moment. For now I just count my blessings, and relish the taste of the pack of processed sausage, sizzling on the braai grid...

Now you fortunate few - go buy a street-child that burger you shudder to eat; and have a lovely, fulfilled day! (",) God bless!

Gen:1:25: "And God made the beast of the earth after his kind, and cattle after their kind, and every thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind: and God saw that it was good."

Saturday, February 23, 2013

St. Mark: The Man Behind the Gospel - a feast of divine inspiration and hope eternal



I have somewhat neglected promoting discipleship recently - the following account, biography and insight into St. Mark's gospel and its effect on his peers and thus our lives, resounds to this day! - read on....

"And they all forsook Him, and fled. And there followed Him a certain young man, having a linen cloth cast about his naked body; and the young men laid hold on Him: and he left the linen cloth, and fled from them naked."

This puzzling incident, mentioned only in the Gospel according to St. Mark, is taken by many Bible readers as a reference to Mark himself. It's tempting to assume that the Evangelist, perhaps still in his teens, was in the Garden of Gethsemane the night of Christ's arrest, and that he fled in panic when threatened with arrest himself. Whether he knew Jesus remains a matter of conjecture. His adult life, at any rate, was dedicated to the faith to which we owe one of the world's great books.

The second Gospel in the Bible, this book is the oldest of the four, and served as a model for the other two Synoptic ("common-view") Gospels, written by Matthew and Luke. John's "spiritual Gospel," the last to be published, stands apart. Perhaps because it is the shortest Gospel, Mark's work was for centuries the neglected book of the New Testament. Today Mark finds favour with a growing number of believers. His brevity, his crisp directness, his emphasis on deeds rather than words, make him the most immediate of the Four Evangelists.

His Hebrew name was John, and he is often called John Mark, the Latin "surname" Marcus pointing to a possible connexion with Rome, which was ruling Palestine. His family was well-to-do. Mark's mother, Mary, lived in Jerusalem in a large house that served as rallying point for the city's embattled little group of Christians. Some believe that it was this house Jesus chose for His Last Supper with the Twelve, and that the "goodman" referred to by the Lord in this connexion was Mark's father. Unquestionably, Mark grew up in an atmosphere vibrant with hopes and fears and the excitement of a new-born faith.

No wonder that the bright and personable lad was given an active role in the community. The Christian group in Antioch, a flourishing city on the Syrian Coast (now Turkey), had sent two emissaries with relief funds to the suffering breth­ren in Jerusalem. The messengers were Paul and Barnabas. While in Jerusalem, they probably lodged at the house of Mary, Barnabas' aunt.

When they set off on their first mission to the Gentiles, they took Mark along as their assistant. He shared the hardships of their trip and possibly helped with an occasional baptism or sermon. But when their mission arrived at Perga, on the coast of Asia Minor, Mark left his two companions and went home.

Scholars have tried to find a reason for this unexplained departure. Some think that it was a city boy's fear of the harsh, brigand-ridden mountain roads of Asia that led into the pagan depths of Galatia - the mission's goal. Or was he simply homesick for Jerusalem? Whatever the motive, Paul could not easily forget Mark's sudden turnabout. Later, the breach was healed. Paul forgave Mark, and even drew him back into his inner circle.

But the decisive influence in Mark's career was his close tie with Peter, Prince of Apostles. Their friendship may have formed when Mark was still a youngster in Jerusalem. The majestic figure of the fisherman must have made a profound impression on young Mark. Perhaps the older man instructed the boy in the new faith; it is even possible that he baptized Mark. Perhaps their paths crossed in Antioch where Peter was a leader of the Church, and the friendship deepened with their common work.

As Christianity turned its appeal from Palestine to the vast orbit of thr Gentile nations, it was logical licit Mark would join the fast-growing Christian community in Rome, the power centre of the Western world. We may assume that at some later date he was in Rome with Peter, who in all likelihood already played an influential role there and must have been glad to use the talents of his devoted friend. "Marcus my son," the grand old man affectionately called him at the end of his First Epistle.

"Mark wrote down carefully, but not in order, all that Peter remembered of the Lord's sayings and doings." So wrote Papias, bishop in Asia Minor, a generation after Peter's death. For Jesus of Nazareth had left no writings. The epic story of His life and death had been passed on by word of mouth. As eyewitnesses of those events were disappearing and as new, eager converts kept asking for more details, the need for a fixed record became pressing.

Whether one or two sketchy texts existed before Mark produced his Gospel remains a much-debated question. Matthew and Luke, while drawing overwhelmingly on Mark's original, seem to have used some other common source, lost to posterity. Majority opinion holds that Mark was the first writer to compose an account of the Lord's earthly days and that he based his work, for the most part, on eye­witness stories and live tradition. And we may well assume that his prime source was Peter, a leading member of Christ's inner circle from the early days in Galilee.

Mark was approaching 50 when, about A.D. 65, he wrote the 'Evangelion', the Good News, from which our own word Gospel, or "good tidings," is derived. Writing in Greek, then the common language of the eastern Mediterranean, Mark tends to use coarse phrases and expressions. Some scholars have discerned, behind the text, an author who wrote in Greek but thought in Aramaic, the mother tongue of Christ and the Apostles.

This Gospel is no history book, nor is it a biography of Jesus. Mark tells of the "Son of Man," whose deeds and suffering proved Him the Son of God. We look in vain for the Lord's Prayer or the Sermon on the Mount. Mark gives us but eight parables - against Matthew's 20 and Luke's 29 - and only one long sermon. The emphasis throughout his Gospel is on action. The narrative comes up like thunder, with the appearance of the Lord before the Baptist, and rolls on like a river to Christ's suffering and Resurrection.

Mark's breathless style speeds it along: "And they watched Him ... And He goes up ... And straight­way . . . And immediately . . . And forthwith . . ." In keeping with the oral tradition of the primitive church, Mark often switches to the present tense: "And they compel one Simon ... to bear His cross. And they bring Him unto the place Golgotha."

In the 16 crowded chapters of Mark's Gospel we follow Jesus' wanderings through Galilee, see Him work miracles, watch Him enter Jerusalem, and witness the momentous climax. Mark makes it plain that Jesus' ministry is one tremendous battle against overwhelming odds. We, the spectators, watch with bated breath as He moves to His inevitable fate. The story ends, abruptly and mysteriously, with the empty tomb: "And they went out quickly, and fled from the sepulchre; for they trembled and were amazed: neither said they any thing to any man; for they were afraid."

Many vivid details make us feel that "we are there." We tremble for the storm-tossed and sinking ship while Christ is in die stern, "asleep on a pillow." When Jesus raises the 12-year-old girl from die dead, we hear Him use his native Aramaic: "Talitha cumi—Damsel, I say unto thee, arise." Here and there, the jewel flash of poetry illuminates the text: "And He was transfigured before them. And His raiment became shining, exceeding white as snow; so as no fuller [bleacher] on earth can white them."

Mark never minces words. Time and again, he tells us that the Twelve were too obtuse to understand the meaning of their Lord's Messiahship. "Having eyes, see ye not?" He asks them. "How is it that ye do not understand?" They squabble among themselves who should be "the chiefest." Peter himself "rebukes" the Lord when He announces His inevitable suffering, and Christ tells him, "Get thee behind me, Satan: for thou savourest not the things that be of God."

Here is humanity - raw, unadorned and true. Here, also, is the stuff of persevering faith. Mark wrote his Gospel under Nero, the Roman emperor notorious for his bloody persecutions of the followers of Christ. His readers might, at any moment, be rounded up as enemies of the state, to be imprisoned, tortured or thrown to the wild beasts in Nero's circus.

When read in this light, Mark's Gospel may be called a Manual for Martyrs. Had Christ not told His men they would have to drain the cup of which He had drunk Himself? "Take heed... they shall deliver you up to councils; and ... ye shall be beaten: and ye shall be brought before rulers and kings for my sake." It was such words that those brave men and women must have remembered in their final agony, with the promise: "He that shall endure unto the end, the same shall be saved."

Thus, there emerges an author of great faith and strength. A manly vigour manifests itself in every verse. His courage to proclaim the truth as it had been revealed to him blends with his warm humanity to form the image of a truly apostolic figure.

Mark's Gospel, copied by pious hands, was circulated throughout the Mediterranean world, and was accepted as authoritative by all Christians. Among its avid readers were the Apostle Matthew and the Gentile Luke, both of whom must have found the book in the Near East. Of Mark's 661 authentic verses, 630 reappear, with or without variations, in their Gospels. It is less certain whether John read Mark. By the end of the second century, the elders of the Church united the four books, together with Paul's 13 Letters and the Acts of the Apostles, into a single volume that was accorded equal status with the sacred scriptures. Thus, the New Testament was born.

We have no reliable record of Mark's later life. According to some early Christian writers, he made his way to Alexandria in Egypt, where he served as bishop of the Christian Church, and is believed to have died a martyr.

In 828, two seafarers from Venice seized Mark's remains and brought them back in triumph to their home port. Mark was proclaimed the city's patron saint and a church was built to house his relics. As centuries went by, this church grew more beautiful and resplendent in gold and marble. Today, St. Mark's Cathedral, with its lofty cupolas and glittering mosaic, remains one of the world's great tourist landmarks, and an unrivalled monument of Christian art. And although the "Republic of St. Mark" has long passed into history, the Winged Lion, Mark's time-honoured symbol, is the official emblem of the sea-born city, Venice.

Mark himself is present, to this day, in every house where there is a Bible. Like his fellow Evangelists, he modestly lets the text of his "Good News" speak for itself. Yet, while the author might prefer the shades of anonymity to the bright light of fame, our knowledge of the man behind the Gospel contributes to the joy of reading it!

THIS WONDERFUL SYNOPSIS OF ST. MARK'S DELIGHTFUL AND SPELL-BINDING WRITINGS OF THE EARTHLY DAYS OF JESUS CHRIST WAS COMPILED, ON THE WHOLE, BY EARNEST HAUSER - I THANK GOD FOR THE INSPIRATION GRANTED FOR THIS HISTORY DIVINE - I FOUND IT MOST ENLIGHTENING AND THOUGHT-PROVOKING; AND TRUST YOU DO TOO! - ALL GLORY AND HONOUR TO GOD FOR GIVING US THE FREE CHOICE TO PEEL OPEN OUR EYES AND EQUIP US IN HIS SERVICE TO SAVE THE WORLD AT LARGE - Stafford (",)

Saturday, February 16, 2013

AFFIRMATION



Yours is the face I see as I close my eyes, and the visage remains in my mind until I awake. I am helpless to prevent its course. A pleasant presence, perhaps even obsessive, but never invasive; sweet torture, so tenderly beautifully constant!

I hereby pledge, before and with the help of God, to love, honour, cherish, serve and obey with you for rest of my life here on Earth. And should the Lord see fit to take me with Him into Eternity, I extend this pledge to that Glorious Abode as well.

This pledge’s essence is timeless and therefore its expiry null and insists this that you contact me the split second your circumstances have aligned to make it possible for us to be together.

The singular reproach I hold against you is the current longing I have for more exposure to that spirit of abundant kindness, love and interest you exhibit so selflessly. That infectious giggle and teasing nature I love so dearly.

I embrace the special joy you bring to our love that no other could ever replace; this consequence prevails on me to further troth this that with the blessing of God our Father; I shall not extend my full love to another; and will remain faithfully yours until you return to me…

Kind, gentle soul embrace this oath as a treasure that you possess in something precious, that I know and feel you hold dear. Under this guarantee I am perfectly patient and peacefully content to wait, completely trusting in your wisdom and God’s guidance in your and my life ahead.

Forever yours




For this is the message you heard from the beginning: We should love one another.” -1 John 3:11 

Thursday, February 07, 2013

Virtue - thy name be courage...




If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And - which is more - you’ll be a Man, my son!




“Let those who love the LORD hate evil, for he guards the lives of his faithful ones and delivers them from the hand of the wicked.” -Psalm 97:10

Saturday, February 02, 2013

The Room...


In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls I have liked." I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was.

This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I have betrayed." The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird "Books I Have Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed at ." Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've yelled at my brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be surprised by the contents.

Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my years to fill each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I have watched", I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of shows but more by the vast time I knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content.

I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.

And then I saw it.. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With." The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt. They started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him.

No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own.

He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me.. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards.. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side.

He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished." I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written... 

Friday, February 01, 2013

Grow up...

As we grow up, we learn that even the one person that wasn't supposed to ever let us down, probably will.

You will have your heart broken and you will break others' hearts. You will fight with your best friend or maybe even fall in love with them and you will cry because time is flying by. 


So take too many pictures, laugh, forgive freely and love like you've never been hurt. Life comes with no guarantees, no time outs, and too few second chances.


You just have to live life to the fullest, tell someone what they mean to you, speak out, dance in the pouring rain, hold someone's hand, comfort a friend, fall asleep watching the sun come up, stay up late and smile until your face hurts.


Never be afraid to take chances or fall in love and most of all, live in the moment because every second you spend angry or upset is a second of happiness you will never get back.