Friday, August 25, 2006

Behind The Eyes

"No one bites back as hard on their anger, none of my pain and woe can show through." The Who

All the world's a stage and we are merely players. Shakespeare seemed confident that fate would have its way with us. There are moments in men's lives when the only recourse is not an option. Except for a few of course. They bear labels; selfish, hopeless and senseless. The heat of the desert can leave one delirious. In the wilderness God provided for his children, manna by day and quail by night. Yet according to the gospels he left his son to suffer without nourishment in that dry and weary land. There were no locust or wild honey. Jesus' cousin seemed to fare much better in the desert as if he was born to it. Perhaps Jesus was a suburbanite, playing with his dad's tools in the garage but never venturing into the larger world beyond him (now that sounds like heresy, remind me and I will explain it some time). That is until his temptations. I wonder what was worse, those 40 days of purpose (pun intended) or those satanic isolations? It was Tertullian who said, "the whole revolving wheel of existance bears witness to the resurrection of the dead."

The words haunted the old cowboy...
See the lines upon his face,
Notice the faded, torn fabric of his jeans
Boots with run down heels.
But he believed the words written in red.

The west was almost won,
or so they'd said.
Thinking on these things;
the cowboy'd say:
How can wicked men tame an untamed land?
Has the wilderness just become a place of decadence?
But he believed the words written in red.

Old trails begin to haunt him,
He ponders his calloused hands
Knowing the fence line fading into the distance
would never be fully mended.
But he believed the words written in red.

Dusk is falling.
He pauses to check his back trail
All he sees is history, wondering
Is what's beyond the next bend
More daunting than previous winters?
But he believed the words written in red.

They say, "Fall is coming early."
The words still ring in his head,
Musing then why does it feel like winter?
And then the darkness closes in.
But he believed the words written in red.

It looms out of the darkness,
Etched upon the horizon.
Thank God there's a light on.
And so he dreams...
About the land, the tree and its fruit
That is not forbidden.
Because he beileved the words written in red.

Sola Gracia, WHB

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Weary

"We live as though we were doomed to die on the morrow, but we build houses as though we were going to live forever in the world." Jerome, Epistolae

Is there no rest for the weary? Like phantoms we move through a surreal haze. Sometimes living is like grasping water. You always end up with less than you anticipated.

Lately it would seem time is more short than it is long. Too many days have been shortened. Memories will not be made, and for the young, faces will fade. Even memories flee if one does not turn the page.

Is there a rest for the people of God? It is an old question but today my eschatology fails to sustain me. This river has about run dry. Thank God for widows, was she not God's form of salvation for Elijah? His well had run dry from words that now haunted him. Florida Scott Maxwell once said, "You need only claim th events of your life to make yourself yours. When you truly possess all you have been and done ... you are fierce with reality." Yet, what does one do when reality becomes unmanagable? Grasping the mystery of Christ requires one embrace the unmanagable. That reality is always larger than oneself. In a world full of consequences it would seem one is so inconsequential. There is a tale to be told. Unfortunately it keeps spiralling, or might I say splintering into many. The strands have become insurmountable. Like some tangled fishing line, beyond repair. Sometimes you just got to cut the line.

It was Dante who said,
"Midway on our life's journey, I found myself
In dark woods, the right road lost. To tell
about those woods is hard - so tangled and rough..."

I suppose Dante was made of stouter stuff than I for he determines to 'tell what I saw." I have no tale to tell. Only that I have found solace in silence. A silence that is far too rare. This is both encouraging and discouraging. Encouraging in that there is a place of beauty, perhaps rest. Let it be said in the desert silence I heard (even if it was in the distance, that voice calling in the midst of broken canyons, searching you out). Discouraging in that it is rare. Like scattered showers in late summer. They keep falling on somebody elses field.

So, I ask the question for all those lost among the arroys of life, turning to the voice which echoes off canyon walls. "Is there any rest for the weary?" Please don't patronize me. His word reverberates in my strained soul; "Keep the Sabbath." Haven't you been told? "Only losers quit." Sola Gracia, WHB