the following poem was written by a guy named jedd medefind in march of 1998. he and three of his friends had set out for a journey around the world - in search of the "epic life". as their webpage states:

"They returned convinced that the very thing they sought - what they called the
epic life - was not to be found "out there" but only in abandon to Jesus in the
ordinary minutes of everyday life..."

in college, some friends and i had the opportunity to sit down to dinner with these guys and their wives and hear a little more about their story (they were speaking at my university for our intervarsity large group meeting). check out the book form of what i got to hear: www.foursoulsthebook.com.

back to the poem you are about to read. from jedd:

"this poem was written in india after a troubling episode in which mike, matt,
trey and i prayed for a crippled indian man with an uncommon confidence he
would be healed. he was not healed."

here the immense honesty in his words. and the beautiful Love that allows him to question yet captivates him with truth.

"Doubt"
My faith lies like a broken man.
Yesterday I praised Him with palm branches; but something in me today cries out,
"Crucify your foolish hope! You only thought you saw the leper cleansed and that lame man click his heals."
I writhe in my unsurity.
Christ never used the coercion of a miracle one must believe.
"Why," I shout with the Inquisitor, "do You not make belief compulsory? Show Your hand!"
But finally, my rage spent, I crumple down upon the dusty road, and in my mind sift through a desert.
Some see God as shackles, and in doubt they glimpse a liberating key.
But I see better than that.
For even if the skeptics were right, and heaven did not exist, hell most certainly would.
For whether or not there is a God, hell is to live without Him.
Life alone is meaningless, a chasing after the wind.
A moment of joy, a brief taste of pleasure…"the early leaf's a flower, but only so an hour."
Hope is false, peace an illusion, and happiness, at best, is fleeting.
Indeed, if Christ is not raised from the dead, we are all most miserable men…
And invading my thoughts, the soft slap of sandals upon the path.
I do not raise my head for fear of seeing no one.
But still a voice speaks deep and gentle, "You too will not leave me?"
And I reply, "Whence shall I go, Lord?"

--jedd medefind

and, with peter and jedd, i reply,
“whence shall i go, Lord?”

john 6:67-68

for more of jedd's poetry, check out http://www.foursoulsthebook.com/jeddspoetry.htm