The Witnesses

 

Image from Jake Jacobson's article https://skillmanchurch.org/uncategorized/simeon-and-anna/

Here is a new Christmas poem:

The Witnesses

 Luke -2: 25-39, Hebrews 12:1

There are many Advent stories told at Christmastide,

Of shepherds and the Wise Men, of Joseph and his bride,

There’s the baby in the manger and the angels in the sky

And the great star gleaming brightly hanging there on high.

They each provide a glimpse into what the answer is

To the most important question, “What Child is this?”

All of them attempt to catch the message of the season

And that is what compels us now and you shall know the reason.

For stories to be true they must have validation,

The evidence of two or three will give legitimation.

Together they make up what we could call the Christmas Lore

And here is a perspective that you mayn’t have seen before.

When Rome was in ascendancy and Athens in decline

Scribes still translated into Greek, the custom of the time,

Theirs was the word of culture of subtlety of phrase

And seventy men made transcriptions of Scripture in those days.

Five of those transcribers bore the name of Simeon

They wrote on vellum producing what is called the Septuagint.

They transcribed the Hebrew Bible, complete and faithfully,

A version of the Tanakh for the Alexandrian Library.

In Luke we read about a most devout and holy man

Who was very old, named Simeon, living in Jerusalem,

He’d been promised by the Holy Spirit that he would not die

’Till he had seen the Lord’s Messiah, and here’s the question - “Why?”

All we know is in the gospel and that must be our position

As we search for an answer, the rest is supposition.

Had he been working in Isaiah, it was speculated?

And on reading of the virgin birth his thinking was conflicted?

Simeon was then a young man filled with exegetical fire

And making the most accurate transcription his desire.

Did he falter when he read the line about the virgin birth?

And pausing asked himself the question, “How on Earth?”

Some even say that it was then he took a velum knife

And about to shave the word away that caused him to feel strife,

When an angel then appeared to him and made him still his hand

And promised complete fulfilment and consolation to the land.

But that was many years before, now Simeon was old,

He waited for the virgin birth of Messiah as was foretold.

He knew the Jewish tradition that every first born son

Must be brought to Temple for the rituals to be done.

Perhaps he heard about the shepherds and message they proclaimed,

And of Zechariah being struck dumb until his son was named,

Sifting through the snippets he assessed the information,

Knowing that parents must bring their son for purification.

Guided by the Holy Spirit he approached the Temple Court

And there he looked into the eyes of the great I Am he sought.

Smiling he took Him in his arms, he begged for “Peace to die...”

“I have seen Your salvation!” he began to prophesy.

“Lord, I see the Salvation that you now prepare,

A light to all the nations for people everywhere.

This babe will cause the rise and fall of many in the land

And many will oppose Him, just as you have planned.”

Mary and Joseph were astonished by what was being said   

It caused them both to wonder, it caused then both to dread,

Turning to Mary, Simeon continued in this role,

“The thoughts of many will be revealed, and a sword will pierce your soul.”

Then upon the scene appeared another respected  soul,

It was the widow Anna who was eighty three years old,

She was considered a prophetess and seeing Jesus she smiled,

And giving thanks to God told everyone about this Child.

Simeon confirmed that there was a virgin birth,

Anna confirmed redemption for Jerusalem and the earth,

Mary was His mother who had not known a man,

And Joseph was a witness from the moment it began.

So the result of these meanderings which we have contemplated

Is the fulfilment of prophesy for which Simeon had waited,

From the evidence which he and Anna gave us we acquire

The confirmation that the babe they blessed was our Messiah.

Now we join the “cloud of witnesses” who have seen the light,

Looking for His Second Coming, walking by faith not sight,

Like Simeon we are waiting, we are waiting for Christ’s return

To see Him come in Glory, it is for this we yearn!

Amen

Now in the third edition of Christmas Poems on Amazon

A Blog spot just for my books

 

Here is a new venture.  I am constantly being approached by sales representative of so called publishing companies who offer to take my money to help me sell my books.  It is very frustrating. The first thing they ask is "Have you got a website for your books?", the answer to which is, I was sold a bill of goods and it was taken down because they wanted more money annually to keep it going.

So I have opened up a new blog called neilmcleodbooks.blogspot.com. please visit it and make comments

All for the Glory

Neil

 I strongly recommend this book.  It makes the case clearly that our society is corrupting at a remarkable rate and that the primary victims are our children.

The Publishers have written the following:

This world has declared war on our children. Every day, on a multitude of battlefronts, Satan is deploying weapons of mass corruption against our children. Modern culture has been systematically designed with an agenda that is aggressively anti-God, anti-Christ, and anti-Scripture, intended to corrupt and consume young, impressionable hearts and minds. As God’s people, we need to teach our children God’s Word; train them in righteousness; and above all, give them our extravagant love.

About the Author:

John MacArthur is pastor-teacher of Grace Community Church in Los Angeles, California, Chancellor of The Master’s University and Seminary, teacher and voice heard globally through his media ministry Grace to You, and author of numerous best-selling books, including his New Testament commentary series and The MacArthur Study Bible. He has spent over 50 years preaching through every verse of the New Testament and much of the Old Testament while being a featured speaker at conferences around the world. John and his wife Patricia have been married for over sixty years and have four children, fifteen grandchildren, and five great-grandchildren.

The Seventh Slam - A new collection of poems

 In November of 2023 eighteen young poets, students at The Masters University, took part in the seventh annual Charles Miller poetry slam. The evening was hosted at the Powell Library and the master of ceremonies was Bob Dickson. As curator I collected the nearly fifty submitted poems in this anthology, which cover a broad range of topics and will serve as an encouragement to other budding authors.

The book is available on Amazon here: The Seventh Slam

It will be interesting to see what these young poets accomplish in the years ahead!

Will Alister Begg Recant?

Neil asking John MacArthur the critical question  at a Q and A with John MacAthur 

- What would you advise your flock John

 

I was saddened recently to hear that a much loved and respected Scottish preacher, Alister Begg, had driven off the road, had given some contraversial and mistaken advice to a lady who had a thorny question about whether she should attend her granddaughter's wedding to a transgender partner.

John MacArthur has finally weighed in on the Alistair Begg Controversy with his first public statements. He was asked by me about it during a Question and Answer session at Grace Community Church. MacArthur was gracious in what he said regarding Alistair Begg and his ministry but made his position known boldly and clearly. John MacArthur differs strongly with Alistair Begg  …

John's loving answer pointed out that we should not judge anyone by there weakest moment, he has been a good friend to Alister for forty five years.

We therefore ask you to pray for Alister recant.

See the video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9jy7e0UfZjs

Reflecting On Time

With Dwight Yoakam at the Jim Henson Recording Studios

It has been an interesting week that has given me pause to reflect on how best to use every minute of each day. On Monday evening  I was practicing my harmonica with the Cross Eyed Boys, the band who play for Men Of The Word, Brad Klassen's Bible study that meets on Wednesday evenings at Grace Community Church. On Tuesday I was out at The Masters University in the laboratory as an Adjunct Professor teaching anatomy to a score of Biology students.  We were focusing on the axial skeleton, one of my favourite subjects, and especially the skull. I took the oportunity to bring is a brilliant dissection so that they could all see the teeth and the ossicles.  At luncheon in the Mustang Grill I met Ken Mays again who kindly gave me his new CD of his collection of his jazzy arrangements of Christmas music. Ken has retired and the collection represents a life of devotion to music and teaching it.

See Below - Death's Castle

Now on Wednesday I was in Practice at my new professional home with Dr Eric Donaty DMD on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. What a joy to interact and work with this Tufts-trained master of his craft. I have occasion to reflect on my first landing in America at Logan Airport on an exchange scholarship to Tufts in 1972. 

On Wendesday evening I played with the band, and before the formal instruction on Ecclesiastes, "Life Outside The Garden", Dr. Klassen brought Brian Jolley up and asked us to pray for him as he has been diagnosed with stage four liver cancer. Perhaps you will also offer up a prayer. None of know when we will be called, and how quickly our pursuits will be forgotten.

Dr Brad prays for Brian

Now on Thursday I was back in practice and received an invitation to watch an album being recorded. After many month of concerts and recordings Dwight Yoakam is putting the finishing touches to his new Country album, and I was able to actually enter the lot that I have known only to drive by for many years as "A and M Records" which then still bore the statue of Charlie Chaplin the studio's founder, but now has Kermit the Frog as an effigy of Chaplin. The studios are amazing, and we were in the same space where the Carpenters and Carole King had made their recordings, as back up vocals were being laid down for what promises to be a hit album. Dwight is having his dreams come true as he polishes up his gifts with this blessed comeback. I pray I can use my time as well.

Here is a reflection you may enjoy:

 Death’s Castle

I had this architectural evaluation of the skull published in the Guy's Hospital Gazette. Poets abounded at Guy's.  After all, Keats was a medical student there.

Dusty chinks, caverns and pale walls,

Life once enclosed has gone from your halls,

And now below parapets pitted and brown

Hollow blank crypts are staring down.

By flying buttresses they are shored

Their socketed senses now are flawed.

Unsealed vault and arching dome

Where frail haunting spirits roam,

Thy bleached facade's a reminder grim

Death's mask to our kith and kin.

Cold afront horrid to behold,

Yet no horror in the thin walls old,

For silence lurks behind the pall

The mark of time now past recall.

Men shelter their brows at your ghastly sight,

Their eyes are sightless, blind, not bright,

They see not the words by the temple light.

And speaking not of their chiefest dread,

Their tongues are lost in a damp, mute bed,

By the falsehood of unspoken words they're led.

Turning their heads they hear not the song,

Their muffled ears deaf to the gong,

Unhearing their pitiful state they prolong.

Their chosen deception filtering out,

The musk of spoor-odor you leave about,

And all life's sweet perfumes they know not to doubt.

I have it now, sight, sound and all,

Dull smell of relapse in the room where you fall.

Now halted life's kernel, a once bitter taste,

No longer strikes chords of fear and waste.

My eyes, not blind, have shown me the path,

A new mind accepting your wrath.

Low barred dungeon whose stone is rolled,

The secrets of wisdom for us now unfold.

Soft whispers of truth which fill the air

Mask the trumpeter sounding there.

The crunch of the marching step is dull,

All is seen, I gaze on the skull. 

Live Not By Lies

 We all know, we can all see that our country and our culture is falling apart. The fulfilment of the biblical prophetic predictions are occuring before our eyes and tragically the vast majority of the population are either silent or do not care to question what is happening. They are decieved into accepting or thinking that it is all a part of progress;  that it is all for the good, for the benefit of all and they are wrong, dead wrong.

If you have been shocked by the wokeness that we are seeing transition into an accepted way of life, if you have found a favorite book that has been rewritten with wording the the author never wrote, if you feel that you are being taxed  to pay for causes that you do not believe in you are not alone, but you may be a part of a small but important significant minority - and your voice is not being heard unlike eveyone elses.

Then you must read this book "Live Not By Lies" by Rod Dreher

Lala Salama

 

I was born in Oxford. From the age of four, until eleven, I grew up in Kenya, East Africa. My father had been recruited by his former commanding officer to come and work in the colony, and my mother followed him out with us children, my brother and sisters. We did not really know what our Dad was doing in Kenya, but we certainly had an interesting life. We hunted for the pot and lived up country where there was no electricity or refrigeration.

It was not until I was sitting in the hot tub in Laurel Canyon, Los Angeles, with my father, and when I had asked him, "Do you remember the first time I saw a dead body?" That started a conversation that would begin to reveal what my father was really doing in the colony in the 1950's.

The title Lala Salama mean "sleep peacefully", a Swahili blessing. As children we slept in many places and so the words are chosen to refer to the many changes that occured in our lives. 

My mother worked at many jobs to support us after she and our father seperated. One of them was as corresponding secretary for Carr Hartley, the white hunter and international game exporter.  The cover shows our mother holding the cheetah Rita.

As this book unfolds it reveals the nature of our lives in a British colony at the zenith and end of the colonial era, it answers the question of what my father was really doing in Kenya. It also explains why we had such interesting pets.

Neil with a lion cub in Rumuruti.

You can see a list of my book titles on the website https://neilmcleodbooks.com/

My Wife's Dog and Other Stories

Many years ago, after my father passed away, I received a sheaf of carbon copied typed stories which he had written in the 1950's after he was posted to Kenya.  He had nearly finished his degree at Merton, Oxford and was honing his skills under the tutelage of the London School of Journalism. Well I have finally transcribed them, and had some help editing them and here they are. If you get a chance to read them do let me know what you think.  Here with thanks to Philip Watt for his editorial eye are thirty nine new stories and impressions each with its own twist at the end, and I hope you enjoy them.

The book is available on Amazon in digital and hard or soft copy: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BQ9J8F5D/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=

Do take a look at my book website:https://neilmcleodbooks.com/

Daniel's Blessing

A New Christmas Poem 

Here is a wrinkle on the Christmas message that you may not have yet tied together, the part played by the prophet Daniel in securing the safety of the Holy Family, and ensurung that the prophesies were all fulfilled. It is in my Christmas Poems book

Daniel’s Blessing

A Christmas Story

Daniel was a wise man, he lived in Babylon city

Watered by the Euphrates with hanging gardens pretty.

And ruled by the most powerful kings, whom God had raised to show

His chosen people, Israel, what they should do and know.

Those kings within their royal courts had councilors who knew

The meaning of the heavenly lights and ancient writings too.

And it was Daniel who was saved by God in the lions’ den

Who rose to be the leader of all the king’s wise men.

He added to their catalogue the Jewish Scriptural lore

So they could see the proof in the prophesies before.

Subsequent generations of scholars would retain

An expectation of fulfilment of predictions that remain

Now, they had known for many years a new King would arise,

They knew that there would be a sign before He lived and died.

Jeremiah prophesied that seventy years would pass 

Before the exiles could return back to Judea at last.

From those ranks of scholars we were marked to bring

Royal gifts and homage to God’s incarnate King,

And we remained in readiness to reach across the sand

Bringing praise to the arrival in that far off land.

People call me Gaspar tradition lends this name

Same for Melchior and Balthazar but these we do not claim,

We traveled all together from what was Babylon,

And it was to Judea that we had come and gone. 

It was by Daniel’s haptids that we could tell the date,

And so we crossed seven hundred miles to reach Jerusalem’s gate.

The  Angel Gabriel brought the message that gave that prophet his ken,

Sent by the God of Jacob above all gods of men.

So when we saw the heavenly sign shine brightly in the sky

We prepared to journey forth my Magi brothers and I.

From our mountain sanctuary where books and treasure were stored

We gathered up the gifts to take as homage to the Lord.

Our road was clear before us although we traveled far

For constantly above us we saw the guiding star.

And after many weeks of trials from whence we sallied forth

We passed through the Damascus gate, entering from the north.

There we enquired of all we met “Where is the new born king?”

And we were quite astonished none could tell us a thing.

So we went to Herod’s palace envisioning he would know,

But our questions caused great anguish and pacing to and fro.

Herod summoned up his own wise men and asked them to explain,

Then they remembered Micah quoting Bethlehem by name.

Before we ventured on our way Herod asked us privately,

“To go and find the child and then bring back the news to me!”

Going on we saw the star that drew us, and as we went

In a dream God warned us of King Herod’s fell intent.

We traveled with great haste and joy and gratitude untold,

Bearing presents fit for a king, myrrh, frankincense and gold.

It seemed as if the heavenly light drew us to the site

Hovering just above their home guiding us that night.

Humbly and with wonder we bowed on entering 

Reverently we stooped in worship to the new born King.

Finally after centuries the prophesies were fulfilled

With all the signs and wonders just as God had willed

With their Davidic heritage and here the virgin birth

We had the confirmation that Messiah had come to earth

Carefully we each untied the packages we bore

Preparing to surrender the treasures in our store,

Before the holy infant we each knelt and gave a gift,

Then we left another way leaving Herod short shrift.

Daniel’s prophetic blessing informed us when to ride,

To come and pay our homage and for their needs provide,

And guided by an angel they packed and fled that night,

We too departed breaking ranks, slipping off and out of sight.

To the south went Joseph with Mary and the babe

Crossing through the desert, thus King Herod’s plan evade.

So the prophesy was fulfilled “Out of Egypt I call my son”,

The humble family was preserved, our blessed work was done.

Amen

Other books by Neil Stewart McLeod

https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B099D9Q2Z6/allbooks?ingress=0&visitId=1365b0eb-42fb-4f98-b15b-ed87d95e40d9&store_ref=ap_rdr&ref_=ap_rdr

Eric and the Wolves

 

Wolves Attack by Afanasij Sheloumoff with permission

This wonderful old story was told to me when I was a small boy by my great aunt "Kitty", the daughter of Henry Clutton the architect. She would read to us from a lovely collection of books seeding at an early age in all of us children and appreciation for good stories. The poem is published in the book "A Shell In My Pocket"

There are many tales of valor

That fill out history’s pages,

They touch our hearts when they are told

And ring down through the ages.

The Russian snows have many woes

That only courage resolves,

Not least the tale that will not pale

Of Eric and the wolves.

Eric was a Cossack lad

Who loved his master dearly.

He loved his mistress and their children

One could see that clearly.

At their lovely country manse

Through summer and the fall

Eric did the chores and errands

At their beck and call.

And should the day be fair and dry

He might take the children riding,

Down to the river’s shaded rills

Where sturgeon might be hiding.

Towards the end of autumn

When leaves come flittering down,

They start to think of closing up

And driving back to town.

Their route was through the forest

Then across the barren waste

To reach the gates of Rostock,

For safety they made haste.

That year the snows came early,

So Eric went out to the barn

To prepare the troika sled

For their safe return.

The family’s trunks and travel chests

Were tied to the luggage rack,

The lunch boxes and comfy throws

Stowed neatly in the back.

The horses had been watered,

Hitched up with buckle and lash,

And the whip and trusty Mosin

Were set beside the dash.

With doors and windows bolted

And house closed for the freeze,

They climbed up on the well stuffed seat

With blankets on their knees.

Eric was the driver,

At the reins he took his seat

With “walk on” the dunga bells

Went chinging to the beat

As off they go a trotting,

Trot trot trotting through the snow,

Each horse with a breast collar

And one with shafts and bow.

The side steeds at the canter

As they slip down the lane,

Past the fields to the forest

Heading back to town again.

Morning still was early,

The sun was on the rise,

On the ridge as they go trotting on

A group of wolves he spies.

With a “Trot Hup” Eric was singing

And the donga bells were chinging

“Troika here, troika there, 

To the town and to the fair,

Troika here, troika there 

Leather stuffed with horses hair,

Troika here , troika there, 

Omsk is just a bit too far.

Troika here, Troika there, 

Long live our beloved Tzar.”

As he sang they gained the forest

Slipping down the narrow lane

Past the naked stands of trees

Heading back to town again.

But still he saw them prowling,

And then they started howling

Howling and a prowling 

Keeping pace upon the brow.

The family members feared 

As the growing danger neared,

And the father armed the Mosin

As he could see them now.

“Trot hup” demanded Eric 

As he slapped upon the reins

And the horses strode on faster

And the blood pulsed in their veins.

Running then and galloping 

They’d picked up the pace,

The yapping wolves in a pack

Started to give chase.

On they came and closer

And the master took his time,

Barrel on the seat back

He waited for a line.

Finally the lead dog 

Was nearly on the sleigh

Then crack the forest rattled 

The wolf yelped in dismay.

The pack paused in their gambit,

They broke to make review

But in a trice a second beast

Took up pursuit anew.

On they came and quickly

The horses were at risk,

A second shot rang out but oh!

Misfortune, for it missed.

The third round hit the target

At which the whole pack reared,

They had now learned that gun shots

Were something to be feared.

But though they faltered and held back,

Some others on the hill

Were calling to each other

And chasing with a will.

Down they leapt together

Attacking from the side,

Eric snapped his whip

And it became a wild ride.

The horses now were frantic

Their breath steamed in the air,

The first wolf leapt, the rifle cracked 

And stopped it then and there.

The rest dropped back sniff him, 

For a moment there was doubt,

There were only two rounds left

In magazine and spout.

The team kept charging forwards

In fear they made haste,

Before them was the forest edge

And then the barren waste.

Faintly in the distance

Could be seen the Rostock walls

With its gaudy mechet steeples

And the safety of its halls.

Onward ever onward

They surge across the plain

But leaping on relentlessly

The wolves catch up again.

“Here take the reins.” cried Eric

To his master in the back

“Let me try to fend them off

When they next attack.”

So switching their positions

Eric manned the rear

Waiting till the lead was close

And the shot was clear.

Then crack the rifle echoed

The target fell away

Slowing the accomplices

Faltering in dismay.

In a trice they rallied

As fervent as before,

Leaping forwards through the snow

Gaining more and more.

Once close enough and sighted

The rifle gave its crack

But that demise did not deter

The others in attack.

Reaching for reinforcements

Eric seized the whip

Lashing out repeatedly

He made them feel its tip.

Each snap sent one yelping

As its snout was slashed,

But threats did not diminish 

For on the others dashed.

The horses were the target

As wolves came from the rear,

So Eric clambered up to

Ride postilion without fear,

Thrashing to the left and right

He kept the beasts at bay,

But some thing different must be done

If he’s to save the day.

Now half way across the plain

Eric knew what it would take,

The foes would need distracting

If they were to reach the gate.

Should a horse be taken down

It can’t be cut away,

The sleigh would stop and nothing

Could keep the wolves at bay.

So Eric jumped and ran off

With the whip in hand

Instantly the pack gave chase

Just the way he planned. 

He turned on them to stand his ground

The wolves leapt on to him.

While the troika got away

They tore him limb from limb.

The watchers on the Rostock gate

Could hear the dunga ching,

They gave the signal of alarm 

To let the travelers in.

The moment that they entered

The gates were then secured

Saving horses and the troika

And the family Eric adored.

There are many tales of valor

That fill out history’s pages,

They touch our hearts when they are told

And ring down through the ages.

The Russian snows have many woes

That only courage resolves,

Not least the tale that will not pale

Of Eric and the wolves.

Continuing the tradition - Burns Night

 

The Tam O'Shanter Restaurant in Los Angeles has been serving wonderful meals for their patrons for one hundred years. For the last forty two of them Dr. Neil McLeod has been "Slaying the Haggis" in style with a blade named Haggis Slayer, that must have slain more Haggis than any other blade in Chistendom, although the Guiness Book of World Records declined to print it. With pipes and drum and a dancer the the diners are regaled with Robert Burns' Address To A Haggis in taditional Scots style.  The proof of it is here in the video so click away.

Earlier slayings can be evidenced here: https://www.losfelizledger.com/article/a-good-auld-time-burns-night-at-the-tam-oshanter/  

and here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wCWY33-trEY

and here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pX3Z09bcluw

Los Angeles Daily News: https://www.dailynews.com/2018/01/24/why-the-hottest-party-in-l-a-celebrated-a-long-gone-scottish-poet/

La Weekly : https://www.laweekly.com/burns-supper-celebrating-a-scottish-poetry-legend-with-whisky-and-sheep-innards/

Ngong the Giant

 The best news this Christmas season is from my dear friend Jim Covell who has been working on the soundtrack for our latest collaboration "The Legend of the Giant Ngong".  He has finished the album and it is being released on cdbaby and will be on iTunes and Amazon. The book that accompanies is beautifully illustrated by Sue Hooper-Laurie and is available on Amazon and elsewhere.

https://open.spotify.com/album/0icnuiMDXExpj4Zb2sMx8P?si=Qa3dMGZ_QEiak8zNlgCXHA&nd=1

The book is available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Legend-Ngong-Giant-Maasai-Tale/dp/1500737615?

L.A. Blue - new poems

Nothing to do with Covid, this new book of poems is all about Los Angeles as it was, and hopefully will be again.  Filled with little nuances which you may not have known about or even thought about, these poems tell little secrects about the city of angles. Los Angeles will change you forever, you may not notice it at first, but one's perspective is altered. Here are some things to think about!

If you want to know how Farmers Market got started, or what the Hollywood sign used to say then you should take a peek inside.  There is even an explanatin of how Forest Lawn became a funeral park.

It was a busy year trying to make use of the openings in my practice schedule which seemed like Swiss cheese.  But working with Sue Hooper Lawrie really moved the writing schedule forwards. The idea of a book of poems just about LA began a long time ago, but finally there was enough material to pull together so here it is:

https://www.amazon.com/s?k=LA+Blue+poems+by+Neil+Stewart+McLeod&ref=nb_sb_noss 

Blue sky every day

In sunny Los Angeles

An endless summer

At the Huntington Library
 

Paul Washer and Men Of The Word

 

Last night, April 21st, at Grace Community Church, 815 men sat under the instruction of our guest speaker, Paul Washer when he taught from 1st Corrinthians. His subject was God's call to young men, who need to "act like Men".  The discussion afterwards with Dr Brad Klassen (left) and Paul Washer (right) was moderated by Josh Petras(our high school pastor).

Men from seven to ninty four attended and were exaulted to take the lead and follow their God given responsibility to lead heir families inspite of fear.

The discussion will be continued when at the men's event this coming Saturday morning, April 24th, we expect 2000 men to attend when our subject will be "Not of This World"

The event is free, is at 8:00 a.m. and we invite all men to join us for a time of exhortaion, admonition and encouragement.

You can reserve a space here https://www.gracechurch.org/forms/829

Not of This World

When challenged about the world’s influence in our lives, most of us respond dismissively. We are quick to denounce the perverted trends of the culture and highlight our participation in the church. We may even sport a bumper sticker that declares, “not of this world.”

Yet worldliness is far more subtle than we often recognize, and this is precisely what makes it so dangerous. It thrives among those ignorant of its threats and naïve about its schemes, who think worldliness can be identified merely by sight, or mortified by a simple list of “dos and don'ts"—or the display of a bumper sticker.

The gravity of this problem is illustrated in the commands given by the writers of the New Testament. The Apostle Paul had to urge the believers in Rome to “not be conformed to this world” (Romans 12:2). He exhorted the Colossian church to set their minds “on the things above, not on the things that are on earth” (Colossians 3:2) and reminded the Philippian believers that “our citizenship is in heaven” (Philippians 3:20). John stated it bluntly, “Do not love the world nor the things in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him” (1 John 2:15).

The very fact that the writers of the New Testament address the topic of worldliness with reminders and warnings illustrates that even saints are prone to love the world. If this was a problem in their day, it is no less a problem in ours. As much as ever, we are in need of biblical reminders and warnings. We cannot afford to be ignorant. Therefore, this year’s Men of the Word event will focus on the problem of worldliness: how to identify its subtle features, how to mortify it, and how to cultivate tis antithesis—a life resolutely focused on Christ.

We invite all men to recognize the clear and present danger and join us on Saturday morning, April 24, for a time of exhortation, admonition, and encouragement.

Livestream of the event will be available at gracechurch.org/live.

An Easter Poem - The triumphal Entry

The Folded Palm

from the book "When The Spirit Moves"

John 12 ,“Fear not, daughter of Zion; behold, your King is coming sitting on a donkey’s colt.”  Dr. William Varner who teaches at The master's University contends that it was on a Monday that the Lord entered into Jerusalem, not a Sunday

I keep a palm leaf in my bible

It’s folded and plaited and dry,

It reminds me of when the palm fronds waved

In profusion as Jesus rode by.

It reminds me of that fateful day

When the fickle crowd faltered and failed

Turning from frantic welcomes

To denials, in the court where they railed.

“Hosanna”, they called as He rode in

“Hosanna” they cried out with zeal,

“Blessed is He that comes in the name

Of the Lord, King of Israel”.

How quickly their attitude altered,

As the Pharisees looked on with scorn.

How deep and complete their denials

When the trials were done with the dawn.

The Pharisees saw as He rode in

On a donkey, the Scripture fulfilled,

And they plotted within their jealous hearts

How the Son of Man would be killed.

How sad Jesus was when He saw them,

For He knew every thought, every plan.

He could see how the crowd would reject Him,

And desert Him to a man.

I ask myself if I’d deny Him

Had I been in the crowd long ago.

For even Peter who loved Him,

Denied Him, three times in a row.

He rode through the crowds on a donkey,

Anointed, the Paschal Lamb

He gave His life so that I might live

 - Sinner that I am.

So I keep a palm leaf in my bible.

It’s folded and plaited and dry.

It reminds me of when the palm fronds waved

In profusion as Jesus rode by.

It reminds me that He died for me

That He came to atone for our sin,

So that my poor soul might be saved

And on the last day welcomed in. 

 

A recording of this poem with music by James Covell is available on Spotify and iTunes

https://music.apple.com/us/album/when-the-spirit-moves/1411054434

Out On A Limb: Building a Tree House

 In 2003 a start was made finding a way build a tree house in the stone pine on the hill in our garden.  It took eleven months. It is hard to imagine that anyone would not want to have a tree house in their back yard if they had the chance. It would be a place for children to get out of the house, a quiet hideaway to sit and write a poem, or extra sleeping quarters for stay-over guests who want to try hammocks. Perhaps even a sweet heart get away where you could tell someone you love them.

Here with sequential photographs is a record of how our tree house was built, set out in a way that is instructive and easy to understand. After sixteen years the structure has stood the test of time.

The book is available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1496158814?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860

A Traditional American Thanksgiving Poem

 

It is with great joy that I write to tell you that the Thanksgiving poem have been illustrated by Sue Hooper-Lawrie and is now available in the stores in time for the holiday.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08HQ6DX7B?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860

Please write a review!

Take a look at a few of her wonderfully colorful drawings, and share them with the family and your friends.

Giving Thanks!

Welcoming the Wampanoags!

Saying farewell to the "Mayflower"

A Shell In My Pocket

 People tell me stories, I like that!  Every now and then I am so struck by the tale that I have to write it down and take, you might even say steal, the idea and after juggling with the notions a poem appears. “The Licorice Store”, “Maddie’s Ring” and “The Stamp On The Cow” are good examples.  None of us write in isolation, we are dependent upon others, so many others. This anthology of new poems is dedicated to all those people whose stories are captured on these pages.  It contains stories that I struggled to write over many years but lacked the inspiration.  The longer poems like “Eric and The Wolves” , “After The Storm” and the “Saga of Harald Hardrada” fall into this category.

The book is available on Amazon, and I hope to make an album with James Covell.

Take a look on Amazon:https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08HP6VVQ9?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860 

Here is the cover title:

A Shell In My Pocket

I went down to the sea today

To the ceaseless sea and the sand,

Where waves churned out across the shore

And its breath poured out on the land.

My mind was filled with the thrill of the call

Of memories endless rhyme,

And all I need is the song on the air

And a shell in my pocket and time.

The sound of each wave pouring in

As the last wave whispers away,

Produces the music on the air

An unending sibilant sway,

And the smell and the sound and the sight of the sea

Stretching out to the edge of the sky,

And its breath on my skin is all I need

As time goes silently by.

The shell in my pocket reminds me when

I stooped on the shore and the sand,

Of a time gone by like an ebbing tide

When I plucked it up with my hand,

And the sun in the sky when its arc was high

Before tumbling down to the west,

And the hours that have flown like the life I’ve known

When the shell in my pocket is pressed.

The Names of the Days

 Sue Hooper Lawrie and I have been busy, and here is our new collaboration. Available on Amazon our book about how the names for the weekdays got the names we call them is out for you to enjoy. Take a look and if you like what you se please go to the link and write us a nice review, please!
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1511593970?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860

The drawings are delightful and have a memorable quality which will help us to recall the story behind each name. The sorrowful Friyja seen here gives her name to Friday.

As do a number of Norse deities for Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Only Saturday retains the original Latin name.