Something from Wheatstone

While at Wheastone this past week, I wrote a poem. I am not a very good poet and am usually a formally structured one when I do write. So this is quite different from what I've ever done. If there are any critiques that you would like to give, please feel free to share them. Well, time to tak the plunge

Night descends and stars shine
People wander in
Words are said and thoughts expressed
A circle of community forms

Thinking. Sharing. Sharpening.
Ideas become more and more refined
Energies feed one another
And the clock ticks

The dialectic flourishes
Thoughts are pared and expanded
But today is now tomorrow
And day is dawning

Paradise Lost

Doom has come. What was forbidden has been taken. Now judgement must follow. The world is darkened by the entrance of sin. God descends in the company of angels to pronounce his sentence on the first of mankind. For their trespass, they are exiled from paradise forever. Raising his hand, God points the way for their exodus. Eve falls limply to the ground, having realized too late the consequences of her actions. She weeps and covers her face with her hand. With the other hand, Eve grasps her husband's forearm for comfort and support. But he offers none. Rather, Adam pulls himself inward as if he were still trying to hide what he'd done. He runs his fingers through his hair, coming to grips with the magnitude of his sin. His eyes gaze forward never straying to look at wither his wife or his maker. He simply looks straight ahead daring anyone to try to tell him of any good that had come of his disobedience. Up above, God waits for his beloved creation to leave his presence. Though He does not want them to go, He must send them out for His holiness and perfections cannot abide the presence of sin. So He, with will and face set sternly, commands man's removal from paradise. Yet in His mind, He already has a plan for their redemption. One of the angels waits at the right hand of his maker bearing a a flaming sword. He gazes upon the Creator till he should be commanded to guard the entrance to paradise so as to save man from further destruction. Still another angel, this one on God's left, stares at his maker in astonishment. It is known throughout creation that man is God's beloved of all He had made. Yet now He is banishing them from the home He had given them. Below God is the last angel of His retinue. Underneath and almost supporting the Creator, he looks upon the most unfortunate of all creation. These creatures, made in the very image of God himself, are a wonderment to the rest of creation. This last angel's look is one of neither sorrow nor gladness but of the most sincere curiosity and puzzlement of man's ability to reject Almighty God. Below both God and man is the ruiner of all. The once bright and morning star is now a dark, creeping thing. He flees the presence of God and goes into the underbrush. His eyes burn an unearthly red, full of malice and fury and hunger. Hungry for the next victim of destruction. As he escapes, his arms seem ready at any time to smite and grasp and drag with him anyone into the darkness in which he must dwell all his days. His serpent guise lies at his feet, discarded so that he may put on another. Even the earth feels the effects of what has just taken place. The sky goes grey and clouds cover the sun. All of Eden is falling into darkness. The only remmnant of hte former Eden is that above the first of mankind. The last of the sun's perfect rays shine gently upon the banished figures, giving them their last of paradise

By Great Mercy

At one time, you could hear a strange voice from the tombs near the Gerasenes. For once a madman lived there. Anyone could find him if they wished. All they needed to do was follow the man’s howlings but none dared go near him.

Before his madness, he had been known as Reuben ben-David. Though he had been raised in a faithful Jewish home, Reuben had chosen to follow the ways of their Roman oppressors. For this, he was disowned by his family and thrown from the synagogue. Rueben didn’t care though. He continued his carousing and never looked back long enough to see the grief he’d left in his wake. It was then that his life started to change. Increasingly, he began to become more and more violent, even without the usual inducement of wine. Then he started saying things totally uncharacteristic of him and kept to himself more and more. Finally, something snapped and everyone knew it. People tried to bind him with sturdy ropes but Reuben would release himself from them as if they were twine. They tried chains multiple times, praying to any and all gods that these would hold him. But the chains were as the ropes for he tore the chains and broke the shackles around his wrists and ankles. At last, he was driven from town and took up living in the tombs, finding no other refuge.

But these were not truly the actions of Reuben ben-David. His mind was not his own. He had been usurped of authority over his own body by spirits he had encouraged to enter through his wild living. If anyone had been brave enough to look into his eyes, they would have not seen the regular clear eyes of any other human being but a legion of faces leering and taunting the looker. For a few brief moments, Reuben would be himself but always knowing what was inside him. He would grab stone, which laid in plenty on the floors of the caves he inhabited, cutting himself deeply. If only he cut deep enough then these spirits would be able to leave his body and he would be free once more. At least, this was his reasoning. But the voiced that controlled him laughed at his vain efforts to release himself from his imprisonment.

“Go on then. Release us. Let us run as you blood.” And they would force him to cut himself deeper and throw him on the ground scraping his skin against the rocks. “You will never be rid of us,” they taunted. “You are ours and we will never let go.” At these times, Reuben would weep bitter tears of remorse and sorrow. So he lived his days in a delicate state between sanity and insanity, constantly going between the two as his masters permitted.

But then the day arrived when all that changed. From the mouth of his cave, Reuben saw a small boat approach. He wondered who these new visitors could be for he had seen the violent storm upon the sea, having been forced to cry aloud and wail like the wind adding his voice to the noise of the tempest. He gnawed on a piece of stone as he watched the boat gently glide onto the sandy beach. Then one of the passengers stepped out of the boat. As soon as his foot touched the ground, an unexpected surge ran through Reuben’s entire being. An unearthly scream ripped from his throat. All that he could see or feel was darkness and despair. His body, under the control of those who possessed him, rushed forward toward the man from the boat, all the time shrieking from the depth of his being. Reaching the beach, the madman fell at the other man’s feet. For the briefest of moments, Reuben’s own mind took over and he looked up into the face of the visitor. Their eyes locked for that moment and the madman’s eyes pleaded what his mouth could not. The new man understood that look given by the man at his feet. In an authoritative voice, he commanded,

“Come out of this man, you evil spirit!” Immediately, the man was thrown violently against the ground. From within him rose a rasping malicious voice, crying out in the loudest possible volume Reuben could make.

“What do you want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? Swear to God that you won’t torture me!” The madman cowered from Jesus in absolute terror. Jesus in turn looked severely down upon the pitiful creature before him.

“What is your name?” Then, to the horror of the disciples, a chorus of voices joined the original voice, all equally and possibly more evil than the first. As the spectators looked at the madman’s eyes, they saw his eyes begin to swarm with grotesque faces.

“My name is Legion for we are many. I beg you, Son of God, not to send us away from here.” And so they continued to beg of Jesus. Reuben’s body glanced about itself furtively, like a hunted animal looking for shelter. His eyes locked on the local herd of pigs snuffling nearby.

“Send us among the pigs,” the voices pleaded. Their body groveled at Jesus’ feet. “Allow us to go into them.”

“Go,” he said simply. With a great cry, a vast host seemed to burst from the man. All these shapes of evil fled quickly to the herd. In a mad rush, the whole herd careened down the hillside with no regard for each other or where they were headed. The whole heard, two thousand in all, charged to their deaths in the sea.

Turning back to the man formerly possessed by Legion, he lay prone on the ground like a corpse. His eyes were closed. His hair lay matted and his beard, grown long from lack of attention, sat in knots and clumped with blood. His skin not only bore innumerable scars from his vain attempts at salvation but also was burned from head to toe because its former masters had not allowed him to bear clothing of any kind. His lips were dry and cracked and dirt clung to every part of him. Jesus kneeled down beside the man and gazed down kindly into the man’s face.

“Wake-up. They’re gone,” he said gently, as one would speak to a frightened child. Slowly the former madman’s eyes opened, first one and then the other. And his eyes reflected only the image of his saviour. Taking Jesus’ proffered hand, he wobbled up to a standing position. Finally, upright, he kept a tight hold on his saviour’s hand.

“Thank you,” the man uttered at last. Jesus smiled and asked one of the disciples to get something for the released man from the boat.

“What is your name?”

“My name,” the man paused for he had been under Legion’s possession for so long and so heavily that he could not for a time remember his own name. But then it began to return like a light at the end of a tunnel growing bigger and bigger. “My name . . . my name is . . . my name . . . is . . .” A smile spread across his haggard face as he fairly shouted, “Reuben! My name is Reuben son of David and Tirzah of the tribe of Gad.” Jesus smiled with him and helped him put on the clothes his disciple had brought. And Reuben began to gush forth about his family and tragic story leading up to his salvation.

As the delivered man was relating his history, a crowd began to gather having heard of the possessed man and the drowning of the herd. In turn, everyone gasped to see the former madman not only wearing clothing but also having a regular conversation.

“There he is!’ those who had been tending the pigs shouted, pointing at Jesus. “We saw him. He commanded a host of spirits to kill our pigs. And he,” they motioned to Reuben, “he released the spirits.” After this explanation of what happened, all the people begged Jesus and his followers to leave. Reuben looked at them all in dismay. Many of those in the crowd he knew, had even been friends with them. He tried to call out to them, show them the dramatic change that had been wrought in him but no one listened to him. He glanced to see what Jesus would do in response and saw him head towards the boat. Seeing that he wasn’t getting anywhere with the crowd, Reuben began to follow the disciples to the boat. As he saw Jesus getting into the boat and the other disciples starting to shove off, he realized that they were not intending to take him with them.

“Wait!” he cried. “Wait for me. Please don’t leave me behind!” They seemed to pay him no heed. How could they leave him here? “Jesus!” he shouted desperately as he neared the boat. Jesus bowed his head and looked back at the man he had saved. “Please,” asked Reuben simply. “Don’t leave me behind.”

“You can’t come with me this time,” Jesus answered gently.

“But why?” the freed man begged to know. Tears brimmed in Reuben’s clear eyes.

“I need you here,” Jesus continued. “Go home to your family and tell them how much the Lord has done for you, and how he has had mercy on you.” Then he whispered so no one but Reuben could hear. “We will meet again.” This still did not prevent the man’s brimming tears from running down his cheeks.

Reuben watched mournfully as the boat carrying his saviour sailed away. Accepting that he was gone, the crowd dispersed and returned home. Reuben remained at the shore for several minutes, thinking over everything that had happened. What kept returning to him swat the reaction the spirits to the presence of Jesus and what they called him, Son of the Most High God. Could it be? Could this man really be the son of God? In his early days, he would have denied it vehemently or protested that anyone could be the son of a god. But now, after all he’d experienced, Reuben was sure that the man who had just sailed away was truly the Son of the Most High God.

“Well then,” he thought to himself, “I had better obey his commands.” So he got up and started to ascend the hill. Glimpsing up at the top of the hill, he spotted two people who had not left with the rest of the crowd. He began to move more quickly, excited that someone at least had stayed long enough to hear what he had to say. As he got closer, he realized he knew these people very well.

“Abba! Ima!” It had been so long since he had seen them last but they were still the same. A few feet from his parents, he stopped. He looked from first his father and then to his mother. They looked at him and could barely recognize the young man who had left their home. For several moments the family stared at one another. Then Reuben ran forward and embraced his father, tears fallin in rivers down his face.

“Oh, Abba, I am so sorry. “ His father answered with a tightened grip on his son and stains where his tears fell. And so they stood arm-in-arm, father and son. Finally, Reuben turned to where his mother stood patiently, weeping at the scene she had just witnessed. The son took her in his arms and held her close as if he would never let her go again.

“Tirzah,” David said hoarsely, “our son is back from the grave.”

“It is a miracle,” she answered. Tirzah stepped back and held her son’s face with both hands. “Oh my boy, my darling son. How did this happen?”

“By the great mercy of Yahweh,” Reuben replied. “Abba, Ima, I think I’ve found the Messiah.” David and Tirzah stared in astonishment at their son’s incredible claim. Easily, their son understood their thoughts. “I know that it is difficult to explain but the man who saved me is truly the Son of God.”

“You can tell us more when we get home,” David suggested. So the threesome went back to their home and Reuben shared all of his experiences and his encounter with Jesus. Now, a voice is speaking throughout the whole area of the Gerasenes and the Decapolis of the wonders of Jesus. And that voice is the same that once howled in the tombs.

Wheatstone was right!

My family is a subscriber to WORLD magazine, a Christian magazine on various issues. One of the articles caught my eye. It's called "Against Life" by Arsenio Orteza. Though the contents of this article are depressing in nature, I found it exciting that Mr. Orteza compared artists to canaries, just like we learned at Wheatstone last summer. It fascinated me that artists are the canaries of civilization, which makes sense because when one looks at how trends are set, one can usually trace it back to artists whether it be in movies or music. When the artists begin to disappear, it may be certain that the rest of the civilization may be in danger as well. I only hope that the rest of humanity will take notice and make changes in order to save ourselves.

Suicide and lesbianism among professional musicians are nothing new, but recently there's been a seeming uptick in both.

The suicides: Vic Chesnutt (who died on Christmas Day), Sparklehorse's Mark Linkous (March 6), and Will Owsley (who financed his power-pop solo albums by performing in Amy Grant's live band, April 30). Each was male, each was from the South, each was in his mid-40s, and each was a singer-songwriter with a track record of critical if not commercial acclaim.

The "coming outers": Jennifer Knapp and Chely Wright, both in their mid- to late-30s, both known for conservative-friendly music (CCM in Knapp's case, the pro-troops "The Bumper of My SUV" in Wright's), and both free of the unflattering masculine traits often associated with lesbians.

One of the aesthetic consequences for songwriters who commit suicide or embrace homosexuality is that their lyrics tend to be regarded as mere code for suicide or homosexuality. Chesnutt's "My New Life" (from his 2009 album Skitter on Takeoff) was depressing already; as a harbinger of his self-destruction, it's unbearable. Wright's "The Bumper of My SUV" was a refreshingly non-liberal take on the War on Terror; now one listens for hints about her position on "Don't Ask, Don't Tell."

Worse yet, fans who once turned to certain songs for solace or empathy might now hear in them little more than permission to follow their composers into sloughs of despond.

Obviously, however, the eternal consequences are the direst of all. "The man who kills himself," wrote G.K. Chesterton, "kills all men; as far as he is concerned he wipes out the world." "Homosexual activity," wrote Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger (now Pope Benedict XVI), "is not a complementary union, able to transmit life; and so it thwarts the call to . . . that form of self-giving which the gospel says is the essence of Christian living."

The ordinary explanations fail. Chesnutt was wheelchair bound, Linkous was bedeviled by depression, drugs, and drink, and Owsley was a divorced father of two, but many other men in similar circumstances still choose to be rather than not to be. As for Knapp and Wright, given the circles in which their music required them to move, it's hard to imagine either woman's giving peer pressure as a reason for her public commitment to same-sex living.

In his dystopian novel The Bridge, D. Keith Mano imagined a strikingly similar scenario. The setting: New York City and its environs circa 2035. The killing of all living organisms—animal, vegetable, and mineral—has been illegal for decades. Deer, bears, and dogs run wild and, due to overpopulation, die; grass and weeds grow unchecked; insects thrive. Meanwhile, the "termination" of the "human species" has been mandated by the government because human respiration has been determined to "destroy . . . microscopic biological life."

In response, men willingly swallow suicide pills and women form lesbian communes. It's a scenario that must have seemed far-fetched when the novel appeared in 1973. It seems less far-fetched now.

An article in the May 12 Daily Telegraph says that a forthcoming UN report will declare "one-third of plant and animal species" to be "at risk of extinction" and blame the "developing world's appetite for raw materials." "If the 9 billion people predicted to be with us by 2050 were to have the same lifestyle as Americans," says a spokesman for the Convention on Biological Diversity, "we would need five planets."

Translation: Human life is bad.

Death fumes are in the air. Our singers are the canaries in the coal mine.

Tale Continued

One day when the sun shone cheerily and puffy white clouds floated aimlessly, Rowena was sitting in rapt attention as Excelsior finished his tale of his pilgrimage to Jerusalem.

“Just as we thought we would perish, a mighty lion appeared. His hid shone like melted gold and thunder was his roar. As quick as lightning, he sprang upon the bandits and chased them all away without ever turning to molest my fellow pilgrims and me.”

“Do you think Saint George really sent the lion?” the young child asked.

“I truly believe so, child,” he answered. “What kind of story would like me to tell you now?”

Rowena’s face scrunched in deep childish thought and then quickly brightened with an idea. “A treasure hunt,” she said gleefully. The old knight smiled at the girl’s excitement.

“A treasure hunt, you say? I think I have just the one.” Rowena settled herself for the story. “This is a story my grandmother told me when I was not much older than you. Well, before I begin, let me tell you that there is a special treasure that appears every seven years and has a rather special map that leads to it. This map will only show pieces of the map and will only expand once you’ve reached the edge of the revealed region. Now that you know this, I will begin my story.

“Many years ago a knight named Oliver came from small country town long forgotten by men. He longed to go upon some great quest but all was peaceful in his village and all the area around it. Resolved not to become idle and self-consumed, Oliver worked in his family’s carpentry shop as if he’d never been knighted. Not many days later, an old man came to the town. His clothes were thing and dirty and he carried a large walking stick carved with many intricate designs. As he walked, he limped greatly and leaned heavily on his stick. Around his waist, he wore a rope belt from which hung an assortment of talismans for, you see, he was . . .” The storyteller stopped for a dramatic pause and then ended, “a gypsy.” A little gasp followed the revelation. “Yes, a gypsy and when they saw him all the villagers rushed to their homes and locked their doors.

Beginning a Tale

In the time of knights and jousts and quests, there lived a young girl named Rowena. She was the daughter of Geoffrey the blacksmith and Clarissa the seamstress. Both Geoffrey and Clarissa were hard workers and raised their children to fear the Lord and obey His commands. Rowena was the youngest of eight children and was never in short supply of playmates. If none of her siblings could play, she'd find some of her friends from among the local children. At other times, she'd help her mother and older sisters with the sewing by fetching various things that were asked for. When she was allowed, Rowena would watch Geoffrey and his sons at work in the family smithy. But one of her favorite places to be, outside her own home, was at the home of a retired knight who had since become the village bard. His name was Excelsior. Daily, he would sit outside the entrance to his house with his lute upon his knee and entertained the children of the village with the tales of fairies and dragons and secret treasure. Rowena would spend hours listening to the old man's stories. She was his most dedicated listener.

Shakespeare and Reader's Theatre

This past year, I've been wonderfully exposed to the glories of some of Shakespeare's most famous plays. I'm very sad that it's taken me this long to finally read any Shakespeare but 'tis all in the past now. My Shakespeare class in now in rehearsal for "Much Ado About Nothing" in the reader's theatre style of acting. It is quite different from any other kind of acting I've ever done as it is more about what you say and how you say it than it is about what you're doing while you're saying it. If you want to be sinister, you can't walk in a circle 'round your victim menacingly or whisper terrible things into their ear. Rather you must make you voice express all the malicious intents that are stored in your evil heart. At first, I didn't think it would be all that hard but as we started going at it, I realized that I don't necessarily put all of what I mean, as a character, into what I say. After only two sessions, I've learned how strong the spoken word is and the magic that can be done with them.