Not for sissies

If the theory of DNA Memory is true, that we genetically carry the footprints of our ancestors, shadows of their cultures, then there are sub-conscious rumblings in my soul and echoes of flutes and drums in my veins that connect me to Ireland .  I close my eyes and see green hills and Maureen O’Hara.

No?  I don’t believe the DNA thing either.  It just sounded good.  According to my European heritage is all of Europe.  Lines weave backward through myriad shire and kingdom finding root through Troy to Goshen back to Abraham himself.

Yet, I feel so much more Irish than say, Prussian or Italian.  That could have something to do with growing up with the surname of Murphy and listening to Dad talking about his Murphy line, who was the immigrant, etc.  Mom also spoke of her Dutch line of sailors.  I just wasn’t that fascinated.  Sorry, Mom.  But, aye now, the Irish, the twinkling eyes, the roguish smiles, the castles, the green shutters and stone fences, the dancing and drums …  much more fun than say, wooden shoes.

We’re watching the Best of Riverdance.  When I emerged from the Celtic store in Gatlinburg last week proudly waving my purchase, my son-in-law chuckled and said “as opposed to the Worst Of?”  After viewing of the Best Of and remembering my experience of the live performance in Minneapolis, I’ve concluded that the Worst Of would look the same.  There is no Worst.

It can only be described as an experience.  You watch, you feel, you meld with it and believe all you have to do is put on the tap shoes and you are one of them.  That night my friend Lisa and I persisted 65 dark miles through winter wind and snow, and froze our fingers and cheekbones walking to the old Minneapolis Theatre.  The stage was wooden, the floors were wooden, the seats creaky and packed close together, barely room to peel off the parkas.

Lisa educated me all the way there on theater behavior.  She studied theater, there is protocol.  There is prescribed pattern.  By first curtain, if theater is a verb, I knew how to.  Then the thunder of steeled toes and heels vibrated through the stage, the floors, the seats and penetrated the bodies.  At the first opportunity to do so, the whole of the audience flew to their feet, shouting, whistling, applauding hard enough to wear on the tendon and joint.  Lisa must have been in theatrical shock but she too rose to her feet eventually, commenting later that she thought she was at a hockey game after a double overtime.

You too can buy the DVD in Dolby, set up the surround sound, crank up the subwoofer, and swim in the magic of Riverdance.  But …. until they’re in front of you on a wooden stage, passionately stomping out their heritage, until you’re watching “by the seat of your pants,” you haven’t felt Riverdance.  If you have that opportunity, you just may hear some Irish in your blood.


The biggest and the best day ever

The Resurrection, the climax to the greatest story ever told.  God created the beauty and comfort of the garden for man.  When Adam and Eve fell, the plot thickened.  As the story unfolded — prophecies, the flood, kings good and bad, cycles of blessings and exiles, obedience and rebellion rolled through the ages — the common thread of promise was woven, that of a savior who would sacrifice Himself for all.

I am going to thoroughly enjoy our Easter Sunday celebration, all the music and the joy.  I think He got out of that tomb immediately after midnight Saturday, that rolling the stone away and posting the angels was for the benefit of those who came to the tomb at dawn.  I think the shroud is what they say it is, that being a proud Dad, God took a picture of his kid on His graduation from death to life.  I think Yeshua greeted his disciples with a huge grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye — hugs all around, tears flowing freely, maybe even uncontrolled fist bumps and air leaps.  I’m going to celebrate this holiday with all I’ve got in me!

But we’re missing a few things after 17 centuries of dilution, religious wars, distortion and antisemitism.

The feasts given to Moses in the wilderness were the pattern of how that promise first mentioned just prior to the expulsion from the garden would be fulfilled both in the coming of the sacrificial lamb which we celebrate now and that of the victorious conqueror, soon to come again.

This year I attended Passover with my Messianic Jewish friends.  They set it a day early as Yeshua did that fateful year of His sacrifice, knowing He’d be “busy” on the cross as the real and final lamb precisely when lambs were being slaughtered in the temple.  Passover is the 14th of Nissan also known as Aviv.  That year it fell on the Sabbath, sundown on Friday, explaining the hurry to get Jesus’ body in the borrowed tomb late that afternoon.

Our Church traditions have disconnected from the Passover with both the Roman calendar based on the sun (they were sun worshipers) and by renaming His Passover celebration exclusively as The Last Supper.  By doing so, we come away with only bread and wine, still a beautiful sacrament.  We’ve even diluted the wine part of that last feast of Passover by interpreting His statement that He would not drink of the cup again until He returned, as a teaching against all kinds of alcohol consumption.  Instead He was referring to the fourth cup of the Passover feast.

We’ve lost a vast amount of value and blessing by obliterating our Judaic roots without considering Yeshua’s Jewishness and that He followed all the customs and feasts as did the first century believers. Want to know how that happened?  Here’s an excerpt from this:

Passover, which fell on the 14th day of the month of Nisan, always fell on a full moon. Some Christians, principally those in the East, known as the Quartodecimians, thought Easter, too, should always fall on the 14th day of the lunar month, which was, by definition, the full moon, since the month started at the new moon. Others thought Easter should always fall on a Sunday, since that was the original Resurrection Day. This led to conflict: One reason to convene the Nicene Council was to prevent the resulting, threatened schism.

The Council decreed Easter to be the first Sunday after the Full Moon following the Spring Equinox, March 21, unless that Full Moon fell on a Sunday (in which case Easter would be the following Sunday).

In addition to the perfectly reasonable desire to keep the memorial on the same day of the week as Christ’s Resurrection, there were other, ignoble motives for separating the Christian celebration from the Jewish holy day. In his letter to those not at the Nicene Council, the Emperor Constantine spells out some of what we would refer to as anti-semitism:

“Let us then have nothing in common with the detestable Jewish crowd; for we have received from our Saviour a different way.”
– Eusebius The Life of Constantine

Other Reasons for Easter’s Date

The dating of Easter could have been intended to include pagans rather than exclude Jews. it would be fitting for Constantine, as a sun-worshiping pagan, to have selected the vernal equinox, representing the rebirth of the sun, in the same season as the blood-letting pagan Hilaria and Taurobolium festivals.  Hence, “Sunday.”

These changes wouldn’t have been much of a problem had the Jews not been excluded purely on a prejudicial basis and the Passover been scrubbed as exclusive to them.  A much better way would have been to acknowledge the actual date of Nissan the 14th as Passover, that that was the last meal of our Lord, associate it with the crucifixion and set up the nearest Sunday as a celebration day for the convenience of the community’s work schedule and to commemorate that Yeshua did rise on the first day of the week.  And that’s about all the blending I’m willing to tolerate.
Remember, you are now brought out of your ignorance of the origin of those infernal eggs and rabbits used for fertility worship in Baal’s temple in Babylon.  When we have the whole story, when we realize how God’s first commandment in the Big Ten was “thou shalt have no other gods before me” did not say it’s okay to have other gods’ stuff in your house as long as you worship Him too (see the lessons on leaven).  Realize also that Jezebel, not one of God’s examples of purity, was a practicing prostitute in the Baal temple with all those egg and rabbit symbols.  Realize too that the next king after her husband Ahaz razed the Baal temple and turned it into the community toilet.
Do you get the pagan symbolism yet and God’s hatred for them?  God is the same yesterday, today, and forever.  When Jesus walked through the locked door where the disciples were hiding, He did not bring Easter baskets.

going to Passover this year

First, an update on the domestic upheaval.  The dining room is almost done.  About a third of it needs a second coat, but if we close the blinds………..  The furniture is still out of place supporting things like a tape measure, wallpaper remover spray bottle, a Phillips screw driver when we’re looking for the pliers, homeless CDs, and a confused and homeless shower curtain.

Most of the bathroom has one coat.  I love the color—love it, love it, love it.  Imagine the velvet backdrop of midnight with only the stars and moonlight.  Not black, not blue, not purple … none, but all three.  In other words, there’s not a towel out there that will match it so we go with white and white only ….. midnight and snow, yeah, that’s the ticket!!

“Honey, put hinges on the list with the plumbing thingy dingy. There’s a pen on top of the frig—there used to be a pen on top of the frig—what’s the third thing I just said?”  What is that third thing?

I have one more weekend to get things finished and back in place before the kids fly in on the 9th for Resurrection Celebration aka Easter.

On Tuesday the 7th, I am joining Messianic friends from Shomair Ysrael to celebrate the Passover Seder, the 15th of Nisan, the first month of the Hebrew calendar, the night of the full moon after the vernal equinox.  They chose to celebrate a day early which is precisely what Yeshua did with His disciples, knowing that He would be giving His life as the Lamb of God at the very hour that lambs were being slaughtered in the temple for the Passover that fell on the Sabbath that year making it a high holy day.  How much higher holiness than the Lamb that takes the sin of the world once and for all?

I have previously blogged about the pagan nature of our Easter traditions.  I have not changed my opinion that our traditions are pagan in origin.  That is fairly common knowledge lately.  We can paint them Christian, we can say we took them away from pagan history and gave them new life and new meaning.  The truth is that Constantine was anti-Semitic and recreated the existing celebration away from Passover and assigned it to the known pagan date as a rebuff to Judaeism.  Why keep the the Baal/Babylonian symbols after we know where our Easter traditions came from?  Why??  Entertainment for the kids?

Why not teach our children the majesty and magnitude of the meaning of the feast of Passover, that Yeshua celebrated it, that He didn’t include Baal worship’s eggs and rabbits and fertility rites in the upper room, why He wouldn’t drink of the last cup of Passover wine (hint–it wasn’t to prohibit drinking wine), how the foot washing fit in with the Passover ritual, the prophetic importance of His prayer in Gesthemane, the incredible heart wrenching beauty of the blood streaming down the cross, its fulfillment of the Temple sacrifice system He set up long ago with Moses, that our life is in His blood.

Let’s wake up to and teach our children that Jesus, Yeshua, will return for us when we recognize and include our Judaic roots, the Messianic believers, Jesus’ Jewishness, His desire for Jews and Gentiles to unite, to merge as one.  That was His prayer in the garden.

I propose we celebrate Hebrew festivals with our Jewish brethren in our church along side our innocent and rich traditions, not to be saved, not to make points.  God shows up at the parties He planned and we’ve been standing Him up.  They’re for us to meet with Him, we do it to witness to yet more Jews to bring them into the fold, we do it to meet God, we do it to embrace our Jewish roots.  It can’t and shouldn’t become legalistic, but be considered a privilege.

Did you know what was the hem of Yeshua’s garment that the woman touched and was healed? His talit — his prayer shawl, just like the one Jews wear to this day.

In Luke 8:43 the woman with the issue of blood for twelve years, came and touched THE BORDER OF HIS GARMENT and was healed. That word BORDER comes from the Hebrew word tzit tzit meaning twisted coils, fringe, or tassel. (Remember the commandment of the Lord from Deut. 22:12 to wear the twisted coils?) What did she touch? The twisted coils on the border of the garment (His Prayer Shawl) that Jesus being Jewish, would have been wearing.

(Check out also the part about wings)

Christianity was Jewish first.  They decided to include us then. It’s time, in these end days, to include them now.  Jesus wants oneness.

Say when.

Day 4

Miserable.  Sneezy, runny nose, can’t sleep well.  Hopefully tonight is better.  Since the company cut our hours by one a week, I chose to go in an hour later on Thursdays.  Tomorrow will almost seem like an early Saturday sleep in.  Cutbacks aren’t all bad.

I expect to launch my next mission this weekend and that’s painting.  I have had the paint for the dining room since Christmas but have been postponed by not only the baby blanket, but by the need for wall seam repairs which is Honey’s territory.  He’s been busy.  So the next step is taking off the rest of the border over the fireplace and painting that.  I haven’t decided exactly what color but am leaning toward dark and dramatic.  Brown? Plum? Slate?

I’m suddenly tired of the bathroom wallpaper too and since it was so easy to take the border off, well, then ……….. we’ll see if the ambition correlates with the opportunity.

Once the decor is adjusted, I want to give attention to the ancestry again.  I’d really like another six months of membership.  Maybe over the winter months I’ll start writing their stories starting with Isaac, my great-grandfather, the 16th of 16 children and the first of 4 generations not to go into the ministry, followed by the 3 preachers before him.  The kings and Huguenots won’t wait much longer.

It’s late.  The virus has drained me.  Good night.

Honey didn’t like the green background.  Is this better, y’all?

Where does this road go?

Forget the compass.  Just don’t even buy one.  Once upon a time we had one of those floaters hanging from the rear view mirror much to Honey’s embarrassment.  That’s the kind of thing my dad had on his dashboard. So if Dad was a geezer with a car compass, and Honey has a compass on the dashboard, he must be…. oh no, not a geezer in a pa-paw Buick!  At that point, we didn’t have the Buick … yet!

For Dad, it had as little purpose in Illinois as ours did in Tennessee only in reverse.  Dad knew which direction he was going anyway.  In Tennessee, the poor thing was spinning back and forth so much it didn’t stop long enough on any compass point to tell us which way was up let alone east, west, north, south or anything even close.  If it was a critter, it would be car sick and hurling on our laps.

Follow the yellow double line but do stay on the right side of it at all times unless turning off.

Tonight on the way home I drove past my turnoff to a known route and chose instead the road not just less traveled, but one I was only suspicious of where it came out.  I was already headed easterly and hoped I would continue as easterly into this stretch of not-so-sure.  My goal was twofold.  First, I wanted an alternate route that I knew wouldn’t get me lost on the way to work for blossom/fall color appreciation.  Second, it helps to know how to go around traffic backups.  Okay, there’s a third reason — impressing out of state flatlanders without looking foolish.

When we were all at home, a family of two parents and 3 girls, we took a lot of road trips.  If two kids have an imaginary line down the middle of the back seat, you know from painful experience whether as a parent or one of the two that there’s constant line crossing and the inevitable “Make her stop touching me! Stop touching me! M-AH-M!”  With three, somebody’s sitting on the line making the space even smaller.  In this case, the middle one is the victim surrounded by conspirators eager to torture her purely for the noise, noise which drives both parents out of their skins.  Therefore…..

Dad takes this golden opportunity to teach directions.  “Which way are we going now?  We just left the house and we’re heading for Monmouth.  What direction is that?”  If your first clue wasn’t the setting sun blinding you, you just have to know that Monmouth is due west of Cameron typically with no turns or curves, so you answer “west!”  You’d better answer “west” soon if you want him to stop.  But he won’t.  “Which way would we be going if we turned left?”  But, we’re not turning left between Cameron and Monmouth, Dad, or we wouldn’t be going to….  “Tell me which way you’d be going if we turned left!!”  (eye-roll)  “South?”  Yay, I get a point!

This was an easy game since all the roads were one of only 4 directions.  In our local tri-county area, there was one road that went diagonally for any significant distance which was known as The Diagonal Road.  All the rest, paved, gravel, or dirt, were North, South, East or West.  Not only that, if you were driving through farm land, the next available turn was exactly a mile from the last available turn.  The fields were divided into sections, a mile each. No need to look at the odometer if you were keeping track of how many cross roads you’d driven past.  Handy, huh?

I grew up on a checker board, a flat and square checker board.

So, why Dad had to know from his dash which way he was going was an unnecessary hobby, fun, but unnecessary especially when the sun was shining.  Flat, straight and mostly treeless as well, therefore there was nothing to block said sun, and just that much to not block natural navigation.

My new navigational discovery was typical Tennessee side road, not back road — those are deeper in the hills and not wide enough for lines.  I even figured out that if I’d turned left I’d have ended up on my more traveled route behind our house but I turned right and wound my way further south than I needed to be yet at a recognized intersection.  I am comforted to know I can still “smell” my way on an unfamiliar side road as I can in a new shopping mall.

Tonight I gently swayed and swerved homeward, not too fast, not too slow, with much the same feeling as swinging on the rope swing Dad made for us on the big oak branch in our back yard.  Dad’s voice asked me which way I was going.

“Home.   Eventually.”

Wanna bet?

I always thought that executive orders were issued in cases of emergency such as when there wasn’t time for legislative due process.  To skip procedure shows a profound lack of respect for our system, our traditions, our foundational fabric as a nation.  That”s what first alerted me to the possibility that the current president doesn’t value protocol.  He’ll do what he damn well wants to do.

Before the west coast hit the snooze bar on the alarm clock, before they had a chance to rub the sleep from one eye, the new president signed an executive order to open records for examination of the previous administration.

Conversely, when George W. Bush took office, he tightened access to Bill Clinton’s archives out of respect for the office.  Somebody’s a class act and it isn’t The Comrade.

Two days later, he said it’s okay to take my taxes and support international abortions with it.

What’s next?  Let’s wager.  I’ll bet something other than the money I don’t get to keep after double digit Carter style inflation the following:

  • Gas goes up first to $4 through taxation having nothing to do with the price of a barrel of crude.  We tolerated $4 last summer, so it stands to reason that the politburo can take the difference up to $4.  Any rise in price will simply add to it.  We could see $7.50 a gallon by Christmas.
  • Hate speech prosecutions will grow in strength in churches.  Not mosques, churches.  Any preacher teaching what scripture says about homosexual behavior will be charged with hate speech and be fined, serve time, or have his license to preach taken from him.
  • In the spirit of fairness and wealth distribution, churches will pay taxes.  Period.  The rate will exceed corporate rates.
  • Government will increase their ownership of prime bank stock via bailout or (don’t doubt me) executive order, setting up an easy transition to a world bank operation under a United Nations like organization if not the UN itself.
  • The fairness doctrine will gradually silence Rush, Hannity, et al, forcing them to go first to exclusively internet, then satellite, then live performances, then nothing.
  • Blogs will be given notice.
  • The two term limit will be history.

If the mold of liberal Soros funded and propagated control doesn’t drive all these scenarios close enough to completion or extinction in 4 years, it will be done in the second 4, or the 3rd.

Wanna bet?

Tune in next time to discuss what happens to the churches and within the body of believers under these circumstances.

I’m supposed to be doing the taxes

The so called work surface on which the papers are kept is indeed loaded with papers, bills, records, and only my worn out angels know what else.  I’m supposed to be firing up the Turbo Tax and ………… ugh, ugh, ugh.  Every year I say I’m marching into H & R Block’s doorway and dumping said papers on someone else’s work surface, but I’m a little on the cheap side.  So I suffer the stomach knots and procrastinate.  This year, we know we’re paying in making the knots bigger.

The room harboring what I need has been blocked off from the heat all winter with the exception of when our Indiana friend dropped in on his way to and from North Carolina.  The door is open and the light is turned on.  It’s amazing what I can call progress.

A “funner” part of my day has been watching the Gaither DVD filmed in Israel a few years ago.  It’s on its second run after which I plan on sliding in the one done in Toronto followed by maybe Mark Lowry in Hollywood.  If there’s time, Lord of the Rings hasn’t been warmed up for a few months and may be due.

Always a multi-tasker, I’ve had the laptop where else but on my lap, looking up ancestors, where they lived, what was going on when they lived which brings me to yet another discovery.

My 7th great-grandparents, Bartholomew Stovall and Ann Burton, were married August 8, 1693 in St. John Church, Henrico County, Virginia.  That was 315 years and 7 months ago.  Ann bore 7 children according to my limited research, was widowed at 51 and lived on to witness the birth of the United States of America and finally giving up her spirit at the gentle age of 111 in 1786.  Maybe I’ll find her marker in the kirk yard when I go to Virginia with my sister this summer or fall.

It was in that church where she had been a bride at the age of 17 that almost 82 years later on March 23rd, Patrick Henry cried “Give me liberty, or give me death.”

Well, I’m impressed!

I would like to know, however, having raised 7 children while carving out a legacy in a land still new and unexplored, having outlived 3 of her 7 children by then and living her entire life of 99 years and 7 months as a subject of the British crown—just a little ripe of time to get all excited about politics and war, did she see this revolution as more ruinous than worthy?  It’s an historical fact that the majority of the population was not in favor of breaking away from England.

Was she acquainted with any of these young upstart rebels?  Did she wag a knarled finger in their direction saying to leave well enough alone? Or had she herself been wishing and waiting for independence right along side those willing to die for freedom?

Who’s side was she on?