you muslims

I visited your house of worship thinking, "This will be such a strange people, with a religion much different than anything I've ever known."

We watched in a dark room, overlooking you men bowing, standing, praying, bending, worshiping "God Almighty." The imam sang the Arabic words; a hundred men responded. You believe this is true worship -- shoulder to shoulder, toe to toe.

But who is Jesus to you? A prophet -- equal with Muhammed, but one given miracles instead of the Qur'an. He was a man -- only a man. His death was an illusion and so he lives until the end times when he'll die a natural death. That's who you say he is.

But what of the things He said? I wanted to ask you. What of His claims to be the way, the truth, the life? What of His claims to be the Son of God? Was He a liar as well as a your prophet? If you believe in the virgin birth, then who -- Who? -- was His Father?

You Muslims sat on the floor and talked for over an hour as I shifted my legs under me, beside me, in front of me. You answered questions like it was easy, and so I know you truly believe everything you've said. You believe in everything you do.

Everything you do. That's the other thing. You believe God is holy. Perfect. Sinless. And we're not -- you and I. Funny -- I believe that too.

But what do you do at the end of the day when you recognize your depravity and God Almighty's glory, perfection, omnipotence, beauty, worth, holiness? You say, "It's time to work. It's time to get in good with the Creator of the universe." And it's funny because the story you're telling -- the one I thought would be so strange -- is so familiar, almost like... the thoughts that rattle around in my mind. But you Muslims -- you work. You do. You live like you're supposed to. You put me to shame. You are good. You Muslims are so good.

in my eyes.
but I am not God.

So at the end of the day, what do you do? What can you do...

without Jesus the Christ?

me and the drunk

Me and the drunk -- we gathered up our pieces, the only ones we saw of our tattered lives. There could have been pieces more important to the big picture, but that was all we could see, so we had to work with what we had. We picked a few up -- broken shards, memories, and the like -- hoping, knowing we'd be able to see better soon.

afraid

I'm afraid to move
afraid to breathe
to work and live

but there's nothing else
to do

except not move,
breathe,
work, live

and I've already tried that
and discovered something
better