If hell froze over, I shall not desire a visit
To a place where the flesh is bitter
I couldn't abide by the depths of the snow
where breath sputters a dance of muted life
And the joints of bones rattle apart
to leave a flaccid feed sack of a body.
I'd rather delight in eternal damnation
with hot fires roaring on the circumference of my abode
(Sitting with my fellow sinners)
roasting Smores in the scorching flames
and singing utopian camp songs from a yesteryear.
A preference - distinct - for the antonym
where I don capped sleeves and sandals.
For tattered quilts (while aesthetically pleasing),
never quite fit the bill.
Instead I'd drift to my land of slumber
wiping away pools of sweat
Rather than fight frozen lashes in a desolate blizzard
under mountains of heavy cotton and wool.
A sheet of ice permits no life
(no singing birds nor chirping of crickets);
Fingers of rigid purple provide no warmth
and my back breaks, shoveling an eternity of snow.
I can live without the cold face of a snowman
without sledding down a hill
without blades on a frozen pond
without a bitter and bracing wind.
Yes, if heaven holds winters, then I shall pass
(and forfeit angelic wings).
I shall prefer to camp out with Apollyon
by the glow of a crackling fire,
graciously thanking him for the invitation to his eternal party.
We'd gather 'round the bonfire
to tell stories of when heaven froze over.
-- Untitled, by Joye L. Henrie
The new garden I have has wonderful plants,
But I still have to pull weeds of doubt and guilt,
It’s my responsibility now.
As a child must grow and leave the safety of home,
I have grown and left the eternal security of heaven.
I have outgrown my god, and laid him to rest.
-- Excerpt from Untitled, by Bill Barnes
Once upon a time, in the beginning of time itself, there was the sea.
The ruler of the sea was the great Narcaclea.
He was powerful beyond imagining, his tentacles stretched through every corner of the earth, his song was heard through out space, and he will outlast time itself.
Man was just beginning, Man was arrogant; Man thought himself greater than the world.
So Man went down to the deepest, darkest place of the sea, so far down that light itself had long ago given up its search for it. And there Man found Narcaclea. Narcaclea challenged Man. “I am powerful beyond imagining.” He said unto Man, “My tentacles stretch through every corner of the earth, my song is heard through out space, and I will outlast time itself.” Man thought awhile, pondered Narcaclea’s claim. There was a long silence; Narcaclea stared into Man’s eyes, daring him to top his boast. Then Man took out his spear, killed Narcaclea, and ate him.
-- And in a Moment of Silence, I Thought of This...., by Aeger
On Emerson's The Rhodora, by LemonJello:
I have always liked the poem The Rhodora by Emerson -- although certainly not for the reasons that Emerson would have designed. While I myself may never happen upon this supposed beautiful flower that adorns and enlivens the forest floor, that in itself certainly does not imply that the flower does not have a place in this wide world. However, I frankly do not think that it is my responsibiity to scour every inch of the forest floor to find this alleged object of others' desires which may or may not even exist. Quite simply, I have better things to do with my time. Men come beating on my door at the most awkward of times, telling me that they have seen the most beautiful, amazing flower; and I must, pray must!, see it for my own eyes. For a while, I play along and politely ask them to just describe the flower to me; but they cannot, for they stubbornly insist that its elegance cannot be done justice with mere words. All I have to do, they say, is drop everything and anything and hike for endless hours deep into the dark woods on a poorly marked maze of a trail, and I might (just maybe) see the divine flower for myself. All I can say is "Bugger the hell off, and quit beatin' on my goddamn door. I have a whole garden of beautiful flowers right here in my backyard that I cultivated with my own tired hands." I have grown impatient with their silly flower talk.
449.
I died for Beauty--but was scarce
Adjusted in the Tomb
When One who died for Truth, was lain
In an adjoining Room--
He questioned softly "Why I failed?"
"For Beauty," I replied--
"And I--for Truth--Themself are One--
We Brethren are," He said--
And so, as Kinsmen, met at Night--
We talked between the Rooms--
Until the Moss had reached our lips--
And covered up--our names--
Emily Dickinson c. 1862 (1980)
- Joined
- 08 Dec 04
- Moves
- 100919
In his book, Connecting, Larry Crabb writes:
Our fiercest battles are fought when we seek with all our heart to trust God so fully…and know Him so richly that we turn to no one and nothing else to experience what our souls long to enjoy, to love Him so completely and with such consuming passion that we hate anything that comes between us and eagerly give it up…Do I trust Him to continue working in my life even when I am plagued by crippling emotions? Do I know Him well enough to turn to Him for comfort rather than demand relief from my pain through whatever means are available? Do I love Him so deeply that I welcome additional suffering that might draw my soul closer to Him? Will I pay any price to know Him well?
- Joined
- 08 Dec 04
- Moves
- 100919
Sin is any effort to make life work without absolute dependence upon God. It is giving higher priority to my satisfaction than to God’s pleasure, it involves a follow-up commitment to find joy for my soul outside of God, a commitment rooted in the belief that there is something truly good that God does not provide. It boils down to self-dependence, self-preoccupation and self-centeredness, attitudes that look to other people and things for the satisfaction we were designed to enjoy. It is looking at God and saying, “No!” or, worse, dismissing him as we would a bellhop after he’s carried our bags to the room.
Larry Crabb
Culture and organized religion conspire to trick us into believing that entrances to holiness are only at predictable times and prearranged places…Otherwise people would not pay their dues. And most of us professional holy people would have to set out again in search of the Nameless One.
The cycle alternates between grand cathedrals and meditation amidst the trees of the forest. When people become convinced that the places and the things are themselves holy or that only some people have the spiritual power, then it is time once more to set out for the fields and rediscover the fundamental truth: Entrances to holiness are everywhere and all the time.
—Rabbi Lawrence Kushner, Honey from the Rock