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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the woman is a fire (reworked)

The woman is a fire-


A woman is a fire; a campfire to be precise; she is born amidst more than just a little anticipation. People have gathered round, bringing sticks for kindling, newspaper for fanning, nurturing and coaxing the flicker of new life. Fanned smoke gives way to a burst of flame and a gathered community watches in wonder as her life begins. The fire ignites with a breath of oxygen.

She emerges spreading her fire from sticks, to boards, to logs. Wood helps her grow. The pit is really just a place to live out her life. She is growing up fast.


As time passes, people come to enjoy her, as she burns high in all her glory. She is a sight to see in her splendor. Folks from all around come to stare mesmerized, as she dances with a playful grace that is at once both wild and precise. Free and full, she is a blooming sea of goldenrods, reaching upward, climbing to the heights, leaning towards the stars.

This will not last forever, but she will never forget these moments, when she burned hot and high, when people stopped to look her way.


In time, her flame dies down. She matures. Sensuality gives way to a nurture that sacrifices in a mysterious way. She provides warmth and comfort as others bundle close to her; she opens herself to her children. There is laughter. She gives delights for consumption. She gives whatever it takes to bring joy as they bask in her presence.

It is a beautiful time. She remembers and 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.

But while that was fleeting; this is forever.

Here memories sear into legacy. This is the high point of the fire. In this age, she is content to burn ever strong casting light out from within. Her warmth comforts all without bias. She protects the young from wolves of the night. Her aroma is of cedar, hickory, pine nuts; like incense filling the air with peace and calm. We don't just see her beauty we feel her presence as her aroma lingers in the room. She gives all she has. Home surrounds her.



n time, the wood no longer finds her. Nothing comes to feed this flame. The children are off to bed and we remain to watch her slowly fade. We reminisce about life as we recline in canvas or wicker. We are old friends. This is the time of contemplation and recall. Calming is the fire at this hour of the night. Fine aged wine is in order. The fire is tired and has earned these reflections with those whom she has loved and been loved. From time to time, someone turns a log that touches her gently, and she ignites again for but a moment. She lies back down too tired to burn long. These friends disappear to their place as orange embers burn down, fading, into this dark cold night.

One stays here.

It is me.

I stay by her side deep into her last refrain. I will observe her quiet descent to ash, smoke rising, gasping for oxygen she can no longer take in. I swallow hard. In the deep hours of the dark night, she is waning. Mercifully, I pour water on her fading form. It is salty water in the shape of a tear.

I accept it. She is gone before dawn.


Come morn laughter will greet the day and play forever in the sand, woods, and swings of this campground. Life will go on in blue sky and sunshine on the day before another fire is born. On it goes through autumn. Then winter comes. Winter will not withstand. She returns.


Because a woman is like a fire; a yuletide fire to be precise. Found beneath the mantle of the home; she warms this place, burning bright on a crisp winter’s 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 this Christmas Eve night.

For a woman is like a that burns in all seasons; and she burns in my mind all the time. This flame will never die.

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