Consider my friend, consider the truths upon which my feet are planted. I smiled and said to her that’s a pretty bold opening line. And she tilted her head and looked into my eyes and said I know but it’s because I care for you. And not in a melodramatic sappy way or the way in which you might write poetry and ask me to be your valentine. I care for your eternal soul and so of course I’m going to be dramatic yet no less than true. I come to tell you about the truth in which I believe and have my whole life bound up with because I want you to know this same truth too. But ok I answered I know you’re a Christian and I understand that you have these beliefs in the God who you said saved your soul. But even so it’s just a religion for all that and though I’m glad for you what does this have to do with me? When I’m a person who is just as – or nearly – as good as you and I think deserve a good life too. See that’s the problem she whispered now, her eyes glittering in predestined passion. What do we deserve when all is said and done? What do we deserve when our lives go down with setting sun and smile turns to frown as our bodies morph to dust and ash and our souls cry aloud? Why don’t say hell or any such ridiculous fundamental scare tactic I rolled my eyes as I sounded this rather impressive rhetorical line upon her. You land before me upon the shore she says yes you preempt my lines. All I’m trying to say is that I believe in a God divine a God who made us and who when all is said and done owns us for it is for him for who our lives were devised. And how have we answered him at the end of all things? We spit in his face and say our lives are ours and we shall surely keep them. And he says of course and grants us our way and so we toss the chain more firmly over our own shoulders and we self satisfied proceed on as slaves ending up where we’ve said we most want to be. We end up alone and on our own and apart from God forever. For we have declared we want no part of our Maker. And we end up exactly where we deserve – parted from God forever. Is that what you want? Well maybe I reply a bit abashed at the fervor of her answer. But is this what Christianity is? A bully God bullying me to want to be with Him like some psycho girlfriend? Why would I want to be with a sadistic all powerful being that can’t even condescend to just understand where I’m coming from and treat with me on my level? Wow ok. She almost laughed but instead eyes wide replied. There’s some really profound questions there and I begin to think God is working in you even now drawing you closer to him. How do I answer? Well perhaps consider if there is a God – what do you know about him? Instead of assuming him a monster, what if you think of Him as the pinnacle of infinity and the bearer of attributes that proclaim him more perfect and beautiful than your mind can dare to grasp? And what if he knows that’s what’s best for you is to be in relationship with this God and to be his child? Perhaps he knows there is nothing better than to know and be known by God. And so of course he asks you to come. And perhaps consider that in his desire to call us all to him he knows that we cannot in our weakness and frailty consider the immensity of God and so instead he does condescend to us and does treat us on our level and in fact God steps down and makes himself as one of us to show his love? And in this love he asks that you simply come to him and acknowledge who he is and acknowledge who you are and in this knowledge of yourself and reaching knowledge of who he is you bow before his divine majesty and say i’m not enough. You are. For who is this one who condescends? You know who I’m about to say. Yes I know I answer finally, my cheeks flushed a bit as my world starts to shake between the still settling eternal aftershocks. You’re going to say Jesus. Are you not? And she nods and bites her lip and says yes. Jesus. He is the Son of God and God Himself and is the one who came to condescend and offer to you his hand. But first he hung on a cross and was pierced and bled and died and then yes as you’ve heard – he rose again! The Lord of glory walked this earth as man and did it so that you might know God true. And if you bow and kneel and say Lord forgive me, I’m a sinner and I believe in you then life life everlasting is yours and not life apart but life with God for true. Come my friend. Come to know the truth. For what is truth? Jesus Christ the Lord God made flesh the one who died for you.
Tag: writing
Rhymes in Red
I walked up to the solitary tree and lifted my hand up high. Even with all my effort, my fingers came a little shy of the apple that I craved. Yet what did I answer back when my friend asked me if I was giving up? Not yet I shouted. Not yet! Instead I stretched my toes and wavered higher and bit my lip as I focused my eyes on the prize. Yet with all that I was barely closer. Perhaps two inches, perhaps a foot. I’m really not that good at judging distances I said. And there we come to my problem, my greedy eyes and my foolish pride and that auburn fruit that taunted me that I would not give up for all the world though its riches offered. So I leaped again and still yet I seemed no nearer. What is this madness I muttered to myself. And my friend she offered a hint less than helpful. Something like try harder although possibly in language more of poetry than prose. And I laughed and told her that she might have a go herself if she thought she’d do better. She walked over and gave me a quick hug and then glared at the apple with all the fierceness her brown eyes could muster. And what do you know but that the apple quailed before her and with barely a whisper of a breeze the bough dipped and bounced once and twice and the third time her hand closed upon it and pulled firmly. In astonishment I looked at the fruit within her hand. What devilry is this I whispered. Nothing to do with devils she smiled. More of angels I should say. But how? I tried and tried and tried. I gave it all my effort! And there you go she said her eyebrow quirking in that amused fashion she has. With this tree your effort will avail you not. Instead you must simply look and plead. And see? She lifted up the apple to her lips and took a bite. This fruit tastes good. It tastes old and new all at once as if it was the fruit all other fruit wishes it could be. It’s the original model and yet untainted. Taste and see.
Correspondence
Hello, dear one. I write this now from the back of the wardrobe, hoping somehow it gets to you. You may wonder at the strange paper and perhaps what pen produces ink such as this. Well those are the lesser of the questions you should be asking. Firstly – how did it come to this? Bare three days ago we parted under the oak trees ringing the far field. I left you with a promise and you left me with a kiss. Do you remember the golden light that afternoon as the sun slowly bent down to the earth? In the moment it felt momentous and it felt as if the sun knew it too. And so she curtsied to us two and bathed us with the golden light from her beaming face. And through the rays I looked and saw a rainbow forming in the corners of your eyes. For yes even with my words you could not bring yourself to lie to me that you were happy and I don’t care I said. It’s ok my love to cry. Now I walk under stranger trees and stranger skies and I wonder if we’ll ever meet again. I write this in the hopes that your eyes will brush these papers with the dark fire that blazes forth when your emotions are roused. Please my love forgive me for my tardiness. I’ll forgive you your doubts. For now for certain this has gone far beyond the little matter that we thought it was those three days ago. Or was it four? I can’t be certain anymore. Still please pray for me. I need it, oh I need it. I wish I could say I’ll be with you tomorrow and that we could picnic on the porch. I’d delight to share a few sandwiches with you and some cold iced tea and perhaps a few strawberries. Yet I can’t think on that too much. My focus is demanded here, even writing this taxes me as I let my thoughts drift to kinder climes. Pray for me my love. Always yours.
Monologue
Isn’t it glorious to let your words run away with themselves and craft a tale of which even you aren’t certain of the denouement? Far too often do I do this I confess to the surprise of no one whatsoever. Once in a while – even under that proverbial blue moon – I actually have a plan and execute or at least more or less. Yet that is rare and often it is only because I’m composing as I’m driving down the roadside and alas have no time to stop and pen my lines. Thus it turns out that I allow myself the severe mercy of crafting a through line in my head before all the little lovely turns of phrase and details get put down. Then I know where I’m going and there I know where I must end. But even that is fine for the best parts are those lines that crop up like Athena full formed and sing so sweetly that their harmonies are the only ones that get commented on by those who read. Ah for the graces to be bestowed more liberally that I might more often produce some such that even I dare marvel at from whence it came. Yet can I take credit – of certain not – for I know my origin and that I’m yet created so my so-called creation can only be attributed to the greater composer who writes all tunes. Still yet that means an earthen vessel can be gazed upon and recognized as something beautiful in and of itself even if the potter is not at that time credited. True? I wonder yes I wonder and am in humble awe that once in a great while my pen scribbles something almost great. I am not worthy no not worthy I to my God proclaim. For now I sit upon this couch and lean back against the pillow and with the fevered intensity that comes with blazing dreams of glory say – fall back and sit and sigh and rest and take in the little moments of beauty that once upon a time fall upon your eyes. Slow down and realize that these moments that point to greater glory are all around us yes even now look for the cracks in this world that point to eternity and cry for dreams of glory that beg us to consider from whence they come.
Anticipation Speaks
A warm Tuesday evening here. I have a few minutes, so supposed I would fill the time by writing a few words on my latest book! Fair warning – it wasn’t a book I loved so I think my thoughts shall be fairly brief. I think.
40. Hotel du Lac by Anita Brookner. Oddly enough, reading this book made me feel distinctly less enthused about vacationing in Switzerland, regardless of the fact that it’s set in a lakeside hotel that presumably people go to enjoy themselves. And yet. That’s part of the thrust of this book, no matter that you may be visiting a charming location – you still very much come with your own baggage, corporeal and non. And the jury is still out if this hotel and its lake and its surroundings are actually charming. The author does good work here of making this lakeside retreat moody, dreamy and even a bit musty at times. It is not meant to be a happy story about a vacation, especially when the main character – one Edith – is not exactly at this hotel of her own free will. There are factors. Of which – of course – we shall discover over the course of this one, so I shall not divulge all. I don’t think I actually liked this book because I didn’t exactly like the main character. I suppose that’s admirable of course, to be able to write a main character is both sympathetic and unlikeable, but can I say I enjoyed the experience? Even the quite competent writing and sweeps of descriptive prose did little to sway my thoughts. Instead, I found my time in this book a bit claustrophobic, even overwhelming at times. Which now gives me pause as I wonder if that is an intentional device on the part of the author or if I just felt a bit removed from the drama of it all. The character work is brilliant and by far the best part of this book is discovering all the backgrounds and little secrets of the other residents in the hotel. Fascinating stories could be written about each of the other characters – the Puseys! Monica (woman with the dog)! Mme de Bonneuil! Mr. Neville! (Wait, no. No one wants his story) and I admire the fact that the author made them all feel so real – almost more real than Edith at times. Again though…is that not intentional? I hesitate to talk too much of the main themes of this work as it is very much a look at questions regarding a woman’s place in the world and the expectations and societal pressures working upon her. While there are of certainty male characters in this book, firstly none of them are exactly stand-up. Secondly, this is not a book about men. Rather, it’s a book about women (well, English well-to-do women) and engaged in very much prodding at the fabric of society that has led them to this little hotel on the lake. My experiences lead me to hesitation to speak further. I shall at least say that I didn’t find this book a warm one, but I daresay it’s not intended to be.
Last Train from the Northern Isles
Flowers upon the table and a song upon the lips. What shall I say now when I see you looking at me? How did it come to this? Across the room our eyes slowly lock and in that meeting there is a communion deeper than words can tell. For sure there is a history there but also a future that is so richly signified by this moment in which we linger now. I wonder if you see the colours in the flowers and recognize in them the vibrancy that sings of life. I think you do for I still remember when you saw them the sparkles in your eyes. And so of course it happens that our words tangle a bit now and then as words are wont to do. Yet still at the end we pull the threads by opposite ends and tell each other exactly the signification of what we were meaning to. Do you see the candles flickering even now? I walk to the kitchen and stir the bolognese and add just a bit more salt. Almost ready I say to you and I lean around the corner and we share a smile. Here’s to the moments passing that tick on the clock that it cannot quite memorialize. So instead I sit here and write and hope to God that he holds us close even as we look to the western skies. At some points it’s true that our lights will waver and we will dance once more across the kitchen floor. When that happens please do me a favor and remind me of the truths that I so often write in prose. Here it comes and there it withers, so quick does the summertime grass grow. For once I hold my tongue and let the stanzas whirl through the violet twilight and in the moment still I hold my breath. This life I scorn as I look to the promise of what it means to be newborn and I shiver as I await my rest.
Ripples
A lovely evening to let my fingers play across the keys and imagine I hear the music. Perhaps faintly it is there, floating in the air on the other side of the pond. Do you hear it? I wish I could. Instead I sit here at the edge of the dock and wait for the first rays of moonlight. I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad thing to hear the voice of another, especially when now all I can hear are the recriminations playing on repeat. Maybe in a few minutes she’ll walk down and join me, even if it is a bit chilly this night. And we’ll talk about the things that stir the surface waters and she’ll give me a smile or two. And then if we feel like it the moment will grow wistful and I’ll gaze across the waters and then she will join and do the same. The times when we both in tandem look across the lake are the times when our minds tend to be most in sync and so then she (or I) will bring up the subject that is a bit further down yet no less potentially painful because of the depth at which it sits. It’s far too long since we’ve had a frank heart to heart, and maybe that’s the reason for the distances that now lingers between us in moments such as this. Oh come down my love and join me at the end of the dock. Let’s sit under moonlight and stars and share our deepest heartaches and linger in the intimacies in being truly known by the other. I will open up myself to you – will you not do the same? Listen to the piano and the sound the fingers make sweetly dancing hither and yon. I hear the music now and yes the footsteps nearing.
Trials
sometimes i wish my pen didn’t run out of ink
just when inspiration strikes
and i finally have something to say
alas more common my pen sloshes full
and in morbid fascination
i fill the pages with lines
no one cares to read
not even me
Remember Fall
A few book reviews this Saturday afternoon.
33. Gentle and Lowly by Dane Ortlund. An encouraging and wonderful book meditating on the heart of Christ and the wonderful mercies of God towards those sinners who he calls into communion with himself. There are many thoughts I have on this one. In some ways, it is a very simple book, focusing on the unique bent of God’s heart towards compassion and mercy (particularly brought to light in the chapter on God’s natural work of mercy and his strange work of wrath). In other ways, this book is quite a difficult one to read and understand, precisely because it is a book seeking to dig deep into the nature of God and to comprehend his attributes and very heart. And God is God. And we are not God. And to fully and completely understand God is beyond us. Hence there are times when my mind fuzzed as I sought to grasp the realities of God the author was attempting to unveil. And there are times when I was slightly wary of some of the concepts laid forth, especially as I was worried that a focus on the “gentle and lowly” nature of Christ’s heart would undermine the divine simplicity of God. I still fear I am not quite intellectually equipped to grasp all that I read. Yet? This book was wonderful at pointing towards Scripture (and other authors) and what they reveal about the nature of God. I simply loved all the authors (predominately Puritans – and Jonathan Edwards!) quoted and I will confess that probably most of my favourite parts of this book was reading these quotes. The author did do a good job of pulling these quotes into a cohesive whole and bringing to my mind thoughts about God that aided in my understanding and worship of Him!
I will need to read this one again. It is one of those uniquely wonderful books that combines both devotional thought and deep theological study. The chapters are short enough that one can read one in a few minutes and spend time meditating on what has been read. Yet there is enough deep theology packed within that I never felt the author was being overly simplistic or trite. If anything, this book undid some of my expectations (that this was just a light fluffy book about the love of Christ) and I’m most grateful I read it. I still believe there are some theological implications that I haven’t fully understood and I worry there are some who could read this book and come away confused about the nature of God, yet is that not the danger in any book written of God? I appreciate this book as being one that encourages us to think more on the heart of God.
34. A Severed Wasp by Madeleine L’Engle. A book that left me feeling conflicted. L’Engle writes gorgeously and to read this book of hers is to be swept up into a story of numerous characters that feel, act and speak like real people. Yet there are also parts of this book that simply irked me and felt a bit artificial at times. I love L’Engle usually so it pains me that this book just didn’t work quite as well for me (and I seem to remember I liked it more when I first read it!). Possibly reading it right after A Small Rain was not a good idea, as now that first book seems unmistakably superior to this one. I do appreciate this but do not think I’d read it again if it were not a sequel to A Small Rain. That book felt fresh and artless whereas this one feels a bit…overdone. I will echo thoughts I remember having the first time, that it does feel a bit as if Katherine Forrester (a remarkable character!) is almost too above reproach in this one. This book almost feels hagiographic at times! Indeed, she becomes a confessor to practically every character in this book, which felt a bit odd, but I think was a deliberate choice by the author. This read, I also realized some of the flashback sequences that revealed Katherine’s life post Small Rain had parts in them that bothered me much more this time. Surely this is just L’Engle sharing realities of life and attempting to show the costs of suffering, yet still…there were choices made that made me sad. No more said of that now.
Anyways, it seems like I’m being entirely negative and I feel a bit sad for that. There were elements of this book that I loved. L’Engle as always is remarkably good at showing the small everyday parts of life that so many people gloss over. I love the friendship between Katherine and Emily and how Katherine does such a good job of caring for Emily in her pain. I did love the large cast of characters, even if there are some broadly drawn ones that do not perhaps survive closer look. And of course, I love the reflections and meditation on both music and religion, and what it means to worship God. I do not think I fully agree with all of L’Engle’s conclusions, but I did appreciate her attempting to explore her theology in a bit more depth. Also – there is a cynicism and world-weariness in this book that I perhaps did not catch the first time – maybe it is just what comes with being a more mature author, yet still I did not appreciate as much on this read. Is this a bad book? No, it’s not. But definitely one that is nearer the bottom of my personal ranking of L’Engle’s works.
All My Songs are Written in Darker Ink than They Used to Be
How wonderful it is this morning to ponder thoughts of beyond the veil. I confess that my hope is elsewhere and these storms near at hand are little more than temporary annoyances. My mind drifts. I am on the sea, the bark I am in bobbing on the seas that just now start to calm. Sails hoisted, we move towards the east and towards the lands for which our dreams crave. The sun is hot and water supplies little, yet we worry not, for we know the promises of that which is to come. My lips are cracked yet still I sing heaven’s songs. We believe that we are almost there and so we prepare our baggage and check one more time the scraps of leather engraved with our invitation. A cool breeze sweeps across the deck and we exult. Faster our ship glides across the sparkling waves. What is that which pokes its head up from the horizon? Is it just a mirage or is it land? Or perhaps a bit of both depending on who you ask. I see an island, a curved rim of sand protecting a bit of greenery and then a mount reaching up and higher into the sky. My heart shivers in a way I cannot quite describe and which the actual presence of this island cannot quite explain, at least not in any words I can write now. You would have to see it to understand. But see? It’s just over there. I am still on this boat upon this chaotic sea, but not for long now. I hear a voice calling. Peace be still. My hope is met with reality as I now see a figure upon the beach walking slow steps upon the sand. There must be a fire laid close to hand for smoke rises in a thin stream just beyond the curve of beach. The sea is too shallow now and I think I must jump off and swim the remainder of the way. One more leap of faith and then all I am shall be swept up in that for which my soul longs. I don’t mind getting wet. Just a bit and then I shall be home.
Something Weird 