Okay, I’ve given it 27 years of thought and I know what I would say now…

04/17/2007, 10:39 pm -- by | 1 Comment

guard.jpg
“I guess you can guard the Queen from pretty much everything but ugly, huh?”

Virginia Tech

04/17/2007, 8:15 pm -- by | No Comments

“He will not quarrel nor cry out,
Nor will anyone hear His voice in the streets.
A bruised reed He will not break,
And smoking flax He will not quench,
Till He sends forth justice to victory;
And in His name Gentiles will trust.”
Matthew 12:19-21 (NKJV)

—
While I sit in a coffee shop in upstate NY, thousands of miles from the Virginia Tech campus, I cannot help but reflect on the events of these past two days. Together, the two attacks constitute the deadliest school shooting in American history and they came only days before the anniversary of the Columbine shooting, our deadliest high school shooting.

Friends, co-workers, strangers in the coffee shop all seem to ask the same three questions.

“Did you hear?”
“Why did it happen?”
“What if it happened here?”

We’ve been created with the ability to empathize with other people, and news this tragic, this life-altering, this profound can often change our view of the world and people around us.

As it was on April 20, 1999, as it was on September 11, 2001, it was today. Collectively and individually, our hearts break for the victims of such tragedies. And though we and our colleagues may be so far removed from the situation physically and socially, we still feel compelled to discuss it. We feel the need to rationalize it. We feel the need to come to sense with the scary world around us.

But some actions can never be understood.

Thirty-three people are dead as a result of the shootings and fifteen are injured. That means nearly fifty families are directly affected by a physical casualty. The attacks left hundreds of first-hand witnesses forever changed as a result of the attack, and thousands more traumatized by the fear that it could happen again.

And though the global outpouring of grief directed toward America and the Virginia Tech campus may bring some small comfort, there is yet again a very real need for inner healing for the victims, their families, their classmates, their peers, and a nation yet again shaken by tragedy. A convocation was held on that campus earlier today toward that end. Speakers included local religious leaders representing the Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, and Christian faiths.

Hearts and lives have been torn open in an unfathomable act, and those hearts need mending. And there’s a great God of compassion and grace ready, willing, and able to mend broken hearts, to repair the bruised reeds and smoking flax in the world. That God is very real and very interested in their healing. But ministering that healing has been entrusted to His servants, through the power of the Holy Spirit. Will those same servants sit idly by while the terrified and brokenhearted among us run for placebo after placebo to cure what cannot be cured by human hands?

As I sit in a coffee shop in upstate NY, far removed from the terror, pain, and chaos swirling around the Blacksburg campus, will I remain idle? Will I fail to offer a prayer of intercession or to comfort someone who, though far removed physically, has been deeply affected? Will I be an ambassador of Christ, offering to heal the brokenhearted and repair a broken reed? Will I offer the only cure to the human condition, though the Buddhists and Muslims of the world offer an appealing placebo?

I will and I must.

Will you?

Grammar and Anticipation

04/17/2007, 3:45 pm -- by | 2 Comments

My grandfather gave me my first grammar lesson when I was seven years old, after I had asked him if I could play on his old green Chevy truck. “I don’t know, can you?,” he asked, home from his bike shop for lunch, an empty plate and half a can of beer in front of him.

“Yes,” I said slowly, wary of my grandfather and his tricks: how he gave me something shiny and yellow and called it fool’s gold only after I had told him all the things I would buy with it, and how he convinced me that I could buy a miniature collar and lead for the tarantula I had just captured so I could show it around town as my pet.

My grandfather took a final swig of beer and swiped his sleeve across his mouth, which earned a sour look from my grandmother, who did his laundry.

“Yes, you can.”

“Thank you!,” I yelled, already at the back door.

“Chloe!” I reluctantly returned to his chair and waited as attentively as a seven-year-old in the summertime can wait. My grandfather pondered me for a moment, scratching the peppery stubble on his chin. I waited patiently because I knew instinctively that something important was going to happen, just like when he let me help him mix concrete and put up the dog pen, even though as a rule, he preferred to do work around the land alone, and a little girl would only get in the way. Though he firmly believed a woman’s place was in the kitchen, we eventually completed many projects together, the last a door installation cut short after he severed most of the top part of his thumb and bled all over my mother’s white carpet because he was too manly to feel pain.

“Chloe,” he repeated after several long tick-tocks of the grandfather clock, “I’m trying to teach you something here. You say ‘can’ when you are able. You say ‘may’ when you want permission. So:” He waved his hand at me and the smell of the oil he used on the chains and gears in his bike shop wafted towards me. It smelled like a car. Or a big green Chevy.

“Can I go play on your truck?” At this point I was fidgeting like I was about to wet my pants, but still he spoke slowly, in a gravelly voice that sounded like he had worked hard his whole life, and would continue to do so until the day he died. “You are able to play on my truck, but you have to ask me if you may get permission to go do it.”

“M…may I…?” I trailed off, and he nodded encouragingly while my grandmother audibly rolled her eyes. “May I go play on the truck?”

He folded his newspaper and stood. “No, I have to go back to work. But you can give my plate to your grandmother and throw my can away.”

Clash of the Titans XIV: Metric v. Imperial

04/17/2007, 10:00 am -- by | No Comments

In this corner, supporting the metric system, is Tom!

 And in this corner, supporting the imperial system, is Mike!

As a people, Americans have always paid our collective independence more than its share of lip service. We claim to be a land of freedom, say we have thrown off the bonds of tyranny that yoked our nation in her infancy, and present ourselves to the world as a paragon of liberty. Yet we persist in using a system of weights and measures based not on any semblance of sense, but on the whims and physical characteristics of the despotic few who governed the monarchies of antiquity.

The standard system ruled the roost of world business for centuries, growing comfortably fat off the toil of our brows and calculating machines. Wide rolls of strange numerical conversions began to hang from its jowls as it glutted itself at the table of commerce. Was this monster decimal? Octal? Dodecahedral? Who could afford to question? Time was better spent trying to determine the number of ounces in a hogshead, or inches in a furlong. But a new wind was about to blow.

Amid the tumult of the last time the French showed any collective semblance of bravery, a few daring souls decided to forge a universal system of measure. Rather than the length of a king’s thumb, or the volume of your average sheep bladder, they selected a length they would use for a base, a length of the people. The world was changing! The king was dead; he could no longer force the people to memorize numbers like 12, 16, 1160, or 5280! Instead, they counted their fingers, counted their toes, averaged the result and arrived at the number 10. That’s right, the same number upon which our entire system of numbers is based.

Not only can you convert between a nanometer and a kilometer just by moving a decimal place, you can even move between two and three dimensions without straining. Without measuring someone’s anatomy. Without consulting a council of bearded elders, table of ciphers or magician’s grimoire. When was the last time a child was able to proudly tell his teacher the number of cubic inches in a gallon? But any precocious tot can be instructed that a thousand independent little cubic centimeters together become a proud, powerful liter.

In a time of increasing foreign tension, should we really be raising the next generation to measure the world in a way foreign to the others who call it home? Is it worth enduring the confusion and inconsistency of the standard system, just so our grandchildren will measure their ice cream in the manner of our fathers? Just look into your heart, and count your toes.

I think you’ll find they hold the answer.

I pastor a church in a threatened part of the world. Chester County, Pennsylvania, just east of Lancaster, is a county of rolling hills and mushroom farms, and is a traditional home to horse trainers. You can still pass an idyllic Saturday in the southern part of the county watching the county as it used to be.

But the town where I pastor, Exton, has long been under threat. Every chain restaurant in the world, it seems, has moved in. I live about twenty minutes away, in Coatesville; a mere ten-minute drive from our church or home could take you to five McDonald’s, three Wendy’s, two Friendly’s, three Applebee’s, and countless other familiar restaurants that have conspired to all but destroy local cuisine.

We don’t need more themed chain restaurants beating the individuality out of us, and we sure don’t need a metric system forcing us all into a mold, even if it is a perfectly square, perfectly sensible, extremely user-friendly mold.

Do you really prefer the meter to the yard? We know how the meter came into being: it was a product of the “pure reason” so popular (and so stunningly bloody) in the French Revolution. Indeed, in 1799, the French stored away the originals of the meter and the other metric units, adorning the metric system with the motto, “For all men, for all time.”

On the contrary, we don’t know precisely where the yard comes from, only that its origin lies in charmed tradition. The girth of a person’s waist? The distance from Henry VIII’s nose to the tip of his outstretched thumb? No one knows for sure–all we know is that it’s a much better story than a bunch of progress-minded revolutionaries laying off the bloodshed long enough to standardize something random, then attempting to force the rest of the world to use it.

And they have tried to force the metric system. Don’t believe me? Ask the “Metric Martyrs,” a group of five English grocers who were fined for failing to measure their produce in metric units. Ask any Canadian you want. Their government went to the trouble of creating a logo to demonstrate their allegiance to metric’s new world order, pushing imperial users into underground quietness. Like Narnians, they must patiently await their chance to again enjoy their nation as it used to be.

So, go ahead, vote for the metric system. And while you’re homogenizing the world, would you also cast a ballot for eradicating local accents, closing the family-owned hardware store, and creating a list of state-approved songs for worship?

Thanks so much.

{democracy:23}

Joke of the Day, 4/17/07

04/17/2007, 7:00 am -- by | No Comments

Four people were riding in a train — a woman and her beautiful 19-year-old daughter on one side, and a general and his escort, a private, on the other. The train entered a tunnel, and the cabin grew dark. A kiss was heard, followed by a slap.

The mother thought, “That young man stole a kiss from my daughter, and she rightfully slapped him!”

The daughter thought, “That young man tried to kiss me, kissed my mother by mistake, and got slapped!”

The general thought, “That young man stole a kiss, and I got slapped by mistake!”

And the private thought, “I’m pretty smart — I kiss the back of my hand and get to hit the general!”

From the Anglican File

04/16/2007, 3:30 pm -- by | 2 Comments

“There is no greater argument in the world of our spiritual danger and unwillingness to religion, than the backwardness which most men have always, and all men have sometimes, to say their prayers — so weary of their length, so glad when they are done, so witty to excuse and frustrate an opportunity: and yet all is nothing but a desiring of God to give us the greatest and the best things we can need, and which can make us happy — it is a work so easy, so honourable, and to so great purpose, that in all the instances of religion and providence (except only the incarnation of his Son) God hath not given us a greater argument of his willingness to have us saved, and of our unwillingness to accept it, his goodness and our gracelessness, his infinite condescension and our carelessness and folly, than by rewarding so easy a duty with so great blessings.”

Jeremy Taylor, a seventeenth-century Anglican priest, authored these words in The Rules and Exercises of Holy Living. Essentially, he holds that the most compelling argument that we are in spiritual danger is our desire not to pray.

Common sense would seem to dictate that if an easy behavior results in great reward, then people would perform that behavior at every opportunity. If, for instance, there were a “steak dinner” button on my computer, I’d be pushing it constantly — far more often than I should. Yet prayer — so easy a duty rewarded with such great blessings — often is neglected, in my life, and I’m sure in many of yours as well.

I cannot think of one solitary time — literally, not one time — in my life when I have prayed and regretted it. On rare occasions, God has answered my prayers in obvious and stunning ways. At other times, God has not changed the situation, but has radically changed me by shaping my heart. Never ever have I regretted it.

And yet it is still hard to get up the willpower to pray at times; still I go through dark stretches where I don’t want to pray at all, and more often than not I don’t. Though prayer has never disappointed me, I still am “witty to excuse it,” proud of my mental acuity in finding an excuse to “get me off the hook.”

The very fact that we want to “get off the hook” when it comes to prayer demonstrates our spiritual weakness. When my more liberal friends wonder why I am comparably conservative, this is often what I think about. I know our ability to convince ourselves that wrong is right and right wrong — and there is no more obvious example than our desire not to pray.

Ask Bweinh! Poll — Pies

04/16/2007, 10:30 am -- by | 4 Comments

This week’s Ask Bweinh! polls are proudly presented by Arby’s, who asks us to remind you that if you ever find yourself “thinkin’ Arby’s” in a food-related way, you should immediately seek medical attention.

Everyone loves pie! Here are our favorites!

Rank Pie Points
1. Apple 20
2. Strawberry Rhubarb 17
3. Pumpkin 10
4. Lemon Meringue 9
5. Cheesecake 8
6. Pecan 6
7-8 (tie) Banana Cream, Key Lime 5
9-11 (tie) Shepherds’, Tarheel, Cherry 4
Other French Silk, Blueberry, Grasshopper, Raisin, Mince, Peanut Butter, Pudding 1-2

Quote of the Day, 4/16/07

04/16/2007, 7:00 am -- by | No Comments

“Very few people do anything creative after the age of 35. The reason is that very few people do anything creative before the age of 35.” – J. Hildebrand

Three Weekend Announcements

04/14/2007, 5:00 am -- by | No Comments

– Congratulations to Kindred, which moves on to the next round of the Battle of the Bands. Since their name was defeated in the poll, Aaron’s cousin’s band is also legally obligated to change their name to Kindred. Sorry.

– I forgot to mention that the winners of the Bweinh.com NCAA Tournament pool were Steve and Mike, who tied for first with 1090 points. We’re also the two tallest ones here, so it figures. Third was Matt Jones, followed by the two Aarons, and the other Joneses, father and son. I think we can all breathe a little easier tonight in our quest to keep up with them.

– Next week we will welcome two new contributors to the ranks of Bweinh.com, as well as another brand-new feature!

Bweinh! Soundtrack — Death Cab for Cutie

04/13/2007, 8:31 pm -- by | No Comments

Every weekend, a different Bweinh!tributor will discuss a song or songwriter that inspires or interests them. Read the last two soundtrack entries here and here.

Disclaimer: As a man living in modern American society I can, without taking too many liberties, uninhibitedly offer constructive criticism to the collective members of that elite fraternity.

The most obvious unifying characteristic among most men in our society is a simple one — insecurity. The kid who drives a truck with tires taller than he is and tailgates minivans on the interstate. The middle-manager who throws over his family for an attractive secretary, showing the world he’s “still got it.” The twentysomething who takes perverse pride in the number of girls he can manipulate into falling for him. The business man who’ll stop at nothing to get his piece, just to stay ahead of the Joneses.

Take a look at the advertisers paying for any television programming with a largely male audience. Alcohol, a noted social disinhibitor, playing a large role in the happiness of attractive men, with strong hairlines, frolicking with generously-endowed women in sunny locations. Bobs ranging from Dole to Smilin’, and other pillars of virility, announce that you can get the better of your advanced age, questionable exercise regime and poor dietary habits. And historically, cigarettes — a product designed, on first use, to command some measure of respect from others. These are our birthright as American men in our society.

And this song our anthem.

A lonely, soothing piano intro begins, coaxing us into the melody. The simple theme repeats, gaining momentum and complexity as the strains pour out of the secondhand speakers we’ll replace with those Bose numbers we’ll save up for after we get a new muffler on the Duster. A pause, then a simple, soft, yet strangely driving beat ushers in lead vocalist Ben Gibbard’s revealing first verse’s lyrics.

You may tire of me as our December sun is setting
‘Cause I’m not who I used to be
No longer easy on the eyes; these wrinkles masterfully disguise
The youthful boy below

Who turned your way and saw
Something he was not looking for: both a beginning and an end
But now he lives inside someone he does not recognize
When he catches his reflection on accident

As a man young in years, you may not think these words speak to me in particular. But I am also a fellow referred to by many since my 20th year as “Ol’ Tom,” who styled his hair with a Bic in a pointless race with heredity for a time, six times, and half a time. I feel a strong sense of kinship with the song’s imaginary protagonist.

On the back of a motorbike
With your arms outstretched trying to take flight
Leaving everything behind
But even at our swiftest speed we couldn’t break from the concrete
In the city where we still reside.

And I have learned that even landlocked lovers yearn
For the sea like navy men
‘Cause now we say good night from our own separate sides
Like brothers on a hotel bed

Some of us run from it, into the welcoming arms of Coors, Corvettes, and Cialis. Some fight it with arduous exercise, wheatgrass shakes, and ginkgo biloba. And some embrace it, as I have. I am a man, not Hollywood and Madison Avenue’s version of one, and I proudly take my place among my fellows.

Won’t you join me? We’ll all scoot over; I’m sure there’s room for one more.

Circling the Wagons

04/13/2007, 2:30 pm -- by | 4 Comments

There has been a lot of talk on the radio lately about the firing of Don Imus. Many fellow radio hosts, clearly not the most unbiased crowd, have been rallying to his defense, going so far as to call the decision “tragic” and “a disgrace.” Maybe I’m missing something, but I’m having a hard time getting worked up about Don Imus no longer having a platform to spread his particular brand of “humor.”

One of the big complaints by his defenders is that the decision was made for the “wrong reasons.” First off, they’re offended at the perception that Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson have perhaps successfully brought pressure to bear. I’m not necessarily a fan of either man, and certainly Sharpton should be disgraced by his vilification of the Duke lacrosse players now known to be innocent. But leaving their opportunism and grandstanding aside as red herrings, ultimately this situation comes back to CBS, and of course, to Imus himself.

The other “wrong reason” that has so offended the sensibilities of the radio brethren is that the decision was made not on ethical grounds, but because of money. I would like to pose a challenge to anyone making this argument: find me one decision a broadcast company makes that is not based on money. They are in business to make money, not because they personally enjoy enlarging certain people’s ego and opinions. The only reason Don Imus had a job in the first place was because he garnered ratings and successfully made money for his station. That’s the way business works.

Don Imus is a bigot. This can be stated unequivocally, and his choice of words, on-air and off, not to mention his choice of underlings, have proven this over the last two decades. Even his supporters generally concede this, with one host even going so far as to mount a defense summarized as, “Well, he’s a repeat offender, so why should he be fired this time?” Don Imus is free to believe what he wants, and is even free to say what he wants. Freedom of speech is one of the greatest things about this country. But there is no constitutional right to be given a frequency to daily broadcast your speech, and certainly no guarantee to be paid to do it. Imus’s job was to talk, and so it stands to reason that he would specifically be held accountable for the things he said, and how they affected his company’s image and bottom line.

I’m still having a hard time believing the world is any worse off today without the racism that once daily reached the masses, thanks to Don Imus and the formerly enabling CBS.

Clash of the Titans XIII: Fire As A Survival Tool

04/13/2007, 1:00 pm -- by | 4 Comments

In this corner, arguing that fire is overrated, is Job!

 And in this corner, supporting fire, is Djere!

Fire as a survival tool? Yeah, whatever. Fire? You’re dead to me…

I understand that when man first left the Garden, fire may have played a very important role in the survival and perpetuation of our species. Whether it was used for cooking bacteria out of meat or as an agent of warmth, I’m sure fire proved priceless to our ancestors.

But I believe we need to ask ourselves, “Fire, what have you done for me lately?”

If my little single-engine plane crashed in Alaska, leaving my bush pilot dead and me miraculously alive, you best believe I ain’t wastin’ none of my precious time or energy runnin’ around like JoJo the Idiot Circus Clown, trying to make fire. What’s it gonna do, really? Warm my extremities? Cook the snow rabbit I’ll never catch? I’m sure that’s how most search and rescue people find their targets — hunched over some feeble kindling and moss, the face of their watch frozen in their hand, telling the tale of their futile and desperate efforts to refract sunshine into flame.

Me? They’ll find me back at base camp, ripping through some MREs, reading the newspaper, and telling them where I left the bush pilot. Wanna know why? I didn’t stay put and waste my time on combustion; I sucked it up and com-busted my way right outta there!

Okay, I can hear you now. “Job, you’re an idiot!” “Job, you’re gonna die.” “No, Job, seriously, you’re an idiot.” But perhaps I’m just forward-thinking. For centuries people thought Earth was flat, and as a result, tethered themselves to familiar ports, afraid to sail off the edge of the world. Similarly, for centuries, people in survival situations have trusted Fire to save their sorry selves, and they’ve stayed tethered to their locations, rubbing sticks together and acting like they actually know what flint is, SOSing themselves crazy.

But me? I’m a latter-day Columbus, willing to thumb my nose at accepted science and Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria myself to new frontiers.

Fire might be a luxury, but when it comes to survival, it is SO overrated.

Of all the survival tips, tools, and tricks, fire is the American Express: don’t leave home without it.

Any storied mercenary, mountaineer, or adventurer such as myself will tell you that when it comes to surviving the chilling cold winter winds of Siberia, the torrential monsoons of Southeast Asia, or a hostile desert crawling with wildlife, without fire, you will die.

You. Will. Die.

The benefits of fire are obvious and threefold.

First, heat. When the sun goes down, Earth loses its heat source. When the planet loses its heat source, so do you. And a survival situation is more than just the discomfort you face while jogging six blocks down the street to Starbucks to get warm, Job. When base camp is hundreds of miles away, when there are no straight lines to gauge direction and distance, when you’re injured and you can’t just follow your nose back to your Froot Loops, what will you do? When hypothermia sets in, there’s only one way to stave off the cold that permeates, debilitates, and suffocates. Fire will save your life.

Second, protection. Most of the predators that will attack a human in the wild are both nocturnal and opportunistic. Wolves, jackals, jihadists, dingos, and ROUSes all attack under the cover of darkness. Light from a fire will reveal your enemy and, in a pinch, make for an effective weapon. Use of tools separates the higher primates from the lower primates; use of fire separates us from the higher primates. Every other creature is instinctively afraid of the very tool some would so callously cast aside — fire will save your life.

Third, morale. The greatest obstacle to survival is not nature, predators, or enemy combatants. It’s human nature. Fear and hopelessness will debilitate you more effectively than any RPG: from the inside out. If your survival depends on others, keeping morale high will increase your chances immensely. In the cold and dark, fear creeps in, and though light and heat may seem like creature comforts, they’ll keep you sane. Fire will save your life.

As a luxury item, fire is overrated. But as a survival tool, it’s next to none.

Fire will save your life.

{democracy:22}

Joke of the Day, 4/13/07

04/13/2007, 7:00 am -- by | No Comments

How many Frenchmen does it take to defend Paris?

No one knows. They’ve never tried.

Ask Bweinh! Poll — Websites

04/12/2007, 12:00 pm -- by | No Comments

Another Ask Bweinh! poll brought to you by the Rev. Dr. John Stamos, TV’s Uncle Jesse and eBay-certified heartthrob!

Here are a few of Bweinh.com’s favorite websites, other than ones we run.

Rank Website Points
1. ESPN.com 13
2. The Onion 10
3-7 (tie) McSweeney’s, onBeing, Homestar Runner, Hamster Dance, Facebook 5
8-12 (tie) National Review Online, Literature Map, WorldNetDaily, CNNSI, Sacred Space 4
Other Redskins, RetroJunk, Slate, Google News, Titus 1:9, Organ Mountains, Breitbart, Yahoo! Fantasy Sports, In a Godward Direction, Banksy’s art, Washington Times, Albino Black Sheep, Phillies Blog 1-3

Another Way to Think About It

04/12/2007, 9:00 am -- by | 7 Comments

What if you consider original sin and evolution as synonymous?

The Genesis account tells us God created plants and animals of all types, then human beings, whom he ordered to “be fruitful and multiply; fill the earth and subdue it.” The “crafty” serpent enticed Eve to disobey God’s commands, promising: “Your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” At its heart, this is a twisted desire for self-improvement — removed from God’s manifest presence, man instead attempted to become like Him. And in addition to this knowledge and power, Adam and Eve were cursed by God in the areas of (among other things) reproduction, relationships, food provision, and lifespan.

Evolutionary biology suggests that the ultimate goal of every organism is to propagate itself — to gain safety and comfort, but more than anything, to ensure its genetic code is replicated as often as possible before it dies. But there is no indication that death existed before the fall; the restoration of communion with God is indicated in the Bible in vignettes where lions and lambs lie down together in safety, where neither tears nor death have any place.

“Where do wars and fights come from among you?,” James asked. “Do they not come from your desires for pleasure that war in your members? You lust and do not have. You murder and covet and cannot obtain. You fight and war.”

I agree with many of the observations of evolutionary biology, and here I extend them, to argue that the immediate and continuing outcome of the fall of mankind, as told in Genesis, is functionally equivalent to the predicted results of evolution. Desires for pleasure that war within us: lust, murder, envy, greed. Faced with limited resources to share and limited opportunities to reproduce, newly enlightened man was foisted into a constant race to improve and compete — and there we have both the blessing and the curse of the “knowledge of good and evil,” for the very nature that pushes us to improve also tragically destines we will forever fall short of our goal.

And in the meantime it gives us a world where greed, overconsumption, pride and promiscuity often seem to be the ‘right’ strategies. The crafty ones.

This is probably why prophetic visions of heaven speak of eternal joy and satisfaction, rather than the tortured “chasing of the wind” that pervades life on earth. “They shall not build and another inhabit. . . they shall not labor in vain.”

The renewal of eternal communion with God will eliminate the desire for every counterfeit.

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