disciplined
disciples
spout the speeches
of southern
gentleman
wishing to love
what they can’t have
knowledge never knew
emotion
wisdom learned
from it
and we float along
to a wordless song
and imagine what would
if we could
let go
Mom asks about my faith sometimes. When did I start cringing whenever she brings up the word “Jesus?” When did it make me so uncomfortable? I was raised in a Catholic family and went to a Catholic University, for Christ’s sake. Why is that I have to suppress the urge to roll my eyes whenever Mom wants to talk about my “journey of faith,” but I’m okay going to church — with my family or alone — every Sunday? What kind of disciple am I?
He gently took her hand into his and slowly led her down the stairs. The blindfold was tight, but she was afforded a small window through the bottom of the material, but that portal provided her with few clues as to her location. She could see that the steps were well-crafted, finished. She could see the clean white walls. But nothing else. Then, just as she had abandoned the investigation into her unknown surroundings, she felt her feet hit the cold of a concrete floor. She heard no movements or murmurings, but could feel the presence of a group of people surrounding her. The moment her blindfold fell, her eyes were met by the warm smile of a flaxen-haired beauty, effusing charm and sincerity. “Welcome, my disciple.”
The church’s roof had ripped open, water pouring in like a waterfall cleansing the entirety of the top floor, while still leaving the most immense mess I had ever seen. It must have been a sign. Our pastor, Anthony, just a week before had died suddenly of asphyxiation, and he’d always promised us he’d let us know when he got wherever he was going, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t, though we might be damned right now that he did. The picture of St. Anthony floated past our soaked pant legs, staring into our soul.
disciple to a fandom, fighting over “shippings” and couples, buying all of the items and becoming obsessed with a tv show, or movie show, or anything along those lines. girl in room surrounded by teddy bears with tshirts, cups, posters, having a heated online conversation regarding a specific fandom and her ship. headphones on, and streaming illegally a tv show she follows.
jay
Mom asks about my faith sometimes. When did I start cringing whenever she brought up the word “Jesus?” When did it make me so uncomfortable? I was raised in a Catholic family and went to a Catholic University, for Christ’s sake. Why do I have to suppress the urge to roll my eyes whenever Mom wants to talk about my “journey of faith,” but I’m still comfortable going to church — with my family or alone — every Sunday?
Erin Weaver
Thirty-five years ago, she was a disciple of a wonderful movement in the jungle, on the edge of a new utopian society, and ready to do whatever the master required. It was only her bad luck that sent her away on the day of the group’s most memorable action.
A follower of Jesus. There were 12 of them. Too many names to remember, but a few are John, Peter, Simon, Judas, Paul, Joseph…they are devoted and loving followers of someone who they greatly believe in.
Donna
He was a disciple of the pain, a lifelong student. He could foresee no other future for himself, no white picket fence with children greeting him home. His chosen path had taken him on an entirely different route in life, one where bloodshed would be his constant companion.
To all angles of the earth you are called.
Can you hear it?
The voice is calm and quiet.
If only it would speak louder than a whisper.
Are your ears tuned in to the fervent frequency?
The divine demands are deterring.
This quest is quite crazy.
No man could ever reach these heavenly standards.
Especially not you.
Thank God you don’t have to do it alone.
We were disciples, frocked in heavy brown robes waiting in the wings watching you lie there, suffering. You answered their questions as you grew weaker, and we remained in awe of the incredible pain which you endured for us. That’s what we were told at least.
The big things scare me, the little things bore me. I have no idea where I am supposed to be or what I am supposed to do. Some people say that this is fear, I say it is confusion. There is a slight comfort that can be found in the unknown, the freedom to do what you want when you want to. You can up and leave, you can hide in the corner, you can go sky diving or just for a walk to the park. It doesn’t matter whether it is a big or a little thing – despite what you think, how free you feel; you are following something, someone, some doctrine.
Friend, complice, as evil as you are, as cool as you are, love, friendship, you’d like somethings from him, murder, laugh, against the world, brother, smoke weed, having good time together, duet,
Mehdi
Every time she hears the word “disciple,” she thinks of the word “discipline,” and she wonders who amongst her will show her the right ways, the wrong ways.
A disciple is a follower. That dude Jesus had like twelve but one of them betrayed him and that was totes bad like why would you do that he’s Jesus you don’t betray Jesus only idiots betray Jesus I mean he’s got some hella powerful powers man. Also his dad is like woah proper strong so like um yeah dsont mess with this family u came to the wrong neighbourrhood motherfucker ah no no no time out stop i wasnt finished ranting about jesus
eh
i haven’t eaten in 4 days
and i feel the best I have ever felt.
My soul is turning into it self
and hopefully one day I won’t exist anymore.
If this doesn’t work…..
Ram was a perfect disciple.He adored his master.Ram was a married man with two daughters but still managed to follow his master
Ginni
I am a disciple of alcohol tonight. I will learn from it, respect it, and put it on a pedestal. Then I will realize its secrets. It will tumble from the pedestal like me from my bar stool at 1 a.m.
We are call to be a disciple for God. To honor and worship him in spirit and in truth. Most importantly, we are to go out in every corner and spread the gospel to those that are lost and offer them his word of hope deliverance.
Bursting through the library doors, darting between halls, out the kitchen, past the garden, and into the orchard, she rushes into the small, ivy covered chapel. Cloistered in a habit, the nun drops to her knees in defeat and cries for release. Possessed by an illicit love she can’t shake, she lights all the candles and prays to all the saints, the original disciples, the Son, the Mother, and even the Father.
After a time in her delirium, she feels ghostly hands lift her up from behind. Priestly robes part as whispered confessions ensue. Thrust onto the altar, she hangs on for life as candles flicker in the night, knuckles go white when there’s nothing left to hide.
the room reeked of illness and stale breath. it was if an elderly person lived here. the child showed her through the dank hallway into the living room, where Odine’s disciple was laying prostrate on the floor in a vivid crimson robe.
Being a disciple of christ was never my plan in life, though my parents had other ideas about that. It’s not like I don’t believe, I do. But giving my life over to someone or something I’m not even sure truly exists? That’s not for me.
He said, ‘Teacher, I will follow you. And you will teach me. And I will learn.’
He said, ‘ Teacher, you are great, you know many things, you know everything.’
He said, ‘Teacher, why?’
He said, ‘Teacher, how?’
He said, ‘Teacher, why do I not understand? Why do I not know?’
He said, ‘Teacher, what is the secret?’
He asked and questioned, but he did not listen.
And I answered, every single question but he did not hear. He did not want to hear.
And I stopped talking and I let him ask and I let call.
But I did not answer.
cece
I don’t know what it would be like to be a disciple – to follow someone in their teachings, to continue with their ways. I have never believed in god, and I wonder what it was like for Jesus’s disciples at the time, believing in just a man.
I lack the faith to be a true disciple. Only those pure enough can see that clearly. I only follow what I can understand, and Unknowing in all the rest I fail to raise to the true mantle of disciple.
I wish to be only a disciple of life and love and only then the purest expression of either.
Only when we learn of what the test would be to be a true disciple do we understand what is truth.
Disciple is someone who is a follower, who believes what you say. Before having disciples, I would like to be discipled, to be trained. Maybe then I will be capable to disciple.
Working yourself to the bone is tiring. They watched the rise and fall of his heavy axe. His arms were stretched and sweating. His face was stone, set in concentration. He would not quit until the task was complete.
And it was the sky,
behind all the clouds,
the place you came from.
I didn’t know if I had anyone to lead,
and I’m sure they didn’t know I was there to do so.
So would you be my disciple and learn from my pages?
I would take you through time and over various ages.
I could shake the darkness that shrouds you,
and create the wind of spirit straight through you, anew.
I was never the kind to be a disciple of anyone, though there was an english teacher in college who made me wish I was. He told me in his preppy east coast accent that I was a rebel without a cause. There have been very few times that I haven’t proved him right.
Rose
I learned everything on my own. You were never there. I am nothing’s child, and I grew up alongside no one. I learned through sight and never asked for help. I earned that is mine through sweat and blood. How dare you, come home after all those nights, days, years that my only companion was the sweet song of emptiness, and claim me and everything mine as your own? As your own child, heir, disciple?
You were never there, not for the child I was, not for the beggar I had to become, only when I became queen.
I dont owe you a thing.
And I am not your disciple.
A disciple is not merely a follower; he is also one who carries out the message of his leader. The job of the disciple is often more difficult because he must transmit, intercede between two bodies which makes him more difficult to believe rather than the leader speaking directly to the people.
jack
I have slowly become a disciple of animation. I have always loved cartoons and anime but that love has become so much deeper as I get older. I really genuinely love and cherish each animation that I spend a large amount of time watching or thinking about. Who knew cartoons could make you feel so good?
She smiled the glossy red-lipped smile that I loved and beckoned me with one finger. Her nail was painted a shiny black. She swiveled her chair to face me and grabbed my face with her large, long fingered hands. Her blonde hair swung forward around her face and brushed against my cheek. I was her disciple and I’d follow her to the ends of the Earth.
Hope Christmann
God is the lord. He has disciples. Not everyone agrees that he exists. Jesus, when he walked the earth, had disciples that loved, and trusted him. His disciples followed him around.
disciplined
disciples
spout the speeches
of southern
gentleman
wishing to love
what they can’t have
knowledge never knew
emotion
wisdom learned
from it
and we float along
to a wordless song
and imagine what would
if we could
let go
Mom asks about my faith sometimes. When did I start cringing whenever she brings up the word “Jesus?” When did it make me so uncomfortable? I was raised in a Catholic family and went to a Catholic University, for Christ’s sake. Why is that I have to suppress the urge to roll my eyes whenever Mom wants to talk about my “journey of faith,” but I’m okay going to church — with my family or alone — every Sunday? What kind of disciple am I?
He gently took her hand into his and slowly led her down the stairs. The blindfold was tight, but she was afforded a small window through the bottom of the material, but that portal provided her with few clues as to her location. She could see that the steps were well-crafted, finished. She could see the clean white walls. But nothing else. Then, just as she had abandoned the investigation into her unknown surroundings, she felt her feet hit the cold of a concrete floor. She heard no movements or murmurings, but could feel the presence of a group of people surrounding her. The moment her blindfold fell, her eyes were met by the warm smile of a flaxen-haired beauty, effusing charm and sincerity. “Welcome, my disciple.”
The church’s roof had ripped open, water pouring in like a waterfall cleansing the entirety of the top floor, while still leaving the most immense mess I had ever seen. It must have been a sign. Our pastor, Anthony, just a week before had died suddenly of asphyxiation, and he’d always promised us he’d let us know when he got wherever he was going, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t, though we might be damned right now that he did. The picture of St. Anthony floated past our soaked pant legs, staring into our soul.
disciple to a fandom, fighting over “shippings” and couples, buying all of the items and becoming obsessed with a tv show, or movie show, or anything along those lines. girl in room surrounded by teddy bears with tshirts, cups, posters, having a heated online conversation regarding a specific fandom and her ship. headphones on, and streaming illegally a tv show she follows.
Mom asks about my faith sometimes. When did I start cringing whenever she brought up the word “Jesus?” When did it make me so uncomfortable? I was raised in a Catholic family and went to a Catholic University, for Christ’s sake. Why do I have to suppress the urge to roll my eyes whenever Mom wants to talk about my “journey of faith,” but I’m still comfortable going to church — with my family or alone — every Sunday?
Thirty-five years ago, she was a disciple of a wonderful movement in the jungle, on the edge of a new utopian society, and ready to do whatever the master required. It was only her bad luck that sent her away on the day of the group’s most memorable action.
A follower of Jesus. There were 12 of them. Too many names to remember, but a few are John, Peter, Simon, Judas, Paul, Joseph…they are devoted and loving followers of someone who they greatly believe in.
He was a disciple of the pain, a lifelong student. He could foresee no other future for himself, no white picket fence with children greeting him home. His chosen path had taken him on an entirely different route in life, one where bloodshed would be his constant companion.
To all angles of the earth you are called.
Can you hear it?
The voice is calm and quiet.
If only it would speak louder than a whisper.
Are your ears tuned in to the fervent frequency?
The divine demands are deterring.
This quest is quite crazy.
No man could ever reach these heavenly standards.
Especially not you.
Thank God you don’t have to do it alone.
We were disciples, frocked in heavy brown robes waiting in the wings watching you lie there, suffering. You answered their questions as you grew weaker, and we remained in awe of the incredible pain which you endured for us. That’s what we were told at least.
The big things scare me, the little things bore me. I have no idea where I am supposed to be or what I am supposed to do. Some people say that this is fear, I say it is confusion. There is a slight comfort that can be found in the unknown, the freedom to do what you want when you want to. You can up and leave, you can hide in the corner, you can go sky diving or just for a walk to the park. It doesn’t matter whether it is a big or a little thing – despite what you think, how free you feel; you are following something, someone, some doctrine.
“My employees are devoted,” he said.
She stared down from the high windows, so far above the streets of London. The people stood so still, staring up, waiting, hoping. Waiting for him.
“They’re not employees, they’re disciples,” she said.
Friend, complice, as evil as you are, as cool as you are, love, friendship, you’d like somethings from him, murder, laugh, against the world, brother, smoke weed, having good time together, duet,
Every time she hears the word “disciple,” she thinks of the word “discipline,” and she wonders who amongst her will show her the right ways, the wrong ways.
A disciple is a follower. That dude Jesus had like twelve but one of them betrayed him and that was totes bad like why would you do that he’s Jesus you don’t betray Jesus only idiots betray Jesus I mean he’s got some hella powerful powers man. Also his dad is like woah proper strong so like um yeah dsont mess with this family u came to the wrong neighbourrhood motherfucker ah no no no time out stop i wasnt finished ranting about jesus
i haven’t eaten in 4 days
and i feel the best I have ever felt.
My soul is turning into it self
and hopefully one day I won’t exist anymore.
If this doesn’t work…..
Ram was a perfect disciple.He adored his master.Ram was a married man with two daughters but still managed to follow his master
I am a disciple of alcohol tonight. I will learn from it, respect it, and put it on a pedestal. Then I will realize its secrets. It will tumble from the pedestal like me from my bar stool at 1 a.m.
Jesus had many disciples. I could name quite a few but oh! how I wish I had paid more attention in my RE lessons!
I want to have ringlets like Mary Pickford’s, the girl with the curls.
We are call to be a disciple for God. To honor and worship him in spirit and in truth. Most importantly, we are to go out in every corner and spread the gospel to those that are lost and offer them his word of hope deliverance.
Bursting through the library doors, darting between halls, out the kitchen, past the garden, and into the orchard, she rushes into the small, ivy covered chapel. Cloistered in a habit, the nun drops to her knees in defeat and cries for release. Possessed by an illicit love she can’t shake, she lights all the candles and prays to all the saints, the original disciples, the Son, the Mother, and even the Father.
After a time in her delirium, she feels ghostly hands lift her up from behind. Priestly robes part as whispered confessions ensue. Thrust onto the altar, she hangs on for life as candles flicker in the night, knuckles go white when there’s nothing left to hide.
the room reeked of illness and stale breath. it was if an elderly person lived here. the child showed her through the dank hallway into the living room, where Odine’s disciple was laying prostrate on the floor in a vivid crimson robe.
Being a disciple of christ was never my plan in life, though my parents had other ideas about that. It’s not like I don’t believe, I do. But giving my life over to someone or something I’m not even sure truly exists? That’s not for me.
He said, ‘Teacher, I will follow you. And you will teach me. And I will learn.’
He said, ‘ Teacher, you are great, you know many things, you know everything.’
He said, ‘Teacher, why?’
He said, ‘Teacher, how?’
He said, ‘Teacher, why do I not understand? Why do I not know?’
He said, ‘Teacher, what is the secret?’
He asked and questioned, but he did not listen.
And I answered, every single question but he did not hear. He did not want to hear.
And I stopped talking and I let him ask and I let call.
But I did not answer.
I don’t know what it would be like to be a disciple – to follow someone in their teachings, to continue with their ways. I have never believed in god, and I wonder what it was like for Jesus’s disciples at the time, believing in just a man.
“Yo, Jesus, we’re pretty far off shore, can’t we row this boat in?”
“I’m walking back to shore, dickheads.”
Jesus throws on his raybans, exits the boat, walks on water, and leaves his followers out at sea.
I lack the faith to be a true disciple. Only those pure enough can see that clearly. I only follow what I can understand, and Unknowing in all the rest I fail to raise to the true mantle of disciple.
I wish to be only a disciple of life and love and only then the purest expression of either.
Only when we learn of what the test would be to be a true disciple do we understand what is truth.
Disciple is someone who is a follower, who believes what you say. Before having disciples, I would like to be discipled, to be trained. Maybe then I will be capable to disciple.
Working yourself to the bone is tiring. They watched the rise and fall of his heavy axe. His arms were stretched and sweating. His face was stone, set in concentration. He would not quit until the task was complete.
And it was the sky,
behind all the clouds,
the place you came from.
I didn’t know if I had anyone to lead,
and I’m sure they didn’t know I was there to do so.
So would you be my disciple and learn from my pages?
I would take you through time and over various ages.
I could shake the darkness that shrouds you,
and create the wind of spirit straight through you, anew.
ok i did this already…
I was never the kind to be a disciple of anyone, though there was an english teacher in college who made me wish I was. He told me in his preppy east coast accent that I was a rebel without a cause. There have been very few times that I haven’t proved him right.
I learned everything on my own. You were never there. I am nothing’s child, and I grew up alongside no one. I learned through sight and never asked for help. I earned that is mine through sweat and blood. How dare you, come home after all those nights, days, years that my only companion was the sweet song of emptiness, and claim me and everything mine as your own? As your own child, heir, disciple?
You were never there, not for the child I was, not for the beggar I had to become, only when I became queen.
I dont owe you a thing.
And I am not your disciple.
A disciple is not merely a follower; he is also one who carries out the message of his leader. The job of the disciple is often more difficult because he must transmit, intercede between two bodies which makes him more difficult to believe rather than the leader speaking directly to the people.
I have slowly become a disciple of animation. I have always loved cartoons and anime but that love has become so much deeper as I get older. I really genuinely love and cherish each animation that I spend a large amount of time watching or thinking about. Who knew cartoons could make you feel so good?
She smiled the glossy red-lipped smile that I loved and beckoned me with one finger. Her nail was painted a shiny black. She swiveled her chair to face me and grabbed my face with her large, long fingered hands. Her blonde hair swung forward around her face and brushed against my cheek. I was her disciple and I’d follow her to the ends of the Earth.
God is the lord. He has disciples. Not everyone agrees that he exists. Jesus, when he walked the earth, had disciples that loved, and trusted him. His disciples followed him around.
He was a disciple of a more uncouth code of ethics: Kill first, ask questions later.