by Eric Holter on April 5, 2007
“Convinced of this, I know that I will remain and continue with you all for your progress and joy in the faith…” Philippians 1:25
In Ecclesiastes, Solomon bemoans the futility of man’s attempts to “make progress”” during his days under the sun. Whatever “progress” I may attain in my life, for my generation, will eventually be undone. A new discovery or significant contribution will be forgotten over time or replaced by a newer one. That’s not to say that God does not intend for mankind to make progress. Quite the opposite, He has commanded us to progress–to subdue the earth and multiply in it.
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by Eric Holter on December 12, 2005
Eric Holter, September, 2003 – December, 2005
I’m an American – home of the free, land of liberty, fight for your rights – American. And I was born a New England Yankee – live free or die, don’t tread on me, toss the tea overboard – Yankee. I grew up in Connecticut and settled in Rhode Island where Roger Williams established the state on the foundation of religious freedom. Today, on top of the Rhode Island state house stands the “independent man.” He grips his spear shining in golden splendor, as he exalts the virtues of freedom and independence. He reminds all Rhode Islanders that our forebears fought and died for freedom. We Americans love our independence. Every 4th of July we celebrate how we won it through revolution. Throughout our history America has stood tall and fought for the superior virtue of freedom and independence at home and throughout the world – and we continue to fight for it to this day.
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by Eric Holter on June 10, 2005
“For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of Him who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself also will be set free from its slavery to corruption into the freedom of the glory of the children of God.”
Romans 8:20-21
I live, now, on Crawford Dairy Road. The place lives up to its name. There are fields on either side of my house and tall dear corn growing across the road. Crawford Dairy rolls and gently bends past a farm house and then slips behind the tall North Carolina pines that frame our skyline. In the evening the lightning bugs launch themselves by the hundreds to dance the night away. I am captivated. Yet, as I sit on my porch soaking in this a pastoral place, I consider that the same idyllic scene has been played out for hundreds, even thousands of years. The snapshot is indeed beautiful. Yet as I think about the corn, I remember that it grows there by the sweat of a farmer’s brow. He tills, he sews, he waits, he harvests. Next year he’ll do it again, and the next year, and the next, until he comes to the end of his days. Then his sons will serve of the land as he did and his father did and his father’s father before him. The dance of the lightning bugs flickering above the corn is also futile. For they launch, dance, mate, and die, only for their offspring to do it again.
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