Greetings friends and random readers.
It seems, like many trends before it, that Blogspot will no longer be sufficient to host my writings. Upon the recommendation of a graphic designer friend of mine, I am "graduating" into the more progressive realm known as "wordpress."
And check this, I have my own domain. Wow, didn't see that coming.
The site isn't complete, but hopefully will be soon. However, this will be my last post on this site. To continue reading my blog, please direct your computer monitors to the following NEW blogging site.
willparkerblog.com
Thanks so much for reading, see you on the other side.
-Will
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Thursday, January 7, 2010
david
Today I wrote a kind of Psalm, or prayer. Though the words flowed from my heart, I couldn’t help feeling a bit short-changed by my source of aesthetic inspiration. Typing on a desktop in a cluttered office with no windows, using fluorescent lighting to see the keys on the keyboard.
I couldn’t help but think of David, who probably wrote so many of his Psalms while taking refuge in the wilderness. His words took tangible form to the sound of birds frolicking in branches and the gentle noise of their wings beating the air. To the wind sifting through blades of grass. There could have been dried blood on his hands, which were trained to thrive in the wilderness, and had learned to do whatever needed to ensure survival. There was probably a steadiness in his heartbeat; a calmness in his spirit, a wisdom in his movements. Enemies lurked in the surrounding wilderness.
All this to say, my Psalm is undoubtedly a tame, domesticated version of what that King of old would have written. But whether in an air-conditioned complex or in the wilderness of Israel, our God is the same.
I couldn’t help but think of David, who probably wrote so many of his Psalms while taking refuge in the wilderness. His words took tangible form to the sound of birds frolicking in branches and the gentle noise of their wings beating the air. To the wind sifting through blades of grass. There could have been dried blood on his hands, which were trained to thrive in the wilderness, and had learned to do whatever needed to ensure survival. There was probably a steadiness in his heartbeat; a calmness in his spirit, a wisdom in his movements. Enemies lurked in the surrounding wilderness.
All this to say, my Psalm is undoubtedly a tame, domesticated version of what that King of old would have written. But whether in an air-conditioned complex or in the wilderness of Israel, our God is the same.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
romans 7
Our awareness of sin should never be confused with a desire to run from it.
I wish I could look back to the moment of my salvation, and point triumphantly at the time-line of my life thereafter, proclaiming it pure and blameless.
But my eyes are met with a harsher reality; one filled with lust, greed, lack of contentment, anger, jealousy, and countless other indications of my humanity. As much as it hurts me to see past mistakes, things are made worse by the burning desire within me now, today, even in this moment... to sin.
Paul's words fill me with a bittersweet combination of relief and disappointment:
"But sin, seizing the opportunity afforded by the commandment, produced in me every kind of covetous desire."
There are times when I feel consumed by discontentment. Surrounded by a culture of untethered indulgence and pleasure, my commitment to purity and Godly fulfillment leaves me in a place of despair. Sometimes this requires more than saying no; at times I have to turn my head and run in the opposite direction, all the while my flesh begs me to turn back. And many times I do.
At times truth feels so irrelevant. There are so many voices telling me the opposite. The human heart starts to question whether it's worth the fight anymore.
Paul continues:
"We know that the law is spiritual; but I am unspiritual, sold as a slave to sin. I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do."
Yet, in the midst of this tragedy, we are met with hope. As the reality of our feeble condition comes to fruition, God's grace is present, and fully capable of meeting the challenge.
"So I find this law at work: When I want to do good, evil is right there with me. For in my inner being I delight in God's law; but I see another law at work in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within my members. What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?
Thanks be to God—through Jesus Christ our Lord! So then, I myself in my mind am a slave to God's law, but in the sinful nature a slave to the law of sin."
It doesn't make sense that anyone would have anything to do with my broken heart. But I'm so thankful He does.
I wish I could look back to the moment of my salvation, and point triumphantly at the time-line of my life thereafter, proclaiming it pure and blameless.
But my eyes are met with a harsher reality; one filled with lust, greed, lack of contentment, anger, jealousy, and countless other indications of my humanity. As much as it hurts me to see past mistakes, things are made worse by the burning desire within me now, today, even in this moment... to sin.
Paul's words fill me with a bittersweet combination of relief and disappointment:
"But sin, seizing the opportunity afforded by the commandment, produced in me every kind of covetous desire."
There are times when I feel consumed by discontentment. Surrounded by a culture of untethered indulgence and pleasure, my commitment to purity and Godly fulfillment leaves me in a place of despair. Sometimes this requires more than saying no; at times I have to turn my head and run in the opposite direction, all the while my flesh begs me to turn back. And many times I do.
At times truth feels so irrelevant. There are so many voices telling me the opposite. The human heart starts to question whether it's worth the fight anymore.
Paul continues:
"We know that the law is spiritual; but I am unspiritual, sold as a slave to sin. I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do."
Yet, in the midst of this tragedy, we are met with hope. As the reality of our feeble condition comes to fruition, God's grace is present, and fully capable of meeting the challenge.
"So I find this law at work: When I want to do good, evil is right there with me. For in my inner being I delight in God's law; but I see another law at work in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within my members. What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?
Thanks be to God—through Jesus Christ our Lord! So then, I myself in my mind am a slave to God's law, but in the sinful nature a slave to the law of sin."
It doesn't make sense that anyone would have anything to do with my broken heart. But I'm so thankful He does.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
tom
I think conspiracy theories are hilarious.
If you stop and think of the most unlikely reason for the government to do anything, there's probably a handful of people out there who fervently hold to some theory about it.
Maybe part of the problem is in their success rate. And also the fact that most conspiracy theory leaders find it necessary to abandon their families, and personal hygiene, in order to pursue the uncovering of their suspicions.
Still, I'd like to add my own conspiracy theory to the already-existing multitude. I'd like to offer my theory to anyone who considers themselves paranoid, has been diagnosed to be clinically schizophrenic, or generally afraid of things most people aren't (think Howie from Benchwarmers). If this is you, please latch onto the concrete evidence and irrefutable trend I've uncovered; completely undetected by the rest of society, and threatening the very oxygen we breathe.
My theory is about a guy named Tom. Not just any Tom.
The Tom.
I think he's trying to take over the world. If I disappear minutes from posting this, he got to me...but at least the world will know the truth.
If you Google the name "Tom" you'll find the following on the first page of hits...
Tom's Shoes. Popular shoes these days. Trendy, yet helpful, these fashion statements are crafted by none other than the man in question, Tom himself. In fact, he's so good he's not even scared to name the company after himself.
Founded in 2006, the company provides a pair of shoes to a needy child for every pair purchased (a thing they call "one for one"). Tom's Shoes has given over 150,000 pairs of shoes away since the company's beginning.
Hmm, that's a lot of shoes going out to a lot of kids in third world countries. Sounds like Tom has connections across the globe.
Step one for any mastermind.
Undoubtedly someone who appreciates irony, Tom's masquerade as an innocent shoe distributor knows his company will ultimately "stomp" out all competition.
Google reveals another one of Tom's endeavors; posing as the mascot for the world's leading social networking site, Myspace.
Myspace would lead the unsuspecting net surfer to believe Tom to be the cute, friendly "first friend" who greets you before anyone else when you register. They say in the ancient world the tribe who reached land first often conquered it. Well, let's just say Tom is reaching everyone first.
Thanks to Tom's invasive, clever burglary of the world's personal information, he probably knows more about all of us than we know about ourselves. But don't worry, you still got in touch with that girl from high school who you never had the guts to talk to, and you finally found her profile, and she's married.
All that was worth registering in Tom's Rolodex, right?
Which brings us to Google's final discovery about Tom.
You may have heard of TomTom GPS car navigation systems? Thought so.
He founded this one in 1991. Revenue in 2008 was appox. 1,674 million.
That's some hefty cashflow, not to mention Tom is tracking every single one of us, thanks to his stalking devices sitting on all our dashes... because WE put them there!
Are you getting the picture?
You know, people have told me I'm crazy. They've told me I'm seeing only what I want to see. That I'm creating a problem from nothing.
You know what I call those people? Tom Victims.
If you stop and think of the most unlikely reason for the government to do anything, there's probably a handful of people out there who fervently hold to some theory about it.
Maybe part of the problem is in their success rate. And also the fact that most conspiracy theory leaders find it necessary to abandon their families, and personal hygiene, in order to pursue the uncovering of their suspicions.
Still, I'd like to add my own conspiracy theory to the already-existing multitude. I'd like to offer my theory to anyone who considers themselves paranoid, has been diagnosed to be clinically schizophrenic, or generally afraid of things most people aren't (think Howie from Benchwarmers). If this is you, please latch onto the concrete evidence and irrefutable trend I've uncovered; completely undetected by the rest of society, and threatening the very oxygen we breathe.
My theory is about a guy named Tom. Not just any Tom.
The Tom.
I think he's trying to take over the world. If I disappear minutes from posting this, he got to me...but at least the world will know the truth.
If you Google the name "Tom" you'll find the following on the first page of hits...
Tom's Shoes. Popular shoes these days. Trendy, yet helpful, these fashion statements are crafted by none other than the man in question, Tom himself. In fact, he's so good he's not even scared to name the company after himself.
Founded in 2006, the company provides a pair of shoes to a needy child for every pair purchased (a thing they call "one for one"). Tom's Shoes has given over 150,000 pairs of shoes away since the company's beginning.
Hmm, that's a lot of shoes going out to a lot of kids in third world countries. Sounds like Tom has connections across the globe.
Step one for any mastermind.
Undoubtedly someone who appreciates irony, Tom's masquerade as an innocent shoe distributor knows his company will ultimately "stomp" out all competition.
Google reveals another one of Tom's endeavors; posing as the mascot for the world's leading social networking site, Myspace.
Myspace would lead the unsuspecting net surfer to believe Tom to be the cute, friendly "first friend" who greets you before anyone else when you register. They say in the ancient world the tribe who reached land first often conquered it. Well, let's just say Tom is reaching everyone first.
Thanks to Tom's invasive, clever burglary of the world's personal information, he probably knows more about all of us than we know about ourselves. But don't worry, you still got in touch with that girl from high school who you never had the guts to talk to, and you finally found her profile, and she's married.
All that was worth registering in Tom's Rolodex, right?
Which brings us to Google's final discovery about Tom.
You may have heard of TomTom GPS car navigation systems? Thought so.
He founded this one in 1991. Revenue in 2008 was appox. 1,674 million.
That's some hefty cashflow, not to mention Tom is tracking every single one of us, thanks to his stalking devices sitting on all our dashes... because WE put them there!
Are you getting the picture?
You know, people have told me I'm crazy. They've told me I'm seeing only what I want to see. That I'm creating a problem from nothing.
You know what I call those people? Tom Victims.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
life is a story
This afternoon the August sun beat down on a group of people standing outside near downtown Fullerton, California. Some of them stand in the same spot for over two hours. A few sweat heavily under scarves and long-sleeve shirts. Perspiring is a welcome trade-off as long as sunburn is avoided. For a good number of these people, seeking shade brings about questions of their loitering, of their right to be there.
They're homeless.
The few hours of waiting in the heat might not feel great. But it's a guarantee that they'll eat for a few days. As you look around, you see hungry eyes looking over tables of food. Often they pass over refrigerated items. Without a house or kitchen, it would go bad in the summer heat. But you don't hear anyone complain; they've accepted this truth and instead search with increased veracity for things that will get them through the week.
The food bank is run by a church across the street. Church members volunteer to help out every week; signing in new guests, bagging vegetables and fruit, sliding as many canned goods as possible across the counter into grateful hands, yelling out orders to other volunteers manning the freezers, shuffling in the crowded room for some morsel requested by someone.
There's a necessary efficiency required in that room. Being efficient means feeding a family. It means cutting down the time an elderly woman has to stand in the heat. But the minute that room is limited to efficiency, guests receiving food become a goal, rather than people to know and love.
In the claustrophobic, cluttered space of the food bank, even the most patient volunteers can lose sight of the reality standing just outside the door in a line...highly dependant on the work happening inside. No one said loving people is always easy.
But luckily for the volunteers, every once in a while they receive reminders of why they're there in the first place.
One of those reminders is Cowboy Jack.
Cowboy Jack can talk to anyone. If you can muster the courage to introduce yourself, worry no more. Jack will take care of the rest for you.
He comes to the food bank almost every week. His usual attire includes blue jeans, a flannel shirt with the few top buttons unfastened, and of course a cowboy hat.
His smile consists of only a few yellowed teeth, but what it lacks in fullness it makes up for in warmth. There's a gentle way about the 65-year-old or so man, one that makes you feel comfortable right away.
When Cowboy Jack makes his way through the food line, there's always plenty of thank you's and pleases. If the food bank is out of an item, it's never a big deal to him.
"I'm just thankful you guys are out here," he'll tell you.
Life is a story, and if you take the time to listen, Jack will tell you his.
He was born and raised in Pennsylvania until he was 18. He moved to California where's he's remained, minus a few years in Texas. Jack lives in a low-income housing development. His one-room apartment is 9 feet by 11 feet. But he'll assure you it's all the room he needs.
His neighbors are mostly people with mental illnesses. His nights are filled with the sounds of disturbed neighbors screaming and rambling. But Jack laughs and jokes about the funny things he's heard. It might not be what he prefers, but he's making the best of it.
When Cowboy Jack's neighbor got thrown in jail, he took in her cat until she returned. While caring for it, the cat had kittens, which Jack decided to keep. He'd never raised a cat before, but judging by the cat watch fastened around his lanky wrist, felines have made a good impression on him.
Jack is a great listener. When you talk to him, he's attentive and appreciative of every word. That's a hard thing to come by these days. Sure, he loves telling people about his life. But he's more than interested in yours too.
Cowboy Jack likes to help the elderly woman volunteers set up before the food bank opens for the day. He often arrives early, but not to secure a good spot in line. today he was one of the last people to receive food.
Thanks Cowboy Jack. For reminding me of what it means to live in gratitude. For showing me how to be selfless. For loving the people around you.
They're homeless.
The few hours of waiting in the heat might not feel great. But it's a guarantee that they'll eat for a few days. As you look around, you see hungry eyes looking over tables of food. Often they pass over refrigerated items. Without a house or kitchen, it would go bad in the summer heat. But you don't hear anyone complain; they've accepted this truth and instead search with increased veracity for things that will get them through the week.
The food bank is run by a church across the street. Church members volunteer to help out every week; signing in new guests, bagging vegetables and fruit, sliding as many canned goods as possible across the counter into grateful hands, yelling out orders to other volunteers manning the freezers, shuffling in the crowded room for some morsel requested by someone.
There's a necessary efficiency required in that room. Being efficient means feeding a family. It means cutting down the time an elderly woman has to stand in the heat. But the minute that room is limited to efficiency, guests receiving food become a goal, rather than people to know and love.
In the claustrophobic, cluttered space of the food bank, even the most patient volunteers can lose sight of the reality standing just outside the door in a line...highly dependant on the work happening inside. No one said loving people is always easy.
But luckily for the volunteers, every once in a while they receive reminders of why they're there in the first place.
One of those reminders is Cowboy Jack.
Cowboy Jack can talk to anyone. If you can muster the courage to introduce yourself, worry no more. Jack will take care of the rest for you.
He comes to the food bank almost every week. His usual attire includes blue jeans, a flannel shirt with the few top buttons unfastened, and of course a cowboy hat.
His smile consists of only a few yellowed teeth, but what it lacks in fullness it makes up for in warmth. There's a gentle way about the 65-year-old or so man, one that makes you feel comfortable right away.
When Cowboy Jack makes his way through the food line, there's always plenty of thank you's and pleases. If the food bank is out of an item, it's never a big deal to him.
"I'm just thankful you guys are out here," he'll tell you.
Life is a story, and if you take the time to listen, Jack will tell you his.
He was born and raised in Pennsylvania until he was 18. He moved to California where's he's remained, minus a few years in Texas. Jack lives in a low-income housing development. His one-room apartment is 9 feet by 11 feet. But he'll assure you it's all the room he needs.
His neighbors are mostly people with mental illnesses. His nights are filled with the sounds of disturbed neighbors screaming and rambling. But Jack laughs and jokes about the funny things he's heard. It might not be what he prefers, but he's making the best of it.
When Cowboy Jack's neighbor got thrown in jail, he took in her cat until she returned. While caring for it, the cat had kittens, which Jack decided to keep. He'd never raised a cat before, but judging by the cat watch fastened around his lanky wrist, felines have made a good impression on him.
Jack is a great listener. When you talk to him, he's attentive and appreciative of every word. That's a hard thing to come by these days. Sure, he loves telling people about his life. But he's more than interested in yours too.
Cowboy Jack likes to help the elderly woman volunteers set up before the food bank opens for the day. He often arrives early, but not to secure a good spot in line. today he was one of the last people to receive food.
Thanks Cowboy Jack. For reminding me of what it means to live in gratitude. For showing me how to be selfless. For loving the people around you.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
fire in the sky
There is a relentless shroud of smog enveloping the greater Los Angeles area, one that was thickened two or three-fold tonight by thousands of explosives. As soon as the sun's light grew dim, fireworks ignited, illuminating the growing darkness at the climax of their flights from backyards and residential streets.
There was plenty of beer and watermelon. Barbecues sizzled in unison like no other day out of the year. Most hard-workers even got the night off.
Today marked America's 233rd birthday; one of the rare occasions which could justify such a remarkable increase in air pollution. But, with every smoke-filled breath inhaled tonight, I could taste the refreshing, life-giving oxygen of freedom.
It's not about national superiority. Or haughtily declaring America to have every answer. It's about being thankful for freedom.
I don't care how right-wing, left-wing, wing-a-ding you may be.
No one is above thanking God for what we have.
There was plenty of beer and watermelon. Barbecues sizzled in unison like no other day out of the year. Most hard-workers even got the night off.
Today marked America's 233rd birthday; one of the rare occasions which could justify such a remarkable increase in air pollution. But, with every smoke-filled breath inhaled tonight, I could taste the refreshing, life-giving oxygen of freedom.
It's not about national superiority. Or haughtily declaring America to have every answer. It's about being thankful for freedom.
I don't care how right-wing, left-wing, wing-a-ding you may be.
No one is above thanking God for what we have.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
june gloom
Being raised in Phoenix, I've been trained to associate certain things with summertime...late night swims (the water stays above 80 degrees), triple digit temperatures, steering wheels that burn your hands, utter dependence on AC units in cars, houses, restaurants, and everywhere else one needs shelter and relief from the relentless heat that engulfs the city each year.
This being my first summer spent in southern California, I've been greeted with something that puzzles my Arizonan tendencies. They call it June gloom. It's summertime shrouded in a layer of clouds; one that's shaded the region for almost three straight weeks now.
I've found myself waking up each morning, peeking through my window shades, and looking reluctantly into a grey sky. Every once in a while defiant rays of sunshine peek through the blanket, but soon these rebels are overtaken by territorial cumulus, who aren't about to end their reign over LA.
In Arizona you can always count on sunshine. You can expect a sky of the brightest blue you've ever seen. Sure, it's a bit unsanitary to fry an egg on the sidewalk, but you can do it. Somehow I've carried my expectations of fair weather to the west coast. Something I assumed would happen has proven to be unlikely here. The gloomy reality here counters everything I've known, and contradicts what I've always understood summer to be.
These days I'm feeling a lot like the sun. I'm striving hard to shine my way through a fog that won't retreat. Dreams are easy entities to feed, to construct in your mind... but carrying them out usually ends up more confusing and different than you imagined. It's not that the process is wrong or bad, it's simply different than what you expected. And in times like these, when I don't seem to be getting anywhere, when the clouds limit my vision and disorient me, it becomes hard to remember why I'm trying to shine in the first place.
I'm reminded of the words of a good friend I made this year. He said:
"If you're not in His will, don't bother trying. But if you know God has called you to something, do it boldly and fearlessly and He will go before you."
I think it's important in times like these, when things aren't especially clear, to seek Him in all things. It's a balance between peaceful waiting and fervent obedience and action.
When these clouds lift I want to be ready. And while they still surround me, I'll remember that His eyes see what my feeble rays fail to reveal.
This being my first summer spent in southern California, I've been greeted with something that puzzles my Arizonan tendencies. They call it June gloom. It's summertime shrouded in a layer of clouds; one that's shaded the region for almost three straight weeks now.
I've found myself waking up each morning, peeking through my window shades, and looking reluctantly into a grey sky. Every once in a while defiant rays of sunshine peek through the blanket, but soon these rebels are overtaken by territorial cumulus, who aren't about to end their reign over LA.
In Arizona you can always count on sunshine. You can expect a sky of the brightest blue you've ever seen. Sure, it's a bit unsanitary to fry an egg on the sidewalk, but you can do it. Somehow I've carried my expectations of fair weather to the west coast. Something I assumed would happen has proven to be unlikely here. The gloomy reality here counters everything I've known, and contradicts what I've always understood summer to be.
These days I'm feeling a lot like the sun. I'm striving hard to shine my way through a fog that won't retreat. Dreams are easy entities to feed, to construct in your mind... but carrying them out usually ends up more confusing and different than you imagined. It's not that the process is wrong or bad, it's simply different than what you expected. And in times like these, when I don't seem to be getting anywhere, when the clouds limit my vision and disorient me, it becomes hard to remember why I'm trying to shine in the first place.
I'm reminded of the words of a good friend I made this year. He said:
"If you're not in His will, don't bother trying. But if you know God has called you to something, do it boldly and fearlessly and He will go before you."
I think it's important in times like these, when things aren't especially clear, to seek Him in all things. It's a balance between peaceful waiting and fervent obedience and action.
When these clouds lift I want to be ready. And while they still surround me, I'll remember that His eyes see what my feeble rays fail to reveal.
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