Miracles Among Us

My lesson this morning was on the miracle in John chapter 6, when Jesus fed the multitude from just some fish & bread.

Most of us in the church are enthralled with the subject of miracles. Miracles fascinate and excite us in the church today. That we have a copy of the Bible tucked under our arm is far greater than any miracle that took place in the Old Testament. The natural world abounds with things we have taken for granted.Take for instance a seed, planted in the ground. All the appearance of the dead and buried, yet in the process of time springs up out the ground, resembling a ressurection of sorts. We see this daily and yet fail to recognize the miracle we behold. 

Take an example of the astounding technology we simply view as commonplace: computers and smart phones, such incredibly sophisticated technology. And yet. We can take a computer or smart phones, bury them in the ground like a seed … and nothing will happen. No developing root structure extracting nutrients from the soil. No sprout breaking the surface. No leaves taking carbon and oxygen from the air around us. No sunlight harnessed by chlorophyll, taking in energy to split molecules, and rearrange them to form glucose. No incredible leaf structure with stomata to allow air within, andf yet knows when to open and close to regulate just the right amount of water moisture from the air to produce chlorophyll and and glucose. Nothing happens. The most vaunted technology of the future can do this, what only a ‘simple’ seed can do.

Nothing happens. Sophisticated electronic circuits and components degrade. No life follows.

You cannot do this in a test tube. Not in a laboratory. 

Take off your shoes. Dig a hole in the ground. Plant your bare feet and cover them with soil. Fertilize and water the soil you have planted yourself in. And nothing happens.Stretch out your your arms to the sky. Stare into the sun. Take in the carbon and the oxygen and the moisture. Manufacture the complex molecules of chlorophyll. Produce your own glucose. Grow tall and strong.

Perhaps the neighbors may become curious?

A seed. Life. These raw, ‘simple’ chemical compounds are all dictated by a complex set of instructions contained in a DNA structure that directs this curious orchestra of living things.

We are a surrounded by miracles we only assume to be ordinary.

The men of John chpater 6 are astounded to see the miracle of bread and fish that fed many. They resort to take Jesus by force and make him king.

And then, suddenly, he is gone. Over to the other side of the sea of Tiberius. Galilee. 

They pursue. Not for the teaching, but for the miracle of food they could see. Not for the things they could not ‘see’. Blinded by the natural, unable to see the supernatural. 

How easy it is to overlook the spiritual.

Controversy. The miracle they partake of they cannot deny. But Jesus doesn’t stop at the obvious. He bridges the natural to venture to the supernatural. 

He declares a controversial truth. ” I am the bread of life.” I am come down from heaven. My Father sent me. He that believes on me has everlasting life. 

Immediately the natural mind rebels against the supernatural aspect. 

Our fathers gave us manna, they  retort. We ate manna in the wilderness. 

He is the true manna, sent from God. It is Christ who gives life. 

The natural mind is repulsed by such a thought. How dare this man tell us such, the audacity of this teacher! 

So readily they accept the miracle of bread and fish. Of full bellies and the comfort food brings. To declare, I am the living bread which came down from heaven? Scandalous!

Doth this offend you?

From that time many of his disciples turned away.

Able to grasp on truth, unable to grasp another.

Believe on me, he answers!

But the flesh profits nothing. The words he speaks, these are eternal and these are life.

How many today reject that which they cannot see or comprehend from that which must rest solely upon faith.

Many turned back. 

Will ye also go away?

Will you?

Move Over, Elijah

Save me a spot under the juniper tree.

I walked into church this morning tired and a little glum. The day after Vacation Bible School always feels like the crash after a rodeo. All the energy, creativity, and adrenaline we harnessed to transform the fellowship hall into a bustling western town has disappeared. Now comes the cleanup.

The meticulously crafted storefronts, the painted backdrops, the props that made the place feel alive—every bit of it waits to be taken down. The inspiration that carried us for three wonderful days has drifted away like a tumbleweed on the prairie.

Sigh.

Oh, the mess.

Then I remembered the wisdom of Proverbs:

“Where no oxen are, the crib is clean: but much increase is by the strength of the ox.”
—Proverbs 14:4 (KJV)

So, I suppose I’m thankful for the mess.

No mess means no eager children stormed the church like a band of pint-sized marauders—plundering, pillaging, and ransacking every activity while leaving behind the unmistakable evidence of laughter, excitement, and joy.

Was it worth it?

We don’t know the full answer yet. Seeds planted in young hearts often take years to bear fruit. But we do know this:

“But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”
—Matthew 19:14 (KJV)

“Suffer” is an unfortunate word to modern ears, but the King James translators captured something profound. Ministry often involves a little suffering—not the suffering of tragedy, but the willing expenditure of time, energy, patience, and love for the sake of others.

The hot dogs and buns are gone. The endless cups of Kool-Aid, the chicken nuggets, and the chocolate chip cookies—gone. The construction paper cutouts, the crafts, the broken crayons—gone.

The glitter?

Well… the glitter remains.

Not in the little plastic tubes it came in, but permanently embedded in the carpet, where it now sparkles like a clear night sky.

Monday morning arrives with a sigh—half resignation, half relief. Back to work, where we are no longer the creative geniuses who transformed the church into the Wild West. We’re simply ordinary people returning to ordinary routines.

The VBS hangover will linger for days. Taking down the General Store, the Bank, and the Town Jail will be more drudgery than delight. We’ll carefully box everything away until next summer.

And somewhere between folding cardboard storefronts and sweeping glitter from the floor, I find myself thinking about Elijah.

After the great victory on Mount Carmel came the great letdown. Fire fell from heaven, the people cried, “The LORD, he is the God; the LORD, he is the God.” Yet before long, Elijah was running for his life. The excitement faded. The opposition remained. The revival he longed for seemed to flicker and disappear.

He finally found himself sitting beneath a juniper tree, weary, discouraged, and convinced he had failed.

But God did not leave him there.

Instead, He gently called His exhausted servant to rise, eat, and continue the journey. God still had work for Elijah to do. His purposes had not ended beneath the shade of that lonely tree.

Perhaps every season of intense ministry is followed by a season of folding chairs, packing boxes, sweeping floors, and wondering whether any of it made a lasting difference.

But the work has never been ours to measure.

It is God’s work.

He is still planting seeds. He is still changing hearts. He is still calling little children unto Himself.

And He is not finished yet.

My Computer Thinks I’m an Idiot

…And Maybe I am?!

Join Jim as he has another meltdown turned rant at technology that makes him feel stupid! Fasten your seatbelts for another wild ride on the technology merry-go-round. Caution: Therapy may be required. The author is not responsible for any side effects — including sudden outbursts at innocent laptops, existential crises at 2 a.m., or the overwhelming urge to throw your mouse across the room.

You ever sit down at your desk, full of cautious optimism, only to have your computer stare back at you like you’re the village idiot who just wandered into the cockpit of a 747? Yeah, that’s my life lately. One minute I’m trying to do something as simple as attach a file or update a driver, and the next, the screen is mocking me with cryptic error codes that look like they were written by a sadistic alien who failed creative writing.

I swear, the tech nerds did this on purpose. They couldn’t just make things work—no, they had to layer on updates, patches, “intuitive” interfaces that require a PhD in frustration, and those helpful little pop-ups that say “Did you mean…” as if I’m some drooling caveman who accidentally clicked the wrong button. Meanwhile, I’m over here having an existential crisis: Am I really this dumb, or did they design it to make me feel this way?

Cue the angst. Hours wasted on hold with support (who sound like they’re reading from a script written in 1998), rebooting for the seventh time, and questioning every life choice that led me to this glowing rectangle of betrayal. The irony? I depend on this thing for everything—work, bills, even complaining about it online—yet it treats me like its personal punching bag.

Maybe I am an idiot. Or maybe the real idiots are the ones who turned simple computing into a high-stakes obstacle course. Either way, I need help … or therapy!

Tick-Tock Went The Dreadful Clock

Late into the night he types away—determined. And weary. Hunkered over a keyboard, silhouetted by the neon glow of the screen, he labors on. The clock scolds him for not having gone to bed. No one is in the room. Except me—and the cat perched lazily across the desk, a sardonic look plastered across its feline face.

I look at that silhouette in the screen. I look at that silhouette in the screen. The sad but familiar-looking cretin staring back at me is myself.

2 AM. I’m locked in a mortal battle of syntax and grammar. Alternative endings and endless rewrites swirl inside my head.

Why, you ask?

The fierce literary critic that lives in my head was not pleased. Sigh. If only I’d paid more attention in fifth grade. I still see her in my mind, pacing as she dissected our writing assignments with all the skill and tact of a surgeon performing an autopsy. Who, you ask?

Mrs. Frump. She was gaunt—a teetering frame of bones loosely held together by sinew. Those dreadful half-glasses perched on her nose with a long strap. And shoes—big, clunky shoes that clicked and clacked as she paced in front of her students. We stared ahead, expressionless. Glazed-over eyes stared back with all the cerebral awareness of a coconut.

The most time I ever spent on an assignment was the last desperate moments before the bell. I would race against the insidious hands of the large clock on the wall, writing furiously as if seized by a grievous murrain. Tick, tock… it went. A deadpan metronome counting down my sentence. Time has somehow frozen. And then… Riii-iii-iing! The class bell. It jangled noisily, clanging, jolting me back into my grim reality. Time had run out, with no reprieve.

Homework? I seldom turned it in, except late—and then with generous amounts of excuses. Good intentions, it seemed, wilted like dead flowers. Before the assignment? There was still time. Procrastination reigned. At the moment, not a care in the world. Until the assignment was due. The clock. Mrs. Frump’s scowl. My resignation. A perfect trifecta of doom.

The cat’s tail twitches. Where was I? Oh, yes. Back to the present.

I suppose if she knew I fancied myself a writer, routinely staying up to churn out mediocre late-night literary efforts, she would probably snort and laugh hysterically at the irony—spewing Metamucil and applesauce from her nose, her false teeth landing somewhere on the floor with a clatter.

I glance back at the cat, expecting a slow blink of feline indifference. Instead, its golden eyes narrow, and its whiskers seem to stiffen into a rigid, familiar line. For a fleeting, terrifying second, the sardonic smirk shifts. The ears flatten, the jaw sets, and I’m no longer looking at my feline protagonist, but the familiar scowl of Mrs. Frump herself, peering over the rim of invisible half-glasses.Tick, tock. A shudder escapes me. I turn back to the screen and keep typing.

Through The Lattice

Meet the Shulamite girl, keeping her sheep. She is forced to keep the vineyard of her mother’s children, but her own vineyard, she says, have I not kept.

A young Shulamite girl falls in love for a shepherd keeping the flock. They both fall deeply in love. He calls her, “O thou fairest among women.” He is the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys. Among the daugthers, he compares her to a lily among thorns. She says, ” As the apple tree among the trees of the woods, so is my beloved among the sons.”

Her shepherd is mysterious, and soon disappears. She seeks him through the streets, but he is not to be found.

She wakes in the night, seeking and searching for her love.

“Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice: for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely,” she pleads.

“By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him but I found him not. I will rise now and go about the city in the streets, and in the broad way I will seek him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not.”

As she goes about her business, she has a sense someone is watching her. Could it be him? Standing behind the wall, looking forth at the windows, he shews himself through the lattice. Her heart leaps at thought of him. In the secret places of the stairs, her view is obscured.

She yearns to be reunited with her love.

“Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice: for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely.”

She hears him calling, “Arise my love, my fair one, and come way.”

Her companions, the daughters of Jerusalem are jealous of her love for the shepherd. She vividly describes their relationship to them. Searching for him in the streets of Jerusalem in the night, to the watchmen on the wall she asks, “Saw ye him whom my soul loveth?” The daughters of Jerusalem ask, “Whither is thy beloved gone, O thou fairest among women? Wither is thy beoved turned aside that we may seek him with thee?”

As she yearns for her true love, a band of armed men show up in the night to whisk her away. The soldiers have been sent by none other than King Solomon. Torches break through the darkness.

“Who is this that cometh out of the wilderness like pillars of smoke, perfumes with myrhh and frankincense, with all powders of the merchant. Behold his bed which is Solomon’s: threescore valiant men are about it, of the valiant of Israel.They all hold swords, being expert in war: every man hath his sword upon his thigh for fear in the night.”

She has been whisked away to the palace. When she learns she is to be married to the King, she is heart-broken, as she is still in love with the lowly young shepherd. She remembers fondly her true love and the time they spent together.

Imagine her joy when she discovers her true love, the shepherd and the King are the same. Her shepherd is King Solomon!

Coconut Smoothies

Deserted True story—this really happened? Or have I been too long behind the keyboard? Walking along the beach, I discover a bottle washed ashore. Inside: a note.

It read: “Marooned on a deserted island. I turn to writing to keep my sanity. But now the coconuts have rallied a mutiny against me… Those pretentious cretins think they can critique my writing! How dare they?” 

So this much can be substantiated by eyewitnesses. I woke up on the beach, keyboard in hand. My eyes—bloodshot, hair askew, several days’ growth of beard. “Mommy, is that man OK?” asked a child. “Shush, baby. Keep walking!” 

Next to me: that bottle. In my mind, I could hear the cries of mutinous coconuts… Yeah, no more late nights and talking anchovies for me.

Things could be worse. Being chased on a beach by a pack of angry coconuts—OK, I’ve had better days. But who said being a writer was always going to be fun and games!

Fans. Fickle? Oh, yeah! First they love you, then they hate you. But coconuts? I had no idea coconuts could resort to violence... so quickly. It seems they get angry over punctuation. All this over... a semicolon?!

Whrrrr.
Whrrrr—high-pitched, relentless.
The blender.
Silhouetted against the kitchen window.
Me.
A wry smile in the window’s reflection.
Revenge.
How sweet the taste.
Snapped?
Maybe I did.

OK. By now you're sure I'm crazy.
The nice folks at Rehab... they agree.
The straitjacket was a little... snug.
Finally convinced those guys to undo the thing.
"I am not making this up," I told them.
Truth is, I was trying to convince myself.

I think my story just took a sharp left turn. See what you think?
Sanity... is difficult to define. So is crazy.
I may be tottering between the two.
My grasp on mine—may be slipping.
I think?
Am I crazy?
I admit, I’m finding it harder to... convince myself.

Stress does things to a man.
A writer.
That’s what I call myself.
And... desperate.
I could have passed out on a beach.
From drinking. 
And — the coconut that fell on my head during a late-night stroll....
-awkward pause-
The people at rehab — they said I’m making progress.

Progress.
That’s what they call it.
I call it...
-awkward pause-
Tuesday.

Think Small

The more we know, the more vast the unknown becomes. Science, for all its triumphs, is a lantern carried into an endless night: each pool of light it casts only sharpens the darkness beyond.

We pride ourselves on having charted genomes, forces, galaxies, yet every summit reached reveals higher peaks receding into mist. Our proudest theories are sandcastles before an infinite tide.This is not defeat; it is deliverance. To be finite in an infinite cosmos is not a humiliation but a privilege.

Only a small mind can stand at the edge of the sea, feel the chill of water on bare skin, look up at a sky thick with unanswerable stars, and still be moved to speechless wonder. The child who dangles her feet in the shallows is not too little for the ocean; she is precisely the size wonder requires. We will never outgrow our smallness.

And that is a good thing!

Do Atheists Exist?

by Jim Henderson

Jim pretends to be a writer. Jim also pretends to be a deep thinker. Both assertions can be debated, neither can be proven.

Evidence That Demands Controversy

Ah, the atheist! A curious creature who seems to harbor hatred against a being he claims does not exist. How can one hate Someone who isn’t there? Does hating God prove His existence?

If I were grasping for evidence to bolster belief, I’d look no further than the vitriol of His disputers. Yet rather than prolong a debate older than dirt and destined to outlive me, I’d rather ponder another question: Do atheists exist?

Rhetoric, and Other Balls of Inchoate Gas

Before we proceed, a caution to my fellow theists: let’s not dislocate our arms in a self-congratulatory pat on the back just because we believe in God. God may not be impressed merely by our profession of faith.

Every time we debate His existence, creation vs. evolution jumps into the fray. To add confusion without resolving anything: which came first, the chicken or the egg? Alas, we shall never know, because somebody immediately made fried chicken and an omelet.

Random Bits of Nothingness

Forget the Big Bang Theory. I prefer the Rabbit-That-Pulled-Itself-Out-of-a-Hat Theory. Things simply appear! Who needs factories when complex structures self-assemble by random chance and the laws of gravity? Frankly, that’s all the proof I need.

Still, if someone smarter than me disproves my Theory of Incredibly Complex Stuff Arising From Random Chaos, I have a backup: aliens. They explain everything neatly and keep God conveniently out of the picture.

I refuse to believe in Intelligent Design, since I’ve found no statistical correlation between intelligence and modern mankind.

If God doesn’t exist, where did atheists come from? Perhaps they evolved from the same cosmic gases that birthed the universe. According to Stephen Hawking, gravity alone did the job. Quite the promotion for gravity — once known only for knocking apples from trees.

Come to think of it, the less you know about something, the easier it is to take quantum leaps of illogic.

Unintelligent Design

Long ago, when everyone believed in God, things were simple. Then government regulations created theologians, who quickly complicated everything. Scientists joined the fray, and both groups spent centuries proving nothing — except that egg-on-the-face is a universal affliction.

Evolution clearly occurred. The question is: in which direction? The more I observe intelligent man, the more I doubt it’s forward.

Ask Nietzsche…

Nietzsche declared God is dead. Later, Nietzsche died. Shortly thereafter, he found out whether he was right. The rest of us are still waiting for the verdict.

Don’t ask televangelists; after watching them, I’m convinced God has nothing to do with any of those guys.

Meanwhile, educators helpfully classified theology as superstition and mythology. Fortunately, we no longer rely on religious charlatans to dupe humanity — the government and media handle that far more efficiently.

Alternatives to Thinking

If you’re tired of all this, just turn on the TV and let your brain rot in HD. Hollywood kindly provides an alternative to thought: amusement. Thus, centuries of evolutionary progress are undone nightly by news commentary and sitcoms.

The good news? Someday HDTV will plug directly into your occipital lobe, saving you the trouble of finding your remote — or thinking. Maybe they’ll hook up your EEG too; when your brain flatlines, the cable company can just unplug you. Instant healthcare!

Hook up an IV, a catheter, and a defibrillator to your recliner, and you’ll never have to get up again. Until the bill arrives, of course. There goes free medical care.

If you’re cremated and launched into space, at least you’ll get better reception — and maybe a front-row seat for the next Big Bang, assuming they still have enough inchoate gas left over.

Back to Where We Started

Don’t expect God to help prove His own existence; He seems disinclined to participate in the debate. Perhaps the best evidence is simply to live as though belief matters.

Meanwhile, the rational subset of humanity continues congratulating itself on superior logic, certain that “God” is a relic of pre-enlightened minds. Thus we arrive at the only logical conclusion: since God doesn’t exist, neither do atheists. Which brings us neatly back to the beginning.

The Whatever-After

Let’s end the argument once and for all so we can get back to the truly important questions — like Where did I leave my remote?

Logic can only take us in circles. My solution: pick an atheist and a theist, let them play leapfrog until they both join Nietzsche in the Whatever-after. There, Nietzsche can inform them which one was right.

At which point, the entire debate will be moot.

© Jim Henderson

Author Bio

Jim Henderson writes like a man trying to evolve beyond caffeine and sarcasm, with mixed results. His works have appeared in various online publications that have since denied all involvement. When not writing, he can be found contemplating the mysteries of the universe — usually from his recliner.

Bitter Things

On the night of the Passover, at midnight— as the evening turned to morning— they ate their meal in haste. 430 years of bondage ended tonight. They ate in haste, feet shod and staff in hand. The lamb roasted with fire, with unleavened bread. And bitter herbs.

Bitter herbs signified the end of 430 years of bondage. The end of bondage in Egypt. The beginning of a journey to return to their land of promise. Only the Red Sea and the wilderness stood between.

Author: Jim Henderson
Jim Henderson writes reflective and occasionally irreverent pieces exploring faith, irony, and the stubborn persistence of hope. He finds meaning in the margins of ordinary moments — and sometimes, even in the bitter things.

Warriors of the Digital Gridiron

Attention: Sports enthusiasts of the couch variety, those intrepid gladiators of the living room. I speak to the non-contact jocks on the digital gridiron slumped back in their recliners. Yes, you!

Rise up from your recliners! Reclaim your past glory! Venture forth from the living room. Jocks-from-yesteryear, it is time to snatch victory from the jaws of certain defeat. Glory awaits! Your team needs you.

At this very moment, former jocks rise up from their recliners in living rooms across the viewing audience. With a defiant roar, these armchair warriors steel themselves to the fray. Brushing the crumbs from their salsa-stained jerseys, they defiantly jog into the kitchen amid raucous cheers to refill their snacks and beverages-of-choice for the second half. Marching off to battle, to contend with coaches, referees, and sports analysts who desperately need your expertise.