Easter Thoughts

As I pondered the resurrection story this year, I was struck by the relentless pursuit of a God who refuses to give us up, to let sin win. Surely a man pursuing a woman would soon move on if she gave him as little encouragement as we give God. And yet his passionate pursuit of humanity brought him to the cross…and his ultimate victory was gained when he rose from the dead.

Others have said it better than I can, so I will partially quote a couple poems here.

Holy Sonnet #14

John Donne

Batter my heart, three-person'd God ; for you

As yet but knock ; breathe, shine, and seek to mend ;

That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend

Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,

Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.

Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,

But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.

Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,

But am betroth'd unto your enemy ;

Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,

Take me to you, imprison me, for I,

Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,

Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me. 

The Hound of Heaven (lines 1-51, 151-182)

Francis Thompson

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;

  I fled Him, down the arches of the years;

I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways

    Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears

I hid from Him, and under running laughter.     

      Up vistaed hopes I sped;

      And shot, precipitated,

Adown Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears,

  From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.

      But with unhurrying chase,       

      And unperturbèd pace,

Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,

      They beat—and a Voice beat

      More instant than the Feet—

‘All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.’   

          I pleaded, outlaw-wise,

By many a hearted casement, curtained red,

  Trellised with intertwining charities;

(For, though I knew His love Who followèd,

        Yet was I sore adread   

Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside).

But, if one little casement parted wide,

  The gust of His approach would clash it to.

  Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue.

Across the margent of the world I fled,

  And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,

  Smiting for shelter on their clangèd bars;

        Fretted to dulcet jars

And silvern chatter the pale ports o’ the moon.

I said to Dawn: Be sudden—to Eve: Be soon;      

  With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over

        From this tremendous Lover—

Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!

  I tempted all His servitors, but to find

My own betrayal in their constancy,

In faith to Him their fickleness to me,

  Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.

To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;

  Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.

      But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,     

    The long savannahs of the blue;

        Or whether, Thunder-driven,

    They clanged his chariot ’thwart a heaven,

Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o’ their feet:—

  Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.       

      Still with unhurrying chase,

      And unperturbèd pace,

    Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,

      Came on the following Feet,

      And a Voice above their beat—       

    ‘Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me.’

His name I know, and what his trumpet saith.

Whether man’s heart or life it be which yields

  Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields

  Be dunged with rotten death?

      Now of that long pursuit

    Comes on at hand the bruit;

  That Voice is round me like a bursting sea:

    ‘And is thy earth so marred,

    Shattered in shard on shard?

  Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!

  Strange, piteous, futile thing!

Wherefore should any set thee love apart?

Seeing none but I makes much of naught’ (He said),

‘And human love needs human meriting:

  How hast thou merited—

Of all man’s clotted clay the dingiest clot?

  Alack, thou knowest not

How little worthy of any love thou art!

Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,

  Save Me, save only Me?

All which I took from thee I did but take,

  Not for thy harms,

But just that thou might’st seek it in My arms.

  All which thy child’s mistake

Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:

  Rise, clasp My hand, and come!’

  Halts by me that footfall:

  Is my gloom, after all,

Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?

  ‘Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,

  I am He Whom thou seekest!

Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.’

Winter Wind

The wind is howling tonight, gusting so hard that it can not only be heard but felt as it shakes the house.  It is the type of wind that may cause me to find that the ambient temperature in my room when I wake tomorrow is less than 50, in spite of the thermostat being set to 65.  What good is one little heater against the fury of such a wind, seeping in any crack it can find, furious at the small creatures who dare to try to shut it out, determined to find them in spite of walls and windows and join them in its misery.

While the sun is setting, this same wind lifts the snow, playing with it, making artistic designs with sun and shadow.

Once the sun disappears, though, the wind begins to howl in rage and loneliness at its abandonment.

Hearing it howl I am always reminded of this sonnet by Shakespeare:

Blow, blow, thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.


Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most freindship if feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.


Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky,
That does not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As a friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most freindship if feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

Snowflakes

Tonight

I stood outside and let

the snowflakes

fall

on

me.

Tiny pinpricks of cold,

searching for skin

to tickle,

to dance on with their tiny feet.

So small - dissolved,

unmade by a breath

before they can chill the tongue.

I breathed deeply,

the smell of the snow

reminding of

many

winters

past. 

It smells cold and smokey

and ancient. 

It smells of silence and stillness.

It smells of the stars,

now hidden by snow-filled clouds,

but still twinkling

in the frozen expanse of space.  

Heart, we will...stand and wait

Just for fun, here are two poems I have come to enjoy for various reasons and in various ways over the years.


Sonnet 19: On His Blindness
John Milton

When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,
'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?'
I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, 'God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.'

Heart, We Will Forget Him!
Emily Dickinson

Heart, we will forget him!
You and I, tonight!
You may forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.

When you have done, pray tell me
That I my thoughts may dim;
Haste! lest while you're lagging.
I may remember him!

One Perfect Rose

One Perfect Rose
by Dorothy Parker

A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet--
One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret;
"My fragile leaves," it said, "his heart enclose."
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.

Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it's always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.

I remember well reading this as a senior in high school. I was reminded of it today because I happened to listen to it set to music. I liked the poem in high school, although maybe not totally for the reasons the author intended.

My thoughts upon reading this poem immediately turned to the Bible. God, in His love for His people Israel, and for the rest of the world, sent us His "Perfect Rose." So tender, so easily crushed. And in response? His people said, in essence, "Well, thanks God, I guess that's nice, but we were sort of looking for a rough and tough warrior to save us from Rome. Don't you have anything better? More useful?" And they carelessly tossed the Rose aside, and it was trampled under foot.

The same is true still today. "God, I know you say you love me, but really, couldn't you send me a gift that's a little more useful? A gift that I want? You keep the rose, I'll take the limousine." We distrust His goodness and His omniscience and think we know better than He does what we need.

Back to the actual poem, it is a funny poem, and always makes me smile a little. On the other hand, though, it always makes me a little sad because it reminds me of the inherit selfishness and sinfulness of human nature. Lord help us learn to be grateful for the gifts you send, whatever they are.

Limerick night

A week ago we had our first mixed-staff limerick night. Attendance wasn't as large as we had hoped for, but it was still fun. Here's a sampling of some of the "poems" that were read. Not exactly great literature, but hey, we had fun.

Chocolate Crinkle Cookies, such a tasty treat.
It's brown and white, it's oh so sweet!
When I hear a code brown
I admit I do frown
Because I hear Ben during his usual kitchen beat.
~Curtis

Camp crud, camp crud
You make us sound like we at mud.
We swallow our mucus
Find things that pukes us
Oh man, my snot has caused a flood!
~Laura (aka Camp Nurse)

There once was a crewboy named Jon
Who always used too much Dawn.
He would fill up his sink
All the way to the brink
But now all his bubbles are gone.
~Mason

There once was a cook
Who liked to read books.
She squashed her finger,
The pain did linger,
Now see how stupid she looks.
~Larissa

There is a crewboy who likes fire
Who set off dynamite with a wire.
He did explode.
Pieces are in the road.
Wayne was so mad, he retired.
~Megan

There once was a counselor name Dan,
Whom everyone called the man.
He called us all punks
And slept in our bunks
And now he just works on his tan.
~Various crewboys

....and my contributions....

At Clydehurst this summer you'll see
Some people who happen to be
Topped on their head
By a bright shade of red.
Hooray for more people like me!!


At camp in the barn you'll find
Some boys of unusual kind.
Their aprons are pink,
Their cabin may stink,
But they're still the best in my mind!

In Honor of studying Mollusks in Biology:

The Chambered Nautilus

by Oliver Wendell Holmes

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails the unshadowed main,--
The venturous bark that flings
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies revealed,--
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spread his lustrous coil;
Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of the wandering sea,
Cast from her lap, forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn;
While on mine ear it rings,
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:--

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

*Not only is the nautilus shell formed by a living creature (Biology), it also contains some amazing math!

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nothing Gold Can Stay
by Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Eternity in their hearts

Happy May Day and Rabbits and all that jazz. :)

I started (re)reading Eternity in Their Hearts by Don Richardson the other day. It's really interesting, if possibly questionable in its theology and reasoning at times. For those who haven't read it, he basically presents the idea (with supporting data from various people groups) that a large proportion of the peoples in the world believe in a creator-god from whom they've been separated. There are all sorts of stories and traditions in these various tribes which relate closely to the truth we know in scripture. It makes one wonder...

He seems to imply that all these stories and traditions come from general revelation. This is probably true for some, but others....I'm not so sure. For example:

1. He lists a lot of tribes who believed that the creator-god had written down his law on something, but through their own negligence they lost it. Most of them believed that this lost book would be restored to them by a white man someday. I dare say this much is true. My question is, if they had no contact with anyone Jewish or Christian since (presumably) the tower of Babel, how would they even know of the existence of such a book? The Bible (except maybe Job?) wasn't written until much later. It makes me wonder if perhaps they had some sort of contact with Jewish people during the Old Testament period? It's possible for God to have planted the idea of the existence of such a book without even their ancestors having seen it, but I don't really see how the belief in the existence of this book follows directly from general revelation without either knowledge of an actual book or God's intervention.

2. One tribe had a tradition where once a year they would take two chickens. They would kill one and sprinkle its blood along a river bank. The other they would tie at one end of a small boat with a lantern on the other end. Then all the members of the tribe would take turns laying their "sin" on the boat. They would then release the boat and hope that it made it down stream and far away from them without getting stuck or capsizing. This is very reminiscent of the Jewish practice of having a scape goat every year on Yom Kippur. How would they think of instituting such a practice unless they had somehow become familiar with the Jewish practice? Again, it's possible, but I have a hard time believe that its probable.

At any rate, do we really know how far Judaism or even Christianity spread? During the Babylonian captivity, for example, we know that empire spread over a large region, and we know that Daniel was a high official. Who knows how far his influence extended? Maybe an echo of the truth even reaches these distant tribes.

Well, it is food for thought. And, where ever these stories and traditions come from, they certainly can make it much easier for missionaries to share the truth.

He also mentions an Inca ruler who is given credit for writing hymns to this creator-god. I was curious and tried to find these hymns online. Here's one I found:

Oh Creator, root of all,
Wiracocha, end of all,
Lord in shining garments
who infuses life and sets all things in order,
saying, "Let there be man! Let there be woman!"
Molder, maker,
to all things you have given life:
watch over them,
keep them living prosperously, fortunately
in safety and peace.
Where are you?
Outside? Inside?
Above this world in the clouds?
Below this world in the shades?
Hear me!
Answer me!
Take my words to your heart!
For ages without end
let me live,
grasp me in your arms,
hold me in your hands,
receive this offering
wherever you are, my Lord,
my Wiracocha.

"Sudden Light" by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

You have been mine before,—
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow's soar
Your neck turned so,
Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.

Has this been thus before?
And shall not thus time's eddying flight
Still with our lives our love restore
In death's despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more?

Or, an alternate final stanza:

Then, now,—perchance again! . . . .
O round mine eyes your tresses shake!
Shall we not lie as we have lain
Thus for Love's sake,
And sleep, and wake, yet never break the chain?

"The Lanyard" by Billy Collins

The other day as I was ricocheting slowly
off the pale blue walls of this room,
bouncing from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one more suddenly into the past --
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sickroom,
lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips,
set cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift--not the archaic truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hands,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.