Parker Strip crosses
From an early age, the son of a Pentecostal Evangelical pastor hears, reads, and memorizes scripture.
I had Sunday School teachers who went so far as to insist that that 1611 King James Version was truly the only perfectBible available.
Every word, direct from the Throne of God, was that paper and ink, the holy, undiluted and unchallengeable WORD of the Creator. Period.
My Sunday School teachers explained this phenomenon with surreal zeal, albeit competing ideas. Moses, King David, Daniel, Samuel, Isaiah and the rest of the prophets, and later Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Paul and the disciples got the exact words of their writings delivered by angels.
Or they fell into “the spirit” and a heavenly trance during which a blessed “automatic writing” spell followed.
My Dad never seemed to buy into those ideas. He was more about preaching the themes, messages, and love of the words of Jesus, and words about Him. His sermons often would turn to “the original Greek” to gently steer congregations away from, well, literally plucking out their lustful eyes … or lopping off wandering appendages to escape hell fire.
It’s metaphorical, he’d say, using the Webster Dictionary to define "metaphor."
It was mostly successful for Dad. But there was always someone who’d point out the word “metaphor” wasn’t in the King James Bible. . . sooooo?
Apologies. I digress, something I do increasingly as an old fart.
So, patience IS a virtue, OK? I wanted to share some examples of how faith plays out in the Arizona deserts, where my wife Barbara and I camped these past six months.
We saw the silent examples in the many memorial crosses dotting the hills along the Parker Strip, a road that runs about the Colorado River between Parker, Arizona, over the Parker Dam, and then into Lake Havasu City some 40-plus miles to the north.
elievers gather in many small parishes, too, from scattered Catholic and Orthodox Christian missions to a variety of denominational and non-denominational Protestant churches, and even in grassroots fellowships at RV parks on Sundays.
We saw the beach at our own park become the sandy threshold to lay ministers doing Colorado River baptisms, as waves from passing motorboats punctuated the prayers and dunking with waves.
Deserts are big in faith narratives, both multiple millennia ago, and today. Prophets, saints, monks found solace and grace in the sands of perceived desolation, but to them, inspiration and revelation.
Today? Escape from the stresses of modern city life, surely.
And like for my own patron saint, Elias (Elijah), isolation and contemplation, prayer, and faith are still catalyst for hearing that “still, small voice,” as the KJV puts it in 1 Kings 19:12.
Or, as the more modern and accurate English Standard Version translation (to me, at least) a "low whisper" rewarding attentive devotion.
Our deserts, whether of nature or the heart, seem to help us hear what's true and precious.
