Forgive the unpolished nature of this post, it's a short version of a piece I hope to write in full in the future.
A co worker of mine mentioned the other day at work that his parents had known each other since they were 10 years old.
Ten years old, and still together. He couldn't comprehend how two people could still be together after all the monumental changes that occur in a person's life over such a long period of time. It's a miraculous thing in our current world for two people to be together in a marriage all their lives when their relationship began in their twenties, let alone when they were ten. His amazement, from a purely secular standpoint, is completely justified. Even from a non-secular standpoint, his parents were doing fantastically well.
My ex fiancée left our relationship because she felt we both had changed into different people from those who had gotten engaged two years before. And she said to me that I must feel the same way.
I'm going to tell you the same thing I told her. I'm going to tell you what the world needs, the secret to love that lasts.
Love must transcend. I loved my fiancée, while she was my fiancée, with a transcendent love. This means that I didn't love her for any reasons. None whatsoever. There were things I valued in her, and things I frankly didn't like much at all. But I loved her all the same, regardless of what I liked or didn't like. This is the key. For a Romantic like myself, love must transcend all possible reasons, save perhaps only that that person is yours, your wife, your girlfriend, your husband, your boyfriend, your brother, your sister, your father or mother, your son or daughter. Your friend.
And the reason for this is simple. If I loved my fiancée because she was pretty, then when she stopped being pretty, my love would die. If you love your partner because he or she is sexually amazing, then when something happens to that ability, you're going to find your own love in conflict with the person it is directed to. If you love a person because of what they want to be, and their desire changes, as mine did, then you'll find yourself loving a person who doesn't exist. Because you never loved the person, you loved an aspect of the person.
If you love a person for a reason, or for reasons, then when changes come, when that person grows and matures, you're likely to find nothing but conflict. You can't love just the aspects of a person, or what you imagine that person to be. You have to love them as they are, which means transcending all reasons and impressions. You must accept that person as he or she is, always, and love them just the same. Then everything and nothing may change, but your love will not be shaken. You can grow and change together because your love is for a real person, and you can appreciate every new thing, instead of dwelling on those things that were or might have been.
Truly that's what the world needs. More of this transcendental love between people, and less of the shallow loves and lusts that people have mistaken for the real thing.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
"Heaven on Earth"
Little Son
high in the sky
clasped by warm
pink hands
Raised up
clad in gold
such a sight
my eyes behold
Then the taste
greets my lips
bliss itself
beyond any kiss
Knees on stone
I laugh
I cry
Heaven on Earth
high in the sky
clasped by warm
pink hands
Raised up
clad in gold
such a sight
my eyes behold
Then the taste
greets my lips
bliss itself
beyond any kiss
Knees on stone
I laugh
I cry
Heaven on Earth
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Dangerous Questions
A strange and unsettling, though likely predictable thought has risen within me these last few weeks. It has come as I have sat and observed, and most importantly analyzed our current economic crisis.
You see, I, like most other people, am an economic lay person. I hold no degree in the subject, indeed I have only taken one economics course in my entire formal education. Yet even with my limited understanding of economics I can understand economic theory relatively easily, and I was quite familiar with the competing notions of Keynes and Mises. Even when first made aware of the differences between the two schools of economic thought that seem to be the most primary in this country, I immediately concluded that Keynesianism consisted of facile rubbish and the Austrian school was vastly superior. But that was as far as it went.
Rudimentary as my awareness of these systems was, is and most likely shall continue to be, I still can observe both history and the present and conclude that one of these systems has been used far more than the other, particularly in regard to decisions within governments as to how to respond to economic crises.
It is a singular fact that the Great Depression and our current economic crisis both follow similar tracks. Both involved massive attempts at correcting an economic "problem" via an external actor (the government), both followed periods of popularized public policy along Keynesian economic grounds, and both resulted in the single greatest increases in government size, scope, public presence and economic control in history. Even the increases made by Abraham Lincoln do not compare with the dramatic inflation of the federal government during the Great Depression, and we are currently on track to exceed even that increase in our current economic situation.
I have observed, continually, economists coming seemingly from the very woodwork and fabric of our society all of whom have stated quite clearly and eloquently the reason for our current economic collapse, and the peculiar and apparently obvious pitfalls of the system which we all entrusted our livelihoods, homes, savings, and other means of survival to for years. These economists are seemingly everywhere, and each of them agrees with exactly what I concluded years ago based on a mere grasp of the basics of economic theory. Keynesian policy leads to economic recession.
From what I understand, it is apparent that there are certain facts and questions which are critical to any rational evaluation of this subject. The first is as follows:
"Would it be safe to say that our current economic crisis should have been predictable according to rational analysis of policy and precedent?"
According to numerous books and economists appearing on every television program from CNN to the Daily Show, the answer is a resounding yes.
The second would thus be:
"Should we infer then that it is human interference that has precipitated this situation?"
And it seems to be that the answer, particularly from the Austrian school, but also from the perspective of history and common sense is, again resoundingly, yes.
So we progress to the third question:
"Would it therefore be not only possible, but possibly even likely, that given the apparent intelligence of the economists who've brought us to this moment, that this economic disaster was not only predicted but planned?"
And this is the unsettling thought. You see, I find it inevitable that I compare myself to these doctors of economics, these masters of economics thought and theory who've been working hand in hand with our government for years, even decades, and I wonder. Another question occurs:
"What has been the most significant and lasting impact of every single recession of this scale or greater in history since Keynes?"
As already noted, the answer is a larger government. An expansion of government power, control, oversight, ownership, and interference has come out of each of these recessions.
Many economists, particularly those of the Austrian school will here veer off into an explanation of how socialism fails without fail, and of how the bedrock principles of socialism are defunct and corrupt. An explanation I do not feel is necessary, since I believe it misses the point. If these principles are in fact fallacious, it doesn't concern me. I am not an economist. I am a political scientist, and what concerns me is the possibility that this economic crisis, and those before it, are not about socialism or capitalism. IE that they are not about the ownership of capital or the freedom of the market, that they aren't about mere government interference in matters of money, but that they are about something more. It has become my belief that they are about one thing and one thing only, above all else, and of which the money issue is nothing more than a means to an end. Power. Power, and nothing else.
Upon mentioning these thoughts to a friend and economist, he argued to me that money is power. I disagree. I believe that fear is power, if indeed we're to understand power in the sense of being able to force someone to act, the ability to coerce and effect actions. Fear is a singularly powerful motivator, it warps reason and it inflates herd behavior. While there are certainly more effective, and even more positive motivators, each is more complicated, more difficult to achieve, and more difficult to maintain. Fear alone is cheap, easy and long lasting. Now, money and money matters, like hyper-inflation, certainly can and do cause fear. Such big words have ever boded ill for the poorly educated public. But they aren't the only sources of fear in an economic climate similar to our own. Imagine in addition to this abstract fear of the loss of value in money, the real and very close to home fear of losing one's home. What is the fear of less money to the fear of being homeless? Of lacking protection from the elements, of losing the shelter upon which you and your family depend for survival? A more primal fear is difficult to find, save perhaps in the fear of being unable to afford food, of being unable to eat. And this is the fear besetting those who are losing their jobs, or on the verge of losing them, or anywhere and in any situation wherein it is conceivable.
And I examine these sources of fear, and each time I see several factors present. First, I see that the source of the fear itself has always been economic policy enacted by the government. We approach hyper inflation because of monetary controls and the printing of trillions of dollars to support government subsidized work. We suffer from a housing collapse because of a federally created, even mandated, housing bubble, wherein interest rates were artificially lowered, and credit extended to those who simply had no right and no business receiving it. We are losing employment because government regulations of various industries and interference in the marketplace have caused a fleeing of capital for other countries, and simultaneously the stagnation of competition in key industries.
Next I see that the proposed solution to each problem follows the model which originated the problem itself, namely that the government step in to provide a solution. So, for example, in order to address the artificially created housing bubble, people turn to the government in their fear for a way to keep their homes. In an attempt to keep their jobs, workers in defunct and decrepit industries turn to the government to prop them up. General Motors is a perfect example, both of government regulated stagnation, and government propping up, to such a point that soon enough the government will own this corporation and many more. Indeed, after a massive bailout program in which the government furthered the problem of inflation, precisely to prevent any sort of government buy out of corporations and banks, the government will still be buying them out.
I find even without formal education in the subject that I've gotten quite a clear grasp of the situation, regardless of my lack, and I wonder, "If I, ignorant layman in economics that I am, could grasp this, why is it that so many doctorates in the subject could not, despite the fact that they should be assuredly well motivated to, if in fact one theory results in them getting much more money than the other?"
After all, is that not the point of any economic system? Is it not to provide for the general wealth and welfare of the community in which it is practiced? Whether it be capitalism, distributism, socialism, communism, or any other sort of system, the point of each is to provide for the prosperity of the people. So if it was obvious to me that this system would not provide for our prosperity, why wasn't it obvious to them?
This is the question that brought me to the most unsettling part of all. What if it was obvious to them? What if they understood that the system they advocated, the system they lobbied for, the system they sold to the public at large as the solution to all their troubles, all along was the schemata to a monumental economic meltdown? Why?
If the goal is not money, nor the success of society, what could it be? We already know. We already know, because we've not only seen the results of the system, and what it principally produces, we've already seen the intended fruit. The produce is fear, the fruit is the death of freedom.
I mentioned earlier that there have been plenty of economists who've known all along that this course of policy and action would result in a catastrophe of epic economic proportions. Likewise I have already brought up the various media I've seen them appear in. I would like to reference one now, in particular.
Jon Stewart's Daily Show is, for many in my age group, the only source of news they pay attention to. Yet it is a news spoof, it is fake news, for the point of satire and comedy. Jon himself though often takes an editorial approach in many instances, and with the down turn in the economy, has featured several guests who've advocated an Austrian economic policy. These guests are often authors of books highlighting problems in the system of American economics, and are brought in presumably to re-educate an audience who have been sold the lie of Keynesian policy for most, if not all, of their short lives. Yet in each and every instance I've observed, Stewart has ended his interviews with these authors with the question, "what do you think we can do to fix this," or some variant thereof. The irony, of course, being that these authors were advocating that we do nothing to fix this. The entire point was that attempting to "fix" these situations is how we get into worse situations in the first place, that regulation and interference cause problems, they don't solve them.
Behold the subtle brilliance. With each interview of leading economists demonstrating the falsity of our system of interference, instead of having their ideas heard in fair forum and convincing the general public, particularly the younger generations who will be largely left with the debts and responsibilities, not to mention the loss of liberty, incurred by our current government's actions, the audience is having it reaffirmed each time that something must be done, that some external actor must step in to effect change. Each interview props up the idea that we must act to fix the recession, regardless of whatever ideas came up in the interview to challenge this notion. And if this is the satirical, spoofing news program, what of the real news?
Can anyone imagine a means of artificially creating a more lasting and powerful provocation of fear in this country, or anywhere else, save through some dramatic and violent act, particularly one involving a weapon of mass destruction?
What if our entire economic climate has been planned as part of an on-going attempt by the government to strip liberty from the people? What if each of these terrible recessions was calculated and produced by people who knew very well that the system they were employing as an economic foundation would result in an economic collapse? And what if the single and solitary goal of this intended collapse was to bring the people to such a state of fear and panic that they'd surrender almost anything for the safety and security they'd known via the artificial inflation of the economy that this system had created prior to its collapse?
Forgive my seeming lapse in Romanticism. I am a student of ironies, and of GK Chesterton, and Mr. Chesterton had certain ideas about the nature of democracy and Romance that I believe are well served in posting this. If indeed we have some sort of practical and truthful understanding of humanity in the doctrine of the Fall and the assurance that Mankind is not perfect, then it stands to reason that we should never truly trust those we elect to govern. We should exist in a state of constant vigilance, we should be restless and watchful. We should be ever prepared for the revolution of orthodoxy, the return to the first principles, the return to tradition and democracy and the truest freedom, that freedom of the will.
Regards,
You see, I, like most other people, am an economic lay person. I hold no degree in the subject, indeed I have only taken one economics course in my entire formal education. Yet even with my limited understanding of economics I can understand economic theory relatively easily, and I was quite familiar with the competing notions of Keynes and Mises. Even when first made aware of the differences between the two schools of economic thought that seem to be the most primary in this country, I immediately concluded that Keynesianism consisted of facile rubbish and the Austrian school was vastly superior. But that was as far as it went.
Rudimentary as my awareness of these systems was, is and most likely shall continue to be, I still can observe both history and the present and conclude that one of these systems has been used far more than the other, particularly in regard to decisions within governments as to how to respond to economic crises.
It is a singular fact that the Great Depression and our current economic crisis both follow similar tracks. Both involved massive attempts at correcting an economic "problem" via an external actor (the government), both followed periods of popularized public policy along Keynesian economic grounds, and both resulted in the single greatest increases in government size, scope, public presence and economic control in history. Even the increases made by Abraham Lincoln do not compare with the dramatic inflation of the federal government during the Great Depression, and we are currently on track to exceed even that increase in our current economic situation.
I have observed, continually, economists coming seemingly from the very woodwork and fabric of our society all of whom have stated quite clearly and eloquently the reason for our current economic collapse, and the peculiar and apparently obvious pitfalls of the system which we all entrusted our livelihoods, homes, savings, and other means of survival to for years. These economists are seemingly everywhere, and each of them agrees with exactly what I concluded years ago based on a mere grasp of the basics of economic theory. Keynesian policy leads to economic recession.
From what I understand, it is apparent that there are certain facts and questions which are critical to any rational evaluation of this subject. The first is as follows:
"Would it be safe to say that our current economic crisis should have been predictable according to rational analysis of policy and precedent?"
According to numerous books and economists appearing on every television program from CNN to the Daily Show, the answer is a resounding yes.
The second would thus be:
"Should we infer then that it is human interference that has precipitated this situation?"
And it seems to be that the answer, particularly from the Austrian school, but also from the perspective of history and common sense is, again resoundingly, yes.
So we progress to the third question:
"Would it therefore be not only possible, but possibly even likely, that given the apparent intelligence of the economists who've brought us to this moment, that this economic disaster was not only predicted but planned?"
And this is the unsettling thought. You see, I find it inevitable that I compare myself to these doctors of economics, these masters of economics thought and theory who've been working hand in hand with our government for years, even decades, and I wonder. Another question occurs:
"What has been the most significant and lasting impact of every single recession of this scale or greater in history since Keynes?"
As already noted, the answer is a larger government. An expansion of government power, control, oversight, ownership, and interference has come out of each of these recessions.
Many economists, particularly those of the Austrian school will here veer off into an explanation of how socialism fails without fail, and of how the bedrock principles of socialism are defunct and corrupt. An explanation I do not feel is necessary, since I believe it misses the point. If these principles are in fact fallacious, it doesn't concern me. I am not an economist. I am a political scientist, and what concerns me is the possibility that this economic crisis, and those before it, are not about socialism or capitalism. IE that they are not about the ownership of capital or the freedom of the market, that they aren't about mere government interference in matters of money, but that they are about something more. It has become my belief that they are about one thing and one thing only, above all else, and of which the money issue is nothing more than a means to an end. Power. Power, and nothing else.
Upon mentioning these thoughts to a friend and economist, he argued to me that money is power. I disagree. I believe that fear is power, if indeed we're to understand power in the sense of being able to force someone to act, the ability to coerce and effect actions. Fear is a singularly powerful motivator, it warps reason and it inflates herd behavior. While there are certainly more effective, and even more positive motivators, each is more complicated, more difficult to achieve, and more difficult to maintain. Fear alone is cheap, easy and long lasting. Now, money and money matters, like hyper-inflation, certainly can and do cause fear. Such big words have ever boded ill for the poorly educated public. But they aren't the only sources of fear in an economic climate similar to our own. Imagine in addition to this abstract fear of the loss of value in money, the real and very close to home fear of losing one's home. What is the fear of less money to the fear of being homeless? Of lacking protection from the elements, of losing the shelter upon which you and your family depend for survival? A more primal fear is difficult to find, save perhaps in the fear of being unable to afford food, of being unable to eat. And this is the fear besetting those who are losing their jobs, or on the verge of losing them, or anywhere and in any situation wherein it is conceivable.
And I examine these sources of fear, and each time I see several factors present. First, I see that the source of the fear itself has always been economic policy enacted by the government. We approach hyper inflation because of monetary controls and the printing of trillions of dollars to support government subsidized work. We suffer from a housing collapse because of a federally created, even mandated, housing bubble, wherein interest rates were artificially lowered, and credit extended to those who simply had no right and no business receiving it. We are losing employment because government regulations of various industries and interference in the marketplace have caused a fleeing of capital for other countries, and simultaneously the stagnation of competition in key industries.
Next I see that the proposed solution to each problem follows the model which originated the problem itself, namely that the government step in to provide a solution. So, for example, in order to address the artificially created housing bubble, people turn to the government in their fear for a way to keep their homes. In an attempt to keep their jobs, workers in defunct and decrepit industries turn to the government to prop them up. General Motors is a perfect example, both of government regulated stagnation, and government propping up, to such a point that soon enough the government will own this corporation and many more. Indeed, after a massive bailout program in which the government furthered the problem of inflation, precisely to prevent any sort of government buy out of corporations and banks, the government will still be buying them out.
I find even without formal education in the subject that I've gotten quite a clear grasp of the situation, regardless of my lack, and I wonder, "If I, ignorant layman in economics that I am, could grasp this, why is it that so many doctorates in the subject could not, despite the fact that they should be assuredly well motivated to, if in fact one theory results in them getting much more money than the other?"
After all, is that not the point of any economic system? Is it not to provide for the general wealth and welfare of the community in which it is practiced? Whether it be capitalism, distributism, socialism, communism, or any other sort of system, the point of each is to provide for the prosperity of the people. So if it was obvious to me that this system would not provide for our prosperity, why wasn't it obvious to them?
This is the question that brought me to the most unsettling part of all. What if it was obvious to them? What if they understood that the system they advocated, the system they lobbied for, the system they sold to the public at large as the solution to all their troubles, all along was the schemata to a monumental economic meltdown? Why?
If the goal is not money, nor the success of society, what could it be? We already know. We already know, because we've not only seen the results of the system, and what it principally produces, we've already seen the intended fruit. The produce is fear, the fruit is the death of freedom.
I mentioned earlier that there have been plenty of economists who've known all along that this course of policy and action would result in a catastrophe of epic economic proportions. Likewise I have already brought up the various media I've seen them appear in. I would like to reference one now, in particular.
Jon Stewart's Daily Show is, for many in my age group, the only source of news they pay attention to. Yet it is a news spoof, it is fake news, for the point of satire and comedy. Jon himself though often takes an editorial approach in many instances, and with the down turn in the economy, has featured several guests who've advocated an Austrian economic policy. These guests are often authors of books highlighting problems in the system of American economics, and are brought in presumably to re-educate an audience who have been sold the lie of Keynesian policy for most, if not all, of their short lives. Yet in each and every instance I've observed, Stewart has ended his interviews with these authors with the question, "what do you think we can do to fix this," or some variant thereof. The irony, of course, being that these authors were advocating that we do nothing to fix this. The entire point was that attempting to "fix" these situations is how we get into worse situations in the first place, that regulation and interference cause problems, they don't solve them.
Behold the subtle brilliance. With each interview of leading economists demonstrating the falsity of our system of interference, instead of having their ideas heard in fair forum and convincing the general public, particularly the younger generations who will be largely left with the debts and responsibilities, not to mention the loss of liberty, incurred by our current government's actions, the audience is having it reaffirmed each time that something must be done, that some external actor must step in to effect change. Each interview props up the idea that we must act to fix the recession, regardless of whatever ideas came up in the interview to challenge this notion. And if this is the satirical, spoofing news program, what of the real news?
Can anyone imagine a means of artificially creating a more lasting and powerful provocation of fear in this country, or anywhere else, save through some dramatic and violent act, particularly one involving a weapon of mass destruction?
What if our entire economic climate has been planned as part of an on-going attempt by the government to strip liberty from the people? What if each of these terrible recessions was calculated and produced by people who knew very well that the system they were employing as an economic foundation would result in an economic collapse? And what if the single and solitary goal of this intended collapse was to bring the people to such a state of fear and panic that they'd surrender almost anything for the safety and security they'd known via the artificial inflation of the economy that this system had created prior to its collapse?
Forgive my seeming lapse in Romanticism. I am a student of ironies, and of GK Chesterton, and Mr. Chesterton had certain ideas about the nature of democracy and Romance that I believe are well served in posting this. If indeed we have some sort of practical and truthful understanding of humanity in the doctrine of the Fall and the assurance that Mankind is not perfect, then it stands to reason that we should never truly trust those we elect to govern. We should exist in a state of constant vigilance, we should be restless and watchful. We should be ever prepared for the revolution of orthodoxy, the return to the first principles, the return to tradition and democracy and the truest freedom, that freedom of the will.
Regards,
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Formative Influences
So I just embarked on a massive Calvin and Hobbes binge, and I realized that, being the "instinctive Romantic" that I am, Calvin and Hobbes was probably intrinsic to the formation of my Romantic world-view. I spent a huge portion of my childhood (and by huge I mean multiple summers and weekends, the only part of childhood that counts) reading Calvin and Hobbes. And I expect Calvin and Hobbes' deep philosophical musings juxtaposed to the shortcomings of their reality imbued me with the very same tendencies. I, like Calvin, thought too much.
I still do.
But as the final strip of the series illustrates, Calvin and Hobbes as a stripe had he very essence of Romanticism buried within. I can't depict it here, unauthorized replications of Watterson's work being illegal without permission, which I don't have, but I'm sure you can find it somehow. All I shall say is that now, even as I was 10 years ago and more, it's still a magical world.
I still do.
But as the final strip of the series illustrates, Calvin and Hobbes as a stripe had he very essence of Romanticism buried within. I can't depict it here, unauthorized replications of Watterson's work being illegal without permission, which I don't have, but I'm sure you can find it somehow. All I shall say is that now, even as I was 10 years ago and more, it's still a magical world.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Art
So I've decided to teach myself to paint, acrylic to start, maybe oil and water colors later. I'm looking forward to actually being able to do some. So far I have a decent set of brushes and some canvas and a palette, but my paint supply is meager. I also need some practice just painting, learning the ways of the paint, haha. I've got lots of ideas on what to paint, of course, but I'm always interested in hearing more, so if anyone's reading this, let's hear 'em!
Thursday, June 4, 2009
"Pilgrim"
Wandering
across the Earth
marching
far and wide
Man alone
with violent heart
stands upright
and cannot rest
My entire life
I've sought
a home and hearth
to call my own
Yet always known
deep within
that home is where
we all must end
Each day
a journey
each night
without rest
Looking up
to Heaven
and back down
to Earth
I know at last
why my heart so aches
life with death
for the sake of love
across the Earth
marching
far and wide
Man alone
with violent heart
stands upright
and cannot rest
My entire life
I've sought
a home and hearth
to call my own
Yet always known
deep within
that home is where
we all must end
Each day
a journey
each night
without rest
Looking up
to Heaven
and back down
to Earth
I know at last
why my heart so aches
life with death
for the sake of love
Saturday, May 30, 2009
"Bubble Gum Mass"
Bubble-gum blowing,
at intervals popping
rather poor showing
but instead of stopping
the man dressed like Barney
with a gold and white stole
keeps making a blarney
'bout the peace of the soul
In the name of Creator
Redeemer and Spirit
now we must pray for
those not here to hear it
Still bubble gum blowing
with iPods now showing
the people are going
Yet Barney's not slowing
He winds up his sermon
In typical keeping
Can't hear a word in
the church, all are sleeping
And now starts the dancing
With singing and praise
The white streamers prancing
My head in a daze
Oh bubble gum blowing
with game boys humming
for the Creed forgoing
but guitars yet strumming
We stand and we sit
but we cannot kneel,
we'll laugh and throw fits
but we're never genteel
Barney wants us to clap
to cheer and to squeal
he's a right jolly chap
he wants us to feel
Bubble gum blowing
with text messages winging
tantrums kids throwing
and cell phones are ringing
We have grape juice to drink
with our wonder bread snack
God forbids us to think
about this most vile attack
It's I love you,
and you love me
we're all a happy family
at the bubble gum blowing
and cereal throwing,
mass of Barney the clown
at intervals popping
rather poor showing
but instead of stopping
the man dressed like Barney
with a gold and white stole
keeps making a blarney
'bout the peace of the soul
In the name of Creator
Redeemer and Spirit
now we must pray for
those not here to hear it
Still bubble gum blowing
with iPods now showing
the people are going
Yet Barney's not slowing
He winds up his sermon
In typical keeping
Can't hear a word in
the church, all are sleeping
And now starts the dancing
With singing and praise
The white streamers prancing
My head in a daze
Oh bubble gum blowing
with game boys humming
for the Creed forgoing
but guitars yet strumming
We stand and we sit
but we cannot kneel,
we'll laugh and throw fits
but we're never genteel
Barney wants us to clap
to cheer and to squeal
he's a right jolly chap
he wants us to feel
Bubble gum blowing
with text messages winging
tantrums kids throwing
and cell phones are ringing
We have grape juice to drink
with our wonder bread snack
God forbids us to think
about this most vile attack
It's I love you,
and you love me
we're all a happy family
at the bubble gum blowing
and cereal throwing,
mass of Barney the clown
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
"What's the Church?"
"Light and way
truth and life
Iesus Christos
found in strife
Upon the reed
as if a Rock
placed the keys to
Heaven unlock
To stand through time
despite Gates of Hell
strong and firm
against death's knell
Lord and leader
Gave us preachers
simple Galileans
inspired teachers
Found in Scripture
but in addition
taught in the bulwark
of holy Tradition
Choirs of angels
Communion of Saints
the Church is a family
even for the faint
Many things
to many people
found beneath
the ancient steeple
Within the Church
"Katholikas"
immortal life found
in the Mass
That's the Truth
the heart at least
that we all shall eat
at the Lamb's Feast
That's the Church
to me you see
Home, heaven and happiness
is now and ever shall be"
truth and life
Iesus Christos
found in strife
Upon the reed
as if a Rock
placed the keys to
Heaven unlock
To stand through time
despite Gates of Hell
strong and firm
against death's knell
Lord and leader
Gave us preachers
simple Galileans
inspired teachers
Found in Scripture
but in addition
taught in the bulwark
of holy Tradition
Choirs of angels
Communion of Saints
the Church is a family
even for the faint
Many things
to many people
found beneath
the ancient steeple
Within the Church
"Katholikas"
immortal life found
in the Mass
That's the Truth
the heart at least
that we all shall eat
at the Lamb's Feast
That's the Church
to me you see
Home, heaven and happiness
is now and ever shall be"
Monday, May 4, 2009
"Missing Person's Report"
Look, in the sky!
What's that? Did you see?
Not a bird, or a plane,
but a priest, flying free!
Why he seemed quite at ease,
not at all wobbly kneed.
With the birds and the breeze,
T'was a game I believed.
He rode in a chair,
(Saw him grin, saw him wave)
raised on helium air.
(Never seen a soul quite so brave.)
In the sun he did dance,
wth the children he'd laugh.
Not a man was but entranced
with this great gaseous gaff.
Oh, we clapped and we played,
and he smiled and bowed.
Gave a cheer, hip-hurray!
Then he shouted aloud...
But alas, none could hear what he said.
Now in a white sandy daze
with unaverted gaze
watched the merry young priest,
who was sixty at least,
With a gust of the air,
and balloons bright and gay.
He seemed in rather good cheer
as he drifted all day...
and toasted with fine Belgian beer!
To his course, who can say?
He did seem quite steady.
T'was a fine windy day,
he must have been ready.
As a bad bit of wind
blew out of the West.
Oh poor Father, a sin!
Sir, you must know the rest.
He got swept out to sea,
on tides of the air.
And we were the last to see,
The priest in the bright, balloon chair.
What's that? Did you see?
Not a bird, or a plane,
but a priest, flying free!
Why he seemed quite at ease,
not at all wobbly kneed.
With the birds and the breeze,
T'was a game I believed.
He rode in a chair,
(Saw him grin, saw him wave)
raised on helium air.
(Never seen a soul quite so brave.)
In the sun he did dance,
wth the children he'd laugh.
Not a man was but entranced
with this great gaseous gaff.
Oh, we clapped and we played,
and he smiled and bowed.
Gave a cheer, hip-hurray!
Then he shouted aloud...
But alas, none could hear what he said.
Now in a white sandy daze
with unaverted gaze
watched the merry young priest,
who was sixty at least,
With a gust of the air,
and balloons bright and gay.
He seemed in rather good cheer
as he drifted all day...
and toasted with fine Belgian beer!
To his course, who can say?
He did seem quite steady.
T'was a fine windy day,
he must have been ready.
As a bad bit of wind
blew out of the West.
Oh poor Father, a sin!
Sir, you must know the rest.
He got swept out to sea,
on tides of the air.
And we were the last to see,
The priest in the bright, balloon chair.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
"Lucius"
In a dark house set by the sea
A woman waits long on her knees
As all who visit plainly see
For the home coming of Lucius
Gentle countenance faintly mocking
In her chair so softly rocking
To the clock's steady tocking
Bitter tears she softly looses
Locked away within her lair
As she mourns so passing fair
And naught shall disturb her there
Her house and home a sweet recluse's
From her grasp a letter falls
To the carpet where it stalls
And her voice so briefly calls
The name of her lost Lucius
A figure looms, a great dark shape
She notes not the gentle scrape
Nor the sounds that thus escape
Lost in thoughts of her dear Lucius
Within her chest a pounding heart
As the clouds un-gently part
To loose the rains that now start
In her life of hard abuses
Staring eyes can only find
Things to break her peace of mind
Tears swimming, so unkind
Her memories of Lucius
The woman sits in rocking chair
Before the fire, with let down hair
Lost all her hope for life unfair
From the loss of her dear Lucius
Starting up from silent stare
Starkly noble, standing there
Nothing, nothing can she hear
Seeing naught but dancing nooses
Gaunt, in grief, her garments she tear'd
And now alone with her breast bared
The one for whom her heart so cared
Now the hand of Satan uses
Moving in a waking nightmare
She laughs and jerks then claws the air
And this poet darkly muses
Upon the form of dear Lucius
Standing stone-like in the chamber
Returned at last once more see to her
Though at first his gaze not quite sure
From his eyes a slow drop oozes
Pulls her down from hanging there
Rests her head down on her chair
Shutting her eyes, mad grief to share
The lost and lamented Lucius
Haunting vision in mind's eye burned
Thoughts of life so eas'ly spurned
Thus the loss so lately earned
Tears apart the mind of Lucius
Keening wail from his throat tears
As he dashes down the stairs
And to the sea so wildly hares
The grief which death eas'ly looses
The path which leads him to the air
Standing on the brink of despair
He for death ignobly chooses
T'is the end of her dear Lucius
And in the house set by the sea
A shade still walks for all to see
The crazy wild-eyed recluse is
Waiting still for her sweet Lucius
A woman waits long on her knees
As all who visit plainly see
For the home coming of Lucius
Gentle countenance faintly mocking
In her chair so softly rocking
To the clock's steady tocking
Bitter tears she softly looses
Locked away within her lair
As she mourns so passing fair
And naught shall disturb her there
Her house and home a sweet recluse's
From her grasp a letter falls
To the carpet where it stalls
And her voice so briefly calls
The name of her lost Lucius
A figure looms, a great dark shape
She notes not the gentle scrape
Nor the sounds that thus escape
Lost in thoughts of her dear Lucius
Within her chest a pounding heart
As the clouds un-gently part
To loose the rains that now start
In her life of hard abuses
Staring eyes can only find
Things to break her peace of mind
Tears swimming, so unkind
Her memories of Lucius
The woman sits in rocking chair
Before the fire, with let down hair
Lost all her hope for life unfair
From the loss of her dear Lucius
Starting up from silent stare
Starkly noble, standing there
Nothing, nothing can she hear
Seeing naught but dancing nooses
Gaunt, in grief, her garments she tear'd
And now alone with her breast bared
The one for whom her heart so cared
Now the hand of Satan uses
Moving in a waking nightmare
She laughs and jerks then claws the air
And this poet darkly muses
Upon the form of dear Lucius
Standing stone-like in the chamber
Returned at last once more see to her
Though at first his gaze not quite sure
From his eyes a slow drop oozes
Pulls her down from hanging there
Rests her head down on her chair
Shutting her eyes, mad grief to share
The lost and lamented Lucius
Haunting vision in mind's eye burned
Thoughts of life so eas'ly spurned
Thus the loss so lately earned
Tears apart the mind of Lucius
Keening wail from his throat tears
As he dashes down the stairs
And to the sea so wildly hares
The grief which death eas'ly looses
The path which leads him to the air
Standing on the brink of despair
He for death ignobly chooses
T'is the end of her dear Lucius
And in the house set by the sea
A shade still walks for all to see
The crazy wild-eyed recluse is
Waiting still for her sweet Lucius
Monday, March 30, 2009
"West Virginia"
Stark steel and soft stone
Driving through the mountain home
Dark night and bright light
Underneath the starlit dome
Bedrock and rough climbs
Though I can hear the wind chimes
Sounding and hounding
Oh so many times
Wind howls and water dashes
Against my car all Nature crashes
Thrusting and gusting
Before my eyes my life, it flashes
Stark steel and soft stone
These make up the mountain home
Darkest nights and brightest lights
Throughout the night sky thrown
Driving through the mountain home
Dark night and bright light
Underneath the starlit dome
Bedrock and rough climbs
Though I can hear the wind chimes
Sounding and hounding
Oh so many times
Wind howls and water dashes
Against my car all Nature crashes
Thrusting and gusting
Before my eyes my life, it flashes
Stark steel and soft stone
These make up the mountain home
Darkest nights and brightest lights
Throughout the night sky thrown
Friday, March 27, 2009
"Hubris or Hope?"
Hubris or hope? This question often came to the man in black, who at this exact moment was ruffling through papers on the large mahogany desk in front of him. The desk was not his, nor were the papers. In fact, the office, a darkly warm room lined with mahogany stained bookshelves to match the desk and whose every chair was a deep, lustrous black leather, was not his, though the glow in the fireplace certainly seemed to invite the confidence of strangers.
And as such, the man in black was aptly suited to taking advantage of its hospitality, for he was a perpetual stranger. Everywhere he went he was a stranger, and he was almost universally feared, where he was not universally forgotten. And that's what always prompted the question. Hubris or hope?
The fire gave off a ruddy light that showed the room well, and indeed had its opportunity as no other lights were on. Too much light bothered the man in black. For the man in black, as you've likely guessed, is what those in polite society call a burglar, and this night he was burgling a house on a hill, a beautiful old place, of which the welcoming office was merely one room, though one in which he expected to find a safe with an even more welcome abundance. But he paused for a moment and, with an almost arrogant ease, settled himself into the comfortable chair behind the desk. The man didn't know the owner of this house, he preferred the challenge of robbing with a handicap. Besides, it could make for messy situations, those who you knew, you tended to predict, but people so often did the seemingly unpredictable (which was really just the predictable things you were blind to because you thought you knew them). And the seemingly unpredictable was hard on a burglar's health.
Regardless, this house that had been invaded by a stranger was owned by a stranger, but settled in the chair behind the desk and before the fire, the man in black almost felt he knew its true occupant. Separated from the ego of the person, a man's belongings tell a lot about him. This room, and the whole of the burgled house, gave off the feel of a fatherly figure, an older man with silvering hair and a silver headed cane, a man who exudes wealth and class, even in the onset of infirmity. The books, the man in black was sure, would reveal a man with classic tastes, just as the brandy sitting in a half-empty decanter on on shelf revealed a man with a small vice, one small indulgence (and having already sampled the contents, an indulgence of a rather expensive sort). Indeed, he even reminded the man in black somewhat of his own father, though that memory was ruthlessly suppressed. He'd left the old man behind in his youth, and never looked back. Or at least had only done so rarely. After all, how could you apologize for robbing your own father, for stealing his treasured collection and selling them and running away to escape his wrath? His regrets were for the cold, dark times, not now, not here before the fire and the brandy.
Leaning back in the chair and swirling his brandy, the man in black pondered. Yes, was it hubris, or was it hope, that caused even those who should best keep vigilant to forget about him, the stranger, the thief in the night. Expecting to find a complex alarm system, guard dogs, a host of security cameras and all the other trappings and array of paraphernalia designed to keep strangers out of the homes of the rich and indulgent, he had been shocked to find nothing of the sort. In fact, the locks on the doors were not even fastened, entering the house of a stranger had been easier than walking into his own. So was it hubris? Were those who lived here so daringly confident that they didn't even lock their doors at night or when they went away (and the man in black was reasonably sure that both were true in this instance)? What kind of mad arrogance would prompt a man with so much to lose to tempt fate into taking it. Who could possibly believe himself immune to tragedy?
The man in black let his eyes and his mind wander over the room. It was true that in some neighborhoods, where crime was rarer and bonds between neighbors tighter, you could find nine out of ten houses with unlocked doors and entries. But those places generally had fewer goods worth stealing, and a lot more risk of being caught and recognized as a stranger doing what strangers were most feared of doing. Big houses on big hills, like this one, had no close neighbors. The owners of such places, almost as a rule, had friends and compatriots, and even family, but they were rarely close enough to be a bother for the likes of him. Could it be simple pride, or some karmic beauty that brought him to such a place as this?
Eyes alighting on an old fashioned record player, he stood and wandered over to it, mulling over the records lying nearby. Old, but in excellent repair, each one well taken care of, and hearkening back to the jazz of a previous age. Selecting an old favorite, one learned in the depths of childhood, he set it in the player and let the needle catch. Soft, syncopated melodies simpered through the room, mixing well with the smells of wood burning and the aromas of brandy. It was a heady bouquet, not lessened by the addictive thrill of stepping into another man's life, stealing his most valuable belongings, and waltzing out again, insolent as a boy stealing pies out of windows.
Settling back into the chair, he returned his mind to the question at hand, mulling over the opposing possibility. Could it be hope? In the man in black's experience, hope was an even greater delusion than hubris. Pride could at least be deserved, but hope never was. No one who hoped got what they hoped for, though those who worked sometimes got what they worked for. Smiling to himself, he allowed the slight tangential thought of those who stole always got what they wanted without working to skip through his thoughts.
Hope? What of hope. Who with so much money would be so delusional as to hope that no one would ever steal it?! Why, it must tempt every man who walked down the street, that big house on the big hill, with its reek of old money and luxurious pomp. Or maybe it was hope in some higher nature of Man, some better part that would keep men from the invitation of that unlocked door... A derisive laugh followed this thought, the man in black reflected that if that were true, he'd starve to death rather quickly!
Sipping the brandy, he thought more and more, but could arrive at no answer. He couldn't imagine it was hope, that possibility was simply too crazy, too mad to be truly countenanced. But the trappings of the stranger who owned the house didn't speak of pride. There had been no fancy car in the garage, there was no massive TV in the sitting room, no entertainment room in the whole place. This was the abode of a man who loved his simple things. His books. His brandy, his roaring fire. And of course, his jazz. He murmured and muttered, "Hubris or hope?"
Then the lights flared, bright and hot, or at least hot to the man in black, who suddenly felt coated in sweat. To his dark adjusted eyes, the few lamps of the room, which had just burst into seemingly scintillating brightness, hurt, and he had to squeeze them shut for a few moments. When he opened them, he started up out of the chair in shock, dropping the brandy snifter onto the floor with a muted thud and staining the carpet.
Before him, in the doorway, stood a man, regarding him calmly as he swore and tried to get out from behind the desk. The man in black knew better than to speak, all he had to do was bind the man and he could be about his business and on his way. Stupid, he cursed himself, stupid! Sitting around thinking with a job to do, stupider than he had been since he was a boy.
"John?" came the voice, and the man started again, eyes widening.
"Is that you?" No more than a whisper now, there was no way it could compete with the blood pounding in the man in black's ears. Yet it did. For all the sibilant jazz, for all the roar of the fire, for all the hammering in his own ears, the man called John heard. And tried to bolt, but there was nowhere to run. The room had one exit, and the stranger who wasn't a stranger, no not a stranger at all, still stood there, staring, the strangest expression on his face.
His eyes darting futilely, John considered how to escape, when the man in the door spoke again.
"It was hope."
"What?" Mind on the verge of panic, John didn't truly comprehend. It seemed as if the words came from another dimension, another universe even, not across the room. Not from the one person he had not at all meant to see, not at all expected to see again in his life. It was all he could do to ask that single question.
"Hope. You kept asking, 'Hubris or hope?' Well, it was hope. Ever since the day you left, no matter where I've been, I've always left the door open. I've never given up hope that one day you'd come home, son. I've been robbed 15 times because of that hope, and each time I counted it a fair trade. I never treasured anything the way I loved you."
John only realized that the stranger who wasn't a stranger had crossed the room when his arms wrapped around him in a warm hug. And through his sobs he heard his father say,
"Welcome home, son. I forgive you."
And as such, the man in black was aptly suited to taking advantage of its hospitality, for he was a perpetual stranger. Everywhere he went he was a stranger, and he was almost universally feared, where he was not universally forgotten. And that's what always prompted the question. Hubris or hope?
The fire gave off a ruddy light that showed the room well, and indeed had its opportunity as no other lights were on. Too much light bothered the man in black. For the man in black, as you've likely guessed, is what those in polite society call a burglar, and this night he was burgling a house on a hill, a beautiful old place, of which the welcoming office was merely one room, though one in which he expected to find a safe with an even more welcome abundance. But he paused for a moment and, with an almost arrogant ease, settled himself into the comfortable chair behind the desk. The man didn't know the owner of this house, he preferred the challenge of robbing with a handicap. Besides, it could make for messy situations, those who you knew, you tended to predict, but people so often did the seemingly unpredictable (which was really just the predictable things you were blind to because you thought you knew them). And the seemingly unpredictable was hard on a burglar's health.
Regardless, this house that had been invaded by a stranger was owned by a stranger, but settled in the chair behind the desk and before the fire, the man in black almost felt he knew its true occupant. Separated from the ego of the person, a man's belongings tell a lot about him. This room, and the whole of the burgled house, gave off the feel of a fatherly figure, an older man with silvering hair and a silver headed cane, a man who exudes wealth and class, even in the onset of infirmity. The books, the man in black was sure, would reveal a man with classic tastes, just as the brandy sitting in a half-empty decanter on on shelf revealed a man with a small vice, one small indulgence (and having already sampled the contents, an indulgence of a rather expensive sort). Indeed, he even reminded the man in black somewhat of his own father, though that memory was ruthlessly suppressed. He'd left the old man behind in his youth, and never looked back. Or at least had only done so rarely. After all, how could you apologize for robbing your own father, for stealing his treasured collection and selling them and running away to escape his wrath? His regrets were for the cold, dark times, not now, not here before the fire and the brandy.
Leaning back in the chair and swirling his brandy, the man in black pondered. Yes, was it hubris, or was it hope, that caused even those who should best keep vigilant to forget about him, the stranger, the thief in the night. Expecting to find a complex alarm system, guard dogs, a host of security cameras and all the other trappings and array of paraphernalia designed to keep strangers out of the homes of the rich and indulgent, he had been shocked to find nothing of the sort. In fact, the locks on the doors were not even fastened, entering the house of a stranger had been easier than walking into his own. So was it hubris? Were those who lived here so daringly confident that they didn't even lock their doors at night or when they went away (and the man in black was reasonably sure that both were true in this instance)? What kind of mad arrogance would prompt a man with so much to lose to tempt fate into taking it. Who could possibly believe himself immune to tragedy?
The man in black let his eyes and his mind wander over the room. It was true that in some neighborhoods, where crime was rarer and bonds between neighbors tighter, you could find nine out of ten houses with unlocked doors and entries. But those places generally had fewer goods worth stealing, and a lot more risk of being caught and recognized as a stranger doing what strangers were most feared of doing. Big houses on big hills, like this one, had no close neighbors. The owners of such places, almost as a rule, had friends and compatriots, and even family, but they were rarely close enough to be a bother for the likes of him. Could it be simple pride, or some karmic beauty that brought him to such a place as this?
Eyes alighting on an old fashioned record player, he stood and wandered over to it, mulling over the records lying nearby. Old, but in excellent repair, each one well taken care of, and hearkening back to the jazz of a previous age. Selecting an old favorite, one learned in the depths of childhood, he set it in the player and let the needle catch. Soft, syncopated melodies simpered through the room, mixing well with the smells of wood burning and the aromas of brandy. It was a heady bouquet, not lessened by the addictive thrill of stepping into another man's life, stealing his most valuable belongings, and waltzing out again, insolent as a boy stealing pies out of windows.
Settling back into the chair, he returned his mind to the question at hand, mulling over the opposing possibility. Could it be hope? In the man in black's experience, hope was an even greater delusion than hubris. Pride could at least be deserved, but hope never was. No one who hoped got what they hoped for, though those who worked sometimes got what they worked for. Smiling to himself, he allowed the slight tangential thought of those who stole always got what they wanted without working to skip through his thoughts.
Hope? What of hope. Who with so much money would be so delusional as to hope that no one would ever steal it?! Why, it must tempt every man who walked down the street, that big house on the big hill, with its reek of old money and luxurious pomp. Or maybe it was hope in some higher nature of Man, some better part that would keep men from the invitation of that unlocked door... A derisive laugh followed this thought, the man in black reflected that if that were true, he'd starve to death rather quickly!
Sipping the brandy, he thought more and more, but could arrive at no answer. He couldn't imagine it was hope, that possibility was simply too crazy, too mad to be truly countenanced. But the trappings of the stranger who owned the house didn't speak of pride. There had been no fancy car in the garage, there was no massive TV in the sitting room, no entertainment room in the whole place. This was the abode of a man who loved his simple things. His books. His brandy, his roaring fire. And of course, his jazz. He murmured and muttered, "Hubris or hope?"
Then the lights flared, bright and hot, or at least hot to the man in black, who suddenly felt coated in sweat. To his dark adjusted eyes, the few lamps of the room, which had just burst into seemingly scintillating brightness, hurt, and he had to squeeze them shut for a few moments. When he opened them, he started up out of the chair in shock, dropping the brandy snifter onto the floor with a muted thud and staining the carpet.
Before him, in the doorway, stood a man, regarding him calmly as he swore and tried to get out from behind the desk. The man in black knew better than to speak, all he had to do was bind the man and he could be about his business and on his way. Stupid, he cursed himself, stupid! Sitting around thinking with a job to do, stupider than he had been since he was a boy.
"John?" came the voice, and the man started again, eyes widening.
"Is that you?" No more than a whisper now, there was no way it could compete with the blood pounding in the man in black's ears. Yet it did. For all the sibilant jazz, for all the roar of the fire, for all the hammering in his own ears, the man called John heard. And tried to bolt, but there was nowhere to run. The room had one exit, and the stranger who wasn't a stranger, no not a stranger at all, still stood there, staring, the strangest expression on his face.
His eyes darting futilely, John considered how to escape, when the man in the door spoke again.
"It was hope."
"What?" Mind on the verge of panic, John didn't truly comprehend. It seemed as if the words came from another dimension, another universe even, not across the room. Not from the one person he had not at all meant to see, not at all expected to see again in his life. It was all he could do to ask that single question.
"Hope. You kept asking, 'Hubris or hope?' Well, it was hope. Ever since the day you left, no matter where I've been, I've always left the door open. I've never given up hope that one day you'd come home, son. I've been robbed 15 times because of that hope, and each time I counted it a fair trade. I never treasured anything the way I loved you."
John only realized that the stranger who wasn't a stranger had crossed the room when his arms wrapped around him in a warm hug. And through his sobs he heard his father say,
"Welcome home, son. I forgive you."
Thursday, March 26, 2009
"The Little Boy"
There once was a small child who desperately wanted to see a miracle. He went to Mass every Sunday with his dad and his mother and his brothers, and he heard the stories of Jesus and he felt amazed. He was sure that such miracles still happened, and he wanted to see one and know what it felt like to walk the world with Jesus.
So, being the scion of a devout Catholic family, he did what any Catholic does, and prayed. He prayed every night before bed for God to show him a miracle. He tried to be humble, the way his mother said you should be, so he never asked God for anything specific. He just asked resolutely for a miracle, any miracle, so that he could see.
But time passed, and he didn't see any miracles. Let down a little, his faith shook like a young tree in a hurricane. He wavered in his beliefs, and for such a young and usually boisterous lad, seemed even to his parents to be in a deep melancholy. But then he learned in CCD about how Saints had to have miracles attributed to them to be Saints, and he took heart, and he knew in the depths of his soul that miracles still had to occur, otherwise we couldn't have Saints! So he started praying again, adding to this prayers to various Saints that they had talked about in CCD class, like St. Peter and St. Paul. And again, time passed, but the boy persevered in his prayers for longer this time, holding onto hope as long as he could.
But still, no miracles came, and eventually his hope deflated, and it seemed to his family that a little light, one that had burned in his eyes for months and months, flickered and faded. And just when it was on the point of guttering out, he found himself at Mass again with his family, listening to the priest read one of the stories he enjoyed so much. And it was the story about how someone with the faith of a mustard seed could move the greatest mountain into the sea. But if that faith should waiver, the mountain would never move.
The boy, at this point, was a little bit tired of praying incessantly for something that would never come. But he thought, maybe this was the trial of faith, to ask for something even after you've given up hope of receiving it, and even without any expectation of reward or favor. So he prayed again, all that long week, and again the next week, and again the next, even as the light of hope that had sustained him faded away. And he knew that it was hopeless, but he prayed anyway, for faith to him became something that had to overcome despair, and triumph in the face of that loss.
But still, nothing. No miracles. The boy's despondency became so notable, that his mother came to him, and asked what was the matter. And the boy confided in her the whole sad story, and while he was not yet sophisticated enough to understand the depths of his own spiritual crisis, his mother, good Catholic woman that she was, understood all too well. And she reminded him in her own gentle and loving fashion that the purpose of prayer is not for our own will to be done, but for God's will to be done.
The boy seemed to take heart at this, and his mother left him to think, but in his heart of hearts, he didn't understand. Why tell his followers that their faith would be rewarded, that their requests granted, if Jesus's own will was the only important will? He thought about it day and night, and kept praying. In keeping with his mother's advice, he amended his prayers with the request, "And not my will, but yours, be done." But still nothing, and his despondency deepened.
And he was no longer eager to go to Mass, and he was no longer happy to speak with God, and he went to pray almost kicking and screaming, and sat in sullen and obdurate silence through the ever longer seeming Mass. He scorned the priests rituals, scoffed at the time it took out of his day, and refused to listen to the stories he had once held so dear. Until finally one day, he found himself so bored that he began to listen again, just to have something to do. And this time the story was of the man called Thomas, the doubter, and how he had demanded proof of Christ's resurrection. And Christ admonished him for having to see to believe.
The boy listened, and what is more, the boy heard, and by the time they reached home, the boy was fit to burst with sorrow. He realized himself to be just like Thomas, and knew he would never be worthy of God. His previous anger and melancholy was nothing compared to the darkness that settled upon him now, like a mantle obscuring all light and love.
He stopped praying.
And finally, on the next Sunday morning, his father took him alone to Mass, as his brothers and mother were out of town. And the boy finally screwed up the courage to ask his father, "Dad, have you ever seen a miracle?" And before he could answer, the entire story of his journey poured out of him, and the boy felt a huge weight lift as the catharsis of confession took place. And his father remained silent, listening carefully to every word, and taking them in until the boy had nothing left to say. The silence was unnerving, and the boy, fidgeting as boys do, finally had to repeat himself, "Well, have you ever seen one?!"
His father spoke slowly, in the reassuring way fathers have, the way that ensures their sons' idolization well into their teenage years, and said that, yes, in fact, he had. He had seen miracles. And, suddenly excited, the boy asked all the relevant questions, in typical boyish exuberance. When?! Where?! What happened?! Was it for you?! Did you pray for it?!
Again came the slow drawl of fatherly wisdom, like honey from the comb. Well, son, you see, I see them all the time, everywhere. There is a miracle that happens every day, all across the world, and it absolutely happens for me, and for you too. And I certainly do pray for it, I pray as hard and long as you have and longer. And you have too.
The boy didn't understand, and he asked his father to explain, and his father only said, "You'll see, son, you'll see."
And so they arrived at Mass, to the church of his youth, and they sat and listened to the readings, and the sermon, and they sat and they stood and sat again and stood again and finally they knelt. And the priest spoke out some words, and the boy didn't hear them, because as he spoke he lifted the little piece of bread on high, and it was not bread, but light, purest light, radiating from the priest's hands, as if the very sun sat between them. And then the priest lowered his hands, spoke some more, and still the boy could not hear the words for the sudden music to fill his ears, as all the choirs of angels sang and the chalice was lifted, and the symphonic, honeyed joy of God poured out into it and from it, washing through the Church in highlights of silver and gold.
The boy wept. He cried and cried and cried, he cried for the rest of Mass, he cried on the drive home, and he cries still. He's crying now. For God showed him a miracle, and had he only been watching, he would have seen it before, the sublime beauty of the greatest of all miracles, that brilliant gift of God. And he knew in that moment that so few others saw, and the only thing he could do was weep for the vision they couldn't share.
And now the boy who wouldn't stop praying, prays for you.
So, being the scion of a devout Catholic family, he did what any Catholic does, and prayed. He prayed every night before bed for God to show him a miracle. He tried to be humble, the way his mother said you should be, so he never asked God for anything specific. He just asked resolutely for a miracle, any miracle, so that he could see.
But time passed, and he didn't see any miracles. Let down a little, his faith shook like a young tree in a hurricane. He wavered in his beliefs, and for such a young and usually boisterous lad, seemed even to his parents to be in a deep melancholy. But then he learned in CCD about how Saints had to have miracles attributed to them to be Saints, and he took heart, and he knew in the depths of his soul that miracles still had to occur, otherwise we couldn't have Saints! So he started praying again, adding to this prayers to various Saints that they had talked about in CCD class, like St. Peter and St. Paul. And again, time passed, but the boy persevered in his prayers for longer this time, holding onto hope as long as he could.
But still, no miracles came, and eventually his hope deflated, and it seemed to his family that a little light, one that had burned in his eyes for months and months, flickered and faded. And just when it was on the point of guttering out, he found himself at Mass again with his family, listening to the priest read one of the stories he enjoyed so much. And it was the story about how someone with the faith of a mustard seed could move the greatest mountain into the sea. But if that faith should waiver, the mountain would never move.
The boy, at this point, was a little bit tired of praying incessantly for something that would never come. But he thought, maybe this was the trial of faith, to ask for something even after you've given up hope of receiving it, and even without any expectation of reward or favor. So he prayed again, all that long week, and again the next week, and again the next, even as the light of hope that had sustained him faded away. And he knew that it was hopeless, but he prayed anyway, for faith to him became something that had to overcome despair, and triumph in the face of that loss.
But still, nothing. No miracles. The boy's despondency became so notable, that his mother came to him, and asked what was the matter. And the boy confided in her the whole sad story, and while he was not yet sophisticated enough to understand the depths of his own spiritual crisis, his mother, good Catholic woman that she was, understood all too well. And she reminded him in her own gentle and loving fashion that the purpose of prayer is not for our own will to be done, but for God's will to be done.
The boy seemed to take heart at this, and his mother left him to think, but in his heart of hearts, he didn't understand. Why tell his followers that their faith would be rewarded, that their requests granted, if Jesus's own will was the only important will? He thought about it day and night, and kept praying. In keeping with his mother's advice, he amended his prayers with the request, "And not my will, but yours, be done." But still nothing, and his despondency deepened.
And he was no longer eager to go to Mass, and he was no longer happy to speak with God, and he went to pray almost kicking and screaming, and sat in sullen and obdurate silence through the ever longer seeming Mass. He scorned the priests rituals, scoffed at the time it took out of his day, and refused to listen to the stories he had once held so dear. Until finally one day, he found himself so bored that he began to listen again, just to have something to do. And this time the story was of the man called Thomas, the doubter, and how he had demanded proof of Christ's resurrection. And Christ admonished him for having to see to believe.
The boy listened, and what is more, the boy heard, and by the time they reached home, the boy was fit to burst with sorrow. He realized himself to be just like Thomas, and knew he would never be worthy of God. His previous anger and melancholy was nothing compared to the darkness that settled upon him now, like a mantle obscuring all light and love.
He stopped praying.
And finally, on the next Sunday morning, his father took him alone to Mass, as his brothers and mother were out of town. And the boy finally screwed up the courage to ask his father, "Dad, have you ever seen a miracle?" And before he could answer, the entire story of his journey poured out of him, and the boy felt a huge weight lift as the catharsis of confession took place. And his father remained silent, listening carefully to every word, and taking them in until the boy had nothing left to say. The silence was unnerving, and the boy, fidgeting as boys do, finally had to repeat himself, "Well, have you ever seen one?!"
His father spoke slowly, in the reassuring way fathers have, the way that ensures their sons' idolization well into their teenage years, and said that, yes, in fact, he had. He had seen miracles. And, suddenly excited, the boy asked all the relevant questions, in typical boyish exuberance. When?! Where?! What happened?! Was it for you?! Did you pray for it?!
Again came the slow drawl of fatherly wisdom, like honey from the comb. Well, son, you see, I see them all the time, everywhere. There is a miracle that happens every day, all across the world, and it absolutely happens for me, and for you too. And I certainly do pray for it, I pray as hard and long as you have and longer. And you have too.
The boy didn't understand, and he asked his father to explain, and his father only said, "You'll see, son, you'll see."
And so they arrived at Mass, to the church of his youth, and they sat and listened to the readings, and the sermon, and they sat and they stood and sat again and stood again and finally they knelt. And the priest spoke out some words, and the boy didn't hear them, because as he spoke he lifted the little piece of bread on high, and it was not bread, but light, purest light, radiating from the priest's hands, as if the very sun sat between them. And then the priest lowered his hands, spoke some more, and still the boy could not hear the words for the sudden music to fill his ears, as all the choirs of angels sang and the chalice was lifted, and the symphonic, honeyed joy of God poured out into it and from it, washing through the Church in highlights of silver and gold.
The boy wept. He cried and cried and cried, he cried for the rest of Mass, he cried on the drive home, and he cries still. He's crying now. For God showed him a miracle, and had he only been watching, he would have seen it before, the sublime beauty of the greatest of all miracles, that brilliant gift of God. And he knew in that moment that so few others saw, and the only thing he could do was weep for the vision they couldn't share.
And now the boy who wouldn't stop praying, prays for you.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
"The Mildly Famous Man of Moderation"
There was an old man once, who lived a life that was dedicated to moderation in all things. And I do mean all things. Everyone thought so. His wife had praised his choices as good enough while they were married, though she had died so many years before. Her love for him had been something wild and immoderate, as passionate at some times as it was dry at others, while his for hers had been the steady flame of a candle. Never bright and hot and burning to the touch, but at least never guttered out and gone. She had loved him for his faithful dedication, and thanked him for it, even while she was never quite satisfied with their life together. In fact, she even had one affair, a wild and passionate fling that he could not comprehend even when she told him about it on her death bed, and before he knew how to reply, she had been gone.
His neighbors were full of the kind of praise a man of such moderate living best loved hearing. If asked, those souls would say he was a modest fellow, not too caught up in having the largest house or the nicest garden, but spending just enough time taking care of his house and garden that they were respectable, and didn't offend the eye. But if they didn't offend, neither did they inspire, and sometimes the neighbors shook their heads at the good soil they felt wasted by the man of moderation. The man never heard these complaints, for indeed they never voiced them within his hearing, too embarrassed to suggest that the moderate way may not be the best way.
As for his friends, well, they were full of stories, the sort best told only among old friends who had found the events in question just as funny. And why? Because they were the sorts of stories you could only appreciate if you'd been there and knew the principle characters as well as you knew yourself. For these were stories of how the old man had apparently never been a young man, but had come just this close to committing some foolhardy deed, or a vast and vivid recollection of how the man without a youth had almost gone through with that great prank. In short, they were only enjoyable to those who knew the old man, and knew that he had always been an old soul, and they appreciated the irony of the stories.
His family would tell you that he was the sort of man who very much favored helping others, so long as they didn't become too interested in being helped. He had a very staunch and very stern philosophy regarding people who couldn't or wouldn't take care of themselves, and if he'd give you the shirt off his back when you needed it (and there are reports that he did at times do so), he'd still expect it returned clean by Tuesday, and thank you very much for the starch.
His practical principles had led him to father just two children, one boy, and one girl, one to marry and carry on the family name, and one to be given in marriage, and no more to trouble the family income or disturb their modest and moderate living. After all, he swore to himself, while they might never be rich, they could at least console themselves by never being poor.
His children would tell you that he was quite an excellent father, not given to flights of fancy or the sort of bombastic extravagance that other fathers heaped upon their children in play and at rest. Their words would tell you that they were glad to have had such a solid foundation in a man for their families, a man who, while he never raised their spirits, at least never disappointed them either. After they grew up, they counted it a fair exchange to have never had a bed time story created out of thin air and the magic of the imagination for the stable values he had taught them through stolid repetition. The only slightly curious fact in his children, something he never quite understood, was that neither took the same approach towards their children, and indeed, they could never explain why themselves.
There is more that could be said about this man of reasonable goodness, but let us suffice it to say that he was the sort of fellow who believed himself to have lead a good enough life, and was satisfied as he approached its twilight that he would be able to continue his practical existence with God in Heaven, (if God and Heaven truly existed), and who he saw as the very first to propound that beautifully austere maxim, "Moderation in all things," even if just as a mythological character in a story he would normally not have read.
So the old man, after some time, passed on, dying a respectable death of old age at the average age of 72, his breath giving out as he slept. His son remarked in the eulogy that it was exactly the sort of death he imagined the old man would have wanted, and while he cried, he begged everyone else to remember the man who had never shed a tear, even if it had meant that he could never truly laugh.
And finding himself dead, the man did the only practical thing there is to do. He went directly to the Gates of Heaven and St. Peter, fully confident in his admission, and sure that he had been good enough for God.
But something strange happened there. When he arrived, he found that the Gates were shut, and St. Peter was not around. Being a simple and reasonable man, he sat himself down to wait and in the meantime studied the exemplary architecture of the Gates, which seemed to be made of a luminous white stone, carved in a delicate pattern and gilded in gold brighter than the sun. He even went so far as to fancy that he himself would have enjoyed having so beautiful a gate at his own home, if only he had ever seen one rendered like this. So caught up in his admiration was he that he didn't notice the return of a rather flustered St. Peter, who held in his hands a very long bit of parchment. St. Peter, in fact, had to clear his throat rather roughly to earn the attention of the man of moderation, who immediately stood up and stuck out his hands in the ritual greeting of the rational man everywhere.
With a rather amused twinkle in his eyes, St. Peter shook the man's hand, and then asked him if he was lost and needed directions, almost as if he didn't know his duty as the Gate-Keeper to Heaven. The old man (who suddenly realized that now that he had died he didn't feel so old), said that no, he had quite found the place he meant to be, and was waiting for St. Peter to do the reasonable thing in opening the Gates. St. Peter then had the temerity to do something most unreasonable. He laughed! He laughed right in the old man's face and exclaimed, "But wait, aren't you so-and-so, the mildly famous man of moderation?" Impressed, and, he could admit to himself, rather pleased at this recognition by the great St. Peter, the old man fairly preened in replying that yes, he was indeed that man.
Of course, this, it turned out, was entirely the wrong thing to say, as St. Peter shortly thereafter pronounced that he could not go in, but he (St. Peter) would be happy to give him directions to somewhere else that he could go. Confused, the old man asked what St. Peter could possibly mean. After all, his whole life he had dedicated himself to that most difficult to master of virtues; moderation. He had never drunk too much, nor had he ever been too angry, he'd never felt too much of any one of the passions which could be twisted to vice. He protested mightily that he'd been good enough all his life, and that everyone thought so, and indeed, he presented a fairly convincing case.
In reply to all this St. Peter merely unfolded his parchment, and read, and then said to the old man that if he could answer any single one of the questions that St. Peter would ask about him with a yes, honestly and fairly, then he would open the Gates and let him in. The man replied that any one who lived a life of moderation and practicality had nothing to fear from such an interview, and so readily agreed.
The first question St. Peter asked was whether he had ever cheated on his wife, but then repented, and asked her forgiveness. The man replied happily that no, he had never cheated on his wife. St. Peter frowned at this, and the man wondered why, surely the Apostle couldn't want him to have cheated on his wife.
The second question asked, concerned whether the man had ever told his children something that wasn't true, even if only to amuse them, by enticing their imaginations into a world beyond the one they lived in. The man replied firmly that he never lied to his children, and certainly never tried to encourage such fantastical codswallop. The world was a practical place of firm realities, and that was what he encouraged in his children. To his disappointment, St. Peter's frown only grew worse, with furrows creasing his brows and a sorrowful sort of pain creeping into his expression. The old man couldn't understand, not even for the everlasting life of him, but he imagined his heart had skipped a beat. Nonsense, of course, he reminded himself, since here he didn't have a heart.
The third question inquired as to whether the old man had ever committed some act of foolhardy bravado and impetuosity, even if no one would truly have been hurt by it, or would have found it a most splendid sort of joke. The man answered easily that he had never believed in such activities, and was proud to have lived a life without heart pounding adventures. They weren't at all the sort of adventures a man of moderation would pursue, though he retold with relish the story of how he once almost ate from a jar of expired mayonnaise, and was rather disappointed when St. Peter didn't sigh with relief, or smile, or give any signal of approbation as he revealed that he'd caught himself just in time by catching a glimpse of the expiration date as he returned the jar to his refrigerator. He hadn't wanted St. Peter to think he was a risk taker, after all. Indeed, St. Peter's response to this only furthered his dismay. He remembered suddenly that the Saint had declared he could only enter if he could answer with an honest "Yes!" and now the old man started to feel the pressure. He didn't know how many questions were left, but he was desperate to find one that he could answer with a yes.
The questions continued for some time as St. Peter scrolled down his parchment asking question after question, all of the strangest sort conceivable, from whether the man had ever written a sonnet (no, he had always found poetry to be far too frivolous, but he had written an excellent essay on geology) to whether he had ever worn the same pair of underwear twice in a row without washing them, (no, of course not, that was hardly hygienic!). Question after question came, and the man could not answer yes to any of them. As you can imagine, his predicament began to tell on him, and his voice grew hoarse, and his eyes darted about seeking some means of escape. That the practical reality of his lack of eyes here never occurred to him should serve to inform the reader as to just how deplorable a state this man of moderate virtue had been reduced to.
Finally St. Peter announced that he had reached the final question. If the old man could not answer this one in the affirmative, he could not enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. The final question was, without doubt, the oddest of all to that point. It was very simple, and somehow the man thought it was very telling, even if he wasn't sure how. It went simply, "Have you ever given anything without expecting something in return?" and the man had the most difficult time answering it, not simply because it was his last opportunity. He cast about through all his memories, to the time he had given away his shoes for a sandwich, to the time he had given up his shirt, but only once it was agreed that he'd get back a coat. And with growing trepidation, he realized that he could not answer this. Never had he given change to a beggar, instead he'd always given the solid advice of employment. Never had he given his coat to his wife, instead, he'd gone shopping with her so she would have her own. He could not think of any instance where he had truly just given away something of his own without the expectation that he'd receive something in return, and as he did so, his heart sank and sank, until it seemed as if some part of him was drowning or buried with it.
St. Peter looked at him, and the expression of sorrow had grown to a look of horrible pity as he rolled up his parchment list, and the man could not bear it. One more, he cried, one more! One more try, please, oh please, give me one more chance!
St. Peter felt such pity for the man, and he remembered his own life and his own failure to answer a certain set of questions with a simple yes, and he decided that just this once, he would allow for one more question. The man nearly fainted with relief when he heard, and set himself to answer it, come what may.
St. Peter stood quietly for a long moment, considering the man, considering the question to be asked, and finally, he spoke, "Have you ever admired anything of beauty, simply because it was beautiful, and for no practical or reasonable reason whatsoever?"
Looking back on his life, the man could not answer. He had never been one for art or frivolous pleasures of any sort, and from his earliest memories, now restored by death, he searched avidly for some recollection of beauty. All throughout his life he went, until finally he came to his moments before the Gates, those beautiful, brilliant Gates, and looking up he trembled. St. Peter began to smile just as the man gave a shout, "Yes! Yes, I truly have!" And he leaped up to his feet (never realizing he had sunk to his knees) and danced about (something he would never have done in life), and whirled St. Peter about in a frenzy of joy so contagious it seemed St. Peter couldn't resist laughing right along.
Finally, after calming down, the man asked St. Peter why he hadn't been good enough in life to enter Heaven, why he was initially denied entry... and St. Peter responded soberly that; first, no man was ever good enough, because, in strict point of fact, there was no such thing as "good enough." A man could be as good as God could make him, or he could be not good at all, there was no dividing line between good and evil that one could stand on just the right side of to enter Heaven. Loving God was an all or nothing deal, he explained. The second point was because, since no one was ever good enough, God had to make them good, and that required faith, a thing altogether frivolous and impractical, and deeply related to all the things that St. Peter had asked the man about, like Beauty, Imagination, Love and Repentance. While it was true that the man had never committed any great wrong, St. Peter pointed out that Heaven was for the living who had died on Earth but lived in Christ, and he pointed out with some asperity that the man had never truly lived at all. And with that, the old man's change from old to young, which had begun so early in the exchange, was complete, and he felt again all the passions and humors of youth, the exuberance of love, and remembered memories long since buried of passion and love with his wife, of the joy in his heart upon beholding the faces of his children at their births, of the raucous jokes he told his friends in their childhood, and the pranks he played upon his sisters.
Stunned, he looked at St. Peter, and St. Peter smiled. All along, the man had denied himself the very memory of his humanity, and he realized as the tears poured down the cheeks he certainly had, how much he had missed, and how much he had forgotten and lost, and he finally understood all the sorrow he'd buried with the pleasure he'd ignored. Indeed, there was no such thing as "good enough," but there was at least such a thing as "good." His knees hit the ground with a dull thud, but he didn't notice. He looked up at St. Peter, and asked if he could go in now. St. Peter smiled, and said no, but that he could go on living. And with that, the old man awoke, and the very first thing he did (of many rather rather impractical things to come), was build a beautiful gate to lead up to his house...
His neighbors were full of the kind of praise a man of such moderate living best loved hearing. If asked, those souls would say he was a modest fellow, not too caught up in having the largest house or the nicest garden, but spending just enough time taking care of his house and garden that they were respectable, and didn't offend the eye. But if they didn't offend, neither did they inspire, and sometimes the neighbors shook their heads at the good soil they felt wasted by the man of moderation. The man never heard these complaints, for indeed they never voiced them within his hearing, too embarrassed to suggest that the moderate way may not be the best way.
As for his friends, well, they were full of stories, the sort best told only among old friends who had found the events in question just as funny. And why? Because they were the sorts of stories you could only appreciate if you'd been there and knew the principle characters as well as you knew yourself. For these were stories of how the old man had apparently never been a young man, but had come just this close to committing some foolhardy deed, or a vast and vivid recollection of how the man without a youth had almost gone through with that great prank. In short, they were only enjoyable to those who knew the old man, and knew that he had always been an old soul, and they appreciated the irony of the stories.
His family would tell you that he was the sort of man who very much favored helping others, so long as they didn't become too interested in being helped. He had a very staunch and very stern philosophy regarding people who couldn't or wouldn't take care of themselves, and if he'd give you the shirt off his back when you needed it (and there are reports that he did at times do so), he'd still expect it returned clean by Tuesday, and thank you very much for the starch.
His practical principles had led him to father just two children, one boy, and one girl, one to marry and carry on the family name, and one to be given in marriage, and no more to trouble the family income or disturb their modest and moderate living. After all, he swore to himself, while they might never be rich, they could at least console themselves by never being poor.
His children would tell you that he was quite an excellent father, not given to flights of fancy or the sort of bombastic extravagance that other fathers heaped upon their children in play and at rest. Their words would tell you that they were glad to have had such a solid foundation in a man for their families, a man who, while he never raised their spirits, at least never disappointed them either. After they grew up, they counted it a fair exchange to have never had a bed time story created out of thin air and the magic of the imagination for the stable values he had taught them through stolid repetition. The only slightly curious fact in his children, something he never quite understood, was that neither took the same approach towards their children, and indeed, they could never explain why themselves.
There is more that could be said about this man of reasonable goodness, but let us suffice it to say that he was the sort of fellow who believed himself to have lead a good enough life, and was satisfied as he approached its twilight that he would be able to continue his practical existence with God in Heaven, (if God and Heaven truly existed), and who he saw as the very first to propound that beautifully austere maxim, "Moderation in all things," even if just as a mythological character in a story he would normally not have read.
So the old man, after some time, passed on, dying a respectable death of old age at the average age of 72, his breath giving out as he slept. His son remarked in the eulogy that it was exactly the sort of death he imagined the old man would have wanted, and while he cried, he begged everyone else to remember the man who had never shed a tear, even if it had meant that he could never truly laugh.
And finding himself dead, the man did the only practical thing there is to do. He went directly to the Gates of Heaven and St. Peter, fully confident in his admission, and sure that he had been good enough for God.
But something strange happened there. When he arrived, he found that the Gates were shut, and St. Peter was not around. Being a simple and reasonable man, he sat himself down to wait and in the meantime studied the exemplary architecture of the Gates, which seemed to be made of a luminous white stone, carved in a delicate pattern and gilded in gold brighter than the sun. He even went so far as to fancy that he himself would have enjoyed having so beautiful a gate at his own home, if only he had ever seen one rendered like this. So caught up in his admiration was he that he didn't notice the return of a rather flustered St. Peter, who held in his hands a very long bit of parchment. St. Peter, in fact, had to clear his throat rather roughly to earn the attention of the man of moderation, who immediately stood up and stuck out his hands in the ritual greeting of the rational man everywhere.
With a rather amused twinkle in his eyes, St. Peter shook the man's hand, and then asked him if he was lost and needed directions, almost as if he didn't know his duty as the Gate-Keeper to Heaven. The old man (who suddenly realized that now that he had died he didn't feel so old), said that no, he had quite found the place he meant to be, and was waiting for St. Peter to do the reasonable thing in opening the Gates. St. Peter then had the temerity to do something most unreasonable. He laughed! He laughed right in the old man's face and exclaimed, "But wait, aren't you so-and-so, the mildly famous man of moderation?" Impressed, and, he could admit to himself, rather pleased at this recognition by the great St. Peter, the old man fairly preened in replying that yes, he was indeed that man.
Of course, this, it turned out, was entirely the wrong thing to say, as St. Peter shortly thereafter pronounced that he could not go in, but he (St. Peter) would be happy to give him directions to somewhere else that he could go. Confused, the old man asked what St. Peter could possibly mean. After all, his whole life he had dedicated himself to that most difficult to master of virtues; moderation. He had never drunk too much, nor had he ever been too angry, he'd never felt too much of any one of the passions which could be twisted to vice. He protested mightily that he'd been good enough all his life, and that everyone thought so, and indeed, he presented a fairly convincing case.
In reply to all this St. Peter merely unfolded his parchment, and read, and then said to the old man that if he could answer any single one of the questions that St. Peter would ask about him with a yes, honestly and fairly, then he would open the Gates and let him in. The man replied that any one who lived a life of moderation and practicality had nothing to fear from such an interview, and so readily agreed.
The first question St. Peter asked was whether he had ever cheated on his wife, but then repented, and asked her forgiveness. The man replied happily that no, he had never cheated on his wife. St. Peter frowned at this, and the man wondered why, surely the Apostle couldn't want him to have cheated on his wife.
The second question asked, concerned whether the man had ever told his children something that wasn't true, even if only to amuse them, by enticing their imaginations into a world beyond the one they lived in. The man replied firmly that he never lied to his children, and certainly never tried to encourage such fantastical codswallop. The world was a practical place of firm realities, and that was what he encouraged in his children. To his disappointment, St. Peter's frown only grew worse, with furrows creasing his brows and a sorrowful sort of pain creeping into his expression. The old man couldn't understand, not even for the everlasting life of him, but he imagined his heart had skipped a beat. Nonsense, of course, he reminded himself, since here he didn't have a heart.
The third question inquired as to whether the old man had ever committed some act of foolhardy bravado and impetuosity, even if no one would truly have been hurt by it, or would have found it a most splendid sort of joke. The man answered easily that he had never believed in such activities, and was proud to have lived a life without heart pounding adventures. They weren't at all the sort of adventures a man of moderation would pursue, though he retold with relish the story of how he once almost ate from a jar of expired mayonnaise, and was rather disappointed when St. Peter didn't sigh with relief, or smile, or give any signal of approbation as he revealed that he'd caught himself just in time by catching a glimpse of the expiration date as he returned the jar to his refrigerator. He hadn't wanted St. Peter to think he was a risk taker, after all. Indeed, St. Peter's response to this only furthered his dismay. He remembered suddenly that the Saint had declared he could only enter if he could answer with an honest "Yes!" and now the old man started to feel the pressure. He didn't know how many questions were left, but he was desperate to find one that he could answer with a yes.
The questions continued for some time as St. Peter scrolled down his parchment asking question after question, all of the strangest sort conceivable, from whether the man had ever written a sonnet (no, he had always found poetry to be far too frivolous, but he had written an excellent essay on geology) to whether he had ever worn the same pair of underwear twice in a row without washing them, (no, of course not, that was hardly hygienic!). Question after question came, and the man could not answer yes to any of them. As you can imagine, his predicament began to tell on him, and his voice grew hoarse, and his eyes darted about seeking some means of escape. That the practical reality of his lack of eyes here never occurred to him should serve to inform the reader as to just how deplorable a state this man of moderate virtue had been reduced to.
Finally St. Peter announced that he had reached the final question. If the old man could not answer this one in the affirmative, he could not enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. The final question was, without doubt, the oddest of all to that point. It was very simple, and somehow the man thought it was very telling, even if he wasn't sure how. It went simply, "Have you ever given anything without expecting something in return?" and the man had the most difficult time answering it, not simply because it was his last opportunity. He cast about through all his memories, to the time he had given away his shoes for a sandwich, to the time he had given up his shirt, but only once it was agreed that he'd get back a coat. And with growing trepidation, he realized that he could not answer this. Never had he given change to a beggar, instead he'd always given the solid advice of employment. Never had he given his coat to his wife, instead, he'd gone shopping with her so she would have her own. He could not think of any instance where he had truly just given away something of his own without the expectation that he'd receive something in return, and as he did so, his heart sank and sank, until it seemed as if some part of him was drowning or buried with it.
St. Peter looked at him, and the expression of sorrow had grown to a look of horrible pity as he rolled up his parchment list, and the man could not bear it. One more, he cried, one more! One more try, please, oh please, give me one more chance!
St. Peter felt such pity for the man, and he remembered his own life and his own failure to answer a certain set of questions with a simple yes, and he decided that just this once, he would allow for one more question. The man nearly fainted with relief when he heard, and set himself to answer it, come what may.
St. Peter stood quietly for a long moment, considering the man, considering the question to be asked, and finally, he spoke, "Have you ever admired anything of beauty, simply because it was beautiful, and for no practical or reasonable reason whatsoever?"
Looking back on his life, the man could not answer. He had never been one for art or frivolous pleasures of any sort, and from his earliest memories, now restored by death, he searched avidly for some recollection of beauty. All throughout his life he went, until finally he came to his moments before the Gates, those beautiful, brilliant Gates, and looking up he trembled. St. Peter began to smile just as the man gave a shout, "Yes! Yes, I truly have!" And he leaped up to his feet (never realizing he had sunk to his knees) and danced about (something he would never have done in life), and whirled St. Peter about in a frenzy of joy so contagious it seemed St. Peter couldn't resist laughing right along.
Finally, after calming down, the man asked St. Peter why he hadn't been good enough in life to enter Heaven, why he was initially denied entry... and St. Peter responded soberly that; first, no man was ever good enough, because, in strict point of fact, there was no such thing as "good enough." A man could be as good as God could make him, or he could be not good at all, there was no dividing line between good and evil that one could stand on just the right side of to enter Heaven. Loving God was an all or nothing deal, he explained. The second point was because, since no one was ever good enough, God had to make them good, and that required faith, a thing altogether frivolous and impractical, and deeply related to all the things that St. Peter had asked the man about, like Beauty, Imagination, Love and Repentance. While it was true that the man had never committed any great wrong, St. Peter pointed out that Heaven was for the living who had died on Earth but lived in Christ, and he pointed out with some asperity that the man had never truly lived at all. And with that, the old man's change from old to young, which had begun so early in the exchange, was complete, and he felt again all the passions and humors of youth, the exuberance of love, and remembered memories long since buried of passion and love with his wife, of the joy in his heart upon beholding the faces of his children at their births, of the raucous jokes he told his friends in their childhood, and the pranks he played upon his sisters.
Stunned, he looked at St. Peter, and St. Peter smiled. All along, the man had denied himself the very memory of his humanity, and he realized as the tears poured down the cheeks he certainly had, how much he had missed, and how much he had forgotten and lost, and he finally understood all the sorrow he'd buried with the pleasure he'd ignored. Indeed, there was no such thing as "good enough," but there was at least such a thing as "good." His knees hit the ground with a dull thud, but he didn't notice. He looked up at St. Peter, and asked if he could go in now. St. Peter smiled, and said no, but that he could go on living. And with that, the old man awoke, and the very first thing he did (of many rather rather impractical things to come), was build a beautiful gate to lead up to his house...
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
"The Instinctive Romantic"
The instinctive Romantic,
lives life like a dream.
Surprise his chief pleasure,
and Beauty his queen
He yet sees the magic
of the mountains and sea.
And a flying priest's chair,
he'll toast with fine mead!
Round the ocean Atlantic,
he wanders unseen.
Discovery his business,
yet his home is his means!
Sometimes he runs frantic,
his face long and lean,
but its never his measure,
for he laughs in between!
Oft lonely and tragic,
but always quite keen,
to fly through the air
or jump in a stream!
Oh adventurous antics,
and a boast unforeseen...
Rediscovered the lessons
of the Apostolic See!
And so I shall pray,
lest I become quite the manic,
Oh Lord, may I say,
make me an instinctive Romantic!
lives life like a dream.
Surprise his chief pleasure,
and Beauty his queen
He yet sees the magic
of the mountains and sea.
And a flying priest's chair,
he'll toast with fine mead!
Round the ocean Atlantic,
he wanders unseen.
Discovery his business,
yet his home is his means!
Sometimes he runs frantic,
his face long and lean,
but its never his measure,
for he laughs in between!
Oft lonely and tragic,
but always quite keen,
to fly through the air
or jump in a stream!
Oh adventurous antics,
and a boast unforeseen...
Rediscovered the lessons
of the Apostolic See!
And so I shall pray,
lest I become quite the manic,
Oh Lord, may I say,
make me an instinctive Romantic!
Introduction:
Hello,
"The Instinctive Romantic" is actually the title of a piece of poetry I wrote some time back, but I felt it would serve fairly well as the title for my more casual blog as well, since it accurately depicts my own nature as a Romantic, and one who can only claim to be so through an instinct towards Romanticism.
This will be the place where I post my musings and writings that aren't specifically related to apologetics, including samples of my poetry and excerpts from my books. If you are more interested in my apologetics writing, please check out my other blog, The Unread Apologist.
See you around!
"The Instinctive Romantic" is actually the title of a piece of poetry I wrote some time back, but I felt it would serve fairly well as the title for my more casual blog as well, since it accurately depicts my own nature as a Romantic, and one who can only claim to be so through an instinct towards Romanticism.
This will be the place where I post my musings and writings that aren't specifically related to apologetics, including samples of my poetry and excerpts from my books. If you are more interested in my apologetics writing, please check out my other blog, The Unread Apologist.
See you around!
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