more about this sight

"you're packing a suitcase for a place that you've never been...a place that has to be believed to be seen"...'Walk On' by U2

WATERSHED: A voice in the wilderness. DARYL UNDERWOOD.


The concept of Centerpoint Christianity briefly stated is:

Christianity from the centerpoint outward.

Christianity from the climax forward.

This blog constitutes concepts for a new view of Christianity that begins with what is foundational and moves forward from that point. It is based on the assumption that we are being pulled towards something unseen and pushed from a place that once was.

What Centerpoint Christianity attempts to do is bypass some of the constraints imposed by metanarratives by using the life of Christ and particularly the climactic actions of Christ as beginning points.

It supports the conviction that God is essentially timeless. From this beginning point we endeavor to move outward from the definitive moment of the parousia (visitation) of Christ and forward to the future which functions as a type of magnet to "what can be--and is coming".

When we begin at the life of Christ and move outward as from the centerpoint of a web, rather than in a linear timeline of history, another wide picture emerges.

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a woman is a fire

A woman is like a fire; a campfire to be precise; she begins with more than a little anticipation; people gather round having collected sticks for kindling, newspaper for fanning, nurturing and coaxing the flicker of new life, of birth. Fanned smoke gives way to a burst of flame and the gathered community watches in wonder as her life begins and she emerges.

Wood is brought over, logs are sometimes tossed into the pit where she has made her home. They will help her grow. A pit is really just a place to live out one's life. She spreads her fire from sticks, to boards, to logs. She is growing up and spreading out.

In time other campers come to enjoy her as she burns high in all her glory; a sight to see in her splendor. She produces oohs and awes for a season, campers from far and wide gaze her way as she dances gracefully, powerfully, reflecting beauty in their often lingering stares. For a time she seems to be a blooming sea of goldenrods, breaking upward, climbing to the heights, leaning towards the stars. This won't last forever but she will never forget these  moments when heads turned. I bask proudly by her side.

In time the flame dies down, she matures. Sensuality gives way to a nurture that sacrifices in a way that is so mysterious to me. She provides warmth for comfort as others bundle close to her; she opens herself to her children. She gives delights for their consumption, first hot dogs, later marshmallows and the like. She gives them whatever it takes for them to have joy in their time in her presence. It is a beautiful time. I tell her this is the high point of her fire but she never quite believes me. She remembers and she still longs for the time she reached high into the sky, on tiptoe, teasing the branches of the trees with her slender flame and blazing beauty. That is my description not hers, she would never think of herself in that way. Even still she is content for her fire to burn ever strong as she casts her light far and wide for all. Her warm way comforts everyone without discrimination. She protects them from wolves and bats and bears and even the boogeyman if need be. For a season she lights all the faces that comes to watch her burn. Her aroma; cedar, hickory, pine like incense fills the air with peace and calm. She gives as much as she has.


Nostalgia nears.

In time the wood no longer finds her. Nothing comes to feed her flame. The children have long been rustled off to bed and the old folks remain to watch her as she slowly fades. They reminisce about life as they recline in the canvas or wicker chairs they have brought to sit in while they bask in the presence of her peaceful, calming, flickering fire. These are old friends. A time for contemplation and memory. Mesmerizing is the fire at this hour of the night. Fine aged wine is in order. She deserves this. She is tired and has earned these moments of reflection with those whom she has loved and been loved by for so long. From time to time someone prods her tenderly, or turns a log that touches her gently, so as to breath life into her now fading form. Soon they too will leave as the embers burn low, and perhaps too long, into the dark cold night.

If she is fortunate there is one who will stay by her side deep into her last refrain. I will be there if time is kind to me. Quietly fading, smoke rising once more; she is gasping again for the oxygen she can no longer take in. Perhaps her faithful companion fades into the night before her. Perhaps I will be the one to mercifully pour water on her dying ember. In the deep hours of the dark night she is left alone. 

She will be gone before dawn.

But come the morn laughter will greet the day and play forever in the sand and woods and swings of the campground. Life will go on in blue sky and sunshine in the day before another fire is born to take her place. And then again the next day, and the following day, until at last the winter is here.  But even that doesn't really matter. Winter cannot quench her spirit.


A woman is like a fire; a yuletide fire to be precise. She can be found beneath the mantle of the home she warms, burning bright on a crisp winters night. Pictures dance above her warm glow, where family portraits rest proudly on display. The whole house draws near to her beauty. As for me, I lean into her. I bask proudly by her side. She is my companion deep into the night.

For a woman is like a that burns for all seasons; for all time. The flame will never die.

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