When we see things face to face in this life, we often miss the beauty of what stands before us. Too often we don't appreciate or love the object or being before us as much as we do the object in our peripheral vision. The oblique view often sharpens the single shades of things we didn't see as clear when we saw the object in its fullness.
When we tangentally see those we love from a place of loss, our hearts and minds delve deeper into their beauty. And as we see others, not so directly, maybe through the words of another, or in the light of another lense, we grow to respect, admire, and love them fuller.
This also is true with Christ. In the gospels we see Christ pass by those he means to call, longing for them to call after him, or he hides his true identity from us only to be known later by a kind of heart knowing, not the visual, mental, hard way of knowing. He does not always greet us face to face on the road, but instead walks by, catching our side gaze. We miss him as he passes, we know him for his passing, we see him better by our losing and we long for him fuller when we catch a hem of his garment as he scrapes by. He does not simply grab us and drag us down the road, he casts nets with his coyness and crescentness. He's revealed to us as a partial moon, a slimmer of glory. Not the full sun to our sodded eyes, but a window, an image that creeps solemnly by us and through us and around us. He is on all sides of us, but never in front, we see him pass in the grass, we feel him seep through when we try to grab handfulls of rain, and we know his voice only in the whispers of a fleeting wind.
He is in all of this, but he is not any of it. Charles Williams constantly returns to this quote in his writings: "This also is Thou; neither is this Thou." His revelation in creation is full of shapes, faces, and pieces that reflect and image his personality and power, but none of it is him.
His half-absence creates a truer longing, the half shades a deeper hunger. In this, he reveals his desire for our hearts, not just our minds.
God does not reveal himself fully to us in creation just as Christ did not trust himself to man in the gospels: He knows the heart of man and knows what is in it. We are selfish even when we know that our selfishness does not bring us happiness. We are dying paradoxes of self-loathing and self-love. God's desire for us is for our hearts to desire him, and instead of placing us in the fullness of his presence where we'd simply be forced to our knees in a mental capitulation with still recalcitrant hearts , he draws our hearts with shadows and shades of Glory.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Monday, October 8, 2012
As I breathe
Sometimes white isn't the purest color.
The dark spots on my shirt and the ink prints on my fingers as I left school on friday reminded me that I worked. I have a place to struggle.
Underneath a grey city bridge, the trash filled the lake with a rotten brown. My sister spoke words of life and joy while picking up the dank, dark, ruined things around us.
Dark faces and darker hair surrounds me as my spirit rises to a place I cannot speak of. I would, but I am not ready. Prepare me.
Open faces, spoken hearts, vulnerable admissions, and a reckless focus. Let today and tommorrow be enough- Lord- may my world not grow too big for my ability to love and may my love grow over and through all that I meet, face to face, life to life, here in the in between, in a spotted and speckled moment.
The dark spots on my shirt and the ink prints on my fingers as I left school on friday reminded me that I worked. I have a place to struggle.
Underneath a grey city bridge, the trash filled the lake with a rotten brown. My sister spoke words of life and joy while picking up the dank, dark, ruined things around us.
Dark faces and darker hair surrounds me as my spirit rises to a place I cannot speak of. I would, but I am not ready. Prepare me.
Open faces, spoken hearts, vulnerable admissions, and a reckless focus. Let today and tommorrow be enough- Lord- may my world not grow too big for my ability to love and may my love grow over and through all that I meet, face to face, life to life, here in the in between, in a spotted and speckled moment.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Rainfall on a Sunny Day
The grey light sheds misty drops on the motions of my weightless body. Falling drops tinge me with their bombardment and the sensuous smell of rain emanates a taste of life. The reigning clouds lift me out of the heavy weight of a Texas summer sun. The passing rain is not more than a breeze and a grey shadow, but swift, this business of life is acted and falls away and the life-filled grey above is parted.
There is a story about a blind man who when it rains can see the world by the pattering echoes of the rainfall. Its knocking on the sides of the world opens the eyes of his mind... Are we not blind souls unawake until we see and feel a knocking on the hard surfaces of the world? Is the poignant passing of pain and bitter tastes of life a rainfall into our world? Are true moments of sorrow and joy, the depths of human experience that mingle together in the heart of the universe, not the heavy beating of a life-giving rain?
I sit sedately in my comforted chair and would pass this world away, but a merciful God acts sorrow and joy into my heart with cauterizing nails to awaken me to the Cloud of His presence.
The thunder roams off in the distance admitting that it also is only a beggar at His feet.
There is a story about a blind man who when it rains can see the world by the pattering echoes of the rainfall. Its knocking on the sides of the world opens the eyes of his mind... Are we not blind souls unawake until we see and feel a knocking on the hard surfaces of the world? Is the poignant passing of pain and bitter tastes of life a rainfall into our world? Are true moments of sorrow and joy, the depths of human experience that mingle together in the heart of the universe, not the heavy beating of a life-giving rain?
I sit sedately in my comforted chair and would pass this world away, but a merciful God acts sorrow and joy into my heart with cauterizing nails to awaken me to the Cloud of His presence.
The thunder roams off in the distance admitting that it also is only a beggar at His feet.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
You were a Miracle, why fear?
You were a miracle of conception, brought forth from nothing, an act, the energy of human will, wailing, and birth. Every work of your being was conformed to an unseen image, written forth as an unwinding thread, thinly drawn from the life that marches between all the order of celless atoms and formless voids. You walk the path paved by every father, daughter, mother and son before you, why fear?
Why do you cry at your death, fret and worry at this cloud?
This is what you are, a cloud, a margin forming out of nothing, vapor rising forth in trails of blood toe to head. This existence is the favor of perfect order in every threaded molecule. Nothingness is not far from you, yet you are here, screaming, beating against it with the same thin heart beat that you had six weeks from your conception...
This will pass, but will you know something more than this life?
What is it that holds you here, still, alive against the dark face of nothing?
Ask,
turn,
and face the question.
Why do you cry at your death, fret and worry at this cloud?
This is what you are, a cloud, a margin forming out of nothing, vapor rising forth in trails of blood toe to head. This existence is the favor of perfect order in every threaded molecule. Nothingness is not far from you, yet you are here, screaming, beating against it with the same thin heart beat that you had six weeks from your conception...
This will pass, but will you know something more than this life?
What is it that holds you here, still, alive against the dark face of nothing?
Ask,
turn,
and face the question.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
In the Evening, Remember
In the evening, the wild wideness of light's colors casts forth a last decree of the sun's beauty. Dark silhouettes of leafless trees leave hearts hungry for something they had missed when the trees stood in lights fullness. The dying light calls forth the worshipping side of man, and we wake up to the light and call after its going, aching for it to stay. We remember its true beauty just as we remember the true beauty of the elder who we love when we see them withered and dying, their life's past glory burning in our hearts in a way we had never known.
I stood in his light ungratefully. I saw him and knew him, saw him and did not esteem him. I did not praise nor beg nor ask nor listen, I went on with life as life was to be on with. But now I see him pass, and my heart cries out to him and praises the beauty I had forgotten. His last light casts itself on those around me leaving only the shapes of things previously known in full. These I knew, these true and beautiful ones I knew but never loved. All the shades of his light were known before, but undiluted I had never honored nor recalled them. The dying, suffering light sets, and my heart breaks and waits. Then I remember:
He has bound himself to his cross. And by his cross he binds himself to us like the sun has tethered itself to the earth. He will arise, and I will see his face and know his grace once more.
May Your dying and reviving always be in our hearts. May Your dawning and evening meet us new every day renewing our remembrance of who You are and what You have done.
I stood in his light ungratefully. I saw him and knew him, saw him and did not esteem him. I did not praise nor beg nor ask nor listen, I went on with life as life was to be on with. But now I see him pass, and my heart cries out to him and praises the beauty I had forgotten. His last light casts itself on those around me leaving only the shapes of things previously known in full. These I knew, these true and beautiful ones I knew but never loved. All the shades of his light were known before, but undiluted I had never honored nor recalled them. The dying, suffering light sets, and my heart breaks and waits. Then I remember:
He has bound himself to his cross. And by his cross he binds himself to us like the sun has tethered itself to the earth. He will arise, and I will see his face and know his grace once more.
May Your dying and reviving always be in our hearts. May Your dawning and evening meet us new every day renewing our remembrance of who You are and what You have done.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
An Honest Poem
The Lion and a Lamb
The rain fell for a fourth day
deluding the rhythm of cars and lights.
Driving from the church
my Camry rolled to a halt.
A Lexus was stopped alone against the curve.
"Just like mine only dressed in luxurious turns."
In it, Idling in the opposite flow,
A lonely lady hid in sheets of acidic rain.
She sat bent low
holding the steering wheel with withered arms.
Her hair shorn like a lamb before slaughter
and her head wrapped in blood red silk.
Her weeping cries bayed into the sobbing windows and
drowning rain.
My lion's heart felt her dread.
A lifeless life bearing
tumors in her womb
carrying her towards those four mourners
in a green field with grey stones.
But in the cage of plastic and glass
the lion held.
His burning brown eyes looking through mine
His tears I tried to blink away.
The light turned green and on I drove,
forever silent on a still rainy day.
The rain fell for a fourth day
deluding the rhythm of cars and lights.
Driving from the church
my Camry rolled to a halt.
A Lexus was stopped alone against the curve.
"Just like mine only dressed in luxurious turns."
In it, Idling in the opposite flow,
A lonely lady hid in sheets of acidic rain.
She sat bent low
holding the steering wheel with withered arms.
Her hair shorn like a lamb before slaughter
and her head wrapped in blood red silk.
Her weeping cries bayed into the sobbing windows and
drowning rain.
My lion's heart felt her dread.
A lifeless life bearing
tumors in her womb
carrying her towards those four mourners
in a green field with grey stones.
But in the cage of plastic and glass
the lion held.
His burning brown eyes looking through mine
His tears I tried to blink away.
The light turned green and on I drove,
forever silent on a still rainy day.
Friday, February 17, 2012
We are jaded
Sometimes I have epiphany moments where life suddenly feels utterly vibrant. Every smell and sound becomes mystically relevant and every scene seems new and meaningful. I do not remember what my childhood was like, but in a way when I have these moments I feel I have become a child again. The world breathes mystery into my heart and I look around with curious eyes wondering what this really is. The rustle of a robin in the in low ivy makes me wonder at its story; the movement of my feet and the soft feeling of clover and grass begs me to see something more than just my inner thoughts. Instead of looking inward towards my wants and needs, the voices and styles of the world around me draw me away into a world that is all too real and wonderful.
My favorite word has for a while been the word 'jaded.' I love the odd flowiness of it and its root reference to a beautiful stone. But its meaning is what really gets me, Webster defines it 'as made dull, apathetic, or cynical by experience.' Most of us are jaded. We are thoughtlessly wasteful of the joy and wonder of being selflessly aware of the world and others in the world. Even if we are aware we are only aware of it in reference to what it has to say about us, who we are and how we are viewed. The weariness of our self life has made our eyelids too heavy to see the world we have been given; we were born heirs to a world of wonder and life yet our lives of self have borne us far away from the pleasure of being in this world and a part of its beauty.
Yet again Christ says: "Come to me all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light."
For the burden we bear is ourselves and the yoke we take up is Christ's cross. How telling is it that Christ's cross is a lighter burden to bear than our own selfishness? Christ tells us elsewhere that to know him we must become like little children again. And in becoming children we cast aside our jaded perspective and renew a right view of the gift we have been given.
My favorite word has for a while been the word 'jaded.' I love the odd flowiness of it and its root reference to a beautiful stone. But its meaning is what really gets me, Webster defines it 'as made dull, apathetic, or cynical by experience.' Most of us are jaded. We are thoughtlessly wasteful of the joy and wonder of being selflessly aware of the world and others in the world. Even if we are aware we are only aware of it in reference to what it has to say about us, who we are and how we are viewed. The weariness of our self life has made our eyelids too heavy to see the world we have been given; we were born heirs to a world of wonder and life yet our lives of self have borne us far away from the pleasure of being in this world and a part of its beauty.
Yet again Christ says: "Come to me all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light."
For the burden we bear is ourselves and the yoke we take up is Christ's cross. How telling is it that Christ's cross is a lighter burden to bear than our own selfishness? Christ tells us elsewhere that to know him we must become like little children again. And in becoming children we cast aside our jaded perspective and renew a right view of the gift we have been given.
Monday, February 6, 2012
By Hearing with Faith
Gal. 3:2: "Let me ask you only this: Did you recieve the Spirit by works of the law or by hearing with faith?"
Our life in Christ does not begin with our action nor does it continue nor depend upon the working and doing of our hands and feets, but rather in the receiving and hearing in faith of the spirit and word of Christ. When we attend church or pick up our Bibles or kneel down in prayer or commune in fellowship with other Christians, it is not an act of obligation but the real gift of life. Any activity in Christ only begins when these things become joys, our bread of life. The consequence of our receiving of these gifts in faith is the fruits of true faith, the bearing forth the fruits of the Spirit of Christ.
The gospel is not meant as a one time rite of passage into the christian faith, but rather the message spoken to our hearts over and over again repeating the everlasting truth of the love and grace of Christ that quite literally breaks our hearts of stone and continually reminds us where to look when we struggle with our rusty, broken lives. Forgetting is our forte, remembering Christ daily is the beginning of our abiding life in Him.
Our life in Christ does not begin with our action nor does it continue nor depend upon the working and doing of our hands and feets, but rather in the receiving and hearing in faith of the spirit and word of Christ. When we attend church or pick up our Bibles or kneel down in prayer or commune in fellowship with other Christians, it is not an act of obligation but the real gift of life. Any activity in Christ only begins when these things become joys, our bread of life. The consequence of our receiving of these gifts in faith is the fruits of true faith, the bearing forth the fruits of the Spirit of Christ.
The gospel is not meant as a one time rite of passage into the christian faith, but rather the message spoken to our hearts over and over again repeating the everlasting truth of the love and grace of Christ that quite literally breaks our hearts of stone and continually reminds us where to look when we struggle with our rusty, broken lives. Forgetting is our forte, remembering Christ daily is the beginning of our abiding life in Him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)