tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791329324512434182024-03-13T18:48:27.298-07:00TriocentricA journal of Christian theology, criticism, poetry, philosophy, and rumination.Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.comBlogger236125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-27287546853027236962016-03-05T11:52:00.000-08:002016-03-05T11:52:28.310-08:00A Better Place For the Intelect<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">Real theology should not happen apart from loving real live people. The answers that satisfy us in the classroom when surrounded by people who all agree need to be tested and revised when brought into contact with life. We need those who don’t share our preconceptions at least as much as we need those who do.</span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">More of what I've learned from hanging out with Muslims. </span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"><br /></span>
http://www.evangelicalsforsocialaction.org/reconciliation-and-dialogue/ashraf-and-old-testament-violence/Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-36591421687680087502016-03-04T04:49:00.001-08:002016-03-04T04:51:03.798-08:00Come Let Us Worship and Bow Down I have discovered that I have a lot to learn about worship, and about prayer. And hanging out with Muslims has helped me learn more about what Christian prayer really is. Here is an article that I wrote for Evangelicals for Social Action.<br />
<br />
<br />
http://www.evangelicalsforsocialaction.org/reconciliation-and-dialogue/come-let-us-bow-down-in-worship/Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-43140469064479516102016-01-21T04:48:00.001-08:002016-01-21T04:49:50.975-08:00Reading the Quran With Muslims and Christians I published an expanded and improved version of the last article.<br />
<br />
It is now on the webpage for Evangelicals for Social Action (ESA).<br />
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<br />
http://www.evangelicalsforsocialaction.org/faith-and-public-life/reading-the-quran-with-muslims-and-christians/<br />
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I would love to hear any thoughts, especially about similar experiments in friendship you might have made.Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-80275114370364547022015-12-02T17:08:00.003-08:002015-12-02T20:37:19.360-08:00Reading the Quran with Muslims and Christians<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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The story being told us by a large segment of our political
and religious leaders is that Islam is violent and the reason is because Muslims
obey the Quran.</div>
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Representative Mo Brooks (Alabama) recently said, “You look
at the Quran, and I encourage people to read it on their own so they can get a
first-hand view of whether these terrorists who are killing non-Muslims are
doing what the Quran instructs them to do.” These words are meant to strike
fear and hatred into our hearts.</div>
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But as a follower of Jesus I see it entirely differently.</div>
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“To every community there is a direction to turn to, so
compete to do good deeds wherever you may be. God will bring you all. God has
power over all things.” (The Quran: A Contemporary Understanding, translated by
Safi Kaskas, 2:148.) I read these words to a group of Christians and Muslims
gathered in my home to celebrate Thanksgiving together, a few days early.</div>
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In this passage, I explained, God is reminding us that He
has put us each into our particular community, whether Christian or Jewish or
Muslim. God claims authority over us all. If we must compete between religions,
God urges us not to compete for land, or wealth, or power, or numbers. Compete,
God says, to do good deeds.</div>
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It strikes me that this one verse from the Quran manages to
combine two important concepts from the New Testament. </div>
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First is that God intentionally has us all in different
places and cultures. This is no accident, for as Paul says, “From one man he
[God] created all the nations throughout the whole earth. He decided beforehand
when they should rise and fall, and he determined their boundaries. His purpose
was for the nations to seek after God and perhaps feel their way toward him and
find him—though he is not far from any one of us.” (New Living Translation,
Acts 17:26–27.)</div>
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Second is that we are encouraged to “Owe nothing to
anyone—except for your obligation to love one another.” (New Living
Translation, Romans 13:8.) We have an ongoing debt that we will never finish
paying, and that is the debt to show love to everyone around us. </div>
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These two ideas are beautifully united in the second chapter
of the Quran. As a follower of Jesus I get excited when I find such
correspondences between the spirit of the Bible spirit of the Quran. And the
parallels are everywhere.</div>
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I did not always expect this. I long assumed, as many do,
that the Quran is a dangerous book designed to pull people away from the God I
worship.</div>
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But then I read it and I found that I had been wrong. The
Quran is not simply a retelling of the Bible, nor a commentary on the Bible.
But neither is it a repudiation of the Bible. In fact the Quran reminds its
readers that it is a further revelation of the God of the Hebrew Scriptures and
of the Christian Scriptures. It tells its readers to go ask questions of them
to get further insight.</div>
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So, to Rep. Mo Brooks and to everyone else telling us that
the Quran is the problem, I would simply echo Mo Brooks’ words back at him. “I
encourage people to read it on their own so they can get a first-hand view of
whether these terrorists who are killing non-Muslims are doing what the Quran
instructs them to do.” You will find that they are not following the Quran at
all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But what if our political leaders would take up the Quran’s
challenge, and actively “compete to do good deeds”? How could that change our
world? And wouldn’t Jesus love to watch that competition!</div>
Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-68326242503498443132013-06-26T15:24:00.001-07:002013-06-26T23:04:03.918-07:00Catch At Hope<strong>De Profundis</strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">Christina Rossetti</span></strong><br />
<br />
Oh why is heaven built so far,<br />
Oh why is earth set so remote?<br />
I cannot reach the nearest star<br />
That hangs afloat.<br />
<br />
I would not care to reach the moon,<br />
One round monotonous of change;<br />
Yet even she repeats her tune<br />
Beyond my range.<br />
<br />
I never watch the scattered fire<br />
Of stars, or sun's far-trailing train,<a name='more'></a><br />
But all my heart in one desire,<br />
And all in vain:<br />
<br />
For I am bound with fleshly hands,<br />
Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope;<br />
I strain my heart, I stretch my hands<br />
And catch at hope.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkF6M8Vy1lm2vm5VtAM8yFJgB_7pJJ2rIQDqoDV7oKqHS6wIhe_ERAMZ9Njyh0PJY4z3WMl7Ne_IWusVyI8Px_LNaJuoJ2Lh6cbswAhcQA2jmCCsr1Bg1ZLbkACwBec5LdJnphvszYBYtx/s1600/pieta.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkF6M8Vy1lm2vm5VtAM8yFJgB_7pJJ2rIQDqoDV7oKqHS6wIhe_ERAMZ9Njyh0PJY4z3WMl7Ne_IWusVyI8Px_LNaJuoJ2Lh6cbswAhcQA2jmCCsr1Bg1ZLbkACwBec5LdJnphvszYBYtx/s320/pieta.jpg" width="242" /></a>I love how effectively Rossetti uses that foreshortened line to end each quatrain. The idea isn't that we finish the line and have dead air, but rather that the line is slowed down to half pace and takes just as long to recite as each of the earlier lines. In slowing, the voice tends to drop a note or two and get quieter. It emphasizes the line by softening it. Just so, Michelangelo emphasizes Mary's eyes by lowering them. The effect is that the line speaks from the low down, from the depths, in keeping with its title which means in Latin, "Out of the depths." <br />
<br />
The title is taken from the opening of Psalm 130, "Out of the depths I have cried out to you, oh Lord." It was written about 20 years before Oscar Wilde's famous letter of the same name.Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-36180052858638394252013-05-12T16:48:00.000-07:002013-05-12T16:48:58.526-07:00Yet Was Wider<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When I was three and my family moved from the Chicago area to the wilds of northern Minnesota, I found myself confronted by a wonderful world without limits. I could explore where I wished, experiment as I wanted, and expand my world at will. And expand it did! Those were days of wonder and glory when my eyes were closer to the ground!<br />
<br />
<br />
MY WORLD AT THREE<br />
<br />
Here I stood to watch the squirrels<br />
Scrurrying through the uncut grass,<br />
And there a stump stood, rotting in,<br />
Which I always kicked as I would pass.<br />
The tractor ruts were great ravines<br />
Reverberating wall to wall<br />
With caterpillar calisthenics<br />
And antic ants doing somersaults.<br />
<br />
There were no walls within my world<a name='more'></a><br />
To block me in or slow me down;<br />
Yet never I needed wander far<br />
For wonder awaited me all around.<br />
My stride was short, and yet was wider,<br />
A realm within each step I took;<br />
Life, Death and God whispered in the wind<br />
And Heaven filled every brush and brook.<br />
<br />
<br />Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-4887600970918848392013-04-21T06:24:00.001-07:002013-04-21T06:24:28.552-07:00Some Can SingThis spring has been absolutely glorious! Most springs are, but this one has been above average. And tramping through the woods and hopping over creeks with my friend Carrie I've been on site and in a mood to notice the glories. But few of us notice the wonders of nature with the clarity of the old Japanese poets. They noticed more because they took the time to sit and watch, to lie down and listen. We have a very hard time waiting for life and the world and glory to make themselves known to us. But when we do take time to notice, oh what an amazing creation meets us at every step!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Even with insects--<br />some can sing,<br />some can't.<br />--Issa--<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
old pond.....<br />a frog leaps in<br />water's sound <br />
--Basho--<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">White dew --<br />One
drop<br />On each thorn</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">--Buson--</span>Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-77785982114789894392013-04-16T10:26:00.000-07:002013-04-16T10:26:01.845-07:00Anything Except The FictionToday I began work on a novel tentatively titled "Seven." Most of my life I've wanted to write fiction, but instead I seem to have written almost exclusively poetry, essays, literary criticism, scholarly theological polemics, sermons, etc. Almost anything except the fiction that I've wanted to write. Why do we so often do that--pour ourselves into everything except that one thing we most want? Is it a fear of failure? It could just as well be a fear of succeeding. I am hoping to have a draft by Christmas. We will see.Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-12103363644923852042013-04-13T04:39:00.000-07:002013-04-13T04:39:24.487-07:00Let Them PointDorothy Parker turned heads, and eyes were rolled at her, and tongues were clucked at the mention of her name. When Captain Jack Sparrow was told, "You are without doubt the worst pirate I've ever heard of," he retorted, "But you have heard of me." Dorothy Parker lived this retort out daily, for most of her life. Many in America were sure that she was the worst woman they'd ever heard of, but all must admit that they had heard of her.<br />
<br />
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<br />
And yet, while she was censured in public, she was paid grandly to perform on every stage in the country. Everyone wanted to see her and hear her mock her own indiscretions. They'd pay to come to her speeches, then go home and cluck their tongues that such a creature was allowed in decent society. But in the end her wit and candor were worth more to the world than were a thousand decent people's judgments.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Then let them point my every tear,<br />
And let them mock and moan;<br />
Another week, another year,<br />
And I'll be with my own<br />
<br />
Who slumber now by night and day<br />
In fields of level brown;<br />
Whose hearts within their breasts were clay<br />
Before they laid them down.Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-2891182248318727662013-04-09T13:05:00.000-07:002013-04-09T15:48:49.871-07:00My Heart Lapped Strength<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Not, I'll not, carrion
comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Not untwist — slack they may
be — these last strands of man</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
In me ór, most weary, cry
<em>I can no more</em>. I can;</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Can something, hope, wish day
come, not choose not to be.</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
But ah, but O thou terrible,
why wouldst thou rude on me</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Thy wring-world right foot
rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan<br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
With darksome devouring eyes
my bruisèd bones? and fan,</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
O in turns of tempest, me
heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?<br />
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Why? That my chaff might
fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Nay in all that toil, that
coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Hand rather, my heart lo!
lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Cheer whom though? The hero
whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Me? or me that fought him? O
which one? is it each one? That night, that year</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
Of now done darkness I wretch
lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">----Gerard Manley Hopkins----</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.<span style="font-size: x-small;">----Paul, Romans 8:18----</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span> </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span> </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span> </div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">It is one thing to read in Hopkins or in Scripture words that encourage us, that help us to carry on. But another thing entirely to find there words that echo the scream and song of our heart at the very moment. Then I know that Hopkins, and Paul, and their God all have felt and wept like me. It is in knowing this that my heart laps strength and steals joy and laughs and cheers.</span> </span></div>
Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-26804129877567637442013-04-02T19:52:00.001-07:002013-04-06T20:03:04.186-07:00He Giveth His Beloved SleepBe blessed, my beloved, and sleep.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-127-2">It is in vain that you rise up early<br /><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Ps-127-2">and go late to rest,</span></span><br /><span class="text Ps-127-2">eating the bread of anxious <sup class="crossreference" value="(<a href="#cen-ESV-16124C" title="See cross-reference C">C</a>)"></sup>toil;</span><br /><span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks"> </span><span class="text Ps-127-2">for he gives to his <sup class="crossreference" value="(<a href="#cen-ESV-16124D" title="See cross-reference D">D</a>)"></sup>beloved <sup class="crossreference" value="(<a href="#cen-ESV-16124E" title="See cross-reference E">E</a>)"></sup>sleep.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-127-2"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Psalm 127:2<sup class="crossreference" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-16124E" title="See cross-reference E">E</a>)"></sup></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong>The Sleep</strong><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Elizabeth Barrett Browning</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
Of all the thoughts of God that are<br />
Borne inward unto souls afar,<br />
Along the Psalmist's music deep,<br />
Now tell me if that any is,<br />
For gift or grace, surpassing this--<br />
"He giveth His beloved, sleep"?<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
What would we give to our beloved?<br />
The hero's heart, to be unmoved,<br />
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,<br />
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,<br />
The monarch's crown to light the brows?<br />
"He giveth <em>His</em> beloved, sleep."<br />
<br />
What do we give to our beloved?<br />
A little faith, all undisproved,<br />
A little dust, to overweep,<br />
And bitter memories, to make<br />
The whole earth blasted for our sake?<br />
"He giveth <em>His</em> beloved, sleep."<br />
<br />
"Sleep soft, beloved?" we sometimes say,<br />
But have no tune to charm away<br />
Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep.<br />
But never doleful dream again<br />
Shall break the happy slumber, when<br />
"He giveth <em>His</em> beloved, sleep."<br />
<br />
O earth, so full of dreary noises!<br />
O men, with wailing in your voices!<br />
O delved gold, the wailers heap!<br />
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall! <br />
God makes a silence through you all,<br />
And "giveth His beloved, sleep."<br />
<br />
His dews drop mutely on the hill,<br />
His cloud above it saileth still,<br />
Though on its slope men sow and reap.<br />
More softly than the dew is shed,<br />
Or cloud is floated overhead,<br />
"He giveth His beloved, sleep."<br />
<br />
Yea, men may wonder while they scan<br />
A living, thinking, feeling man,<br />
Confirmed, in such a rest to keep;<br />
But angels say--and through the word<br />
I think their happy smile is <em>heard</em>--<br />
"He giveth His beloved, sleep."<br />
<br />
For me, my heart that erst did go<br />
Most like a tired child at a show,<br />
That sees through tears the jugglers leap,--<br />
Would now its wearied vision close,<br />
Would childlike on <em>His</em> love repose,<br />
Who "giveth His beloved, sleep."<br />
<br />
And, friends, dear friends,--when it shall be<br />
That this low breath is gone from me,<br />
And round my bier ye come to weep,<br />
Let one, most loving of you all,<br />
Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall--<br />
He giveth His beloved, sleep."Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-5556293658114592002013-03-25T20:28:00.000-07:002013-04-06T20:03:37.238-07:00Star On Which These Eyes Have Seldom ClosedWithout some early encouragement, how many of us would have continued to write, to draw, to cut up books for collage, to sculpt, to experiment with cooking, with hair dye or make-up? Praise may have been scanty, but had there been none at all, who would have persisted?<br />
<br />
At 18 I had more or less given up on writing. But moving away from my home town, to Indianapolis, I found that I missed one particular young lady friend. So I wrote Kara a longish letter. In her reply, she told me that she had loved the letter, had laughed out loud, and even had read parts of it to her father. Her praise revived for me the early desire to write poetry.<a name='more'></a> For the next half dozen years, everything I wrote was written with Kara in mind, as my intended audience. I'm sure I never told her, but in my mind I knew myself to be a writer because she had told me that I was. <br />
<br />
W. H. Davies, about whom I've posted before, likewise relied on an early patron. Here is his account, taken from "The Autobiography Of A Super-Tramp."<br />
<br />
<br />
***************<br />
<br />
It was in the second year of my apprenticeship that I met a young woman living in a small village adjoining this town of my birth, who was very clever, a great reader of fine literature; and it was to her hands, after I had enjoyed her conversation on several occasions, that I submitted a small composition of my own. Her encouragement at that early time has been the star on which these eyes have seldom closed, by which I have successfully navigated the deeps of misery, pushing aside Drink, my first officer, who many a day and many a night endeavored to founder me. She was the first to recognize in my spirit something different from mere cleverness, something she had seen and recognized in her books, but had never before met in a living person. I had known her only six months when she died, but her words of encouragement have been ringing in my ears ever since they were uttered.<br />
<br />
<br />
***************<br />
<br />
<br />
Who encouraged you early on, and helped you to pursue your given art?Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-26821458330694173532013-03-14T19:52:00.001-07:002013-04-06T20:04:39.167-07:00Jellicle Cats Are Black And WhiteAs a kid I was a long term subscriber to Cricket magazine. It was a wonderful magazine full of real literature, but packaged for kids. Clifton Fadiman, the initial editor/publisher, assumed that talking down to children wasn't really necessary. In its pages I made my first acquaintance with Isaac Bashivas Singer, Lloyd Alexander, Langston Hughes, ee cummings, Carl Sandburg, Pamela Travers and many other brilliant writers.<br />
<br />
At some point during our subscription, we purchased a recording from the magazine of some of its top pieces. Included among the gems on this disk was TS Eliot reading his own poem, Jellicle Cats. I loved the poem; soon I had it memorized and would recite it, even imitating his British accent. To hear him you'd never know he was born in St Louis, Missouri, just a few hours drive from where I live.<br />
<br />
Never did it matter to me that I had no clue what "terpsichorean powers" were. I was in high school before I thought to look it up and learned about the muses,<a name='more'></a> and this one muse that was particularly gracious to dancers. Not knowing the meaning really didn't stop me from loving the sounds and saying the words. And learning the meaning, though interesting, did not really add much to my enjoyment of the poem. "So," I thought, "it's just another reference to dancing. Goes with the whole poem then." Wow.<br />
<br />
But it wasn't until I was in my twenties that I began to wonder what a "Jellicle Cat" might be. Looking it up and finding no cat of that breed, I came to the conclusion that Eliot had just made the word up. He can do that. I put the question away. It was years later when I was puzzling through some of the odd allusions in The Lovesong Of J. Alfred Prufrock and The Wasteland that I hit upon what seems to me the likely answer.<br />
<br />
The Wasteland is an obviously religious poem, although what religion it works from is less obvious. Journey Of The Maji, The Hollow Men, and The Four Quartets are also highly religious. So, as I thought about it, are many or most of his works. It was when I began to ponder Eliot's high-church anglo-catholic allegiance that it hit me: a Jellicle Cat must be an EVANgelical cat, or an evangelical dude. The word "Cat" was used in his day much as we use the word "dude" or "guy."<br />
<br />
So the poem isn't really about cats at all. It's a good natured and more than slightly rude way of poking fun at his evangelical (or low church) friends. Ha! So, after twenty years of repeating the poem to myself just because I loved the sound of it, I finally had a clue what it meant. Fun! So I repeated it to myself with that new meaning in mind.<br />
<br />
"Hmm," I thought to myself, "he thinks we're (because I then thought of myself as evangelical) black and white. Yep, he's right. We do think in pretty straight forward black and white categories." And, interestingly, although it's meant, I think, as a good natured put-down, I found that he had nailed the evangelical cat to the tree. Nearly every line contributes to the overall mocking tone of the poem.<br />
<br />
And I love it now much more than before. Knowing the meaning of this word changed the whole poem, and changed it for the better.<br />
<br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Jellicle Cats come out to-night,</em><br />
<em>Jellicle Cats come one come all:</em><br />
<em>The Jellicle Moon is shining bright--</em><br />
<em>Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball.</em><br />
<br />
Jellicle Cats are black and white,<br />
Jellicle Cats are rather small;<br />
Jellicle Cats are merry and bright,<br />
And pleasant to hear when they caterwaul.<br />
Jellicle Cats have cheerful faces,<br />
Jellicle Cats have bright black eyes;<br />
They like to practice their airs and graces<br />
And wait for the Jellicle moon to rise.<br />
<br />
Jellicle Cats develop slowly,<br />
Jellicle Cats are not too big;<br />
Jellicle Cats are roly-poly,<br />
They know how to dance a gavotte and a jig.<br />
Until the Jellicle Moon appears<br />
They make their toilette and take their repose:<br />
Jellicles wash behind their ears,<br />
Jellicles dry between their toes.<br />
<br />
Jellicle Cats are white and black,<br />
Jellicle Cats are of moderate size;<br />
Jellicles jump like a jumping-jack,<br />
Jellicle Cats have moonlit eyes.<br />
They're quiet enough in the morning hours,<br />
They're quiet enough in the afternoon,<br />
Reserving their terpsichorean powers<br />
To dance by the light of the Jellicle Moon.<br />
<br />
Jellicle Cats are black and white,<br />
Jellicle Cats (as I said) are small;<br />
If it happens to be a stormy night<br />
They will practice a caper or two in the hall.<br />
If it happens the sun is shining bright<br />
You would say they had nothing to do at all:<br />
They are resting and saving themselves to be right<br />
For the Jellicle Moon and the Jellicle Ball.Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-40641982595663947922013-03-11T06:37:00.000-07:002013-04-06T20:05:10.279-07:00No Mind To Learn Or To UnderstandMy day started very early, hours before the sun bothered to think about rising. Revisiting the town of my childhood, I'm overwhelmed by the remembrance of all those years. Unlike Fru Aashild in the following excerpt from Kristin Lavransdatter, my glory years, if there are any, lie not in my youth but in the days yet to come. Still, her words ring true to me today.<br />
<br />
To set the stage: Young Kristin and her little sister Ulvhild are happy children, until some stacked wood rolls and destroys Ulvhild's back, crippling the girl. When the priest and his prayers, and the fasting and prayers of the girls' mother avails nothing, the mother sends for Fru Aashild who tends to the sick with treatments that pre-dated the Christian era of Norway. Kristin has been shyly watching the older woman, <a name='more'></a>but not daring to ask her many questions. The ex<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">ce</span>rpt starts off with Kristin finally asking one.<br />
<br />
<br />
*************<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"It seems strange to me that you're always so happy, when you've been used to--" she broke off, blushing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Fru Aashild looked down at the child, smiling.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"You mean because now I'm separated from all those things?" She laughed quietly and then she said, "I've had my glory days, Kristin, but I'm not foolish enough to complain because I have to be content with sour, watered-down milk now that I've drunk up all my wine and ale. Good days can last a long time if one tends to things with care and caution; all sensible people know that. That's why I think that sensible people have to be satisfied with the good days--for the grandest of days are costly indeed. They call a man a fool who fritters away his father's inheritance in order to enjoy himself in his youth. Everyone is entitled to his own opinion about that. But I call him a true idiot and fool only if he regrets his actions afterward, and he is twice the fool and the greatest buffoon of all if he expects to see his drinking companions again once the inheritance is gone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"Is something wrong with Ulvild?" Fru Aashild asked gently, turning to Ragnfird, who had given a start from her place near the child's bed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"No, she's sleeping quietly," said the mother as she came over to Fru Aashild and Kristin, who were sitting near the hearth. With her hand on the smoke vent pole, Ragnfrid stood and looked down into the woman's face. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"Kristin doesn't understand all this," she said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"No," replied Fru Aashild. "But she also learned her prayers before she understood them. At those time when one needs either prayers or advice, one usually has no mind to learn or to understand."</span><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Kristin Lavransdatter, by Sigrid Undset, trans Tiina Nunnally)</span><br />
<i>*************</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
Aashild is right. Today I'm glad that by long practice my heart is trained to pray like my lungs are trained to breath.Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-72932134113912183312013-03-09T22:22:00.000-08:002013-04-06T20:05:26.068-07:00Lighted Coffins In The Dark<dt><h4>
<span style="color: black;">The Sleepers</span></h4>
<dt>
<dt>AS I walked down the waterside
<dd>This silent morning, wet and dark;<br />
<br />
<dt>Before the cocks in farmyards crowed,
<dd>Before the dogs began to bark;<br />
<br />
<dt>Before the hour of five was struck
<dt>By old Westminster's mighty clock:
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<dt>As I walked down the waterside
<dd>This morning, in the cold damp air,<br />
<br />
<dt>I saw a hundred women and men
<dd>Huddled in rags and sleeping there:<br />
These people have no work, thought I,
<br />
<br />
<dt>And long before their time they die.
<br />
<br />
<br />
<dt>That moment, on the waterside,
<dd>A lighted car came at a bound;<br />
<br />
<dt>I looked inside, and saw a score
<dd>Of pale and weary men that frowned;<br />
<br />
<dt>Each man sat in a huddled heap,
<dt>Carried to work while fast asleep.
<br />
<br />
<br />
<dt>Ten cars rushed down the waterside
<dd>Like lighted coffins in the dark;<br />
<br />
<dt>With twenty dead men in each car,
<dd>That must be brought alive by work:<br />
<br />
<dt>These people work too hard, thought I,
<dt>And long before their time they die. </dt>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">--WH Davies--</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<h4>
<span style="color: black;">The Moderate Life</span></h4>
A little work;<br />
A little rest;<br />
A little food;<br />
A simple jest;<br />
A friend or two;<br />
A dog or cat;<br />
A light romance;<br />
A petty spat;<br />
A cozy home<br />
Not grand nor meager;<br />
Content to dwell,<br />
Not loathe nor eager;<br />
Complaints are small;<br />
Discussions rare;<br />
Small anecdotes<br />
Prevail there.<br />
From constant smallness<br />
Rescue me!<br />
Let moderation<br />
Mod'rate be!<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">--me--</span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></dt>
</dd></dt>
</dd></dt>
</dt>
</dt>
</dd></dt>
</dd></dt>
</dt>
</dd></dt>
</dd></dt>
</dt>
</dt>
</dd></dt>
</dd></dt>
</dt>
</dt>
Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-88894407281251239132013-03-07T19:18:00.000-08:002013-04-06T20:05:45.214-07:00Feet Of Fire And Heads Of Ice<div class="title" itemprop="name">
Old Ogden Nash can complain, but if he had had the cold I've had this week--with bonfires in my lungs and skin that aches at the merest touch--I doubt he'd have bothered writing about it. He'd have been too busy adding honey to his lemon tea and pulling the comforter closer around his legs and telephoning his editor to come add another log to the fire. </div>
<h4 class="title" itemprop="name">
</h4>
<h4 class="title" itemprop="name">
<span style="color: black;">Common Cold</span></h4>
<div style="margin-top: 20px; min-height: 570px;">
<div class="KonaBody">
Go hang yourself, you old M.D.! <br />
You shall not sneer at me. <br />
Pick up your hat and stethoscope, <br />
Go wash your mouth with laundry soap; <br />
I contemplate a joy exquisite <br />
I'm not paying you for your visit. <br />
I did not call you to be told <br />
My malady is a common cold.<a name='more'></a> <br />
<br />
By pounding brow and swollen lip; <br />
By fever's hot and scaly grip; <br />
By those two red redundant eyes <br />
That weep like woeful April skies; <br />
By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff; <br />
By handkerchief after handkerchief; <br />
This cold you wave away as naught <br />
Is the damnedest cold man ever caught! <br />
<br />
Give ear, you scientific fossil! <br />
Here is the genuine Cold Colossal; <br />
The Cold of which researchers dream, <br />
The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme. <br />
This honored system humbly holds <br />
The Super-cold to end all colds; <br />
The Cold Crusading for Democracy; <br />
The Führer of the Streptococcracy. <br />
<br />
Bacilli swarm within my portals <br />
Such as were ne'er conceived by mortals, <br />
But bred by scientists wise and hoary <br />
In some Olympic laboratory; <br />
Bacteria as large as mice, <br />
With feet of fire and heads of ice <br />
Who never interrupt for slumber <br />
Their stamping elephantine rumba. <br />
<br />
A common cold, gadzooks, forsooth! <br />
Ah, yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth; <br />
Don Juan was a budding gallant, <br />
And Shakespeare's plays show signs of talent; <br />
The Arctic winter is fairly coolish, <br />
And your diagnosis is fairly foolish. <br />
Oh what a derision history holds <br />
For the man who belittled the Cold of Colds! </div>
</div>
<h4 class="title" itemprop="name">
</h4>
Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-28984474661882131212013-03-03T14:11:00.000-08:002013-03-03T14:11:04.742-08:00The Soul That Hath A GuestThe Soul that hath a Guest<br />
Doth seldom go abroad--<br />
Diviner Crowd at Home--<br />
Obliterate the need--<br />
<br />
And Courtesy forbid<br />
A Host's departure when<br />
Upon Himself be visiting<br />
The Emporer of Men--<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Emily Dickinson</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-18294872632064382142013-02-28T20:11:00.000-08:002013-04-06T20:06:17.622-07:00The More Loving OneTHE MORE LOVING ONE<br />
<br />
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well<br />
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,<br />
But on earth indifference is the least<br />
We have to dread from man or beast.<br />
<br />
How should we like it were stars to burn<br />
With a passion we could not return?<br />
If equal affection cannot be,<br />
Let the more loving one be me.<br />
<br />
Admirer as I think I am<br />
Of stars that do not give a damn,<br />
I cannot, now I see them, say<a name='more'></a><br />
I missed one terribly all day.<br />
<br />
Were all stars to disappear or die<br />
I should learn to look at an empty sky<br />
And feel its total dark sublime,<br />
Though this might take me a little time.<br />
--WH Auden<br />
<br />
<br />
A few days ago an enormous moon rose through the branches of the trees. This moon was three trees wide, huge like no moon I've seen since early childhood in the woods of northern Minnesota. I understand why in the pantheon of early Ur, the moon god Sin was primary, and father to the sun god Shamash. Copernicus to the contrary, the sun is not the center of my human cosmos. The lights at night, when I'm blessed enough to escape the infernal glow of city lights, do more to draw me to wonder and speculation, to worship, than the brilliant noon day sun ever did. <br />
<br />
At night, lying in cold grass, the stars invite me to expand; they remind me by their frigid glimmer of both the teenyness and the immensity of my warm human heart. Their light, I'm told, has traveled millions of years to get here, rushing the whole way. And yet when that light arrives it shifts gears, slows down near me, and beckons me to retrace its steps. Then smallness or largeness, my importance or insignificance, they mean nothing. I do not believe, as Auden seems to, that stars fail to love. The failure, if there is one, is our failure to answer their call to largeness of life, of soul, of love and of simple self sacrifice.Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-77462204532703267792012-07-09T15:35:00.000-07:002013-04-06T20:06:44.998-07:00What's The Matter With Pie?<em>Who is that, father?</em><br />
A mendicant, child,<br />
Haggard, morose, and
unaffable – wild!<br />
See how he glares through the bars of his cell!<br />
<span class="goog_qs-tidbit goog_qs-tidbit-0">With Citizen Mendicant all is not
well.</span><br />
<br />
<em><span class="goog_qs-tidbit goog_qs-tidbit-0">Why did</span>
they put him there, father?</em><br />
Because<br />
Obeying his belly he struck at
the laws.<br />
<br />
<em>His belly?</em><br />
Oh, well, he was starving, my boy –<br />
A
state in which, doubtless, there's little of joy.<br />
No bite had he eaten for
days, and his cry<br />
Was "Bread!" ever "Bread!"<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<em>What's the matter with
pie?</em><br />
<br />
With little to wear, he had nothing to sell;<br />
To beg was
unlawful – improper as well.<br />
<br />
<em>Why didn't he work?</em><br />
<br />
He would even
have done that,<br />
But men said: "Get out!" and the State remarked: "Scat!"<br />
I
mention these incidents merely to show<br />
That the vengeance he took was
uncommonly low.<br />
Revenge, at the best, is the act of a Siou,<br />
But for
trifles –<br />
<br />
<span class="goog_qs-tidbit goog_qs-tidbit-1"><em>Pray what did bad
Mendicant do?</em></span><br />
<br />
Stole two loaves of bread to replenish his
lack<br />
And tuck out the belly that clung to his back.<br />
<br />
<em>Is that all
father dear?</em><br />
<br />
There's little to tell:<br />
They sent him to jail, and
they'll send him to – well,<br />
The company's better than here we can
boast,<br />
And there's –<br />
<br />
<em>Bread for the needy, dear father?</em><br />
<br />
Um –
toast.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(fictitiously attributed to Atka Mip, by Ambrose Bierce in The Devil's Dictionary)</span>Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-63139828770855897092012-03-23T19:56:00.004-07:002013-04-06T20:07:10.275-07:00Crowds Of Buried Memories SleepJohn Clare could well talk of "crowds of buried memories." His life was ragged. Nearly half of it was spent confined to assylums, which in the early 1800's were not the comfy dorms that we now know. Memories he had, and to spare--many of them worth keeping buried.<br />
<br />
Clare's poem, THOUGHTS IN A CHURCH-YARD, (1835) is quite obviously playing off Thomas Gray's better known ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD (1750). It would at first appear that Clare had written a sort of "Cliff Notes" version of Gray's. He replays it all: the quiet spot, death's way of raising the poor and humbling the mighty, etc.<a name='more'></a> And if we were to miss the similarities, Clare trumpets his borrowing by his very title.<br />
<br />
And yet, they are not the same at all. For Gray those beneath the ground are most definitely other people. Great and poor are under the soil. And them being there gives him occasion to philosophize about life and death and the great sweeping justice that handles great and humble alike.<br />
<br />
With Clare, on the other hand, the graveyard seems to conjur not so much a philosophical meditation as a passionate longing for the release, the calming, the end of tensions. Life had overcome him. It seems far more personal than Gray's. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="THOUGHTS">THOUGHTS </a>IN A CHURCH-YARD.<br />
<br />
AH! happy spot, how still it seems<br />
Where crowds of buried memories sleep;<br />
How quiet Nature o’er them dreams,<br />
’Tis but our troubled thoughts that weep.<br />
Life’s book shuts here—its page is lost<br />
With them, and all its busy claims,<br />
The poor are from its memory crost,<br />
The rich leave nothing but their names.<br />
<br />
There rest the weary from their toil;<br />
There lie the troubled, free from care;<br />
Who through the strife of life’s turmoil<br />
Sought rest, and only found it there.<br />
With none to fear his scornful brow,<br />
There sleeps the master with the slave;<br />
And heedless of all titles now,<br />
Repose the honoured and the brave.<br />
<br />
There rest the miser and the heir,<br />
Both careless who their wealth shall reap;<br />
E’en love finds cure for heart-aches here,<br />
And none enjoys a sounder sleep.<br />
The fair one far from folly’s freaks,<br />
As quiet as her neighbour seems,<br />
Unconscious now of rosy cheeks,<br />
Without a rival in her dreams.<br />
<br />
Strangers alike to joy and strife,<br />
Heedless of all its past affairs.<br />
They’re blotted from the list of life,<br />
And absent from its teazing cares.<br />
Grief, joy, hope, fear, and all their crew<br />
That haunt the memory’s living mind,<br />
Ceased, when they could no more pursue,<br />
And left a painless blank behind.<br />
<br />
Life’s ignis fatuus light is gone,<br />
No more to lead their hopes astray;<br />
Care’s poisoned cup is drain’d and done,<br />
And all its follies past away.<br />
The bill’s made out, the reck’ning paid,<br />
The book is cross’d, the business done;<br />
On them the last demand is made, <br />
And heaven’s eternal peace is won.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Almost seems more of an echo of Solomon than of Gray:<br />
<br />
<em>And I declared that the dead, who had already died, are happier than the living, who are still alive. But better than both is the one who has never been born, who has not seen the evil that is done under the sun. </em><br />
<em>Ecclesiastes 4:2-3</em><br />
<br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<br />
<em>Click on John Clare's name in the labels below, for other of his poems I've posted.</em>Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-65170753223172257372012-03-15T10:35:00.004-07:002013-04-06T20:07:35.045-07:00Remote From Anything The Builders IntendedTo what end do we suffer? To what end, really, do we fall on our faces? For what good are sin and folly and loss and waste?<br />
<br />
We make such fools of ourselves! I'd hate to be in the same room at a party with the me of twenty years ago! I'd hide my face and pray that no one recognized us as the same guy!<br />
<br />
Our past is, thank God, past! It is done! It will no longer plague us!<br />
<br />
Jesus died to take it away as far as the east is from the west, etc.<br />
<br />
And yet; and yet; and yet. . .<br />
<br />
Was it all for nothing? Were we simply awaiting what Francis Thompson calls "love's uplifted stroke" in which our pasts vanish?<br />
<br />
<em>And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears,<br />I stand amid the dust o' the mounded years--<br />My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.</em><br />
<em><a name='more'></a><br />My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,<br />Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
And yet, when love's uplifted stroke does come, when the great bruit corners him finally, he learns that his fate is more complex.<br />
<br />
<em>All which I took from thee I did but take,<br />Not for thy harms,<br />But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms.<br />All which thy child's mistake Fancies as lost,<br />I have stored for thee at home</em><br />
<br />
It is not annihilation of the past, but restoration and redemption even of "the dust o' the mounded years." That is what Francis Thompson says that Christ won for us. Not just salvation <strong>from</strong> our lives, but the salvation <strong>of</strong> our lives, present, future and past! Even the salvation of our past! What a savior!<br />
<br />
In Brideshead Revisited, Evelyn Waugh draws out this idea still further. His protagonist, Charles Ryder, gets involved in a very long term homosexual affair during college. Inevitable though the unraveling of that relationship is, it is decidedly portrayed as a precursor and tutor preparing Ryder to love women. Then, following a failed marriage, he falls and rises to the level of a passionate and destructive hetero affair. He is following his lust, and even more his desire to find love, from doomed attempt to doomed attempt. But futile as such a search is (we know this as we read, although Waugh shows us the respect to not sermonize) there is actually progress. Although he can't see it himself, his longings are being clarified, whittled down, sharpened along the way.<br />
<br />
In the end, as his last love (for army life) dies, he finds "burning anew among the old stones" a very old flame that had gone unnoticed by the actors in his life. All of life, especially the central failures and long term sins, had been in essence a preparation for this new/old/eternal love which he had been avoiding and for which he had unknowingly been searching. They had been tutors to lead him ultimately to Christ. Even his past futile life was not obliterated, but rather fulfilled and redeemed by the coming of this unexpected love.<br />
<br />
<em>Something quite remote from anything the builders intended has come out of their work, and out of the fierce little human tragedy in which I played; something none of us thought about at the time: a small red flame--beaten-copper lamp of deplorable design, relit before the beaten-copper doors of a tabernacle; the flame which the old knights saw from their tombs, which they saw put out; that flame burns again for other soldiers, far from home, farther, in heart, than Acre or Jerusalem. It could not have been lit but for the builders and the tragedians, and there I found it this morning, burning anew among the old stones.</em><br />
<br />
"Jesus and his glorious gospel, the ‘good news’—the unexpected turn of God becoming man, the scandal of grace—are the only things big enough to satisfy our deepest, eternal longings—both now and forever." <a href="http://www.paul-gould.com/2012/03/14/divine-mathematics-jesus-nothing-everything-part-one/">Paul Gould</a>Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-91701153836337221802012-03-14T19:39:00.003-07:002012-03-14T19:43:24.098-07:00To Choose Doubt"If Christ spent an anguished night in prayer, if He burst out from the Cross, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" then surely we are also permitted doubt. But we must move on. To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation."<br /><br />Yann Martel, in Life Of PiDoug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-89248517389096970512011-12-13T21:16:00.000-08:002013-04-06T20:08:13.077-07:00A Debt We Must All PayMan is born to trouble as surely as the sparks fly upward.--Eliphaz (to Job) ca A Long Time Ago<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Our days on earth are like grass; like wildflowers, we bloom and die. The wind blows, and we are gone—as though we had never been here. -- King David ca 1000BC<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Life is suffering.--Siddhartha Guatama, the Buddha ca 530BC<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
But learn that to die is a debt we must all pay. --Euripides ca 430 BC<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Death may be the greatest of all human blessings.--Socrates ca 410BC<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
That is why I tell you not to worry about everyday life—whether you have enough food to eat or enough clothes to wear. For life is more than food, and your body more than clothing.--Jesus ca 30AD<br />
<br />
<br />
God’s purpose for my life was that I have a passion for God’s glory and that I have a passion for my joy in that glory, and that these two are one passion.--Jonathan Edwards 18th Century<br />
<br />
<br />
A man who dares to waste one hour of time has not discovered the value of life.--Charles Darwin 19th Century<br />
<br />
<br />
Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile.--Einstein 20th centuryDoug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-20753315827054394042011-12-10T21:32:00.001-08:002013-04-06T20:08:25.634-07:00A Poor Life This<strong>Leisure<br /></strong>What is this life if, full of care,<br />
We have no time to stand and stare.<br />
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No time to stand beneath the boughs<br />
And stare as long as sheep or cows.<br />
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No time to see, when woods we pass,<br />
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.<br />
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No time to see, in broad daylight,<br />
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.<br />
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No time to turn at Beauty's glance,<br />
And watch her feet, how they can dance.<br />
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No time to wait till her mouth can<br />
Enrich that smile her eyes began.<br />
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A poor life this if, full of care,<br />
We have no time to stand and stare.<br />
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W. H. DaviesDoug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-579132932451243418.post-32734648241597874232011-12-09T15:22:00.000-08:002013-04-06T20:09:00.367-07:00Death By Small DosesTo follow yesterday's post of Ode To Life by Pablo Neruda, here is another poem by the same name. I've been told that it is also Neruda, but after scouring a dozen of his books I can find no trace of it. I don't know if it is his or not. Internet sites credit it to Neruda, but where is the paper version of it?<br />
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Regardless of who wrote it, it is an intriguing poem. The two are very different in many ways, but both sound clear and ringing warnings, and each are woven throughout with hope and possiblility.<br />
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Ode To Life<br />
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Slowly dies he who becomes a slave to habit,<br />
repeating the same journey every day,<br />
he who doesn’t change his march, he who doesn’t risk<a name='more'></a><br />
and change the color of his clothes, he who doesn’t speak to him whom he doesn’t know.<br />
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Slowly dies he who makes of the television his guru,<br />
Slowly he who avoids a passion dies, he who prefers<br />
black on white and dots on "i"s rather than a gnawing of emotions<br />
exactly those that make the eyes shine,<br />
those that make the heart beat<br />
before error and feeling.<br />
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Slowly dies he who doesn’t overturn the table,<br />
he who is unhappy in his work,<br />
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he who doesn’t risk certainty for uncertainty<br />
to follow a dream,<br />
he who doesn’t permit himself at least one time in his life<br />
to flee sensible counsel.<br />
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Slowly dies he who doesn’t travel, he who doesn’t read,<br />
he who doesn’t listen to music,<br />
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he who doesn’t find grace in himself.<br />
Slowly he who destroys his own love dies,<br />
he who doesn’t allow himself to be helped.<br />
Slowly he who passes his days lamenting<br />
about his own misfortune or the incessant rain dies.<br />
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Slowly dies he who abandons a project<br />
before beginning it,<br />
he who doesn’t ask questions about topics he doesn’t know,<br />
he who doesn’t answer when he is asked something that he knows.<br />
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Let’s avoid death by small doses,<br />
remembering always that being alive<br />
requires a much larger effort<br />
than the simple act of breathing.<br />
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Only burning patience will bring<br />
within reach a splendid happiness.Doug P. Bakerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10259297751420532238noreply@blogger.com0