Rock Writers’ Guild

My name is John francis Kelly and I am a decendant of Irish imigrant ditch diggers escaping the great potato famine of 1840. My grand father John came to Boston where he worked on the Calahan tunnel, but always said his hands were too soft for ditch digging. Being a great talker he entered politics and became the youngest state representitive from South Boston then later Mayor of Boston. He made a fortune in Boston real estate and a taxi company. He contributed a large trust fund and political science building at Boston College. His name is plastered all over Boston on bridges, streets, and city munincpal buildings. They even named a square after him.

So it was expected of me to enroll there as a Political Science major. My family always gave me all the money I wanted and I changed cars like socks, but the only thing they could’nt give me was my talent as a hockey player.It was during the Vietnam era that I became active in the anti war movement and joined the radical SDS political group. Within two years of protesting and serious drug taking I finely crashed and burned. I got kicked out of BC and when my draft deferal was changed the goverment found a reason to get revenge for my anti goverment protests and drafted me.I went underground and found myself in Oakland CAlifornia operating a bomb factory for the radical weatherman movement. There was an explosion that left me seriously burned and the loss of three fingers on my right hand. With the help of great lawyers and my family’s polital conections I only got three years in the federal corrections prison at Danbury Conn.                                                               

Lord, I am on my knees so often these days,
but not to pray; instead doing my daily
rounds of this temple to you, my house.
Scrubbing floors, wiping a small wet nose,
weeding, tying and re-tying three pairs of shoes.
Each day’s work is nearly lost in the next day!
Morning’s looming over me like an oppressive hand
waiting to bring me down to do it all again.
Sometimes I lift my head, briefly, to see
the progress of the great work all around me,
the kingdom forcefully advancing on the land
wrought out of stone by violent men.
They lay charges in the ground and rend
more work in an hour than I could chisel free
in a multitude of days!  Their ways made straight,
their monuments of accomplishment casting shade
to rest and refresh the pilgrims of centuries.
But, Lord, you’ve given me such small tools
to make my way with!  Sometimes I long
to fling them petulantly down and moan,
“I can’t go on without doing something grand!
Without more than the chipping, repetitive work
you’ve laid to hand!”  I struggle to understand
the necessities of my post and the Plan
you have laid sternly, lovingly, before me-
size not always being indication of importance
I know.  But I wonder if young Michaelangelo
felt this when rendering a knuckle’s intricate lines,
painstakingly obeying a glimpse of inner vision,
endlessly tapping out the details of creation
like a man blind but drawn to a distant land
whose shores most people will never  see,
whose significance none but You could understand?
 

I once thought love was going to save me;
I am no longer convinced anything is.
I live in fear that my last breath will find me
hanging by my fingertips to a God that can’t exsist.
Don’t desert me!  Lord, if you desert me I’ll be back
to not having any answers, to groping in the rain,
to standing in the emergency room with no bandange,
no morphine, no gloves- nothing for their pain
but an entirely inadequate love.  I am furious
with the church, with myself, with the pastors;
every book on the shelf copyrights The Answer,
but they are all, none of them, the same!
My only confidence is that I must never be
confident.  Pride sets the toe on the bread on the mud,
and we sink swiftly.  I have no ready response
to scoffers.  I can only offer this: if any man
in history can save this stinking place, He can.

I found my way to him unknowingly,
groping like a blind beggar at the door
of a palace, blinded to my own infirmity,
unaware I was poor.
The healing of birthright came swiftly,
like the sword of dawn slicing the veil
of loveless poverty and my damnation
to an ordinary hell.
Since then, ceaselessly, the swelling flare
of his glory has inundated my brain,
reducing me to an offertory lifted upon
his name.
Now, consumed, all places once sought I see
through a splendor of light, his lovesick pain
illumining the idle desperate world that knew me,
living blinded again. 

It was ominous, luminous
onerous, humourous,
habitable, eatable,
rancid, forgetable,
fetid, effulgent,
acclaimed, plain, or portable,
ineffable, precious,
odd, risque, hoary,
savoury, mauve,
declasse, ordinary,
despicable, animal,
vegetable, miserable,
absolutely enchanting
from the first to the last…
and say, by the way
Darling, why do you ask?
You wrote it?  How lovely!
(Well, what else could I say?)

A little help for those searching for the perfect comment…   - AW

The Deep

              Entering into the deep is my hearts desire and I pursue waiting on the Lord with a passion. Moments of stolen time walking between my car and work, or while doing a household chore are cherished seconds I can worship and Praise my Redeemer. When life consumes me with a thousand tasks and pain or sorrow ensnares me sometimes I forget to worship.  

           When enough of these days pile up I began to sense a great distance between my Beloved and I. Yet in His gracious mercy He calls me back to His side. One touch, or the slightest reminder of His great love, and I am on my face before Him, crying out with a repentant heart. Forgive me Father, oh how my soul longs for You. My soul is dry and weary; I need You every hour, every second, every heartbeat.

            When we come together in corporate worship there is an opportunity to pour out an abundance of love to our King of Kings, and Lord of Lords. In this freedom we can dance and sing and praise Him with full hearts undivided by life’s cares. In our recent worship at the Rock into the Deep I experienced an open heaven vision that I would like to share to encourage you to go deeper and deeper still into His presence. 
         
             After entering our Heavenly Fathers courts with thanksgiving and praise we moved into a quiet moment of waiting before the Lord. Pastor Bryan began to speak to us about waiting and being still before the Lord. How His gentle presence could be felt by us as we waited on the Lord. I saw golden rain drops pouring through the darkness. As they fell they caused the darkness to become light. In each droplet was a golden light radiating into the darkness. Steady pouring golden rain drops clearing the way for deeper worship. I moved to the floor worshiping and praising the Lord, when all of the sudden a blue liquid started pouring out over the sanctuary. It was a deep royal blue and it felt bizarre to see everything saturated in blue even the fibers of the carpet were drenched. I breathed in the blue as I was asking the Lord “What is all this Blue?”  My body began to shake and I felt like I was being electrocuted, without the pain, just a vibration coursing through me. After a few minutes (or hours), I got up feeling light hearted and sat in my chair. The blue was gone. 

            Pastor Norma gave a word in tongues with interpretation. She told us the Lord was in our midst, but that we were being called to a deeper experience. She asked the musicians to play a deeper note. Pastor Abbey and the band began to pour out their hearts searching for this deep note which called up in my spirit the words “blue note,” although I don’t know what a blue note would sound like.  As the band played more passionately, I saw angels descending out of the heavens. They were massive in their coming, none more distinctive than the next angel, yet all were mighty to behold.  Then in the center was a light so bright I could not look at it, but I believed it to be Jesus. He told me to go to the altar and intercede and worship. He was too beautiful for me to worship and pray in His presence. I sat transfixed unable to move. I prayed “Lord help me,” and staggered to the altar. Holy Spirit surged through me and I began to intercede in tongues but I couldn’t stop worshiping Jesus, He is too beautiful for words.
 
             So I went back and forth between intercession and worship.  I saw a white light go out before Him, and minister to each and every person in the room. Some could receive some could not, but everyone was touched. Even those who resisted Him were touched by His compassionate Love.Then I saw Him turn and began walking back up into heaven. As He turned the end of his cape or His train swirled over us and His glory descended on us, some of us began to worship anew. The light became brighter, and waters flowed from the heavens. It was such clear water that I drank and drank as it poured out over us and although it flowed through me I became full and could take in no more. I sensed it was flowing over and through everyone. The heavens closed up but His Glory was so strong we continued to praise and worship for awhile, until it seemed as if the waters had completely receded and He had left us drenched by His presence.3/11/2007 revision

            I don’t remember the first time I got saved. All I remember is going down to the altar at every altar call. Those altar calls were always so compelling. Soul searching preaching followed by hymns that brought you to your knees. If you hadn’t sinned yet you knew you were bound to as soon as you stepped out the doors, so you just as well go on down and rededicate your life just to be on the safe side. My daddy was an evangelist so we did a lot of church going. I also attended Salem Baptist Day School till tenth grade, and we had daily chapel services. No fire and brimstone or altar calls there, although we did plenty of bible drills.

If all the tent revivals and small rural churches didn’t do it, then certainly watching a Billy Graham Crusade on TV was bound to bring me to repentance. I never have been much of a TV watcher, but Billy Graham has always touched me deeply. Just the sound of his voice can start me soul searching for hidden sin. In my experience of the Southern Baptist churches, obvious sin was too easy to spot, so we had to dig for the really deep things of God. It was not until I reached adulthood that I understood the deep things of God didn’t necessarily mean whether or not I said gosh or wore pants instead of culottes. You might think I’m stretching it, but I remember bond fires where we burned records, blue jeans and offensive tee shirts. I don’t know that it actually made me any holier, but it certainly set me up for a life time of sin consciousness.

By the time I was six, I knew how to lead someone to Christ using the Roman road to salvation, and used to walk up and down our side street asking people if they knew Jesus. Everyone I met was met with the question, do you know Jesus? Jesus is coming soon, do you know Him?

When I was older and did run into sin and fell head first into its fiery grips. I didn’t think to confess it and find peace. Each time I walked in sin knowingly I just let it overtake me. I gave in thinking there was no longer any hope for me. I was so lost even Jesus couldn’t find me.

 But He did, and when He brought me back this last time it was all about Him. There was no altar call, or TV show. He just said come, and I did.

 I had been out of church for four years, and then sporadically started back for another three.  When I moved to Hampstead, I started looking for a church for my son to attend. I couldn’t stand most of them for the same reasons I had left the church. No one believed in the Holy Spirit moving in power in this day and age. Most of the places where racially divided, and there was very little ministry for the downtrodden. I wanted a place that would allow Holy Spirit to move, and if that meant all day worship then so be it. I wanted a place where races sat beside one another and worshiped together in spirit and truth. I wanted a place where they offered a hand up to those who had lost their way.

When a friend told me about the Rock of Wilmington, I had pretty much given up. What did I have to loose? What was one more church?

The Rock was not just a place of true worship, racial equality or diversity. While I hadn’t found that anywhere in that combination, I had been able to sense the hunger of the people in many of the other churches. The Rock was different. It was a place where once again I could hear the Lord speaking to me. “Come.” He said.

 I looked down at the chains that were binding me, and the weight of sin was so heavy I couldn’t move. “Come.” He called to me again and I could not resist. I scooped up those chains and told the demons that were tormenting me that we were going in to the Presence of God. They were welcome to go with me, but I was going in. Every evil deed I had ever done or considered doing flashed before my eyes. I stopped dead still. The chains clanged at my feet. Suddenly all of the mighty things the Lord had done in my life passed before me as well. The enemy jeered at me. See that, you walked with Him before but then you failed Him, what use would He have of you now. Look at yourself you are filthy. I did look, and I was filthy.

Again the Lord said, “come to Me and I will make you clean.”  This time I picked up those chains and rushed head first toward my Savior. “Lord I cried, I am a sinner, saved by Your grace, but I have fallen away from you. Father forgive me. If you will allow me to sit outside the gate and worship You, it will be more than I deserve.”

I noticed instantly that the chains had dropped off me, and that the imps who had tortured me had ran away. They could not stand in the light of His Presence. Jesus did not grant my request that day. He did not allow me to stand outside the gate. Instead He placed on me a white linen robe and clothed me in forgiveness. When that light shown on me I could not comprehend a Love so grand. I still cannot fathom the depths of His loving kindness.

Now I seek to go to the deep places; to love and worship my Beloved Savior with every cell of my being. I see the trials I walk through now as pathways to His riches. The pain of my daily circumstances and broken relationships are nothing compared to drawing near to Him. I am yielded unto death, yet walking in the power of His resurrection.  

I was eighteen years old when I heard my first real Gospel message.  It came strangely.

It was summer, 1983.  We had just graduated high school.  College loomed.  My friends and I were at a local basketball court.  Some other kids and some guy no one knew were there playing.  We all did a pickup game.  We hardly noticed the mystery guy.  He was much older, in his mid-thirties, with straight, sandy hair and glasses;  a burly guy, but he could shoot hoops.  My friends and I all played wildly.  He quietly, but effectively, played too.

It’s funny how the devil uses the lost.  I remember cussing wildly during that game.  I mean, even at the time I knew I was cussing way overboard, using every word in the book, even when it wasn’t necessary, but not knowing way I was doing so.  I can only imagine now what that guy was thinking:  “This kid’s too lost, Lord!  He’s going straight to hell!  I might as well give up doing what I’m thinking about doing ’cause these guys are way over the top!”

 The mystery basketball player did have other motives than a great game of hoops.  We ended.  Some of us complimented him for bringing it on so hard in the game.  We turned to leave, he had the basketball in his hand.  About twenty steps later we heard from behind us something that changed my life forever:  “Hey, guys, can we talk for a minute?”  It was mystery guy.  We all looked at him and back at each other.  We were eighteen year old tough guys.  Who actually wanted to ever just “talk” to us?  This wasn’t “Phil Donahue,” for Pete’s sake. We relented and went back over to him, anyway. 

I remember, he was a little hesitant as we approached him.  But he gathered his confidence, got down on one knee, steadied himself with one hand on the basketball, and asked us:  “Has anyone ever talked to you about the salvation of Jesus Christ?”

 Negatory on that one, Mister.  But he DID, and preach to us he did!  He was from Georgia, had been a bluegrass player for years (already a turn-off to a pagan Led Zeppelin fan), ran the wild life, and was left hurt and empty.  But Jesus saved him, set him free, and he was a new man.  He went on to tell us about the Bible and then the “Rapture.”  I had never in my life heard of the Rapture.  First time.  He said Jesus would return and take all Christians with Him in the air.  They would all disappear.  POOF!  Then he asked us if any of us wanted to pray and invite Jesus into our hearts to save us.

It was at that time that all the demons inside me exploded.  Using my extensive Roman Catholic background (hey, I actually DID pay attention to those priests and nuns at St. Mary’s and all the Catechism teachers in high school CCD!), I argued this guy down into the ground.  Salvation?  Are you nuts?  Rapture?  WHAT?!  And my friends all looked at me like I was crazy, but I argued this guy up one side and down another.  I was quite effective in the devil’s hands, ’cause if one of my friends had been about to accept this guy’s offer of praying for salvation, I was the one standing in their way.  I remember telling this guy to meet us in a bar at ten that night, and that I’d have my brother, who’d been to seminary for six years, to meet us and HE’D tell him like it was too.  He graciously declined.  He was totally floored by my vehement fight against the Gospel.  I think he did manage to get a quick prayer off over us, and then we parted.  He walked away with a little less swagger than he’d had on the court.  And that was MY fault.  We never saw him again.

So that was my first ever exposure to the Gospel.  The thing was, I never, ever forgot it!  Even though I was Damian the 666 Anti-Christ out there on that basketball court in Beaver Falls with that guy, his every word, his Southern cadence, every Jesus Christ seed he put out there, fell deeply into my heart.

Mystery Basketball Player was the digger of hard, fallow ground:  that rock hard, dusty dirt full of stones and weeds and rooty-tendrils that’s never seen a human shovel or pick-axe ever.  That guy, that night, was Holy Spirit’s first attempt to turn over the crusty dirt of my heart and plant the precious seeds of Jesus Christ.  And I proved myself SOOOOO unworthy.  But Jesus graciously planted them anyway… 

     I’ve heard it said that it takes seven contacts with the Gospel message before the average person converts.  I think it took more than that with me, since so many of my first contacts were negative.
    Oddly enough, it was my own words that were the most persuasive witness in my walk towards Christ.
     It came about like this: my grandmother was dying.  She had pancreatic cancer, and by the time they found it she had weeks to live.  I had mixed feelings about my grandmother.  On one hand, she adored me, wrote me, sent me presents, and took my side against my parents.  On the other hand, the woman just plain could not shut up.  She could talk the leg off a table, and I would occasionally sit at her supper table and fantasize about punching her on the mouth so she would finally stop talking.
     But I made arrangements to go up with my boyfriend and see her for a week before the new term at USC began.  I needed John as a buffer between myself and my father.  Our relationship was highly charged and strained.  I was physically afraid of him, and I wanted to have someone there on my side if worst came to worst.  Unfortunately, John’s personality provoked my parents almost past bearing.  It wasn’t an ideal situation.  And it was complicated by the fact that my grandfather was, at that point, nearly dying from long-term alcohol abuse and my grandmother hated his guts. 
     What a cast of characters!  My angry, sarcastic father,  worry-addicted mother, drunk grandfather, dying grandmother, arrogant boyfriend, three young siblings, oh- and a mystery cousin named Pat, who felt that we were all interlopers who didn’t want the best for my grandmother and who told me frequently that I had no idea how my grandmother had suffered in life.
    Pat’s problem was that we were trying to pursuade Grandma to forgive Papa before she croaked and it was too late.  Even though my parents were basically atheists, I think they had some kind of residual moral twinges over dying in a state of bitter hatred and disgust.  I think Pat felt that bitter hatred and disgust were just about what was called for under the circumstances.
    So here we all were, packed in the house on top of each other, trying to smile and be civil and share the bathroom.  And in the downstairs bedroom my grandmother sorted pictures and struggled to eat and fought for breath.  She kept trying to give me and my siblings things.  Her $500 leather coat.  Her diamonds.  Her furniture.  Her car.  Pat kept trying to get us to take them.  My sister and boyfriend wanted everything they could get.  My mother wanted everything saved for Papa.  I didn’t want to think about her dying.  I was scared- scared to death, scared of death.
     I had been terrified of death and the idea of hell for years.  I had recurring nightmares.  And being confronted by it face to face with weeping and forgiveness and last requests was almost too much.  I withdrew from the family and wandered around the house pretending it wasn’t really happening.
     This is all a long prelude to a fairly simple story.  One morning I couldn’t sleep.  I awoke long before the family in the dim blue dawn and crept downstairs.  When I slipped into the bathroom, I found my grandmother crying on the toilet seat.
     “I don’t want to go,” she cried, clutching me, “Everyone I love is here.  I don’t want to die!”
      I was speechless, befuddled, 19 years old with no real religion to fall back on, and terrified of death myself.   How could I comfort her?She held my hands tight.  Her hands were so soft and thin, wrinkled like crepe paper and softer than velvet, softer even than my baby’s hand.
     Finally it occured to me that she was a Christian.  I was a little blurry on the details, but I knew the christians believed in heaven.  So I told her so.  I told her about all her friends and relatives who had died before her, who would be waiting to throw a welcome party when she arrived.  I think I imagined them holding a banner like they were meeting someone at the airport.
     “Really?” she asked me.  “Do you really think so?”
     And I lied.  I lied the biggest, fattest, most brazen and convincing lie I could come up with.  “Yes, I really do,”  I told her.  “And more than that, I need you to go on so that you can be there to welcome me when I come.”
     No sermon ever preached to me about sin or hell or anything could ever have been as convicting to me as those words out of my own mouth.  For years they haunted me.  Had what I said been a lie?  What if it were true?  What if she waited on me and I didn’t come?  Was heaven real?  What comfort could a pagan or an atheist possibly have offered her?  What hope was there for anybody if it weren’t true?
     Maybe you could live a good life, a fun life.  But at the end of it, every single person on the earth would be like my grandmother: frightened and asking what was next and not wanting to go.  If there were no heaven, if there were no afterlife, if there were no God…. then all of life was a cheat and a falsehood.
     It tormented me.  And my promise to her tormented me.  I had promised her that she would go to heaven.  And I had promised to meet her there.
     And now, someday I will.  And I hope to fill her arms with children and grandchildren who have submitted to the cross and taken passage on faith to reach her.  I don’t know if any of my other relatives will ever believe and be saved, but I hope that I and my children will help satisfy her for the ones she lost.   I hope it will be a great family reunion.  I pray that it will.

We were so hopeful as we unpacked the boxes in our new townhouse apartment. Our possessions were few but that didn’t matter. We had escaped the streets of Newark, New Jersey and stood on the doorstep of new possibilities for our little family. The ghetto was merciless and no place to raise children. The mountain communities of South Orange and the distant suburbs Short Hills or Livingston showed us a more desirable reality. One thing was clear: the good life costs a pretty penny.

So we moved six hundred miles south to Wilmington, North Carolina. I thought, “Surely, here I can afford the house and a nice car and make a more comfortable life for all of us.” I believed that God led us to this city and that He would bless us. Hope buoyed us along.

Surprisingly, the niceties of life were not summarily handed to me. Economic reality blew in like a summer thunderstorm. Call it ignorance, naiveté or simple laziness to expect gifts to fall from the sky. Whatever colored my vision did not keep me from seeing that the dreams were become more elusive. The townhouse had now deteriorated with age. Our car grew old far less gracefully. Where was the hope of His promise? Why was His blessing being withheld? I was faithful to serve and give to the church. What was I doing wrong?

Months turned into years and little changed. I watched as others built homes, bought cars, took vacations and sent children off to university. For others, life’s options spread out like a harvest cornucopia. For us, the fruit of our labor was still slim. I tried to keep perspective and trust God for the best. But my trust was crumbling under a mounting weight. Resentment had set in against anyone who seemed to be flourishing. “I’m a Christian,” I told myself, “and I love everyone.” But anger fueled my resentment. I suppressed it, pushed it down into a dark corner of my heart and denied it expression. But because it did not speak did not cause it to leave…or to stop growing. I was a prisoner of full blown bitterness. It had taken root, like some malevolent vegetation gone wild, and threatened to turn and consume me. I was unaware of how truly tragic I had become.

While at my desk at work, I was listening to the radio. A voice came on: “See to it that no one misses the grace of God and that no bitter root grows up to cause trouble and defile many.” I knew he was reading from the Bible, the book of Hebrews. He was talking about bitterness, about me. I was captivated as for the next twenty minutes as he unveiled bitterness for the evil that it was.  I literally trembled in my seat. Then, in an instant, a weight was lifted from me. I saw His grace and mercy and realized how great His love for me was. I rejoiced in the truth and reveled in my new found freedom. “Let all bitterness…be put away from you…be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God in Christ forgave you.” (Ephesians 4:31-32)

Michael Porter © 2007