a digital commonplace book
I sometimes envy composers and conductors. But even they must long for a fuller, more perfect expression of what it means to be made in God’s image.
I don’t usually bother with rhyme patterns. For this one, I pushed myself a little, and it probably shows in the last two lines. “Which sadness serve” can be read in two ways: 1) music can convey sadness (“serve it up” as it were), and 2) music can serve to comfort sadness with its soothing salve.
(background image by Pexels on Pixabay)
The poem above really was occasioned by my frustration that I cannot brag on my wife Susan on social media. She won’t have it. I’d get banned. Oh well, I believe a day is coming when Someone better than me will sing her praise. Good luck banning Him!
Recently, my slow reading through the New Testament has me in the last few days of Jesus’ earthly ministry. Specifically, I’m in Luke 22, where I’m observing how Jesus prepared for — and carried out — what we now call the Last Supper. One of the elements that Luke describes is Jesus’ sharing a cup of wine with his friends the Apostles and saying to them
Take this, and divide it among yourselves. For I tell you that from now on I will not drink of the fruit of the vine until the kingdom of God comes.
Luke 22:17b-18
We see what took place at what we call the Last Supper. What will the Next Supper be like? There are hints. It seems that wine will be involved. If there’s wine, I like to imagine there may be some toasting. And in my flight of fancy, I can picture Jesus toasting us. That may sound shocking. Let me tell you why I go there….
God Brings Us To Glory
Here’s one of my favorite passages in the Bible:
In bringing many sons and daughters to glory, it was fitting that God, for whom and through whom everything exists, should make the pioneer of their salvation perfect through what he suffered. Both the one who makes people holy and those who are made holy are of the same family. So Jesus is not ashamed to call them brothers and sisters.
Hebrews 2:10-11 NIV
Far from being ashamed to call them brothers and sisters, Jesus gave his very life to accomplish God’s goal of bringing believers to glory. Is glory a state or place where God alone shines, a state or place where humans who have been brought there merely witness God’s glory, but do not partake in it?
It may seem cheeky, maybe even blasphemous to contemplate Jesus sharing glory, praising mere mortals. But give it some thought, and I think you’ll come up with plenty of passages that point to this amazing reality. Let my hashtags bring a few to mind….
#brideofchrist #hisbanneroverme #hisworkmanship #godshandiwork #ephesians2v10 #hiscommendation #1corinthians4v5 #welldonegoodandfaithfulservant #matthew25v21 #hebrews2v10-11
(background image by Rudy and Peter Skitterians on Pixabay)
In my crawl through Luke, I have spent several days in chapter 22. It may just be my imagination, but it seems like Luke WANTS us to slow down here, like he has put a video in slow motion.
Verse 7 caught my attention, as though it were a title page in Luke’s video: “Then came the day of unleavened bread, on which the passover had to be sacrificed.” Since I have been watching for thoughts shared by Dr. Luke and his companion the Apostle Paul, I asked myself, “Is Luke consciously comparing Jesus to the sacrificial lamb of Passover?” I knew Paul does that.
I looked up the occurrences of “sacrifice” (θυω, thuo), that Luke used in verse 6. That led me to a passage in 1 Corinthians 5 where Paul is urging his readers to guard their moral purity:
Cleanse out the old leaven that you may be a new lump, as you really are unleavened. For Christ, our Passover lamb, has been sacrificed. Let us therefore celebrate the festival, not with the old leaven, the leaven of malice and evil, but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth.
1 Corinthians 5:7-8 ESV
Two things jumped out at me in the 1 Corinthians passage:
1) Luke’s friend Paul certainly thought of Jesus as the sacrificed Passover Lamb (I know that’s not news to most of my readers), and
2) There is a sense in which we are still celebrating the festival of Passover that Jesus and His disciples celebrated just before His death (“let us therefore celebrate”). That’s what prompted my poem.
So, I slow down in Luke 22. The story is still happening, monthly, weekly, daily. As long as it takes.
NOTE: I’m aware that the second-to-last line mixes pronoun case: “Him” and “they” can’t both be right here. So, do I fix it? For now I’ll let it go. Maybe there’s something to be gained by considering which case was correct!
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
Matthew 5:5 NIV
It’s unsettling to look back on a lifetime of false confidence in man. I suspect most of us grow up thinking, “I’m one of the good guys. All that I possess was fairly earned, righteously taken.” But the more I learn about history, the more that fantasy is dispelled.
(background image by Alicja on Pixabay)
LET LAMENT BE
When we suffer loss, people often reach for metaphor, supposing it will comfort: windows being opened, gold refined of dross. But the view out a window is sometimes bleak, and gold in finished form not always something we would seek.
In plain terms, one of the themes I keep returning to in my poetry is a sense of loss, and how to deal with it. I think of Paul’s claim
12 I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. 13 I can do all this through him who gives me strength.
Philippians 4:12,13
Paul isn’t self-sufficient. Jesus’ provision of strength comes at least partly through fellow believers. The immediate context of Paul’s claim seems to be his thankfulness for financial support from the church at Philippi. But in the rest of the letter to the Philippians, Paul mentions other kinds of support. Notice the words and phrases in chapter 2: encouragement, compassion, comfort, looking to the interests of others, concern, having mercy, sparing from sorrow.
How do we participate in this mutual encouragement? What I’m suggesting in the poem above is that it starts with acknowledging difficulties. In order for any of us to support others in their grieving or loss, we need to first acknowledge grief or loss in ourselves, and let others do the same.
(background image by Karn Badjatia on Pixabay)
I am woefully behind in posting poetry to this blog. I wanted to go ahead and post this one while the emotion underlying it is still fresh.
My morning routine these days includes reading through the New Testament in Greek. It’s a slow process because I’m frankly not very good at it. But that has its benefits. Mainly, I’m slowed down by the process, and my mind has more time to mull over what’s being said. Luke has occasioned a lot of mulling. His Greek has struck me as more refined and elevated than what I encountered in Matthew and Mark. Even when I can’t pin down the reasons for his careful word choice, I can see that he’s doing SOMETHING interesting, generally to develop a theme.
When I write about my routine, I refer to it as “my crawl through Luke.” It’s slow, and it often feels like I’m a baby in my understanding. At least I won’t run out of things to explore in this lifetime!
My crawl through Luke brings me to the end of chapter 18 and the beginning of chapter 19. Luke is doing SOMETHING with this juxtaposition of two stories. One happens outside Jericho, and the other happens inside Jericho. Both involve men who cannot see. I have tried to imagine what it might have been like for those two men to become friends. In this poem, Zacchaeus is talking with the unnamed blind beggar….
(background image by Sophia Hilmar on Pixabay)
Most dreams can be tossed. This one, I thought I’d better save. What does it mean?
The longer I write poetry, the more it seems to be a revealing of the subconscious. I had no control over the dream. But I did have control over how I described it. That the ghostly figure was “removed,” and that I experienced this as “loss” probably points to a sense of loss that haunts me these days.
What have I lost? What am I losing? Plenty. If it weren’t for the promise of eternal life, and a restoration of good things, maybe even the gold would have disappeared. But the gold remained.
(background adapted from image by Andrew Martin on Pixabay)
Slowly, slowly it dawns on me what artists, musicians, and dancers have been doing all along. Some of them speak a language I never learned. But I start to catch their drift.
I’ll try to expand on that…. King David wrote that
The heavens declare the glory of God;
Psalm 19:1 (NIV)
the skies proclaim the work of his hands.
When we witness something beautiful or magnificent, it points us to God. I’m not enough of a philosopher or theologian to defend that statement. It’s just something I sense or intuit, and increasingly so. Somehow, I am becoming more appreciative of beauty. It’s subtle: I watch someone dancing, or view a painting, and something deep inside me responds with joy. Even though I myself don’t speak the language of dance or of painting, I begin to recognize its words.
(background image by Jacques Gaimard on Pixabay)
When I try to shock myself and others out of our complacency, I usually discover that we’re well insulated.
I get the impression that the Gospel author Luke wanted to shock his readers. In story after story, he illustrates Jesus’ absolute demands on his disciples… and the disciples’ absolute compliance. The central passage may be this one:
So therefore, any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple.
Luke 14:33
In Luke’s account of how the disciples followed Jesus, we see that renouncing of everything. For instance, when Jesus calls Simon, James and John away from their career as fishermen, here’s how they respond
And when they had brought their boats to land, they left everything and followed him.
Luke 5:11
“Everything” — that’s more than I have renounced. And that makes me uncomfortable. What also makes me uncomfortable is how quickly my mind tries to supply excuses. You know, stuff like decorum, not being a burden on others, being “wise.”
See a devotional I did on this back during the height of the pandemic: “Generosity, a Fruit of Godliness.”
This one’s on me.
No need for commentary.
Having attended a funeral yesterday, listening to Barber’s “Adagio For Strings,” and reading a sweet post about a charming lady… That’s where I was when these two words struck a melancholy chord. Some things demand eternity. Actually, many things demand eternity, especially men, women, boys and girls made in the image of God.
If you haven’t listened to Barber’s “Adagio For Stings” recently, here’s one recording of it:
I’m slowly working my way through Walter Kaiser Jr’s “The Messiah in the Old Testament.” It’s one of the books my father was thinking through at age 86, shortly before he died. The margins are graced with Dad’s notes. Naturally, I’m reminded often of him and his devotion to the Messiah. Some fine day….
This poem reflects on something at once puzzling and confirming about the Bible: God doesn’t operate as we would. If we were arranging things for the eventual coming of the Messiah, we’d probably make sure his ancestors were admirable characters. Read Genesis, and observe what kind of character Judah was. Jesus’ ancestor was a run-of-the-mill sinner. On the other hand, Judah’s younger brother Joseph was a remarkable, admirable character. He’s the hero through much of Genesis. Again, if I had been writing the story, I’d have made the promised Messiah come through Joseph’s line, not Judah’s.
God doesn’t operate that way. Through the story he created, He says, “I promise to bring this thing about, and lest anyone should get the idea that man is clever, and earns what I give him, I’ll bring it about through normal, undeserving sinners.”
(background photo: an artist’s castoff)
This is a dark thought. It compares our occupations with those of the rats that occasionally make noises in my attic. They don’t do anything useful for me, the homeowner. Rather, I always fear that they’re doing damage.
But the poem is also based in part on the hope of an awakening. More and more, I see people asking, “Why this infernal, fruitless gnawing? Is there not something better to do with life?”
Obviously, part of the problem this poem reflects on is a lack of community. Isolated from others, we are hard-pressed to find our purpose.
(background image by “Tama66” on Pixabay)
Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I listen to Anne Curzan’s The Secret Life of Words: English Words and Their Origins. This observation about capitalization is inspired by one of Curzan’s entertaining lectures. In talking about capitalization rules, she confesses that she has never figured out a good reason why “I” is the only pronoun that we routinely capitalize.
Linguists “keep it real” when it comes to language.
I treasure friends who can remember what they read and study. They serve well. But how about the rest of us? What’s the silver lining on a forgetful mind? This poem only poses the question, not an answer.
Teaching and Forgetfulness
You’d think that by my age, I’d have come to terms with my limitations. But I haven’t, at least not fully. There are three things I ask God for on a regular basis: growth in 1) kindness, 2) discipline, and 3) ability to teach. How can I teach in any traditional sense, when I forget–or have trouble accessing–most of what I learn?! And If I DO remember, I discount my understanding so severely, that it’s practically useless. Nothing has convinced me that sure access to confidently-held facts is anything but a diminishing proposition. In other words, the more I learn, the more I recognize my ignorance!
Salvation and Forgetfulness
I often think about what people mean by “salvation.” One element that stands out for me is being rescued from a descent into uselessness, meaninglessness. In the poem above, I allude to my hope that I will ultimately be rescued from this descent, that my Rescuer will restore meaning, explain the utility of current limitations, and set me on an eternally satisfying course. Then, salvation will be complete.
I suspect there is hardly anything more revealing about the condition of our souls than how we deliver criticism… and how we receive it.
I pray regularly for my own growth in kindness, the sort of kindness that lets others know they’re loved, not judged. To the degree that I love others as I love myself, I should be praying this for them as well!
I lament that so many people (am I one of them?) are in constant “FIGHT!” mode. God bless those who demonstrate a better way: charitable peacemakers who understand that some things matter for eternity, and some things don’t.
The last line is unintentionally ambiguous. What I meant to ask was “Do you wish to beat people in arguments or to rescue them from peril?” When you say “Gotcha,” is it as a self-centered enemy, or as a God-honoring neighbor?
If it’s not obvious already, this is a re-framing of Jesus’ Good Samaritan parable.
It should come as no surprise that a poet thinks by analogy. This morning, I had some worrisome things in mind as I plodded through the end of Matthew. In the events surrounding the Crucifixion (as in countless other settings), Psalm 2 is played out:
Why do the nations rage and the peoples plot in vain? The kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together, against the Lord and against his Anointed, saying, ‘Let us burst their bonds apart and cast away their cords from us.’
Psalm 2:1-3 ESV
The analogy? I sat reading in the living room, facing the kitchen, and imagining how roaches would conspire at night (if we had them). They’d gather there on the kitchen floor and hiss their hateful plans. In the end, it isn’t about roaches, but about man. He’s meant to reflect a good, loving God, but often comes closer to reflecting despicable crawling creatures.
The Title
I originally meant to title this “Night Crawlers.” But then I looked that up. Worms? No, that’s not sufficiently despicable. So I looked up “roaches” and found the scientific name for the ones we encounter here in Texas: Periplaneta americana. Perfect. The divisiveness, the constant warring, the plotting…. There’s definitely an American species of this global phenomenon.
You Go, Brain!
This poem is part of an ongoing experiment. Starting with a mundane thought, such as “I wonder if the fields near Van are ever covered with crimson clover like they were back in the 1970s,” I start writing a poem, as quickly and as fluidly as I can. The line breaks are intuitive. I trust myself with rhythm and rhyme. Trust is the thing. I want my brain to be at ease when it’s performing, to not be afraid of being judged. If the brain inserts some seemingly inappropriate nerdiness about nitrogen fixation, don’t stop it. Let the brain ramble. It may have more to say than I realize.
Does it Mean Anything?
I’m generally old-school about authors and their intent. I expect what I write to convey a proposition. But the longer I write poetry, the more I realize that there are subconscious truths that emerge in our writing. In this poem, my unbridled brain conflated a plant–crimson clover–with a color of paint, and a farming practice–sowing cover crops–with painting. This suggests something to explore: Do we humans recognize the creation and expression of beauty as fundamental in our other activities? Do we know, deep down, that we are all artists in one way or another?
I sat on this poem wondering how I’d explain the weak understanding that it reveals. Then a friend messaged me out of the blue to thank me for being open and vulnerable. So here you go!
Understood, But Just Barely
Having been a Christian from my youth, having studied theology, etc., etc., I “know” many things about Christianity. But it seems that the longer I live, the more I realize that I barely understand some of its concepts.
I talked about this with a friend, who teaches theology at the seminary level…. I confessed to him that every time I hit Hebrews 5, I flinch. This passage immediately follows the discussion of Melchizedek:
11We have much to say about this, but it is hard to make it clear to you because you no longer try to understand. 12In fact, though by this time you ought to be teachers, you need someone to teach you the elementary truths of God’s word all over again. You need milk, not solid food! 13Anyone who lives on milk, being still an infant, is not acquainted with the teaching about righteousness. 14But solid food is for the mature, who by constant use have trained themselves to distinguish good from evil.
Hebrews 5:11-14
“Elementary” Truths
My friend, the theologian, pointed out that there’s infinite depth to the most simple concepts of Christianity. Admitting that I don’t understand something fully, is actually laughable. Who does?
I’m not going to say this is an easy poem. I wrote it, but am still trying to understand it! This may be a clue: I suspect that what my sister likes about the beach is what I like about the alpine trail: a vista — a perspective — that heightens or broadens our hope for godliness.
Here’s another way of expressing the longing:
Won’t it be fine
–Brad Hepp, 3/6/2022
When refining’s done,
When what we love
And what He loves
At last are one!
Reality
This may be a simplistic view of religious hermits…. They live out the wish expressed in this poem. Removed from the irritations and challenges of society, they may think that they are being holy. But they are just living a fantasy. It is in dealing with irritations and challenges that God refines us and in our response that we are privileged to bring Him glory.
Then, welcome each rebuff
from Robert Browning’s “Rabbi Ben Ezra.” The first stanza was my Dad’s favorite; the second is my favorite
That turns earth’s smoothness rough,
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!
Be our joys three-parts pain!
Strive, and hold cheap the strain;
Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!
For thence,—a paradox
Which comforts while it mocks,—
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail:
What I aspired to be,
And was not, comforts me:
A brute I might have been, but would not sink i’ the scale.
We both calmed down, and I took a photo to prove it. But not before I wrote a poem* about the vicissitudes of duty. You see, I grew up with the following proverb:
A righteous man cares for the life of his beast.
Proverbs 12:10
But the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.
For the Grammar Nerds
Should it be “Old Cat and I,” or “Old Cat and Me“?
I or Me
with apologies to Robert Frost
Some say the pronoun should be I,
Some say me.
From what I know of how I act,
I hold with those who favor I.
But if I could choose otherwise,
I think we know enough of cats
To say that their effect
Is quite extreme
On mortals such as me.
* That poem, “Duty in Retrospect,” was pretty raw, and I haven’t decided if it’s safe to publish. My response to bothersome cats brings up other bothersome issues.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
I came home tonight after witnessing a friend teaching even more skillfully than before. This poem was my thankful response.
#patina #refinement #1peter4v10 #puebla #cathedral #copper #catedralbasilicadepuebla #poetography #stenerikarmitage
Increasingly, I find myself turning even simple statements into poems. Perhaps I’m as annoying in this as Fezzik was to Vizzini in “The Princess Bride”:
Inigo: That Vizzini, he can fuss.
From “The Princess Bride”
Fezzik: Fuss, fuss … I think he like to scream at us.
Inigo: Probably he means no harm.
Fezzik: He’s really very short on charm.
Inigo: You have a great gift for rhyme.
Fezzik: Yes, yes, some of the time.
Vizzini: Enough of that.
Inigo: Fezzik, are there rocks ahead?
Fezzik: If there are, we all be dead.
Vizzini: No more rhymes now, I mean it.
Fezzik: Anybody want a peanut?
The Poem’s Inspiration
I don’t recall the context of the exchange, but one of my Facebook friends wrote the following, and her first two sentences seemed like the beginning and premise for a limerick:
I once met a woman at the mall who had seven children in tow: an oldest child, a pair of twins, and, youngest of all, a set of quadruplets. Each pregnancy subsequent to the first doubled the outcome the one prior. If I were in her shoes, I think I’d probably put my foot down regarding future pregnancies.
Laurie Pearce Mathers
Despite the silly sound effects in my recording of this poem (and on the video version), it’s a serious poem. I promise you, it is!
I get very frustrated with narrow-mindedness, and with people who don’t develop intellectually over their lifetimes. Hopefully it’s obvious that the speaker in this poem has spent his (or her) entire lifetime defending a narrow, and tired point of view.
Looming Open Door
This is the sad conclusion of the poem. Opportunity has existed at every point since the speaker’s feet touched the floor to go out and explore. Instead, he considers the world “out there” a threat.
(background image by Raphael W. on Pixabay)
Previous: Pre-Positions
Next: Please All-Powerful God
A friend encouraged me to pay close attention to the deep emotion I feel whenever I encounter certain stories. One of those stories is what Luke tells about the — presumably — aged Simeon. When Joseph and Mary encounter Simeon in the temple, they let him hold their baby, Jesus. Simeon says,
Lord, now you are letting your servant depart in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation that you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel.
Luke 2:29-32
Why does that passage get to me every time I read it? Simeon seems to be satisfied. Everything’s great, right?
No.
More than once, I have been listening through Luke while walking at the lake. When I get to this passage, I tear up so much that anyone crossing paths with me would know something’s “wrong.” Simeon is satisfied, but I am…. What? Dissatisfied? I infer from the passage that Simeon will soon die, and his impending death figures into my response. Simeon is ready for death because he knows now that all will eventually be right in his world: the Messiah has come. Why does that satisfy him, but not me?
Different Story, Similar Feeling
Today, I heard a story that brought the same feeling, though with a little less intensity. The story was about a shy Irish composer named Ina Boyle (1889-1967). Ms. Boyle’s compositions were rarely played during her lifetime, but have been rediscovered fifty years after her death, and are now being played by orchestras.
When I hear a story like Ina Boyle’s or Simeon’s an image looms large in my mind: a great gulf, a void, a chasm separating promise and fulfillment. It’s death. Death and the time that has passed — and will pass — until the Resurrection.
This Poem: Somehow Remembrance…
So, today, when the great gulf came to mind, I asked myself, “What spans that gulf?” The picture that came to mind is strange: a refrigerator door, call it God’s refrigerator door. There he affixes the precious artwork of His children. Time passes, but He doesn’t forget our bright hopes and expectations, our responses to His obvious goodness. Somehow, God’s remembrance answers — will answer — the sadness I feel about mortality, the vapor which is our current state.
Pat Answers?
I could throw pat answers at myself all day long. Don’t even bother. One of my jobs as a poet is to be a spokesman for the feelings in search of truth.
In explaining this poem to one of my sons, I put it this way…. I’m an Elder, and so there are people that I will someday have to answer for. I’m not sure how that will be. I picture the Lord asking what I did to help these people survive their spiritual battles. I may answer, “Well, I tried, but You know… they didn’t want help.” And then the questions I dread: “Did YOU want my help? Did you ASK for my help?”
Silent battles rage around me. People I love, people for whom I must answer to God, are taking fire. The one most effective way for me to protect them is prayer. Instead, I find passive, unhelpful ways to fill my time.
As I wrote in one lament, “I scroll, I stroll, I scrawl.” I do anything but engage in the intense duty of intercession. My son could identify with that mindless, unthreatening hamster wheel of social media and other time-wasters. Can you identify?
Silent battles rage around me. But I choose to be distracted by other things, even news of noisy battles raging elsewhere: foreign wars.
“Here is your duty, man.” I can almost hear the Spirit say. “Here, not there.” But the news distracts; it almost drowns out the Spirit’s intense, insistent, discomforting voice.
I wrote this poem in anticipation of talking with a fellow poet. One topic I wanted to discuss with him is the vulnerability of baring your breast through revealing words. Is it insanity or inspiration?
We didn’t get to the “inspiration” part, but the “insanity” part was almost funny…. My fellow poet read me one of several poems he has written while struggling with depression. He said that people have phoned him after reading such a poem to say, “I read your poem. Are you okay?” He answers, “Thanks. I’m doing better because I wrote that poem.”
I don’t enjoy listening to people complain. I’ve noticed that other people don’t enjoy listening to me complain. Sometimes, my public complaint is answered by a public rebuke, often with an underlying, “If you were as spiritual as I am, you wouldn’t have such thoughts.”
I don’t know a good workaround. One of my jobs as a poet is to express what’s hard to express. That can include negative thoughts, and problems whose solution hasn’t appeared.
I really don’t have a lot I can say about this poem yet. It is almost entirely a raw, unprocessed impression of my state of mind.
But I can say two things…. As some other recent poems reveal, I am doing a lot of thinking about what it means that we live in a fallen world, and how I participate in the fallenness.
When this “poem” (or “sentence,” if you prefer) popped into my head, I was reading The Reluctant Tommy. Quoting from Wikipedia, it’s a book “compiled by Duncan Barrett from the memoirs of Ronald Skirth, a member of the Royal Garrison Artillery during the First World War…. The book captured attention due to Skirth’s actions during the war to avoid enemy casualties.”
Connecting Blood
Although I haven’t figured out just what this sentence or poem expresses, I’m pretty sure that “connecting” refers to various relationships between various things. That’s how my mind works.
I think most people have at one time or another experienced pain that feels strangely pleasant. For instance, when you find a way — perhaps with a friend’s help — to apply pressure to that knot in your back. For some, there is pleasure in the pain of a red-hot pepper. Well, recently, I have noticed that I am strangely drawn to sadness, and feel a certain pleasure in its presence.
In one of my recent poems, I depicted sadness as a lady who has me sabbath in her house. She feeds me and urges me to “rest and weep.” In the commentary for that poem, I suggested that the process I am in is one of becoming more compassionate. I’m pretty sure that’s fundamentally true.
But in the poem above, I ask if the reason for this phase (I guess it’s a phase) is that I need to fully recognize and steel myself against Satan’s lies. The emotion of sadness helps me better comprehend what I’m looking at in a fallen world. Things are not the way they’re supposed to be, no matter what anyone might say.
When I contemplate oppression, poverty, and death, it’s hard to imagine a future world where these are eradicated. It seems that everywhere I look in this current world, wealth is amassed at someone else’s expense. In a generally prosperous culture, that’s not always easy to see, but I’m learning to connect the dots.
How could it work any other way? I believe it will some day, but how? That’s what the last stanza of my poem addresses. When the all-powerful Creator has restored the world to its original design, then my questions will be answered.
February 26, 2023 Additional Comments:
[This part I barely understand, so bear with me. If it’s too dense, skip to the last paragraph]
In “The Crucifixion,” Fleming Rutledge writes about a “PARADOX: THE KNOWLEDGE OF SIN AS JOYFUL GOOD NEWS.” It’s a startling claim, but Rutledge makes a good case for it. Later in that chapter, she writes the following: “The action of God’s grace precedes our consciousness of sin, so that we perceive the depth of our own participation in sin’s bondage, simultaneously with the recognition of the unconditional love of Christ, which is perfect freedom. We recognize that love, moreover, not from the depths of the hell we were bent on creating for ourselves, but from the perspective of the heaven that God is preparing for us.”
Over the last few years, I have increasingly felt this strange pleasure at recognizing what a wretch I am, not only on the basis of my own sinfulness, but also on the basis of my being PART of a sinful humanity. This strange sensation is something I tried to explain with the attached poem, which I wrote exactly one year ago. The reason that I offered then was surely right in part. But it didn’t fully account for the pleasant sadness.
So, Rutledge—and other wise souls—are helping me understand the pleasant sadness.
[This part may be easier to understand, as it relies on imagination more than on theology.]
I picture myself on a long hike with Jesus. Naturally, the trail we’re on is along the sides of some mountain in the Rockies. We can see forever. Conversation turns to why Jesus had to die for me. It was my sin. He goes into detail. But we keep walking. He’s with me on the trail because he loves me. It’s obvious. He’s telling me these things because he loves me. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here. He wants me to know that he knows fully well what kind of rotten friend I am. Amazingly, it doesn’t feel like scolding. Through talking with me about my sin, Jesus produces in me a pleasant sadness. He reassures me I need not fear his rejection some day when the truth comes out. He took care of everything. Everything.
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Next: In Time Out of Mind
Backdrop
This morning, I was thinking through the questions I want to ask a fellow poet when I meet with him tomorrow. He’s a better poet than I am, but I see similarities in our approach. So, I want to explore the similarities. One of the things I want to explore is what drives us to write poetry. I suspect it has something to do with a God-given hunger for beauty.
Seeking and Speaking Beauty
When I idiotically scroll through Instagram Reels or TikTok, there is one small consolation: I find myself increasingly able to appreciate beauty as expressed by a variety of people in various ways. It probably helps that I had already determined to grow in this ability. On many a long walk around the lake, the question has always been, “What is the beauty I have missed thus far?” The same is true of my “walks” through Scripture. God writes beautifully everywhere.
This morning, I wrote a LONG reflection on legalism and generosity. Then the poet in me said, “Let me handle this!” Thus the little poem above.
Here’s an outline of what prompted the poem:
In Matthew 12 and Galatians 2, we see Pharisees and Judaizers spying on the liberty that Jesus’ followers have vis-a-vis Jewish Law. In Matthew 12, it was the Pharisees objecting to the disciples’ foraging as they walked through a grainfield on the Sabbath. In Galatians 2, it was apparently the Judaizers insisting that Gentile converts had to adopt Jewish mores. (this event is very like–possibly the same as–what is described in Acts 15: the Jerusalem Council).
In both passages, the response is that righteous behavior is more associated with mercy, compassion, and generosity than it is with punctilious rule-keeping.
Notice what Jesus said to the Pharisees (I have bolded what jumps out at me):
And if you had known what this means, ‘I desire mercy, and not sacrifice,’ you would not have condemned the guiltless. For the Son of Man is lord of the Sabbath.
Matthew 12:7-8
Notice what I bold here in Paul’s Galatians 2 summary:
…when James and Cephas and John, who seemed to be pillars, perceived the grace that was given to me, they gave the right hand of fellowship to Barnabas and me, that we should go to the Gentiles and they to the circumcised. Only, they asked us to remember the poor, the very thing I was eager to do.
Galatians 2:9-10
Is Righteousness Rule-Keeping?
I think many of us who know that righteousness is NOT merely rule-keeping still hang onto that notion. I see it in the culture wars. I can almost hear some Christians say, “Those people out there are not righteous. Just look at how they break God’s moral laws!” Does it matter that “those people out there” are sometimes more loving, more generous, more merciful than the Christians who are judging them?
That’s why I wrote in the poem that by righteousness, “I mainly mean love.” And when I look “out there” at a world of people who don’t know Jesus Christ, I must also look “in here.” Do I demonstrate that I know Him by practicing the righteousness of love? Is God’s gracious rule operating in my heart?
When I was ten, we moved to the States from a country where practicing religion was always costly. Mostly, the cost was self-imposed, as many thought they could earn God’s favor. For a few, the cost was appropriate, and unavoidable, as they could not be comfortable with surrounding culture. IN CONTRAST, what I saw here in the States was that practicing religion seemed to cost nothing. That concerned me then, and it concerns me still.
Someone may respond, “I’m not comfortable with surrounding culture! So, wouldn’t you agree that I am paying a price to be a Christian!” My answer: maybe, maybe not. The thing about culture is that it is never merely “surrounding.” Rather, it works its way into much — if not all — of what we think and do. We’re part of it. It’s part of us.
Simply being upset at others’ immorality is not enough. Jesus’ prescription is not “Get mad at the world.” His prescription is, “You! You. If necessary, cut off your own arm. Gouge out your own eye. Renounce everything that YOU have.”
So therefore, any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple.
Luke 14:33
Recently, one of my ongoing projects has been peeling back layers of personal, church, and world history in order to better comprehend this world’s fallenness. I felt a certain compulsion about it. I needed to feel sadness about the many insults to God’s purpose and His image in man. I needed to feel sorrow about ways that I participate in those insults.
On a recent Sunday evening, I hit pause on the project. I thought, “Enough of this for now. I’m not feeling the compulsion.”
Was I done with exploring sadness? I don’t think so. It was just a rest. My heart still has chambers of ungodly anger that must be flooded instead with compassion. Like the Pharisees who despised the Lord of the Sabbath, I look for fault with His followers. I treasure offense at His disciples’ trespasses. Like the Pharisees, I need to understand what this means: “I desire mercy, and not sacrifice” (see Matthew 12). Then, perhaps, I will not be so quick to condemn.
SO, WEEP SOME MORE
I had just finished writing this poem (and was pretty broken up by the process of writing it) when Susan came in and told me that an old friend — a GOOD and brilliant man — now has Alzheimer’s. My sadness turned to sobbing.
“Now rest, and weep,
And rest, and weep,
And rest, and weep
Some more.”
I can’t help but think that this season in the house of Sadness is what I should expect as a follower of Jesus. It’s on the path to becoming compassionate, like He is compassionate.
He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief; and as one from whom men hide their faces he was despised, and we esteemed him not.
Isaiah 53:3 ESV
This poem is me trying to convince myself of something I believe, but have had trouble seeing recently. My attention has been drawn — hopefully by God, and hopefully just for a season — away from delightful things in this world to things that are broken, and terribly in need of restoration. I wrote about that in my recent poem, “Beauty’s Time Tabled.” Frankly, I have a slew of poems coming out about the sadness I currently feel, including one I’ll post on this blog soon: “The House of Sadness.”
So Full of Rocks
Read “rocks” in this poem as the dull, lifeless, colorless sort that make up most of the world. When I think of those rocks, I know that they are actually fascinating, but only in ways that a geologist would recognize.
Won’t Go Far
I sometimes despair that all my thinking and writing is practically useless. When I do point to something beautiful, the response is generally a chasm of silence, an echoing yawn.
But… I Insist
Although I’m currently discouraged and disillusioned, I do still see bright, shiny things here and there, enough to keep hope alive. For instance, this morning, reading Matthew 12, and comparing it to Galatians 2, I saw something that reminded me of God’s better ways. God shows us that we get to obey Him as a celebration and imitation of His gracious, generous, merciful purposes. So I wrote this little poem:
Getting Hungry
I’ve had my taste whetted
For righteousness.
And by that
I mainly mean love.
I long to see
God’s gracious rule
In my heart and in my world,
Not just in Heaven above….
(background image by Stefan Schweihofer on Pixabay)
On my walk yesterday, I finished listening to Henri Nouwen’s The Return of the Prodigal Son. It got me thinking about how God views the little triumphs so far and few between in His fallen world.
Why does this matter to me? There are two reasons. First, it matters because considering it is what I should do. Jesus’ parable of the Prodigal Son prompts us to compare ourselves not only with a prodigal or a resentful older brother, but also with a compassionate, generous, and joyful father. Nouwen spends the last third of his book driving that last point home.
A second reason why this matters is that it relates to my current state of mind. I wrote about this already in my commentary for “Beauty’s Time Tabled.” In the arc of my reflection on how evil has been manifest in my own life, the life of the Church, and the life of my nation, I have come to a significant point. Having fancied for some time that my thinking and my poetry might yield fruit beyond my own life, I have begun to dial down my hopes and expectations. The best I can realistically hope for is limited and isolated triumphs. That’s reality in a fallen world.
So how should I respond to this disillusionment? Does God’s joyful response to limited triumphs serve as a model for me?
Heaven is a Party Town
The Parable of the Prodigal Son is one of three parables that Luke puts together (in Luke 15): The Lost Sheep, The Lost Coin, and The Prodigal Son. A common element in the three parables is the joyful celebration. The shepherd, having brought home his one errant sheep “calls together his friends and his neighbors, saying to them, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which was lost!'” (Luke 15:6). Jesus, who knows well how Heaven is run continues,
I tell you that in the same way, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.
Luke 15: 7
When the woman finds her one lost coin, she likewise calls together friends for a party. And again, Jesus compares her response to the joyful response in Heaven:
I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.
Luke 15:10
Then we get to the much longer Parable of the Prodigal Son. By now, we know to equate the earthly father’s response to God’s:
But we had to celebrate and rejoice, for this brother of yours was dead and has begun to live, and was lost and has been found.
Luke 15:32
If God and His angels celebrate small triumphs, can I? Will I? Or does everything have to work out just as I wish in order for me to be happy? Would I be a party pooper in Heaven?
The poem mocks my own severe view of things. Luke was severe. He clearly had high standards for our response to God. But he was careful to record what Jesus said about Heaven’s response to small triumphs: it’s a party town, where music and dancing can clearly be heard even by a resentful older brother standing outside.
Recently, I have written some light and playful poems. So where does this one come from?!
It seems that I have come to the end of a hopeful period. What I have been investigating–in personal, church, and world history–has been dark. It has left me sad, but sad in a hopeful way. I thought that by identifying the source and nature of various evils, I could somehow propose reformation.
I thought that I, through poetic thought and expression, could be a channel of God’s reforming beauty. Maybe I’ll regain that perspective tomorrow. But today, it feels like beauty has been put on hold; it has been tabled for now.
Is this depression talking? I doubt it. It’s probably just reality setting in. Beauty will have its time. But now–at least today–belongs to lament.
ADDENDUM: On my long walk today, I finished listening to a book my counselor assigned: Henri Nouwen’s The Return of the Prodigal Son. The final chapter of that book encourages the reader to consider how he or she might become more like the Father in Jesus’ parable. Well…. In considering that, one thing stands out to me tonight: God the Father takes joy in isolated victories. If He can, is there any reason I cannot as well?
This poem is about the “end” or purpose of life, and whether or not we can achieve that purpose when our numbered days are few.
We are not Jesus Christ. But God invites us to identify with Him very, very deeply. I suppose He’s pleased for us to compare ourselves with Jesus when pondering the very little time that remains to any of us.
Jesus began His public ministry around age 30, and lived another 3 or so years. So, he began his public ministry ten-elevenths through his earthly life. Imagine all the ways Jesus could have faithfully reflected God the Father, all the healing, preaching, and loving he could have done with a few more years! But I have to assume that three was enough.
How About Me?
The amount of character development and spiritual growth that I have experienced over the last three years astounds me. That’s not bragging. In fact, it seems more a sad admission of how many decades I have wasted than anything else! This development leaves me suspecting–or hoping–that God has something surprising for me to do with the time that remains in my life. How could that be? How could anything a 61-year old man (62 this summer) do that matters in Eternity?
I don’t know. He loves me deeply. He wants the best for me. As old as I am, He’s still my older brother. He says that in one of my favorite passages:
For it was fitting that he, for whom and by whom all things exist, in bringing many sons to glory, should make the founder of their salvation perfect through suffering. For he who sanctifies and those who are sanctified all have one source. That is why he is not ashamed to call them brothers, saying, “I will tell of your name to my brothers; in the midst of the congregation I will sing your praise.
Hebrews 2:10-12
The Background Photo
For several years now, my most profound thinking has happened while I was on long hikes, largely near or around White Rock Lake. The other day, I was thinking about what I have written in the poem just as my hike reached the area pictured in the background photo. I took the photo initially thinking of using it to say this:
Here’s the path
That I in former days,
On longer walks,
Often saw
And wondered ’bout.
It’s more familiar now
Than what I knew
When time and strength
Had bound me
To my former ways.
But then I wrote a better(?) poem about “The End of Life,” and needed a background photo!
This light-hearted poem is a prequel to the more serious “The King’s Toast.” By the way, my initial commentary on that poem was pretty muddled. If you already read that commentary, do me the favor of reading the improved version.
It’s probably obvious that in this poem I’m exploring the idea that an awareness of God’s presence would help us regulate our behavior. Have a problem with foul language? What if Jesus were right there beside you in a physical, visible form? Would you curse then?
I don’t know.
Closely related poem: “The King’s Toast.“
(background image by Adina Voicu on Pixabay)
If this little poem has any deep meanings, it’s by accident. It’s just some residual silliness from my younger self. That’s all.
(background image by Radomír Šalda on Pixabay)
