"The Living Church"

It's a phrase thrown around quite a bit. "The church is not the place, but the people," say many, and they are right.

But in my heart, such a catchy phrase is evidence of just a quick glance at the surface of waters that really ought to be carefully trolled. These words should convey a responsibility that is, in fact, rarely attached to them. If contemplated with the mental energy due it, this idea of purpose behind divinely-appointed community should strain the heart and prompt compassionate action; certainly it should sober the imagination and afflict the conscience.

But I find that things relating to the heart of God often fall into this category. When I was young, I wondered how someone could be "burdened" in prayer such that they could disappear for hours into prayer on behalf of various causes dear to the heart of God. I would desire that same fervor, that same committment. But a few minutes into my prayer time, and I would have exhausted both my tidy lists: that of familiar needs and that of foreign topics and cultures, religions and countries...and I would sit there, reverently wondering what to do next.

As I've grown, I've learned to ask God for specific things to awaken my heart to the things that are dear to Him. For example, just today, I came across both the following verse and the following news report. Over these and their juxtaposition in my spirit life--over this I could sit for some time in communion with God, but it would strain my heart, a thing that never really happened in former prayer postures.

First, here is a picture of what I'd say was a previously common exposure to one of these "truths" dear to God:

I stand in a sunlit room, dressed in finery, looking down at a gold-leaf book--the Word of God--in my hands as someone in gracious robes at the front of the room elegantly recites the words while I either read along silently or else join the speaker in quietly murmured, carefully paced choral reading. I am not hungry, as I had ample breakfast before I came here. I am not hot or cold, as the central air regulates the temperature well in this sanctuary. I am not despised by any of those around me (see again reference to none of us being hot or cold.) And I faintly consider the words inspired by God, words that really only register with me intellectually and historically,but not vitally and personally.

I Peter 2:18-23
Submission to Masters
see also (Is. 53:7-9)
18 Servants, be submissive to your masters with all fear, not only to the good and gentle, but also to the harsh. 19 For this is commendable, if because of conscience toward God one endures grief, suffering wrongfully. 20 For what credit is it if, when you are beaten for your faults, you take it patiently? But when you do good and suffer, if you take it patiently, this is commendable before God. 21 For to this you were called, because Christ also suffered for [fn6] us, leaving [fn7] us an example, that you should follow His steps:
22 "Who committed no sin,
Nor was deceit found in His mouth"; [fn8]
23 who, when He was reviled, did not revile in return; when He suffered, He did not threaten, but committed Himself to Him who judges righteously; 24 who Himself bore our sins in His own body on the tree, that we, having died to sins, might live for righteousness--by whose stripes you were healed.

But here is the question: what do I feel about these verses? Not just what do I understand, but what prompt to action is locked in them, and what discourse with God is begged by them? Sadly, very little. At best, according to the carefully crafted and gently presented supplications of the pastor who "comments" on this text just presented, I might bend myself to feel a flicker of gratitude that such a state of affairs is not common in my life. I might also hear a brief aside to the fact that "such is not the case for all peoples--this freedom we take so much for granted." So I might also feel just the right amount of stab to my conscience to make me repent my false sense of deserving the good life I live. Also, I might feel a little shame over some of the complaining I've done recently. Then, as long as the service does not overstep its timely boundaries, I'll refrain from complaining about anything that transpired that morning while I eat a hot and diverse and well-seasoned--not to mention healthy--lunch at a restaurant where I will neither prepare nor clean up after my meal. I will go home, take a refreshing nap, and then allow my spirits to fall slightly as I anticipate the demands a new week will soon put upon me and as I consider the horrific stresses I feel are part of the fabric of my life. So viewed, it is easy to see why this is a life that breeds absolutely no context from which to lift others in marathon intercessory prayer.

But then, even in this life of mine, I might consider these verses another way. I might read these verses as part of my pre-dawn daily Bible reading. I might put it to God to bring them alive for me. He might give me a single story or two in the morning news: a woman who is "a rape victim who was sentenced to lashes and jail time for being in a car with a man who was not her relative." Did the media put a spin on that story to draw up my horror like threads of taffy? Or, was this woman actually sentenced to painful punishment for being too weak to fight off her assailant and thereby keep herself out of the car wherein he raped her? The King intervened on her behalf, says the story; but my heart cries out about her status as a criminal in this case, was this not a deep injustice? Then the thought comes to me: "Use this as the framework on which you re-read those verses." Suddenly, I realize afresh and with a sober mind just how fragile could be my blessings with regards to justice. Much broader is my sense of potential suffering for one who had "done good" yet could by a literal interpretation of law, be nonetheless condemned. Afresh, I believe in the benefits of my own country's justice system, that it is graced even yet with Solomon's wisdom. Though this justice system is certainly not perfect, it nevertheless takes great pains to insure that the weakest members of society are not trampled under the penalties of a law that they literally are incapable of upholding. Never mind the farce of judge shows on television. The true halls of justice still carry the hope of goodness revealed and protected even as harm and prideful aggression are recognized and punished.

Then I read of another woman whose marriage was annulled by the petition of her tribal cousins after her father died, the same father who originally gave the marriage his blessing. He blessed the marriage for (in my mind) the right reasons: the man was a fine upstanding man, he and this father's daughter were in love. Over time, their marrige bore two children. But then when that father died, these cousins presented to the courts that the marriage should be invalid for (in my mind) the wrong reasons: their own tribal reputation was diminished by this marital association with the husband's tribe, a tribe of lesser influence and respect. The father's sanction of the marriage died with him. Granted I see it with a Western eye, I do not deny it, but it appears to me that the marriage was born by the ascendance of love and dignity bestowed as a blessing by the nearest authority figure. It now suffers death by the ascendance of pride and arrogance in family members too distant to have any but selfish motives. "Look again at what you consider bottom line principles, and realize they can sink much lower than your imagination ever entertained as possibilities," says the God who prompts my prayer life. The woman lives now separate from her husband and one of her children (who lives with the father) while they all await the ruling of the court of appeals. It is for the court to pronounce the legitimacy of their children, children born in good faith by their parents that they were not of bastard stock. Now with these thoughts plaguing her mind, this woman would prefer to die if her marriage is termed invalid. So I ponder, what makes a marriage valid? How does this contrast with the flippant disrespect we have (in our own culture) for having been given the privilege of self-determined marriage? Are any of us coming to You, mighty Alpha and Omega, with thanks and respect, with supplication for wisdom before entering into this mysterious oneness that first gave hope to the death-condemned Adam and Eve when once they birthed a child, the hope of life even out of death when once man and wife become one?

Now I have the context by which I can beseech Thee with groanings that are beyond words for me. I can go into my prayer closet, fall on my knees and spend the better part of a day just on these verses. I could leave that closet at dusk and still feel like I'd barely dipped a cupful from the oceans of prayer potential, a cup to lift to You in my efforts to pray Your will into existence on this dry planet.

Prayer and Prophetic Dreaming...the panorama

For the last two years, I've been telling the kids at the school where I work they are living out a re-telling of the panoramic history seen from cover to cover in God's Holy Book. I'd say it is for the sake of instructing the angels...Peter speaks of topics that are "things which angels desire to look into..." in 1 Peter 1. And Paul in Ephesians 3 talks about the mystery of the church, "...to the intent that now the manifold wisdom of God might be made known by the church to the principalities and powers in the heavenly places according to the eternal purpose which He accomplished in Christ Jesus, our Lord..." A couple of years ago I stumbled on this idea that angels watch us not only so they might protect us, but also so they might learn more about the God they serve. We are God's sermon illustrations; the resource library stocked by His own hand, and the poetic metaphors in His sonnets. The concept revolutionized my perception of the "why" behind some of those more inscrutable things of life. That being given as an opening postulate, I have done my share of theorizing on what is happening in the place where I work.

Here are a few of the parallels that have already been accomplished:

*When the high school first came into being where I work, the primary discipline system was based on a list of rules and consequences. The idea was that the efficacy of the system would make discipline issues easily resolved.
AND, God recognized a chosen people and gave His law to these people that they might keep it in covenant with Him.
*By mid-year, so many students had such extensive files of infractions that daily visits to the detention hall and weekly stints in Saturday school still would not suffice to cover the full penalty they owed. Therefore, the principal (a man I then began to see as the Christ-figure in the scenario of our school) on a single day in a chapel service, completely wiped the slate clean of all infractions for all students, stunning them all. He also established a new covenant with them, one in which any future infractions would still be examined against the school's discipline policies, which did not change, however the penalties assigned for these infractions would be mutually examined by student, teacher and principal. Relationship would play a new part in governing the particular penalty assigned for such discipline issues, and growth would be more feasible.
AND--God, in recognition of the fact that the law gave people awareness of their sin but did not provide them with an escape from its penalties, as their inability to operate under the system of the law left them with too great a debt, provided salvation through His son, Jesus Christ,who in the singular and stunning act of dying upon the cross, became an instrument of grace and redemption. Thereafter, relationship with Him developed a person's freedom for discipleship and gave access to eternal life to every person who would accept that relationship.

*The high school entered its second year, and as it did so, the student body became adamant about their desire for student government. Student-led prayer groups sprang up and student-to-student tutoring became more prominent. Also, a new teacher joined the staff who had strong roots in the pentecostal church, a strong background in Christian education and was also a local pastor.
AND--God sent the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. Likewise, the church began to grow into its role as joint heirs with Christ, receiving the commission to do "even greater things" than He had done in His days walking the earth as a man.

*The school occupies a large wooded campus. The high school was at first housed across campus from the elementary school, with a large pond between. Due to the blessing of a building program that expanded the initial school facility, the high school could join the side of campus that had first served as school property and that houses the school's sponsoring church home. One fine spring day, the student body carried everything across to the joint facility, and everyone thereafter was schooled on the same side of campus. No more remote classes and long walks across campus in foul weather for the high school students, those representing the people of God. This happened right near the end of the second year of existence for this high school.
AND--God said through Paul that one day both the branches grafted in and the original branches that were were cut out, all these would one day come together, and the union would be glorious, and a blessing to both Jews and Gentiles. Ezekiel, too, spoke of how the two houses of Judah and Joseph would combine and be as one house--an alliance between God's peoples. And I wondered if our small metaphor-story weren't moving into territory that represented days that are yet to come in the larger world picture? That we were stopped in our move by a tardy visit from a fire department building inspector--that we were allowed to equip the rooms but not inhabit them...all this seemed to be "instructive" in nature.

Now we walk the third year of the high school's life, and we move even deeper into the domain of that which has not yet happened:
*The high school principal, due to extenuating circumstances, had to move his residency onto campus for a while, occupying a house on the grounds.
AND--Christ says He will return again and be with His people.
*For a good three weeks this fall, a small tree, recently landscaped into the area just outside the school's back door, was a curiosity. Its leaves died away early, but did not fall off. One leaf, however, remained a bright emerald green. One leaf, alone at the tip of the bottom branch.
*AND--God said there would be an era when an apostate church would be widespread, but a remnant would be preserved.

Here the clear parallels break down. And we enter the arena of those things which have not yet happened in either domain: neither on our campus nor in the global sense, I have one thought that haunts me, and has ever since I first began "seeing" this panoramic retelling of God's history with His people. Two years ago I had a dream in which I made a trek around Alaska. At about 4 pm on the clock dial (that is as if the map of the state were the face of a clock) trouble hit the school. One student fell and when he hit the ground, his head exploded and so did his hand. The rest of the student body was paralyzed with shock at this boy's injury, and my husband and I ran up to begin CPR and to call 911. Now this winter, a young man decided to tell the students a story about the false god Dagon. In OT Bible stories, the Ark of the Covenant was stolen from the Hebrews by the Philistines. They decided to set it up in their own temple in company with their own god, Dagon. Over the course of a couple of nights, the statue of Dagon was found to have fallen over, with its head and hands broken off. Just after hearing this statue story told to them, the students in that chapel were reminded that at the end of the story when the Jews got the Ark back, they built a monument to God, raised their Ebenezer of recognition that God was their help. Then these chapel kids were given the opportunity to use Lego's to raise their own Ebenezer. Some chose to and some didn't, but the comment most adult teachers made was that the junior high kids were the first to go up and build. I remembered the verses that speak of children leading, of truth being revealed to babes...and the younger ones taking the initiative made the Ebenezer in the era of the apostate seem like this panoramic story is still unfolding, although very little of it is now so easily recognizable.

*One last thing. I recently felt the urge to go to the high school principal and pray that his prayer life where it related to the school would be consecrated by God. Like in the story of Joshua's battle against the Amalekites,which went well as long as Moses, hidden from them up on a high hill, stood with his hands lifted in dependence on God, of similar effect would be this Principal's prayer life. Though no one might know his prayers' content, structure, or purpose, I believed those prayers he would raise in his prayer closet would make a large difference in the days ahead for our school. Now as I think about Christ, our Mediator, who is absent from us but seated at the right hand of the Father, I see now why it is significant how this Principal's private prayer life is, in itself, a thing instructive and appropriately significant, particularly when his prayers are lifted in an intercessory mode.

As for the one part of the dream that had not yet come clear, I may finally have an idea why the dream was set in Alaska. It was a last puzzle piece that made no sense. I talked about it once with P. (the man I described as representative of the Holy Spirit in our school's story) when he asked me, "Do you think that was it?" and this said regarding a troubling situation with a student about a year ago. I said, "No, I don't think it is finished yet. I never learned what the Alaska part was all about. And usually something undefined represents a timing issue. I don't "see" the reason for something because it is not yet time to look for the actual events. But a connection will "appear" when the time really does draw near." Such a thing has now happened.

Recently, a movie came out called, Juno. The movie is about teenage pregnancy, and Juneau (different spelling but same sound) is the capital of Alaska. So now I ponder and I pray. Are we looking at the possibility of a teenage pregnancy at our school? It would certainly be enough to stop the other students, stunned, in their tracks. Also, I suddenly remembered that the first time I ever heard P. speak in chapel he raised dry statistics about the frequency and prevalence of teenage sin. To give it a little more substance/make it more real...he said, "That means, one of you (sweeping his hand across his view of the room) will be pregnant before you graduate. And we'll still be here for you." At the time, I thought it was simply a reality-check intended to keep them engaged. Now I wonder if it was more than that. Tomorrow, the kids will have a chapel service that puts a guest speaker from the Crisis Pregnancy Center in front of them. Though it has been a year and a half since he talked of pregnancy to them during that chapel, I believe it is nevertheless also him, P., who arranged for this visit by a guest speaker from the CPC. It would be in keeping with his role as Holy Spirit--first announcing the truth, later making resources available for navigating the trials of life associated with that truth. And that the prayer-cover of the the Christ-figure here might need to increase in its intercessory sensitivity, well this too is perfectly logical.

Of course, I can't label any of this last bit factual. But, I've watched it happen before: these elusive threads weaving together to become "facts" in this world. I'm quickened enough in my spirit that I'm certainly going to pray for that chapel service. And I'm going to thank God, for what a wonder it is that He would choose, in His sovereign wisdom, to allow us the corporate honor of being His story-tellers in conveying yet again, the Word of truth and life!

Uncle...

What I'm crying about the fact that I've felt the unction to get back to blogging my thoughts here more often, rather than putting it all into my private paper journal.

I had lunch with the wife of that man I wrote of just a post or two ago--the one who experienced my divinely-prompted prayer cover and was that "first-fruits" of the cleansing in my vision of the bars of soap. Not surprisingly, I was as much the "bless-ee" as the "bless-er" at that 2-hour Subway lunch that she and I shared. She was quite receptive to a conversation, and said they are very much people who walk by the Spirit of God, that it was rich to hear but not at all surprising to learn that God had supernaturally put me to prayer for them, because they had asked God to prompt intercessors to pray on their behalf. Then she and I proceeded into a discussion of what it is like to be a recipient of dreams and visions that are so clearly prompted by God. The natureof one of those dreams of mine, in the context of her interpretation of it, is what prompts me to return my fingers to the keyboard as a means of documenting what is happening to me--this "grooming of a prophet" business, even though that still feels like a near-lunatic thing to say.

In the dream under consideration, I stood before God, and was fitted with a cape; and the cape was covered with hands reaching upward. Once the cape was secured, I shot into the sky, flying. As I flew, the cape spread out, its hem never leaving the earth, but rather the fabric and the hands multiplied themselves and spread to fill the whole sky below me. I told her about this dream. She said what I received in that cape was indeed a mantle of anointing, a gift of calling to a particular outreach. She said she thought that the meaning of the spread of the cape was that as I grew upward into that ministry, I'd find that my gift had the power to be far-reaching, long-range in its impact. My gift would lead others to lead others--all coming into the full force of a gifting similar to my own. A prophet of prophets, so to speak. Now it feels like I come into the days when that clarity of meaning is needed, as God is indeed sending people to me who, after they hear I have dreams, literally bolster their courage and say, "You know, I had this weird dream..." It's happened four times that I can think of in the recent past in my work place. And in each case, I could share with that person how the imagery of their dreams matched things God has said to me in my own dreams. We both leave the conversation fascinated by the fruit of this interchange.

So, I'd say this: if an out-spreading is indeed to be a thing You move me into next, O God, them prepare me for it. Help me know how to document and share with others what You personally have taught me, so that others might recognize that peculiar type of "quickening" when it comes.

For example. for years, I might walk along the halls of an elementary school and see in a stairwell a red chenille pipe cleaner unwittingly dropped from some project carried by some hurrying child. Seeing that pipe cleaner would hardly draw my attention. At most, I'd pick it up as a sort of custodial duty done for the school. Not anymore. When this happened to me Friday morning, I was immendiately "reminded" of the story of how the ancients got the scarlet dye that coloted the "thread" used in their Hebrew sacrificial ceremonies. This dye came from: "...properly, the insect 'coccus ilicis', the dried body of the female yielding colouring matter from which is made the dye used for cloth to colour it scarlet or crimson." (This according to definition in Blue Letter Bible.) In greater depth, this dye came by the mother wrapping herself over the eggs of her babies while they developed on that leaf. She gave up her life to bring them to life, and the scarlet dye was released at that moment of new life. Its creation made this dye a precious commodity. That little pipe cleaner reminded me of that scarlet thread's history. Later that morning, I ended up praying with a grandmother who has a granddaughter in the hospital. The 7-month-old child is on death's doorstep, often coding daily, because of some blood and breathing disorder. That grandmother is holding up her whole family and does indeed feel like she is at the point of being a giver of scarlet. We prayed accordingly. This is how I perceive the smallest things of life now. This is how I recognize the intimate, tender care of God toward His children, and see even His quirky and creative way of pronouncing this love. It is a wonder and a mystery. It is a perception I'd happily sow into the hands of others if that were ordained to me. Guide my steps in this new terrain in the adventure of my life, O God!

On Being Called "Prophet"...

...publicly for the first time: it is strange. I've had You operate in my life in such a way that I myself in my private heart feel that label raining down on me. I've even had it implied by the things I offer to my family, though they haven't actually stamped me with that label. But now, I walk down the hall, and I greet a co-worker: "Hello, Keith..." and he says back, "Hello, Prophet..." and the conversation ensues. He deeply believes this profession he made over me; he also says I scare people, because not many people operate the way I do in this day. He remembers a couple or three times when I've come to him personally and said, "I want to pray for you..." and then I proceed to pray for Your will to blanket concerns he'd kept private, ones he had not told me, nor much of anyone except his wife. She also at first is stunned as she hears my words while I pray over him. One of these times, I see their eyes, and I say, "What, was I right on the money?" They laughed about how I addressed things they spoke of in the privacy of the bedchamber, but not really elsewhere. I said, "Well, that's God for you. Affirming from an unlikely source that He heard your prayer," to which they agreed.

In fact, since then, this man's wife is a person God has graciously given to me as a prayer partner. As such, she hears more of the things God plants in my heart than what just relate to her or her husband, and she is also convinced of this assignment to the office of prophet. (Which even now sounds too elevated a title for the likes of me.) I wonder what this means. It is said that 2008 is a year of new beginnings, that "8" stands for the idea of new beginnings, or more Biblically speaking, represents resurrection. What will begin for me this year, God?

I know that You are calling me out to share what You tell me with people less "familiar" to me. For instance, I was driving along the other day and noticed a man in a truck next to me at a stop light, and he looked to be in great distress. I observed him, thinking, "Why that looks just like T." And God said to me, "Yes, and just as much as that man is stopped and in distress, so is T. You should pray for him." For a week, I prayed for T. During that same week, I had a strange vision. One of those that is like the quick flash (almost subliminal) of an image, an image that "feels" like You, but comes so fleetingly that capturing it is similar to grasping after the string of a helium balloon inadvertently released. Often, the retrieval seems inadequate to the full detail of the picture, but I do seem able to draw back enough to bring the meaning to light. In this one, I saw a rectangular box filled with paper grass (the decorative kind of grass) and set with nine bars of soap. To the right side of these 3 rows of 3 bars, and nestled against the little wooden crate's side was a scrub brush, like a nail brush for a laborer to use when he cleans his hands from the grime of his work. The whole box had an old-fashioned barbershop look to it. So that week, I had this vision and I pray for this man--a man who is not necessarily common to my prayer life. At the end of the week, I learned that this man was indeed going through great distress at being stopped from a part-time job of responsibility he held--stopped through the repercussions of an error in judgment he made that ended up bringing a judgment on him that was without any offering of grace for continued employment at that time. I'd give more details, but don't want to be too specific to his situation. Anyway, as I reflected on the wonder of this prayer unction having come before I was privvy to the details, I felt God say to me, "That was soap bar number one." So it feels like 9 old-fashioned cleansings will visit men, cleansings that aren't necessarily comfortable--for the scrub brush had stiff bristles--but that nonetheless are designated as a gift. So with this in mind, I asked God for further clarification, for I felt led to share with this man's wife (a friend of mine) what were the details of this prayer call and this vision, for the sake of his encouragement and hope, even in the face of the despair of failure. The next morning, I came in my Bible-reading across this verse:

"Behold, I send My messenger,
And he will prepare the way before Me.
And the Lord, whom you seek,
Will suddenly come to His temple,
Even the Messenger of the covenant,
In whom you delight.
Behold, He is coming,"
Says the Lord of hosts.
2 "But who can endure the day of His coming?
And who can stand when He appears?
For He is like a refiner's fire
And like launderers' soap.
3 He will sit as a refiner and a purifier of silver;
He will purify the sons of Levi,
And purge them as gold and silver,
That they may offer to the Lord
An offering in righteousness. Malachi 3:1-3

I noted how the talk of a refiner's fire was singular, but the talk of launderers' soap was plural, making me once again see the nine bars as nine men. And in the end, I saw how this image serving as a "keyword" of connection brought something prophets of old would have said was a "word from the Lord" lifted straight out of scripture: once purged these ones designated for cleansing would be fit to bring an offering of righteousness to the Lord. Now as I share these things with "live" people and not just with You in my prayer closet, it is as if the experience were "new"all over again, for even though these things are now frequent for me, other people's eyes pop open wider at the hearing of this format of vision/scripture synthesis. They are either amazed at You, which is the appropriate response of one who believes in You as a living personality who is capable of such things...or they believe I'm weird or a charlatan.

I pray that if You are indeed going to publicize Your relationship with me into this new territory, I might be ready to face any of these responses when people meet You in me. Most of all, I pray that I might be ready to face the isolation that may come as people find You show me things that are indeed concerns they lay at Your feet, but ones they've not laid at anyone else's feet. May they not hold me at arm's length for fear of what I might "know" about them if You are indeed wanting to touch them through me. I know that the point is always You reaching out to them. I don't contrive personal judgments or connections with what You show me. YOu taught me early on that putting myself "in the stew" is wrong. Nevertheless, keep reminding me of this, too, God. Help me remember my place. Help me know when to speak and how to speak...as You Yourself once said in life--when You were in intimate sharing with Your disciples, You said: there's more I'd like to tell you, but right now you just can't bear it. Give me that side of wisdom that knows when and how much to say, especially alongside with this new unction to step out into a larger world.
Happy new year, God!

A Key Retrieved

I had a dream I was in a gymnasium with a friend of mine--the man who is a Bible and an English teacher at the school where I teach, as well as the high school principal. The dream was set at a sporting event. He and I spotted a set of keys on the floor and both reached to pick them up at the same time as we stood there on the sidelines in front of the crowded bleachers, while people watched the competition that went on beyond us. When we touched the keys, simultaneously seeking to retrieve what had been unwittingly dropped and forgotten, our hands strangely became like one hand--like one flesh and one being--as we raised the keys. We faced each other and the strangeness of the moment was on both our faces.

Because our relationship in the waking world permits such a "vision" to be a prompt for prayer, we prayed together about this dream I had. A day or so later, I felt the urge to share with him some of my writing on the relationship of the Beloved and the Bride--things scattered here and there throughout this blog over the last couple of years, mostly the stuff that is in the form of poetry. I asked him to be my copy editor, to help me discern an "order" to the poems, to decide if some did not belong, this was the beginning of his hand in the writing...but maybe not the end of it. Strangely, when he opened the binder's cover, the first line contained imagery that confirmed the authenticity of this Divine assignment by serving to repeat an image that a friend of his had brought prominently into conversation just the night before: the image of the rib of Adam that would form Eve, a fitting highlighting considering the tone and theme of the text. Was this the key? And, were our hands one in the raising of this text? Does he have a part in writing some of it as well? These questions still hang loosely behind a work progress.

I've written a lot on this blog, and much of what is here feels like it comes from my own heart and mind, but some of the words here feel more like I have written in service to a mind larger than my own, a mind that dictates rather than inspires, a mind that assigns and then defines the results of my research. These are the writings I've shared with my friend--the writings that don't really feel like they are solely my own. So he reads them over this holiday break. The last thing I asked him was, "Maybe you can tell me what I am supposed to do with this?" I am not a writer by trade. I don't teach writing in school. The one time I cracked a book about getting published, I read almost immediately that to retain the services of a decent agent, one must write a letter of self-introduction that should outline one's credentials for publication. That was it for me--I have no credentials to serve as a foundation for "saleable"writing.

But over this break, I've been reading a wonderful book called Prayer, by Richard J. Foster. In it, he quotes numerous authors whose words span from antiquity to now; and whose words, like mine are not necessarily the product of years of training in formal, devotional writing. They are simply people sharing their stories about their deepening relationships with God. Foster notes things like Kierkegaard's words about Scripture having "contemporaneity" that does not "merely parallel but actually intersects the present." And I though: why, I've sited such anecdotes here from our lives, but because not many writers in the Christian market do that, I thought it weird. I also noticed how Foster reflected on something I've only heard mentioned once before--the sanctified imagination. He notes that God will use our imagination even as He uses our faculties of reason. And in answer to those who balk that Satan could manipulate our imagination, therefore we should shun such activity, to them he says: are not our powers of rational thought likewise "fallen" and subject to that same evil influence, yet we don't shun using it. I loved that response! "To believe that God can sanctify and utilize the imagination is simply to take seriously the Christian idea of incarnation. God so accommodates, so enfleshed Himself into our world, that He uses the images we know and understand to teach us about the unseen world of which we know so little and find so difficult to understand." Well, I've regurgitated the product of that type of cud-chewing all over this blog! Then he quotes Alexander Whyte as saying "...with your imagination anointed with holy oil...at one time you are the publican; at another time, you are the prodigal...at another time, you are Mary Magdalene: at another time, Peter in the porch." I've certainly experienced this sense of our own lives overlapping the stories set in scripture. I've described it as being on the same "bubble of righteousness" as is found in Scripture: God's benchmark stories of relationship, with the bubble image coming from my image of the Bride's gown, swelling up with such bubbles, and being described in scripture as being formed of the righteous acts of the saints.

As I read these words from such remote figures on the Christian landscape and so many other examples in his text, I am struck by the commonality of the relationship factor between what appears in these quotes and my own current experiences. How different they are from much of what I hear and read from Christian speakers and authors of today. I do not mean any disrespect, but so much of it is all about making this life here in this kingdom here more profitable and more comfortable and more productive in Christian terms. So little of it is about that mysterious communion with the Divine Presence whose love and power is so mind-boggling you can hardly describe it rather than to say it makes all these other "important" things seem like clutter to crawl over on the way to this--this Oneness. At best, I have found books full of wise dissection of Scripture, but rarely have I found books of passionate devotion to God. Now, in this book on prayer, I find quotes that ring a common tone to my own experience of relationship with God, these last few years, but these words are from ancient writers , and I think again of the forgotten keys on the floor in my dream. I thnk of the "game" where we watch and are invested in the outcome, but do not really participate in anything, and I think of so many modern definitions of the Christian walk...is this really important, God? How would You reach out in prevenient grace to this kingdom that has become such a world of spectators?

Funny, I took a walk on New Year's Day alone in the cold. No people were outdoors, and many of the Christmas decorations had fallen in a strong wind. But a few houses still had windchimes hanging. I reflected on how differently I receive a windchime's song depending on the season: the same sound that is so cheerful in a spring or summer breeze sounds so mournful in an icy wind. And in terms of sharing my "song" with others, I certainly feel like a windchime in winter--until I read this compilation of spots of light from so many historic Christians. So now I'm taking a new look at my own recorded reflections--especially as I read this text that Foster quoted from Thomas a Kempis about what we should seek to read in our devotional life:
"Search for truth in holy writings, not eloquence. All holy writing should be read in the same spirit with which it was written...Do not let the writer's authority or learning influence you, be it little or great, but let the love of pure truth attract you to read."
I suppose if I would make a prayer over what You'd have come of the words I put to page for you, my Lord, it would be that Kempis' system of "grading" a text would earn me an "A" and that if it is shared with anyone, it might be received on these grounds alone. Praise be to You, the author and finisher of our faith!

Seeing My Feet

Last year I blogged about the difference between our Christmas outings of 2005 at King's Island Amusement Park and 2006 at a Santa shop in a local farm implement store. This year, my mind is drawn to reflect on the difference between Christmas Day of 2007 and New Year's Day of 2008--not as long a march of days between but certainly as much diversity.

Christmas Day our family had the unique experience of being campers at Disney World's Fort Wilderness Campground. A full moon, perfect weather, friendly squirrels and absolutely no bugs made the camping experience almost surreal. That strange quality bled from Christmas Eve into Christmas Morning as I listened through the tent walls while other families observed their "private" Christmas morning rituals. I heard the crackle of gifts being unwrapped and heard children squealing over the just-revealed gifts. That strange freedom to observe swelled as I walked to the bathhouse. One extended family had rented adjacent campsites, put a tree up between them, and all sat circling the tree in camp chairs, opening the family gifts. I felt like I was a secret observer being transported by one of Scrooge's ghosts, except that these people saw me and paused in their unwrapping to wave to me.

New Year's Day we are back at home and having a very private holiday. No one is visiting; in fact each of us is enjoying the holiday in our own solitary way. We gathered to make fried doughnuts and watch part of the parade this morning (using the new deep fryer that was a Christmas gift to the family.) But over all, the holiday is restfully solitary for each of us.

On Christmas Day I walked...a lot. All over Epcot we went that day. I saw the world past, present and future as told by Disney. I saw Santa under every name and guise of cultural diversity. Mostly I remember being in crowds so thickly massed that I often couldn't see my feet, particularly in a few of the "new" style of queue lines that aren't really queue lines at all, but rather something we coined the term "mob lines" to describe. I hope the trend to use this method of herding people onto rides is one that dies a quick death.

On New Year's Day I walked, too. All over the neighborhood I went. I saw a total of 8 people on that snowy, windy walk but I still couldn't see my feet, as I had myself utterly wrapped in a deep fluffy red scarf under a grey hood to keep the cold sting off my nose and eyes. At Disney the mass of humanity in that ideal climate and that ideal playground was unavoidable. But here in the neighborhood, humanity's presence was far more subtle. A track of three parallel lines in the scant snow on the sidewalk--some child hoped the snow deep enough on a nearby communal hillside to send a small sled forth--a less exciting activity than many of those found at the end of the long queue lines at Disney but surely rewarding in its own way.

Both walks ended. I saw my feet again.

Beloved and the Bride...sanctified (an epilogue)

In the end, the man who found the moon in the desert
remained with the boy, so he grew
in stature and mysterious wisdom
over the years.

The man who found the moon in the desert
remained in the land of perpetual autumn
and now, too, of moonless nights.
No one in the village thought it strange that the moon had
disappeared--
no one but him.

Sometimes he looked out across the woodland
where she had taken him walking--
he looked out from the high gabled windows
of that house couched in the hills,
the house where she'd lived
and where he now tended the boy.

If he were not locked into the boy's life
and the days of moonless autumn,
he might have been able to see her
even still.

Many were days,
when she had gone, in life, into that forest alone,
and met her Beloved--
but unbeknownst to all those folk
who lived near those woods.
And these visits renewed her,
her faith, her vision, her hope, her strength.

There like young lovers, they played
hide and seek among the trees.
She always seeking him;
he always being found
and at just the right moment in the game.

Somewhere in the dark place she remembered the game,
and so she knew right where to look,
to find the tree where he hid
even in that black tangle.
Now, for her, the memory of that dark place--it was vague,
but she knew it was true,
for she found herself once more
playing hide and seek.
Except that now, her part was changed.

Suddenly, this newer new creature knew a new thing:
and so she darted behind a tree,
only to discover her Beloved
hiding stalk-straight
behind an adjacent one.

"So, do I get to hide now, too?" she asked playfully.
And her eyes gleamed silver,
shot through with the beams that the now-dark moon
had given as offering.

The Beloved laughed
the laugh of a belly satisfied with good results
of a throat open with relaxed joy
of a life well lived and finding ever more
the hope and the future.

If the man who escaped the dragon
had not been committed to the boy
and to the land of moonless autumn,
he might have been able to see them
darting
playing.


But, unseeing did not matter.
For in his heart, he knew lived:
lived and played in those woods.

He knew, all the more as his peripheral vision
was groomed to gaze with frequency
not on singulara trees
whose life would span from sapling to pulp
and be ended and forgotten and replaced
by yet a new sapling;
maybe of the same nature, maybe different.
No, association with the boy
and residency in the house of the woman,
these taught him to cast his gaze
on the forest at large
where he would see
a creation timeless and enduring.
A creation now,
so full of joy
that it could hardly hide its fire,
as its patient awaiting
for such groundskeepers as these lovers
was finally rewarded.

Awaken the Dawn (conclusion)

Tales that spring from the imagination end
with conclusions.
Some satisfying, some unsatisfying
but always the words
"the end"
make their appearance.
Tales of life
are not often so.

The man who stumbled into this haven,
this strange and mythic war zone,
looked down through the acrid air
to see the lifeless queen lying
on the ground.
One arm lay above her head,
the other slung across her belly.
So she lay in repose
or else stuck in some exotic dance pose.

But even as the man looked at this quiet queen
his countenance locked in stunned perplexity,
the old man--
that same old man,
who IS he?--
spoke from beside him,
holding his hand even yet.
"Look up, man.
And see more than the fallen."

So the man looked up to see the wall of fire
still encompassing the circle of people.
And now he saw
it wasn't a wall at all.
For they were encircled by living swarming fire,
by glowing horses, tall as elephants
whose feet shot out fountains
of fire and water
wherever they clomped at the earth.
And the chariots they pulled
were aflame with life-light
so bright that their form was nearly
indistinguishable.
As for these who rode in the chariots--
they were too ablaze with burning light
to be discernible.

And the old man said,
"Don't you think she'd have been saved
if the wall had chosen to make it so?"
But knowing this only made the man angry.
"You'd better make your next point, old man,
and not leave me long at that one."
The man said through gritted teeth.

Another townsperson knelt beside the queen now,
ministering to her lifeless body.
"Wait, she still breathes.
Faintly, but she breathes."

"Of course she breathes,
she is not dead, only sleeping.
Although in her current state of perception
she surely thinks herself gone,"
said a new voice, chuckling--
a voice booming with virility
like all life past and present sprang
from its resonance.

The would-be warrior looked up to see this one
a man whose inner light burned off the last of the mist and the smoke
clearing the air of all impurity,
leaving it filled with naught but His own vitality.

And a deep ache that had swelled
undefined
now crested in the warrior,
crashing to conscious thought at the knowledge that she lived--
"Am I the reason for the attack of the dragon?
If I had not come,
would she have been reduced to this state?
Or would she still be stepping softly
in her woodlands
full of autumn?"

"Be at peace, man,
for you have no such power, and
therefore no such guilt to embrace.
The dragon had two heads, you see,
but only one that would attack her.
And that was his downfall, written on the wall.
Your coming is indeed caught up the timing of all this,
but not in the start of it,
but rather in its conclusion.
I would show you what the Queen would have you see.
And then I must go after her; as I promised her."

So the warrior-to-be stood tall
and walked with the man who knew much
until they came to a place,
a place too expansive
for the man to quite perceive,
yet what he did perceive,
made his heart feel as though it would burst.
"Look over there," said the voice in his ear.
And he looked to see a set of twin mountain peaks,
dizzying in their height and beauty.
But then he peered closer
and realized these were not mountains at all!
Though the peaks were certainly
tall, remote, unattainable much
as the pinnacle heights of a mountain range,
these were nonetheless another thing:
these were the joints of folded wings.
The man caught his breath
at the sight of such a being.

Where the dragon had been terrifying in his fierceness,
this being was fearsome in his majesty.
The being's body stood in what came to his eyes at first
as the mountain gap,
where now he realized he saw a glowing brilliance
almost in the form of a man.
At the very base,
where what first appeared a shadowed inlet of snow across a valley
was instead the gleaming train of a linen-light robe.

Suddenly, the man saw the Queen again,
standing there in the folds of that train,
and she was thanking this being for his warfare on her behalf and behalf of her people.
She too wore a mantle of such deep hue
that it could only be worn by queens, for humble glory,
and by harlots for audacious foolery.

As the Queen sang her song of salutation and thanksgiving
for the work of this one so like a mountain,
she suddenly bore in her hands a sword.
And she took the sword and shot into the air like a bird,
so that the train of her robe grew expansive and beautiful.
Now scattered across it were the likes of many hands
springing up from its woven depths to reach with her
for the things of truth and glory.

And so this train that had been given to her
at her coronation spread out behind her,
ever widening to fill the earth and sky with its folds.

"Do not grieve for her fall,
for to this she was predestined,"
said the voice in his ear,
but the voice was no longer the voice of the man
who had been his 11th hour guide--
rather it had become a voice transcendent:
a whisper that roared--
a whisper, because no mere man could perceive it's audible intonation
and live;
a roar because no matter how hushed and controlled the power
of the source of these words,
the impact of any sort of speech from this one
was still overwhelming.

Then as the man watched,
the queen floated there, holding the sword aloft.
She presented it to the one who was a mountain,
and the mountain received it.
Then the queen and the reach of her robe spread out
as clouds upon the sky.
But the sword fell down to the earth
and as it fell it lost its sleek gleam
and took on a new form.
By the time it reached the foot of the mountains,
it was but a little boy.
The would-be warrior peered closely at the child.

"That's right," said the voice in his ear, audible and
supremely human yet again.
"You've already met him.
But he plays with the marbles of matter,
don't forget.
Now do you perceive why you're here?"
And somehow, the man knew.
Suddenly the child was close, even at his feet;
but now, this little one was without his uncanny acuity and piercing inquiry,
he was but a child frightened and confused.

So the would-be-warrior who came to this place as a strange pilgrim
seeking war-craft secrets--
clues to take to his own land,
this man who came to this place
that he might take from it power
to wield against his challengers,
yes, even this one who expected a destiny of renown
amongst both kindred and foes,
this man in the end was forgotten by their likes
until one day no one even thought to ask of him--
"whatever happened to...?"

This man took the pudgy little hand of a child,
and after giving him a small measure of comfort,
led him back to a quiet village
in a mythic desert,
where a singular dead tree
bore one leaf...

...Awaken the Dawn continued...

The Queen and the man
considered each other
and what to do next.

When suddenly, a roaring sound
filled the empty space
in the very molecules of the air.
Her chin came up,
her eyes blazed.
"The wall is rising--" she said,
turning quickly.
So she set her foot forward
with purpose
and integrity.

The warrior to be
followed quickly.
"The wall?"

"The one,
and the One,
that rises as a standard
when our Enemy's flood
rushes toward us."
She looked wryly at the man.
"It appears you will see us fight
after all."
Then her eyes grew first wide
(as a new realization struck her)
and then again, narrow
(as its implication led her thinking.)
"Maybe you are why our Enemy approaches."
Then she hurried her step again.

"But I am no companion to your enemy!" cried the man.

"No, for the wall did not respond to you,"
agreed the Queen.
"Still, you could be a factor."

Before he could ask her to elaborate on her meaning,
they came upon a clearing full of people,
people standing in a circle.
The commoners held hands,
and a hum of cosmic power seemed to emanate
(but in starts and sputters)
from their union.
A place broke open in the ring of struggling human dominion,
and the Queen took her place there.
The hum grew steadier,
but remained feeble in strength.
She turned, looking over her shoulder at the man.
"Though you are a stranger,
it is still my request that
you fight in our company.
Will you fill this remaining gap in our circle?"

The man thought:
This is how they make war?
And partly because he did not fully perceive
what was before him,
he stepped into their circle.

Nevertheless, when he clasped the hands
to his right and his left,
the spark and the current
took an exponential leap
and the circle crackled.

Then he saw things he had not seen before:
a wall of fire and shooting steam roared
all around the circle,
as foul water and good,
as cleansing fire and destructive fire
fought for dominance,
so elements nearly indistinguishable from each other,
wrestled for supremacy,
and the people prayed.
Gradually, the man realized that this was their warfare.
Power to the good!
Wisdom to the righteous!
Strength to the holy Creator!

Then, because the bud of these prayers looked promising to bloom and not wither,
the source of the bad revealed itself
for it knew no other way to slice that bulging bud from its stem--
so a creature broke through the fire and steam;
and the man felt transported
into some medieval artistry,
for this creature was a dragon,
in the classic sense.
Two-headed with a tail that lashed,
its mouths that breathed explosions
into the order of life.

Then the man joined his heart
to the prayers of the circle.
As they prayed,
the creature folded in upon himself,
twisting, wrapping himself in smoke;
and the acrid smoke
and the tiny oily rainbows
slithering across the black steam all around him
gave evidence:
The creature seduced.

"Why do you despise my power?"
It whispered with a contrived laziness.
Don't you see my power makes me lovely?
Respect me, for then why should I harm you?"
And so the creature spoke in a language
spoken by the people
spoken for many a generation,
words whose etymology was born of much trading
rather than being the offspring of revelation
or of loving and gracious inheritance.
So the man came to see
that this danger was greater
than what could be posed
by any voiceless weapon fashioned
by the hands of man.

"Look away," said the Queen.
"Or be mesmerized."

The man looked back along the path he'd walked with the Queen,
back toward the forest,
where a mighty flow of light was rising.
Like the energy waiting in a drawn bow, it swelled forth.
"What is that?" he cried.
The Queen looked where the man looked,
and she smiled.
"That is the tree I showed you.
That which appeared dead
reveals its hidden life,
for such a time as this.
It is a new life, a new thing.
Let it now springforth."

So the arc became a sickle,
and an arrow transformed into a sword
empowered to smite the heads of leviathan.
but not until the Queen
...fell.

Continuing...

Does anyone have preconceived notions of what he will find
when he enters the secret pavilion of the Lord?
Let him lose those notions.

When this man entered the curtained realm,
(while wind chimes rang gently around him)
he hardly realized he had such notions,
until he found them unfulfilled.

Had he expected the woman to be
lovely?
(Dewy and nubile.)
Had he expected her to be
wise?
(Meditating on some elevated rock?)
Had he expected
divinely ordained mutations?
(A couple of extra arms, or
writhing snakes in her hair?)

What he found?
An ordinary woman.
In an ordinary gown.
She stood
sipping not so ordinary chocolate
from a scuffed,
pink plastic mug.
And she looked up at the curtains
as if ever seeing them
for the first time.

But then, she looked at him.

And all his former expectations
became truth again
in her eyes.
How are eyes that have no guile and no agenda
anything but lovely?
How are eyes that see the horrors of war
yet still exude love (rather than fear, or hate)
anything but wise?
How can such eyes be anything but
a divinely ordained mutation?

And although she'd never met him before,
she reached her hand out to him and invited,
"Walk with me."

She took him from the pavilion of their meeting,
into the royal woods,
where all traces of the outlying desert
were inconceivable.
The skies looked down
and began to swirl strange patterns in their clouds.
Their crystal layers appeared
like a field of slate
under thinly running waters.

The season was high autumn.
"Not until I came into your land did I realize
it was autumn," he said.
"My days in the desert did not afford me a good sense
of the passing seasons."
She reflected for a moment. "Well,
it may not be autumn
elsewhere.
But it is always autumn here."
He was confounded by that statement.
"Always autumn?"
She touched one leaf, still brilliant green.
alongside another, brilliant orange.
"In this place, it is right to always see both.
The threat of looming winter,
does it not bring out the most noble colors?
But life is not yet completely asleep."
And he realized she was right.
It fit this place.

So they walked trails
where long and elegant seed pods
sliced deep burgundy cuts,
in mounds of moss.
They walked where dead leaves
clattered against the trunks of their host trees,
refusing to take their fall silently.
They walked along a stream
whose beach like flagstone, rocky smooth,
had so many muted stones
lying level, flat in the sand;
laid ther,
by the press of waters long removed, but not
without their residual influence.
And although he'd sworn to himself
to disregard the former paths
of flowing streams,
at this Queen's side he could not help
but notice.

They walked where a small tree stood--
slender and clothed in dead leaves.
Like brown husks not reailzing their abandonment
they nevertheless clung
in their little leaf cities, but for one
a small one, and bright
glowing green
on an otherwise bare and fragile branch.
"We're getting close to what I'd show you--"
said the Queen.

They walked beside thick fallen trunks,
whose pulpy powder lay at the mouth of the breach
of their splendour.
And, they walked near a standing tree whose base
was a cavern,
a hidden opening.

The man reflected on
some childhood story he recalled:
such a "doorway" at the base of a tree served
as gateway to a magical underground world.
The Queen smiled--almost coyly.
"What a fanciful story
for the likes of you
to remember."
So the man met again
his purpose.
And as men of war don't cotton soft
to stories of secret havens--
he renewed his vow to be
a serious man.

They walked where the water of the river broke to form
a side pool beneath a stand of oaks.
"What a shame--" said the Queen.
"Shame?" asked the man.
"Look into the waters," she said.
"You'll see the fate of the acorns."

Indeed, in the shallows
a muddy ground-surface was littered with tiny acorns
perfectly preserved,
un-growing.
The Queen tilted her head, and whispered,
"Did they choose where they would fall?
For that matter, did the tree of their origin
choose where it would grow?
But who can call the effects of the water bad?
In fact, the water feeds the tree's roots.
It's a puzzlement."
The man frowned.
First, she teased him for being fanciful,
then she took him
right back into fancy.
"It is simply the way of things--"
he said gruffly.
"Yes, but how do you calculate
the rightness in it?"

(Now, he would prefer to speak rather abruptly;
but he nonetheless attempted
a respectful tone.
He addressed a foreign dignitary
after all.)
"It is not for me to say--"
""Isn't that absolutely right!"
she too heartily agreed with him.
And suddenly he felt uncomfortably responsible
for the fate
of a lot of acorns.

"Here we are," she said at last.
Where they stopped, a gnarled, dead tree stood
like a forest mausoleum.
Dead a very long time.
Dead like stone.
Gnarled like weathered stone.
Knotty holes scarred it deeply.
She pointed into one of these holes.
"Look there," she said,
as if she showed him
the inward parts of a treasure chest.

He peeked into the hole,
(so long dead it hardly lifted
even the faintest scent of spice.)
And there he saw a small twig
with a small leaf
growing on it.

"I ask you, how is it
that small branch drinks life
even from this tree's roots?
So I keep watching it, tending it.
In fact, it is why I'm in this place at all.
I've been given the task of sheltering it,
here in the desert."

"But what has that to do with war?" asked the man impatiently.
She looked at him in amazement.
"Why everything--" she said,
surprised he'd even asked.

She studied him thoughtfully,
as they retraced their steps
going back by the way they had come.
"I think the thing to consider next is not
how our activity here could teach you
this art of war."

He raised his eyebrows questioningly.
"Though we fight gloriously, you can not see it.
You are blind, though I have shown you the balm that could open your eyes.
You are deaf, so I will give you the words that will open your ears."
Then she leaned over and breathed these words into his mind.
"Consider now the hardest question of all:
What is war?"

Continuing...Part 6

A trail is a sort of sign
but it may be just the sign of an animal's route;
A trace is a better sort of sign
but it maybe just the sign of an abandoned route.



So when a city-seeker finds a road,
with fences and ruts and potholes.
Then he shouts in triumph,
for he knows:
he is on his way.



Now, the warrior tracked along
a genuine road,
but no more did his mind wander fancy free. No.
He looked for signs of war craft.
Pugnacious in this quest,
he felt the days behind him spin out like galaxies,
so far had he come to find this place.



Thus, when he found a man with a long rod
stooping at the ground,
seemingly taking a measure,
he presumed the man to be marking a field
for planting.

Surely this one would be a good candidate
for land-related inquiry.
So he waited for the man to pause
in his reckoning.



Then the warrior asked,
"Good man, where might I find
a military leader in this place?
I have come to make myself
an apprentice
for a time,
as I would learn the art of war."



The man unfolded,
stretching slowly,
as one does who spends much time stooping.

"Why I am a general in this land's army.
Maybe I can help you on your quest."



The warrior-to-be frowned.
"What is a general doing
duck-walking along the ground
with a measuring rod in hand?"



"It is as you surmised. I am measuring."
(This statement made with remarkable ceremony.)



"But surely this is not a job for a high-ranking general?"
said the confused warrior-to-be.
"How could your commander in chief put you to such a meaningless task?"


"Meaningless?"
(And the voice rose as only an offended general's voice could.)
"Why this is the most important task of all!
If a measure is not taken periodically,
how can we know of our city's defenses?"



The statement made a modicum of sense to the man, so he pressed on.
"What is your measure then?"



"Why I have taken no measure at all, thank goodness!
You see, I look for things that show
a marking of territorial boundaries,
however insidious,
however secretive;
and if I find none then, well,
all is as it should be."

Seeing the would-be warrior's consternation,
indeed anticipating it,
the general continued:
"As long as we are free of the urge
to possess--
only then is our all
protected."

It almost made sense to the warrior-to-be;
but in the end
he wandered on down the road
looking for someone less cryptic
and he muttered a few comparisons to don Quixote
under his breath as he went.



Soon, he said to himself,
"Well and good. I have already got out of the way
the unavoidable encounters
the hillbillies and crackpots
native to every town and its outskirts,
no matter how civilized--
these are behind me now.

I can move on to more serious purposes without
their muddying the course."
And he forgot his intention
to avoid water allusions.


He followed the road until it was flanked by trees tall and statuesque.

In one of them, a man propped himself
leaning against one branch,
pruning another.

The warrior shaded his eyes,
looked up, and called.
"Good man, might I inquire where I could find someone skilled with a spear?"

(He'd decided to take a simpler tack.)

"Ticky-tacky tic-tac-toe," spoke a voice
(seemingly dis-embodied,
now that the warrior was directly below the tree)
from the rustling branches.
It was as if he read the warrior's mind.
Derogatorily.

"Well, you needn't call me tacky,
nor the player of a child's games--"
and the warrior felt
he came across quite astute
in this comment.

"Are all the people here so cryptic?"
he thought briefly, then aloud said,
"I have serious business."

"More than you realize," the voice threw down.

"I simply would like an answer to the question.
Do you know anyone skilled with a spear?"

A moment of silence, before:
"I am."

Then the person slid to the ground
all the while hugging the tree
with a rope belt.

Indeed, he looked strong and young
and capable.

But the interview was not quite finished.

"May I see your spear?"
(The spear tells much about the man who wields it.)

And the tree-climber held out his pruning hook.
"Here she be," he said in too-jovial a voice.

The warrior-to-be sighed.

"That is not a spear."

"Ask the tree. It will tell you otherwise."



So the warrior shook his head, yet again.
"Let us try this," he followed yet another tack.
"Do you know of anyone hereabouts
who can wield a sword?"

The quintessential warrior.

"Aye, you can find him at the smithy's today
I believe he's having it sharpened."

For this last bit, the warrior to be
very nearly hugged
the landscaper,
who then added boon to benefit
by telling the warrior where the smithy lived.



Now the warrior was not unfamiliar with
the ways of the civilized.
He knew what indicators proved that
civilization was established.

Not its population, no.
And not its purposeful diversity.
Rather, the opposite.
Where the superfluous abides,
there is civilization.

So he sought the signs
of things unnecessary.
But the economy of the place
even as it grew in complexity
was sheer poetry.

This, he might have recognized as
an outermost ripple of that which he came to find.
But he'd intentioned to put such fancies out of his mind.

So while he noticed
even admired
the aptness of the place,
it was to him
but an oddity
on his way to the blacksmith's shop.



Andthere it was:
A little white outbuilding, dark inside
where a smith planted his feet firmly
near the fire
and beat a metallic clanging rhythm.
A breezeway opened across to cool him
(as much as a smithy can be cooled. )
Black he was with soot,
while pounding at the vise
a strong metal
while another man
(his strong arms crossed over his chest)
stood watching.



The warrior to be approached the watchman.

"You study him like he works on your own metal.'

The man grinned and said, "He does."

"Are you the one who wields a sword
sharpening even now under the hand of this smithy?"

Now the waiting man turned his studious eyes
on the would-be-warrior
in the dim light of the shop.

"A sword," he mused. "I suppose."
The visitor turned his gaze on the metal being beaten.

"But that doesn't look like a sword,"
he said flatly.

"What do you suspect it might be if not a sword?"
(The man sounded amused.)

"If I didn't know better, I'd say it is a plow."

"Then you don't know better, as it is a plow."

The would-be-warrior spat
disgustedly on the muddy straw.
"I look for a general,
for a spear-thrower,
and a swordsman.
I'm told I find all three.
But in truth, I find none of these.

And I came such a long way
to learn the art of war.
Who can teach me now?

I suppose you'll tell me that sword-plow
slices the earth--"

"--but only where she is willing to be infected with seed,"
chuckled the man with the crossed, sweaty arms.

And the smithy kept hammering.

"Still, you are on a quest and I can respect that.
I must stay here while the smithy finishes
renewing my plow.

But if you will remember,
there is one who can help you find
what you're not yet knowing you seek.
The Queen."

The would-be warrior remembered the house on the hill.
He shook his head again, this time mumbling
about a Mad Hatter.

The plow-man ignored the mumbles.

"Along that lane, you'll find a pavilion.
She's often there
this time of day."



The would-be-warrior squinted
from his right eye,
at the plow-man and said,
"Of course, I can walk right up
to her.
The Queen.
Me.
A stranger."

The plowman slapped him on the back.
Another one, too jovial.
"Indeed! Liberty.
It is a law of the land that comes from the top straight down."

So the traveler left the mucky little shed
and he followed a lane past a pond and up a hill
where indeed there sat
a curtained pavilion.
Even the curtains mocked security.
Thin and of billowy fabric white.
Only their length bespoke their majesty,
for they were four building-storey's tall
if they were an inch.
So, though light and frothy, still
they hung heavy and regal,
from golden hooks barely visible
from the ground.
When he looked up to assess their height,
he saw an afternoon moon imprinted on the sky.
"Why are you there?" He asked her.
"What's more, I say
why is it ever your time to be out
during the day?
Is the sun ever so ambiguous?
I think not."
So he chided that faded moon.
"Washed-out," he called it.
Then he remembered his arrangement with himself.
"No more talking to the topography,
not even the topography of the sky."
But he couldn't silence the thought
that the moon was taking liberties, too.
And he wondered that the desert would allow it.

The Beloved and the Bride Awaken the Dawn

(part 5)
Not until this cleansing was accomplished did he come across
people.

Oh, but this was not remarkable to him.
A city called to catalogue such secret knowledge
as the art of war and conquest, such a place
would, no doubt, keep its people safely walled,
no doubt.

Only he saw no walls.
Instead, he saw hints of farms--
fences and pasturing animals,
mounds of hay seasoning
in the autumn sun--
He lifted his eyes and scanned the periphery,
where he expected to see the rise of a wall:
tall stone,
the shield of a city,
rising even above the tops of the trees.
Somewhere would be
a thing to make him pause,
breathless at its immensity,
deep defense,
substantial
even on first sight.
But what did he see?
A small farmhouse,
and a person,
most vulnerable of all:
a small boy,
(was he playing marbles in the dirt?)
while nearby his nurse hung fresh linens
out to dry.
(With not even a fence around the yard.)
The child sang nursery rhymes to himself as he played,
a sing-song script familiar to the man at first,
but turning odd,
which would remind him that
after all,
he was in an alien place.

"Rub a dub dub,
Three men in a tub--" sang the child.
Then strangeness:
"--a psychic, a claustrophobic--" the child looked up to glimpse the man,
never finishing his song,
nor his marble throw...

"Are you content, sir, or are you grasping?" the boy asked,
asked with the voice of a man grown,
asked with a voice of the director who would interview
for a role in the troupe
of the "Washtub-Community Players."

Content?
Abstractly, the man considered
he might indeed be a fitting choice
for a role;
but before he could answer,
the washer-woman called the child.

"Go on back to the house now,"
She said as she came from behind the flapping linens,
turning full to face the man.
He noted that even her head was wrapped in white linen,
like twin peaks crowning the brow of a medieval dame;
and her apron glowed,
a white sail on a windswept lawn full of sunlight.
But,
her nose was large and her skin
unremarkable.
She was a plain but clean, starched woman.

"Beg pardon, madame,
could I trouble you to tell me
where the wall 'round yonder city might be found?"

"Wall?" she asked,
suddenly more alert to her surroundings.
"Are we being in need of the wall?
And if ye knows there be a wall, how can ye not know Who keeps it?"

"Forgive me, I'm just a traveller.
I seek a wall for a landmark,
something that I might follow to the city's gates."
She looked at him,
her eyes now fully gone
inquisitive.

"It is said only enemies see the wall first off.
(And us what is under its protection, naturally.)
So here is the way of it--
the wall is a wall when we are in need of it.
If ye be friend, ye'll never see it.
So...be glad the wall is a blind spot
and the way, an opening to ye;
for no gate is available
if the wall be up."

Such talk struck him
as superstitious rambling.
He shook his head,
simple country folk...

But still, she helped.
Pointing, she advised:
"Ye'd want to follow that trail.
So it'll take ye along the river
until it meets the oxbow lake,
go down the oxbow
to where it drys to but a meander scar,
that scar goes along
on the land where the river once coursed.
Follow the scar.
And that's as good a way as any
to reach the city.
On a high hill is the house of the woman
ye be wanting to see."


If he'd had the patience to listen to her fully,
he'd have been surprised
by the measure of her discernment--
but before she spoke her last,
he'd already launched out
intently to follow the trail along the river.
When it took a sharp turn
he saw a lake
just a bit removed.
First clear and deep,
it soon fell marshy
until at last only a dry bed led his steps.
He walked that meander,
and (as was his way)
where a trail was easily followed,
he let his thoughts wander,
handling curiously the nature of things.

For instance:
How water moved over a day,
and then how it moved
over a million days.
But knowing that his long-sought answers
loomed with imminence,
this knowing broke
the long reverie in the place
where the water thoughts
and moon thoughts resided.
Now, he shook his head
and made some sensible self-talk.
Where is that warrior-to-be?
Am I not he?
When did I forget
the reason I'm here?
(seduced by bright pretties
like sun on ripples
and sweet freshness.)
Oh, it is good.
It is all necessary.
I do not dispute these things.
But me--
I am on a mission
of urgency.
Urgent men
write little poetry.

So, no more did he ruminate
on the past of the dry bed
or its future;
and he renewed his search for signs of a city.

So with near-magical timing,
straightaway
he saw a path that crossed the meander bed,
a path wide enough for a horse cart;
a path wide enough for a chariot.
So he followed that path up and out of a dry-gulch,
where he found the beginnings of
civilization.

The Beloved and the Bride Awaken the Dawn

(part 4)



One last night,
the warrior laid himself down.
One last night, outside.
A man alone, and beyond
the protective womb of a city wall.
One last night, but already different--
for even this night, he bedded in a changed world:
not on a pillow of stone,
on a bed of shifting grit-
but now on a mattress of soft moss.
Not under the desolate cry of the wind,
but under the compassing coo of a dove.

And more the change that bloomed in the morning,
for when he woke,
he woke to a welcome discomfort.

A long-lost foe of pleasant wakings,
friend of forest but not of man,
this friend to moss and trees
endowing them spicy aromatic,
made the man's grimy clothes and hair
all the more odious.
A friend likewise to the woodland creatures,
who while still morning-nestled in the cobwebs,
dressed them in fanciful pearls of light
(a reasonable pay for a night's boarding)
offered in those fleeting moments when it shared the world
with the light of dawn;
this friend of forest would in turn for the man
offer him little but deep-bone stiffness
in a sticky sort of way.
But the man did not grumble,
not even a murmur in his heart.

Dew.
So long absent as to be a thing forgotten.
Now,
once remembered,
once experienced,
real and near, after months of dry awakenings:
how had he ever thought it unpleasant?

And this new man
on this new morn,
found that which could so easily vanquish
the first-light
first-waking
comforts,
instead gently held his wonder and his peace;
daintily proving things past
and long absent from his company
were still utterly reliable
in their season.


Such meditations
rose up in him that morning
to a force so mighty
as could drive a geyser,
and with a similar allure
as what manna revisited might elicit.
So the man woke not only refreshed, but strong.

In time, he rose
and took the advice of the dew:
he sought a spring where he might bathe and drink.
Soon, he found a place where waters found their own wall of awakening,
a ceiling at the end of a cavernous trip,
that opened joyously into...
air!
And the man thought it a fitting place for his own immersing.
Careful not to touch that natural spigot
he nonetheless received of its gracious flow.
He lolled in the pooling waters where he floated.
He listened.
The sound of the waves lapping over him carried
a strangely layered humming.
And he considered the water might speak to him,
so naturally he spoke in return.
"We are kindred souls this morning," he cried.
Then he laughed at the sound of his own voice,
while the sunlight skipped along the water in his hair.

"The dew sent me to you, the current sent you to me.
So much anticipation.
What awaits us in this place, do you know?"
Then he drank from the spring--
a sweet foreign purity,
for though it was likewise water that had scoured
the innards of his water jug
lo those days in the desert, still
this stuff was entirely different.
And he laughed at himself
for talking to the water,
but not for listening.
No, that was serious.

In the end, he decided that
in this place,
to believe that profound communion
could indeed transpire
between man and the cool sweat of the earth,
why it was completely natural.

And still curious, the man rose to find his city of warriors.

The Beloved and the Bride Awaken the Dawn

(part 3)



So many things change

--most of them, gradually--

so many

so gradually

who notices?

Until change is remarkable.

But only to the observant.



And so this would-be warrior

hardly noticed

when death--as scraped bones, couched within

unstable sepulchers of sand--

gave way to life

in grass and trees.

Well into the change was he

before he looked up

from his weary

trudging feet

to see--

new terrain.

Looked up, for he saw strange shadows

--limbs of trees

and flying birds,

things living.

Strange shade,

for shadows had (long days)

been merely an attachment

to the high and frozen clouds.



Suddenly, he saw:

he walked a new world.

Scrubby, true.

But no longer exposed.

That wasted bare ground,

it was covered with life,

covered with meaning.



Alert now, he heard

(at last)

the welcome

that hummed

and fumed

and wafted

in this place.



So he noted, that his first welcome came

from the trees.

The cedar washed its aroma over him--

that tree whose song acknowledged restoration:

of the leper to his health

and to his home.

The warrior-to-be was cleansed.



His second welcome came

from the trees.

The acacia,

she reached--her thorny arms

her pods

all blackish--reached to embrace him.

"I carried Noah,"

she reminded.

And the warrior-to-be was rescued.



His third welcome came

from the trees.

As groves of myrtles whispered to him,

the scent of a stallion still in their branches,

whispered reminders of days long gone

that were nonetheless called to revival-destiny:

"Remember days festival,

when our branches were(are) pruned

for the making of boothes.

Remember."

And the warrior-to-be was inspired.


His fourth welcome came

from the trees.

Richest of all, the olive dripped,

so deep was the dignity of his welcome.

"Know,"

said he,

"my seed is within me,

and fruit I yield

after my own kind."

And the warrior-to-be was sated.



So together the fir and the pine and the box tree

cheered the moving man

whose stride no longer

fell weary.

"I sing for you, with the harps that

even now

await their forming from my branches,"

cried the fir.

"I sing for you,"

rustled the wind-kissed box tree,

her branches raised in perpetual praise.

At last, the pine cried out, stately

between the other two:

"We three, note us as you pass.

For it is we that proclaim

the sanctuary.

We that make the place of the feet

of the One

glorious."

And the warrior,

in passing, thought of feet.

How different a footprint in the forest

from a footprint in the sand.

Yet how similar.



So the warior overtook those hills and mountains
(deep stone servants)

called as intervention

in a vast fierce desert.

There, he remembered a rediscovering:

desert beauty locked

in the petals
of a rose;

so likewise now he reconsidered

diverse blessings mounding and resting
in fertile lands.



And as revisiting the desert had transformed his fear,

so revisiting the fertile lands transformed his pride.

And an awesome man was he,
though not yet a warrior, still...

a man of humble courage...

a man peculiar in any world.



But before he could pause long to reflect on his own transformation,

an old man stood beneath the box tree.

And he thought it the same old man who spoke days before

at the gate,

but figured that impossible.

"Seek ye the place where the desert holds the moon?"

spoke the wizened old mouth.

And the warrior gaped

just a little.

"Did I not just pass that country?"
he asked.



The old eyes twinkled.

"The pools are but a prophecy,
sent for thee.
Dost thou not wish to find its fulfillment?

She that lives upon that hill--"

and a long shaking finger pointed.

The warrior's eyes raked along

an invisible trajectory

to find a hill before a hill,

where a large white house of cedar wood

stood nestled before

a stand of evergreens.

Gabled in goodness,

floating on a crest of cool green,

a house he had never seen,

but still somehow had always hoped

existed.

"She lives there,"

the old man simply said.

It didn't quite fit.

And yet it did.



The warrior-to-be was curious.

The Beloved and the Bride Awaken

the dawn...
(part 2)

Deu 32:10
He found him in a desert land, and in the waste howling wilderness; he led him about, he instructed him, he kept him as the apple of his eye.


A funny thing: survival prayers.
If such a prayer be genuine,
the answering of it is hardly acknowledged
as divine intervention--
not right away.

Such was the case for the dying warrior-to-be.
When he found a tiny pool, his first thought was:
get low.
And with his face to the water
he lapped its life down his parched throat.
Then he rested, while waters diffused
throughout his flagging flesh,
He lapped again, and rested flat
his back cushioned against soft warm sands
as the air turned cool
and the the day gave way to night.

Then the moon herself
crept into his field of vision.

A standing man
regards the moon
from the position of one subservient,
scrutinizing her
from beneath his brows.
But
from this vantage point
flat on his back,
she is to his gaze,
as an equal.

The warrior considered her thus,
"What is your secret, O Moon?"
he asked.
But she had fallen silent.
You are so far up in the sky,
how is it you are nevertheless held in this place?
Was the old man doddering of mind
as well as body?"
Silently, she continued to creep
too slowly to measure with the eye,
but he knew...before long
she would hide again, ever waxing and waning
as was her way.
"Foolishness," he grunted
as he rolled over, turning his face with the intent
to drink again;
rolled away from her
and found her again.
Found her waiting in the water.
And like a key that finds its lock and turns
to throw open a door
that never wanted to be shut,
so the old man's secret was exposed.
The warrior's head shot up,
and his eyes became the eyes of a hawk.
Just a littledistance, he saw a glimmer.
And where at first the moon had been one,
soon she became many.
On pool after pool her gleam lighted,
like a butterfly
upon the still waters.
"In the place
where the desert holds the moon
you'll be near,"
said the old man.

Suddenly, to loll about
was ludicrous.
Though it was night
and the time of sleeping,
it was also the time of the moon glow.
So he shouldered his pack
and began to follow the pools,
pools in the desert
that led to the dawn.

The Beloved and the Bride Awaken

the dawn...

Once there was a man who had the dream
to be a mighty warrior;
and this man heard of a kingdom
strong and powerful.
It was distant--
some said only legendary--
but he thought:
I will seek out this land
for surely if it is real
I will learn to be
the master of my world;
I will learn this
from its inhabitants.
So I will not leave that place
until I have the secret
of that kingdom's great power.

Long were his travels
with many false turns,
restarts,
backtracking
and harsh climes.
But eventually, he came to a place
where the people no longer referred to this kingdom
as mythic.
"Keep to this road.
And when you find the place
where the desert holds the moon,
you will be very near,"
said an old sage sitting
in a city gate.
So the man turned squinted eyes toward the desert--
and he said--
"Many are the years since I've put foot to sand."
Indeed, he'd grown to manhood in a desert, but had left it
long ago
bent on a life in fertile lands that flowed
with all the good things that last
for a season;
but as the season changed,
so did his heart...
changed enough that he looked
across the rippling pulse
of land exposed
and he wondered
"Will I remember how to survive there?"
The old man, reading his mind, said,
"You have the eyes of a desert urchin.
You will be fine out there,
that is if you have the courage
to begin."

So the man set out across the mounds,
mounds that held no promise of life for the next day,
for the next year
--only a promise of shifting,
of movement under a hot wind--
and he reached into his most inward parts to find
survival gear.

Gradually, he discovered the old man was right.
Gradually, he discovered that the feeling he'd long-called
Distase
would claim again
its birth name:
Fear;
a name long buried in the shifting sands that were
within him;
fear of such a world as this--
fear locked in the grain of a boy grown,
locked because it was never threshed in manhood--
this fear
finally broken,
and the chaff blew away.

Slowly, signs of life sprang up
in his peripheral vision,
until one day he reached his hand
to stroke the petal of a desert rose
and as the tail of his turban snapped in the wind,
he looked to the horizon that was behind him
--a horizon no longer lifting even the hint
of that "safe haven" now long distant--
and he thought, "Where did I get the idea that
there was no beauty in this place?"

So the man acclimated,
and thereby proved many wrong who lounged
still in the lush lands.
Strangely, (as these things go)
to prove them wrong had fired his courage
until there was nothing left to prove
and courage was a thing better saved for
inward rather than outward feats.
Accomplishment evaporated like fleeting raindrops on the desert sand,
to be replaced by something better,
as he traded one mirage for another--
in that mysterious place where heat-visions are
what you make them.
And he wondered
if he would ever leave the desert again.
At last, he was ready to consider
the riddle.
For his quest was made no less mysterious
by the regaining of his desert footing:

"Keep to this road,
and when you find the place where
the desert holds the moon
you will be very near."
Until now, simply keeping his feet to that road
had been mysterious quest enough,
with shifting sands
twisting outcropping
buttes to skirt
as weathering had often turned an ancient path
impassable--
but always he had found the trail again;
And nowhere along it's way
did he find a place
that seemed to hold the moon.

Then a new clawing anxiety
surfaced--
not that of a dissatisfied boy,
but of a man with avid survival skills--
a knowing welled up
that even hidden water was growing scarce.
And soon, water became his all-consuming need.
Never mind fanciful quests...
Never mind reaching beyond the fears of youth...
Water was the goal.
Because none of the rest mattered
to dry bones on the desert floor.
Finally, he did something he hadn't done in years--
he prayed to the God he'd met in the desert
so long ago.
He asked for life.
And as he did,
a gentle breeze swirled across his face--
a breeze with a freshening quality to it.
He turned into that air:
did it not carry at least a hint
of moisture?
So at last, he left the road
all for the hope of water.

The Bride and the Beloved: What's in a Name?

Some might, in their dreams
see Armageddon.
But the Bride sees her Beloved,
in His anticipation.

From a distance she watched,
As the bronze hooves of His white horse
raise a cloud of sparkling dust.
She looked at her Beloved's blood-cape whipping in the wind
And at the gleaming white cloth draped over His thigh--
She saw where
He bore a monogram there:
King of Kings
And Lord of Lords.
Lettering of living gold
on cape and robe.
Who has ever heard of such a thing
as when the veins of the earth
come alive?
(But she knew, such living gold was even then
being fashioned for a wedding ring
the one He would give to her.)

She knew His other names for that day, such as
Faithful and True.
But like any young betrothed,
she was more fascinated
with what she didn't know
than with what she did know
about her Beloved.
For she knew
He bore a name
written
but that no one knew except Himself.

Slowly, she approached His horse
and when He saw her, He smiled.
"Have you prayed me Godspeed, My love?"
He shouted over the wind.
"I have indeed and prophesied Your testimony,"
she called back.
He nodded.
And she reached up and put a hand on his thigh, wondering.
What word writ here?
The horse's flanks quivered, as if it read her mind.
Don't look, the servant-beast seemed to think,
But she didn't receive the thought as a grace.
And suddenly she was anxious,
anxious to rip away the fine linen and see
the name inscribed there
just above His knee.
She knew of it,
but she did not know it.
"Should not a Bride know such a thing
as the name of her Husband?" she thought.
But then guiltily, she lifted her gaze
to find Him looking at her.
And He wore a strange smile on His face
a strange squint in His eyes.
"Look there if you would," He offers.
But she shakes her head, and pats that strong thigh decisively.
"No," she says. "I know what is written.
And what is written says I do not know this name.
Not now.
But in time, I hope to know it,
and without the need of the violent look.
In that day, I'll simply know it."
And He swooped her up,
"Then kiss me goodbye, and I'll go forth as
The Word of God.
That our time may be established."
And another of His latent names,
was activated.

Then she watched, as He rode away,
watched as His blood-robe kissed the sky
and all the energy of His kiss for her
was caught up in that red panel
whipping in the wind;
watched as a panorama of gleaming white robes
like a massive cloud,
fanned out in the wake of the blood-robe,
His troops,
(her troops)
forming
one vast cape
held in place by that ruby-red clasp
as if at the throat of
a giant-warrior--
a warrior to end all warriors.

"It isn't a secret, you know,'
said a voice near her ear.
She turned to see
the rich young ruler
from the days before her Beloved's glory;
that rich young ruler whose life
perpetuated sayings of camels and needles
throughout the ages.
He shook his head as if reading her thoughts
when he saw she recognized him,
"Some legacy, huh?" he chuckled.

But still he persisted.
"It isn't that the name is a secret
He hides nothing from you."

She tipped her head and studied him.
"I have thought that very thing strange," she said.
"That He who loves to such sacrificial degree
should hold this one thing back: a name."

The rich young ruler cast his gaze upon the diminishing ranks
as their power raced forth,
full strength across the cosmos
stirring stardust in places
where such power had long been forgotten.
"It isn't that He hides the name,
Nor that He withholds it,
offering Man
a singular unfairness
to mar the face of such a just love;
it is not a protective withholding
even from the worship of those
most diligently righteous;
And it is not an eternal mystery kept,
as judgment on those who know the most, but love the least;
although it rightly could be all these things."
He looked again at her,
and with fervor said,
"If anyone, then I should know of which I speak."

Fascinated, she asked,
"Then what is in this name?"
One word he said:
"Everything."
And he walked away.
And suddenly, she knew.

In her heart, once more, her Champion's love ran pure;
and she wished Him to hear her saying,
"I understand now.
I will not doubt again,
my Beloved."

Alone, she strolled, the strangest of Brides,
for she was not one bit distressed
that her love now rode off to war.
No, her mind ruminated with the one thought
that chased any fear away:
"Everything."

Like eyes that can only see a few--
maybe only a single--
facet of a diamond,
such was the nature of her power to comprehend
her Beloved.
Many flashes of color she might see:
the names of this day, and of days of yore:
Bread of Life,
Immanuel,
Light of the World,
Lamb of God,
Son of David, Man and God--
but this name
surpassed
encompassed
them all,
such that no mere human could ever see
the largeness
the majesty
the excellency
of it.
That He knew the name;
This was enough.
That His self-awareness lacked nothing;
This was enough.

Then as if to give the evidence of what was
and was to be,
(even her hopes realized)
yet another facet flashed
--even then--
and indeed it was one she had not seen before,
one like the scarlet thread of His cape,
shot through with the living gold,
a facet whose song sang something new for her
a song long hidden in the dust that waited,
waited for the stirring of this day:
"Strange and wonderful,"
sang the facet red and gold,
"that even as He
chooses you for His Bride,
even with your limited vision,
that He is content.
He does not expect you
to know Him as He knows Himself.
He simply loves you,
for your desire to know Him."

Thenas her countenance found its contentment,
and as her smile gew somewhat private,
she walked away from the settling dust.