The Man on the Hill in the Sun with the Moon
A cloud flies above the mind of man, and waters all his heather
Such is the time and time of day that they would keep together.
But the man does keep all his inroads next to sweet discreet dismay;
His world is old and ended; but hers is full of play.
Riding on even starlight, their brilliant love had come–
Love that had found its luster, love which was built from crumb.
Dancing on the merry-go-round, playing in the sand,
Man and woman lived together, lived with hand in hand.
The man whose gifts were secret, the woman whose blush was not
Neither thought much of it in the same white fight they fought.
But life was not a friend of theirs, he was not quite so kind
Magic did not save them then, and did not free man’s mind.
Soon they fought of trifling things, of things gone with the weather
Things as weak and small and frail and worthless as a feather.
Weak, he was, and so foolish, but he did not fall here
No, stood he did with tired might, his stance straight as a deer.
But the woman could not ever know, as hard as she should try
The sacrifices of the man, his fearful resolve to die
If ever any black beast would tow or row or try to kill
That charity that God did give, that love He did instill.
When that black Baal would rear his head and try to eat their flesh
The man would stand so quietly in front of all the rest.
“No more,” he’d say to that hellish goat, “No more than just right here!
No matter how you cry and try you will not have my dear.”
The Foulness would bend down low and see the girl standing far,
Distracted by the butterflies trapped in pools of tar
And the beast would spit out his cruel breath in words that would read thus,
“It seems your dear is out for now, it seems that it’s just us.”
But never shake his faith in her could any wicked words,
The man would gather all his strength and call on all the birds
And trees and clouds and spinning globes above the earth so high
To see the day that this one man was willing even to die;
To witness to the day that man had given all he could,
Though surely none would call him King or Prince or Robin Hood.
That sick day has not come, and we pray it never will.
But every night the man does stand, waiting on that hill
That grassy knoll where stars can’t shine or flowers show their face
To see if he can find a hint or glint or slightest trace
Of that black death come to seize his love and take her from this land
To steal her away in the night, to wrench her from his hand.
The woman does not see his wait, his sunburn, his tired face;
She is down in the field, chasing rabbits in a race.
And he will watch her all day long and hardly will complain
Of beating sun or raining cloud or strongest, harshest pain.
The man does all this just to hold her safe in his hand
But the woman, it is clear, she does not understand.
The Greatest Man Who Ever Lived
The closer humans are to each other, the more they kill and steal and destroy. The closer that dogs are to people, the more loyal and dedicated they become. It is almost as if dogs become human wherever humans lose their humanity. Dogs are more human than men.
An old Jewish proverb goes, “There is a friend who is closer than a brother.” Naturally, this Hebrew genius was speaking of the dog. The dog is obviously the greatest companion to mankind ever conceived. We may dislike dogs, we may be driven mad by them, we may even be allergic to them, but we cannot deny their love or their loyalty. The dog is the all-encompassing symbol of human decency and dignity. He is the titan among gods, the god among men, and the man among boys.
In fact I hold that there is no greater blessing in a boy’s life than to have a dog by his side. He will name this dog, and that name will become a sacred byword of the household. The boy’s eyes will glow like cities on hills when he says to the neighborhood kids, “This is my dog, Blue.” How could he help it? This is his companion now. He will climb trees and shout down to him all that he can see. He will build snow castles and his dog will paint them yellow. He will fall asleep on the floor and find his friend in his lap when he wakes the next morning. His dog will walk him to the bus stop, will meet him when he comes home, will eat the food he drops from his plate (intentionally, or otherwise), will lick the tears from his face.
The boy will tell his dog secrets no one else may ever learn and which his dog will never utter. His dog will never tell. Not all the armies in the world with all their weapons could take those whispers from his mouth. He will never divulge. He has been sworn to secrecy by a bond and a blood oath older than the universe, more cosmologically binding than space or time.
And that silly boy will grow older, and think himself wiser, and he will sometimes forget all about his dog. His dog will wait for him, and receive no kisses when he comes through the door. He will bark to him and be told to be quiet. He will lick his face and be told that there is no time to play today. But his dog will love. He will fall asleep at his boy’s feet.
There is a joke that says a man should lock his wife and his dog in the trunk of his car, and find out who is happy to see him when he opens it again. For that is the beauty of a dog, is it not? A man could beat his dog within an inch of his life, and that old mutt would drag himself into the den that very night. The cat never forgets. The bird never again trusts. The human never forgives. But hit the dog, beat him with a shovel, shoot him in the legs and lop off his tail with a sword, and he will still wag his little stub when you come back in the room. He will look and say, “My master, my friend! I am so glad to see you. Do you know that I love you today?” The boy will not hear him.
I was once told a story, from the days when men and beasts lived much longer than they do now, of an ancient king who had a dog. This dog was more honorable than any creature who had ever walked the Earth, and he was the king’s only friend. And yet, when it came to life and limb, the king betrayed his dog and the dog died. The gods became so angry with this king that they pronounced a curse: No longer would dogs live the lifespan of a man, for man did not deserve so virtuous a lifelong partner. And so dogs do not outlive us. We, and not they, must lay our loved ones to rest. The dogs ascend to Heaven before man because they alone merit it. Dogs are the only creatures which truly deserve eternal life.
The maxim that ‘all dogs go to Heaven’ is so obviously true that it does not need defending. That old British author is right when he says that men make their animals more in the same way that God makes His children better. The dog was a wild and ferocious creature, with fangs and blood and marrow; but one day a man took him aside– perhaps he removed a thorn from his paw, and that story was not really about a lion at all– and he showed him all the world and its beauties. He showed him family, and love, and memory, and friendship. The man and his dog, the very first his dog, showed others this way of life, this poetry in ex nihilo motion. And here we find, thousands upon countless thousands of years later, that the dog has surpassed us in all of it. The student has truly become the master. We can teach him no more, and must be content to kneel at his feet in humble awe. The dog has become human, something not even we have achieved.
So the story comes full circle today. All stories do. There is not one of them that lasts forever, though each story’s ending is the beginning of another more breathtaking than the last. That old, silly, ridiculous man said it best: We are all a story in the end, and we must make it a good one.
But the dog must be laid to rest now. He must be given over to God who gave him life. I cannot keep him forever, though my heart will try, and it is an unfortunate fact that I have been entrusted with his life. I now wish that I had stayed younger awhile longer, and not grown so very wise. I wish that I had kissed his gargantuan face when I came through the door, and that I had howled with him when he demanded the mailman to leave. I wish so much that when he had licked my face, I had said, “Let’s play for awhile; the day is young and the sun is high, and nothing is so important that it cannot wait until tomorrow.” I wish I had seen the love in his eyes when he fell asleep at my feet, when he woke me in the night so that I would open my bedroom door so that he could come in. Why did I become so annoyed with him? Why did I tell him to leave? How could I miss the humanity in his hulking face, in his bright blue eyes, in his devotedly raised ears?
I did not deserve such a friend. I am the least of all who could ask for one. I am the most unworthy of all humankind. And I am so very thankful that I was given him anyway. He has taught me what it is to be a human being. He has given me life and love when I could find it nowhere else, when I did not think it was anywhere else to be found. He has showed me, in a way that I do not and will never understand, the way to everlasting life and peace. He has given me his all, and here I am in the end feeling that I have given him less. Here I was gifted with the greatest being to ever stride the silly skies, and I was content with only scratching his ears. And not enough! Not enough. But I love him. I love him more than I love much else. I would give all that I have for more time. But more time is not promised. No time is promised. All of it is gift. All of it is grace, and God’s grace is a courtesy.
My dearest friend, you are loved. You are cared for. You are never forgotten. You are precious. I am sorry that I did not see it more. I am so sorry that I saw it too late. My heart aches forever. You are the most wonderful of my childhood gifts. You are the greatest man who has ever lived, and twice that– for you did it all without even being a human. You have changed me, and you have changed the world. Rest now. Enjoy eternity. I am sure you will be provided many worthy friends, and many slices of pizza, and many intruding mailmen.
I cannot comprehend why you must go or what awaits you ahead, but this much I do know for certain: in you the angels shall have the greatest of tutors.
Something is Missing
C.S. Lewis said that the Church is a great house filled with many rooms, and between them all is a high and holy hallway. The hallway is beautiful, tall and grand, filled with the statues of a hundred saints. The stained-glass windows bleed with sunlight and pour shadows into every tiny nook. There are people in the hall; some of them have laid out beds and others have set up tents. The air is melancholy, the house feels quiet. A serene hush is over everyone inside the golden corridor, and all speak in whispers.
Something is missing. Surely the hallway is a grand old place, filled with treasures and paintings, and there are shelves of old leather books. But this high-brow path is incomplete in a way that many find it hard to describe. Everyone senses it, though some pretend not to. There is little movement in this place, for all inside are very weary.
Suddenly a door creaks open and light pours in. The gold on the walls flickers like a dying fire. A man is entering a room, quietly, inconspicuously. For the split second that the door remains open, for that moment that that little man shuffles inside, a foreign sound invades the ears of all nearby: loud and jovial comes laughter. Then the door is shut and the silence resumes. But those who have heard cannot forget.
Soon another man comes to a different door, and when he opens it the smell of pastries fills the whole house. He quickly enters, cheering, “Here! I have found it.”
Before long the whole house is in an uproar; people are rushing to and fro, opening doors, going in and out. Some yell, some cheer; others weep or dance. Many do not move at all, but remain by their tents and beds. Some refuse to believe there is anything worth considering behind the doors, while others announce that the rooms themselves are an egregious offense to the entire home– that there ought to be a house with no walls and no doors, that rooms are unfair.
The hall is not where they were meant to stay. The hall is awkward and unnatural. Man lives in rooms, he only passes through halls. For those who have found their room only joy and gladness ought be felt. But the rest outside must be remembered, whether they are looking for their room or hiding in their tent. They must be kept in thoughts and in prayers, and when you venture out to visit that old hall you ought to strike up a conversation or hand out some tea.
Pray for us, the squatters in the hallway.
The Renewal of Anglicanism by Alister E. McGrath
My rating: 3 of 5 stars
Alister McGrath makes many good points, mostly in his last two chapters. His explanation in chapter seven (the final chapter) of why theology is brilliant and beautiful and exciting (because it is real, and a living connection to the living God) is worth reading the entire book for. The rest of the book is mostly an account of how Anglicanism crashed into its numerous problems.
I wish McGrath had been more specific. He does not directly address the problems (the gospel, homosexuality, women in the priesthood, etc.), which is not only odd but outright annoying. He does decently well in dealing with overarching themes or schemes of thought, but without addressing how to specifically deal with some of Anglicanism’s major problems we won’t be able to deal with them! Saying that we must get back to roots, redefine theology, reform ourselves, etc. is all well and good but only if it gets down to the nitty-gritty. That tends to be the book’s largest flaw. Other than that, the only negatives are the numerous spelling and grammatical errors (which should have been spotted by the editor).
I am a Hypocrite
To be really very honest, I have trouble with people who can’t write.
I don’t mean that I dislike people who can’t write poetry, or novels, or that sort of thing.
I mean that I have real trouble being kind to people who regularly butcher the laws of language.
I should explain why.
To me, language is an art. It is beautiful. It is one of the most basic and one of the most important things that humanity has. I believe we should perfect it. We should use it as best as possible. Not a word, not a comma, not a syllable should go to waste.
I know that not everyone, or even really anyone, shares my view. I’ve come to accept that ever since I first started writing (what’s it, fourteen years by now?). But to be really very, very honest: I have a momentous prejudice.
I treat people different based on how they write. It’s a bad thing, what I’ve got. I don’t like it. But I simply cannot stand it when people spew out their “lulz” and “lmaos,” or have never-ending run-on sentences (unless they’re the stuff of George MacDonald, and let’s be realistic: whose are?), or refuse to capitalize the beginning of a sentence, or refuse to punctuate a sentence, or refuse to turn off the caps lock.
I can usually get by with quiet annoyance when people do these things. Again, I don’t expect everybody to write like Charles Dickens and Cicero. But I do wish people would put up an effort. And when someone has a bad attitude and they can’t spell ‘cat,’ I have been known to get quite snobbish. I can be mean. I hate it, but it’s true.
This isn’t in any way a jab at people with genuine disorders or medical problems. That’s a huge reason that I hate my prejudice so much: unless I know better, there is virtually no way to distinguish between someone with a learning disability and someone who is being lazy. That’s why I try so hard to fight back the urge to scream, “For God’s sake, use a period!” It’s a battle I don’t always win. Stuff gets ugly when I don’t. But as someone who may or may not have some disorders and disabilities of his own, I have to keep that ugliness leashed.
I don’t know why I wrote this. All I can think about at this moment is how most of these paragraphs start with “I,” which bugs me and has ever since I read that people who use “I” too much are extremely self-centered. I suppose I am. Perhaps that is why I try so hard not to appear like I am. It doesn’t always work. Hypocrisy never does.
And hypocrisy, in the end, just leads to the destruction of the hypocrite. He is either caught and defeated without or collapses under the weight of his own act and implodes. Hypocrisy is the destroyer of people, of plans, of worlds.
So I suppose that I’m airing out the dirty laundry. I am a hypocrite, in more ways than I am ready to admit. One of the seemingly small but really very big ways is in my prejudices, of which this one I have discussed is only one among many. If you see what you think is another, point it out. You may think I know what they all are, but I assure you I might not: prejudice has a nasty way of disguising himself as opinion. Like a weed, he must be rooted out, or else we will all choke in the end on our own putrid saliva. And that is one way I do not wish to die.
Thoughts on “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God”
Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God by Jonathan Edwards
My rating: 2 of 5 stars
There is much truth in this sermon. God’s wrath is real and is leveled against evil and evil-doers.
Edwards takes John 8:23 out of context and changes the meaning. He was trying to make the point that people are sinful, therefore we are not only destined to Hell but are also “from Hell” in a sense and that we belong there.
But he uses a verse where Jesus is saying He is from Heaven and the Jews are not, and that is why they ought to listen to Him but don’t.
Do we belong in Hell? What about “the fire prepared for the Devil and his angels”? Hell was not made for man. Man, made in the Imago Dei (Image of God), was made “to glorify God and enjoy Him for ever” (Westminster Shorter Catechism). But Edwards says, “The devil is waiting for them.” This is a mistake! The devil is not sovereign over anything, let alone Hell. It is like a poor version of Dante’s Inferno.
The problem with this sermon is that there is no gospel to it. It is right in all its details of sin and wickedness and Hell, but it does not offer the solution. Christ is mentioned but not preached. “Preach Christ crucified!” All we are told are repetitions of black clouds over our heads, but tell us what to do! Tell us how to be saved! What must I do to be saved? But Edwards speaks of a God who heartlessly laughs and mocks the unsaved– and while the laughter of God in the face of evildoers’ attempts against Him scripturally has its place, it is not in the way Edwards represents. “I have no pleasure that the wicked should perish,” God says. “For God so loved,” not hated, “the world.” God’s hate is one of justice, not of uncontrolled rage and bloodshed. God’s hate is of sin, sinfulness and the obstinate wicked, but that does not nullify His love for the sinner.
That’s my beef with it. I can’t reconcile this sermon with the shepherd seeking the one lost sheep out of a hundred or Jesus looking on the crowds with compassion and saying, “How often I wanted to gather you under my wing!” Where is God’s love offered out? God’s wrath is real, but so is His love. His mercy is everlasting, and it must be preached. Edwards never tells us how to flee to Christ. He does not tell us to have faith, to repent. He does not tell us where to go from here. Any mentions of Christ’s mercy or love are mere footnotes, simply tacked on post-its to a huge billboard of fury.
We are told of all these horrible monstrosities that close in upon us and the only given solution is: “Run.”
But how can I run if I have not been shown the way?
Do Not Rejoice (The Death of bin Laden)
I cannot hate Usama bin Laden, even now that he is dead. I cannot be happy that he is dead anymore than I was happy that he was alive. I suppose it is a bit like Kierkegaard’s eternal conundrum: pick something, because you’ll regret both anyway.
Rabbi Shmuley Boteach wrote this morning that Jesus never intended us to love God’s enemies, only our own– “the guy who steals your parking space.” But if that is the morality of Jesus, what is so special about it? If all the love of Jesus is good for is reconciliation between neighbors who slight each other, what kind of a world do we accomplish? “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor, and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you to love your enemy, pray for those who persecute you.” Rabbi Shmuley says that he has just finished a book on Jesus, and that it told him Jesus never meant we were to forgive our real, evil, awful enemies. But then why were the disciples so shocked at His words? Why did they find Him so hard to follow? Rabbi Shmuley finished a book on Jesus, and that is better than finishing none. But Christians have twenty-seven books on Jesus which are two thousand years older than Rabbi Shmuley’s one. They are two thousand years closer and wiser. And they tell us that Jesus said to love our enemies, and to forgive those who harm us.
Jesus forgave His. “Father, forgive them, they don’t know what they are doing.” Were those the enemies of God, the Romans who brutalized the world, or the mixed multitude that put Jesus on the cross? Were those who killed the Son of God the enemies of God? And yet Jesus cries out, “Forgive them, they don’t know what they are doing.” Don’t they, Jesus? Don’t they know that they have put an innocent man on death row? Don’t they understand that you will now die for no fault of your own? Don’t they understand the command “do not murder”? But You say they do not know. You ask God to forgive them. Does that mean that You have forgiven them, too, Jesus? Does that mean You forgave the men who put You on the cross? And am I to forgive them, too?
The Rabbi said that bin Laden was no longer human because he was such a monster. But Saul was a monster, and God made him Paul. The Nazi torturer who was forgiven by Corrie ten Boom was a monster, and God reconciled them through Christ. Can we cast off the image of God? Can we become no longer human but only vicious, soulless monsters? I do not know. But if that is so, it seems that God is more than capable of putting back on what we have thrown off. It seems that God is in the business of restoring souls. Doesn’t He say that He’ll throw out our stony hearts and give us hearts of flesh?
Forgiveness does not mean we stop seeking justice. Oh, let it be known it is anything but that. Forgiveness is not reconciliation. It takes one to forgive, but two to reconcile. We Christians are not only forgiven by God but reconciled to Him by His Son. Forgiveness is offered to all, but only those who take it are reconciled. Reconciliation involves the freedom to say, “Yes, I want this right relationship restored between us,” and also to say, “No, I want nothing at all to do with you.” Christ was not reconciled with the men who put Him on the cross– at least, not all of them, not yet. Many did not want His forgiveness. But what of the centurion who cried, “Truly this was the Son of God”? What of the criminal who begged, “Remember me when You come into Your kingdom”? What if Jesus had spat venom and hurled insults at His detractors like any other dying man? Would the centurion have believed? Would the thief have believed? Would we?
Secretary of State Hillary Clinton is on the television now. The news banner sums it up: “Nothing could make up for the loss.” Nothing. We rejoice, not because this man has died, but because his evil has ended. The suffering he has caused cannot be furthered any longer. For this, we thank God. We weep tears of joy that the world is safer than it was. But those tears are double-edged, for they also cry over the loss of another human being. Another man has been lost to sin, death, evil and Hell. But, even that is fruitless speculation. We never know what a man’s last pleas may be. They may even be for mercy.
What, then, does it mean to forgive? It means to stop seeking, not justice, but revenge. It means to offer pardon, to give the possibility of remission of sins. Justice can and must still be sought while we offer this forgiveness. Christ sets our example. Even on our cross we must cry out, “Forgive them! They don’t know what they are doing.” But on that third day, Christ rose again. And He says that when He comes those who reject forgiveness, those who hate reconciliation, will get what they want instead. They will receive holy justice, something no state or country or society is capable of delivering. We can give temporary justice; we can lock up the murderers in prisons and the insane in asylums– what we can really deliver, for a short time, is some security. But we cannot give holy justice to any man. We are not capable. We have none in us to give.
We are not to let serial killers loose in our cities, or to allow murderers to get away with their crimes. But we are not to hate them. We are not to dehumanize and demonize them. For whatever purpose, for whatever reason, they have done what they have done. But they are still God’s. God is still their Maker, their Sustainer, and, often enough, their Redeemer. We must never forget this essential truth. The day we do is the day that there is no Christ left in Christianity.
If justice has been done, then it has been done. But I cannot celebrate. There is nothing to celebrate– only one death was ever worth rejoicing about. Do we forget our Easter lesson so soon? “Love your enemy, and pray for those who persecute you.”
The Proverbs say that we are not to rejoice over our enemy, or else God may see it and turn His anger from them. Why besides this: if I rejoice over death, even the death of my enemy, do I not become just like him? Do I not become a monster when I love the death of a monster? Do we not despise our enemies precisely because they love to kill us and harm us? And do we not become them if we love their harm and death all the same? If we enjoy the downfall of our enemies over their repentance, I can only say it with the best of them: “And then I find a new name, because I won’t be the Doctor anymore.”
What do I gain by the death of my enemy?
