What which gave me glory

that What, which painted,
their once
pompous cheeks
whitened confusion
what rude unbelief
which once was on
Anyone's backhand smile
that what which
no one dared
ask anyone
dared to think,
but What
in whichever case
gave who glory
save my newly 'trothed
and me
but the white What paint
was for whom
their smiles
wrought to shreds
as what What painted them
he erased from whom
the Anyone's had slaughtered
and with white and ugly paint
What brought
for whom to slaughter
the anyone's
yet, the no one's
not for naught

Letter to Simon Wiesenthal in response to his question at the end of "The Sunflower"

Upon reading your book, The Sunflower, I found myself being ripped apart by the giants of grace and authority; of compassion and vengeance. While perhaps I could think of some articulate answer to your question, decades in hindsight, as a non-Jew in modern day America where persecution is far from my mind and comfort seems to reign, I have no right to answer such a question. I have never been persecuted, never been tortured, never truly felt ignored and sub-human. How then can my answer to this question be of any service or consolation to you? (For I know it is this that you must seek) Your question has now forced me into the same situation as when you were asked. Just as you were told of the horrific things of Karl’s past, so now, have I been told and am aware.

You have called me to this moment of forgiveness and then asked me to forgive you your silence. Why must you ask? What are you unsure of. Would it have been better to have lashed out at Karl as much of the pain as you could. If you can’t forgive for a race though, how can you avenge one?

You have effectually brought me into the camp (though as I lie now in bed comfort is still supreme). You have showed me this world—this depression. You have told me your actions, but then with words and my distorted psyche you would have me tell you my reaction. I cannot put myself there, for I am not like you. I am more like the killers yet your question begs my response. My answer can hold consolation for your actions or lack thereof, or it may carry with it, anger, disappointment, and blame. In either case I would be forced to justify or unjustify something to which I cannot personally relate nor have the right and authority to approve or disapprove.

For my own part, I will say that I am much the poet—not so much with writing as with living. Old English words of snipy vengeances and excommunications, of casual beheadings and wars dominate my views on justice. If eyes were gouged when an eye was taken, would not fewer eyes be taken? I am an obstinate man in thought with ideas such as these, but my temperament would not have me be so bold in the face of Karl’s question. As for your question I must speak no more. I can’t.

In God’s grace,

Logan A. Mosteller

Me, God?

His grace comes down But so does his wrath
The latter I ignore
Do I even know the half?
As I sit and I ponder
And I think about my sin
I feel there is no way in hell
He'd let my dirty soul in
But I guess I'm glad He's in Heaven
Cause hell just wouldn't do
I guess my prayers were heard
Somehow He loves me too
He says "enter my gates"
And I stumble away
He says "come, take an eat"
But I starve for the day
The thing about this God is he seems to worthy
The thing about this God is i can't help feeling dirty
But he raises me up
I see his wrath as it pours
Leaving but grace in its cup
He proves He is Lord
But for me I'm confused
Me, who sprints after,
Every temptuous muse
Me who is broken
Me who is poor
Could this actually be
What he paid his life for
This boy who climbs
For every two times he falls
How could I be
Effectually called?
Save a Love ever greater than his Just, Holy Wrath
Save a Love so great, He died on my behalf
Last, and I'll finish, just as He did

Come near to the cross

Let him find you knelt there
Faithfully prostrate
Grace will be there

Mercy wins--because we suck.

“But I…”

Easily the 2 most powerful words in the Scriptures; for what does it convey except for the gospel. It is interwoven betwixt these words themselves—saving grace, mercy, the whole lot of Christ’s magnificent blessings to us. Preceding these words are the lecherous list of our debaucheries, our collapses, the slow decay of our fallen souls—but O, glorious patience, that post ceding this black and rotting ditch of our immorality and subsequent lack of morality, are the dearest, precious words of grace taught us at the earliest of ages. Love wins. Or does it? Rob Bell a renowned pastor wrote a book with this title: Love Wins. Millions were outraged at his light portrayal of hell, and his inferences to universal election, but many were caught in this trap. This trap of the prosperity gospel. The forgiveness cop-out. The no worries I’m alright trap, the God wouldn’t send me to hell trap. Ensnared, we drool over the words after “but I”—we are obsessed with grace and inflate it infinitely much, as we become blinder and blinder to the realities of our sin. Sin is an infection, a virus, a contagion; it is in and through us and contaminates all of our perceptions, often with the justification that it is not a plague. Don’t fool yourself. Sit in silence for 2 minutes, nah one, I don’t have that much faith in you. Think. Ponder. Wander. 60 seconds. I’ll join you. What did you think about? Anxieties, Lusts, Anger, Gossip, Hate, Convictions, Guilt? Are you feeling dirty? Good. Cause you are. Your filthy, disgusting, revolting—a leper. As am I. What do you suppose I was thinking? Hint: you might want to read the list above. But perhaps now, we have found a mite enough of understanding to our present stead, that we may even begin to approach the grace after the “but I”. Grace and mercy don’t exist without sin, and they have no meaning without justice. If you know the cost of your freedom, you would be truly free—free to live the life you are capable, the life you’ve been chosen to live, the life you ought. Good Luck fellow sinners. Live well!