I was walking down hill. The woods to my right receded and the valley floor came into clear view. The valley seemed far deeper than one would expect from the height of the hill I had just climbed. Drawn down, I just had to go.
I began to think of Shekinah. I do not know why, he just invaded my thoughts. I began to wonder about the nature of my relationship with him. It seemed so intermittent, so irregular, and inconsistent. I tried to shrug off these nagging thoughts, but they were stubborn. He had never openly indicated that our relationship was anything more than host and traveller. For sure, some pretty amazing things seemed to happen when he was around, but there never was what appeared to be a demand for anything else. In fact, he even walked too fast for me most of the time. Such an action is hardly the manifestation of a desire for ongoing fellowship.
The valley floor slowly came up to meet me. It seemed a quiet place; in fact, it was devoid of any discernable activity. Then, quite unexpectedly, a voice called out from behind a low stonewall that had, as far as I was concerned, just materialized off to my left. The voice was male, but not in any way remarkable. In fact, it was just a voice of any number of men over the age of forty. “Come over here, seeker.” “Seeker?” How did he know anything about me or the purpose of my presence in that valley?
I walked towards the stone structure and became aware of the faintest smell of sulphur in the air. Usually sulphur’s stench is over powering. On that occasion, it was just a hint in the breeze but there just the same. I went around the wall and there sitting upon a common park bench was a man clearly advanced in years. His clothing was expensive and neat. He definitely had a sense of style and not a little drama, given the bright yellow silk scarf around his neck. He was clean-shaven save for a tuft of white hair just below his bottom lip. He gestured for me to join him on the bench, but I declined. My refusal did not seem to effect his demeanour in any way.
His eyes narrowed as he studied me from head to foot and back again. Finally, he spoke; “So, Shekinah brought you here and you do not know why?” He posed his remark as a question. A clever move as it creates some uncertainty and makes it difficult not to respond. He continued; “Nasty business that black dog following you.” I remember wondering if that was another question. “Yes, I came here aboard the Pneuma and yes, that dog episode was far from pleasant.” I referred to the ship in an attempt to gauge what more this man knew.
The subject changed; “I am here every afternoon from one ‘o clock, always, never miss a day. I like to think of myself as dependable. I don’t hold much to relationships, which dissipate, like mist. I am for the organized and the predictable. Solid, that’s the way things ought to be.” He looked at me and gestured again for me to sit. “Shekinah is not the sort I can get to grips with. You never know what he is going to do next. Not much chance of success when your friend cannot be relied upon. Not so?” The questions, those tools of doubt, were now morphing into accusations.
I wanted to defend Shekinah, but felt that the accusations were not far from the mark in reality. “Where was Shekinah? I had been left alone in the wood, hounded by some demon dog and now this!” My thoughts ran amok. In the periphery of my vision, I am sure I saw the corners of my host’s lips curl ever so faintly upward.
I replied; “I cannot answer your questions, at least, I am sure, to your satisfaction. However, one thing I am sure of is that Shekinah is my friend and he does have my best interests at heart. I cannot explain his absence, but I am sure he is doing what he deems best ...” My voice trailed off, robbing it of any semblance of being convincing. I felt like I had betrayed him. After all I had witnessed, I could not mount a coherent defence of his good intentions. Perhaps this new acquaintance of mine was a better option. At least he spoke straight. I did not like that snappy dresser but I really had the sense of knowing where I stood with him. There was seemingly nothing abstract nor esoteric about him at all.
We were not alone. I spun round and to my horror there sat the black dog, about one hundred feet behind me. It glowered at me. My head flicked back to face my then current host. He had not moved, his countenance unchanged. Is this now my choice. My predictable new ‘friend’ or that dark desperation of the dog.
It was then that I saw the ruse. Shekinah had been manoeuvred completely out of my thinking. Doubts about his intentions had moved him aside, my host’s apparent dependability and predictability had removed the necessity of mystery, and now the dog represented what was to happen should I not choose to sit on that bench. This destructive partnership had separated me from the unseen reality and blinded me to all except the predictable, the dependable, and the prison of life devoid of magic.
“What was that Shekinah had said about magic?’ My mind raced about seeking the answer. “Why was I even thinking about this?” That question gatecrashed my already chaotic thoughts.
“Magic used for evil is that which is stolen, misunderstood, twisted, and abused. That which you have witnessed today is a mere taste of what it was intended to be.” “Yes, that was true of that day, but did it remain so for my current situation?” I began to entertain the thought that this man and this, or perhaps his, dog were of the magic that was stolen, misunderstood, twisted and abused. My mind settled, I felt myself choosing to agree with the idea of Shekinah’s magic. As I did, the world around me began to shimmer. Everything became a haze, defined outlines disappeared.
Voices were coming from every direction. I felt a wooden floor beneath, hands touching me, and the many faces looking down upon me suddenly became more defined. I recognized, they were part of the Pneuma’s crew. Suddenly the sea of faces parted and one like the sun shining came between them. “Shekinah!” I shouted, not meaning to. My tone was one of relief mixed with generous helpings of fear, dismay, anger, frustration, and relief.
My outburst did not perturb him in the least. He offered me his hand and hoisted me to my feet. “Today, you won the battle to believe. In the face of seemingly strong and compelling reasons to walk in predictability, you chose, on your own, the voyage of mystery. Congratulations, I could not do it for you, but I was there watching, waiting, and hoping.”
Monday, November 1, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Sailing aboard the Pneuma (Part Nine)
The realization of being very alone came as a sobering shock. One minute he was there along with the watchers and then, as if they were never there at all, they were all gone.
Since first boarding the Pneuma, I had never experienced such aloneness. It was not isolation, I felt there was so much life around me in that wood, but I was alone in the sense that meaningful, heartfelt communication no longer seemed possible. With whom was I going to speak?
Gradually the direction of the gentle wind that was blowing changed. It began to blow away from the town and, it seemed, around the hill and further in land. I felt that I should go in that direction as well. At least, on that occasion, I was able to walk at a more comfortable pace.
The wind seemed to follow a path worn out of the grass just below the tree line. To my left was open grassland flowing down to the sea and, a little behind me the town and the harbour. The wind grew steadily stronger moving the tall grass in a pattern similar in appearance to waves upon the ocean when viewed from a high vantage point. To my right was the wood. Each tree stood close to its neighbour and in between the proud trunks were bushes in amongst tall grass. My pathway navigated a route between these two landscapes. White cotton wool clouds followed overhead. From time to time, they shielded me from the sun as they sailed the sky.
All was silent, save the wind playing in the grass and leaves. It was quiet but not peaceful. As the town disappeared behind the hill, I was aware of something among the trees keeping pace with me. I felt no immediate threat, just disquiet brought on by the unknown, and the unseen.
My pace quickened, as did that of my invisible and unwanted companion. My mind began to conjure images of was tracking me from beyond the tree line. “Would an animal quicken and then slacken pace exactly at the moment that I did?” I stopped. Listened. I heard nothing save the wind at play. It never entered my mind to turn around and go back to the ship. I just felt I had to push on, to where I had no idea.
For a moment I thought, almost believed in fact, that I was alone once more. “Perhaps my ‘friend’ had tired of my standing still and going nowhere.” I thought. As I recommenced my walk that delusion proved short lived. My footfalls were partners to a faint padding sound, like that made by a large mammal such as a lion. For a while, I hoped that it was a lion there in the woods. I had read long ago about a lion who governed another world. I hoped against hope that it was he. I then awoke to the idea that the lion in question was in a storybook and stories are just that, stories.
The hill seemed to go on forever; those hills did not look that big from the harbour. I looked behind me and all I could see was the sea, even the grasslands had fallen away. Thankfully, I came upon a fallen tree, long dead. Its trunk hollowed out by a million insects over many years. I sat and faced the sea in a vain attempt to ignore the existence of the woods and the sense of growing threat that they held.
Suddenly, to my left, a huge dog appeared. Head held low, tail down. It was nondescript as far as what breed it may have been. Its coat was coal black, its countenance sullen. The lower jaw was only slightly apart from the upper. As the canine walked, it held my gaze with cold grey eyes. It walked along an invisible circumference, never coming closer nor moving further away. Its slow pace ensured that I saw every part of it, every twitch, every blink, every moving of the ears.
With each yard it covered my mood darkened. My sense of hope faded in the face of the foreboding I had felt as we had approached this land. Hopelessness grew within me to the extent that I began to believe that Shekinah was now gone, believing that his task was complete. Aagar and his fellows were nothing more than a daydream, a hallucination brought on by too much sun and exertion.
That black dog began to crush me without coming one-inch closer. My view of the landscape narrowed, bit by bit, until all that I could see was that black dog. It completed its walk around from left to right. It then returned along the same circumference. Every step brought a failure, an inadequacy, and the memory of a bad decision. I saw my life as an accountant might see the balance sheet of a failing company. I felt useless, unwanted, not worth knowing or knowing about. What was my purpose? Why was I alive? The questions and doubts charged like a demon cavalry brigade.
“Why had he left me? So stupid to give day dreams names and personalities. Why was I on this hill? Surely, as boring and as predictable as home had been it must be better than this. Would it be?” II could not remember enough of home to make a comparison. I felt my mind slipping its moorings.
The black dog walked on.
I wanted to turn back. Sprint for a view of the town at least. “No” I argued with myself, “Why go back, there’s nothing there except the prospect of telling people you accomplished nothing more than a walk”. Such thoughts baffled me. After all, no task had been set. I can remember debating with myself about why the opinion of others was so important. I do not recall deciding one way of the other.
The black dog walked on.
I stood up with all of the determination I could muster. My one-man drama was not for the benefit of the black dog, it was for me. I had to convince myself I could walk with this thing there or not. I continued in the direction I had been going. It walked, the black dog, diagonally behind me to my right its eyes never breaking contact with me.
The cloth bag that I had received in the forest suddenly made itself known in my trouser pocket. Whatever it contained poked my thigh. “See.” I said to myself, “It was not a day dream.” I argued back, “You picked it up and imagined it was given to you”. My argument with myself served to confuse me about all that had taken and was taking place.
The black dog walked on.
For reasons I did not begin to understand at that time, I did not reach into my pocket to retrieve the bag. There was indeed a darkness about, but somehow I knew that this darkness was not what the contents of the bag existed for. I forced my mind to trawl for memories of happenings on the voyage: The meal in the woods, observing the dance, the vision of the throne upon the sea, things Shekinah had said. My mind wrestled with the reality of the black dog and my demand to recall all that was good and true.
I walked on.
Since first boarding the Pneuma, I had never experienced such aloneness. It was not isolation, I felt there was so much life around me in that wood, but I was alone in the sense that meaningful, heartfelt communication no longer seemed possible. With whom was I going to speak?
Gradually the direction of the gentle wind that was blowing changed. It began to blow away from the town and, it seemed, around the hill and further in land. I felt that I should go in that direction as well. At least, on that occasion, I was able to walk at a more comfortable pace.
The wind seemed to follow a path worn out of the grass just below the tree line. To my left was open grassland flowing down to the sea and, a little behind me the town and the harbour. The wind grew steadily stronger moving the tall grass in a pattern similar in appearance to waves upon the ocean when viewed from a high vantage point. To my right was the wood. Each tree stood close to its neighbour and in between the proud trunks were bushes in amongst tall grass. My pathway navigated a route between these two landscapes. White cotton wool clouds followed overhead. From time to time, they shielded me from the sun as they sailed the sky.
All was silent, save the wind playing in the grass and leaves. It was quiet but not peaceful. As the town disappeared behind the hill, I was aware of something among the trees keeping pace with me. I felt no immediate threat, just disquiet brought on by the unknown, and the unseen.
My pace quickened, as did that of my invisible and unwanted companion. My mind began to conjure images of was tracking me from beyond the tree line. “Would an animal quicken and then slacken pace exactly at the moment that I did?” I stopped. Listened. I heard nothing save the wind at play. It never entered my mind to turn around and go back to the ship. I just felt I had to push on, to where I had no idea.
For a moment I thought, almost believed in fact, that I was alone once more. “Perhaps my ‘friend’ had tired of my standing still and going nowhere.” I thought. As I recommenced my walk that delusion proved short lived. My footfalls were partners to a faint padding sound, like that made by a large mammal such as a lion. For a while, I hoped that it was a lion there in the woods. I had read long ago about a lion who governed another world. I hoped against hope that it was he. I then awoke to the idea that the lion in question was in a storybook and stories are just that, stories.
The hill seemed to go on forever; those hills did not look that big from the harbour. I looked behind me and all I could see was the sea, even the grasslands had fallen away. Thankfully, I came upon a fallen tree, long dead. Its trunk hollowed out by a million insects over many years. I sat and faced the sea in a vain attempt to ignore the existence of the woods and the sense of growing threat that they held.
Suddenly, to my left, a huge dog appeared. Head held low, tail down. It was nondescript as far as what breed it may have been. Its coat was coal black, its countenance sullen. The lower jaw was only slightly apart from the upper. As the canine walked, it held my gaze with cold grey eyes. It walked along an invisible circumference, never coming closer nor moving further away. Its slow pace ensured that I saw every part of it, every twitch, every blink, every moving of the ears.
With each yard it covered my mood darkened. My sense of hope faded in the face of the foreboding I had felt as we had approached this land. Hopelessness grew within me to the extent that I began to believe that Shekinah was now gone, believing that his task was complete. Aagar and his fellows were nothing more than a daydream, a hallucination brought on by too much sun and exertion.
That black dog began to crush me without coming one-inch closer. My view of the landscape narrowed, bit by bit, until all that I could see was that black dog. It completed its walk around from left to right. It then returned along the same circumference. Every step brought a failure, an inadequacy, and the memory of a bad decision. I saw my life as an accountant might see the balance sheet of a failing company. I felt useless, unwanted, not worth knowing or knowing about. What was my purpose? Why was I alive? The questions and doubts charged like a demon cavalry brigade.
“Why had he left me? So stupid to give day dreams names and personalities. Why was I on this hill? Surely, as boring and as predictable as home had been it must be better than this. Would it be?” II could not remember enough of home to make a comparison. I felt my mind slipping its moorings.
The black dog walked on.
I wanted to turn back. Sprint for a view of the town at least. “No” I argued with myself, “Why go back, there’s nothing there except the prospect of telling people you accomplished nothing more than a walk”. Such thoughts baffled me. After all, no task had been set. I can remember debating with myself about why the opinion of others was so important. I do not recall deciding one way of the other.
The black dog walked on.
I stood up with all of the determination I could muster. My one-man drama was not for the benefit of the black dog, it was for me. I had to convince myself I could walk with this thing there or not. I continued in the direction I had been going. It walked, the black dog, diagonally behind me to my right its eyes never breaking contact with me.
The cloth bag that I had received in the forest suddenly made itself known in my trouser pocket. Whatever it contained poked my thigh. “See.” I said to myself, “It was not a day dream.” I argued back, “You picked it up and imagined it was given to you”. My argument with myself served to confuse me about all that had taken and was taking place.
The black dog walked on.
For reasons I did not begin to understand at that time, I did not reach into my pocket to retrieve the bag. There was indeed a darkness about, but somehow I knew that this darkness was not what the contents of the bag existed for. I forced my mind to trawl for memories of happenings on the voyage: The meal in the woods, observing the dance, the vision of the throne upon the sea, things Shekinah had said. My mind wrestled with the reality of the black dog and my demand to recall all that was good and true.
I walked on.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Sailing aboard the Pneuma (Part Eight)
After a hearty meal, we left our beaming hosts and, instead of heading back to the ship, Shekinah turned back towards the hospital. We soon passed it dispelling any ideas I had of a return. On up the street he strode with me in breathless pursuit.
The town soon fell behind us as the road headed into the hills that stood guard over the town. Bare rock crowned each hill. Those crowns peered out over the tops of tall fir trees that thickly populated the slopes. Before too long the roadway gave way to a dirt track that became steeper with every step. Finally, we veered off the track onto the grass at the base of one of the hills.
I could stand it no longer, “Why must you always walk so fast?” I asked incredulously. “By the time we get anywhere, I am ready to collapse.” I exaggerated. He looked at me in a way that made me wish I had never asked. Not that he was cross or anything like that, he just looked down at me, and the corners of his mouth began their mischievous curl upward. One would not notice that at first, but the more I spent time with him the more playful he seemed to become. There was always a flash of the eye, the cheeky upward curl of the corners of his mouth. “Did he ever get cross?” I thought to myself.
“If it is not too much trouble, my friend, I would like you to go with me into the wood.” Undisguised mischief was in his voice. “I suppose I could manage a few more steps.” “Good.” he said as he rocketed off up the hill to the first line of trees.
As we entered the wood, the cool shadows gave some relief to the heat of the day. However, these were strange shadows, as they did not alter the intensity of the light. I looked upwards and the trees were so close together that they formed a canopy obscuring the sky. Something else suddenly came into my consciousness: Wherever we had gone together, I was always able to see. That terrible house behind the hospital had no light to speak of, but my vision was unimpaired, so much so I could see the darkness as it charged at us.
Two things I became sure of that day, an unflappable, childlike mischief, and constant light. Never in our organized times back home had I ever heard of him spoken of in this manner. I was getting to know him and what I was learning contradicted the traditions. Would everyone know him like this? Was I the only voyager? Had there been any before me, would any come after?
“Come over here.” His rich voice wafted lazily through the trees. As I had stood wondering, he had moved a hundred yards further on. “I want you to meet a friend.” As if on cue, a tall, impossibly elegant figure dressed from shoulder to foot in a long silvery white gown emerged from behind a tree. His face was handsome and beautiful all at the same time. Just as I decided he was male, some female aspect seemed to show itself, and then balanced by another male feature. An energy emanated from within this being. His, if he were male, gait was purposeful yet his footfall did not seem to make any sort of impression upon the forest floor.
I extended my hand as if to shake the hand of Shekinah’s friend. He spoke, or rather sung. There are no words to describe the sound, suffice to say it was beautiful, emotional even. So stirred within, I had to swallow hard to prevent an onrush of emotion. “I am Aagar, you are welcome here.” I looked toward Shekinah who said, “Aagar and his fellows watch the town. When an enemy comes, they watch and protect. Sometimes an enemy is stubborn and they call for me. While they wait for my arrival they protect those who can and desire to be protected.”
Aagar pointed down the hill. My gaze followed his outstretched finger and, frankly, I saw nothing other than the town. His other hand brushed my forehead with the softness of a gentle breeze. Then, suddenly, I saw: All around the town figures like Aagar were walking. It was a truly amazing sight. One of them, as if to offer an example of their task, walked towards a panicking horse and all at once, the animal calmed much to the relief, I am sure, of the child hanging onto its reins.
“You have all been here while the darkness was in the town?” I asked. “Yes.” Shekinah spoke, as if on Aagar’s behalf, “Had they not been here, the darkness would have spared no one. They were here because there were those in the town who knew Truth and believed that ultimately no lie could survive, and then there were those unable to understand. They were the reason for the presence of Aagar and his companions.”
As I focussed again on my immediate surroundings, I became aware of a vast crowd. Beings like Aagar surrounded Shekinah and I. Their faces calm but with a happiness that does not require constant laughter. Their demeanour was a calm delight.
Open your hands, said one of Aagar’s number. I cupped them to receive a small cloth bag. “This is for you to remember this day by. When the darkness comes then you may open the bag. Until then keep it closed and keep it close.”
Suddenly, Shekinah and I were alone again, or so it seemed.
The town soon fell behind us as the road headed into the hills that stood guard over the town. Bare rock crowned each hill. Those crowns peered out over the tops of tall fir trees that thickly populated the slopes. Before too long the roadway gave way to a dirt track that became steeper with every step. Finally, we veered off the track onto the grass at the base of one of the hills.
I could stand it no longer, “Why must you always walk so fast?” I asked incredulously. “By the time we get anywhere, I am ready to collapse.” I exaggerated. He looked at me in a way that made me wish I had never asked. Not that he was cross or anything like that, he just looked down at me, and the corners of his mouth began their mischievous curl upward. One would not notice that at first, but the more I spent time with him the more playful he seemed to become. There was always a flash of the eye, the cheeky upward curl of the corners of his mouth. “Did he ever get cross?” I thought to myself.
“If it is not too much trouble, my friend, I would like you to go with me into the wood.” Undisguised mischief was in his voice. “I suppose I could manage a few more steps.” “Good.” he said as he rocketed off up the hill to the first line of trees.
As we entered the wood, the cool shadows gave some relief to the heat of the day. However, these were strange shadows, as they did not alter the intensity of the light. I looked upwards and the trees were so close together that they formed a canopy obscuring the sky. Something else suddenly came into my consciousness: Wherever we had gone together, I was always able to see. That terrible house behind the hospital had no light to speak of, but my vision was unimpaired, so much so I could see the darkness as it charged at us.
Two things I became sure of that day, an unflappable, childlike mischief, and constant light. Never in our organized times back home had I ever heard of him spoken of in this manner. I was getting to know him and what I was learning contradicted the traditions. Would everyone know him like this? Was I the only voyager? Had there been any before me, would any come after?
“Come over here.” His rich voice wafted lazily through the trees. As I had stood wondering, he had moved a hundred yards further on. “I want you to meet a friend.” As if on cue, a tall, impossibly elegant figure dressed from shoulder to foot in a long silvery white gown emerged from behind a tree. His face was handsome and beautiful all at the same time. Just as I decided he was male, some female aspect seemed to show itself, and then balanced by another male feature. An energy emanated from within this being. His, if he were male, gait was purposeful yet his footfall did not seem to make any sort of impression upon the forest floor.
I extended my hand as if to shake the hand of Shekinah’s friend. He spoke, or rather sung. There are no words to describe the sound, suffice to say it was beautiful, emotional even. So stirred within, I had to swallow hard to prevent an onrush of emotion. “I am Aagar, you are welcome here.” I looked toward Shekinah who said, “Aagar and his fellows watch the town. When an enemy comes, they watch and protect. Sometimes an enemy is stubborn and they call for me. While they wait for my arrival they protect those who can and desire to be protected.”
Aagar pointed down the hill. My gaze followed his outstretched finger and, frankly, I saw nothing other than the town. His other hand brushed my forehead with the softness of a gentle breeze. Then, suddenly, I saw: All around the town figures like Aagar were walking. It was a truly amazing sight. One of them, as if to offer an example of their task, walked towards a panicking horse and all at once, the animal calmed much to the relief, I am sure, of the child hanging onto its reins.
“You have all been here while the darkness was in the town?” I asked. “Yes.” Shekinah spoke, as if on Aagar’s behalf, “Had they not been here, the darkness would have spared no one. They were here because there were those in the town who knew Truth and believed that ultimately no lie could survive, and then there were those unable to understand. They were the reason for the presence of Aagar and his companions.”
As I focussed again on my immediate surroundings, I became aware of a vast crowd. Beings like Aagar surrounded Shekinah and I. Their faces calm but with a happiness that does not require constant laughter. Their demeanour was a calm delight.
Open your hands, said one of Aagar’s number. I cupped them to receive a small cloth bag. “This is for you to remember this day by. When the darkness comes then you may open the bag. Until then keep it closed and keep it close.”
Suddenly, Shekinah and I were alone again, or so it seemed.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Sailing aboard the Pneuma (Part Seven II)
I awoke to the sound of trundling trolley wheels and the clatter of plates and cutlery. Evidently, it was breakfast time. There was much chatter and the clinking of china. The entire ward was abuzz. Predictably, Shekinah was in the epicentre of the activities. He was serving food, giving hugs and high-fives, all the while conducting a conversation with the tall woman who had appeared the night before.
Suddenly, I became self-consciously aware that I was still in bed. As I got up to spare myself being thought lazy the waterfall voice laughed across the room, “See, I told you there was such a thing as resurrection”. Laughter rippled around the room and even the tall woman was smiling in my direction. Finally she spoke, saving me further embarrassment, “Go out the door, and turn left, and then go through the second door on the right”.
Once safely in the bathroom I could consider the events of the past twenty-four hours. That place was in the thick fog that I had seen on the horizon. I deduced. For the first time since waking, I looked for a window to spy out the day. To my dismay, the foggy darkness of the night before was still very much in evidence. Had I woken so early that the sun was yet to rise? I bathed and the rest then made my way towards the ward.
Shekinah intercepted me in the corridor. “It is time for us to be on our way. Go and say your goodbyes. I’ll be waiting outside.” I could not work out if our sudden departure was a sign good things or not. He did not seem to be troubled; in fact, His demeanour was very matter of fact. I walked into the ward and the faces of the patients and their turned towards me. “I have to say goodbye, I would really have liked to have got to know you all better. Farewell friends.”
A small voice reached out from the bed furthest from me, “Thank you for sleeping here with us, it was good that you felt comfortable here. Can we pray for you before you go?” “Of course.” I responded, somewhat shamefully, as I had not proposed the idea myself. Suddenly the beds emptied and the patients of various ages and conditions gathered around me. Many hands reached out followed by the offered prayer. I did not understand the language but the tone of the voices was joyful, hopeful, and even confident.
Once outside, I found my companion sitting on a low wall dividing the hospital property from the road. Above him was a rather dim streetlight. As he sat there, he could have been anybody. He was looking down the street towards the docks and his long hair was gently moving in the wind. “Are you done?” he asked without looking in my direction. “Ok, now for one final task before we ...” He did not finish the sentence.
He rose from the wall as if propelled by an unseen force and was three or four paces ahead before I took a step. His brisk strides took him away from the docks; I followed wondering what the hurry was. We walked up the road for two blocks then took two right turns and arrived at a property that was surely directly behind the hospital. Questions arose in my mind, but I felt that was no time for questions.
The street was dark, no lights whatsoever. The vague outline of a squat building brooding in the inky night appeared. For the first time on this adventure, I felt real fear arising within. My stomach knotted and my mouth dried. Shekinah approached the front door with a determined gait. I felt that waiting for him outside was not an option. As I got next to my companion, he looked me in the eye, smiled, and said, “Well done, this we will now do together”. The idea that I was to be directly involved in whatever lay inside did not fill me with anything approaching confidence.
The door swung open as if responding to our presence. The air within was stale and heavy with menace.
The interior was very old but not lived in by anything human. A whiney wind blew around the empty foyer and down the corridors that went left and right. A scurrying noise, like that made by rodents, was discernable among the shadows. Shekinah stood motionless in the centre of the floor. I hovered, none too bravely, by the still open door. He gestured for me to come to his side. I moved reluctantly to him and had to suppress the desire to grasp his hand. The door, as if freed from my presence, closed with a creak and a thump.
We stood in that heavy silence with just the whine of an unearthly wind and that wretched scurrying sound.
I wanted to speak, I even opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I looked at Shekinah, he had a determined look, and his jaw seemed set like stone. Even in that musty darkness, his eyes shone as if subtly lit from within.
A sound of movement came from the left hand corridor. It was a darker shadow than those among which it moved. It had life, it moved independently of anything else. It moved with purpose, yet it had no visually discernable shape. Shekinah’s frame tensed, mine wilted. I am sure he shifted his feet as if to brace himself against some onslaught. My heart accelerated and thundered like the great steam trains as they rocketed through the countryside.
The darkness rushed at us like a lion upon helpless prey. Its gale force breath threatened to blow us over, its deathly stench to asphyxiate us. Shekinah spoke, “Stop”. He did not shout his voice was as it always was - royal, rich, rushing water. Our adversary halted, the wind died instantaneously. What appeared to be its face, I say this only because there were three holes like eyes and a mouth, stared down at us, swaying like a snake charmer’s cobra. The atmosphere hummed with restrained power.
“Your time here is over. The people have called upon Him who is beyond the seas, He has answered, and I am His decree. Now go, you are on private property, you are a trespasser, and your presence is unlawful, go!”
From the shadow came a scream, such as I never wish to hear again. It was a fusion of fear and fury. The building shook as one dislodged from its very foundations and light invaded the foyer. Bright, pure light. It was all too much, I sprinted for the door, which opened, again, of its own accord and bolted for the outside. The brown black mist lifted away from the ground in spiralling columns. The house seemed to empty itself of darkness as the shrieks of torment continued.
Then silence and bright, reassuring light flooded the street and then the entire town.
Shekinah appeared in the doorway. He brushed himself off as if to free himself of the dust of combat. He ran his hands through his hair and sat down on a small bench just to the right of the door. He took a deep breath, looked up at me, and said nonchalantly, “Shall we get some breakfast?”
Suddenly, I became self-consciously aware that I was still in bed. As I got up to spare myself being thought lazy the waterfall voice laughed across the room, “See, I told you there was such a thing as resurrection”. Laughter rippled around the room and even the tall woman was smiling in my direction. Finally she spoke, saving me further embarrassment, “Go out the door, and turn left, and then go through the second door on the right”.
Once safely in the bathroom I could consider the events of the past twenty-four hours. That place was in the thick fog that I had seen on the horizon. I deduced. For the first time since waking, I looked for a window to spy out the day. To my dismay, the foggy darkness of the night before was still very much in evidence. Had I woken so early that the sun was yet to rise? I bathed and the rest then made my way towards the ward.
Shekinah intercepted me in the corridor. “It is time for us to be on our way. Go and say your goodbyes. I’ll be waiting outside.” I could not work out if our sudden departure was a sign good things or not. He did not seem to be troubled; in fact, His demeanour was very matter of fact. I walked into the ward and the faces of the patients and their turned towards me. “I have to say goodbye, I would really have liked to have got to know you all better. Farewell friends.”
A small voice reached out from the bed furthest from me, “Thank you for sleeping here with us, it was good that you felt comfortable here. Can we pray for you before you go?” “Of course.” I responded, somewhat shamefully, as I had not proposed the idea myself. Suddenly the beds emptied and the patients of various ages and conditions gathered around me. Many hands reached out followed by the offered prayer. I did not understand the language but the tone of the voices was joyful, hopeful, and even confident.
Once outside, I found my companion sitting on a low wall dividing the hospital property from the road. Above him was a rather dim streetlight. As he sat there, he could have been anybody. He was looking down the street towards the docks and his long hair was gently moving in the wind. “Are you done?” he asked without looking in my direction. “Ok, now for one final task before we ...” He did not finish the sentence.
He rose from the wall as if propelled by an unseen force and was three or four paces ahead before I took a step. His brisk strides took him away from the docks; I followed wondering what the hurry was. We walked up the road for two blocks then took two right turns and arrived at a property that was surely directly behind the hospital. Questions arose in my mind, but I felt that was no time for questions.
The street was dark, no lights whatsoever. The vague outline of a squat building brooding in the inky night appeared. For the first time on this adventure, I felt real fear arising within. My stomach knotted and my mouth dried. Shekinah approached the front door with a determined gait. I felt that waiting for him outside was not an option. As I got next to my companion, he looked me in the eye, smiled, and said, “Well done, this we will now do together”. The idea that I was to be directly involved in whatever lay inside did not fill me with anything approaching confidence.
The door swung open as if responding to our presence. The air within was stale and heavy with menace.
The interior was very old but not lived in by anything human. A whiney wind blew around the empty foyer and down the corridors that went left and right. A scurrying noise, like that made by rodents, was discernable among the shadows. Shekinah stood motionless in the centre of the floor. I hovered, none too bravely, by the still open door. He gestured for me to come to his side. I moved reluctantly to him and had to suppress the desire to grasp his hand. The door, as if freed from my presence, closed with a creak and a thump.
We stood in that heavy silence with just the whine of an unearthly wind and that wretched scurrying sound.
I wanted to speak, I even opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I looked at Shekinah, he had a determined look, and his jaw seemed set like stone. Even in that musty darkness, his eyes shone as if subtly lit from within.
A sound of movement came from the left hand corridor. It was a darker shadow than those among which it moved. It had life, it moved independently of anything else. It moved with purpose, yet it had no visually discernable shape. Shekinah’s frame tensed, mine wilted. I am sure he shifted his feet as if to brace himself against some onslaught. My heart accelerated and thundered like the great steam trains as they rocketed through the countryside.
The darkness rushed at us like a lion upon helpless prey. Its gale force breath threatened to blow us over, its deathly stench to asphyxiate us. Shekinah spoke, “Stop”. He did not shout his voice was as it always was - royal, rich, rushing water. Our adversary halted, the wind died instantaneously. What appeared to be its face, I say this only because there were three holes like eyes and a mouth, stared down at us, swaying like a snake charmer’s cobra. The atmosphere hummed with restrained power.
“Your time here is over. The people have called upon Him who is beyond the seas, He has answered, and I am His decree. Now go, you are on private property, you are a trespasser, and your presence is unlawful, go!”
From the shadow came a scream, such as I never wish to hear again. It was a fusion of fear and fury. The building shook as one dislodged from its very foundations and light invaded the foyer. Bright, pure light. It was all too much, I sprinted for the door, which opened, again, of its own accord and bolted for the outside. The brown black mist lifted away from the ground in spiralling columns. The house seemed to empty itself of darkness as the shrieks of torment continued.
Then silence and bright, reassuring light flooded the street and then the entire town.
Shekinah appeared in the doorway. He brushed himself off as if to free himself of the dust of combat. He ran his hands through his hair and sat down on a small bench just to the right of the door. He took a deep breath, looked up at me, and said nonchalantly, “Shall we get some breakfast?”
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Sailing aboard the Pneuma (Part Seven)
“We will make landfall by sunset”, came a voice from the upper deck. The day had been warm and calm, yet there had been something very different about the horizon. Instead of its usual inviting clarity, there seemed to be a thick fog hanging in the distance. It never got any closer but remained shackled to the edge of the world.
Everything on board remained normal. The men carried on with their tasks, talking and laughing as they did so. From time-to-time, there was a little tomfoolery as the crew joked and tussled with one another. Shekinah held his post and surveyed the scene before him like a benevolent father watching his children play around him.
I could not help feeling a little apprehensive about our announced arrival in port later that day. For the first time on this voyage I did not have an excited anticipation but rather a sense that all was not as it had so far been. While all the experiences thus far had been exciting, positive, and enthralling, what lay ahead this time was anticipated with something not far short of foreboding.
On every other occasion I had remained on deck to view the land we were about to visit. That day, all I wanted to do was go below decks and wait out the visit in the safety of the bowels of the ship. I made my way to the stairway that led down from the deck. As I descended, I saw Shekinah waiting for me on the landing. “It is not the same, is it?” he asked without requiring an answer. I wanted to get past him to my quarters, as I knew any answer I might give would be a pathetic attempt at dodging going ashore. The words flowed anyway, “Why is this day so different? As the evening approaches I just have a growing desire not to be here anymore.” I felt I had insulted him. I was sure that he was thinking that as long as things were pleasurable, exciting and rewarding I was quite happy, anything else and I was not quite as keen.
The warmth of his character permeated his response. “No one likes the unpleasant and everyone would like to avoid the challenging unknown.” His response was as welcome as it was unexpected. Surely, I thought, he never felt as I currently did. “More than once.”
I felt his hand upon my shoulder, firm, but gentle. He gave an affectionate squeeze and said, “I know this place, stay with me and you will be just fine”.
The harbour was dark save a few torchlights burning vigorously against the wall that ran alongside the quay. The flames of those torches seemed to duel with a wind seemingly intent on blowing them out. The wind here was completely different to the breeze I had grown used to on the voyage. This breath was wild and unrestrained. It seemed vindictive as if it wanted to cause damage and pain. Evidence that it had been successful was readily in evidence once one was ashore. There was a fallen tree just outside the dockyard gates and further up the dimly lit street I could make out fallen branches. The roofs of the nearby houses also seemed to be shy a tile or two.
The Pneuma lay at the quayside bathed in her own light. At that moment, I noticed that there was no source for that illumination; it just existed. The quay itself was slippery underfoot as if rarely cleaned. In fact, in some places, it was as slippery under foot as are regularly submerged rocks at the seaside that have algae and seaweed growing upon them.
The windswept street that began at the gates led away into the darkness. There was no evidence of any life in the dimly illuminated thoroughfare other than the sound of some angry voices emanating from one or two of the nearby houses.
As I made for the street, I remembered Shekinah’s words, “I know this place, stay with me, and you will be just fine”. Suddenly, I felt no desire to proceed without him.
We walked briskly up the street. As we did, the shadows retreated just enough for me to see where we might be going. His stride was long and strong. The houses that flanked the street on either side had their curtains drawn allowing only silhouettes of life to escape. The wind howled malevolently around the rusty lampposts and through the branches that remained attached to their trunks. A gate creaked back and forth, in what seemed a vain attempt to close itself.
Eventually, we arrived at a large and imposing building that loomed up out of the shadows. It was set further back from the street than the houses on either side of it. A traveller hunched against the cold attempting to duck the biting wind may have easily missed the presence of this structure. It had an impressive entranceway with huge double doors flanked by stone lions and a huge wooden eagle hovering over the entranceway. The door handles were fashioned in the shape of doves at rest. Shekinah turned the handle and we entered a foyer that was every bit as warmly illuminated as the Pneuma. All foreboding fell away. He looked at me as he turned away to proceed inwards, I am sure I caught him smiling.
A tall woman with strong but attractive features walked over to us. Her greeting was polite but not without genuine warmth. Nothing about her demeanour was overstated. Back home I would have considered her genuine and dedicated to her task, whatever that was.
She gestured for us to follow her. We entered, to my dismay, shock, and perhaps horror, a hospital ward. There were ten beds in the ward, each one occupied. Some, it appeared, had broken limbs, others were ill with complaints that were not immediately obvious. Three nurses attended each bed. Somehow, they did not crowd each other, but seemed to glide in a choreographed flow of service and care.
Like a child, I found myself tugging at Shekinah’s sleeve. He turned to me smiling, “yes, what’s up?” My immediate thought sarcastically repeated his question, “what’s up? What do you think; this place is full of sick and injured people. Such should not be the case where you are.” As far as I could remember, my questions were unspoken, but he answered just the same. “Why should there be no hospitals where I am? My being does not preclude the possibility of trouble or suffering. What trouble and suffering do guarantee is that I will be there where they manifest.”
He moved swiftly from bed to bed, yet his quickness of movement did not detract from the quality of fellowship he had with each patient, if that makes any sense. He left each bed with its occupant glowing and the three in attendance positively beaming.
He walked back over to where I had remained rooted. “”We will sleep here tonight.” I waited for us to be ushered from the ward to our quarters. My wait was in vain. Sensing my disquiet Shekinah said, “We will sleep here with our friends. The tall woman returned with four men carrying two beds.
(to be continued).
Everything on board remained normal. The men carried on with their tasks, talking and laughing as they did so. From time-to-time, there was a little tomfoolery as the crew joked and tussled with one another. Shekinah held his post and surveyed the scene before him like a benevolent father watching his children play around him.
I could not help feeling a little apprehensive about our announced arrival in port later that day. For the first time on this voyage I did not have an excited anticipation but rather a sense that all was not as it had so far been. While all the experiences thus far had been exciting, positive, and enthralling, what lay ahead this time was anticipated with something not far short of foreboding.
On every other occasion I had remained on deck to view the land we were about to visit. That day, all I wanted to do was go below decks and wait out the visit in the safety of the bowels of the ship. I made my way to the stairway that led down from the deck. As I descended, I saw Shekinah waiting for me on the landing. “It is not the same, is it?” he asked without requiring an answer. I wanted to get past him to my quarters, as I knew any answer I might give would be a pathetic attempt at dodging going ashore. The words flowed anyway, “Why is this day so different? As the evening approaches I just have a growing desire not to be here anymore.” I felt I had insulted him. I was sure that he was thinking that as long as things were pleasurable, exciting and rewarding I was quite happy, anything else and I was not quite as keen.
The warmth of his character permeated his response. “No one likes the unpleasant and everyone would like to avoid the challenging unknown.” His response was as welcome as it was unexpected. Surely, I thought, he never felt as I currently did. “More than once.”
I felt his hand upon my shoulder, firm, but gentle. He gave an affectionate squeeze and said, “I know this place, stay with me and you will be just fine”.
The harbour was dark save a few torchlights burning vigorously against the wall that ran alongside the quay. The flames of those torches seemed to duel with a wind seemingly intent on blowing them out. The wind here was completely different to the breeze I had grown used to on the voyage. This breath was wild and unrestrained. It seemed vindictive as if it wanted to cause damage and pain. Evidence that it had been successful was readily in evidence once one was ashore. There was a fallen tree just outside the dockyard gates and further up the dimly lit street I could make out fallen branches. The roofs of the nearby houses also seemed to be shy a tile or two.
The Pneuma lay at the quayside bathed in her own light. At that moment, I noticed that there was no source for that illumination; it just existed. The quay itself was slippery underfoot as if rarely cleaned. In fact, in some places, it was as slippery under foot as are regularly submerged rocks at the seaside that have algae and seaweed growing upon them.
The windswept street that began at the gates led away into the darkness. There was no evidence of any life in the dimly illuminated thoroughfare other than the sound of some angry voices emanating from one or two of the nearby houses.
As I made for the street, I remembered Shekinah’s words, “I know this place, stay with me, and you will be just fine”. Suddenly, I felt no desire to proceed without him.
We walked briskly up the street. As we did, the shadows retreated just enough for me to see where we might be going. His stride was long and strong. The houses that flanked the street on either side had their curtains drawn allowing only silhouettes of life to escape. The wind howled malevolently around the rusty lampposts and through the branches that remained attached to their trunks. A gate creaked back and forth, in what seemed a vain attempt to close itself.
Eventually, we arrived at a large and imposing building that loomed up out of the shadows. It was set further back from the street than the houses on either side of it. A traveller hunched against the cold attempting to duck the biting wind may have easily missed the presence of this structure. It had an impressive entranceway with huge double doors flanked by stone lions and a huge wooden eagle hovering over the entranceway. The door handles were fashioned in the shape of doves at rest. Shekinah turned the handle and we entered a foyer that was every bit as warmly illuminated as the Pneuma. All foreboding fell away. He looked at me as he turned away to proceed inwards, I am sure I caught him smiling.
A tall woman with strong but attractive features walked over to us. Her greeting was polite but not without genuine warmth. Nothing about her demeanour was overstated. Back home I would have considered her genuine and dedicated to her task, whatever that was.
She gestured for us to follow her. We entered, to my dismay, shock, and perhaps horror, a hospital ward. There were ten beds in the ward, each one occupied. Some, it appeared, had broken limbs, others were ill with complaints that were not immediately obvious. Three nurses attended each bed. Somehow, they did not crowd each other, but seemed to glide in a choreographed flow of service and care.
Like a child, I found myself tugging at Shekinah’s sleeve. He turned to me smiling, “yes, what’s up?” My immediate thought sarcastically repeated his question, “what’s up? What do you think; this place is full of sick and injured people. Such should not be the case where you are.” As far as I could remember, my questions were unspoken, but he answered just the same. “Why should there be no hospitals where I am? My being does not preclude the possibility of trouble or suffering. What trouble and suffering do guarantee is that I will be there where they manifest.”
He moved swiftly from bed to bed, yet his quickness of movement did not detract from the quality of fellowship he had with each patient, if that makes any sense. He left each bed with its occupant glowing and the three in attendance positively beaming.
He walked back over to where I had remained rooted. “”We will sleep here tonight.” I waited for us to be ushered from the ward to our quarters. My wait was in vain. Sensing my disquiet Shekinah said, “We will sleep here with our friends. The tall woman returned with four men carrying two beds.
(to be continued).
Friday, July 23, 2010
Sailing aboard the Pneuma (Part Six)
The bows of the Pneuma sliced through the mirror sea. Not a wave as far as the eye could see in any direction. There was the gentlest of breezes coming from behind yet the sails were full as if taken by a gale. Surely, nothing was as it seemed on this journey.
The sun stood at its zenith. The blue sky was as clear as the sea was smooth, except for some cotton wool on the horizon to the starboard side – a perfect day. Although alone, as far as I could tell, I felt no need of company. “Today could go on forever.” I thought, breathing in the sea air.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the huge wingspan of bird gliding down as if riding a thermal. We had been at sea for days so this could not be a land-based bird. What sea bird could be so large, so imposing yet, as it came into full view and focus, so handsome? I could not quite believe that I used that word to describe an animal, but there was no other suitable adjective.
My visitor landed and his, I presume it was he; females are rarely described as handsome are they? Rather beautiful, pretty, attractive - presence seemed to fill the entire deck. He tucked his wings in and briefly glanced around the ship with intelligent eyes. I also glanced around and found the decks absolutely empty. No one was at the wheel, but it seemed locked and still.
I looked into his eagle-like face. That was as close to an identification I could come. He was so much more than an eagle. He had the dignity, the bearing but there was something otherworldly about him. He stood at least five foot tall from claw to crown. His plumage was a deep golden brown with streaks of silver like lightning bolts in a night sky.
He looked me. His eyes penetrated to my innermost, I felt almost naked as if nothing at all could hide from such wisdom and strength. As I looked back at him not quite able to hold his gaze, I saw the feathers of his head lift ever so slightly as the breeze blew gently across our meeting place. My mind went back to the wonderful books I had read in the past where eagles helped people and children rode upon their backs. He read my mind, he must have. He spoke, “There will be no rides today, but you will fly friend. His voice was like a rich and warm bedtime drink. Comforting, warming, and relaxing.
His eyes became bigger and bigger and they seemed to consume me. I passed into him. There were clouds, not above, but beneath me. Through the breaks in the clouds, I could see the ocean. He was right, I was flying, and he was next to me. I tried to crane my neck round to find the means of flight but his voice spoke, “Don’t look for wings, see me and mine and you will stay aloft."
“Where are we going?” I shouted. I have no rational idea for why I shouted, for my friend was not six feet away, his right wing stretching out over me. Somehow, that beak smiled, his eyes twinkled and spoke, “It is not about where you are going it is where you are. Welcome to forever.”
Land came into view. As we passed over the coastline, I could see streets, railways, houses, whole towns and villages. Could it be possible that I could see a whole country all at once? We swooped lower and then gliding in just above the rooftops, I heard a baby cry. I could see through the roof of a house on the corner of the street, opposite a small post office ... “I was born there, I am sure of it!” I shouted ... again. My friend gestured to a field not a few feet ahead, from my perspective. There was a football match in progress. “There you are.” His voice seemed to point like a human finger. I saw myself all those years ago, it was me, I remember that team, I was only about thirteen.
One after the other we flew over scenes from my life and the lives of those I loved and cared about without losing sight of the preceding scenes. Memories, bad and good came flooding in. Such were the emotions that this tidal wave of events brought about, I felt that I might drown or suffocate or whatever was the appropriate manner of death in such circumstances. I saw the funerals, the weddings, the births, the tragedies, hopes realized and dashed. I saw an older me, standing fists raised to the heavens, red in face, screaming out my ignorance and confusion fuelled frustrations.
We wheeled around and all of these scenes seemed to twist into one gloriously white and pure whirlpool. Slowly the spinning stopped to reveal a picture. Somehow, my whole life and those that shared it with me, known and unknown, froze into one glorious picture. Not a still picture, you understand. Not a normal one at all, but rather a visual code and as I stared I suddenly became aware that it all made sense. Like the ingredients of a delicious cake, which, on their own are not worth much, but when correctly mixed by a master baker, create a wonderful creation a whole, a complete and total life.
Another voice came from all around me, a familiar voice. The million tongues said, “Now you can see, once and for all, I did know how to write your story for it is one with mine.”
The earth fell away, up and up we went. Eagle and I flew to the rim of the sky where blue darkens into night black. A sparkling sea below and twinkling stars above. The curvature of the earth stretched out on either side. “Look” said the nighttime drink voice of my companion. High up to the left was the throne I saw at sea the other day. The light shone and the voice that threatened to burst forth with a power almost too great to bear, “Enjoy your discoveries, enjoy this forever.” (Let the reader understand).
Immediately, I felt the sea breeze. The deck around me was abuzz with activity. The sky was darkening. I looked up to the upper deck and there he stood. He smiled down at me as the breeze gently lifted, ever so slightly, the hair upon his head.
The sun stood at its zenith. The blue sky was as clear as the sea was smooth, except for some cotton wool on the horizon to the starboard side – a perfect day. Although alone, as far as I could tell, I felt no need of company. “Today could go on forever.” I thought, breathing in the sea air.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the huge wingspan of bird gliding down as if riding a thermal. We had been at sea for days so this could not be a land-based bird. What sea bird could be so large, so imposing yet, as it came into full view and focus, so handsome? I could not quite believe that I used that word to describe an animal, but there was no other suitable adjective.
My visitor landed and his, I presume it was he; females are rarely described as handsome are they? Rather beautiful, pretty, attractive - presence seemed to fill the entire deck. He tucked his wings in and briefly glanced around the ship with intelligent eyes. I also glanced around and found the decks absolutely empty. No one was at the wheel, but it seemed locked and still.
I looked into his eagle-like face. That was as close to an identification I could come. He was so much more than an eagle. He had the dignity, the bearing but there was something otherworldly about him. He stood at least five foot tall from claw to crown. His plumage was a deep golden brown with streaks of silver like lightning bolts in a night sky.
He looked me. His eyes penetrated to my innermost, I felt almost naked as if nothing at all could hide from such wisdom and strength. As I looked back at him not quite able to hold his gaze, I saw the feathers of his head lift ever so slightly as the breeze blew gently across our meeting place. My mind went back to the wonderful books I had read in the past where eagles helped people and children rode upon their backs. He read my mind, he must have. He spoke, “There will be no rides today, but you will fly friend. His voice was like a rich and warm bedtime drink. Comforting, warming, and relaxing.
His eyes became bigger and bigger and they seemed to consume me. I passed into him. There were clouds, not above, but beneath me. Through the breaks in the clouds, I could see the ocean. He was right, I was flying, and he was next to me. I tried to crane my neck round to find the means of flight but his voice spoke, “Don’t look for wings, see me and mine and you will stay aloft."
“Where are we going?” I shouted. I have no rational idea for why I shouted, for my friend was not six feet away, his right wing stretching out over me. Somehow, that beak smiled, his eyes twinkled and spoke, “It is not about where you are going it is where you are. Welcome to forever.”
Land came into view. As we passed over the coastline, I could see streets, railways, houses, whole towns and villages. Could it be possible that I could see a whole country all at once? We swooped lower and then gliding in just above the rooftops, I heard a baby cry. I could see through the roof of a house on the corner of the street, opposite a small post office ... “I was born there, I am sure of it!” I shouted ... again. My friend gestured to a field not a few feet ahead, from my perspective. There was a football match in progress. “There you are.” His voice seemed to point like a human finger. I saw myself all those years ago, it was me, I remember that team, I was only about thirteen.
One after the other we flew over scenes from my life and the lives of those I loved and cared about without losing sight of the preceding scenes. Memories, bad and good came flooding in. Such were the emotions that this tidal wave of events brought about, I felt that I might drown or suffocate or whatever was the appropriate manner of death in such circumstances. I saw the funerals, the weddings, the births, the tragedies, hopes realized and dashed. I saw an older me, standing fists raised to the heavens, red in face, screaming out my ignorance and confusion fuelled frustrations.
We wheeled around and all of these scenes seemed to twist into one gloriously white and pure whirlpool. Slowly the spinning stopped to reveal a picture. Somehow, my whole life and those that shared it with me, known and unknown, froze into one glorious picture. Not a still picture, you understand. Not a normal one at all, but rather a visual code and as I stared I suddenly became aware that it all made sense. Like the ingredients of a delicious cake, which, on their own are not worth much, but when correctly mixed by a master baker, create a wonderful creation a whole, a complete and total life.
Another voice came from all around me, a familiar voice. The million tongues said, “Now you can see, once and for all, I did know how to write your story for it is one with mine.”
The earth fell away, up and up we went. Eagle and I flew to the rim of the sky where blue darkens into night black. A sparkling sea below and twinkling stars above. The curvature of the earth stretched out on either side. “Look” said the nighttime drink voice of my companion. High up to the left was the throne I saw at sea the other day. The light shone and the voice that threatened to burst forth with a power almost too great to bear, “Enjoy your discoveries, enjoy this forever.” (Let the reader understand).
Immediately, I felt the sea breeze. The deck around me was abuzz with activity. The sky was darkening. I looked up to the upper deck and there he stood. He smiled down at me as the breeze gently lifted, ever so slightly, the hair upon his head.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Sailing aboard the Pneuma (Part Five)
A child’s voice behind me caused me to jump. I turned to see a small boy of about five years of age. He said, “They are about to leave and he has sent me to call you.” I looked around to find the hillside restored and I was alone with this little one. I thought that to send one so young to seek out an adult stranger in order to give him a message, a rather strange errand to entrust to a child. “You are alone?” I asked. “Yes.” he replied. “Shekinah always sends children on his most important missions.” He beamed with obvious pride at being one so chosen.
My diminutive companion took my hand and led me away from where the orange grove had been back down towards the town. He said very little, but there was no doubt who was in charge of this trek. His small hand gripped mine with a firmness that revealed the determination with which he had undertaken his mission. Although my legs were obviously longer, I had to work at keeping pace.
As we approached the gates to the docks two crew members appeared and heartily welcomed me back. One led me by the arm through the gate, while the other bent down and spoke with Shekinah’s tiny servant. In the sunlight, I saw the glint of a gold coin placed in the little boy's hand. He shot a smile in my direction and darted off back up the street.
Pneuma’s provisions were abundant. The crew secured many wooden crates to the main deck, as the holds were full. The hull separated from the quayside and we slowly made our way past the breakwater out into the open sea. There was no fanfare, no huge crowds bidding us farewell, just workers on the quay going about their tasks as would be the case in any other port.
The sails filled and Pneuma accelerated toward the horizon. I looked up to where Shekinah usually stood and there he was. His left hand shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun, in the other he held a rolled up chart. To my surprise, he called me up to the deck upon which he stood. “You enjoyed the visit?” he asked. “Very much, but there is so much I want to ask ...” My voice trailed off as he raised his index finger to his mouth, not rudely, or in any way that relayed frustration with my chatter. In fact, his action was reassuring, as if all that I needed to know would be revealed at the best time possible.
He placed the rolled chart on a large flat table. For the first time I saw an ornate crimson seal bordered with what I am certain was pure silver. He slipped the thumb of his right hand under the seal and broke it. The seal did not break with a snap, but it chimed with the sound of a high quality bell. The chart rolled out over the table to reveal a map.
He bent over the map and I followed suit in the hope that I might learn something. Unfortunately, while I could discern land masses, the writing was unintelligible and the symbols were completely beyond deciphering. He called one of the imposing members of the crew and they both focussed on a point on the map and then, without words, seemed to agree on a course of action. He looked up at me and seeing my quizzical expression smiled and said, “So much that you want to know.” I waited for enlightenment, but in vain. He gestured for me to sit. He offered me a beautiful crystal glass filled with the most exquisite red wine I had ever seen. He raised his glass to me and I reciprocated. We drank.
As the wonderfully rich fruit of the vine coursed its way towards my stomach, my vision somehow sharpened. The crew, although remaining in the form of men, seemed to glimmer, seemed to reflect and refract light as they moved. I looked up into the full sails and it was if the wind waved back at me. “You’re not drunk as you might suppose. New wine always has that effect whenever it is enjoyed.” I went to take a second sip and my glass was still full. As if sensing my surprise, he laughed, “The glass always remains full for him who is thirsty.”
I took another sip and looked over the starboard side and there, upon on the very surface of the sea, were the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen. Some with six wings and even bigger ones with two huge wings each. The six winged beings walked side by side leaving brief golden footprints in the surface of the sea as they walked towards the ship with their wing tips touching. Then, at the command of the two larger beings, the six winged glories parted to reveal what appeared to be a throne shimmering like a mirage upon the sea. The light coming from that throne was so intense that the very sun was darkness by comparison.
Then a voice, with the sound of a million tongues, resonated from within the throne, “Enjoy your family.”
As quickly as it all appeared it was gone. Shekinah was back on his feet in conference with six other crew members. I felt it was time to take my leave and descended to the main deck intrigued at what I had seen and heard. Through the now breaking clouds of my confusion, I felt ignorance had begun to lose its grip. I felt capable, at last, of truly beginning to know.
My diminutive companion took my hand and led me away from where the orange grove had been back down towards the town. He said very little, but there was no doubt who was in charge of this trek. His small hand gripped mine with a firmness that revealed the determination with which he had undertaken his mission. Although my legs were obviously longer, I had to work at keeping pace.
As we approached the gates to the docks two crew members appeared and heartily welcomed me back. One led me by the arm through the gate, while the other bent down and spoke with Shekinah’s tiny servant. In the sunlight, I saw the glint of a gold coin placed in the little boy's hand. He shot a smile in my direction and darted off back up the street.
Pneuma’s provisions were abundant. The crew secured many wooden crates to the main deck, as the holds were full. The hull separated from the quayside and we slowly made our way past the breakwater out into the open sea. There was no fanfare, no huge crowds bidding us farewell, just workers on the quay going about their tasks as would be the case in any other port.
The sails filled and Pneuma accelerated toward the horizon. I looked up to where Shekinah usually stood and there he was. His left hand shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun, in the other he held a rolled up chart. To my surprise, he called me up to the deck upon which he stood. “You enjoyed the visit?” he asked. “Very much, but there is so much I want to ask ...” My voice trailed off as he raised his index finger to his mouth, not rudely, or in any way that relayed frustration with my chatter. In fact, his action was reassuring, as if all that I needed to know would be revealed at the best time possible.
He placed the rolled chart on a large flat table. For the first time I saw an ornate crimson seal bordered with what I am certain was pure silver. He slipped the thumb of his right hand under the seal and broke it. The seal did not break with a snap, but it chimed with the sound of a high quality bell. The chart rolled out over the table to reveal a map.
He bent over the map and I followed suit in the hope that I might learn something. Unfortunately, while I could discern land masses, the writing was unintelligible and the symbols were completely beyond deciphering. He called one of the imposing members of the crew and they both focussed on a point on the map and then, without words, seemed to agree on a course of action. He looked up at me and seeing my quizzical expression smiled and said, “So much that you want to know.” I waited for enlightenment, but in vain. He gestured for me to sit. He offered me a beautiful crystal glass filled with the most exquisite red wine I had ever seen. He raised his glass to me and I reciprocated. We drank.
As the wonderfully rich fruit of the vine coursed its way towards my stomach, my vision somehow sharpened. The crew, although remaining in the form of men, seemed to glimmer, seemed to reflect and refract light as they moved. I looked up into the full sails and it was if the wind waved back at me. “You’re not drunk as you might suppose. New wine always has that effect whenever it is enjoyed.” I went to take a second sip and my glass was still full. As if sensing my surprise, he laughed, “The glass always remains full for him who is thirsty.”
I took another sip and looked over the starboard side and there, upon on the very surface of the sea, were the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen. Some with six wings and even bigger ones with two huge wings each. The six winged beings walked side by side leaving brief golden footprints in the surface of the sea as they walked towards the ship with their wing tips touching. Then, at the command of the two larger beings, the six winged glories parted to reveal what appeared to be a throne shimmering like a mirage upon the sea. The light coming from that throne was so intense that the very sun was darkness by comparison.
Then a voice, with the sound of a million tongues, resonated from within the throne, “Enjoy your family.”
As quickly as it all appeared it was gone. Shekinah was back on his feet in conference with six other crew members. I felt it was time to take my leave and descended to the main deck intrigued at what I had seen and heard. Through the now breaking clouds of my confusion, I felt ignorance had begun to lose its grip. I felt capable, at last, of truly beginning to know.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Sailing aboard the Pneuma (Part Four)
The direction of the light wind changed and seemed to invite me back down the hill. Before me was a picture postcard scene. The gentle curve of the bay connected to the sea by strips of white sandy beaches interspersed with tight coves and tiny peninsulas of rock.
Down to my left lay the town shimmering white in the sun. While in the town, I had not noticed, somehow, that the majority of the buildings were of a white stone. I was convinced that this place acted as a beacon to travellers miles out to sea. When the sun light reflected off those walls, there would have been no lighthouse that shined brighter.
Beyond the town, the line of the bay continued into the distance. A low range of mountains began to grow from the earth, beyond them far larger and higher peaks topped with snow.
I became aware that the walk down was taking far longer than on the way up. I looked back only to see empty green fields stretching up and over the hill. The glade of trees was still where I remembered it to be. I stopped and looked around, all around, one, twice, three times. I was alone but not lonely. The gentle breeze was in evidence, but I could no longer tell its direction. The grass beneath my feet compressed like a sponge, the air was warm and the sky so very big. I waited.
Quite suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I noticed, for the very first time, what appeared to be an ordered grove of fruit trees not more than one hundred yards from where I stood. I had not seen it on the way up even though it now appeared impossible to miss. I had not eaten in some time and, as if prompted by my stomach, I noticed the trees were laden with oranges. My pace quickened, spurred on by an aroused appetite.
As I entered the grove, I was about to reach up and pluck a large orange, when a voice spoke. That sound of river rapids caused me to freeze in what to me was a ridiculous position. From my shadow I looked like one of those cement statues that sell at garden centres back at home.
The waterfall said, “Come, sit with me I have a meal prepared for you.” The table was set for two with seven golden candles lining the middle of the rectangular table. The candles burned although it was still day, yet they seemed to have the power to illuminate even the daylight.
Dishes arrived with just the slightest movement of his hand. The aromas were out of this world. They were like nothing I had ever smelt before. Every dish that appeared on the table contained my favourite meals prepared in a way that no mere mortal could have managed. “Eat.” He invited. I was going to, but suddenly food and my stomach’s protestations no longer seemed important.
Across the table from me, Shekinah sat in a crystal cloud of glorious and riotous colour. From within him there seemed to flow a force so powerful yet utterly gentle. His eyes were like diamonds that refracted the glorious light in innumerable directions. Fire burned upon the grass yet it got greener. In the midst of this storming of the senses, I felt only goodness coming from within him.
I took a deep breath to prepare for I know not what and sweetness filled my lungs that fed my very being. That one intake of breath seemed to suck in all that was flowing from my host.
Hands were on my shoulders. I looked and two men of immense proportions, clothed with such brightness that I could not look at them for long, gestured for me to get up. We moved away from the table and the one to my right said; “Look”.
There, as if suspended in mid-air, I saw three. One was Shekinah. An orchestra began to play. Nothing natural, it was beautiful beyond description. The music was not heard it was felt, it indwelt while being dwelt in. The sounds were as clear as crystal water. The three danced. At times facing one another, at times apart, but always in unison.
Every note released a colour that hovered, or exploded, or shot across my view. Each sound was a living thing. I could not be sure, but it was if a new galaxy was being born. Stars rocketed into the sky, from the steps of the three came planets and Milky Ways of many sizes and colours.
I heard clapping behind me as if keeping time and to my astonishment, it was the trees.
I tried to see the orchestra that was playing I could not. As if sensing my frustration the other man took my head in his hands and pressed his thumbs to my eyes. When he let go I saw birds, sea creatures, beasts of the fields and the forests singing. Their song was not words but music. The three danced.
I wanted to join in but felt so, well, so unmagical, so inadequate, so incapable of such rhythm. Shekinah’s hand took hold of mine seemingly in protest against my preconceived notions and I danced. The three and I danced.
In the dance, I saw what no eye could see and no ear can hear anywhere else. In that rhythm, I began to understand the reason for so much. More importantly, I became acutely aware of what I was still to do, still to become. At last, I could truly see.
Down to my left lay the town shimmering white in the sun. While in the town, I had not noticed, somehow, that the majority of the buildings were of a white stone. I was convinced that this place acted as a beacon to travellers miles out to sea. When the sun light reflected off those walls, there would have been no lighthouse that shined brighter.
Beyond the town, the line of the bay continued into the distance. A low range of mountains began to grow from the earth, beyond them far larger and higher peaks topped with snow.
I became aware that the walk down was taking far longer than on the way up. I looked back only to see empty green fields stretching up and over the hill. The glade of trees was still where I remembered it to be. I stopped and looked around, all around, one, twice, three times. I was alone but not lonely. The gentle breeze was in evidence, but I could no longer tell its direction. The grass beneath my feet compressed like a sponge, the air was warm and the sky so very big. I waited.
Quite suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I noticed, for the very first time, what appeared to be an ordered grove of fruit trees not more than one hundred yards from where I stood. I had not seen it on the way up even though it now appeared impossible to miss. I had not eaten in some time and, as if prompted by my stomach, I noticed the trees were laden with oranges. My pace quickened, spurred on by an aroused appetite.
As I entered the grove, I was about to reach up and pluck a large orange, when a voice spoke. That sound of river rapids caused me to freeze in what to me was a ridiculous position. From my shadow I looked like one of those cement statues that sell at garden centres back at home.
The waterfall said, “Come, sit with me I have a meal prepared for you.” The table was set for two with seven golden candles lining the middle of the rectangular table. The candles burned although it was still day, yet they seemed to have the power to illuminate even the daylight.
Dishes arrived with just the slightest movement of his hand. The aromas were out of this world. They were like nothing I had ever smelt before. Every dish that appeared on the table contained my favourite meals prepared in a way that no mere mortal could have managed. “Eat.” He invited. I was going to, but suddenly food and my stomach’s protestations no longer seemed important.
Across the table from me, Shekinah sat in a crystal cloud of glorious and riotous colour. From within him there seemed to flow a force so powerful yet utterly gentle. His eyes were like diamonds that refracted the glorious light in innumerable directions. Fire burned upon the grass yet it got greener. In the midst of this storming of the senses, I felt only goodness coming from within him.
I took a deep breath to prepare for I know not what and sweetness filled my lungs that fed my very being. That one intake of breath seemed to suck in all that was flowing from my host.
Hands were on my shoulders. I looked and two men of immense proportions, clothed with such brightness that I could not look at them for long, gestured for me to get up. We moved away from the table and the one to my right said; “Look”.
There, as if suspended in mid-air, I saw three. One was Shekinah. An orchestra began to play. Nothing natural, it was beautiful beyond description. The music was not heard it was felt, it indwelt while being dwelt in. The sounds were as clear as crystal water. The three danced. At times facing one another, at times apart, but always in unison.
Every note released a colour that hovered, or exploded, or shot across my view. Each sound was a living thing. I could not be sure, but it was if a new galaxy was being born. Stars rocketed into the sky, from the steps of the three came planets and Milky Ways of many sizes and colours.
I heard clapping behind me as if keeping time and to my astonishment, it was the trees.
I tried to see the orchestra that was playing I could not. As if sensing my frustration the other man took my head in his hands and pressed his thumbs to my eyes. When he let go I saw birds, sea creatures, beasts of the fields and the forests singing. Their song was not words but music. The three danced.
I wanted to join in but felt so, well, so unmagical, so inadequate, so incapable of such rhythm. Shekinah’s hand took hold of mine seemingly in protest against my preconceived notions and I danced. The three and I danced.
In the dance, I saw what no eye could see and no ear can hear anywhere else. In that rhythm, I began to understand the reason for so much. More importantly, I became acutely aware of what I was still to do, still to become. At last, I could truly see.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Sailing aboard the Pneuma (Part Three).
I awoke to the sound of gulls and men speaking with raised voices. Clambering up on deck, a warm and bright morning sun awaited me. “Good mornings” came from every quarter. “Good morning”, I returned. The dockside was a muddle of toing and froing, dogs barking and orders shouted by disembodied voices. There was no stress, no pressure. Each working with a willingness and level of co-operation that was alien to me.
Looking around the deck I finally spotted Shekinah, he strode over to me before I could call out to him. “I am glad you are awake. There’s something I want you to see.” He gestured for me to follow him down the gangplank and on to the quay. The bustling crowd parted before him and I followed in his wake. After a little while we left the docks through a double gate leading to a broad street. On either side of the street there were cottages of various sizes interspersed by shops such as grocers, butchers, haberdashers and many more too far up and down the road for me to immediately identify.
On either side of the road were trees that were tall and handsome. Each tree, as far as I could tell, bore a different fruit to that of its neighbour. Twelve homes had easy access to the abundant fruit of one tree.
Everything had happened so quickly since I awoke, I had not been able to ask where we were. I ventured to pose the question to my guide but he responded before I could. “This is the land known as ‘Calledout’; it is a place that is devoted to the King and display such through the way they live.”
The street was not as busy as the docks, but there were many people about. Couples walked and talked while others were busy in the various shops. Children played, as they usually do, very loudly. What really struck me was the diversity of individuals, difference in social rank was evident, but competitiveness and envy were completely absent. Do not ask me how I knew this, for I would be unable to tell you. I just knew it. No two people passed each other without, at the very least, a respectful and warm greeting. It was almost as if everyone knew everyone else, at different levels to be sure, but no one was a stranger. Small groups stood talking in undisguised voices with no need to whisper.
While it was obvious that some had more than others did in terms of material goods, there was no poverty or ostentation. Well-maintained cottages and shops were all that I could see. Nothing derelict or neglected. Gates swung open and closed. Windows were whole and devoid of cracks. Gardens were maintained and neat, some more so than others, but none were unkempt. In many front gardens, people were working at weeding and trimming. What was striking, to me at any rate, was that I could see through every cottage window. Although each had curtains or blinds, none was drawn or down. The interior of each and every home was visible from the street. Amazing. Those who were inside their homes went about whatever they were doing as if there were no possibility of others watching.
Finally we came to the end of what I presumed was the main road through the village. We turned to the right and began to ascend a hill. It was not a steep path, but it snaked out before us into a glade of trees about a half a mile up on the left.
As we approached the trees, Shekinah halted and motioned to me to proceed. I looked at him quizzically but he just smiled and glanced in the direction in which he wanted me to go. I walked up to what appeared to be ruins. The closer I got I could see that these ruins was made up of many buildings with no doors, uneven walls, half a roof here, no roof there. Piles of stone and bricks peppered the land around the structures. “Why bring me to a ruin?” What really bothered me that there would be such a place just up this hill from such liberated order and cherished freedom.
I looked back from where I had left him, but he was not there. I was alone among the ruins with the sound of a light breeze exploring the empty spaces around me. It took some time, but eventually I began to see that this was not a group of ruined buildings after all. This was not some ancient and abandoned place. As my eyes opened in opposition to my preconceptions, I saw that I was not alone. Many of the faces I had seen in the village and at the docks were here, around me. It seemed as if they were unaware of my presence. They were not the happy and content people I had just seen. They seemed upset, let down, disillusioned. What was this place that was incomplete but held the seemingly out of reach promise of greater things?
I walked over to one man who seemed particularly distraught. His head in his hands he sat forlornly in front of an incomplete wall. I placed my hand on his shoulder but it passed straight through as if he were a ghost. I then attempted to speak to a woman who was passing by and she did not respond in anyway. For her, it would seem, I was not there at all.
What I had thought was a gentle breeze spoke, softly. I looked for the source of the voice but there was none. The breeze breathed, “Each of these people is really down there in the village right now, what you are witnessing is their inner person that no one else sees.” “Why are you showing me this?” The breath answered, “Even where the King rules and is willingly and lovingly obeyed there are unfulfilled dreams and untapped potential. These people began things long ago and then allowed themselves to abandon them. They dreamed and for a while believed those dreams to be possible and then doubted. During their quiet inner moments they come here to mourn over that which was not accomplished, dreams dashed, plans unfulfilled.”
“Can nothing be done?” I pleaded. “It has already been done. When the King grants life, as he has done for all of these, he resurrects the dreams and plans from old. Most do not accept that even as a possibility because they are convinced that their rebellions of long ago have removed from them the right to dream again and reach for the unfulfilled visions. For others, they consider age as an insurmountable obstacle. Again, this is untrue.”
“Why should age matter? Is this place not forever?” It still concerns me why I should have thought that. The breeze replied, “Nothing this side of the horizon is forever, only that which is beyond. But while they are still here life is supposed to be lived.”
Looking around the deck I finally spotted Shekinah, he strode over to me before I could call out to him. “I am glad you are awake. There’s something I want you to see.” He gestured for me to follow him down the gangplank and on to the quay. The bustling crowd parted before him and I followed in his wake. After a little while we left the docks through a double gate leading to a broad street. On either side of the street there were cottages of various sizes interspersed by shops such as grocers, butchers, haberdashers and many more too far up and down the road for me to immediately identify.
On either side of the road were trees that were tall and handsome. Each tree, as far as I could tell, bore a different fruit to that of its neighbour. Twelve homes had easy access to the abundant fruit of one tree.
Everything had happened so quickly since I awoke, I had not been able to ask where we were. I ventured to pose the question to my guide but he responded before I could. “This is the land known as ‘Calledout’; it is a place that is devoted to the King and display such through the way they live.”
The street was not as busy as the docks, but there were many people about. Couples walked and talked while others were busy in the various shops. Children played, as they usually do, very loudly. What really struck me was the diversity of individuals, difference in social rank was evident, but competitiveness and envy were completely absent. Do not ask me how I knew this, for I would be unable to tell you. I just knew it. No two people passed each other without, at the very least, a respectful and warm greeting. It was almost as if everyone knew everyone else, at different levels to be sure, but no one was a stranger. Small groups stood talking in undisguised voices with no need to whisper.
While it was obvious that some had more than others did in terms of material goods, there was no poverty or ostentation. Well-maintained cottages and shops were all that I could see. Nothing derelict or neglected. Gates swung open and closed. Windows were whole and devoid of cracks. Gardens were maintained and neat, some more so than others, but none were unkempt. In many front gardens, people were working at weeding and trimming. What was striking, to me at any rate, was that I could see through every cottage window. Although each had curtains or blinds, none was drawn or down. The interior of each and every home was visible from the street. Amazing. Those who were inside their homes went about whatever they were doing as if there were no possibility of others watching.
Finally we came to the end of what I presumed was the main road through the village. We turned to the right and began to ascend a hill. It was not a steep path, but it snaked out before us into a glade of trees about a half a mile up on the left.
As we approached the trees, Shekinah halted and motioned to me to proceed. I looked at him quizzically but he just smiled and glanced in the direction in which he wanted me to go. I walked up to what appeared to be ruins. The closer I got I could see that these ruins was made up of many buildings with no doors, uneven walls, half a roof here, no roof there. Piles of stone and bricks peppered the land around the structures. “Why bring me to a ruin?” What really bothered me that there would be such a place just up this hill from such liberated order and cherished freedom.
I looked back from where I had left him, but he was not there. I was alone among the ruins with the sound of a light breeze exploring the empty spaces around me. It took some time, but eventually I began to see that this was not a group of ruined buildings after all. This was not some ancient and abandoned place. As my eyes opened in opposition to my preconceptions, I saw that I was not alone. Many of the faces I had seen in the village and at the docks were here, around me. It seemed as if they were unaware of my presence. They were not the happy and content people I had just seen. They seemed upset, let down, disillusioned. What was this place that was incomplete but held the seemingly out of reach promise of greater things?
I walked over to one man who seemed particularly distraught. His head in his hands he sat forlornly in front of an incomplete wall. I placed my hand on his shoulder but it passed straight through as if he were a ghost. I then attempted to speak to a woman who was passing by and she did not respond in anyway. For her, it would seem, I was not there at all.
What I had thought was a gentle breeze spoke, softly. I looked for the source of the voice but there was none. The breeze breathed, “Each of these people is really down there in the village right now, what you are witnessing is their inner person that no one else sees.” “Why are you showing me this?” The breath answered, “Even where the King rules and is willingly and lovingly obeyed there are unfulfilled dreams and untapped potential. These people began things long ago and then allowed themselves to abandon them. They dreamed and for a while believed those dreams to be possible and then doubted. During their quiet inner moments they come here to mourn over that which was not accomplished, dreams dashed, plans unfulfilled.”
“Can nothing be done?” I pleaded. “It has already been done. When the King grants life, as he has done for all of these, he resurrects the dreams and plans from old. Most do not accept that even as a possibility because they are convinced that their rebellions of long ago have removed from them the right to dream again and reach for the unfulfilled visions. For others, they consider age as an insurmountable obstacle. Again, this is untrue.”
“Why should age matter? Is this place not forever?” It still concerns me why I should have thought that. The breeze replied, “Nothing this side of the horizon is forever, only that which is beyond. But while they are still here life is supposed to be lived.”
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Sailing aboard the Pneuma (Part Two)
I knew I had been on the deck for sometime as the sun was now nearing its zenith. Having said that, time did not seem to be that important out there. It was not something that chased but was rather a tool. I had not noticed the absence of the gulls, a sure sign of being far from land. The gentle sound of the hull riding upon the sea’s back was all that I could hear, all that I wanted to hear for that matter.
That sound was like a calming embrace after some danger had passed.
Looking around I saw the men, if that was indeed what they were, at work. Each kept his eye on the sails and trimmed the same when necessary. No one individual seemed to have sole responsibility for any aspect of the boat. He who was closest to the need did whatever was necessary.
I walked over to the starboard rail, leaned heavily upon it and stretched out as far as I dared to see the water below. As I peered down, there near the surface, a fish raced alongside. I assumed that it was a fish as no man could swim that fast nor be safely so far from shore. I looked again, was it a fish?
The waterfall voice spoke from close behind me, “What did you think that was?” “A fish.” I blurted out half startled and half not wanting to be without an answer. I felt his smile before I saw it. I turned and there before me was golden Shekinah. His eyes, that is what I remember most, saw everything both seen and unseen. There was no judgement there, not even a glimmer of wanting to evaluate or weigh.
“Why a fish?” “Well, I think it can only be a fish, what else could be so far from shore? It was too small to be a whale and it didn’t leap like a dolphin.” His head with its mane of snow-white hair rocked back and from his mouth came laughter such as I had never heard before. Not mocking, not in the slightest, just an expression of extreme enjoyment. My pride, in spite of the contrary evidence, still prompted a defensive response. His eyes levelled with mine. Looking deep within. Not a word from the waterfall. Inside of me, my sense of hurt, birthed of a presumed inadequacy, rampaged forward, up and out in a stream of regret, disappointment and pain. All the schoolyard mocking, the girlfriend embarrassments, the perceived lack of talent fuelled my flow of self-pity.
Shekinah did not move. I was sure he had not even blinked. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the men continuing with their duties, not distracted in the slightest and completely unperturbed. I focussed on the eyes again. He smiled, “Nothing here is as it seems, so do not bring anything from the land onboard”. It was only then that I realized that I had come aboard without luggage, not even a change of shirt. As if he were reading my mind he silently mouthed, “Nothing”. I realized then that he was not speaking of t-shirts, toiletries and trousers.
Suddenly I was alone at the rail. The waterfall voice declared and the pace of the boat quickened. I chanced another look over the rail. That ‘fish’ was still there. Was it a fish? The one eye that was visible to me as it swam on its side drew my attention, it was him, and he winked at me almost mischievously then dived. Gone.
I spun around and there Shekinah was behind the wheel talking with some of the men who were working around him. “How did he do that?” I knew there was a higher magic at work there than any fairground trick I had ever witnessed.
The word ‘magic’ resounded through my being. My religious understanding assumed a war footing as if to expel some evil. “It’s only a word.” I attempted to explain to my now mobilized religiously moulded conscience. It was having none of it. “How can you equate the work of Shekinah with that of evil men playing tricks for harm or reward?”
I had lost the argument. I felt awful, condemned and ready for the gallows. A voice called out from over the side. This time I gingerly peeped over, not knowing what to expect. It was that fish again, or whatever it was. As soon as our eyes met, it spoke silently, “Magic used for evil is that which is stolen, misunderstood, twisted and abused. That which you have witnessed today is a mere taste of what it was intended to be.”
I slumped onto the deck. My back against the boards and I sat, maybe for hours I have no idea, with a thousand assumptions, confusions and falsehoods all running in a tumultuous panic and fumbling for a way of escape.
If these first hours of the voyage were anything to go by, the ship was seemingly on a voyage to discover what was deep inside ... me. That may make some sense now, but back then, I was becoming fearful of what I had undertaken.
That sound was like a calming embrace after some danger had passed.
Looking around I saw the men, if that was indeed what they were, at work. Each kept his eye on the sails and trimmed the same when necessary. No one individual seemed to have sole responsibility for any aspect of the boat. He who was closest to the need did whatever was necessary.
I walked over to the starboard rail, leaned heavily upon it and stretched out as far as I dared to see the water below. As I peered down, there near the surface, a fish raced alongside. I assumed that it was a fish as no man could swim that fast nor be safely so far from shore. I looked again, was it a fish?
The waterfall voice spoke from close behind me, “What did you think that was?” “A fish.” I blurted out half startled and half not wanting to be without an answer. I felt his smile before I saw it. I turned and there before me was golden Shekinah. His eyes, that is what I remember most, saw everything both seen and unseen. There was no judgement there, not even a glimmer of wanting to evaluate or weigh.
“Why a fish?” “Well, I think it can only be a fish, what else could be so far from shore? It was too small to be a whale and it didn’t leap like a dolphin.” His head with its mane of snow-white hair rocked back and from his mouth came laughter such as I had never heard before. Not mocking, not in the slightest, just an expression of extreme enjoyment. My pride, in spite of the contrary evidence, still prompted a defensive response. His eyes levelled with mine. Looking deep within. Not a word from the waterfall. Inside of me, my sense of hurt, birthed of a presumed inadequacy, rampaged forward, up and out in a stream of regret, disappointment and pain. All the schoolyard mocking, the girlfriend embarrassments, the perceived lack of talent fuelled my flow of self-pity.
Shekinah did not move. I was sure he had not even blinked. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the men continuing with their duties, not distracted in the slightest and completely unperturbed. I focussed on the eyes again. He smiled, “Nothing here is as it seems, so do not bring anything from the land onboard”. It was only then that I realized that I had come aboard without luggage, not even a change of shirt. As if he were reading my mind he silently mouthed, “Nothing”. I realized then that he was not speaking of t-shirts, toiletries and trousers.
Suddenly I was alone at the rail. The waterfall voice declared and the pace of the boat quickened. I chanced another look over the rail. That ‘fish’ was still there. Was it a fish? The one eye that was visible to me as it swam on its side drew my attention, it was him, and he winked at me almost mischievously then dived. Gone.
I spun around and there Shekinah was behind the wheel talking with some of the men who were working around him. “How did he do that?” I knew there was a higher magic at work there than any fairground trick I had ever witnessed.
The word ‘magic’ resounded through my being. My religious understanding assumed a war footing as if to expel some evil. “It’s only a word.” I attempted to explain to my now mobilized religiously moulded conscience. It was having none of it. “How can you equate the work of Shekinah with that of evil men playing tricks for harm or reward?”
I had lost the argument. I felt awful, condemned and ready for the gallows. A voice called out from over the side. This time I gingerly peeped over, not knowing what to expect. It was that fish again, or whatever it was. As soon as our eyes met, it spoke silently, “Magic used for evil is that which is stolen, misunderstood, twisted and abused. That which you have witnessed today is a mere taste of what it was intended to be.”
I slumped onto the deck. My back against the boards and I sat, maybe for hours I have no idea, with a thousand assumptions, confusions and falsehoods all running in a tumultuous panic and fumbling for a way of escape.
If these first hours of the voyage were anything to go by, the ship was seemingly on a voyage to discover what was deep inside ... me. That may make some sense now, but back then, I was becoming fearful of what I had undertaken.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Sailing aboard the Pneuma (Part One)
The walk to the harbour was not as far as I had envisioned. When inside Mylifehouse the thought of changing and walking down to the sea seemed too much to contemplate. I was not ready for a voyage; I had never been on one. Furthermore, I was not an able sea person, perhaps I should get some training first.
To tell the truth, the decision to move was the most arduous, after that, it was all downhill, literally.
Mylifehouse was a grey building that stood squarely in the centre of an organized garden with a manicured lawn overlooking the coast and the harbour. The curtains, while quality, were heavy and uninspiring. The furniture fitted each room. Mere chance was not trusted; everything was measured off, straightened out and smoothed down. Time came in segments to accommodate prescribed events and organized activities. It was possible to be happy there, fun was there if one could organize it. However, it was systematic and easy to get used to, so easy in fact, that the fun quite quickly deflated. Having said all that, it was a safe place.
In the garden of Mylifehouse was a chapel. Like the house, it too was grey. The wall hangings and curtains were not as grand as the house. In fact, the place seemed furnished by cast-offs and hand-me-downs. In terms of being systematized and organized, it was more so than Mylifehouse.
The events in the chapel seemed to honour the clock. The chapel served carefully apportioned time. Its moments of use were marked with order and predictability. Coming out was more exhilarating than going in.
Then, one day, Shekinah came. We had heard of him in the lessons. When the one who taught spoke of him, it was in organized terms. He seemed great and powerful but altogether predictable. Every lesson spoke in the past tense. Every well-crafted fact left no room for mystery. Shekinah defied all of that ordered framing. He did not arrive in sandels, but was dressed just like any other thirty-something man. His t-shirt had something written on it that I did not understand. All of a sudden, wihtout fanfare or warning, he issued an invite to travel with him. His eyes flashed with excitement and his voice was marked by a boyish enthusiasim. As if to answer the unspoken question of 'where to?' he blew out his cheeks and released a breath of air and said, "wherever that may go." This invite to sail with Shekinah seemed almost frightening and very unsafe, but for me, at least, irresistible.
The morning air was crisp and the new dawn made golden the eastern horizon. The sea, as calm as a millpond, played mirror to the sun stroked clouds that floated overhead. Gulls screamed and squawked above and behind fishing boats returning from a night of harvest.
The quayside was a bustle of activity. Traders stood bartering with boat captains for fish of every description. Light-hearted banter and exuberant horseplay replayed up and down the quay. Dogs barked and the odd cat, hardened by years of dockside scavenging, chanced an act of thievery. What was odd was the fact that those who bustled through my life every day were no where to be seen, I recognized no one from Mylifehouse or the chapel, although I would usually see them most days of the week.
Today, everything was alive and in full colour. Usually ignored sounds now played a symphony in my ears. Life had seemingly begun again. This was a new beginning, I was sure of it. I had never had this awareness of guiltless anticipation before, a positive sense of being unsure. The possibilities seemed endless. I just had to find that boat.
I asked a salt-bitten sailor who seemed as ancient but as alive as the sea. He pointed down to the end of the key with an enthusiastic gesture. There she was, the Pneuma.
As I approached her sleek lines, beautiful sails, and ornate carvings along her prow struck me. I was aware of men working on her deck, but their activity was devoid of stress or burden. She seemed to be at peace amidst the intense bustle and crescendo of the quayside.
Then, the oddest thing, it seemed as if the Pneuma sailed into me, right inside of me. So distinct was the experience I swallowed as if to send food to my stomach. I shook my head like a man escaping the bonds of a trance. There she was, still moored. The peace that seemed to permeate her every plank and rope was now deep inside of me. I did not understand, in fact I could not.
I walked aboard. Those on deck straightened from their tasks and greeted me warmly but without extravagance, as if I were someone to whom respect was due. A young man appeared at my side and gently took my arm. Though his touch was gentle, there was strength in that hand, very great strength or was it more than that? Was it power?
He led me below decks. Down there, if anything, the air was fresher than out in the open, if that were possible. The light was silver; that is the best way to describe it. There were no shadows inside the Pneuma; the silver filled every crook and cranny. Where I expected shadow I only saw the silver light. Everything that I predicted or expected was confounded in this place.
A waterfall voice thundered from above. If a sound could be a colour, that voice would have been golden. As I clambered back onto the deck the Pneuma slipped her moorings and glided out into the open sea. The waterfall spoke, for there was no need to shout, and the sails were trimmed and the morning breeze filled them out and the Pneuma surged on into the adventure.
To tell the truth, the decision to move was the most arduous, after that, it was all downhill, literally.
Mylifehouse was a grey building that stood squarely in the centre of an organized garden with a manicured lawn overlooking the coast and the harbour. The curtains, while quality, were heavy and uninspiring. The furniture fitted each room. Mere chance was not trusted; everything was measured off, straightened out and smoothed down. Time came in segments to accommodate prescribed events and organized activities. It was possible to be happy there, fun was there if one could organize it. However, it was systematic and easy to get used to, so easy in fact, that the fun quite quickly deflated. Having said all that, it was a safe place.
In the garden of Mylifehouse was a chapel. Like the house, it too was grey. The wall hangings and curtains were not as grand as the house. In fact, the place seemed furnished by cast-offs and hand-me-downs. In terms of being systematized and organized, it was more so than Mylifehouse.
The events in the chapel seemed to honour the clock. The chapel served carefully apportioned time. Its moments of use were marked with order and predictability. Coming out was more exhilarating than going in.
Then, one day, Shekinah came. We had heard of him in the lessons. When the one who taught spoke of him, it was in organized terms. He seemed great and powerful but altogether predictable. Every lesson spoke in the past tense. Every well-crafted fact left no room for mystery. Shekinah defied all of that ordered framing. He did not arrive in sandels, but was dressed just like any other thirty-something man. His t-shirt had something written on it that I did not understand. All of a sudden, wihtout fanfare or warning, he issued an invite to travel with him. His eyes flashed with excitement and his voice was marked by a boyish enthusiasim. As if to answer the unspoken question of 'where to?' he blew out his cheeks and released a breath of air and said, "wherever that may go." This invite to sail with Shekinah seemed almost frightening and very unsafe, but for me, at least, irresistible.
The morning air was crisp and the new dawn made golden the eastern horizon. The sea, as calm as a millpond, played mirror to the sun stroked clouds that floated overhead. Gulls screamed and squawked above and behind fishing boats returning from a night of harvest.
The quayside was a bustle of activity. Traders stood bartering with boat captains for fish of every description. Light-hearted banter and exuberant horseplay replayed up and down the quay. Dogs barked and the odd cat, hardened by years of dockside scavenging, chanced an act of thievery. What was odd was the fact that those who bustled through my life every day were no where to be seen, I recognized no one from Mylifehouse or the chapel, although I would usually see them most days of the week.
Today, everything was alive and in full colour. Usually ignored sounds now played a symphony in my ears. Life had seemingly begun again. This was a new beginning, I was sure of it. I had never had this awareness of guiltless anticipation before, a positive sense of being unsure. The possibilities seemed endless. I just had to find that boat.
I asked a salt-bitten sailor who seemed as ancient but as alive as the sea. He pointed down to the end of the key with an enthusiastic gesture. There she was, the Pneuma.
As I approached her sleek lines, beautiful sails, and ornate carvings along her prow struck me. I was aware of men working on her deck, but their activity was devoid of stress or burden. She seemed to be at peace amidst the intense bustle and crescendo of the quayside.
Then, the oddest thing, it seemed as if the Pneuma sailed into me, right inside of me. So distinct was the experience I swallowed as if to send food to my stomach. I shook my head like a man escaping the bonds of a trance. There she was, still moored. The peace that seemed to permeate her every plank and rope was now deep inside of me. I did not understand, in fact I could not.
I walked aboard. Those on deck straightened from their tasks and greeted me warmly but without extravagance, as if I were someone to whom respect was due. A young man appeared at my side and gently took my arm. Though his touch was gentle, there was strength in that hand, very great strength or was it more than that? Was it power?
He led me below decks. Down there, if anything, the air was fresher than out in the open, if that were possible. The light was silver; that is the best way to describe it. There were no shadows inside the Pneuma; the silver filled every crook and cranny. Where I expected shadow I only saw the silver light. Everything that I predicted or expected was confounded in this place.
A waterfall voice thundered from above. If a sound could be a colour, that voice would have been golden. As I clambered back onto the deck the Pneuma slipped her moorings and glided out into the open sea. The waterfall spoke, for there was no need to shout, and the sails were trimmed and the morning breeze filled them out and the Pneuma surged on into the adventure.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
A rock and a dark place
He was just there. No recollection of how he came to be in that place. There must have been a history to that point, but he could not recall or reconstruct it with any accuracy. No sense of belonging. Just a faltering inner calmness that, though this place was quietly hostile, somehow, he would be safe.
All around him was darkness. Vague patches of shadow darker than their surrounds let Irius know there was something there, out in the dark. Fleeting shadows. Watching. Listening. Waiting.
His inner calm did battle with an unknown outer threat, a vague fear that was seeking fodder upon which to feed. “I cannot see, but I am not blind.” Shadows moved in his peripheral vision.
Suddenly, for the first time, he became aware of something solid beneath his feet. Slowly he crouched down to touch his solid support. “Rock.” The word escaped from his mouth in a whisper but sounded for all the world like a shout. Shadows moving. “Can darkness really weigh like a solid thing?”
Standing upright again, he stretched his arms forward. Feeling. Fingers stretching. Failing to connect with anything at all, he then spread his arms wide. Feeling to the left. Stretching to the right. Nothing. Only rock beneath his feet.
Vague fear, now fed, began to gnaw effectively against calmness. Eyes widened. Extended fingers punching into nothing. Wild thrusting outwards. He became a windmill. No rhythm, just a frantic flailing of a panicked man. His upper limbs whirled, muscles began to twist and tense. Dervish like he spun, then stumbled and spun again. The blackness spun.
He landed, inadvertently, on his knees. He hit the rock hard, jarring his innards, bruising his knees. The rock had not moved. It had not softened. His lungs, like the bellows of an ancient forge, rushed air in and then evicted the same at pace. The bass drum rhythm of his quickened heart echoed in his ears and pounded within his chest.
Still on his knees, he bent forward slowly, Palms down he touched the surface of his only known support. His only constant in that inky wasteland. The bellows began to slow and the drummer eased his beat. The coolness of the rock and its hard immovability somehow reassured him.
Calm. Still. Quiet. The rock seemed to live beneath him. An unfelt pulse of life became evident within, coming from below. His hands were energised. His knees unfelt. The rock was reassuring him in an unspoken language. “How can this be?”
Without light the rock, or so it seemed, saw for him. The shadows, though still there, were no longer feeding, no longer threatening.
Slowly, so slow as to almost defy movement itself, a soft, silver light. A pinhead at first. Growing. This strange silver life grew towards Irius like a shaft. The darkness around it did not falter or fade. The silver shaft pushed through the ink towards the man kneeling upon the rock.
He looked down at his chest as the shaft entered into him leaving no wound and causing no pain. His eyes could see, but this was different. His ability to see was not based on what he had perceived outwardly but on what he was receiving inwardly.
He defied the shaft for a moment, denied its truth. The shadows played with menace. A frenzied feeding began. Panicked, he permitted his eyes to see from within and the hungry throng dispersed into the blindness.
It was difficult to command his mind to allow his eyes to see from the back, from below. As moments unmeasured passed, the shaft wrested control of his sight from his mind. Intermittently at first the darkness flickered and then the light did likewise before steadily firming to be all that was seen.
In that moment, in that light was joy. Like a child playing in the long grass, hope sprung up laughing as peace walked in front as if leading the way. The light all around was so bright, so intense that no shadow could live there.
All around him was darkness. Vague patches of shadow darker than their surrounds let Irius know there was something there, out in the dark. Fleeting shadows. Watching. Listening. Waiting.
His inner calm did battle with an unknown outer threat, a vague fear that was seeking fodder upon which to feed. “I cannot see, but I am not blind.” Shadows moved in his peripheral vision.
Suddenly, for the first time, he became aware of something solid beneath his feet. Slowly he crouched down to touch his solid support. “Rock.” The word escaped from his mouth in a whisper but sounded for all the world like a shout. Shadows moving. “Can darkness really weigh like a solid thing?”
Standing upright again, he stretched his arms forward. Feeling. Fingers stretching. Failing to connect with anything at all, he then spread his arms wide. Feeling to the left. Stretching to the right. Nothing. Only rock beneath his feet.
Vague fear, now fed, began to gnaw effectively against calmness. Eyes widened. Extended fingers punching into nothing. Wild thrusting outwards. He became a windmill. No rhythm, just a frantic flailing of a panicked man. His upper limbs whirled, muscles began to twist and tense. Dervish like he spun, then stumbled and spun again. The blackness spun.
He landed, inadvertently, on his knees. He hit the rock hard, jarring his innards, bruising his knees. The rock had not moved. It had not softened. His lungs, like the bellows of an ancient forge, rushed air in and then evicted the same at pace. The bass drum rhythm of his quickened heart echoed in his ears and pounded within his chest.
Still on his knees, he bent forward slowly, Palms down he touched the surface of his only known support. His only constant in that inky wasteland. The bellows began to slow and the drummer eased his beat. The coolness of the rock and its hard immovability somehow reassured him.
Calm. Still. Quiet. The rock seemed to live beneath him. An unfelt pulse of life became evident within, coming from below. His hands were energised. His knees unfelt. The rock was reassuring him in an unspoken language. “How can this be?”
Without light the rock, or so it seemed, saw for him. The shadows, though still there, were no longer feeding, no longer threatening.
Slowly, so slow as to almost defy movement itself, a soft, silver light. A pinhead at first. Growing. This strange silver life grew towards Irius like a shaft. The darkness around it did not falter or fade. The silver shaft pushed through the ink towards the man kneeling upon the rock.
He looked down at his chest as the shaft entered into him leaving no wound and causing no pain. His eyes could see, but this was different. His ability to see was not based on what he had perceived outwardly but on what he was receiving inwardly.
He defied the shaft for a moment, denied its truth. The shadows played with menace. A frenzied feeding began. Panicked, he permitted his eyes to see from within and the hungry throng dispersed into the blindness.
It was difficult to command his mind to allow his eyes to see from the back, from below. As moments unmeasured passed, the shaft wrested control of his sight from his mind. Intermittently at first the darkness flickered and then the light did likewise before steadily firming to be all that was seen.
In that moment, in that light was joy. Like a child playing in the long grass, hope sprung up laughing as peace walked in front as if leading the way. The light all around was so bright, so intense that no shadow could live there.
Friday, May 7, 2010
The Great Event
The call went out across the star strewn heavens. The clarion Voice echoed through the canyons of the Milky Way and star systems not known by mortals millennia after the Great Event.
The call was just that, a call. No explanation, just a command to gather in view of a place called ‘Earth’. A spinning blue and green orb suspended before a great star that the Earth knew as ‘Sun’.
It was beautiful to behold, even for us who had seen much more than the inhabitants of that world could have ever dreamed or imagined. It was a place where life had blossomed, not just a spiritual life but a full blown physical and intellectual life as well. A place of whole creation.
To look upon that place of life made even the strongest of us a little envious of the huge privilege bestowed upon the inhabitants, The Voice’s pinnacle of creative achievement. As we looked upon that world the song that had birthed it came to mind. That glorious creative moment when He, the Voice, sang it into being.
It was that Voice that had summoned us here for this ‘Great Event’. This time it was not a song of creation, or a song of summons. This time the Voice was a solemn and spoken one.
As I looked to my left and right thousands upon ten thousand of my kind were massed. Through light years we stretched encompassing the system in which Earth was orbiting its Sun. The atmosphere of the spirit hummed with power, unimaginable power. Each life around me pondering its present purpose.
The Voice spoke, “Look and see!” The words thundered and echoed through the massed ranks. Even the stars seemed to vibrate. Suns faded momentarily. Earth suddenly came into sharp focus and enlarged as if it were brought close before us in an instant. The stars disappeared and in their place sand, people, animals – a city.
In the street before us was a man, terribly beaten, carrying what seemed to be a large, heavy, roughly hewn piece of wood. A stirring of fearful suspicion rippled around those closest to me who I could no longer see, but knew they were there.
My being tensed, my senses focussed, my strength began to coil. The man managed to briefly look up as if to check his direction. His face was gone, or so it seemed, but the eyes, there was only one pair of eyes like that. Behind the pain burned determined love. It was Him. He who had gone from us, in terms of the time that governed this world, to live as one of them.
Love had left the heavens of the heavens and had gone to the place of hedonism and hate. Determined love had left His throne to serve those who would rule themselves so that they might awaken and see their folly. All they had seen was threat and they were now about to crush it.
Earth spun away. My fellows were once again in view. The Voice, ordered, “Observe.” I squinted in an attempt to focus my vision. A dark mist moved all around the Earth.
Again the earth shot forward. Again it was sand, people, animals – a city.
This time it was different. The shadowy mist was around Determined Love. It seemed to flow off and away from Him towards a gate and a hill beyond. I felt constrained to look upon the mist. It spoke, it laughed, it provoked, it incited. I knew that voice.
My memory spun back through the chapters of timeless eternity. That voice: It laughed, it provoked, it incited. Light went dark around me as some of those with me were provoked, were incited. Every third flame around me went out.
I was again in the city. My fellows began to understand as I had. Hands went for sword hilts. Cries of war began to rise in a trillion throats. Giant wings. Intense light. A command: “Stay your hands, warriors!”
I saw him. Huge. Intense. Warlike. His eyes flashed with contained fury tempered by respect for the Voice. The mist shivered, cowered and then rediscovered its purpose and cackled on through the gate.
Where was Determined Love? I saw His back, if that is what it was. Bloodied, ribs exposed, flesh hanging in strips. My fury was about to break its bonds. Intense Light flashed in my direction, “Steady,” was the unchanged and now restricting and frustrating command.
On the hillside Determined Love looked towards the heavens. Had He seen me? Was He calling me? “Steady.”
I saw a spike go through His wrist, then the other. Determined Love swallowed the pain. Not a sound. I felt the tears upon my face, burning so hot they threatened to scold. “Steady.” A third spike through His feet. Pain was given no voice.
All the while the swirling mist taunted Determined Love. Dividing itself momentarily, the mist came up from below me and hissed its mockery, reminding me of the moment the flames went out. “Steady.”
The sound of a heavy weight falling into a hole refocused my attention. Through my hot tears I saw, suspended, Determined Love. He hung between heaven and earth belonging in that moment in neither. The mist howled its derision. My whole rank took a step forward. Determined to take a second, a third. “Steady.”
Adultery, homosexuality, murder, hatred, gossip. One after another the crimes of the pinnacle of creation were hung around the neck of Determined Love. That body, already destroyed by torture, took on diseases that the pinnacle of creation had allowed to spawn through his rebellion.
The mist was only the smallest distance from the eyes of Determined Love. Derision and mockery flowed like a foul odour. Intense Light seemed to ignore a thousand thousands of hands on sword hilts, but any intended movement forward was quashed with a firm, “steady.”
Darkness. A howl. A cry. Abandonment. A call for Father. No reply. Eternity stopped. Dark.
A cry. Death was under control. Determined Love decided the moment. The mist cowered. Sin fell away. Disease died. It is finished. Light.
The call was just that, a call. No explanation, just a command to gather in view of a place called ‘Earth’. A spinning blue and green orb suspended before a great star that the Earth knew as ‘Sun’.
It was beautiful to behold, even for us who had seen much more than the inhabitants of that world could have ever dreamed or imagined. It was a place where life had blossomed, not just a spiritual life but a full blown physical and intellectual life as well. A place of whole creation.
To look upon that place of life made even the strongest of us a little envious of the huge privilege bestowed upon the inhabitants, The Voice’s pinnacle of creative achievement. As we looked upon that world the song that had birthed it came to mind. That glorious creative moment when He, the Voice, sang it into being.
It was that Voice that had summoned us here for this ‘Great Event’. This time it was not a song of creation, or a song of summons. This time the Voice was a solemn and spoken one.
As I looked to my left and right thousands upon ten thousand of my kind were massed. Through light years we stretched encompassing the system in which Earth was orbiting its Sun. The atmosphere of the spirit hummed with power, unimaginable power. Each life around me pondering its present purpose.
The Voice spoke, “Look and see!” The words thundered and echoed through the massed ranks. Even the stars seemed to vibrate. Suns faded momentarily. Earth suddenly came into sharp focus and enlarged as if it were brought close before us in an instant. The stars disappeared and in their place sand, people, animals – a city.
In the street before us was a man, terribly beaten, carrying what seemed to be a large, heavy, roughly hewn piece of wood. A stirring of fearful suspicion rippled around those closest to me who I could no longer see, but knew they were there.
My being tensed, my senses focussed, my strength began to coil. The man managed to briefly look up as if to check his direction. His face was gone, or so it seemed, but the eyes, there was only one pair of eyes like that. Behind the pain burned determined love. It was Him. He who had gone from us, in terms of the time that governed this world, to live as one of them.
Love had left the heavens of the heavens and had gone to the place of hedonism and hate. Determined love had left His throne to serve those who would rule themselves so that they might awaken and see their folly. All they had seen was threat and they were now about to crush it.
Earth spun away. My fellows were once again in view. The Voice, ordered, “Observe.” I squinted in an attempt to focus my vision. A dark mist moved all around the Earth.
Again the earth shot forward. Again it was sand, people, animals – a city.
This time it was different. The shadowy mist was around Determined Love. It seemed to flow off and away from Him towards a gate and a hill beyond. I felt constrained to look upon the mist. It spoke, it laughed, it provoked, it incited. I knew that voice.
My memory spun back through the chapters of timeless eternity. That voice: It laughed, it provoked, it incited. Light went dark around me as some of those with me were provoked, were incited. Every third flame around me went out.
I was again in the city. My fellows began to understand as I had. Hands went for sword hilts. Cries of war began to rise in a trillion throats. Giant wings. Intense light. A command: “Stay your hands, warriors!”
I saw him. Huge. Intense. Warlike. His eyes flashed with contained fury tempered by respect for the Voice. The mist shivered, cowered and then rediscovered its purpose and cackled on through the gate.
Where was Determined Love? I saw His back, if that is what it was. Bloodied, ribs exposed, flesh hanging in strips. My fury was about to break its bonds. Intense Light flashed in my direction, “Steady,” was the unchanged and now restricting and frustrating command.
On the hillside Determined Love looked towards the heavens. Had He seen me? Was He calling me? “Steady.”
I saw a spike go through His wrist, then the other. Determined Love swallowed the pain. Not a sound. I felt the tears upon my face, burning so hot they threatened to scold. “Steady.” A third spike through His feet. Pain was given no voice.
All the while the swirling mist taunted Determined Love. Dividing itself momentarily, the mist came up from below me and hissed its mockery, reminding me of the moment the flames went out. “Steady.”
The sound of a heavy weight falling into a hole refocused my attention. Through my hot tears I saw, suspended, Determined Love. He hung between heaven and earth belonging in that moment in neither. The mist howled its derision. My whole rank took a step forward. Determined to take a second, a third. “Steady.”
Adultery, homosexuality, murder, hatred, gossip. One after another the crimes of the pinnacle of creation were hung around the neck of Determined Love. That body, already destroyed by torture, took on diseases that the pinnacle of creation had allowed to spawn through his rebellion.
The mist was only the smallest distance from the eyes of Determined Love. Derision and mockery flowed like a foul odour. Intense Light seemed to ignore a thousand thousands of hands on sword hilts, but any intended movement forward was quashed with a firm, “steady.”
Darkness. A howl. A cry. Abandonment. A call for Father. No reply. Eternity stopped. Dark.
A cry. Death was under control. Determined Love decided the moment. The mist cowered. Sin fell away. Disease died. It is finished. Light.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
READING PRESENTS A HISTORICAL MAP OF A MY WALK WITH GOD.
Last night I reflected upon my walk as a Christian. I did not dwell so much on the failures and the hard-to-meet challenges, but rather on how my reading had changed over the years - which authors were important in my early years as opposed to who I take note of today. My reflections led me to think on the importance of books in our lives and why it is necessary to read as much as we can while books remain available and our ability to read them remains in place.
When I first came to Christ in the late 1970’s, I was not much of a reader at all. I was not overly encouraged to read by my parents although there were a small number of books on display in the family room. The subject material was not exceptionally gripping from my point of view, so I was not particularly tempted to invest time in that pursuit. Becoming a Christian changed all of that. There was so much to learn and I was keen to absorb knowledge and understanding of my new life.
My first purchase, on the advice of a friend, was a Living Bible (the paraphrase by Kenneth Taylor). It was helpful, to be sure, but somehow did not satisfy the need within me. It was not long before the King James Version found its way into my life with all of its “betwixt thee and thou” and much more that was fulfilling, understandable and challenging. Today I am a New American Standard user/reader.
I then signed up for a correspondence course in Theology with a School in present-day Gauteng (then the Transvaal). They prescribed three books: 1) Ellicott’s commentary; 2) Strong’s Exhaustive Concordance; and 3) Tenney’s New Testament Survey. I still own and use all three (the originals, not replacements) today, over thirty years later. I did not finish the course - in fact, I did not submit the first assignment. That is not the point, but I had acquired an appreciation for the value of books in the Christian life.
South Africa was not as American in its Christian expression back then as it is today. Having said that, most books did come from the USA. Without doubt, television has had the most impact and has left the deepest impression, for better or worse. Anyway, I soon met another Christian brother who was not far short of being a Kenneth Hagin fanatic. He had all of the books the man had written. It was not long before this devotee had me reading Hagin’s writings. I was inspired. Old man Hagin helped me to see who I was in Christ. He explained many concepts that I battled with in the Bible, particularly those Scriptures that dealt with my position and authority in Christ. Fortunately, I hope, I was never completely convinced about God’s desire to make me unbelievably rich. Nice concept, but I could never quite believe it. Maybe it was my loss...who knows?
Many other ‘faith’ teachers came through my hands but none quite made the impression that Hagin did. Sure, some of the Theology was questionable given Hagin’s links to E.W. Kenyon, but I did not know about those things in those early years. You see, God is able to keep us even in the place of theological threat.
David Wilkerson burst onto my scene as I started to seek God for answers about the end times and a holy walk before Him. My eschatology has changed radically since those days, but my desire for holiness has not. Wilkerson approached everything like a prophet of old – fire and brimstone, no compromise, absolutely no grey areas. His book ‘Sipping Saints’ really helped me to see how alcohol can be a threat to the believer. There were other books whose titles escape me, but that man’s no-compromise approach made a big contribution to my life.
Foundations are so important to any structure. Later rather than sooner it became apparent that I needed some good doctrinal foundations. Many sermons and Bible studies had created more questions than answers as I could not define some of the terminology used. Enter stage right: Derek Prince with his book ‘Firm Foundations’, a great investment. That book ignited my hunger for doctrine and Theology. While I do not agree with some of his positions today, his work caused me to think clearly and concisely. My journey was now well underway.
C.S. Lewis came into my reading scope like a whirlwind. His imagery, fantasy, allegory and common- sense faith brought balance and challenge like never before. My mentor in the teaching ministry lent me his set of the ‘Narnia Chronicles’. I could not put any of the seven books down. I wept at the stone table in ‘The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe’. ‘The Final Battle’ presented a picture of the end which gave my eschatology its greatest evolutionary push. From there I went to ‘Mere Christianity’, ‘The Screwtape Letters’ and on and on.
The pursuit of my two degrees opened up a whole new world of wonder: Millard Erickson, Colin Chapman, Kim Riddlebarger, Kelly Varner, to name but a few.
Phillip Yancey came to visit and has never left. What a writer he is: insightful, humorous, real and realistic, honest and humble. This gifted author gave my spirituality a new and fresh grounding. His brand of faith is workable and attainable. He leads us away from performance to a place of accountable rest.
At a conference about five years ago I sat under the ministry of Leonard Sweet. To those who have read him, he obviously needs no further promotion from me. The man is a radical, a rebel against tradition for tradition’s sake. Here is a man who encourages the reader to push the envelope, to seek out new oceans for exploration. This author will make you dare.
Ravi Zecharias has taught me to see God in a fresh way as One who really, really does care and is always - never not - involved in even the most seemingly insignificant aspects of my life.
My latest academic project has me discovering the wonders of Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
What a journey it has been so far. There have been many others, but those above are the standing stones along my journey, one that is a long way from being complete. I look forward to meeting whoever it is that stands ready for me at the next crossroads, brow of a hill or wherever.
When I first came to Christ in the late 1970’s, I was not much of a reader at all. I was not overly encouraged to read by my parents although there were a small number of books on display in the family room. The subject material was not exceptionally gripping from my point of view, so I was not particularly tempted to invest time in that pursuit. Becoming a Christian changed all of that. There was so much to learn and I was keen to absorb knowledge and understanding of my new life.
My first purchase, on the advice of a friend, was a Living Bible (the paraphrase by Kenneth Taylor). It was helpful, to be sure, but somehow did not satisfy the need within me. It was not long before the King James Version found its way into my life with all of its “betwixt thee and thou” and much more that was fulfilling, understandable and challenging. Today I am a New American Standard user/reader.
I then signed up for a correspondence course in Theology with a School in present-day Gauteng (then the Transvaal). They prescribed three books: 1) Ellicott’s commentary; 2) Strong’s Exhaustive Concordance; and 3) Tenney’s New Testament Survey. I still own and use all three (the originals, not replacements) today, over thirty years later. I did not finish the course - in fact, I did not submit the first assignment. That is not the point, but I had acquired an appreciation for the value of books in the Christian life.
South Africa was not as American in its Christian expression back then as it is today. Having said that, most books did come from the USA. Without doubt, television has had the most impact and has left the deepest impression, for better or worse. Anyway, I soon met another Christian brother who was not far short of being a Kenneth Hagin fanatic. He had all of the books the man had written. It was not long before this devotee had me reading Hagin’s writings. I was inspired. Old man Hagin helped me to see who I was in Christ. He explained many concepts that I battled with in the Bible, particularly those Scriptures that dealt with my position and authority in Christ. Fortunately, I hope, I was never completely convinced about God’s desire to make me unbelievably rich. Nice concept, but I could never quite believe it. Maybe it was my loss...who knows?
Many other ‘faith’ teachers came through my hands but none quite made the impression that Hagin did. Sure, some of the Theology was questionable given Hagin’s links to E.W. Kenyon, but I did not know about those things in those early years. You see, God is able to keep us even in the place of theological threat.
David Wilkerson burst onto my scene as I started to seek God for answers about the end times and a holy walk before Him. My eschatology has changed radically since those days, but my desire for holiness has not. Wilkerson approached everything like a prophet of old – fire and brimstone, no compromise, absolutely no grey areas. His book ‘Sipping Saints’ really helped me to see how alcohol can be a threat to the believer. There were other books whose titles escape me, but that man’s no-compromise approach made a big contribution to my life.
Foundations are so important to any structure. Later rather than sooner it became apparent that I needed some good doctrinal foundations. Many sermons and Bible studies had created more questions than answers as I could not define some of the terminology used. Enter stage right: Derek Prince with his book ‘Firm Foundations’, a great investment. That book ignited my hunger for doctrine and Theology. While I do not agree with some of his positions today, his work caused me to think clearly and concisely. My journey was now well underway.
C.S. Lewis came into my reading scope like a whirlwind. His imagery, fantasy, allegory and common- sense faith brought balance and challenge like never before. My mentor in the teaching ministry lent me his set of the ‘Narnia Chronicles’. I could not put any of the seven books down. I wept at the stone table in ‘The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe’. ‘The Final Battle’ presented a picture of the end which gave my eschatology its greatest evolutionary push. From there I went to ‘Mere Christianity’, ‘The Screwtape Letters’ and on and on.
The pursuit of my two degrees opened up a whole new world of wonder: Millard Erickson, Colin Chapman, Kim Riddlebarger, Kelly Varner, to name but a few.
Phillip Yancey came to visit and has never left. What a writer he is: insightful, humorous, real and realistic, honest and humble. This gifted author gave my spirituality a new and fresh grounding. His brand of faith is workable and attainable. He leads us away from performance to a place of accountable rest.
At a conference about five years ago I sat under the ministry of Leonard Sweet. To those who have read him, he obviously needs no further promotion from me. The man is a radical, a rebel against tradition for tradition’s sake. Here is a man who encourages the reader to push the envelope, to seek out new oceans for exploration. This author will make you dare.
Ravi Zecharias has taught me to see God in a fresh way as One who really, really does care and is always - never not - involved in even the most seemingly insignificant aspects of my life.
My latest academic project has me discovering the wonders of Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
What a journey it has been so far. There have been many others, but those above are the standing stones along my journey, one that is a long way from being complete. I look forward to meeting whoever it is that stands ready for me at the next crossroads, brow of a hill or wherever.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Courage to move on.
Anything of worth, any value-added experience, costs us something. Our lives are configured on such a premise. If something is worthwhile it will require effort, demand sacrifice and call for courage.
Life is worthwhile. To live it successfully one must be prepared to invest heavily with the currencies of courage, sacrifice and effort. Jesus Christ was no different. During His earthly sojourn He invested, not just heavily, but totally in the Father’s plan to reconcile mankind to Himself.
Jesus’ journey was not one of smooth-sailing, straight roads and challenges with all the resistance-potential of morning mist. He got angry, He knew fear, He was tempted to quit, frustration with friends became predictable, even family could be bothersome.
For every challenge, ahead of each opportunity, in the wake of all reversals, Jesus was called upon to make decisions. The responsibility of decision-making is not one that we all readily embrace. Decisions are a marker, a standing stone, if you will, that indicate the certain end of something and the beginning of something else. That something else can be what we want, what we need or what is necessary. On the other hand, a lack of moral fortitude, i.e. the desire to not make a decision, will usher in a season, a circumstance, an experience of what we do not want or require. Active and positive decision-making will bring the ultimately profitable. A shying away from a decision of any sort will birth only that which is negative, needlessly costly and a sapping of strength, standards and significance.
As a disciple of Jesus Christ, I have a record of making at least one decision – the decision to serve Him wholly. If I can make one decision, it stands to reason that I can make another, then another and then...
Your life will stand still without your having the intestinal fortitude (i.e. guts) to make a decision one way or another. To be a Christ-centred person is to be a man or woman who will face challenges, adversity and opportunity with a steely determination that comes from allowing Him who is central to live in us.
Jesus Christ will not make the decisions for you, but He will guide you in making them and walk with you through the subsequent consequences of that choice. No decision can be made without considering the cost. Any worthwhile goal will cost.
Jesus made the decision to go to Calvary and all that that entailed. In the Garden of Gethsemane He shuddered with fear and, for a moment, almost lost His footing. Yet as quickly as fear came in, He let His decision to proceed be lifted up as a standard against terror and uncertainty. The pain was still real, the fear palpable, but His decision was incapable of deflection or defeat, no matter what He was going through.
Be encouraged, reader, whoever you are. Your courage to make a decision to stay or to go, partake or ignore, accept or reject, will determine the quality of your life for years to come. You are under no obligation to stay in a place of abuse. Misery is not your lot. Defeat, lack and depression are imposters whose right to remain has been determined by your lack of decision-making.
I do not know who I am writing this for, but someone out there needs to see these truths and act upon them. We may never meet but that is not the issue. Just do what is right, make the stand, choose the direction and embrace the challenge. Victory will follow.
Life is worthwhile. To live it successfully one must be prepared to invest heavily with the currencies of courage, sacrifice and effort. Jesus Christ was no different. During His earthly sojourn He invested, not just heavily, but totally in the Father’s plan to reconcile mankind to Himself.
Jesus’ journey was not one of smooth-sailing, straight roads and challenges with all the resistance-potential of morning mist. He got angry, He knew fear, He was tempted to quit, frustration with friends became predictable, even family could be bothersome.
For every challenge, ahead of each opportunity, in the wake of all reversals, Jesus was called upon to make decisions. The responsibility of decision-making is not one that we all readily embrace. Decisions are a marker, a standing stone, if you will, that indicate the certain end of something and the beginning of something else. That something else can be what we want, what we need or what is necessary. On the other hand, a lack of moral fortitude, i.e. the desire to not make a decision, will usher in a season, a circumstance, an experience of what we do not want or require. Active and positive decision-making will bring the ultimately profitable. A shying away from a decision of any sort will birth only that which is negative, needlessly costly and a sapping of strength, standards and significance.
As a disciple of Jesus Christ, I have a record of making at least one decision – the decision to serve Him wholly. If I can make one decision, it stands to reason that I can make another, then another and then...
Your life will stand still without your having the intestinal fortitude (i.e. guts) to make a decision one way or another. To be a Christ-centred person is to be a man or woman who will face challenges, adversity and opportunity with a steely determination that comes from allowing Him who is central to live in us.
Jesus Christ will not make the decisions for you, but He will guide you in making them and walk with you through the subsequent consequences of that choice. No decision can be made without considering the cost. Any worthwhile goal will cost.
Jesus made the decision to go to Calvary and all that that entailed. In the Garden of Gethsemane He shuddered with fear and, for a moment, almost lost His footing. Yet as quickly as fear came in, He let His decision to proceed be lifted up as a standard against terror and uncertainty. The pain was still real, the fear palpable, but His decision was incapable of deflection or defeat, no matter what He was going through.
Be encouraged, reader, whoever you are. Your courage to make a decision to stay or to go, partake or ignore, accept or reject, will determine the quality of your life for years to come. You are under no obligation to stay in a place of abuse. Misery is not your lot. Defeat, lack and depression are imposters whose right to remain has been determined by your lack of decision-making.
I do not know who I am writing this for, but someone out there needs to see these truths and act upon them. We may never meet but that is not the issue. Just do what is right, make the stand, choose the direction and embrace the challenge. Victory will follow.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Temple visit
As the sun overcame the dawn resistance of the mountainous horizon, I was ushered by an unseen but gently firm hand towards a temple. The building looked almost imposing but I was unable to compare it with any others as no others were in sight - they were there, to be sure, but not in sight – as if comparing were not permitted.
I climbed the broad shallow steps towards the doors and caught sight of the windows high up and on either side of the impressive entrance way. They were beautifully coloured and spotlessly clean. On closer inspection I saw that some were cracked and one even had a hole in it. The doors were strong and well-maintained. The varnished sheen reflected the early morning rays and the handles shone as if recently polished. I pushed on the handles and, at first, nothing happened; then suddenly, there was a crack as under-used hinges were released from the grip of corrosion. This temple, while beautiful on the outside, albeit with the odd bit of damage, evidently saw very little traffic inside.
As the open doors let in the early morning light, I saw that there were lamps already lit, although many, particularly further in, had not been asked to perform their duty for some time, if ever. The lamps were of gold and their transparent panels were spotless and seemed to aid the light in its quest to illuminate all around it. Where the lamps remained unlit, there were snuffed out candles on the floor beneath - the sort one could buy at any store outside - as if the one visiting here had preferred to use their own purchased candles because they did not have the energy or will to light the much more effective, already existing, purpose-built lamps.
Although the dawn light was weak and the lamps did their best, darkness was in no way in control. There was light but its source was unseen. In fact, source is the wrong word as it would seem to indicate that the light was coming from somewhere. In this case, that was not so - it was just there.
The interior was beautifully clean. Not a smear of dirt anywhere. There was no accumulated grime, no piles of abandoned clutter. The rich wall-hangings breathed-out the sumptuousness of a royal palace, a home of kings. The banners that hung suspended from rich wooden beams declared hope and victory, strength and resolve. This temple exuded life in every one of its positive and fruitful dimensions. This place was of the present and the future. The past seemed to have no place here.
In fact, it would seem that this temple had no history at all except that it was under-used. This lack of expressed living was evidenced by, here and there, small piles of dust which were mysteriously not dirty in any way. The little piles indicated that an attempt at collecting the dust had been undertaken but the visitor had failed to sweep them up. In fact, these little lines and piles of shepherded dust were quite irritating. The dust was just inside the door about halfway to the centre of the room. There was no evidence of anyone going any further. It seemed such a waste as the further reaches of the interior beckoned with an offer of an other-wordly adventure. The dust would not cause the destruction of the temple. It was not even able to diminish the quality, presence or purpose of the place, but was in some way evidence of an unwillingness to go further.
The farthest corners of the interior were not dark, despite the lack of lamplight, just seemingly unexplored. It was not a darkness that hung there - just an air of not knowing. They had the look of areas that no one had ever visited. No adventure had ever been undertaken there. There was no sense of foreboding, no evidence of threat - only an inaudible voice calling for the visitor to go in further.
The room was empty to the natural eye and silent to the created ear, and yet somehow full and abounding in activity. The air was sweet, pleasantly so, excluding the possibility of anything profane, anything threatening. No death or decay could exist here. The atmosphere was pure but somehow faintly echoed a time when it was not so. There was no tangible evidence for the change, just an inner knowing that something extraordinary had taken place here.
The interior was full of knowing, not mere knowledge, but a knowing that comes only by experience. I could not think negatively in that place. Even the dangers and conflicts I would face outside could not change the atmosphere of peace in there.
Then I saw it - I had all but missed it. As I turned to go, a table set for four appeared in the corner of my eye. Three of the chairs were large, golden and encrusted with all manner of jewels. The fourth was a little smaller and it was made of silver with eight perfectly crafted jewels worked into the frame. The table was of glass, but not the fault-filled product of this world, but a glass that was as clear as crystal.
On the table were only one plate and one goblet from which to partake. The table and chairs, I am almost convinced, were urging me to come, sit and partake. I felt as if I had the right. I was convinced that I should. I even knew within myself that should I take that fourth seat, the Three Hosts would appear. But I did not.
The world outside raised its voice and demanded my attention. It was as if unseen hands on unimaginably long arms reached over the threshold to pull me away. I surrendered weakly and went.
As I went down the steps on the outside, it was as if the entire building sighed. I was sure I could hear voices within, not angry, not sad; in fact, I am not sure what emotion was being expressed - I just felt so loved, so wanted, so desired - yet, for today at least, so out of reach.
In order to really understand the allegory above it would be helpful to read the following Scriptures and the definitions of the following symbolic numbers and elements.
I Corinthians 3:16; II Corinthians 10:12 Revelation 3:20; John 14:23.
Gold = Holiness, purity.
Silver = Redemption, redeemed.
The number 8 = Resurrection, new beginnings.
I climbed the broad shallow steps towards the doors and caught sight of the windows high up and on either side of the impressive entrance way. They were beautifully coloured and spotlessly clean. On closer inspection I saw that some were cracked and one even had a hole in it. The doors were strong and well-maintained. The varnished sheen reflected the early morning rays and the handles shone as if recently polished. I pushed on the handles and, at first, nothing happened; then suddenly, there was a crack as under-used hinges were released from the grip of corrosion. This temple, while beautiful on the outside, albeit with the odd bit of damage, evidently saw very little traffic inside.
As the open doors let in the early morning light, I saw that there were lamps already lit, although many, particularly further in, had not been asked to perform their duty for some time, if ever. The lamps were of gold and their transparent panels were spotless and seemed to aid the light in its quest to illuminate all around it. Where the lamps remained unlit, there were snuffed out candles on the floor beneath - the sort one could buy at any store outside - as if the one visiting here had preferred to use their own purchased candles because they did not have the energy or will to light the much more effective, already existing, purpose-built lamps.
Although the dawn light was weak and the lamps did their best, darkness was in no way in control. There was light but its source was unseen. In fact, source is the wrong word as it would seem to indicate that the light was coming from somewhere. In this case, that was not so - it was just there.
The interior was beautifully clean. Not a smear of dirt anywhere. There was no accumulated grime, no piles of abandoned clutter. The rich wall-hangings breathed-out the sumptuousness of a royal palace, a home of kings. The banners that hung suspended from rich wooden beams declared hope and victory, strength and resolve. This temple exuded life in every one of its positive and fruitful dimensions. This place was of the present and the future. The past seemed to have no place here.
In fact, it would seem that this temple had no history at all except that it was under-used. This lack of expressed living was evidenced by, here and there, small piles of dust which were mysteriously not dirty in any way. The little piles indicated that an attempt at collecting the dust had been undertaken but the visitor had failed to sweep them up. In fact, these little lines and piles of shepherded dust were quite irritating. The dust was just inside the door about halfway to the centre of the room. There was no evidence of anyone going any further. It seemed such a waste as the further reaches of the interior beckoned with an offer of an other-wordly adventure. The dust would not cause the destruction of the temple. It was not even able to diminish the quality, presence or purpose of the place, but was in some way evidence of an unwillingness to go further.
The farthest corners of the interior were not dark, despite the lack of lamplight, just seemingly unexplored. It was not a darkness that hung there - just an air of not knowing. They had the look of areas that no one had ever visited. No adventure had ever been undertaken there. There was no sense of foreboding, no evidence of threat - only an inaudible voice calling for the visitor to go in further.
The room was empty to the natural eye and silent to the created ear, and yet somehow full and abounding in activity. The air was sweet, pleasantly so, excluding the possibility of anything profane, anything threatening. No death or decay could exist here. The atmosphere was pure but somehow faintly echoed a time when it was not so. There was no tangible evidence for the change, just an inner knowing that something extraordinary had taken place here.
The interior was full of knowing, not mere knowledge, but a knowing that comes only by experience. I could not think negatively in that place. Even the dangers and conflicts I would face outside could not change the atmosphere of peace in there.
Then I saw it - I had all but missed it. As I turned to go, a table set for four appeared in the corner of my eye. Three of the chairs were large, golden and encrusted with all manner of jewels. The fourth was a little smaller and it was made of silver with eight perfectly crafted jewels worked into the frame. The table was of glass, but not the fault-filled product of this world, but a glass that was as clear as crystal.
On the table were only one plate and one goblet from which to partake. The table and chairs, I am almost convinced, were urging me to come, sit and partake. I felt as if I had the right. I was convinced that I should. I even knew within myself that should I take that fourth seat, the Three Hosts would appear. But I did not.
The world outside raised its voice and demanded my attention. It was as if unseen hands on unimaginably long arms reached over the threshold to pull me away. I surrendered weakly and went.
As I went down the steps on the outside, it was as if the entire building sighed. I was sure I could hear voices within, not angry, not sad; in fact, I am not sure what emotion was being expressed - I just felt so loved, so wanted, so desired - yet, for today at least, so out of reach.
In order to really understand the allegory above it would be helpful to read the following Scriptures and the definitions of the following symbolic numbers and elements.
I Corinthians 3:16; II Corinthians 10:12 Revelation 3:20; John 14:23.
Gold = Holiness, purity.
Silver = Redemption, redeemed.
The number 8 = Resurrection, new beginnings.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
THE PORCH AND THE WORKSHOP
Like the sun at the centre of our solar system, so Christ at the centre of our lives allows us to make sense of the many things that impinge upon our existence. Of course, we cannot fully work out all that God allows. To be able to do that would mean that mere man could understand and explain God. What kind of God would that make Him?
Jesus Christ is not a guru. He is not some nameless ethereal entity, but the Lord of all who can be known and be known intimately. Furthermore, He wants me to know that He knows me, intimately. As such He wants to speak with me, converse like old friends. In fact, He wants to sit upon the porch of our lives and for us to watch the sun go down together. At such times, words are not necessary, only presence.
My wife and I spent the last six weeks in England. While old friends made us welcome, the snow did all it could to freeze out our plans. In some instances it succeeded, forcing a change, or at least a postponement, of intentions. Inevitably, such proved frustrating as control was wrested from our grasp by an imprisoning period of weather. So much of those periods of postponement were wasted. With the benefit of perfect retrospective vision I can now see opportunities for porch time. Instead? Being human (lousy excuse, I know), I did human things like trying to catch up on some of the work I took with me. Conclusion: practically beneficial, but very little porch time. Do you think I might have missed the obvious?
When the white blanket was drawn back, we carried on with our plans without so much as a “by your leave”. It is a good thing that Jesus is omnipresent. The amount of times I would have left Him behind if He was not is a frightening fact of my life.
I find Him amazing. He never gets offended or gives me the silent treatment as is the wont of so many. No, quite the opposite. In fact, as a Sunday sailed serenely into view with the realization of ministry on that day, He was ready to assist me in my patchy, at best, preparations. I have always felt so inadequate as regards preparation. Please do not get me wrong, I can do the technical stuff. You know: dictionaries, concordances, commentaries, books, anecdotes. It is that prayer preparation that gets me every time.
Those who raised me in the Kingdom and others I have observed would, seemingly, pray for hours before preaching and teaching in any context. Me? Oh, once I have hunted down and captured my thoughts I will pray until the next mass break out of my mental inmates. My mind, for whatever reason, is not the greatest high security facility. Things seem to get lost inside and much of what remains finds holes in the fence to make good their escape. End of prayer time. Hunt, capture, recommence.
You know, the amazing thing is that He comes through on the Sunday morning every time; each Bible School lecture, Fellowship Bible study, Sunday service, conferences small or otherwise, He shows up and makes me look really good, quite together, not a little eloquent and, on occasion, reasonably funny. He loves me and those He has called to hear what He has to say through me. A miracle.
Jesus is real to me when I am real with myself. I really want to do my best. Honestly, I want to be able to teach and preach so well that no one, no matter how hard they try, could possibly miss the point. You see, that desire sums up my humanity. Wanting what I cannot have and not surrendering to the fact that without Jesus at the centre, I cannot even begin to make a dent in such a desire.
So, how do I make sense of it all? It is a good thing that Jesus was a carpenter, so I can think of life in terms of His workshop: hammers, chisels, saws, planes. Without His hands upon them, they are merely inanimate tools. Good quality tools, no doubt, manufactured in the finest factories with the best components, but, for all that, still inanimate. However, when His hands take hold, His creativity flows in and through them.
What begins as an idea in His mind, flows through His skilful hands and makes the tool do what it could never do. The tool does not prepare, but it is available.
My lesson? Stay available, keep close to the porch as there will be time to talk and wait for His hands.
Jesus Christ is not a guru. He is not some nameless ethereal entity, but the Lord of all who can be known and be known intimately. Furthermore, He wants me to know that He knows me, intimately. As such He wants to speak with me, converse like old friends. In fact, He wants to sit upon the porch of our lives and for us to watch the sun go down together. At such times, words are not necessary, only presence.
My wife and I spent the last six weeks in England. While old friends made us welcome, the snow did all it could to freeze out our plans. In some instances it succeeded, forcing a change, or at least a postponement, of intentions. Inevitably, such proved frustrating as control was wrested from our grasp by an imprisoning period of weather. So much of those periods of postponement were wasted. With the benefit of perfect retrospective vision I can now see opportunities for porch time. Instead? Being human (lousy excuse, I know), I did human things like trying to catch up on some of the work I took with me. Conclusion: practically beneficial, but very little porch time. Do you think I might have missed the obvious?
When the white blanket was drawn back, we carried on with our plans without so much as a “by your leave”. It is a good thing that Jesus is omnipresent. The amount of times I would have left Him behind if He was not is a frightening fact of my life.
I find Him amazing. He never gets offended or gives me the silent treatment as is the wont of so many. No, quite the opposite. In fact, as a Sunday sailed serenely into view with the realization of ministry on that day, He was ready to assist me in my patchy, at best, preparations. I have always felt so inadequate as regards preparation. Please do not get me wrong, I can do the technical stuff. You know: dictionaries, concordances, commentaries, books, anecdotes. It is that prayer preparation that gets me every time.
Those who raised me in the Kingdom and others I have observed would, seemingly, pray for hours before preaching and teaching in any context. Me? Oh, once I have hunted down and captured my thoughts I will pray until the next mass break out of my mental inmates. My mind, for whatever reason, is not the greatest high security facility. Things seem to get lost inside and much of what remains finds holes in the fence to make good their escape. End of prayer time. Hunt, capture, recommence.
You know, the amazing thing is that He comes through on the Sunday morning every time; each Bible School lecture, Fellowship Bible study, Sunday service, conferences small or otherwise, He shows up and makes me look really good, quite together, not a little eloquent and, on occasion, reasonably funny. He loves me and those He has called to hear what He has to say through me. A miracle.
Jesus is real to me when I am real with myself. I really want to do my best. Honestly, I want to be able to teach and preach so well that no one, no matter how hard they try, could possibly miss the point. You see, that desire sums up my humanity. Wanting what I cannot have and not surrendering to the fact that without Jesus at the centre, I cannot even begin to make a dent in such a desire.
So, how do I make sense of it all? It is a good thing that Jesus was a carpenter, so I can think of life in terms of His workshop: hammers, chisels, saws, planes. Without His hands upon them, they are merely inanimate tools. Good quality tools, no doubt, manufactured in the finest factories with the best components, but, for all that, still inanimate. However, when His hands take hold, His creativity flows in and through them.
What begins as an idea in His mind, flows through His skilful hands and makes the tool do what it could never do. The tool does not prepare, but it is available.
My lesson? Stay available, keep close to the porch as there will be time to talk and wait for His hands.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Christ at the storm's centre
It is all well and good speaking about keeping Christ at the centre of our lives. What we have shared together in the last few blogs makes good teaching, even if I say so myself. However, how does it all work out in practice? After all, teaching is only worthwhile if it is practical and applicable to our daily lives with its challenges, victories and disappointments.
Towards the end of December 2006, I was hit by two completely unexpected events: the death of my mother-in-law and the discovery, at the age of forty-seven, that I was adopted as a baby and had lived in ignorance of the fact until that fateful moment of discovery.
As my late mother-in-law was a Christ-centred believer, the fact of her passing, or, preferably, her promotion, coupled with the great hope of the resurrection and the knowledge that once one has left the body one is present with the Lord, softened the impact of our loss.
The news of my adoption, on the other hand, was not a blow lightened by anything at all. To find out that one has lived the best part of half a century in a lie is not an experience I would wish upon anyone. It is not overstating the issue to say that everything that I had relied upon as fact disappeared like a morning mist being vapourised by the rising sun. Everything, that is, except the Saviour at the centre of my life – the Lord Jesus Christ.
Had He not been there (by invitation) there would have been very little to hold on to that could have been relied upon. Do not get me wrong, my marriage is very secure and successful. My wife has been my helpmeet, and, at times, someone I could lean upon and at others one who could lead the temporary blind and often deaf.
Every story I had been told by the person I believed to be my father, every tale delivered by my newly revealed adoptive mother were thrown into immediate and extreme doubt. Heritage, inheritance, genes and all that one associates with biological family were now an area of confusion and doubt.
What was I to do? What was I meant to think? Was there a particular way one was expected to respond to such unsettling news? Questions. Possible answers were dashing across my cloud-covered consciousness so fast that I could not apprehend them. They teased me from behind clouds of doubt and confusion, playing a ghoulish game of hide and seek.
In the midst of it all, from the moment of finding out and the hours and days that followed, there was one constant, one isle of stability, one rock of salvation. In amongst the shouting voices, the onrush of guilt and the collapse of supposed truth, there stood a Hiding Place and His Name was Jesus.
In the confused tangle of this emotional tumult, He stood. His face was that of compassion, His heart vulnerable to my hurt. I did not need to assume a particular posture or recite a preset mantra or regurgitate some positive confession nor, unbelievably, did I have to rebuke any demons or other nasties. All I had to do to secure Divine help, fellowship and comfort was to be honest, vulnerable and willing for Him to take the load, take my hand and take the lead.
Finding out such a vital truth about one’s origins so late in life (relatively speaking) is a big thing. Emotions can be strong; feelings of betrayal can be demanding taskmasters. Every element within wants to rise in rebellion, wants to stir the waters of life into a raging tempest; the tyranny of bitterness seeks to secure the throne. All seems lost until He stands and says, “Peace, be still”.
For Him to speak to the storm, He needs to be in our boat. He can and will only come aboard by personal invitation. When my life erupted into a storm of doubt, uncertainty and betrayal, He that was invited aboard took control when I stepped aside.
Towards the end of December 2006, I was hit by two completely unexpected events: the death of my mother-in-law and the discovery, at the age of forty-seven, that I was adopted as a baby and had lived in ignorance of the fact until that fateful moment of discovery.
As my late mother-in-law was a Christ-centred believer, the fact of her passing, or, preferably, her promotion, coupled with the great hope of the resurrection and the knowledge that once one has left the body one is present with the Lord, softened the impact of our loss.
The news of my adoption, on the other hand, was not a blow lightened by anything at all. To find out that one has lived the best part of half a century in a lie is not an experience I would wish upon anyone. It is not overstating the issue to say that everything that I had relied upon as fact disappeared like a morning mist being vapourised by the rising sun. Everything, that is, except the Saviour at the centre of my life – the Lord Jesus Christ.
Had He not been there (by invitation) there would have been very little to hold on to that could have been relied upon. Do not get me wrong, my marriage is very secure and successful. My wife has been my helpmeet, and, at times, someone I could lean upon and at others one who could lead the temporary blind and often deaf.
Every story I had been told by the person I believed to be my father, every tale delivered by my newly revealed adoptive mother were thrown into immediate and extreme doubt. Heritage, inheritance, genes and all that one associates with biological family were now an area of confusion and doubt.
What was I to do? What was I meant to think? Was there a particular way one was expected to respond to such unsettling news? Questions. Possible answers were dashing across my cloud-covered consciousness so fast that I could not apprehend them. They teased me from behind clouds of doubt and confusion, playing a ghoulish game of hide and seek.
In the midst of it all, from the moment of finding out and the hours and days that followed, there was one constant, one isle of stability, one rock of salvation. In amongst the shouting voices, the onrush of guilt and the collapse of supposed truth, there stood a Hiding Place and His Name was Jesus.
In the confused tangle of this emotional tumult, He stood. His face was that of compassion, His heart vulnerable to my hurt. I did not need to assume a particular posture or recite a preset mantra or regurgitate some positive confession nor, unbelievably, did I have to rebuke any demons or other nasties. All I had to do to secure Divine help, fellowship and comfort was to be honest, vulnerable and willing for Him to take the load, take my hand and take the lead.
Finding out such a vital truth about one’s origins so late in life (relatively speaking) is a big thing. Emotions can be strong; feelings of betrayal can be demanding taskmasters. Every element within wants to rise in rebellion, wants to stir the waters of life into a raging tempest; the tyranny of bitterness seeks to secure the throne. All seems lost until He stands and says, “Peace, be still”.
For Him to speak to the storm, He needs to be in our boat. He can and will only come aboard by personal invitation. When my life erupted into a storm of doubt, uncertainty and betrayal, He that was invited aboard took control when I stepped aside.
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