Tap Dancing and Prize Fights (But Not Preaching)

I’m a preacher … lately retired, and now back again as an interim. 

So, why not listen to some sermon podcasts?

I did … a “progressive” podcast, so to speak … good speakers in historic Protestant Churches … la la la.

I listened with hope - maybe I could land a few good ideas, some punchy phrases … insights with some creative way of saying it … who knows what? I listened in good faith.

What I heard was tap dancing - clickety clack, clickety clack, furious and fancy footwork … all around, toward, and post-haste away, from anything that would merit the term “sermon” in days such as ours.

What I heard were preachers scared to death - scared to face the reality of the day, scared to preach Jesus … preaching the Bible rather than preaching Biblically … offering nostrums and platitudes, sweet throwaway phrases devoid of meaning, seasoned a bit with the appearance of exegesis and maybe a fine quote or two.

Another image came to mind - that of prize fighting, when a boxer, for whatever reason, pulls her punch … holds back, looks good, flails around, with sweat and spit, yet fails to deliver the punch.

The world is teeter-tottering from one disaster to another … for me, good preaching considers the hopes and fears of all the years present in the congregation. 

Folks know, full-well, what’s going on, if not in detail, then at least in their bones. They’re rattled and bewildered, even if they’re full-tilt running away from it all. 

I was disappointed.

I turned, instead, to a political podcast created by some fine historians.

Historians who tell the truth, run to the smoke, and not away … who are rattled and bewildered, as we all are, but find solace in the truth - the truth that offers hope, the truth that includes the darkest of potential outcomes - danger, defeat, and destruction. 

The prophets offered both hope and the warning … Jesus called the people to faithfulness, with the reminder that the present course could well lead to disaster. History is loaded with hope, and with a crushing reality - that sometimes the worst will happen. 

Guernica is bombed. Ukraine is being demolished. The Supreme Court is in the hands of the Federalist Society.

Truth has a hard edge … the enemies of truth are legion, and those who abide in the truth know the cross. 

This is not surprising, is it?

Give me truth-tellers … not tap dancers.

Truth-tellers who deliver the punch.

"This Is My Body!"

 When Jesus lifts up the bread and declares, "This is my body," he affirms his

connection to the material world - not only the bread in his hand, and the bread on the table, but all the elements that made that bread - from the very dirt of God's earth, the seeds and the weather, to the farmer and the baker - all of it in that piece of bread, the whole of creation, from beginning to end, "This is my body."

Paul the Apostle challenges the impetuous Corinthians to "see the Body of Christ" in their gatherings (1 Corinthians 11.29) ... to see one another as belonging to God, from the widow with not enough, to those with much too much ... and in so seeing the Body of Christ, recognizing it in one another, in that gathering, in the world around them - from the bread and drink that sustains, to the very presence of Christ which redeems, to then confront and diminish the social gaps, created not by God, but human greed and desire - to then fulfill Paul's hope for a better world, expressed so eloquently, clearly, directly, in 2 Corinthians 8.15.

"This is my Body" reaches all the way back to the earliest moment of creation ... and reaches ahead to the End, the Omega Point, wherein all is made new ... the Body of Christ, raised and gloried, in particular, as a promise of that which is to come for all ... the healing and reconciling of all creation ... and the task ahead of all who ever sit at a table - to see the glory of God, to behold the Body of Christ ... in the burger we eat, the milk shake we drink, the waiter who brings it all to the table, the cook in the kitchen, the farmer in the field, the sun above, and the rains that fall.

"This is my Body!"

Faithful Preaching

Via some digital platforms, I've had the disagreeable task of listening to some ivermectin church pastors deliver "sermons."

Not without prior exposure to the mega/MAGA church, it once again hit me: just how empty of content all of this is, yet bulging with sentimental cute stories of gramma's attic, and then veiled threats of hell - with a lot of huffing and puffing, and chugging across the platform like a runaway train, untucked expensive shirt flapping in the breeze, brightly pressed jeans proclaiming hipness.

Yeah, I tried that for awhile, and I'm not proud of it. I'd rather forget it ever happened. And after awhile, I returned to clerical shirt and robe - because it's not about me, but about Christ, and the church's story (both glorious and shameful).

Yes, to lift up the fallen and reclaim the lost, but to do so with a keen and unyielding sense of letting our light shine in such a way that the world will give glory to God - not in 11 words repeated 7 times in mindless and feel-good praise songs, but in deeds, and life well-lived for the sake of others, paying attention to God's good earth and its moaning, moaning under the weight of extractive industry and the detritus of our throw-away world.

A life lived in and through and by the love of Christ is always and forever a life of deep and transformative politics - i.e. how we live together east of Eden - each of us possessing something of Abel, something of Cain, and something of Seth ... faithfulness, vengefulness, and recovery.

The stage-prancers entice the eye, beguile the ear with nostrums, confirm privilege and place, and fill their pockets with the indulgences of the rich and poor alike.

Give me a preacher who takes the task of study and reflection seriously ... the preacher who reads widely ... the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other (or, these days, the digital platforms) ... the preacher who appreciates the power and challenge of language, who understands something of rhetoric, oral speech, and how to tell a story, who honors the disciplines of careful writing, who seeks the glory of God, and the wellbeing of those who worship, a wellbeing not of self-satisfaction, but the authentic wellbeing of a life devoted to justice, kindness, and humility before the giant mysteries of creation.

A preacher who clings to the pulpit, because the pulpit represents the presence of Christ, and never to

stray from that presence, but to abide in Christ ... and there to remain, steadfast and faithful, faithful in season and out of season, faithful to the promises of Christ to build the church, to build as is fitting for the times in which we presently live.

Faithful preachers ... who labor to craft one true sentence on any given Sunday ... and upon that one sentence, to craft a sermon worthy of the name, knowing full well the some sermons will be surpassing, others less so, and some not at all - but each of them flowing from the deepest kinds of desire, the desire to love God, and the twin desire to practice the ways of loving our neighbor.

 Another quote from Maugham's "Rain" - Rev. Davidson speaking to Dr. Macphail about Sadie Thompson:

"𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑑. 𝑆ℎ𝑒'𝑠 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑑, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑠𝑢𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟. 𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑒'𝑙𝑙 𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑢𝑟𝑒. 𝑆ℎ𝑒'𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑢𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑠 𝑎 𝑠𝑎𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝐺𝑜𝑑. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑗𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑦. 𝑆ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑛 𝑜𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑓𝑒𝑤 𝑜𝑓 𝑢𝑠. 𝐺𝑜𝑑 𝑖𝑠 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙."

𝐷𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑠𝑜𝑛'𝑠 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑒𝑥𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡. 𝐻𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑢𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑝𝑠.

"𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝐼 𝑝𝑟𝑎𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝐼 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝐼 𝑝𝑟𝑎𝑦 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛, 𝐼 𝑝𝑟𝑎𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑦 𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛, 𝑠𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐽𝑒𝑠𝑢𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑦 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑦. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑝𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑑, 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑓 𝐼 𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑒𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑔𝑜, 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑠𝑒. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑝𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘-𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝐵𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝐿𝑜𝑟𝑑, 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑔𝑎𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑟."

 From Somerset Maugham's short story, "Rain - one of the best, if not the best, portrait of white evangelical supremacy.

In the voice of Rev. Davidson, a missionary to the Pacific Islands:

"𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗲𝗲, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘀𝗼 𝗻𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗱𝗲𝗽𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱𝗻'𝘁 𝗯𝗲 𝗯𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗲𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝘄𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀. 𝗪𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝘀 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗮𝗹 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀. 𝗪𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝗮 𝘀𝗶𝗻, 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗶𝘁 𝗮𝗱𝘂𝗹𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗶𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗲𝘃𝗲, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗯𝗼𝗱𝗶𝗲𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗵𝘂𝗿𝗰𝗵. 𝗜 𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝗮 𝘀𝗶𝗻 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗯𝗼𝘀𝗼𝗺 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝘀𝗶𝗻 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘄𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝘁𝗿𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘀."

"𝗛𝗼𝘄?" 𝗮𝘀𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗗𝗿 𝗠𝗮𝗰𝗽𝗵𝗮𝗶𝗹, 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗽𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗲.

"𝗜 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗶𝘁𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘀. 𝗢𝗯𝘃𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗳𝘂𝗹 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗽𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗶𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗶𝘁 𝗶𝘁. 𝗜 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗶𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗻'𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗵𝘂𝗿𝗰𝗵, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗜 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗶𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗱. 𝗜 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗶𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗹𝘆 𝗱𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱. 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗮 𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗳𝗳, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝘀𝗶𝗻 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗲𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗶𝗻 𝗺𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘆 𝗼𝗿 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸. 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝘁 𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗜 𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗱."

"𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗱𝗶𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗳𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗽𝗮𝘆?"

"𝗛𝗼𝘄 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆?" 𝗮𝘀𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗿𝘆.

"𝗜𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗯𝗲 𝗮 𝗯𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘂𝗽 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁 𝗠𝗿 𝗗𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗱𝘀𝗼𝗻," 𝘀𝗮𝗶𝗱 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝗳𝗲, 𝘁𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗹𝗶𝗽𝘀.

𝗗𝗿 𝗠𝗮𝗰𝗽𝗵𝗮𝗶𝗹 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝘁 𝗗𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗱𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗯𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀. 𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗵𝗶𝗺, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗼𝘃𝗮𝗹.

"𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗼𝗿𝘁 𝗜 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗰𝗵𝘂𝗿𝗰𝗵 𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽."

"𝗗𝗶𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁?"

𝗗𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗱𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝗮 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗹𝘆 𝗿𝘂𝗯𝗯𝗲𝗱 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱𝘀.

"𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱𝗻'𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝗿𝗮. 𝗪𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗲𝗻 𝗳𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝗻𝗼 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵. 𝗜𝘁 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻. 𝗬𝗲𝘀, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝗮 𝗹𝗼𝘁."

LORD of the Night

 LORD of the night … 

Forty days and forty nights … hungry and alone … tempted and weary, worn to the bone!

Wilderness … rock-hard and fraught, harsh and hot, night winds cold … 

Yet possessing its own life and purpose.

With beasts and angels, each counterparts of the other;

Each of God’s creation.

And now:

A night in prayer … the inexorable approach of Judas … sleep impossible!

A Gethsemane night … the end at hand … the bitterness of a bloody sweat!

Others nod off for weariness, but you can’t, you won’t!

You are - LORD of the night!

There was darkness over the deep … for billions of years!

Before there was light … before there was night!

Before there was anything, 

There was Darkness!

Darkness - pure and quiet.

… restless and troubled.

… uncertain of its ambition.

Darkness - a primal cloud of unknowing.

… frightening.

… soft and comforting.

Darkness - within a woman’s belly wherein we begin.

… within the earth, full of sisters’ and brothers’ blood, when time winds down.

… from whence we come … which claims us in the end.

Darkness - owns its own holiness!

To you, O LORD, darkness is commonplace, old hat, as they say; the first neighborhood.

You know your way in the dark.

Vast expanses, nooks and crannies.

Time immemorial.

Billions of years:

A Dark Universe is your home.

Yes … yes … you know the darkness!

Through and through.

You’re no stranger to it.

“As light as day” a Psalmist says.

I’m a creature of light!

Though I come from darkness!

The darkness of a mother’s womb!

And will end in the blink of an eye.

In darkness … though some say a darkness of light.

Yes, I’m a creature of light.

You gave me eyes to see my own shadow.

To see the twin lights of my sky.

Myriads of stars, billions of worlds, realms far, far, farther, away.

A star needs the night to be seen.

The light of day has its weaknesses.

Only at night can my day-light eyes see the dark expanses of forever.

I need the night to look beyond my light-bound horizons.

I am a creature of the night.

I yawn and lay me down to sleep.

I wake up to obey the needs of my body, and then read a bit.

Common patterns, patterns of the night.

Patterns of flesh and bone with a mind of their own.

I toss and turn.

With hard memories and broken stories.

Things that go bump in the night and hide under my bed.

Fears trouble me, the fears of this and that, and who knows what.

Fears without form, without definition, a void of worry.

Fears lay hold of my soul.

Strange and sad.

When former things retreat.

And the way ahead is clouded.

I stumble, I stammer, I seek some slice of solace.

Darkness is as much a part of my life as is the light.

Darkness comes and gives me rest.

And darkness stirs and troubles me for the truth.

I am what I am … and somehow or other, I have to say.

It cannot be otherwise:

Darkness has its own purpose and place.

God said: “Let there be light.”

And then, the strange stuff of time:

There was evening and there was morning.

The first day.

My eyes have along ago adjusted to the light.

But in the dark night of the soul …

My light-time eyes serve small purpose …

I cannot see.

Yet, I do.

I think for a moment, as best I can:

To the LORD of the night I belong.

For whom the night is as bright as day.

In whom there is no shadow’s turn.

You, the LORD of darkness, the 

God of night … are at home in such places.

In my darkness, you are there!

I’ve learned!

And still must learn.

Still, I must repeat the refrains of trust and hope.

The simple refrains of my dust, and your Everlasting Arms.

“I believe” … I say to myself … “all will be well and all will be good.”

The Great God Almighty, the God of Light, and the God of Night.

Brilliant and shining, soft and supple … 

The days of my life.

The nights of my sleep.

One day of all will be my last.

And at the last, the nighttime of eternal rest.

A nighttime luminous with Presence.

Gates never shut … for want of light.

Countless souls, and glorious songs.

Twice, in my darkness, I’ve heard 

Your voice!

A crackling assurance.

A tap on the shoulder, firm and certain.

“Just a moment!” You said.

All will be well.

Not easy, with tears, but well it will be.

Others, too, have heard the sounds of your grace.

Some have followed a star! Some, a pillar of fire!

Shepherds in the field, at night:

A chorus of angels, loud and bright.

In a wilderness without end, or on a cloud-clad mountain.

Desolate in body and soul.

When death is close and ready!

Hope still has its eternal voice.

As life takes its own way and goes where it will.

For good or for ill.

You are there! O LORD …

You are at home in the night.

LORD of shades and shadows!

LORD of an infinite darkness.

An infinite darkness of all our beginnings, and all our endings.

An infinite darkness - the first and beloved realm.

You are there, you are here.

You are LORD of the night.

And I am glad!

© Tom Eggebeen, Pasadena, CA, December, 2021

𝙒𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙪𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙛𝙚, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙡𝙖𝙬𝙨
𝙏𝙤 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙪𝙢𝙥𝙝 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙣,
𝙃𝙞𝙜𝙝 𝙨𝙖𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙚, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙡𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙥𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚,
𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝:—𝙚𝙡𝙨𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙮𝙚
𝙊𝙛 𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙞𝙢𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮?

~ Wordsworth, "O'er the wide earth" ... composed, 1809