I am God.

I like poetry. I am talented at poetry.

Is it cocky for me to say that? Maybe. I don't think humility means denying your own gifts and abilities though. I am made in the image of the Almighty; he's given me these particular gifts, as he has with everyone. To say that I am not talented insults the one who made me.

Nevertheless, being truthful about your gifts and talents is walking a fine line. When you know you're good at something, you begin to act like you deserve praise. That, my friends, is dangerous. I have definitely fallen into this trap, but I am making efforts to correct it.

A couple weeks ago, IV had an event called Exposed. I shared two poems. Yesterday, church had an event called Live in Harmony. I shared one poem. Exposed was ok (relatively) because one of the poems I shared dealt directly with this idea of pride and arrogance. At LIH, however, I was only able to share one poem, and this one did not address my cockiness.

Needless to say, after Live in Harmony, I was struck at how difficult it was not to become big-headed. If a gift God has given me results in praise for myself, should I use this gift at all? Am I just performing so that people will give me praise? Because if that's the case, why would I ever worship God if I am worthy of worship myself?

Jesus' parables say that our talents are not to be hidden. Agh... It's a tough balance. If I ever get cocky about stuff, please kick me in the nuts. Thanks.

A Christmas Poem

Written December 13, 2005...

Now put the picture in your mind of a time; rewind centuries behind to an era where a young couple would stumble into the rubble of a place not so kind.
The rise of the mind that would set down the crown and let the beautiful letdown resound.
He was found by the kings, angels gathered round. The sounds of stories told by prophets centuries-old unfold before eyes no more than one year old.
What could we withhold from this child given gold who would hold a much greater treasure; a miracle beyond measure who would weather the storm.
But severed and torn, worn by the war fought between Satan and Lord. Blatant and forward, they struck with the sword to your side. Poured out the soul and you died. Wide-eyed, they surveyed the place where you gave up in grace for mankind.
But now free from danger, asleep in a manger. A stranger walks in and wouldn't believe if I laid the decree that this baby would one day die for me.