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

A Prayer for a Friend

 A prayer for a dear friend …

O LORD, our God,

The days of our lives belong to you.

From our first breath to the last.

In time and eternity.

Now and forever.

How this should be defies all reason.

A great and marvelous mystery.

Love flowing among the stars.

Creating, and recreating.

Making all things new.

Hold now in your kindly arms.

My dear friend.

His heart is broken, shattered, scattered.

His tears well up like a desert flood.

See him through the dreary days, I pray.

Help him recount the joys and pleasures.

Of love given, and love received.

To blunt the blows of death.

To soften the grief.

You know us through and through, Dear God.

You watched our form take shape.

In our mothers womb; you were there.

You are the God of our beginnings.

And, then, as well, our endings.

And to you, Dear God, we belong.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

Amen and Amen!

Rice is Wrong!

To a friend who supports Condoleezza Rice's take on #CRT ...

It's all about the truth [name] ... kids can handle the truth; it's the adults who can't. 

Good teachers, graded lessons, everything taught with care ... but the Whites in charge are scared to death of the truth, and they don't want their children exposed to it. Claiming that children are too vulnerable. But they're not concerned about the kids; they're concerned about protecting their "innocence," their position in society. 

Meanwhile, Black kids suffer every day, and so do their parents and grandparents. 

And we [privileged whites] grew up with the lies: cowboys and Indians, minstrels, opium-smoking Chinese, and Gone with the Wind. 

Truth works, and, yes, kids can handle the truth, and if there's some guilt, what's wrong with guilt? A strong and sensitive conscience should be able to feel guilt; not the neurotic kind, but the honest kind, a corporate guilt, "the sins of the parents visited upon the children" - and the children should be given half a chance to see and hear what those sins are. 

In this case, as in most, Rice is wrong. I've followed her for years because she's a Presbyterian - but somewhere along the line, truth-telling never made it to home plate with her. Argh. She's badly mistaken, and it's not the first time.

Some Thoughts/Tweets about Change

 10.9.21

Every day, changes ... most incrementally small, small enough to never notice, but added up, over time, change is evident. How I think, feel, walk, talk, sleep and eat. My "religion," too. Some elements remain, but most have changed, some discarded. I'm 77.

Change is life - from Adam and Eve to you and me - nothing remains static, everything evolves. Frightening to some people, disturbing to most, resisted by nearly everyone. We love stability, but stability is hell. Heaven is a process of constant discovery, renewal, with light.

Thinking about my career, reviewing the years, I changed things in the life of the church, and most always it was painful. Religion strives for stability. "I'd rather take my church to my grave than see it change," said one. "Besides, I'm too old to change."

I've always been a reader - from The Hardy Boys, to the Weekly Reader; from comics to biographies; history, poetry, mystery and espionage. My imagination full of adventure, courage, danger, and hope. I'd like to think that my soul remains supple in the hands of time and God.

Religion has mostly been my friend. Though for me as a career-minster, it's been an enemy. For me, religion has provided the means of thought, contemplation, review and revision. For others, it's a bulwark that cannot be moved; it's a hidey place; a blankie; an idol.

For religion to remain stable, it has to have idols - wood and iron, stone and gold. Golden Calves rather than the Mountain God of Cloud and Fire. What better idol than skin color; "my skin, my race, my way of life, my people, superior - all by God's UNCHANGING decree."

 Most every morning, before my prayer journal work, I say aloud: The LORD's Prayer, The Apostles' Creed, a prayer from The Book of Common Prayer (slightly modified), and the Hail Mary.

The first two, of course, were always a part of my growing up years, said every Sunday in church.

The Anglican Prayer added to my repertoire, and the Hail Mary, some many years ago.

I was long uncomfortable with The Hail Mary until I gave it some thought with a Rosary gift from the chaplain at Gethsemani Abbey, Fr. Matthew Kelty.

These traditional elements comprise, for me, a foundation - when all else seems fragile and fluid, or slipping away, I find these elements to be a reminder, an encouragement, to be steady ... or not to worry when my personal reservoirs of faith run dry ...

The mercy, the love, the goodness of God, doesn't depend upon me, though I'm a part of what God is doing. Not my decision, not my effort or faith ... but that of God. And all of it by grace.

𝑂𝑢𝑟 𝐹𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑛 ... 𝐼 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑣𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝐺𝑜𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐹𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝐴𝑙𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑦, 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑟 ... 𝐴𝑙𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑦 𝐺𝑜𝑑, 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑤ℎ𝑜𝑚 𝑎𝑙𝑙 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛 ... 𝐻𝑎𝑖𝑙 𝑀𝑎𝑟𝑦, 𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑓 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑒, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐿𝑂𝑅𝐷 𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑒 ...

Sure, criticism abounds ... male language and such ... and I'm not blind or deaf to them ...

I say them, I would like to think, mindfully and carefully ... with awareness and sensitivity ...

And so it is, this day, Oct. 1, 2021 ... and God's Peace to all.

Ten Thousand Graves

Ten thousand graves ... 

Tended with care ... lush grass precisely trimmed.

Crosses mostly ... and Stars of David ...

Young men and women cut down in the prime of life.

They were brave and they were afraid ...

Their pictures reveal that haunted look ...

Of soldiers too tired to be afraid, 

And too frightened to find sleep.

Seasick and wet, 

They hit the beach …

Under the cover of …

Steel and smoke.

Death and tears abound …

Ahead, my friends, ahead.

There’s no going back now.

No stopping for any of us.

A continent enslaved awaits the charge.

Nations, yes, and then some, to be unshackled …

And the years pass us by quickly …

Memories roll beyond the reach of words …

Silent tears still shed …

By those who made it home.

Slowly, now, they join their comrades,

As we all do … with the passage of time.

Hand-in-hand; arm-in-arm … a band of brothers …

A chorus of sisters …

Smoke and steel … 

And a victory in hand.

And may those 

Ten thousand graves remain ever well-tended!

© Tom Eggebeen, 2010

Moab, Utah

I’m in Moab, an incredible piece of work … God’s handiwork, of course, sublime, extravagant, bold and stunningly beautiful, ever changing with the march of the sun across the bluest of skies, and the play of clouds, billowing or wispy, and sometimes threatening, heavy with the treasure of rain in an otherwise dry land, and with plenty of small canyons, meadows, and creeks, all running into the cold and powerful Colorado, places to charm the weariest of travelers and ease away the strain of life.

And the handiwork, too, of people - a cross section of humanity, prospectors and writers, rock climbers and dreamers, hardscrabble, hardworking folks, quick to smile and lean of limb, who love the dessert, or long for an escape - the retired, too, with some spare change, and the tired, as well. Many a dream here. Some didn’t come to pass, with their closed storefronts, and some born anew, with fresh paint and clever names, ever the hope of making a living in a place carved out of the imposing stone, like the tourist attraction, “Hole N" The Rock,” dug and blasted by hand, or carved by a millennia of wind and storm, cold and heat, and always the River rushing to the sea.

My son lives here, and makes it home. A treat to be his dad, and more importantly, to be his friend. He cheers my soul and brightens the remaining days of my journey. My wife, dear wife, is here, too - with 54 years of marriage behind us, we push on with gratitude, looking to the panorama of mountains and sky as a constant reminder that we belong, but for a time, to something utterly good and glorious, and maybe something that transcends even the boundaries of time. But who knows for sure - that decision belongs to the Mountains, those mighty towers of stone and silence inviting our trust and our hope.

Thanks Moab, and thanks to our son!

Holy Week

It’s Holy Week, that strange and storied eight days, from Sunday to Sunday, beginning with a “triumphal entry” into the city of cities, a city rife with rumors and rebellion, under the iron fist of Rome and a local leadership bound and determined to maintain peace. The crowds roar their approval, with palm branches and cloaks laid down before the procession, the entry of Jesus and his disciples, from the Mount of Olives, on a donkey, rather than a steed of war - an image of hope and deliverance.

What was the crowd thinking?

Many things, I’m sure, but caught up in the moment of those days, that week, a time fraught with so much hope and so many dreams, the crowd welcomed Jesus. He had a reputation for tweaking proud noses, and irritating the righteous. The crowds loved that sort of thing.

But it didn’t take for the crowd to crow a different tune a few days later. Oh how fickle the crowds can be. Fame so fleeting, and then it’s gone. Another race, another bet.

The officials consider what needs to be done, and Judas conspires with them, for his thirty-dirty-pieces of silver, and what was he thinking?

With a kiss, just to make sure the police get the right man, Judas betrays him. Jesus is led away, beaten and bloodied, presented to Pilate, then to Herod, and then back to Pilate - a show of law and order, but a complete and total moral failure. Power always has trouble with truth … power understands power, but truth is another matter. Finally, the roaring crowds are given a choice: shall it be Jesus or perhaps Barabbas; a prophet or a rebel?

The story ends badly, at least for Jesus. He’s led to a cross, a Roman execution, in a most public place, to let the world know who’s in charge and who calls the shots.

Jesus is crucified, dead, and buried.

Of Barabbas, we know nothing.

Of Pilate? Well, it didn’t end well for him either. Rome wasn’t happy, and so he’s invited to an early retirement.

Holy Week - when the darkest of motives are exposed, when God’s presence in our world is utterly and completely rejected by the crowds, by the powers, by just about everyone.

It seems that one of the two rebels crucified with Jesus had some regard for him. And the women at the foot of the cross, too. And then Jesus is dead, and just to make sure, a spear is driven into his gut by one of the soldiers; was it the one who was struck by it all? Soldiers doing their job, but not always happy

about it.

Jesus is tucked away … hurriedly … in a borrowed tomb … the disciples slink away to gather their thoughts and plan the next move, but mostly to hide from the growing threat of retaliation against them. And that was that.

But we shall meet them again, in the next chapter. But for now, we have to wait. That’s part of the strangeness of Holy Week. Nothing is entirely clear; it’s a time of fog and fatigue, disappointment and despair … one of those times when we cling to one another, even as words fail us. We cry, and we cry out.

Until then …

Voter Suppression & 1 Corinthians 11.17

Voter suppression and 1 Corinthians 11.17ff - a place at the Table for everyone, and for those with a bit more in the larder, eat at home, drink what you want, and don't embarrass the poor with your abundance when coming together at the Table. Restrain yourselves, and learn how to eat together properly, recognizing in one another the love of God and the very presence of Christ. 

Strikes me that Paul's commentary on the Corinthian situation has some bearing on voter suppression, and the dreams of Lincoln and others, that voting belongs to all, regardless of class, race, or gender. 

Any effort made to exclude, however cleverly it may be disguised, is nothing less than a repudiation of Christ, and it's no wonder that so many are sick and dying in the throes of racist agony.

What think ye of this?

Mountains Snows - a Prayer

For the sun above, bright and clear.
For snow upon the mountains.
For fresh air and cold beauty.
O LORD, my God, my thanks.

And I pray, dear God, that I, in my own unusual way,
Might be the salt of the earth.
And the light of the world.

And if not the world, at least
My small corner of it.
My home, my heart, my circle of friends.

And of my friends, a word of thanks.
Friends present and friends new.
Friends old and friends long gone.

And for the women and men who write the books.
Who embrace the highest values of life and liberty.
Who follow in the steps of a Lincoln and an FDR.
Who challenge the prevailing moods with something higher.
Who listen, not to the clamoring mob, but to the cry of angel.

The push and pull of faith is just that, dear God.
No one fully knows your purpose.
Or the ways of the universe.
Yet, we know - love is everything.
Forgiveness is the heart of it.
Mercy can have no compromise.
Justice must be for all - and if not, it's not for anyone.

O LORD my God: my thanks.
You have been present and kind.
You have taken me by hand.
By calm waters and green pastures you have led.

I vow this day to be my best, as best I can.
To accept my limits, and those of others.
To affirm and lift up.
To speak peace and speak truth.
And if peace would be used to quash truth.
Then choose the truth and bear the cross.

Thank you for the bright sun.

The snow in the mountains.
The pleasure within my heart.
The hope of things to come.

In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.
Who daily teaches me the ways of life. Amen!

Dinosaurs Believed in Intelligent Design!

“Intelligent Design” was on top of the list whenever the dinosaurs gathered at their national and international symposiums. 

“We’ve been here, on top of the heap, for millions of years; the universe, this earth, designed, intelligently designed, for us.”

And of our kind, we’ve got a few on the pinnacle of the heap, who delight in eating one another. But the point is this: we’re the heap, and nothing else can get in our way. The world belongs to us. We eat what we want. We want what we eat. It’s good deal. 

And is that an accident?

Heck no! The gods made it so, just for us. A few degrees of climate variation one way of the other, and we’d not be here. 

How long has it been?

Millions of years …  I mean, millions, tens of millions … enough time to convince everything else that the dinosaurs were right: fate, the gods, everything, from the littles atom to the swirling stars, was on their side.

And, then, in the Yucatan, an asteroid … 

And when all was said and done, it was the shrew that survived and surmounted, because it could borrow. And when it emerged, and surveyed the world waiting for it, it wondered if maybe, just maybe, the universe was designed, intelligently designed, for its wellbeing.