a digital commonplace book
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
At the end of the day, when I penned this poem, here is what I wrote:
It has been a rough day. Foolishness has overwhelmed wisdom, including in my heart.
I reached out to a couple of wise friends. That helped.
I didn’t reach out to the one who really matters. Duh!
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
I’ve often hit the story of Cain and Abel and thought, “I’m not thinking deeply enough about this!” So here’s a prayer. I hope it isn’t merely “fruit of the ground.”
POSSIBLE HOGWASH
About that “fruit of the ground….” I doubt this, and I honestly haven’t done any study of the matter, but what if it “fruit of the ground” refers to windfall? Have you ever walked by a peach tree or an apple tree and been tempted to pick up a fruit that has fallen to the ground and then chomp into it? No? Me either. That fruit probably isn’t worth much. In any case, SOMETHING about Cain’s offering fell short of “doing what is right.”
As we read the account, notice something astounding: Cain murders his brother even after God has tried to reason with him.
In the course of time Cain brought some of the fruits of the soil as an offering to the Lord. And Abel also brought an offering—fat portions from some of the firstborn of his flock. The Lord looked with favor on Abel and his offering, but on Cain and his offering he did not look with favor. So Cain was very angry, and his face was downcast.
Then the Lord said to Cain, “Why are you angry? Why is your face downcast? If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? But if you do not do what is right, sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must rule over it.”
Now Cain said to his brother Abel, “Let’s go out to the field.” While they were in the field, Cain attacked his brother Abel and killed him.
Genesis 4:3-8 (NIV)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
One of the things I have been gnawing on lately is an observation that Christians sometimes refuse to acknowledge that we are sinners. When some intrepid preacher points out one of our common everyday sins,* some of us go out of our way to marginalize that preacher. It’s ridiculous. My theory is that we wish to hang on to certain sins.
I know some will read this poem and immediately think “Unwholesome!” a la Ephesians 4:29. We need to work on our understanding of that verse. It must surely have to do with the speaker’s (or writer’s) INTENT, be it to build up, correct, benefit… or be it merely to shock, and give the speaker/writer some undeserved attention.
My intent in writing this is for the reader to recognize himself or herself in their unspoken(?) complaint, and then to REFLECT: “Do I ever do what this poem speaks of?”
*Like racism. This is something we all struggle with. But I have seen and heard people claim that’s all in the past. Bologna!
#hypocrisy #sinners #savedbygrace #whenwewereyetsinners #chiefofsinners
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
This is a poem in search of a theodicy. It asks, “How is God good if only a small percentage of the men and women he created are to be saved from destruction?”
Let me put that more personally…
This poem is an actual prayer. I want God, the Potter, to answer. I trust his goodness, but I wish for him to verify that his goodness is displayed even in pots being made for destruction.
A LITTLE BACKGROUND
The word “throw” is used in two senses in the first stanza. In line two, “throw” is used in a way that is unique to pottery; to “throw” pottery is the historical equivalent of “turning” pottery. Here’s a site that explains the etymology (https://www.lakesidepottery.com/HTML%20Text/Tips/why_is_it_calles_throwing.htm).
The second sense of “throw” (line three) is captured by its synonym in the last stanza: to toss, meaning to discard.
(background image by Satchuset Raungdessuwon on Pixabay)
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
This is one of those poems that seemed pretty good in the morning, but not so good later in the day. Oh well. I think its goodness–if any–is felt most keenly when you’re seriously contemplating the long wait for Jesus’ return. Below is what I wrote when I had just penned the poem:
In my crawl through Acts, I got to chapter 14. Here, Luke surprised me with one of his occasional references to Jesus’ direct participation in the “Acts of the Apostles.” The fact that I registered surprise got me thinking about this long period now where we’re waiting for Jesus’ return. How are we to think of his seeming absence? I know the usual answer; is there more?
Please notice something…. I don’t usually capitalize “divine pronouns.” In this poem, it seemed useful for exploring relationships.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
The idea behind this poem still needs a lot of work. In the meantime, maybe it will make sense to you and even resonate….
When I was young, I sometimes dreamed of being a mountaineering guide. And I had definite ideas about how kind and understanding a guide should be to the slowest and weakest of his clients.
Just now, I had a vision (not literal, but almost so) of myself as that slowest and weakest one on the trail. Is there comfort in my perception of the Good Guide?
The trail is real, and physical, and hard. But there is a reality just out of sight, a realm of rest and realization. It parallels the trail, but is permanent, and more real than the trail. The Good Guide will transfer me to that realm at the perfect time. Not too soon, and not too late.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
By the end of his long life as a theologian, my father had concluded–like John Stott–that the Bible teaches what’s called “conditional immortality.” The comforting implication of conditional immortality is that men and women who do not accept God’s offer of salvation may suffer briefly at the Resurrection, but will not suffer for all Eternity. If you ask me, I’ll point you to his paper on the subject. I know how committed Dad was to the authority of Scripture, and to being intellectually honest. His paper on the subject is worth considering.
What Dad could not arrive at is Universalism–the eventual salvation of ALL people. That’s a position I and more than one of my best friends wish we could honestly arrive at. It’s what one of my main heroes in the faith, George MacDonald espoused.
This poem is an actual prayer. I have learned that poems in the form of prayer are read by God, if by nobody else. He knows how I struggle with this doctrine!
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
I cannot comment too much on this poem, except to say that it expresses a curious, abiding concern for someone I observe but don’t really know. I have no basis to intervene, but I’m free to pray. God knows what to do.
#prayer #vulnerable #godfather
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
[This title is a combination of Greek erēmō (ἐρήμῳ, meaning wilderness, desert) and “hermeneutics” (the art and science of interpretation, especially of the Bible).]
These days I’m doing a lot of puzzling about the relationship of words and events in the lives of Moses, John the Baptist, and Jesus. Consider how the following words figure in the announcement of Moses’ and Jesus’ ministries: wilderness, voice, fire, sandal. Add in the fact that Jews were looking for a fulfillment of Moses’ promise that “The Lord your God will raise up for you a prophet like me from among you, from your brothers—it is to him you shall listen” (Deut. 18:15). They were bound to be looking for similarities between Moses and Jesus.
My 21st century brain wants to nail down logical, definite relationships between the men and their stories. But is that even appropriate? Is it possible that 1st century Jews were content with an unanalyzed, but harmonious gumbo of coincidence?
Please understand that the previous paragraph is not a denigration of biblical characters and writers. It’s simply that I want to really understand how they thought.
Bible students are taught “don’t make parables walk on all fours.” In other words, don’t assume that every aspect of a parable represents something in reality. But we’re tempted to ignore the advice. We get to the parable about the Rich Man and Lazarus, and we want to use that parable to map out Heaven, Hell, and eternal destiny. We need to be careful.
So, my last paragraph is a respectful pondering of the possibility that commonplace wisdom about interpreting parables may extend to interpreting other biblical forms.
(background image by Kordula Vahle on Pixabay)
#hermeneutics #johnthebaptist #moses #jesus #fire #burningbush #wilderness #voice
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
I initially wrote this about the gift of poetic expression. But as soon as I had called that “joy,” I realized that what I was writing applies to all of us who have been gifted in some way by God. Each person can work out how his or her gift can be an expression of God’s loving intent.
(if you are viewing this via email, the website has a recording of this poem and commentary; click the title above)
In some ways, this is the prayer of my life. Once, long ago, I told a teacher and friend, “There’s little I feel compelled to say.” With age, that is changing. Considering how much I have learned about the need for reformation in my life, it’s a good thing I was taciturn in my youth!
By the way, this is coming to be one of my favorite poems–in case anyone ever wonders….
(background image by WikiImages from Pixabay)
#taciturn #loquacious #folly #wisdom #youth #oldage
Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So, when he heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was.
John 11:5-6 ESV
This morning, my crawl through John got me to chapter eleven. If it has been a while since you read that chapter, I urge you to read it now. You’ll realize that Jesus was about 20 miles (a good day’s walk) from Lazarus, and his sisters. That raises the question: why did Jesus stay where he was after being told that Lazarus was sick? John’s word choice is curious. He writes, “So he stayed two days longer.” You or I might have written “But he stayed two days longer.”
What I’m beginning to explore in this poem is the relationship between Jesus’ love for Lazarus and his staying away when he was summoned by Lazarus’ sisters. The question is an old one: “How does a loving God let his creation suffer?”
You’ll see that most of my poem is pure speculation, call it sanctified imagination. What was Lazarus experiencing as he neared death? What was actually happening?
I think I know where part two will land:
On the shore of glory and love
(then we’ll understand)
There’s an odd little passage in John’s account of Jesus walking on the water the night after he had fed the five thousand:
But he said to them, “It is I; don’t be afraid.” Then they were willing to take him into the boat, and immediately the boat reached the shore where they were heading.
John 6:20-21 NIV
They were willing!? That’s the translation in the NASB and NIV. I immediately ask myself, “Why would they not be willing?” The Greek verb is θελο (thelo), and some translations render that in this passage as “wanted” (NET), or “were glad” (ESV). Those translations may be correct. But I have to wonder if John could be subtly suggesting something that was at issue in the disciples’ response to their teacher: their willingness to accept the unfolding of events on his terms.
THIS IS A STRETCH, I know, but follow me for how I get to my devotional response in the poem….
After feeding the five thousand, Jesus had “wandered” off to avoid a power-hungry crowd. The disciples took off rowing across the lake without Jesus. I think that’s odd. Were they ticked off at him? Now, they were struggling on choppy waters. Is it possible that they were having second thoughts about their teacher? Is it possible that they were just barely “willing” to take him on board given their doubts about his plans?
Maybe I notice that possibility because I myself question Jesus’ plans in my life.
Thus the poem.
Another Thought
John is deep. But I doubt he’s introducing any depth that wasn’t there already in Jesus. That’s part of what prompted this poem. Jesus wasn’t merely responding to circumstances in the disciples’ lives. He was orchestrating events, using his full “vocabulary” of metaphors to drive home truth. It was no accident that the sea was thrashing on that night.
(background adapted from an image by Roberto Barresi on Pixabay)
I don’t think I’ve ever written a poem that stirred up as much emotion as this one stirs up in me. Today, I began reading a book* about a theologian who wrote extensively about beauty. This is a subject whose extreme importance I sense but cannot intellectually grasp. I thought maybe an introduction to Hans Urs Von Balthasar would help. So far, this book only serves to remind me once again how far my reach exceeds my grasp. I want to understand something essential in God, but the mind he has given me is insufficient for the task.
On the flip side of that frustration, there is this: Our beautiful Savior imprisoned himself in our limitations for a time in order to remove the worst of those limitations forever.
*The Cambridge Companion to Hans Urs Von Balthasar. It looks like I may have better luck with another book once I get my hands on a copy: A Key to Balthasar: Hans Urs von Balthasar on Beauty, Goodness, and Truth by Aidan OP Nichols
(background image by StockSnap on Pixabay)
In my crawl through Luke, I got to chapter eleven today. Jesus’ disciples seem a little concerned that they might miss out on God’s blessing if they don’t have the right technique. They say to Jesus, “Lord, teach us to pray, like John taught his disciples.” We sometimes concentrate on the components of “the prayer” that Jesus taught them, but the bigger point (as seen in the illustrations Jesus follows up with) seems to be, “God is good; just do it!”
(background image by “congerdesign” on Pixabay)
Seriousness, kindness, and criticism. These are currents I negotiate in my daily swim.
Always swim with a buddy.
Here’s how I explained this poem to an old friend: “Who you’re becoming matters for all eternity, so I will spend time and effort on our friendship now.” That’s the perspective I want to fully embrace.
Here’s the occasion for this poem…. I woke up in the middle of my night to a son coming home from a miserable shift bedeviled by a horrible manager. In my sadness for him, and my anger at the manager, I could not get back to sleep. So why “Listen Longer”? Deep down I know the Good Teacher never stops teaching.
When I wrote this, I was working through Luke 12. The returning master in Jesus’ parable wants to serve his servants, and is angered when his servants respond with selfishness, looking out for themselves and not each other. I begin to understand the master’s anger.
Also, the song that had been playing in my head is “Why It Matters” by Sara Groves: https://youtu.be/D32dlKv2x38
Here are the lyrics of that song:
Sit with me and tell me once again
Of the story that’s been told us
Of the power that will hold us
Of the beauty, of the beauty
Why it matters
Speak to me until I understand
Why our thinking and creating
Why our efforts of narrating
About the beauty, of the beauty
And why it matters
Like the statue in the park
Of this war torn town
And it’s protest of the darkness
And the chaos all around
With its beauty, how it matters
How it matters
Show me the love that never fails
The compassion and attention
Midst confusion and dissension
Like small ramparts for the soul
How it matters
Like a single cup of water
How it matters
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 was one of those middle-of-the-night poems that I felt compelled to write AND publish when I should have been sleeping. So, I woke up this morning and looked at my phone with a little bit of fear. “What did I write last night?”
Was I drunk when I wrote this poem? No. In fact, my thinking was remarkably clear. Last night, I had just seen someone’s Facebook post in which they revealed how worked up they are about politics in the United States. I thought, “Yeah, I used to get worked up about that….” Then I confessed to myself that for all my equanimity regarding politics, I still do get worked up. My irritation at politicians has been replaced with irritation at people who care about politicians. This is not much of an improvement!
In a moment of clarity, I visualized a coming time when the equanimity I now feel toward politicians will extend to people who get worked up about politicians. I sat up in bed and jotted down this convoluted thought, which had to be worked out in other, better words:
Will I someday care as little
the convoluted beginning of a poem
That YOU care now so much
About the things for which
I now no longer care?
Irritableness & My Efforts
Irritableness (irritability?) is a trait I have lived with far too long. I’m working on it. I think about it. I read about it. New understanding comes by way of counseling and books. New concepts fill my mind: “attachment theory,” “affect regulation,” “interpersonal neuro-biology.”
Here’s what I expect to happen, based on past experience…. The Holy Spirit will take all my efforts, grind them into a powder, and sprinkle a dash of them in his delicious, surprising feast of provision. God made me with my penchant for problem-solving. He honors it, but not without poking fun at my self-reliance.
extradite this passion
In case the above background didn’t open up the poem for you, here it is in plain words: Just as a nation, or an embassy, gets tired of harboring someone who is wanted as a criminal by some other nation, I am tired of harboring passions that God would be more than glad to take off my hands. There are better things to do with my remaining energy in my remaining years, things that will make a difference forever.
Revolution
That’s a strong word. It describes a thorough change. That’s what I desire.
I’m not very good at understanding poetry (feel free to join me in laughing at this ironic weakness). But I’ll give this one a try….
I woke up early this morning, my mind churning about what seem to be intractable problems. I say “churning.” It was not productive thought. It seemed that no matter how hard I tried, I could not state the problems in a way that would suggest solutions. I was flailing: “falling… failing.”
Falling, Failing… Filling
The pictures in my mind as I wrote the first two lines were first of a man falling off a cliff, crying out indistinctly; and second, of a man trapped and dying (failing) in a pitch-black cave, blindly scratching words on the cave wall. In both cases, the words seem to be of no use.
But words are sometimes more useful than they seem. In the writing of this poem, the words “falling” and “failing” led my little poet brain to another gerund: “filling.” Call it serendipity; I call it poetry: following words where they lead. Try as I may to be intentional, sometimes I’m just accidental.
So… “filling.” There was no distance between landing on that word and landing on the phrase “filling in the blanks.” And who could fill in the blanks? Who knows me through and through? Who knows the end from the beginning? God, of course.
Sometimes we simply don’t know what to ask of God. That’s when we’d do well to remember something that’s probably happening more of the time than we realize:
Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.
Romans 8:26
“Until we meet again”
This line may disturb the reader. It’s trite, something we’d say to a mere fellow human. But it gave me great comfort to write the words. God doesn’t require our undivided attention. He generously works in our behalf while we go about our day, and even while we sleep at night:
Unless the Lord builds the house, the builders labor in vain. Unless the Lord watches over the city, the guards stand watch in vain. In vain you rise early and stay up late, toiling for food to eat—for he grants sleep to those he loves.
Psalm 127:1-2
Writing a Psalm, Day One
Since we can finish reading most Psalms in a matter of minutes, it’s tempting to imagine that the Psalmist went through the experience he describes in the same short amount of time. But it seems more likely to me that the Psalms are a record of what happened over several days, or even months. The first few verses of a given Psalm may describe what the Psalmist was struggling with in summer. The last few verses may describe the joyful resolution that came in autumn.
My intractable problems? Perhaps they’ll be solved tomorrow, or next week, or next month. Then I can finish the Psalm.
Let me try to recap this in one sentence: Instrospection and merely thinking about doing right don’t bring about the purpose for which God created us.
“Lifeless Field” and “baser part”
Prisoners on death row are sometimes spoken of as “dead men walking.” They’re still alive, but they’re headed for death. Because of our belief in Resurrection of the body and of “progressive sanctification,” we Christians could refer to ourselves as “resurrected men walking.” Jesus isn’t through removing deadwood, cultivating the otherwise sterile soil of our hearts just yet. For now, we’re still partly dead, but we’re headed for thorough life, especially when we experience the Resurrection that Jesus experienced after His crucifixion.
Counseling
These days, I’m working with a counselor to help me understand why I have been an irritable man most of my adult life. The work I’m doing now could be compared to using a spade to turn over the dead parts of my life: my disordered affections and stupid coping mechanisms. The aim is to replace irritability with joy and equanimity.
But if I were of the opinion that merely THINKING about what needs to change, or “getting my head on straight” would effect the desired change (“the fruit”), I’d be mistaken. Only God can breathe life into dust and bring it to life.
My counselor has twice suggested something that would really turn away a person who doesn’t believe in God’s active work in our lives. He has said that God seems to have arranged human relationships in such a way that all our attempts at peace and reconciliation lead us to the realization that OUR ATTEMPTS won’t work. We need God. We need the Holy Spirit. We need His intervention and His life-giving work in our lives. At least that’s how I’m understanding the counselor at this point. In one sense, I’m paying the counselor to help me understand that counseling alone is worthless.
“Fig tree leaf so very large”
I’m an elder in my church. It’s a position of esteem and responsibility. It suggests that I am spiritually mature. If I were compared to a tree, one might say that I SEEM to be healthy. But appearance isn’t everything. Who am I really blessing? Who do I comfort? Who do I inspire? Who do I correct? What do people learn about Jesus by looking at my behavior? Just yesterday, I asked one of our deacons to pray for me: “Pray that I’ll actually spend time with people.” No amount of merely thinking right and diligence in administrative work will achieve what God intends for me to achieve: the fruit of being/looking more like Jesus and helping others to do the same.
And then, of course, there’s my family… my wife and boys. Am I blessing them? Or do the dead parts of me — my baser parts — just bring misery to them? Thankfully, they’re walking together with me in this journey.
(background image by Schwoaze on Pixabay)
I began the day thinking of how we sometimes respond with “Meh” when “Wow!” would be more fitting. A long walk confirmed the “Wow!” response.
I covered what used to be the walkway leading up to the glass door and windows of my office with moss. It’s a far more pleasant vista when I’m working than the concrete walkway ever used to be. Along with the moss that I “liberated” from stream banks, there’s a mass of wild violets, also “liberated” from vacant fields. Finally, there’s an area where wheat grass will soon be sprouting for our cat.
Invariably, my transplants bring in some weeds and even fungus. Last year, I watched what would happen if I left a big puffball mushroom to “do its thing.” Its “thing” turned out to be killing a section of the moss. So this year, I’m being diligent about removing fungus as soon as I notice it growing in amongst the moss.
WITCHES’ BUTTER
One annoying invader is a small black, gelatinous fungus that really seems to enjoy the moist environment. If you look real close in the background image for the poem, you may be able to see some that remains after I spent 20 minutes picking it out this morning. If I’m not confusing it with another fungus, it goes by the names “Black Jelly Roll Fungus” and “Witches’ Butter.” Yuck! I like my butter yellow, not black.
PRAYER
So, while picking out that fungus, my mind turned to invaders that have destroyed the lives of family and friends. Initially, what came to mind was cancers: brain cancer, bone cancer, etc. I prayed for friends who are still fighting this battle. But then, my mind turned to other invaders, like hatred and bitterness. Other acquaintances came to mind, and I prayed for them.
Prayer is an increasingly important part of my life. Soon after I became an elder in my church, it began to dawn on me that I will somehow be held accountable for the spiritual health of people in my care. In that day, I want to be able at least to say, “Lord, I asked for your intervention. There was far more than I could handle.”
Have confidence in your leaders and submit to their authority, because they keep watch over you as those who must give an account. Do this so that their work will be a joy, not a burden, for that would be of no benefit to you.
Hebrews 13:17
P.S. The dime was there in the photo initially because I was trying to identify the fungus, and I needed it for scale. Then, when I wrote the poem, I realized that the dime could be left in the photo… it reinforces the smallness of the plot. If I think long enough, I may realize there was some other, subconscious reason for leaving it in there. I hate to admit it, but I don’t always KNOW what I’m saying or why!
A friend gave me grape vines that initially seemed to be doing well. I saw many buds, even healthy growth. And then they all died. Increasingly, I understand: Pray. The only real, long-term failure is ignoring our Father in Heaven.
I think the essence of poetry (at least my poetry) is compression with the goal of transformation.
In all my thinking, I try to get at the nub of things, to analyze and then articulate what I find as simply, honestly, and artfully as I can.
Diamonds and Lemonade
When the thinking is introspective, my hope is that what I find will be something I am willing and able to submit to God for transformation. He’s in that process; I want to cooperate with Him… to the very end. Think of a sinful man being transformed to be like Jesus where this poem refers to the lump of coal. An old myth says that diamonds come from highly compressed coal.
Stepping back one thought…. One of the my character qualities seriously in need of transformation is kindness. Think of that where I refer to “sugar cane” in this poem. I regularly pray that God will sweeten my other attributes with kindness.
NOTE: I had Susan take this picture of me as I sat in the conservatory of the Blue Fern Inn where we were staying in Tahlequah when we were up there to bury Susan’s Mom.
I wrote this partly in response to Mary’s wise and beautiful poem in Luke 1:46-55.
The subject of POWER has been much on my mind, in part because I have been reading Robert Greene’s entertaining but amoral “The 48 Laws of Power.”
I have been thinking about how God-fearers should relate to power. Of all God’s attributes that we can and should reflect, since He made us in His image, this seems to be one of the most dangerous.
[NOTE: I was very intentional with my punctuation, even in introducing ambiguity to the title]
Last night, instead of sleeping, my mind was aswirl with thoughts of trees, vines, fruitfulness, and the relationship of these to imago dei. Too often, I have stopped at noting the object (e.g., the persistent tree) without noting its purpose: fruitfulness, provision, generosity like that of the Creator.
“Be fruitful.” “He is like a tree… that yields its fruit.” “Also, on either side of the river, the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit each month. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.”
I’m not sure if Mom ever actually wrote poetry. She definitely was a terrific story teller, which hundreds of now grown-up kids can confirm. And she wrote tight accounts of her childhood, and of God’s remarkable provision for our family over several generations. She was skilled at oil painting, and flowers were always happy to grow for her.
The reference to a “dying perfectionist” is self-referential. I usually refer to myself as a “recovering perfectionist.” It’s a gift and curse I inherited more from Dad. He and I enjoyed discussing Robert Browning’s difficult “Rabbi Ben Ezra.” We never discussed the kind of loose-form poetry that I write. Would he approve? I’m not sure….
Back to Mom. She was an artist. Truly. I grew up understanding that she had a gift I will never possess (although she, like other artists would insist that I could possess it, if only I tried).
My work on poetry has been an attempt to reach honestly into my heart, and then to express clearly what ugliness and beauty that I find. Bacon grease, milk, flour, salt and pepper…. Stir, but not too much. The gravy emerges, slightly different each time, but always a perfect complement to homemade bisquits.
Speaking of which…. Where are the bisquits?
Distillation of a dream that just had me. [MORNING EDIT: Every time I wake up in the middle of the night and post something that just occurred to me, I wake up the next day and semi-regret it. My 2 am thoughts are weird(er) than usual. Perhaps Ezekiel felt that way!]
I may only have two friends old enough to understand this…. In my midnight dream, I pictured myself as what one would see through the viewfinder of an old rangefinder camera. Ideally, the photographer would twist the focusing barrel until a sharp image and its ghostly double were perfectly aligned. But in my dream, the split images remained separate—out of focus. Such is the dream of an old photographer-poet.
“Sigh to…” Think “Try to…” but with the frustration of someone unable to change himself. However, “Good Lord!” is said in both exasperation (lament) and hope. He IS “bringing many sons to glory.”
Haiku written by 7th-grade Bradley:
Pray little mantis
Lift your hands unto the sky
Your creator praise
