1 Cor 4:20

I've been mulling the idea of getting a tattoo for a little while now. It crept into the grey corners of my brain probably three or four months ago, and has been sitting there like a pouting child, refusing to leave. I haven't done it yet simply because I don't know yet if it would be a good idea, or that I could be confident that it wouldn't be a total mistake. If I WERE to get one, this verse would definitely be included in it somewhere.

1 Corinthians 4:20- "For the Kingdom of God is not a matter of talk but of power."

Oh how I love this verse. It speaks to my heart. I have a certain feeling that if God grants me the privilege of growing old and senile, this is going to be the one verse that I will always be able to recite from memory. I will never forget it.

I like to pretend I'm a tough guy.

I organize tackle football games and lay down blocks on guys twice my size, my two semesters of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu have been my two favorite classes in all of college. I've spent a night camping in a cave once, sleeping on a thin layer of newspapers. I'll always be happy to tell you about the couple incidents freshman year when I strapped on the boxing gloves and went toe-to-toe with guys who had wrestled in high school. Even when I dream, my dreams are fantastical concoctions of heroism and bravery, swords, guns, and shields, of battles won and sacrifices made. I watch "Combat Zone" on the Military Channel and love hearing the real-life stories of the heroes in our armed forces. They are real heroes.

But really, who am I?

I'm a 5'6" 160lb. suburban kid who blogs and hates wearing damp jeans. The closest I've ever come to America's front lines is the XBOX360 game, "Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2." I like to cook, clean, play music, sing, and write. I ran track for 5 years, but never lettered, never even scored a JV point, much less a varsity point. I was a Boy Scout for all of two years, never making it past the esteemed rank of 2nd Class. I've never started a fire without a match, I've never gotten into a real fight, I've never hunted anything.

I'm scared of heights.

And a little bit claustrophobic.

I like romantic comedies?

Where is the warrior in me? Where is the chest-beating Braveheart who would charge the British lines at Stirling Bridge or the Aragorn who would defend the walls of Helms Deep to the last? Where is the Thomas A. Baker in this heart?

Thomas A. Baker was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor during World War II. According to Wikipedia,

"On Saipan in the Marianas Islands, he advanced ahead of his unit with a bazooka and destroyed a Japanese emplacement which was firing on his company. Several days later, he single-handedly attacked and killed two groups of Japanese soldiers. On July 7, Baker's position came under attack by a large Japanese force. Although seriously wounded early in the attack, he refused to be evacuated and continued to fight in the close-range battle until running out of ammunition. When a comrade was wounded while trying to carry him to safety, Baker insisted that he be left behind. At his request, his comrades left him propped against a tree and gave him a pistol, which had eight bullets remaining. When American forces retook the position, they found the pistol, now empty, and eight dead Japanese soldiers around Baker's body."

"He doesn't exist," the Enemy would say. "He's the product of another time. He's an exaggeration. You could never be him. You're soft. You are a weakling and a coward.

You were scared of the dark until you were ten years old.

You still hate heights.

You don't like spiders.

Loud noises and large groups of people still bother you.

You could never stand for anything. You are a poser. A farce."

The Enemy might sneer. He might chuckle. He might dance gleefully as I sink into a cage of self-realization and an understanding of my own sin and depravity.

But it would be the last mistake he would ever make. Because he would be right.

Because behind all of the posing and posturing, behind the facebook, behind the ministry titles, academic achievements (and failures), behind the talents, behind the athleticism (or lack thereof), behind the clothes, behind the gelled hair, and behind the very flesh that I wear.

Behind all of that.

Is one very scared, very weak child. With his hands wrapped around the pinky of a King.

A King who left the comfort of his throne to rescue me from deep in the enemy's grasp. A King whose words commanded such authority as to send the demons scampering. A King who spoke with power enough to tear the lightning from the sky and halt the storm that would threaten to sink his boat. A King who looked into the face of a grieving mother and told her, "Your child is but sleeping."

A King who traded the songs of the angels for the jeers of those who called for his execution. A King who stood toe-to-toe with that scourge of all men, Death, and saw its gray head crushed under his heel. A King who rose from his final resting place, scarred but very much alive and well. A King who commands the largest standing army in the history of the world, a legion of men and angels whose greatest calling in this life is to die to themselves and live for him.

The Enemy, he's right. I am but a weak and cowering fool. But it's that King who, as my Father, pulls me behind himself as he turns to slay the Dragon. It's that King who sees my betrayal and pulls me closer to his heart even as I curse him. It's that King who sees my lifeless, shrouded soul lying in its self-imposed tomb. It's that King who leans closely to my unhearing ear and whispers, "Wake up child, you are but sleeping."

I am but a weak and cowering fool. But where I walk, He walks. Where I turn, He turns. When I speak, it is the thunder from his lips. And when I stand, it is His conquering heart that burns brightly in my chest.

And He is returning again.

Learning to abide.

I haven't written in what feels like ages. Don't get me wrong, I've scribbled. I've taken notes, typed up the occasional paper, prepared lesson plans, and generally just tolerated academia, but I haven't sat down and just written in a long, long time.

Which is a shame.

Because I'm a writer.

I am kind of a slow-processing guy. The wheels, for me, are slow to waken and ponderous to turn. That's not a euphemism for stupidity. I don't think I'm dumb; I'm just a slow thinker. I turn things over in my head, similar to the way one might turn a stone over and over in his hand, so that eventually the edges are worn smooth and shiny.

Another way to think about it is the way a cow might chew cud. Cows have multiple stomachs. When they eat cattle feed, they chew it up, swallow, digest, regurgitate, chew it up, swallow, digest, regurgitate, and so on and so forth until every possible ounce of nutrition is extracted from the cattle feed.

That's right. I just compared my thoughts to cattle vomit.

If you ever have an in-depth conversation with me and speak to me face-to-face you'll notice one of two things. Either I will take a long time to think about what I say to you, or I will try to say it quickly and fall all over myself as my mouth moves at a speed slightly slower as the thoughts that are pouring out my brain. Kind of like a 12-year old boy might trip all over himself and his untied shoelaces on his way up the school steps.

Writing gives me a chance to tie up my shoelaces, take a deep breath, and deliberately step through those figurative double doors. The words come more easily, free of the little pieces of lint that tend to collect in my pockets. The ideas flow more cleanly, free of my softspoken, often monotonous voice that could couldn't cut through the sound of a purring cat.

I think I'm going to write more.