(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
[This strange little poem is a flight of fancy. Any connection with a Greek goddess, a Norwegian singer, or a school in Cusco, Peru is accidental.]
Tonight, I was thinking about a photo I edited this morning. I had shot a Peace Lily flower and then boosted the saturation. Was it too much saturation? Am I overly enamored with jewel tones? Then I thought about places on earth where jewel tones are extravagantly displayed. I’ve seen them in the clothes of Quechua in the Peruvian Andes; I’ve seen pictures of the Aurora Borealis. How is one like the other? I began writing about the harsh settings, and the comfort brought to those settings by brilliant displays of color….
By the way, here’s the photo that launched me on this flight of fancy. As I was walking by one of the Peace Lilies at the library where I work, I thought I’d stoop down and look at one of the flowers from a lower vantage point. The heavy timber framework of the library’s high ceiling provided an interesting background. So I snapped a photo, and then did a little editing.
(poem’s background image by Yolanda Coervers on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
This poem expresses my confidence that there is no shortage of things to inspire poetry. If a few days pass when I don’t feel any urgency to write, I don’t panic. My muse will return.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
This poem is my sour grapes version of the philosophical thought experiment “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”
Why sour grapes? Somewhere in this big world, there’s an audience for my poetry. But aside from a handful of kind family and friends, I haven’t found that audience. Moreover, my potential audience keeps getting smaller and smaller as my thinking about this world gets more and more idiosyncratic.
FURTHER COMMENTS In my wording for “Today’s Assignment,” I was intentionally inclusive in choosing the word “person’s.” You probably understand this thing I’m starting to understand… that the person GOD displays his glory directly AND indirectly through our fellow men and women (also persons). All beauty is God’s beauty. When a friend chooses the loveliest way to express her thoughts, when a politician is respectful of his political opponents, when an artist uses color or juxtaposition to draw our attention to delightful design, these are all examples of God’s beauty manifested in and through people. We should respond to the degree and in the way God enables us.
Also, I’m on the perennial soapbox of lamenting that people criticize in excruciating detail, but praise in vagueness—if at all.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
I love it when a poem gets shorter and shorter, ’til all that’s left is one sentence.
I have asked one thing from the Lord; it is what I desire: to dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, gazing on the beauty of the Lord and seeking him in his temple.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
I had a lot of this the last several years. And I’m better for it.
I suspect one reason God prescribed the Sabbath is so He can demonstrate HIS faithful provision. We tend to make it transactional: “Take this time off, and the reward is that you’ll be able to provide better for yourself by working harder and/more efficiently afterwards.” We say, “Here’s how I justify Sabbath….” I hear a murmur from the clouds: “They don’t get it yet!”
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
This poem memorializes something that really happened this morning. I assist St. Bart’s Anglican Church by projecting slides during their service. That means that I show up before their services and step through all the song slides as their worship team practices. They have professional, highly-skilled musicians, which is always a pleasure for me. This morning, the musicians seemed especially creative–maybe even frisky–in their practice time. I believe it was while they were practicing the Doxology that Esther Brister suddenly hit a harmonizing note that blew my mind. I’m not a musician, so it’s easy to impress me. But I wasn’t alone. Everyone there laughed in delight.
The Background Image This afternoon, as I was thinking about what happened this morning, I thought of quasars, and the powerful escape of light from them. That’s probably inaccurate, as I know next to nothing about astronomy. But I’m learning about beauty, and this morning’s occurrence was definitely an outburst of beautiful energy.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
I’ve got to laugh at this poem. It’s the kind of thing I write when I’ve been lying in bed, as dreams fade and conscious thought awakens. When I wrote it, I thought it was really good. Two cups of coffee later, I’m not so sure!
I struggle to express my growing impression of beauty. Some of my poems seem to be hitting up against it. I can almost reach out and touch it. But then I find it’s bigger than everything, and so it eludes my grasp.
Two Additional Notes A couple of my friends who have studied the theological topic of beauty at the doctoral level have given me pointers on the topic. Their help gives me hope. But who knows, it may be above my mental pay grade. That’s a fear I expressed recently in the poem “Insufficiency.”
In my current rapid listen-through of the Bible, I got to 1 Kings 8 today. Here’s a passage that may relate to what I said about the enormity of beauty:
But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Behold, heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain you; how much less this house that I have built!
1 Kings 8:27 (Solomon’s dedication of the temple)
(background image is a composite of crystal by “DaModernDaVinci” and sand by Uwe Jelting, both on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
These days, I’m reading slowly through the Gospel of John. This morning, I got to the end of chapter two, where John notes that whereas people were believing in Jesus because of his miracles, he was not entrusting himself to them:
Now when he was in Jerusalem at the Passover Feast, many believed in his name when they saw the signs that he was doing. But Jesus on his part did not entrust himself to them, because he knew all people and needed no one to bear witness about man, for he himself knew what was in man.
John 2:23-25
Here’s one thing that caught my attention: John uses the same verb in “many believed” as he does in “did not entrust.” The verb is a common one for belief: pisteuo. It struck me as a play on words that begs for the reader to dig deeper. The main question that comes to my mind is, does this suggest that there are elements in the witnesses’ belief and Jesus’ entrusting that are parallel? Do they contrast?
I haven’t gotten to the bottom of my question, but as I read what commentators say about the passage, I found some of them pushing one of my buttons: they denigrate people for basing their belief in Jesus on his miracles, as though there were a better basis for belief! But John himself summed up the purpose for his Gospel like this:
Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of the disciples, which are not written in this book; but these are written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name.
John 20:30-31
The Poem I registered my objection by writing the poem above. In the third line, “God at rest” stands for a God who is not active, doing things, interacting with his creation, performing miracles.
The last two lines are the test I propose: is there anything we can see or know about God apart from his actively making himself known?
Next time you hear someone piously pray, “God, I worship you not for what you’ve done, but for who you are,” pull them aside and remind them that God IS a creator, lover, healer, savior. Who he is cannot be separated from what he does. Thank God that’s so!
Caveat I could be wrong. I’m the son of a theologian, and I have friends who are philosophers. But I am not one of them. Any time I refer to Plato, just know that I’m in the deep end, and don’t know how to swim.
(background photo by Joshua Woroniecki on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
Commentary
On my walk yesterday, listening through Exodus, I heard this fascinating snippet:
And they saw the God of Israel. There was under his feet as it were a pavement of sapphire stone, like the very heaven for clearness. And he did not lay his hand on the chief men of the people of Israel; they beheld God, and ate and drank.
Exodus 24:10-11
When I encounter passages like this one, I want to explore, to stop and study. Not necessarily to study in an academic way… more to gaze intently until my senses have taken in the scene, so that like Mary I may ponder in my heart. But there are voices—do I only imagine them?—who murmur “Move along, and stay behind the railing.”
The Poem’s Structure I woke up this morning and initially wrote the last five lines. As often happens with me, something subconscious was giving the poem physical structure by creating a pattern of line lengths. When I see that happening, I try to follow through. The poem was taking the form of a mountain, but it needed a summit. So I inserted the first seven lines.
Docents I have toured many a museum, and been thankful to many a docent for guiding me there. I mean no disrespect by picturing them in this poem as dripping clouds who live only to put out sparks of curiosity. What am I actually picturing? Dull, strangling systematic theology, at least as practiced by some.
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Commentary (A Facebook Exchange)
ME: (referring to the photograph above) No matter how many times I walk under these bois d’arc trees on my shortcut to the lake, it feels like I’m entering a special place, or embarking on an adventure. What are the magical places and moments in your life?
JOSH VAJDA: When I was a teen, we had 10 acres of forest and brush behind the house, with paths winding through. My favorite part of the walk was in the back corner on just the right winter’s day. After a hairpin turn in the brush, you walked along the side of a patch of older trees, which soon sharply turned right, inviting you inside, and winding so you could not see too far ahead. With a fresh blanket of heavy, wet snow, it was truly magical. The frosted pine and birch towered above, while the brush heavy laden hugged the path. The sun lit the chamber like a cathedral, and the snow smothered every sound except the crunch beneath your boots and the swish of your winter coat. Sometimes I would just stand in the center and soak it in as long as I could.
ME: Josh, you have written elsewhere about the importance of imagination. In the space set apart, the cathedral, we begin to imagine how everything could be different. As you describe that magical place from your youth, I want to map it out in my head. If I were sitting with you, I’d ask you to sketch the scene. I want to locate that cathedral and enter it myself. Those of us who have read Lewis think immediately of a wardrobe in an old professor’s house. But we should probably find our own wardrobes. Then, what is it we encounter in the set-apart space? To define it seems only to diminish it.
JOSH VAJDA: As usual, you are correct. I couldn’t help feeling it had a certain Narnian magic to it.
ME: This one’s for Josh Vajda (an echo of your elevated prose):
[Note: Josh Vajda kindly gave me permission to include our Facebook exchange in this post. Josh is an excellent thinker and writer. Check out his blog. For instance, this study of “The Sin of Sodom.”]
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Commentary
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; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.
Psalm 19:1 (NIV)
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.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary)Background picture by Andy Sa on Pixabay
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.
(a recording of this poem and commentary)background photo by “eliza28diamonds” on Pixabay
Commentary
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’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 When refining’s done, When what we love And what He loves At last are one!
–Brad Hepp, 3/6/2022
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 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.
from Robert Browning’s “Rabbi Ben Ezra.” The first stanza was my Dad’s favorite; the second is my favorite
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.
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 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)
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 came to mind as I listened to a performance of “Benedictus” by 2Cellos. I had heard the tune many times in the past, but never paid attention to its title.
This time was different. I was starting into a nap, being soothed by beautiful music. I had just returned from a public event where I felt horribly alienated. Frankly, a friendless freak.
As the tune started playing through my ear buds, I literally heard a slow faint beat, not of drums, but perhaps of cello bows changing direction as they sustained and grew the opening strain. Perhaps it was the bows, or perhaps it was the pulse in my ears from elevated blood pressure. I’ll have to listen with good speakers to figure that out. In any case, my heart was attuned to the playing of the cellos.
What is “Benedictus”? Since I was listening on my smart phone, I did a quick search for what this Latin word might reference. There were two answers, both from excruciatingly beautiful passages in the Gospels. The first is from Zechariah’s words “Blessed be…” when Zechariah was moved by the birth of his son, John. We know him as “John the Baptist,” who prepared the way for Jesus:
Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he has visited and redeemed his people and has raised up a horn of salvation for us in the house of his servant David…
Luke 1:68-69
Such high expectations!
The next “benedictus” is from Matthew 21, where the story is told of Jesus’ “triumphal entry” to Jerusalem, just as his Passion Week began:
And the crowds that went before him and that followed him were shouting, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!”
Matthew 21:9
Such high expectations!
The Meantime Jesus’ first coming was full of hope, both at its beginning, and at its end. But he ascended to the Father, and has not finished putting things in order, restoring His creation. Now, as we await his second coming, we are in the meantime. Someone has referred to it as the “in-between time.” I thought of using that phrase in the title, but opted for “meantime.” This is a time in-between, but it is also a time of meanness, a very mean time. Even those whom Jesus has brought into his family can feel rejected and lonely. As George MacDonald said somewhere, “The end of the Maker’s dream is not this.”
I wrote this out of intense frustration. Recently, I’ve seen a silencing or muting of pointers to God’s amazing goodness and grace. It’s not prudent for me to go into details, to trot out examples. But I could.
On Mountain Tops It’s probably no accident that my imagery is reminiscent of the giving of the Law (Exodus 19-20), and Israel’s response. To be honest, I haven’t worked out what this poem has to do with that historical event, but I sense that they are related. [NB: for “beauty” in the Law, see this article].
Subjects of His Ugliness That may be a little harsh. “His Ugliness” refers to Satan (conversely, “Beauty” refers to Jesus). Am I suggesting that some who claim to be followers of Jesus Christ are actually subjects of Satan? Not necessarily, although it is possible. Even genuine followers of Jesus do sometimes wander off the path. In Matthew’s account, shortly after Peter had acknowledged that Jesus is the Messiah (Matthew 16:16), Jesus had to rebuke him:
But he turned and said to Peter, “Get behind me, Satan! You are a hindrance to me. For you are not setting your mind on the things of God, but on the things of man.”
Matthew 16:23
The Ambiguous Title I’m not really enthusiastic about the title. Maybe I’ll come up with something better. For what it’s worth, “Denying” is ambiguous. It can refer to being intellectually opposed to a proposition, and it can refer to successfully thwarting something. With respect to Jesus’ present reign, both senses of denial are currently in operation to one extent or another. But His coming reign cannot be stopped; it will not be denied! Every knee will bow (Rom. 14:11).
[The background photo of Kirkjufell in Iceland is by Hans Braxmeier on Pixabay (I moved the fire)].
A few years ago, when I went full-time with my web business and suddenly had plenty of time on my hands, I began taking walks around White Rock Lake. Sometimes it was from a parking lot (a 9 miles hike) and sometimes from home (a 12 miles hike). That was the beginning of one of the best periods in my life. Here’s why….
Paying Attention On those long hikes, one of the things I did was pay close attention to how I was responding to people I encountered along the way: “The site of that elderly lady elicited warm feelings. Why? When I saw that young man, I felt disgust. Why? Why am I so ready to love some people, but not others?” Even after years of paying attention to my responses, it’s often still a mystery. But at least I’m a little more attuned to my emotional state now than I was before.
So I Asked Myself…. Yesterday, I walked by the bench in the background photo. Thanks to the habit of paying attention to my emotional state, I knew there was something I feel every time I pass by a person sitting on that bench. Could I put that feeling in words? Here’s what I initially wrote:
Often, when I’m walking at White Rock Lake and find someone sitting on this bench, I wish to sit with them, to share their experience. People taking in the beauty of a place like this are close to God, whether they realize it or not. But usually I just smile and walk on by.
Is it So? What I want to do (sit with them) is something I can report with more confidence than why I want to do so. In the prose explanation and subsequent poem, I connect my desire to a sense that God is somehow involved in the experience. That’s still just a theory of what’s going on in my head and heart. This theory may get support from a book I started into last night: “The Soul of Desire: Discovering the Neuroscience of Longing, Beauty, and Community,” by Curt Thompson.
Why Wistful? It makes me sad that I either cannot or do not always act on my good impulses. To sit and talk with a stranger? There’s nothing wrong with that impulse. But something usually stops me. What?
RELATED POST: “The Man From Valladolid” (based on meeting a fellow just yards from this bench).
There must have been some interesting conditions in the sky over Dallas yesterday. A little after I took this photo of clouds with finger-like extensions, I noticed the formation of mammatus clouds* a little to the East.
So, I wanted to share the photograph, and to confess that I actually looked to where the clouds seemed to be pointing.
Is that silly? I suspect most adults would have looked for where the lines converged just as I did. But only if they haven’t killed off a God-given imagination and sense of the transcendent. We expect nature to communicate something — for very good reasons.
The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork.
Psalm 19:1
Disappointed? So, I didn’t see a rider in the sky. But the conclusion of my little poem is not anti-supernatural. Rather, it’s based on a notion that creation is continually celebrating the pleasure and provision of a good Creator. Are you? Am I?
Related Poem I’m not sure HOW this poem is related, but I thought of it when writing the above: “A Meditation.” Also, see “Voice Lessons.”
*From www.whatisthiscloud.com: “Mammatus clouds are formed the same way cumulus clouds are formed, but in reverse. They are formed by sinking cold air that form pouch-like figures as they’re carried into a warmer layer of air, contrary to the puffs of clouds rising through the convection of warm air.”
The photo in the background of this poem is of two stages in the full life of a thistle. On the right is the bloom that people admire. On the left is something less admired… what the same bloom will look like when it has gone to seed, and the wind begins tearing it apart.
This full life cycle is something I have been observing on my long walks. One late-summer day, I was lamenting that there were no more flowers to photograph. Then, I began looking more closely at the seeds that those flowers had produced. Their shapes, textures, even colors are every bit as fascinating as — and far more promising than — the blooms that preceded. Nowadays, while I enjoy walking with my wife at the Botanical Gardens, there’s something sad there about not seeing this great achievement of flowers: their seed.
Flourishing This poem arises from something I have been considering lately: the nature of flourishing. What does it mean to thrive, to prosper, to flourish? Here’s one hypothesis…. Flourishing is wrongly viewed as a short-term concentration of obvious vitality: the plant in bloom, never gone to seed; a dash, not the trek of a million miles; something exhausted in 80 years… or even less, in a life ‘cut short.’
I recently watched a conversation between Miroslav Volf and David Brooks. A friend had referred me to Volf’s “Joy and Human Flourishing,” in response to my question, “Who does a good job of tracing the concept of ‘flourishing’ through the Bible?” If I understood Brooks correctly, he objected that Volf needs to better account for suffering as a possible component of flourishing. That objection resonates with me.
In the Genesis 1 account, the first organisms are created on day three. Notice the prominence of “seed” in their description:
And God said, ‘Let the earth sprout vegetation, plants yielding seed, and fruit trees bearing fruit in which is their seed, each according to its kind, on the earth.’ And it was so.
Genesis 1:11
We tend to be so fixated on the blossom that we ignore what comes as a result: seed. But it was in reference to “plants yielding seed” that “God saw that it was good.” Who can seriously say that the thistle, gone to seed, then torn and scattered by the wind is not flourishing?
What’s Next? Where I seem to be going with this line of thought is that true flourishing requires eternity.
This poem is a defense of how I often wake up in the morning. My brain starts the day by trying to dress thoughts in presentable words. The thoughts may be silly. They may be as bizarre or disordered as the dreams from which I woke. But I clothe those thoughts with orderly words: poems, if you like.
“Surging Ugliness” is like a sergeant who barks out orders, the duties of the day. He isn’t interested in the silly private’s search for beauty and meaning. I mistakenly thought that “sergeant” was etymologically related to “surging” (my French isn’t that good). Nevertheless, “surging” does suggest the nature of a real conflict, a real battle between ugliness and beauty. We’re easily fooled by which of these combatants is winning. Beauty seems often to be overwhelmed by surging ugliness. It takes careful reconnaissance to find the truth. Sometimes it takes the silliness that I call poetry.
This poem comes out of struggling with what constitutes love for the Creator. Is it only fixation on signs of his return? Will we even recognize his voice then if we cannot recognize it now?
[NOTE: the following may be gobbledygook. Perhaps I’ll wake up early tomorrow morning and do major edits to the post, or even take it offline. That occasionally happens. Let’s just say for now that I’m “thinking out loud.” I’m trying to put words to something I sense more than understand]
Not Just an Expression
Nature expresses the majesty of the Creator. King David spoke of that in Psalm 19:
1 The heavens declare the glory of God; the sky displays his handiwork. 2 Day after day it speaks out; night after night it reveals his greatness. 3 There is no actual speech or word, nor is its voice literally heard. 4 Yet its voice echoes throughout the earth; its words carry to the distant horizon.
Creation and the Creator are not the same thing. That would be pantheism. HOWEVER, let me suggest that creation bears the same relationship to God as the soundwaves of speech bear to the speaker: they are his expression. When a child hears her father say, “I love you,” she doesn’t look around and say, “How curious… sound waves emanated from somewhere and landed in my ears.” If she separates the sound waves from the speaker at all, it’s only to say, “Those sound waves tell me that Daddy loves me.”
Nature expresses the majesty of our loving Father. Perhaps it would be better to say that in creating the universe, our Father spoke to us, He expressed his glory (intelligence, kindness, power, beauty, love), and creation is the “sound waves” of His voice.
Are we impressed by what He has expressed? That’s not an idle question.
“They’re Just Flowers”
Long ago and far away, I accompanied two friends on a long hike. Our path entered and followed an arroyo. At one place the walls of the arroyo were covered with tropical flowers. “How beautiful!” said one friend. I agreed. “They’re just flowers!” said the other friend. To this day, I think of that second friend’s response with pain and sadness. God’s beauty was there speaking to us in those flowers, expressing His powerful love. But the second friend was not impressed. He seemed to make no connection between creation and the Creator, between the expression — the “words” — and the Speaker. For him, it seems, Daddy wasn’t saying “I love you.” It was just flowers, random sound waves from who knows where.
I HAVE NOTICED THAT… In Spring, artists are drawn to Creation.
Commentary
Back when I posted this on Facebook, I wrote, “Please subscribe to my blog, where I give the background of my simple poems like this one, and the more complex ones, the ones even I barely understand!”
“Simple poems like this one,” eh? So it’s over two months later, and I’m getting around to posting this on my blog. How simple was it? Do I remember what I was saying? Well, kinda….
I encountered this artist on Flagpole Hill, and asked her about her technique. Interestingly, she had a lot of dark areas on the canvas, areas whose eventual subject I could SEE, by looking where she was looking: the bright green grass, the shimmering green leaves. These, she began as dark blobs, explaining “I find it easier to start with the darkness as a base, and then apply the lighter colors.”
My poetic response is a reflection on how eternal life has barely begun (“canvas barely stretched”). We don’t understand yet how God will work beauty out of the painful and ugly experiences we now encounter. But we have hope, because we know Him to be a skillful artist.
A Skillful Artist I went home and looked up this artist (she sells in galleries). I like her finished work. What I saw that afternoon on Flagpole Hill was not a finished work. It is fair to say that if this is all I had seen, I might feel foolish admiring her “technique,” such as it is, in this unfinished work.
This poem is a bit of (hopefully) sanctified imagination. Please don’t take it as a theological statement! However, if it fires up some thoughts you’d like to discuss, let’s do so… either privately via my contact form, or more publicly, with the comments form below.
This strange poem is the nightmare I had last night. I *think* it wove two strands: contemplating Acts vis-a-vis evangelical triumphalism (really!), and reflecting on the vulnerability young people have to passions (I’m a father, who once was young).
At Christmas, we often hear a child recite the first 20 verses of Luke, chapter 2. That’s beautiful. But it’s the section immediately following that affects me most deeply. When the child Jesus is presented at the temple, Simeon and Anna recognize that they are witnessing something that will change the course of history. They have both waited a lifetime for the “consolation of Israel,” the “redemption of Jerusalem.” And here He is!
Pages so thin
This is the least emotionally honest of the stanzas. On those rare occasions when I pick up a printed copy of the Bible to read (my go-to is digital text), I can see through the thin pages to printing on the other side. I am not actually moved by BEAUTY when I see that. Rather, what that points to in this stanza is thematic. What all the other stanzas have in common is the anticipation of beauty replacing ugliness. MacDonald said it well: “The end of the Maker’s dream is not this.” I think that anticipation of beauty is what affects me.
Smile that transforms
One day, my son and I were waiting at Sonic for the waitress to bring our order out to the car. As we waited, Jonathan commented, “She doesn’t seem very happy.” I responded, “When she comes out, give her a big smile, and watch what happens.”
She came out, holding our tray of burgers and fries. Jonathan flashed a big smile at her, and her tired old face twisted into a responding smile. After we rolled up the window, I asked Jonathan if he had seen the transformation. He had!
I am looking forward to the smile of God, in the restoration of all things (see “Violets”).
Knowing that vanilla
Last year, I had spent months photographing flowers on my walks. In Autumn, the flowers were spent, and I wondered what was left to photograph. Then I started looking closely at what had become of the flowers. Seeds, of course. And some of the seeds were also beautiful and fascinating. But what really grabbed me was the realization that seeds are not the end of beauty, but its beginning (see “Dawn of Eternity”).
The way my little brother moves
I love to watch young children moving to music. There is one video in particular that comes to mind. I believe it may be a young Malawi boy moving subtly to music. His smile and movement are enchanting. So why “my little brother”? I’m the youngest of my family. I don’t literally have a little brother. Rather, I look forward to a day when barriers are removed and we can fully enjoy the brotherhood of man — with all its cultural diversity and beauty.
The love some have
I have had several exchanges about language with my Ethiopian friend Yohannes. When he points to beautiful speech and ideas expressed in Amharic — a language I do not know — I tell him I’m jealous. His response: “That’s beautiful my friend. It speaks of a lot of good things. The wonderful thing is that one day we shall all understand!”
Simeon in the temple
I wrote above that the accounts of Simeon and Anna in Luke 2 affect me deeply. Here’s how deeply…. Once, I was walking around the lake listening to an audio version of the Bible. When I got to the account of Simeon and Anna, tears started streaming down my face. It was a good thing nobody else was out walking that day. Why was I so moved?
Simeon and Anna were both very old. They would soon die. But this child filled them with hope. Perhaps it was “merely” hope for their people. But you and I know the rest of the story. Thirty-something years hence, Jesus would die a death that will forever put an end to death and ugliness. His Resurrection from the grave demonstrated God’s power and pleasure in restoration. Like all who believe, Simeon and Anna will once again embrace their beautiful Creator.
This is a second attempt to understand beauty as preceeding its so-called production. Although it may seem that I am empasizing the heavy task of the artist, the real point is that the artist is unveiling beauty from the time he or she begins the project. As one who believes that creation is full of beauty put there by God, I am trying to appreciate his role… without diminishing the role of the artist.
Michelangelo said something similar long ago:
The sculpture is already complete within the marble block, before I start my work. It is already there, I just have to chisel away the superfluous material.
Every day, when I lie down for a nap, I listen to beautiful music and try always to think of where beauty was born. This may sound silly to some, but I’m trying to put myself in a place where I can better appreciate beauty. So — brace yourself — I picture myself sitting on the edge of a cliff, looking out over a beautiful creation. The creator himself is sitting next to me. I am listening with him. That’s how I fall asleep.
After several weeks of doing what I just described, I was sitting one evening listening to beautiful music. Suddenly, I had a different perspective: the music struck me as a capturing of the beauties of sound, not their mere production. So I thought of an orchestra:
The strings “pluck it from the air.”
Percussion releases it from drums in all its vigorous exclamations.
Brass and woodwinds kiss it with their lips.
Strings express the tension of pent up beauty with their bows.
And then, the point: God can’t help but express (voice) beauty, and loves to share it with us, his creatures.
Only in the shadow Was the yellow light Sufficiently subdued For us to welcome Beauty unforeseen.
— Brad Hepp, 2/22/2020
There, now I have tied this to the conversation I was having with a friend when I took the photo. We were pondering how weakness and inadequacy may actually be celebrated as part of the suffering that precedes restoration and exaltation in the Divine economy. See James 1:9-18
This poem is about photography AND learning from older people. See the commentary below.
Commentary
The thought in this poem crystalized as I was looking at a friend’s Instagram photos. The friend is not a photographer, just someone who understands and appreciates the great outdoors. I was looking at one of his early-morning mountain scenes. The sky was literally grey and the trees had no green in them. The photographer in me always aches to edit such photos so that they match my ideal of beauty, and I often excuse my own editing as an attempt to make sure the photo depicts the scene as our magnificent human eyes would have seen it. This all assumes or suggests the conceit that I am the expert, that my vision is the standard.
But my photography and poetry are expressions of something far more important: the desire to fully appreciate and reflect the beauty inherent in a world created by God. In this pursuit, I revel in the wisdom that is both longed for — loudly insisted on — by youth and quietly attained in old age.
Perhaps what I wrote on Facebook will clarify:
Here’s a book that needs to be written: “removing THE BARNICLES OF CHRONIA.” I say this partly in jest, partly “en serio.” As I age, and come to important new realizations about life, I think of my older friends. Many have been down this road already, but were not inclined to chronicle the journey. It seems that we could serve others by offering an honest, thankful, hopeful account. Thoughts?
[Edit, 11/8/2019: Last night, I discussed the project above with fellow creative writers. It’s still on my mind. The poem and photograph below ponders the subject by different means.]
By the way, I know the last stanza is difficult. I’m using “prove” in the sense of “testing so as to find what works.” I think that a full appreciation of beauty is attainable. I fancy that is one of the things that God is even now perfecting in His children. But we all have false or incomplete ideas about beauty in its various manifestations (visual, physical, emotional, intellectual, theological, etc.). For instance, I highly suspect that I still have a false idea about the relationship of beauty and suffering: “Suffering is bad, not suffering is good!” How can suffering have anything to do with beauty?
The answer to the question I just posed is one which I suspect people older than I — and some younger than I — understand far better than I currently understand it. The answer surely goes something like this: through suffering, we are prepared for the beauty that is coming. The answer is somewhere in Romans 8. Perhaps in this passage:
16 The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children. 17 Now if we are children, then we are heirs—heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ, if indeed we share in his sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory. 18 I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us. 19 For the creation waits in eager expectation for the children of God to be revealed.
