A flurry of thoughts
Life
Death
Damn
Time is so short.
Young, time is forever.
Older, time hastens.
Old, time is nothing.
Death is the final.
Realty.
Life ends.
Life is done.
Can we hope?
Religions offer it.
Is it true?
Truth counts.
For a Christian:
Will we be with Jesus?
It's a good idea.
Maybe it's true.
Could be.
Maybe not.
Resurrection?
A promise?
Do I need this?
Does anyone?
What if this
Is enough?
For many
Maybe not enough.
Others?
Maybe enough.
Hard to say.
Some religious folk
are greedy for eternity.
Some, not so.
Who knows.
I love God.
God is life.
For sure.
I'm content!
Who knows?
Maybe.
Okay.
Showing posts with label mortality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mortality. Show all posts
Friday, September 5, 2014
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
When "Famous Authors" Bite the Dust
I've written about this before.
But I'd like to put my hand to the plow again.
At the Last Bookstore in downtown LA, a magnificent 2-story's worth of used books, jammed-packed tighter than a pickle jar, with treasures and also-rans.
It's the also-rans that intrigue me - because, at the time, they were all celebrities of one sort of the other - lots of newscasters had their day in the sun, and then Hollywood types with their "reveal all" memories, along with famous or infamous clergy pronouncing the latest list of who's in and who's out, and why you better watch out, and perhaps the saddest of all, the politicians, who, like a dandelion sprung up with color and pizzaz, only to fizzle out and blow away in the next wind.
Their books sold like hotcakes, and like uneaten hotcakes, got cold quickly maybe could be saved a day or so, but for what purpose? The next day, the next meal - oh well, so into the garbage can with yesterday's cold cakes.
So, here they sit on these fine shelves - if they had a voice, would they be clamoring to be taken in hand and taken home, an orphan no more? Or would they hang their metaphorical heads in shame and apologize for taking up so much paper and space to blather a message that no longer has any relevance, and even at the time, when the writer was "hot," had the seeds of irrelevance sown throughout the text?
Which begs the question:
What endures?
The historians do ... I mean, the women and men with credentials - who've been to school, who've paid the price of learning, with degrees - if not formal, at least the school of hard knocks, who've been around the horn a few times, who've weathered terrible storms in a decade-spanning career, who've asked the tough question, who enjoy a cocktail or two, who entertain friends with their wit and wisdom, who passionately engage the quest for truth, who care about The People - the folks who ride subways and buses and till the soil, folks who work for a living in the mines and mills of the land, who teach our children and rinse out bedpans. Care for The People is what dignifies the soul of the scholar and lends gravitas to their writing, the kind of writing that endures.
Even older historians eclipsed by later works have lasting value. Their's is not some grandstanding effort to gain attention (though everyone hopes to make a living by their pen), but to find the hidden meanings of history, the subtle connections, the mortar between the bricks, the stuff that holds it all together, and to find lessons - not the simplistic stuff of pulpit pounders, but the subtle stuff that's hard to grasp, yet there for taking. Life belongs to those who love, and love much; who learn constantly, who give themselves to the big ideas, who weigh things in the balance of history, often having to make hard decisions filled with flaws, yet willing to risk the approbation of friends and colleagues, in order to chart the clearest course through the thicket of competing ideas.
And autobiographies of writers and soldiers and political-insiders with decent intellectual credentials. I think it's terribly hard to tell one's story well. But those who do so are always worth the read, because therein we all find bits and pieces of ourselves. After all, we all are human, and in spite of our many differences, we're not all that different after all. Our blood is red, our tears are salty, we all enjoy a good laugh and a bawdy joke; we love good food and fine drink, and sometimes can't sleep a wink because of worry and fear.
I won't name names, so you can guess for yourself who I might mean as an enduring author, or, for that matter, you can fill in the blanks with your own names - those who have been a companion along the way, and who will entertain and enlighten fifty or a hundred years from now, because their words are suffused with life, even if they were wrong a time or two, even when they're all-too human with ill-temper, vanity and spitefulness; when their follies and foibles trump the game.
At the time, they might not have been "famous" - likely, they were not. But they were serious writers, women and men who thought deeply about their lives and the times in which they lived, the people they knew and lived with, and their author's legacy is a simple one - a mirror in which we find ourselves reflected, even as we search our own times and experiences for meaning and hope and reasons to live.
But whatever their name, these things seem to be the descriptors of those who endure, even when they bite the dust.
But I'd like to put my hand to the plow again.
 |
| The Last Bookstore |
At the Last Bookstore in downtown LA, a magnificent 2-story's worth of used books, jammed-packed tighter than a pickle jar, with treasures and also-rans.
It's the also-rans that intrigue me - because, at the time, they were all celebrities of one sort of the other - lots of newscasters had their day in the sun, and then Hollywood types with their "reveal all" memories, along with famous or infamous clergy pronouncing the latest list of who's in and who's out, and why you better watch out, and perhaps the saddest of all, the politicians, who, like a dandelion sprung up with color and pizzaz, only to fizzle out and blow away in the next wind.
Their books sold like hotcakes, and like uneaten hotcakes, got cold quickly maybe could be saved a day or so, but for what purpose? The next day, the next meal - oh well, so into the garbage can with yesterday's cold cakes.
So, here they sit on these fine shelves - if they had a voice, would they be clamoring to be taken in hand and taken home, an orphan no more? Or would they hang their metaphorical heads in shame and apologize for taking up so much paper and space to blather a message that no longer has any relevance, and even at the time, when the writer was "hot," had the seeds of irrelevance sown throughout the text?
Which begs the question:
What endures?
The historians do ... I mean, the women and men with credentials - who've been to school, who've paid the price of learning, with degrees - if not formal, at least the school of hard knocks, who've been around the horn a few times, who've weathered terrible storms in a decade-spanning career, who've asked the tough question, who enjoy a cocktail or two, who entertain friends with their wit and wisdom, who passionately engage the quest for truth, who care about The People - the folks who ride subways and buses and till the soil, folks who work for a living in the mines and mills of the land, who teach our children and rinse out bedpans. Care for The People is what dignifies the soul of the scholar and lends gravitas to their writing, the kind of writing that endures.
Even older historians eclipsed by later works have lasting value. Their's is not some grandstanding effort to gain attention (though everyone hopes to make a living by their pen), but to find the hidden meanings of history, the subtle connections, the mortar between the bricks, the stuff that holds it all together, and to find lessons - not the simplistic stuff of pulpit pounders, but the subtle stuff that's hard to grasp, yet there for taking. Life belongs to those who love, and love much; who learn constantly, who give themselves to the big ideas, who weigh things in the balance of history, often having to make hard decisions filled with flaws, yet willing to risk the approbation of friends and colleagues, in order to chart the clearest course through the thicket of competing ideas.
And autobiographies of writers and soldiers and political-insiders with decent intellectual credentials. I think it's terribly hard to tell one's story well. But those who do so are always worth the read, because therein we all find bits and pieces of ourselves. After all, we all are human, and in spite of our many differences, we're not all that different after all. Our blood is red, our tears are salty, we all enjoy a good laugh and a bawdy joke; we love good food and fine drink, and sometimes can't sleep a wink because of worry and fear.
I won't name names, so you can guess for yourself who I might mean as an enduring author, or, for that matter, you can fill in the blanks with your own names - those who have been a companion along the way, and who will entertain and enlighten fifty or a hundred years from now, because their words are suffused with life, even if they were wrong a time or two, even when they're all-too human with ill-temper, vanity and spitefulness; when their follies and foibles trump the game.
At the time, they might not have been "famous" - likely, they were not. But they were serious writers, women and men who thought deeply about their lives and the times in which they lived, the people they knew and lived with, and their author's legacy is a simple one - a mirror in which we find ourselves reflected, even as we search our own times and experiences for meaning and hope and reasons to live.
But whatever their name, these things seem to be the descriptors of those who endure, even when they bite the dust.
Monday, April 25, 2011
A Friend's Faith
A journey of faith through the valleys and mountains of a husband's stroke. Every day, signs of hope, and then signs of setback, too.
What has touched me so deeply is her easy integration of faith and church into the ordeal. Faith soars and plummets, like a swift in flight. Church and prayers and friends and concerts hold her soul together, and often bring tears. There's a level of comfort here that speaks of a mature faith nurtured over the years, with good theology and Bible and steady patterns of worship.
She's what some would call a "mainline" Christian.
As I write and think about her faith, I reflect upon something that has bothered me for years - the need of so many "evangelicals" to prove the "power" of their god and the "miracle-working wonders" of their faith. Frankly, it's all talk, and mutual hype - a lot of fury to keep the illusions going.
No wonder evangelicals are up tight. It's tough to maintain a false front of hope and victory and courage and smiles and Jesus talk. Anyone who raises a question is shouted down. Those who express doubt are labeled "backsliders." Writers and preachers who question the standard lines of thought are treated as "heretics."
How much better when nothing needs proving, because of Christ Jesus.
The cross and the tomb, his wisdom and his love, and the mystery of the resurrection - what else is there to prove?
Why must Christians always be proving their faith? Is this some kind of competitive one-upsmanship? What's the point?
For my friend, the journey through these demanding days is as natural as breathing - in and out, up and down, good and bad, fear and faith, hope and sorrow, friends and family and church and sacred concerts and hymns and sermons.
I'm grateful to share a bit in my friend's journey, through her postings, and the musings of her children. They hope for the best; fear for the worst. They're flesh and blood, as we all are. And mortal, too. Dadgum it all!
Faith, if it's faith at all, is not some cosmetic heavily layered on to hide wrinkles and blemishes. Faith is something deep within, something that understands and welcomes the foibles and failings of mortal flesh, even as we rejoice in the wonder and glory of God's love for us.
We have nothing to prove to the world, because God has already done that, and continues to prove to the world through sunrise and sunset and pot luck dinners and preachers struggling to proclaim the word and little old ladies with blue hair and children and grandchildren singing hymns and organs and pianos and love divine and folks who strive for justice and folks who dream big dreams for a better world.
Nothing to prove, so that we can be at peace with who we are and the way life is.
Nothing to prove, so that we can live amidst the hopes and tears of real life.
Nothing to prove, so that we can love fiercely and deeply and powerfully, and cry, as well, when the darker moments come to us.
Nothing to prove.
And everything to live.
And to God be the glory.
What has touched me so deeply is her easy integration of faith and church into the ordeal. Faith soars and plummets, like a swift in flight. Church and prayers and friends and concerts hold her soul together, and often bring tears. There's a level of comfort here that speaks of a mature faith nurtured over the years, with good theology and Bible and steady patterns of worship.
She's what some would call a "mainline" Christian.
As I write and think about her faith, I reflect upon something that has bothered me for years - the need of so many "evangelicals" to prove the "power" of their god and the "miracle-working wonders" of their faith. Frankly, it's all talk, and mutual hype - a lot of fury to keep the illusions going.
No wonder evangelicals are up tight. It's tough to maintain a false front of hope and victory and courage and smiles and Jesus talk. Anyone who raises a question is shouted down. Those who express doubt are labeled "backsliders." Writers and preachers who question the standard lines of thought are treated as "heretics."
How much better when nothing needs proving, because of Christ Jesus.
The cross and the tomb, his wisdom and his love, and the mystery of the resurrection - what else is there to prove?
Why must Christians always be proving their faith? Is this some kind of competitive one-upsmanship? What's the point?
For my friend, the journey through these demanding days is as natural as breathing - in and out, up and down, good and bad, fear and faith, hope and sorrow, friends and family and church and sacred concerts and hymns and sermons.
I'm grateful to share a bit in my friend's journey, through her postings, and the musings of her children. They hope for the best; fear for the worst. They're flesh and blood, as we all are. And mortal, too. Dadgum it all!
Faith, if it's faith at all, is not some cosmetic heavily layered on to hide wrinkles and blemishes. Faith is something deep within, something that understands and welcomes the foibles and failings of mortal flesh, even as we rejoice in the wonder and glory of God's love for us.
We have nothing to prove to the world, because God has already done that, and continues to prove to the world through sunrise and sunset and pot luck dinners and preachers struggling to proclaim the word and little old ladies with blue hair and children and grandchildren singing hymns and organs and pianos and love divine and folks who strive for justice and folks who dream big dreams for a better world.
Nothing to prove, so that we can be at peace with who we are and the way life is.
Nothing to prove, so that we can live amidst the hopes and tears of real life.
Nothing to prove, so that we can love fiercely and deeply and powerfully, and cry, as well, when the darker moments come to us.
Nothing to prove.
And everything to live.
And to God be the glory.
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