Terra Dominus


As mentioned in an earlier post, I have recently begun thinking about GREED, and how it relates to other sins. While close friends know that I’m a hopeful “glass one-fifth full” sort of guy, I do also acknowledge the four-fifths empty. I am a sinner saved by grace, and am never surprised to discover how utterly sinful I am (and so I’m pleased at any progress!).

This pondering of greed began as a reaction. Some who believe differently than I do accuse “my side” of hypocrisy. “We” dwell on certain sins but completely ignore others. I considered using discussion of greed as a thought experiment, frankly a trap: what if I were to promote greed, insist on equal treatment of greedy people, call for greedy pride parades? You can guess where that was going (and now it will not serve as a trap). But by God’s grace, the thought experiment got out of control.

I’d Better Work Hard So Later I Can Play

Some days, the thoughts I think
Line up like singers in a talent show.
Today is such a day.

If only I could walk and write!
But duty I put off too long
Now binds me to my desk.

I went to bed last night with a friend’s poem on my mind. Combine that with my having just wrapped up designing the cover of a Spanish book (more about that later) and I really did have the dream I describe below. I also woke up this morning with the dread of having to make up for months of procrastination: with taxes due in just a few days, I’ll be putting in a marathon of accounting and tax preparation. Such a situation seems to fire up my creative side, apparently desperate to justify yet another day of procrastination. I got up and jotted down the following lines with barely any thought:

The Dream I Had Last Night



The dream I had last night…
(So very strange!)
Was all about the title of a book
Spelled out like corn maze
On the spine of hillside’s gentle slope.
My friends and I descended
One by one, or sometimes all together
Through those living words.
But only as the day grew long
And air a bit more cool
Did we slow down enough
To fill that shape and take its form.

And then I woke, with this in mind:
That I — along with friends —
AM being formed
By process hard to get my head around.
AM being formed
By One who wrote the book
And knows its title well.

Don’t ask too many questions
For answers I don’t know:
“This ‘book,’ and ‘title’ —
What are they?”
I only know
I’m being formed
By One who wrote the book
And knows the answers well.

A Meditation



(on words at the dawn of time)

We speak of people, places, things
And designate them “nouns.”

But when at first they saw the light
We might as well have called them “verbs.”

“Flute,” He said, and flute, she sang.
“Tintinnabulation!”
Silver bells, they rang.

Without the word was nothing made
Of all we see them DO.

In that beginning, words became;
Verbish nouns devoid of shame,
Naked thought, running free!

“Flower!” He said
And just like that
Rose petals filled the land.

They knew that every word He spoke
Implied His kind command.

To be is to become, you see.
The nouns, they know this well.
A wave is not a wave
Unless its waters swell.

And humans are not really human
Unless they’re humans being.

“So what,” you’ll say,
“If nouns obey?
What’s implied for me?”

Nounish you may think yourself.
Verbose you’re meant to be.

In fullness of Imago Dei,
A mystery:

Don’t you see?
You speak,
And so, thereby,
Does HE.

And when thereby
He speaks,
So, thereby
DOES He.


NOTES: I imagine a time — when time began — when nouns were not mere nouns. That was long before anyone thought it necessary or even logical that “actions speak louder than words.” That divorce came later.

What’s implied by the phrase “God IS love?” Indirectly, this poem explores that concept.

March 11, 2019 rumination: On Sunday, I had to do the scripture reading: John 14:8-14. One verse was difficult to read: “10 Don’t you believe that I am in the Father, and that the Father is in me? The words I say to you I do not speak on my own authority. Rather, it is the Father, living in me, who is doing his work.” See that odd juxtaposition? “words I say / Father… doing his work.” Reading this, I couldn’t help but think of the odd last two stanzas of my poem. God does/works through the Son’s speaking. In verse twelve Jesus says, “Very truly I tell you, whoever believes in me will do the works I have been doing, and they will do even greater things than these, because I am going to the Father.” Two verses later, Jesus promises, “You may ask me for anything in my name, and I will do it.” The Father’s doing, Jesus’ doing, our doing all get jumbled up. And the doing is related to saying/asking in unusual ways. I HAVE NOT GOTTEN TO THE BOTTOM OF THIS.

The photograph used in the featured image (shown below, but mainly for social media) was taken by Dimitris Vetsikas, of Cyprus. He generously posted the photograph on Pixabay.

A Cautionary Tale

(of how we fill our lives)


He filled his pack with bubble wrap
And set off on the trail.
Thus equipped, the carefree sap
Was sure he could not fail.

So light his step,
Straight his back,
His shoulders fresh and strong…
Up steepest trail he fairly floated
Warbling his song:

“For times like these I was set free,
So tell me not that I must care
For all your drudgery.
La di da, twiddle dee!
Like all the birds that sing above
For this I was set free!”

Just as the sun
Behind the mountain
Took her cooling plunge,
Approaching alpine glade he sang,
“So high and far I’ve come;
Dee dum, dee dum, dee dum!”

Feasting eyes on matted grass
The clever lad observed,
“Here the elk bed down to sleep,
And therefore, so shall I.”

Lying there, in bubbles wrapped,
The lad soon fell asleep.
But wasn’t long into the night
That hunger pains began to gnaw,
Bitter cold to creep.

He reached into his empty pack
In search of something, any? thing?
Of all he did not bring
To serve as food and warmth.

Somewhere
In that frigid night
His soul above him floated,
Warbling her song:

“For times like these I was set free
So tell me not that I must care
For all your drudgery.
La di da, twiddle dee!
Like all the birds that sing above
For this I was set free!”

Then, looking down from whence she’d come,
“Die dumb, die dumb, die dumb!
On matted grass, eternal bed,
La he died — twiddle dead.”

– Brad Hepp (2019)

This silly poem was inspired by Psalm 16:2: “I say to the LORD, ‘You are my LORD; I have no good apart from you.'” How much of my day is spent pursuing “good” apart from the Lord, doing things that seem pleasant, but which He has not given me to do? Such folly invites the fate of a mountain climber who chooses to pack only what lightens his load.

As much as he’d probably prefer to deny it, Don Regier helped me with a few of the lines.

here’s the image I used for this poem

Earth to Sky: “Hello?”

This is a sad time for many I love. The pain is shared and felt deeply, but need not be without purpose.

The poem was a response to what I observed in myself as I contemplated the tragic drowning of a friend’s 4-year-old son. For over a week, I — along with thousands across the globe — was praying for this child to recover. When God did not grant our prayer, I didn’t know quite what to do with my own response. To act as if I didn’t have disappointment was surely not healthy. Elephants in the rooms I share with ever-present God are silly creatures. Some response — if merely a poem of lament — was necessary.

This is a sad time for many I love. The pain is shared and felt deeply, but need not be without purpose.

This Pleasant Plain

This evening, I leaned heavily on a friend for his perspective and advice. As with all wise men, he listened as much as he talked. Good questions are hard to formulate; good answers, harder still. The photo is of the Sangre de Cristos, taken on the return from one of my many mountain-climbing trips.

I read the poem to my friend. As a veteran of many climbs, he recognized the imagery. More importantly, as a veteran of the deepest valleys he recognized questions and opportunity that come when we reach inflection points in life.

This evening, I leaned heavily on a friend for his perspective and advice. As with all wise men, he listened as much as he talked. Good questions are hard to formulate; good answers, harder still. The photo is of the Sangre de Cristos, taken on one of our many mountain climbing trips.

Alone at the Lake

It was wet, cold, and windy at the lake today… almost as good as a hike in the mountains.

This is a poem that took its own shape as I wrote… NOT what I set out to write. In the small group materials that Dave Carr and Sten-Erik Armitage prepared for our church, they quoted Alvin Plantinga articulating this striking truth: “The chief difference between Christianity and the other theistic religions lies just here: the God of Christianity is willing to enter into and share the sufferings of his creatures, in order to redeem them and his world. Of course this doesn’t answer the question why does God permit evil? But it helps the Christian trust God as a loving father, no matter what ills befall him.” That’s a truth I need to reflect on more often and more deeply.

It was wet, cold, and windy at the lake today… almost as good as a hike in the mountains.

Celebrate What Is!

When I go for walks in the winter, I’m impressed with little flowers like this one: Buxbaum’s Speedwell. Now THAT’S a flower name for you! Its very name conveys a positive spirit.

In a Dallas Seminary Romans course we were in chapter 8, and Dr. Grassmick said to the class of about 20 seminarians, “Raise your hand if you are led by the Spirit of God.” Only three had the temerity to raise their hands. Three out of 20 SEMINARIANS, men (it would be men and women now) who were spending their lives studying God’s word and preparing to lead others in the spiritual life. Were the 17 who did not raise their hands REALLY not led by the Spirit of God? Were they simply humble? Or were they — what I suspect, and am trying to process — failing to recognize and celebrate the ways in which the Spirit was indeed leading them? Even in the dead of winter, buds begin to form. One can lament the cold, or one can notice and celebrate the signs of life. I want to CELEBRATE WHAT IS. Yes, I’m still a sinner. The glass IS sometimes four-fifths empty. But THANK GOD, the glass IS one-fifth full!

Buxbaum’s Speedwell. Now THAT’S a flower name for you!

Earth Trumpets

I won’t blame the speaker I had just heard for this musing. While we may not understand those who hurt, we can at least listen. That was his point. But there’s a point beyond his point. As is the case with most of my current poems, the key to my meaning is in the parenthesis. Much that we experience now is incomprehensible. Physical and emotional pain is allowed by God, even in the lives of His own. Why? For now, the answer is not given — there is silence. But one day, we’ll learn how His glory is heralded even by the seemingly negative things He currently allows.

I won’t blame the speaker I had just heard for this musing: While we may not understand those who hurt, we can at least listen.

When Angels Appear

From interaction about this poem on Facebook:

Darol Klawetter: Ha! Set the scene for me: did you almost collide with her as you walked? If she is an angel, she must still be trying to earn her wings.

Brad Hepp: I was walking down this very path, texting a friend in Ethiopia. Engrossed in the text, and with my floppy hat shielding my eyes, I never saw her coming toward me. Suddenly I heard, “You’re going to run into the elephant!” I looked up, and there she was, standing 8 feet away, immediately to my left. I said, “I rarely do this; please don’t rebuke me.” She replied, “I’m just kidding you, but I am worried about the elephant in front of you.” The way I responded, you’d think I have no sense of humor, and am easily offended (sadly, a little true). When I walked the next day, I was more conscious of all I encountered as God’s fellow image bearers.

The Sycamore Ball

When we moved to the States in 1970, I asked my folks to look for a house with good climbing trees. The one they found was surrounded by tall sycamores. I’d spend many hours surveying the countryside from my perch high in their strong branches. Now, as a parent of two teens, I marvel how my parents let me climb so high.

When we moved to the States in 1970, I asked my folks to look for a house with good climbing trees. The one they found was surrounded by tall sycamores. I’d spend many hours surveying the countryside from my perch high in their strong branches. Now, as a parent of two teens, I marvel how my parents let me climb so high.

Low on the Horizon

I finally know what cloud formation it was that inspired this poem 30
years ago. Having grown up in the highlands of Mexico, I was accustomed
to the look of clouds spilling over a mountain range. The SHELF CLOUD
formation can mimic that look even in the flat lands of Texas. Knowing
this does not diminish the longing I have for the real thing, be it here
and now or there and ever. (The background photo was a free-to-use
download from Pixabay; wish I could take credit for it!).