The love of God is greater far
Than tongue or pen can ever tell.
It goes beyond the highest star
And reaches to the lowest hell.
The guilty pair bowed down with care.
God gave His son to win
Hiss erring child He reconciled
And pardoned from his sin.
Oh, love of God, how rich and pure.
How measureless and strong
It shall forever more endure
The saints and angel's song...
Could we with ink the ocean fill
And were the sky of parchment made
Were every stalk on earth a quill
And every man a scribe by trade
To write the love of God above
Would drain the oceans dry
Nor could the scroll contain the whole
Though stretched from sky to sky
Oh, love of God, how rich and pure.
How measureless and strong
It shall forever more endure
The saints and angel's song...
-Frederick M. Lehman
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Monday, January 4, 2010
A Decade in Journal Form
It has been, shall I say, quite a 10 years since I began seriously journaling. And since, for some sub to whatever type of conscious degree, the number 2010 is inspiring in me more than just the ordinary year-end reflection and review, I’ve determined to read through the past 10 years in my journals; as painful as it may be to literarily review my immaturity of the last decade.
I’ve only yet scratched the surface of this said undertaking, and though I haven’t reread much of a percentage at the moment, one thing has already struck me. There are some certain questions and issues and/or struggles that keep coming back into my life perennially. And by “perennial” I do mean, every year. It would seem that in some things, I never learn my lesson. Though, I’m not sure I’m supposed to look at it that way.
It’s a blessing and a struggle to hash through these again in my journaling, but I do have to say that although the principle of any of these mentioned (and purposefully vague) “issues” remains resolutely the same each time, there always seems to be a new twist on any and all of these perennial “weeds” in my life--equally and simultaneously stalwart and itinerant. It’s always the same “lesson”, but always different too, and often in a different area of my life.
This being said, it’s also surprise to me that the similar “epiphanies” on things keep coming to me as well; each a little different--if not slightly ameliorated--each time.
All of this comes to mind in considering where I was personally last year at this time. I wrote a little about my journey last year, and thanked some who had also been victims or beneficiaries of my little process in life. Mostly patient and forbearing victims. I also wrote about something that I’d learned about “knowledge”. I’ll try and summarize it:
Ultimately, I think that a healthy “knowledge” of something often blossoms into compassion, but there’s a process to getting there. It’s kind of like a butterfly.
There's a difference, I think, between knowing an idea in your head and "knowing" and understanding something in your heart in such a manner that it works itself out kinesthetically into your life and actions. Most of the time, this gap between knowledge and understanding is most effectively and genuinely bridged by experience with/in the matter. The best words that we have for this transformation of knowledge is perhaps "understanding". And then action upon this turns eventually into "compassion".
Metaphorically put, this whole principle is kind of like a caterpillar. It starts out as knowledge of a fact, a bug; it turns into an understanding of the idea via experience with it, a chrysalis; and it can then metamorph into something amazing and uniquely beautiful if nurtured and encouraged, eventually compassion when this new mature knowledge is able to be externalized. Compassion comes out into your life looking like myriad virtues, foremost probably being kindness. This is the ultimate goal.
Basically, we all can "know" or even believe something, but it doesn't mean that every one of our living moments and actions look like it. It's a experiential process to synergize these two "categories of knowledge" together--and it takes a lifetime.
This realization/could-be-better-articulated theory comes back to me again this year when, once again I’m aware of some things that I would love--this year and decade--to undergo metamorphosis. I’m excited to have re-realized all of this and even to recognize a rhythm of growth in my life. Even if something feels the same as before, I can see that if it’s growth, it’s always forward moving. And that’s encouraging.
I guess I’m going to have to get used to the phenomenon of resurrecting past epiphanies on a regular basis, the same way I’m going to have to get used to learning the same lessons in my life over and over--each time with a new facet or “shade” to it. And as boring as that sounds when put into words, it’s definitely nothing sisyphean. There’s not anything monotonous about it, and I’m profoundly grateful for that. I’m hoping to begin to settle into this newly identified rhythm and appreciate the personal growing “seasons” found therein.
That said, here goes 2010 and the next decade of journaling. Cheers!
I’ve only yet scratched the surface of this said undertaking, and though I haven’t reread much of a percentage at the moment, one thing has already struck me. There are some certain questions and issues and/or struggles that keep coming back into my life perennially. And by “perennial” I do mean, every year. It would seem that in some things, I never learn my lesson. Though, I’m not sure I’m supposed to look at it that way.
It’s a blessing and a struggle to hash through these again in my journaling, but I do have to say that although the principle of any of these mentioned (and purposefully vague) “issues” remains resolutely the same each time, there always seems to be a new twist on any and all of these perennial “weeds” in my life--equally and simultaneously stalwart and itinerant. It’s always the same “lesson”, but always different too, and often in a different area of my life.
This being said, it’s also surprise to me that the similar “epiphanies” on things keep coming to me as well; each a little different--if not slightly ameliorated--each time.
All of this comes to mind in considering where I was personally last year at this time. I wrote a little about my journey last year, and thanked some who had also been victims or beneficiaries of my little process in life. Mostly patient and forbearing victims. I also wrote about something that I’d learned about “knowledge”. I’ll try and summarize it:
Ultimately, I think that a healthy “knowledge” of something often blossoms into compassion, but there’s a process to getting there. It’s kind of like a butterfly.
There's a difference, I think, between knowing an idea in your head and "knowing" and understanding something in your heart in such a manner that it works itself out kinesthetically into your life and actions. Most of the time, this gap between knowledge and understanding is most effectively and genuinely bridged by experience with/in the matter. The best words that we have for this transformation of knowledge is perhaps "understanding". And then action upon this turns eventually into "compassion".
Metaphorically put, this whole principle is kind of like a caterpillar. It starts out as knowledge of a fact, a bug; it turns into an understanding of the idea via experience with it, a chrysalis; and it can then metamorph into something amazing and uniquely beautiful if nurtured and encouraged, eventually compassion when this new mature knowledge is able to be externalized. Compassion comes out into your life looking like myriad virtues, foremost probably being kindness. This is the ultimate goal.
Basically, we all can "know" or even believe something, but it doesn't mean that every one of our living moments and actions look like it. It's a experiential process to synergize these two "categories of knowledge" together--and it takes a lifetime.
This realization/could-be-better-articulated theory comes back to me again this year when, once again I’m aware of some things that I would love--this year and decade--to undergo metamorphosis. I’m excited to have re-realized all of this and even to recognize a rhythm of growth in my life. Even if something feels the same as before, I can see that if it’s growth, it’s always forward moving. And that’s encouraging.
I guess I’m going to have to get used to the phenomenon of resurrecting past epiphanies on a regular basis, the same way I’m going to have to get used to learning the same lessons in my life over and over--each time with a new facet or “shade” to it. And as boring as that sounds when put into words, it’s definitely nothing sisyphean. There’s not anything monotonous about it, and I’m profoundly grateful for that. I’m hoping to begin to settle into this newly identified rhythm and appreciate the personal growing “seasons” found therein.
That said, here goes 2010 and the next decade of journaling. Cheers!
Sunday, December 13, 2009
One time...this dream about you....
One time I had this dream about you. Or you were in it at least.
We were spending time together, I remember, which was as wonderful as it is rare. We were laughing as we always do, whenever chance happens that we’re in similar geography at the same time. Even as I write this I can hear your laugh. It’s a deeper, more mature version of the laugh I knew you to have when we were kids. The way you scrunch up your nose a bit and slap your leg and lean forward....I love it.
For some reason, I believe it was a Sunday and I was headed to church that evening. At least I believe it was in the evening because as I recall we had spent that day together and it was dark outside--that moment when it’s just enough past dusk for the street lights to illuminate.
I remember you--being the “people person” that you are and always setting aside whatever else for them--of course said you’d go with me to church. I really don’t even remember asking but maybe I did.
You and I were raised very much the same. And for years, very much together as well. Something happened, it hurt so bad. I think I’ll probably never know as long as we’re here exactly what occurred, but it certainly rendered our paths increasingly diverged. It wasn’t until much later, both trying to accomplish a similar goal that those paths, albeit briefly, wove back together again momentarily. I knew the fabric from which you were cut and fashioned; the fabric of your family. I knew it well, I knew as I do still so well what it was like in the home where you grew up. I was close to another member of the family and I always looked at you as another brother. I wish now that you and I had spent more time together in those days just the two of us.
So, I knew what church-going once meant for both of us, coming from such a melded and congruous background. And I wondered then, once again about your present lifestyle and what circumstances and choices had brought you to where you were at. A place where you weren’t truly happy anymore. The joy I remember exploding from your talented self when we were kids wasn’t there anymore. The laugh, as I mentioned, was. But it was different. If anybody knew how you’d changed, I did. I was such a fixture in your family in a way--whether it was healthy or not. I knew you weren’t happy anymore and it made me ache ineffably. I wondered too, how you were able to mesh your current place in life with your past to which in many ways you still ideologically adhered. And I wondered what going to church with you would be like. It wasn’t a “wonder” in any way except “curious”; and knowing myself, I was probably even in my dream thinking ahead to conversations that I could foresee based on the experience.
We walked. The church met in a school. I think we were in Portland. I don’t know what church it was either. I’m not even sure I had ever been to the church before. I don’t remember. I remember, though, arriving there on foot. Laughing, we were enjoying each other’s company and as we were approaching the building you stopped for a moment. We were still a bit of a ways from the edifice itself, but we were strolling through the courtyard. I’m not sure if this building in my mind’s eye even exists except in this dream of mine, but the courtyard was a bit of a modern sculpture (used in the loosest of terms) garden. When I finally noticed your halt, I was mid-chuckle and I turned around to see what could have detained your usually lanky (and lengthy) stride....I also remember hearing faint singing coming from inside the school building. It was chilly, and I wanted to get inside.
I’ll never forget this in my dream, the expression of fear on your face. I was kind of shocked, I remember. I didn’t see this coming. You were staring at the entrance to the church, stricken. And shaking your head. I think I was still recovering from laughing when I asked whatever could the matter be, coaxing you to come on in the same sentence. You began to utter “no” to me while still assuming a posture of terror. I didn’t understand. I did but I didn’t. My lingering mirth quickly melted, naturally. I felt as if I were getting a glimpse into....
I don’t remember the end of the dream. I don’t remember if I left you and went to "church" or if I stayed with you and we both “played hooky” or what. I’m sure if we had, there would have been coffee involved. Or something. I don’t remember how it ended. I do remember eventually waking up, with that same ineffable ache that reminds me that I love you very much, that you’re not truly happy, and that I do want, so very very much something inexorably better for you in your life. I woke up feeling this. And wondering....
We were spending time together, I remember, which was as wonderful as it is rare. We were laughing as we always do, whenever chance happens that we’re in similar geography at the same time. Even as I write this I can hear your laugh. It’s a deeper, more mature version of the laugh I knew you to have when we were kids. The way you scrunch up your nose a bit and slap your leg and lean forward....I love it.
For some reason, I believe it was a Sunday and I was headed to church that evening. At least I believe it was in the evening because as I recall we had spent that day together and it was dark outside--that moment when it’s just enough past dusk for the street lights to illuminate.
I remember you--being the “people person” that you are and always setting aside whatever else for them--of course said you’d go with me to church. I really don’t even remember asking but maybe I did.
You and I were raised very much the same. And for years, very much together as well. Something happened, it hurt so bad. I think I’ll probably never know as long as we’re here exactly what occurred, but it certainly rendered our paths increasingly diverged. It wasn’t until much later, both trying to accomplish a similar goal that those paths, albeit briefly, wove back together again momentarily. I knew the fabric from which you were cut and fashioned; the fabric of your family. I knew it well, I knew as I do still so well what it was like in the home where you grew up. I was close to another member of the family and I always looked at you as another brother. I wish now that you and I had spent more time together in those days just the two of us.
So, I knew what church-going once meant for both of us, coming from such a melded and congruous background. And I wondered then, once again about your present lifestyle and what circumstances and choices had brought you to where you were at. A place where you weren’t truly happy anymore. The joy I remember exploding from your talented self when we were kids wasn’t there anymore. The laugh, as I mentioned, was. But it was different. If anybody knew how you’d changed, I did. I was such a fixture in your family in a way--whether it was healthy or not. I knew you weren’t happy anymore and it made me ache ineffably. I wondered too, how you were able to mesh your current place in life with your past to which in many ways you still ideologically adhered. And I wondered what going to church with you would be like. It wasn’t a “wonder” in any way except “curious”; and knowing myself, I was probably even in my dream thinking ahead to conversations that I could foresee based on the experience.
We walked. The church met in a school. I think we were in Portland. I don’t know what church it was either. I’m not even sure I had ever been to the church before. I don’t remember. I remember, though, arriving there on foot. Laughing, we were enjoying each other’s company and as we were approaching the building you stopped for a moment. We were still a bit of a ways from the edifice itself, but we were strolling through the courtyard. I’m not sure if this building in my mind’s eye even exists except in this dream of mine, but the courtyard was a bit of a modern sculpture (used in the loosest of terms) garden. When I finally noticed your halt, I was mid-chuckle and I turned around to see what could have detained your usually lanky (and lengthy) stride....I also remember hearing faint singing coming from inside the school building. It was chilly, and I wanted to get inside.
I’ll never forget this in my dream, the expression of fear on your face. I was kind of shocked, I remember. I didn’t see this coming. You were staring at the entrance to the church, stricken. And shaking your head. I think I was still recovering from laughing when I asked whatever could the matter be, coaxing you to come on in the same sentence. You began to utter “no” to me while still assuming a posture of terror. I didn’t understand. I did but I didn’t. My lingering mirth quickly melted, naturally. I felt as if I were getting a glimpse into....
I don’t remember the end of the dream. I don’t remember if I left you and went to "church" or if I stayed with you and we both “played hooky” or what. I’m sure if we had, there would have been coffee involved. Or something. I don’t remember how it ended. I do remember eventually waking up, with that same ineffable ache that reminds me that I love you very much, that you’re not truly happy, and that I do want, so very very much something inexorably better for you in your life. I woke up feeling this. And wondering....
Friday, October 30, 2009
Prologue & Maybe
Maybe....Yeah. Maybe. I talked to my sister today about some drama in which I somehow unwillingly ended up recently. The saga seemed to drone on and then it was said: “Maybe it’s for such a time as this.”
Hm. Maybe. It’s true, it really is. It could very well be that this situation in which I find myself is one of the reasons that I was supposed to be in Alaska this winter. It probably is. If anything, I need to be learning from it what I can and that of course is a “reason” to be up here--if not a repercussion of my current geography. Who knows at the moment. Choose growth, right?
I guess I’m at the place where I want to try living my life in such situations with the attitude that, really, who knows at any given moment why I go through what I’m go through--good or not. He knows. And that’s cool. My dad once said that if he’s learned anything in life, it’s that just about everything in life is a “prologue” for something else. In my short 25 years, I’ve already seen a bit of that.
Even in these last two weeks, I’ve realized more definitely how a few experiences I’ve had were prologues for where I’m at now, or where I hope to be.
I’ve been surprised at how my last two years’ experiences being a consist manager have informed my substitute teaching and classroom “skills” or whatever you want to call it. Really surprised. Surprised in a good way, but I can now see why I wasn’t supposed to be up here subbing last year when I wanted to be: I wasn’t ready. My maturity level wasn’t there. I hadn’t any idea at that point. But He knew better. Thankfully.
Also, maybe (there’s that word again) my experience here as a substitute teacher is a prologue for teaching in France. Maybe, though, only maybe. If not that, it’s surely a prologue for something else. And I’m OK with that, because I’m learning that this whole “prologue” idea can be exciting because it gives me a perspective that says that everything that I do is worthwhile if I’m listening and paying attention to Whom I should be.
Everyone needs to feel significant. We’re wired that way. I guess this prologue hypothesis is beginning to fit into and become a piece of this puzzle I pass my existence trying to fit together called my significance. Maybe....I’ll probably be chewing on it for a while. Maybe.
Hm. Maybe. It’s true, it really is. It could very well be that this situation in which I find myself is one of the reasons that I was supposed to be in Alaska this winter. It probably is. If anything, I need to be learning from it what I can and that of course is a “reason” to be up here--if not a repercussion of my current geography. Who knows at the moment. Choose growth, right?
I guess I’m at the place where I want to try living my life in such situations with the attitude that, really, who knows at any given moment why I go through what I’m go through--good or not. He knows. And that’s cool. My dad once said that if he’s learned anything in life, it’s that just about everything in life is a “prologue” for something else. In my short 25 years, I’ve already seen a bit of that.
Even in these last two weeks, I’ve realized more definitely how a few experiences I’ve had were prologues for where I’m at now, or where I hope to be.
I’ve been surprised at how my last two years’ experiences being a consist manager have informed my substitute teaching and classroom “skills” or whatever you want to call it. Really surprised. Surprised in a good way, but I can now see why I wasn’t supposed to be up here subbing last year when I wanted to be: I wasn’t ready. My maturity level wasn’t there. I hadn’t any idea at that point. But He knew better. Thankfully.
Also, maybe (there’s that word again) my experience here as a substitute teacher is a prologue for teaching in France. Maybe, though, only maybe. If not that, it’s surely a prologue for something else. And I’m OK with that, because I’m learning that this whole “prologue” idea can be exciting because it gives me a perspective that says that everything that I do is worthwhile if I’m listening and paying attention to Whom I should be.
Everyone needs to feel significant. We’re wired that way. I guess this prologue hypothesis is beginning to fit into and become a piece of this puzzle I pass my existence trying to fit together called my significance. Maybe....I’ll probably be chewing on it for a while. Maybe.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Sometimes
Sometimes, maybe you just have beauty to offer. Or something like that. Sometimes, maybe you’re just in somebody’s life to prove to them something that you have no idea about.
Sometimes, people get jaded. Especially by other jaded souls. Sometimes you might just cross somebody’s path to prove to them or even just remind them that “jaded” doesn’t have to be a lifestyle, but that He is what it’s about.
Sometimes just a little bit of different is all people need to see in you. You have no idea why, but things happen for a reason, and there’s always a reason somebody crosses you’re path. Though, this fact is not always deserving of too much (over)analyzation. Just choose Him daily and wait....
Hang in there. It'll make sense someday. It might not be here, but just choose Him daily and wait. It'll be worth it. I promise.
Sometimes, people get jaded. Especially by other jaded souls. Sometimes you might just cross somebody’s path to prove to them or even just remind them that “jaded” doesn’t have to be a lifestyle, but that He is what it’s about.
Sometimes just a little bit of different is all people need to see in you. You have no idea why, but things happen for a reason, and there’s always a reason somebody crosses you’re path. Though, this fact is not always deserving of too much (over)analyzation. Just choose Him daily and wait....
Hang in there. It'll make sense someday. It might not be here, but just choose Him daily and wait. It'll be worth it. I promise.
Friday, September 25, 2009
To Moses.
Dear Moses,
I can’t get you out of my head. I keep reading about you, and your life blows my mind. I imagine it probably blew your own at times.
I just wonder sometimes. I wonder a lot, but I wonder what was going on in your head and between the brief lines that I read. I know that it’s partly due to the fact that brevity is token of the Hebrew language, but I find myself scratching my head and struggling to take the account of your life found in the Pentateuch at solely face value. What went on between those beautiful and all too clipped lines? What crossed your mind when you saw that burning bush? Did God ever just make you want to cuss? How often did He frustrate you and blow your mind? What rage did you truly feel right before you heard those infamous stones crack? What was it like to be frustrated about and for an entire nation? What was it like to bear Israel on your shoulders so much as you did? Did you ever get so tired of everything that you just wanted to curl up and take a nap and forget about it for a while?
Did you have any idea, growing up, that you would end up being such an instrument of such great things? Any idea at all? Your brother Aaron and your sister Miriam, what did they see in you? What did they think of all the turns that your life took, and theirs too, as a result? Did they know that you were great? Were you great? Or did you just let God do great things with you? How does that work, anyway?
One of the things that has struck me reading about you this time around is the part of the story when your father-in-law comes back into play. He’s impressed with you and God's accomplishments through you, but he also offers some wisdom: that you needed to find some help within Israel to bear the burdens of the people. I guess it’s one of the early foreshadows in the Old Testament of how the Church was one day supposed to function. Interesting how that wisdom came from an apparent “gentile”. But anyway, that moment demonstrates that the responsibility which you were born to carry wore on you from time to time. Your father-in-law was able to pick up on it. I know you were human. It just hard to believe sometimes when I look at the feats accomplished in your lifetime.
I guess when I read your story, one thing that I lose sight of is the lapse of time between the lines and between point A and point B. Over a century passes in the story and after the Exodus and the construction of the Tabernacle, nothing happens with haste--with exception of that Tabernacle itself. That first year out of Egypt was quick and huge, but after that things intensely slow down. But, is that because Israel as a people did not seek His Best and settled for Good?
Those Israelites seem so short-sighted, anyway you read it. I know you knew that better than anyone except Yahweh. But then, is that just human? Or, was there something particular about their impulsiveness that attracted God and made Him choose them? Or did He fashion them that way from the beginning on purpose? Did you ever even wonder that and ponder questions like that? I don’t get it, that’s for sure. But it’s beautiful--because He makes it so, since that's His way. Hm.
I’ve learned a lot of things from your story. But I’ve come away with a couple of major things. First, I want to know Him like you did. You knew a God more emotional and intimate than I can even imagine at this point. I keep thinking of a molten bush that wasn’t really burning and a torrent of wind flying by a mountain--and you hidden in a strategic crevice so as not to die....Death by contact with holiness, would that the most truly painful of all?
I keep thinking of that moment you put your foot down, in the desert sand, with God and told Him that you might as well perish right on that spot before you’d go anywhere without Him. You and/or His people. A moment amazing and awful, in the truest sense of the word. And He listened, and changed His mind. Did I mention that this all blows my mind? I feel I have no other terms in which to couch my nearly speechless awe regarding my literary observations of the relationship that you shared with my--our God.
This intimacy demonstrated also brings me to that other thing I’ve come away with from your story. I’ve learned that God is an emotional God. And it’s not a weakness. He’s a God who can know the outcome of everything, that is, the end of everything--but He still chooses to experience and feel every last facet of the means. And He still thinks it’s all worth it. We are still worth it to Him. I can’t shake growing realization in my soul of the ramifications of such an aspect of His character. Process is such a part of Him. Scary and, once again, beautiful.
But, this has been brought to my attention more than once because of your story and because of the nature of your relationship with Him. Thank you for that. Thank you for living your life so that you could get there with Him. It proves, in a way, that it can be done and that we just don't. This said, our priorities these days are sorrowfully out of whack. But then, when in the history of humanity haven't they been, I suppose?
You’ve taught me much, Moses. I hope I can keep gleaning more from your profound and difficult story every last time I come back to it. Thank you for the life you lived and I’m sorry to you and every one whose lives lived deeply for our Creator have been taken for granted over the centuries and millennium. It’s so trite and naive to even say, but maybe I’ll “get it” one day. I guess it just probably won’t be here when that happens, hey? Well, anyway, I can’t wait to meet you.
So, with barefoot respect and until one day--
T. Emerson
I can’t get you out of my head. I keep reading about you, and your life blows my mind. I imagine it probably blew your own at times.
I just wonder sometimes. I wonder a lot, but I wonder what was going on in your head and between the brief lines that I read. I know that it’s partly due to the fact that brevity is token of the Hebrew language, but I find myself scratching my head and struggling to take the account of your life found in the Pentateuch at solely face value. What went on between those beautiful and all too clipped lines? What crossed your mind when you saw that burning bush? Did God ever just make you want to cuss? How often did He frustrate you and blow your mind? What rage did you truly feel right before you heard those infamous stones crack? What was it like to be frustrated about and for an entire nation? What was it like to bear Israel on your shoulders so much as you did? Did you ever get so tired of everything that you just wanted to curl up and take a nap and forget about it for a while?
Did you have any idea, growing up, that you would end up being such an instrument of such great things? Any idea at all? Your brother Aaron and your sister Miriam, what did they see in you? What did they think of all the turns that your life took, and theirs too, as a result? Did they know that you were great? Were you great? Or did you just let God do great things with you? How does that work, anyway?
One of the things that has struck me reading about you this time around is the part of the story when your father-in-law comes back into play. He’s impressed with you and God's accomplishments through you, but he also offers some wisdom: that you needed to find some help within Israel to bear the burdens of the people. I guess it’s one of the early foreshadows in the Old Testament of how the Church was one day supposed to function. Interesting how that wisdom came from an apparent “gentile”. But anyway, that moment demonstrates that the responsibility which you were born to carry wore on you from time to time. Your father-in-law was able to pick up on it. I know you were human. It just hard to believe sometimes when I look at the feats accomplished in your lifetime.
I guess when I read your story, one thing that I lose sight of is the lapse of time between the lines and between point A and point B. Over a century passes in the story and after the Exodus and the construction of the Tabernacle, nothing happens with haste--with exception of that Tabernacle itself. That first year out of Egypt was quick and huge, but after that things intensely slow down. But, is that because Israel as a people did not seek His Best and settled for Good?
Those Israelites seem so short-sighted, anyway you read it. I know you knew that better than anyone except Yahweh. But then, is that just human? Or, was there something particular about their impulsiveness that attracted God and made Him choose them? Or did He fashion them that way from the beginning on purpose? Did you ever even wonder that and ponder questions like that? I don’t get it, that’s for sure. But it’s beautiful--because He makes it so, since that's His way. Hm.
I’ve learned a lot of things from your story. But I’ve come away with a couple of major things. First, I want to know Him like you did. You knew a God more emotional and intimate than I can even imagine at this point. I keep thinking of a molten bush that wasn’t really burning and a torrent of wind flying by a mountain--and you hidden in a strategic crevice so as not to die....Death by contact with holiness, would that the most truly painful of all?
I keep thinking of that moment you put your foot down, in the desert sand, with God and told Him that you might as well perish right on that spot before you’d go anywhere without Him. You and/or His people. A moment amazing and awful, in the truest sense of the word. And He listened, and changed His mind. Did I mention that this all blows my mind? I feel I have no other terms in which to couch my nearly speechless awe regarding my literary observations of the relationship that you shared with my--our God.
This intimacy demonstrated also brings me to that other thing I’ve come away with from your story. I’ve learned that God is an emotional God. And it’s not a weakness. He’s a God who can know the outcome of everything, that is, the end of everything--but He still chooses to experience and feel every last facet of the means. And He still thinks it’s all worth it. We are still worth it to Him. I can’t shake growing realization in my soul of the ramifications of such an aspect of His character. Process is such a part of Him. Scary and, once again, beautiful.
But, this has been brought to my attention more than once because of your story and because of the nature of your relationship with Him. Thank you for that. Thank you for living your life so that you could get there with Him. It proves, in a way, that it can be done and that we just don't. This said, our priorities these days are sorrowfully out of whack. But then, when in the history of humanity haven't they been, I suppose?
You’ve taught me much, Moses. I hope I can keep gleaning more from your profound and difficult story every last time I come back to it. Thank you for the life you lived and I’m sorry to you and every one whose lives lived deeply for our Creator have been taken for granted over the centuries and millennium. It’s so trite and naive to even say, but maybe I’ll “get it” one day. I guess it just probably won’t be here when that happens, hey? Well, anyway, I can’t wait to meet you.
So, with barefoot respect and until one day--
T. Emerson
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Autumn. TBC...
As winter hushes all growth enthused,
Same way spring hopes to growth infuse,
And summer basks in growth abounding,
So autumn offers pause resounding.
Contraries make known a vast array
Such contrasting autumn’s artful day--
Between the stance of summer’s verdance
And a whiter, colder winter’s cadence.
Fall further dims summer’s already dusk
Distracting any path to winterlust
Golden to orange to crimson flushing--
Formerly muted hues now boldly blushing....
-T. Emerson
Same way spring hopes to growth infuse,
And summer basks in growth abounding,
So autumn offers pause resounding.
Contraries make known a vast array
Such contrasting autumn’s artful day--
Between the stance of summer’s verdance
And a whiter, colder winter’s cadence.
Fall further dims summer’s already dusk
Distracting any path to winterlust
Golden to orange to crimson flushing--
Formerly muted hues now boldly blushing....
-T. Emerson
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