Defined and quoted

I have recently been digging my way through Clifford Geertz "The Interpretation of Culture," a collection of essays on anthropology and understanding cultural systems. It is a fabulouse book and I have enjoyed both the content and the extended, complex sentences that the author uses. Here are two of my favorite definitions so far, with some notes or translations of my own.

Definition I

Culture is historically transmitted patterns of meanings embodied in a symbols, a system of inherited coneceptions expressed in symbolic forms by means of which men communicate, perpetuate, and develop their knowledge about and attitudes toward life.


Definition II
Religion is (1) a system of symbols which acts to (2) establish powerful, pervasive and long-lasting moods and motivations in men by (3) formulating conceptions of a general order of existance and (4) clothing these conceptions with such an aura of factuality that (5) the moods and motivations seem uniquely realistic.

An old poem rediscovered.

I was looking through old blog posts that I hadn't posted and found this. It is better than I remembered.

It is my way the path to seek,
the older roads and trails to meet.
And never here to stop and rest,
But always seek a different quest.

When will I end this weary jest,
This cursed, endless restlessness?
I wish now to stop, to call it quits,
To find that home, a place that fits.

But ever on I wander anew,
and lands I love soon pass from view.
For I am but a pilgirm, a passer through,

"Writing is an act of faith, not a trick of grammer." E.B. White.

Long ago, in a far distant land there was a man who had three sons. The eldest was named Aaron and he was a tall and fair man, with hair like the sun on a winter morining. The next was named Kaleb, and he was shorter than his brother, but deep chested and broad so that his appearance was like a bull and his strength like a young ox. The last son was named Pilgrim, for he was born in the midst of a great pilgrimage that the man had taken with his wife and sons to the oracle in the temple at Delphi.

Now, it happened that the youngest son's birth had been much different from his elder brothers, for his brothers had been born at home in the presence of birth mothers and at the time's of harvest, so that they were born great and strong men. The elder had been born on a most auspicious night, for he had been born at sunrise on the first day of summer, thus it was that his hair shown like the sun and his laugh radiated like a spring thaw. Kaleb had been born in the spring, when the cows were bringing forth their calves and the sheep their lambs, thus it was that he carried in him the strength of all such beast as roam the field and eat upon the heath. But the youngest, poor pilgrim that he was, had been born in the midst of winter deep in the heart of the mountains between their land and the great land of Greece. The youth was pale as the waning moon under which he had been born, and there was little grace in his pointed and sharp features. His eyes were deep and dark, but seemed too wide, as though he lived always in the depths of a cave.

The family had returned from pilgrimage with their young son weeping and gnashing his teeth. Always their child was seeking how he could provide for himself and his future. Always he was looking for how he could ensure his life and comfort. As a child he would hide food in the cupboards of his room, in case there was not enough at some future date. He would pretend to spend the money that his mother gave him on sweet meats, but always he would hide most of it away in case he should ever want. His father and mother were much troubled by this and sought always to ensure that he knew that he had no need to fear, for there was plenty and they had already ensured that he could never lack...but still he refused to believe their promises.

The older brothers were assured of their parents love and provision, so that they freely gave all that they had to anyone they came across, but not the youngest, for he always feared to give to freely lest he not have in the future.

It happened that one day, while they were still boys, the three brothers went to the fields to pick wild berries. The elder brothers wandered about laughing and jesting, eating as much as they saved and smearing themselves with juice. Young Pilgrim sat a ways away, industriously picking berries and putting them in his basket...not a one reached his mouth but all of them were placed directly into his basket where they would be safe until he could get them home. As they were picking they heard a someone crying, and the elder brothers went looking to find the cause the this noise and commotion. Around a bend they found a young girl, weeping as though the world would end. "What is wrong, my friend?" Asked Aaron, his pity quipped by the weeping.

"I was to bring home a basket of berries for my mother to make pie, but now I have dropped them and they are spread all over the ground and I'll never pick them up and this is just so horrible...and..." and she burst back into tears.

"Well, that will never do," said Kaleb. "Here, you must take our baskets of berries and go have your mother make that pie. My parents always have plenty of berries around the house, we'll never miss them." Of course, this was not exactly true, for though they often had berries around the house, these were the first of the season and so they would have not have berry pie if they did not bring home what they had picked, yet the girls weeping touched the brothers hearts deeply and they knew that though they might not have pie, still their would be plenty of food for them, for their parents always ensured that they had enough.

The young girl took the berries and looked at the two brothers with wonder. "You mean I can have them? Like to take home for my mother to make the pie!" Her voice, once shrill with weeping now sounded with the laughter and hope of a new day. She picked up the baskets they handed her and went running off to tell her mother that they could have pie after all.

The brothers watched her, laughing at her excitement and glee, before turning back to their brother and from there home. On the way home, young Pilgrim carried his basket carefully, making sure that no berry dropped on the path. Upon reaching the house he carefully carried his basket behind the house to a little storage shed under which he had dug a little seller. In the cellar he would hide all his treasures and here he placed the basket of berries, for it could easily be that a day would come when he would need them, and so they should be saved.

That evening at dinner time the boys sat at the table, enjoying the custard that their mother had made for dessert, but wondering why there were no berries on them; after all, their youngest brother had brought home a big basket of them. At last, Aaron could stand it no longer:

"Pilgrim, where are the berries that you picked? I thought that surely we would eat them tonight, before they rot and become useless."

"Those are my berries, and I must keep them in case I ever run out." The boys eyes narrowed, "Are you trying to take my berries from me?" The anger and suspicion in his voice was palpable.

"No, but they will go bad tomorrow if you leave them sitting."

Of course, Pilgrim's berries did go bad the next day and all had to be thrown out. Much to the disappointment of everyone, for now they had to go pick more and they did not even enjoy the fruit of their past labor.

Taxed

What is the standard deduction?
Cut taken by the unseen for it's
Own use?

Could it be that if I measure,
If I take a tally of my total
I can pay a little less?

But what is less than this?
If there is a price to pay
I can.

But it might kill me.

II
Let me ask the question
First.
Let me question your math,
Your reason and your words.

Perhaps I pay to much?
Could the price be placed beyond
My reach?

You might pretend that it is not,
That it is fine to demand soul
For labor.

You can tell me that you work
So hard,
That you need the money to make
My life better.

Chances are I won't believe you.
Why should I?
I am paying a price in tears and blood
And empty nights.

You might say your work is hard,
That you have put yourself
In dangers way.
Who hasn't?
To love is to put yourself in dangers way,
And where I have not loved I've died.

Still, it may be this death is better.
If the world is cold and gray, like a grave
In winter, at least there is no
Fear of greater failure.

The dark I see comming is welcome
I have no need to escape it.
Color and light and all the joy of
Life is long gone.

Why not die now?
It is as good a time as any.
There is nothing special about
That moment when one dies.

Nothing unique to set it off.
The world walks on,
Usually won't even notice the absence.
Like a whole in a cave, it hardly matters,
What is a little more darkness?

III
Here in the tomb it is comfortable.
A small dark hole,
Like your bed when the storm
Is raging outside.

It is safe, you cannot be hurt more
Because who could possibly kill
A dead man?

It is so easy to live in grayscale.
There is no need to destiguish
Between colors.
No one says, "I don't understand!"
It is all so clear and so simple.

I wish it didn't hurt so bad to
Live here, to see the world through
Uncolored lenzes.

IV
What about the other side?
The freedom of flight in sky blue
Wind?

Is it freedom when you know you could fall,
And never rise again.
Is the hawk free, with a legion of
Crows on its tail.

Broken and bleading he fights to gain
Air. To escape, to be free.

He will be free, eventually.
When his bloody carcass
Hits the lightless soil.

A Prayer for Today

"Your goal is to get into a manna rhythm. Seek His grace today, be faithful in the tasks in front of you, and trust Him for tomorrow. Then, when you look back and see that He was faithful, your faith will be 'fed' for the next day." Depression: a stubborn darkness by Edward T. Welch

Lord would you give me
strength for today?
Lord help me know I have
reason to pray?

Help me be faithful in
all of my tasks.
Help me to walk in all
of Your paths.

Let me have wisdom to
trust for tomorrow.
Let me have Your joy in
all of my sorrow.

Lead me to know You
in all of Your glory.
Lead me to know that
Your goodness is holy.

And let me deny me and
all my desires.
And let me pursue You
my burning fire.

Sir Veritas Part V (The Final instalment)

The three knights walked through the great hall, past the dead and soon to be decaying corpses. “Let them lie until your land is safe and clean again,” said Sir Veritas, “then we will clean the blood from all the ground that is yours.” The three walked to the stables where an old groom kept his residence and cared for the horses. The knights walked through the dry and empty courtyard to where the great chargers stood in their stalls. There were only ten horses, not including Sir Veritas white stallion. The groom shuffled out of the back where he had been cleaning one of the stables, for he was a good and worthy groom, and it went against him to see any animal left in poor care. Long he had staid, without wages, for he loved the great horses of the knights even if they themselves no longer did.
“Ye’ve come for your horse, Sir?” He was well used the lord’s weekly rides out into the country. “And what ten men will ye have with ye today?”
“We will need only three horses today.” Said Sir Veritas, “the other knights are…indisposed at the moment.”
Sir Veritas had walked over to the stall in which his horse stood. He reached up to fondle the great beast’s ears. “Let us ride again, old friend. Our time has come to face danger as we have so often before.” Then turning to the others he cried out, “Come…Let us be away for the world awaits our rising as it waits for the sun on a winter morn!”
The three knights saddled and bridled their horses and were soon mounted and prepared to go. “There are nineteen dead knights lying in the great hall.” Announced Sir George, “Bring some men from the hamlet to see their bodies are removed, please.” The groom stared up in surprise, but knuckled his forehead obediently.
“I see you’ve now heard the truth of our lives.” He said. “I thank ye for putting this place to rights, at last.”
The three knights rode out into the court yard and toward the gate. They rode through it and onto the great bridge that spanned the mote. Here they stopped to leave final instructions with the groom that the drawbridge was to be drawn and the portcullises dropped until their return. Then they turned and cantered over the mote and down the road toward the hamlet. The dust blew up behind them and marked their progress to watching eyes.

From the woods men in dark and torn clothes watched with interest the progress of the three men. The leader of the band turned to his lieutenant, “I had heard that this was a fair and beautiful land…one in which man can make a good living.” He chuckled. “It would seem the lord is as great a fool as everyone claimed. He rides alone, with just two guards. We’ll show him some forest hospitality today!” His men began melting into the forest, their bows strung across their backs and their swords on their hips. The captain called out instructions to the leaders of his band. “We’ll take the three in that stretch of forest before the hamlet…and well teach them who rules this land, just as we’ve taught the other villains who hide in this forest.”
The three knights continued on, little realizing the new and deadly danger that awaited them, for the stories of Sir George’s lax ways had reached the ears of one of the great villains of the age. The dark outlaw, Strages, had come to Sir George’s forest. Already he had plundered and raped his way across the lands of neighboring nobles, for his band was known to be fast and hard, able to fight any who stood against them. Castles across the land had been raised and nobles left to rot on the walls of their own keeps, with only vultures for living company. Now it was Sir George’s turn…Sir George who rode with only two knights to guard him.
Strages laughed at the though of what would become of the old fool. The other nobles had been so easy to destroy, their doors opened to him and their guards died at the benches where they sat, it had been too easy. One day he must find a knight worthy of the name, one he could face in a fare battle…today would obviously not be that day. Strages and his men moved toward the road and the dark stretch of forest where they had found the corpses of other bandits a few days back. It was strange, that, for there had been no doubt but that the thieves had chosen a good place for an ambush, there were few who should have won such an encounter. It would have made Strages uneasy, except that he had seen enough of the land to know that no one in it could best him.
The ambush was carefully set before the knights arrived at the wood. The captain looked to his men and prepared to give the signal to attack. Other men might like playing with a knight before killing him, watching these ‘nobles’ beg for mercy, but Strages preferred to fall on his opponents as quickly as possible and watch as their fat faces blanched in shock and fear.
“Their coming, sir. There are only three…but three such as I have never seen before!” The scout’s voice was excited. “They wear no visors, sir, and their armor radiates light like the sun. Their leader looks like the sun riding on earth and he bears the coat of arms of Sir Veritas!”
“Sir Veritas? Long have I wanted to face a real knight and now, it seems, I will get my chance.” Strages eyes blazed, “perhaps this will be more fun than I thought.” The sound of horses hooves could be heard through the trees as the knights approached.
Sir Veritas eyes scanned the shadows, his horse whickered softly. “There is something wrong. Be on your guard.” The knight’s companions reached to loosen swords and raise shields. Their eyes sought the sides of the road. Sir Veritas rode forward with hand on his blade. Strages watched, waiting for them to enter the killing field.
A shrill whistle began the engagement. Arrows rained down from the trees and men leaped to engage the three knights. As soon as the fighting began, Sir Veritas sword left his side. The inner light of his anger flashed from his eyes even as arrows bounced from his shield. “Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriam!” He cried and pounded into the forest on his right. The other two rode behind him their eyes narrowed in concentration and their hands grasping raised weapons. Their helms shinned as though an inner light escaped them and their swords flashed light as though to illuminate the forest. With a cry of rage the men threw themselves on the bandits. Sir Veritas sword slashed through the sky, his shield knocked men from their feet and cracked bones. The knights would have easily ridden through any other band, but this was Strages’ band, brave and evil and prepared to fight till the death. Strages himself lead his band, his eyes shining as he fought Sir Yuvan. “Your time has come, my foolish little knightling.” He leaped forward, bringing his sword across the youths leg. With a cry he fell from his horse, but rose again to his feet. His sword still in his hands and his eyes shinning in anger. “I am not dead yet, and my honor remains. Come and meet your death.” The evil villain laughed and leaped forward his sword swinging, but before he reached the youth an arrow took the knight in eye, killing him instantly. Strages turned looked on the field of battle. Sir Veritas had just slain one of his lieutenants and was turning to face the last man that faced him. Sir George had just turned form slaying one of the archers. His eyes lighted on the dead knight that lay at Strages feet and his eyes narrowed in anger. With a cry he leaped his horse over the man before him, his sword swinging down to take the man’s arm from his body. He came strait at the villain, his eyes shinning like anger and his sword dripping blood. Strages leaped back and prepared to fight…only a few of his men remained alive, but Sir Veritas would be kept busy for a while at least. Sir George leaped from his horse and faced the man before him.
“You will pay the evil you have done to my people.”
“I will pay? At who’s hand? Certainly not a fat old fools?” But Sir George was moving forward with the ease and calm of an experienced knight, despite his large girth and long time of inactivity. The two clashed with the clang of steel and battle cry. The swords swung, flinging blood along their arches of air. There they clashed against a shield and there against each other. Sir George was bleeding from a wound in his sword arm, but seemed not to notice. His sword sought an opening and slashed across his opponents thy. The swords continued to clash and Sir George began to get tired, but he must win…surrender was no option. There…There was the opening he needed. His sword came down on his opponent’s helm and cracked right through it, sending blood and fluid all over the ground. With a grunt he drew his sword from his opponents head and turned to where Sir Veritas was lifting the dead Sir Yuvan from the ground.
“He died in honor and courage.” The old knight said. “He has died with honor, there is nothing more a man can ask.”
“If only I had seen.” Said Sir George, “If only I had not been such a fool these men would not have dared such evil in my land.” His eyes blazed in anger. “I may be late, but I am here and I now know. COME! Let us take what lies before us and drive out the evil that has infested my land!”
Over the next few years Sir George grew into a wise and noble lord such as his father had been. He brought to his land brave and worthy knights who patrolled their forest in open helms, their eyes shinning and evil fleeing before them. Sir Veritas staid for some time, but soon had to leave to save other nobles. Sir Georges land prospered, for the people looked to their lord for protection and safety. Sir George ruled for many years and began to train a new leader for when his time was over. The youth was the younger brother of Sir Yuvan, and as noble as his elder brother had become. With time he became wise and able enough to guard and lead the land. The poets now sing of the brave knight Sir George and how in his later years he would ride out and defeat a great and evil dragon to the salvation of an entire city.

Sir Veritas Part IV

Sir Veritas lead down a flight of stares and around a corner into a dark and sooty room. The forge was long cold and the smith had not been in residence for a number of years. He had moved to the hamlet because the knights had ceased to bring him work, preferring to let their weapons rust and their shields mold, then bother walking down the steps to the smithy.
Sir Veritas turned to Sir Yuvan and asked for his sword. The weapon was ancient and honorable, but the blade was badly rusted. “Where did you get this blade?”

“It was given to me by one of the other knights…when I first arrived I had a fine and shining sword. I thought to defend justice and honor with it, but one of the older knights took a fancy to my sword and forced me to trade it for that one.”

Sir Veritas grunted. “The old fool didn’t know what he was doing.” His smile grew as he held the sword in his hand. “You have had the better part of the bargain, for this is Durendal, the sword of the brave Sir Roland. You posses one of the greatest swords of the ages. Let me teach you to clean it…and use it.” The rest of the morning was spent cleaning and sharpening swords and lances. Sir Yuvan polished his armor and waxed his shield, he re-tipped his arrows and sharpened and oiled his sword. At last he completed the tasks given him by Sir Veritas, who had spent his morning in one of the corners of the forge working…on what Sir Yuvan did not know. He walked toward the older knight.

“I have completed the tasks given me.” He said. “All my weapons are prepared and all my armor is oiled, I am ready to ride with you, into whatever doom shall be ours.”

Sir Veritas turned to him, his eyes squinted and a grim smile on his face. “Our doom is best left for future conversation. But come, I have made you one final piece that you must wear.” With that he lifted a helm from the bench at which he sat. The burnished steel shown in the light of the forge, and the white wings on the sides burned like fire. There were two long ear guards and a center nose guard, but no visor sat over the top. “You too will ride with eyes open and view clear. It is only in the light of the sun that we find our place. The fools who wear visors always assume that the world is as it should be…You will see it as it is and fight to make it as it should be!”

The young knight reached forward and took the helm from Sir Veritas hand’s, he looked on it for a moment before slipping it onto his head. The look on his face changed as it settled over his brow. He shook his head and then, with a smile drew his sword from its sheath. He lifted it to his face and saluted the knight that stood before him. “Now teach me to use these weapons and I will ride to any fate!”

That evening was spent in training as the morning was spent in preparation. Sir Yuvan’s hands had forgotten their skill and his arms their strength, for he had spent too long sleeping in the hall of the castle; but with the help of Sir Veritas he began to renew his strength and cunning. He trained long into the night and his arms were weary and pained when he finally stopped to rest. Sir Veritas lead him back to the giant hall and into the quite chapel in which he had spent the night. The comforts of bed and hearth were not offered to the guest, for the lord was greatly displeased with the truth spoken to him, so the chapel remained the only place of welcome for the old and venerable knight. Here he and the youth rested, waiting in the dark for the dawning of a new day and the adventures it would bring.

The morning came and the castle stayed as dead as a tomb, its inhabitants sleeping in a drunken stupor in the main hall, their hands still clutching the goblets from which they drank and the ham bones on which the chewed. Sir George was standing on the daze, his voice roaring into the quite before him. “Wake, You FOOLS! Wake and drive the old knight from my castle!” His noisome entireties were met by snores and grunts.

“He already killed one of us.” Mumbled one of the knights, his eyes turning to were a dark red dust made the shape of a pool on the floor. “We don’t have enough men to stand up to such a man. If you hire a couple more men we could kick him out just fine…”

“I cannot believe this!” The rage was evident. “I pay twenty good knights, men who are to protect me and care for my land and you find yourselves in-capable of driving one man away!”

“Well, its not really just one man…after all Sir…”

“I’ve had ENOUGH!” Sir Georges face went from red to purple as he yelled. “Out! Out of my house you fools, be gone from my lands and holdings! You are all relieved of your knighthood and possessions!”

The knights turned to each other, their faces breaking into evil grins. They laughed and went back to their drinking. One, the guard who had failed to face Sir Veritas the night before spoke for the group. “If you cannot kick one knight from your home, how do you think to kick out twenty?”

“In fact, what is to keep us from killing you and ruling this land in your name?” sneered another. “It’s not as though you had other protectors now, is it?” The two knights rose to their feet and began stalking toward the daze. These two had drunk less than the others and were therefore more dangerous. “We’ll see just how brave the ‘good’ Sir George really is.”

Yet, before their feet had touched the first step of the daze they herd a sound of movement behind them, and the rasp of metal on leather. “You would kill a lord in his own hall?” The voice was quite yet menacing. “You would make yourselves worse villains than you already are?”

The two men turned to a small forgotten door into the great hall and there, in shinning mail with open helm upon their heads stood two knights, their carriage speaking of war and valor and their hands grasping swords. “Come and meet your doom!”
With the united cry of “Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriam!” the two knights stepped forward their swords raised in the salute of death. The two villains by the daze fell first, the one’s head rolling on the floor in the corner, the other split down the stem from helm to heart. The two knights then turned their attention of the men who remained about the table, trying to stumble to their feet and grasp weapons. Within moments the struggle had ended and all the false knights lay dead or dying, their blood etching the dust covered floor in patterns and pools of red. Sir George stared at carnage before him, his eyes wide with the fear of death and his nostrils expanding at the smell of blood. He turned his eyes toward the two who stood in the midst of the bloody and mangled seen, their eyes already seeking his.

“Come.” There was no question in Sir Veritas voice. “You are now beholden to us, and in payment for your life you will ride out into you land with us. You will know the danger in which your people live and you will set it right!” The knight’s eyes sought the floor again.

“It seems I have no choice. Very well, let us ride.” With that he turned and walked into his study, “My armor is here.” The brave knights ascended the daze and entered the study. They walked with Sir George through the study and into his chamber. On a stand near the wall stood a coat of arms, its pieces polished and shined and the sword sharpened and well cared for. Sir Veritas turned to look at the old knight.

“You have prepared, it seems, to ride out after all.”

“I was never unprepared. I may be fat and I may know that my land is in good order, but I am not so much of a fool as you think. Here I have prepared a suit of armor that has long been in my family and often has seen service for the lords of this castle. I will ride forth wearing it now.” He began to put on the armor, one piece at a time. At last he was dressed in mail as a knight should be. He reached out now and took the helm that rested on the stand, not a helm of the type he had lately worn, but one that had no visor. On the sides rested wings that stood out from the helm, their spread feathers adding size and terror to the lion’s head that burned on the fore of the ancient piece. “This was my father’s helm. He often told me only to wear it in the most important of battles, for it is meant for war and honor.”

“Your father was a man of great honor; and he wore that helm on every ride I ever accompanied him on.” Spoke Sir Veritas. “It was not that the helm should be saved for special occasions, but rather that all battles, even if insignificant by histories standards, are to be fought with honor and courage. But come, we must up and ride for there is much to set right in this land.”

Sir Veritas Part III

The morning dawned clear and bright over the eastern mountains and fell in loving caresses on the stone castle. One shy hare of light peeked through a small window into a dusty old chapel. Usually this was a vacant place, a place given over to the dark and dirt and the animals that loved them, but not today. Today there was a new and different seen. A knight knelt in the middle of the floor, his body so still he might have been dead if not for the soft rasping of his breath. Before him rest an upside down sword, its hilt and guard making the simple cross at which he worshipped. The light peeked in on this solemn world, and its smallest fingers touched the sword on its guard, illuminating the cross with a sacred light. Sir Veritas looked at the small window and then slowly rose from his knees. His hand slipped to the sword and then drew it easily from the fissure in which it had rested. With a swift movement he sheathed his sword and turned to the door of the chapel.

The hall was as dusty as the night before and the light that tried to pierce the dirty windows did little to illuminate the room. A group of worn and filthy knights sat at the benches near the table, their hands lifting goblets of wine and ale to their bearded faces. One of them turned a contemptuous glance on the visitor, “So boys, here he is. Sir Veritas, the nobles of all knights!” The statement was met with uproarious laughter. The speaker stumbled to his feet and reached for the sword that was thrown across the table. “The lord’s orders are to throw you out of the castle as soon as we found you…None too soon to my way of thinking!” With that the knight staggered toward him, his eyes trying drunkenly to focus on the strange knight. The other members of the party rose as well, their eyes mocking and angry, but unfocused. Sir Veritas waited quietly, still as a statue before his attackers.

“Stand still.” His voice was barely a whisper, but it stopped his opponents in their tracks. “You dare to approach me drunk and armed? Do you think I will stand quietly by while you try to destroy me? Do you think yourselves capable of taking me on?”
The ringleader stumbled forward again, his sword beginning to rise, but Sir Veritas simply knocked it from him. “I have no time to deal with fools and drunkards! Where is your lord?” The knights tried to move forward again, but the brave knight quickly snapped his sword before him and with the utmost calmness began to drive his foes back toward the corner. “I asked and question, and one that must be answered. Where is your lord?”

One of the men, feeling the wall behind him dropped his sword, “Okay, we cannot best you, you speak truly in that. The lord is in his study, looking over new taxes that must be paid by the peasants.”

Sir Veritas turned his back on his opponents and walked toward the study door. One of the knights reached for his boot and drew a small dagger. With a cry of rage he leaped at the good knight with blade swinging…The dagger met cold iron and the man fell back, his eyes widening as the sword blade cut through his intestines and pulled his guts onto the floor. “I said, ‘I have no time for fools!’” the quite tone sounded more menacing than any battle cry. “Know that I will kill any who oppose me.” And with that he was gone, entered into their master’s study without so much as a knock.

Sir George, half raised from his seat, stared at him. “You, still? Now what have you done? I heard that cry and it did not sound like a party.”
“I have killed a fool. And now, about this ride you and I will take…”
“I have already told you, I will not ride out with you, try as you like.”
“Very well…but know that I will remain here until you do, appearing before your face all the time and making you continually aware of my presence. You will not escape me, except by coming out into your town and seeing the way your people live.”

“I know how my people live, I need no help to know this. I ride through my country at least once a week and see all that goes on.”
“But on all these rides you wear your visor. On this ride you will not, for you will see the world your people live in!”

Sir George shook his head, and then sat again at his desk. “Please refrain from killing any more of my knights.” And with that he went back to his papers, clearly telling Sir Veritas that their audience was over.

Sir Veritas turned and walked into the hall, his eyes shining and his face set in anger. He walked through the knights as they parted like the red sea for Moses. “Are you knights or children?” He demanded. “Come, ride with me and I will make clear to you the life that you live and the life you could live!” The knights just stared at him, a couple of them moving back to avoid any danger at his hand. “Are none of you men? Who has bewitched you that you are so contented and stupid that you refuse to face the world?”

One of the knights cleared his throat and glanced at the floor. He was the same guard that had stood at the gate the day before. “We have been told that our land is safe and secure. No offense meant, but why should we worry or train?”

Sir Veritas looked at the man and a slow smile crawled onto his face. “Come, ride out with me and I will show you why you should train and work.” The young knight looked down at his feet, and then at the sword that hung at his side, the only sword being worn by Sir George’s men.

“I would, but I fear the lord, and my weapons are not good, they are all rusted and dull. I really don’t think I’m brave enough…I mean look how scared I…”

“Ride out with me and you will conquer your dread. Today we will set your weapons in order and prepare you for battle and tomorrow we will go and face your fears.”

The other knights turned angry glares on the young man. If not for the protecting presence of Sir Veritas it is unlikely the young man would have fared well in the room of scoundrels. “Come, we have much to do and little time. What is your name?”

“I am called Sir Yuvan. I am the youngest of the knights in this castle. I fear I will soon be a young knight errant for having come with you.”

“Do not fear; you have proven wiser than the older knights, for you have listened and followed where they have rejected.”

Sir Veritas lead down a flight of stares and around a corner into a dark and sooty room. The forge was long cold and the smith had not been in residence for a number of years. He had moved to the hamlet because the knights had ceased to bring him work, preferring to let their weapons rust and their shields mold, then bother walking down the steps to the smithy.

Sir Veritas turned to Sir Yuvan and asked for his sword. The weapon was ancient and honorable, but the blade was badly rusted. “Where did you get this blade?”

“It was given to me by one of the other knights…when I first arrived I had a fine and shining sword. I thought to defend justice and honor with it, but one of the older knights took a fancy to my sword and forced me to trade it for that one.”

Sir Veritas grunted. “The old fool didn’t know what he was doing.” His smile grew as he held the sword in his hand. “You have had the better part of the bargain, for this is Durendal, the sword of the brave Sir Roland. You posses one of the greatest swords of the ages. Let me teach you to clean it…and use it.” The rest of the morning was spent cleaning and sharpening swords and lances. Sir Yuvan polished his armor and waxed his shield, he re-tipped his arrows and sharpened and oiled his sword. At last he completed the tasks given him by Sir Veritas, who had spent his morning in one of the corners of the forge working…on what Sir Yuvan did not know. He walked toward the older knight.

“I have completed the tasks given me.” He said. “All my weapons are prepared and all my armor is oiled, I am ready to ride with you, into whatever doom shall be ours.”

Sir Veritas turned to him, his eyes squinted and a grim smile on his face. “Our doom is best left for future conversation. But come, I have made you one final piece that you must wear.” With that he lifted a helm from the bench at which he sat. The burnished steel shown in the light of the forge, and the white wings on the sides burned like fire. There were two long ear guards and a center nose guard, but no visor sat over the top. “You too will ride with eyes open and view clear. It is only in the light of the sun that we find our place. The fools who wear visors always assume that the world is as it should be…You will see it as it is and fight to make it as it should be!”

The young knight reached forward and took the helm from Sir Veritas hand’s, he looked on it for a moment before slipping it onto his head. The look on his face changed as it settled over his brow. He shook his head and then, with a smile drew his sword from its sheath. He lifted it to his face and saluted the knight that stood before him. “Now teach me to use these weapons and I will ride to any fate!”

That evening was spent in training as the morning was spent in preparation. Sir Yuvan’s hands had forgotten their skill and his arms their strength, for he had spent too long sleeping in the hall of the castle; but with the help of Sir Veritas he began to renew his strength and cunning. He trained long into the night and his arms were weary and pained when he finally stopped to rest. Sir Veritas lead him back to the giant hall and into the quite chapel in which he had spent the night. The comforts of bed and hearth were not offered to the guest, for the lord was greatly displeased with the truth spoken to him, so the chapel remained the only place of welcome for the old and venerable knight. Here he and the youth rested, waiting in the dark for the dawning of a new day and the adventures it would bring.

Sir Veritas Part II

The clear, full moon shown down on Sir Veritas as he rode up the last hill to the castle and over the stone bridge: “I am Sir Veritas, I have traveled through great peril in many lands to come here, open in the name of the light and of justice!” Slowly, a small door opened and a sleepy face peered out.
“Who’s that? What are you doing knocking at the door at this time of the night? Don’t you know everyone is asleep?” The guard had on a shirt and leggings, but no armor. His sword was lying on the ground a few feet behind him and his spear was leaning against one of the castle walls. “We weren’t expecting visitors today; you’ll have to wait while I go tell Sir George.” With that the man walked away, leaving the door wide open and his weapons where they lay. Sir Veritas walked over to the sword, it’s sheath was scuffed and worn with hard use, but the sword inside was heavily rusted, the lance head was made of iron, and was so dull it would not have pierced paper, let alone the thick, scaly skin of a dragon. Sir Veritas closed the castle door and turned dejectedly to the entrance of the great keep.
He could remember when this was a great and beautiful castle, for Sir Veritas had lived a long time and had seen the world though out many generations of men’s lives. The old Sir George had been a great friend of his, and it was through his influence that he had ruled with great equity and courage. Then one would have seen brazen knights in shinning armor manning every tower and wall, their helms had no visor, but their faces shined like the radiance of the sun. The pendants that had snapped in the breeze had born the likeness of a lion standing over a dragon, full of just rage and fury, while a young child stood in the background safe from all harm. In his day, the old Sir George had sent out brave and noble knights into every corner of the surrounding forest to best the evil beast and desperate men who inhabited them, and everyone returned with sword sheathed in honor and justice. Then peace had prevailed, and the hamlet had prospered…but those days had ended. It was obvious that the new Sir George had none of his father’s wisdom, for he had allowed the land to become lawless and his knights to wear visors.
“You may come and see Sir George, now. He will be waiting in his study; it is the door at the end of the great hall, after you walk past the daze.”
Sir Veritas turned to the door into the keep, then stopping spoke to the youth, “You ought to sharpen your sword and lance, for evil days are upon you and you will have to fight.”
“Evil days,” laughed the youth. “Why look here, old man, I know you are a knight and all, but really. Everyone knows that Sir George’s land is the most beautiful and safe in all the land. You have just spent too much time outside of civilized places.”
Sir Veritas sighed and turned to the keep. It is useless to argue with fools, they will not believe you and choose only to mock. The good knight’s boots thudded on the rock floor of the great hall, and his eyes sought every corner of the dark room. The fire that had burned bright here in former times was now so low that it barely lit the daze, let alone the room. On the walls hung old and rusted armor, shields whose leather was split with age and lack of care, and bows who’s strings looked like they were dry and old. Sir Veritas looked around him in quite despair; a knight that did not protect his weapons would soon cease to be a lord, for the meanest thief could best him. The dust rose in clouds at Sir Veritas’s feet and the sound of snoring came from a few of the tables that were nearest the fire. Sir Veritas walked past the sleeping men and into the lord’s study.
“What do you here, Sir Veritas?” The good Sir George rose from his great chair and turned to look at his guest. His eyes were sunk into a fleshy face and his girth hung before him like a pregnant woman’s womb. “It has been long since you were last in this land.”
“Yes, too long, for in my absence your land has begun to die.”
“Begun to die? Oh rubbish. My land is the best and most beautiful in all the land…everyone knows that.”
“No, Sir George. Your land is not the best or brightest or safest. This night as I rode to your very castle, I was attacked by a band of thieves. They threatened me and sought to take me from my horse, but they had the worst part, for they did not know me or my righteous anger!”
“A band of thieves; please good sir, you try my humor.” Sir George began to laugh. “A band of thieves, you must have mistaken the shadows of the trees, it is easy to do you know, the dark forest is so different from the light.”
“Do shadows bleed; do they scream as your sword pierces their flesh? I killed them, sir, killed them dead as Fafnir, whom Sigurd slew!”
“Fafnir, the dragon of the north? Is it not enough that you taunt me with tales of bandits in my land, you would have me believing in dragons as well. Posh, good sir, you are a fool.”
“Nay, I am no fool, for I am Veritas and long have I walked this great world and often fought and bested evil of all kinds. You have grown fat and lazy and your people are the prey of villainous and hungry men. You have become lax in your duties and truth has fled from your sight. Your visor has blinded you and you live in a world of fantasy…”
“Enough!!” Sir George roared in utter disgust. “Have you come to taunt me in my own land, to call me ten times a fool and cowered? Were it not that knightly codes hold my hand I would have you thrown into prison and tried for your discourtesy. Lesser men would be killed for such offenses!”
“Very well! Kill me if you will! Call your men, have them take me, there is not a one who could withstand a child, let alone a knight. Your men are fools and beggars, unable to draw sword and unwilling to face danger. Kill me? Your men could not kill a sick dog, for their weapons are old and rusted and they are fat off your land and people!”
“Guards! Guards!” Sir George’s cry rang through the night. There was no reply. “Guards!” The sound of shuffling feet could be heard in the corridor and a sleepy face appeared at the door.
“You called?” the man snuffled and blinked in the light of the fire.
“Take this man from my presence at once!” Ordered Sir George. “Send him on his way, for we have no use for him here. He has spoken discourteously to me in my own home, and as my guest!”
The guard looked from Sir George to Sir Veritas, “Now, now, Sir, what’s this he says, ‘spoken discourteously’ to the lord of the castle. Come right this way and well show you out.”
“I’ll not leave unless you compel me to.”
“Please, sir, let’s not be hasty. I’d really hate to do you an injury (or myself for that matter. Don’t you know people get hurt fighting?)”
“If you wish me to leave, make me.” Sir Veritas eyes shown with an inner light and his helm began to shine. With a low fast movement he swung his shield from his back and held it at before him. The great silver background began to shine, so that the hart that graced it stood out strongly. “I am Sir Veritas, and I have come to save you and your land, though you do not recognize that you need me!”
Sir George’s guard stared in fear and awe. “Bloody Hell!” he cried and then sank back against the wall.
“Have you forgotten!?” cried Sir Veritas, “Once this castle shown with the radiance of such knights as I, once the battlements were covered in a light such as mortal eye cannot behold without wonder! Have you forgotten the glory of your father’s castle, the wonders that inhabited it and the peace that awaited all those who came here!? You dare to kick me out, but if I go you will be destroyed by the evil that besets you!”
Sir George looked with indignation on the man who stood before him. “Really, Sir! Your do try my patience! Not only do you mock me and laugh at me, but you insist on scaring my men too?”
“Were your men, men I would not scare them for they would face me with the courage and steadfastness of their forefathers, even if I shined like the noonday sun. Not only so, but they would invite me into their homes and to their tables and they would send their children to learn from me. But you have become fools, each one contented to sleep drunk in the night and have forgotten the just anger and equitable fire of your calling! I will not leave until you have ridden out with me, and seen your land as it is. No visor and no mask, no hiding from the reality that surrounds you. I will force your hand to the sword or surly you will all die in your folly, cut down by a bandit as you sleep.”
“I should like to know just how you think to force me to do anything,” said Sir George, casting a contemptuous glance at his guard who huddled, crying in the corner. “You cannot force me to ride out with you any more than I can force you to leave…at the moment, that is. Until my man gets over his fear…”“We shall see, son of my old friend. Your father learned wisdom at my knee and I will do the same for you.” With that Sir Veritas walked from the study and out into the great hall. He walked through the pillared room till he came to a small door, nearly hidden behind chair in which sat a drunken knight, his rusted sword thrown carelessly at his feet. Through the door was the small chapel; in the old king’s day it had been a clean and neat place, lit by candles and continually visited by knights and honest folk. Now it was dusty and dirty, with the smell of disuse. The stubs of burnt out candles sat where they had expired, ages of dust covering them. Sir Veritas walked to the front and drew his sword, with a slow grace of familiarity he flipped it upside down and stuck the point of the blade between two of the stones in the floor, then he knelt quietly before it. There would be no sleep for him tonight, for just as he guarded his sword and shield above all else, so he looked to all the weapons given him by his Maker at the beginning of time. Steady, without movement or sign of life, he knelt through the long watches of the night, awaiting his King’s orders and the dawning of a new day.

Sir Veritas

I recently attempted to design a history for Sir George, that noble knight of Christian legend. This is the result of that attempt. I am in a slightly "Dickensonian" mood, so I will be posting it as a serial, with one section every two days.

Sir Veritas and the Good Sir George

Part I

Sir George thought himself a brave and honorable knight. He would ride, self-contented through the mire and muck of his land, seeing only happy children and growing fields. He was confident that he was a hero and noble man who had chased away great evils and saved his people from great horrors. His people, however, were not so inspired by the eccentric old man; they all knew him for a fake who rode with his visor down so he would not have to see the squalor in which they lived.

“There goes the fool,” they would mutter to each other, as he rode by. “He carries that sword as though to use it, but is too weak to even draw the rusty blade.” The people lived in danger of bandits and robbers ever day, always wondering when the next blow would fall. They locked their doors every night, and many of them kept old knives and spears by their beds in case of trouble, but Sir George felt that his not drawing his old sword was proof that his land was safe and happy.

“I have not drawn my sword in many years!” he would boast to visiting nobles. “My land is, without a doubt, the safest and most beautiful in all the land.” Now, many of the nobles had no problem believing this for they too wore their visors down and saw through glasses of joy and peace. They easily believed that Sir George really was the noble and strong man he clamed to be.

It so happened that one of the nobles who came to visit Sir George was from a distant land, far on the other side of the known world. His name was Sir Veritas, and unlike his companions he was a candid knight. He refused to wear a visor, but preferred an open helm which would not cloud his vision. He arrived at Sir George’s lands late on a fall evening, in the silence of a scared and worried village. He listened as people bolted their doors and shut out the angry night and its troubled specters. People stared out of small windows at his passing shadow and a few brave souls sought to warn him of the dangers of the night. Sir Veritas, that brave and noble knight, was little afraid of thieves and villains. In truth, he had often fought against great dangers and horrible evils. He had saved his people from a fire breathing dragon and had spent many years in the Holy Land, battling to protect the sacred relics against unfaithful hands.

As the brave Sir Veritas rode up into the fringe of forest that divided the castle from the hamlet he was aware of movements all around him. The world was alive with the shifting forms of men and beast. From out of the dark came the mournful cry of wolves, mixed with the horrible yells of evil men. Now they had seen him, they knew he was there and that he was not one of them. A ghost of a man stepped into the road before him, his hand reaching for the Sir Veritas bridle. His vestige was at one with his occupation, never could one conceive of so tired and hungry a face, or cloths with more rents and patches.

“We’ll just be taken your money from you, good sir.” He said, “and if you co-operate we’ll let you go on and see the old fool in the castle.” Sir Veritas reached a hand down to his sword; his fingers caressed the pommel before sinking down onto the familiar hilt. “You better just do as we say, or else we may be forced to become nasty.” The man’s nasally voice was all the contempt.
“Unhand me, NOW!” Sir Veritas voice was quite but firm. “Your day has come and gone, now release me or face justice.”

“Unhand him, Unhand him? Ho, my dear sir, you seem to forget what the score is! Here I am, and all my men to back me and you demand that I release you? That is rich!” The voice turned to an angry snarl, “Now we’ll see what knights are made of, little enough from what I’ve seen.”

The villain signaled to some unseen men, who were to pull Sir Veritas from his saddle and strip him of his armor and dignity; but before they could reach him he had drawn his shining sword. With the soft clang of metal on leather, it left his side and came to rest upright before his face,

“Know that I am no common noble! Know that you will meet justice today, For I am Veritas, and I will pay you in kind for all your evils!” With that Sir Veritas reared his horse and gave a mighty cry, “Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriam!” The villain staggered back and released the reigns of the horse and Sir Veritas tore through the surrounding men. His sword flashed bright in his hand and his face shown with a fell light. The men sank back toward the forest, but so great was Sir Veritas anger and so fast his arm that not one escaped. Sir Veritas stopped his horse and looked at the dead and dying men around him, his heart aching for the people of the small hamlet…and for the poor blind knight who sat in his castle without any knowledge of the evils of his land.

At last, Sir Veritas turned his horse and rode on toward the castle, his heart dragging with the knowledge that he must bear tidings to the good Sir George that his land was the home of brigands and butchers.

Thoughts after communion

The place I grew up was an anomaly, a desert basin filled with water and all the wild life that accompanies it. The mountains were covered in cactus but the valley itself was crisscrossed by canals that provided the little bit of dry land on which people lived…everything else was swamp. The land itself was alkali, so that the people of the valley scratched out a living of beans, corn and sheep. It was the sheep that most interested me; the sheep that are a living metaphor, created in anticipation of One who would come and be the Lamb of God.

In my few years of life I have had the privilege of being part of numerous agricultural endeavors, including the killing of various types of livestock. We raised rabbits, pigs and chickens and I was able to have a hand in killing all of them at one time or another. Rabbits were easiest, a smack on the back of the head and they were ready to be skinned and dressed for the table. Pigs, on the other hand, squealed and fought like mad unless they were tied up and held still. I can still picture five guys tackling a pig while someone waited to get the knife in its throat. But in all the slaughters I helped with or watched the sheep were different, they were special and horrible in a unique way.

We only kept sheep once because they were more work than the other livestock. The place I grew up in, Hidalgo, has a traditional barbecue that is different from any other. Sheep are slaughtered and skinned, and the carcasses are placed in a hole in the ground where hot rocks and cactus leaves have been laid. The whole thingh cooks in the ground for a day or so until it is tender and juicy. The Bible School we worked at was celebrating a graduation and the installment of a new director, and it was a celebration requiring a barbecue.

We bought the sheep a few weeks before the celebration. There were three of them, their little black faces peeping out of their fluffy wool coats. Of the three sheep one in particular stood out, for it was taller and whiter than the others. It was beautiful and very loving. If you walked up to the corral in which they were kept it would run to greet you and press its little black face against you and tell you how wonderful it was to see you again. It would smile up at you begging for you to run your hand through its fleece and over its little round head.

When the day came to slaughter the sheep, Hermano Agustine, who had cared for the sheep over the last couple of weeks, took a handful of hay and opened the gate of the corral. Out came the sheep, so excited to be out and about, all happy and contented and ready to play. They pranced along behind their friend nibbling at his hand and bumping against his legs. He took them down the path behind the canal and over to the shed behind which we would kill them. He tied them up and then took the prize sheep, the one that was so beautiful and snowy white. He led it behind the shed to where our friend from the sierra, who was doing the slaughtering, waited. Our friend took the lambs head in his hands and pulled it against his leg…and then slipped the knife into its throat.

At the piercing of the knife the lambs eyes widened, not in fear but with an expression of confusion and hurt. “Why? What happened? Why are you doing this?” The blood stained its coat and pooled at its feet…but it remained silent, its eyes begging answers but its mouth shut tight. The hurt in its wide eyes and the expression of confusion were so clear they screamed. “I’ve been your friend. I loved you and I loved it when you came to visit me and ran out hand through my coat. I loved nuzzling you… What happened...? Why…? Wh…?” It’s legs gave way and it sank toward the ground, its eyes blinking as it sank to its knees in the grass. Finally, its head dropped to its side and it lay still. Only a few moments had passed since the knife had pierced its throat, but in those moments a fluffy lamb was slain, a lamb who had done no harm. An innocent lamb whose blood now stained the grass behind the shed.

It is an image I’ll never forget.

Foolish Knights challenge

I really liked Foolish Knight's 140 character story. His concept put me in mind of the flooded fields I drove through this summer (if any of you recall, Iowa was very severly flooded this last summer.) My family in Illinoise and Iowa, some of whom are farmers and all of whom come from farm families, were hit fairly hard by the flooding which destoryed numerous crops.
Anyway, I couldn't help but add onto the farmer and rain theme.

The continual downpour had turned once dry fields into swamps, yellow produce peaking out of ponds. “So much for this year’s crops...Darn.”

A Rant on Cheap Christianity

Over the past few days a number of factors have come together to forcefully hammer home to me the idea that Christianity is so much more than what we've made it. That the church has been pedaling lies and heresies, pretending that the point is to get as many people as possible to stand up in the front of a church.

A coworker of mine recently told me she was struggling with her faith. Her faith was at best nominal; she had stood up in a church service, but since has not really been living in the faith and certainly the fruit of the Spirit is not very visible in her life. She is going through some hard times and she told me she was struggling with her faith because of this. My first response was to say, "that is not how this works. God doesn't just make you happy or make life easy, He promises joy, but it is a joy in the midst of hardship and suffering." But then, as I thought about it I realized that that would probably go against any theology she had heard in her church or anywhere else.

We have prefected our sales pitch for Christ and the damn lie we are selling goes something like this, "Come to Jesus and your life will be good and God will solve all of your problems and you'll be happy all the time." We've sold out the joy of the Lord for a cheep imitation, a happiness that is temporal and unattainable and unlovely. God have mercy on us for making him into a cheep gimmick and lie, a happiness machine who's sole purpose is to make us contented. God forgive us for our despicable habit of forcing Him to meet our needs and pretending His sole purpose is our happiness. Let us reject the heresy that when Christ died He, "thought of me above all." He saved us, yes, and He loves us, yes, but as the Rev. Readhead said, "The chief end of all being is the glory of God." The reason for Christ's incarnation, death and Resurrection is the glory of God, the reason for our existence is the glory of God. We are His people for His glory, He is not our God for our glory.

I am tired...tired of a church that deals in heresies in the attempt to gain numbers. Give me five committed people, people who will follow Christ through hell itself for His honor and glory over five hundred who are simply looking for God to bless them and make them happy. Let us be done! Let us end the sham and the mockery, or do we think God will be mocked now when He was not so long ago? Do we think that He is not the same God who judged His people when they turned away and chased Idols in the land of Canaan? Could it be that we have made God into the alter for our idol of happiness? The abomination is now in our churches and fills our land, it is in the mouths of our TV preachers and in our books and movies, "God exist for your happiness! His whole point is to give you all the good things!"

Don't get me wrong, here. God gives Joy to His people, and every good and precious gift comes from above, but that is not His call to us. It is his promise but His call is vastly different. "Come" he says, "Come and deny yourself, take up your cross and follow me." Follow through the pain of this world through the comfortless nights and weeping days, and I will be your comforter and guide, your strength and help, for My glory!

Ad maiorem Dei gloriam!

The sun peaked over the eastern mountains, its first few rays scouting out the valley before it sent an army of light pouring through the trees and into the heart of the mountainous land. The sunlight was born on waves of wind and its invasive forces tried to find every inch, every corner of clear land.

Deep in the forested valley a man stood behind his cabin, rhythmically chopping wood for his fire. Chop...Chop...stack. Chop...Chop...Stack. He stopped and turned to see the invader come pouring into his clearing, bathing the cabin and all that surrounded it in burnished gold, creating a world of brilliance. His nostrils flared as he tried to take in the wonderful smell of wild and clear places, the cent of pine and oak and ceder, and the musty smell of a dead and growing vegetation. This was the life he loved, what he wanted since his earliest childhood.

The city he had grown up in was beautiful, or so he was told. It was a small city with lots of 'stuff' to do, but he had never loved it. It was so busy, everyone running around as if today were the last day of their lives, everyone in such a hurry to have fun that they were always tired, always weary. He had always longed for something different, to live in the rhythm and pattern of nature. Just as the chopping of wood had a pattern, a natural beat, so to did the life he now lived.

It is true, he did feel bad for his family...he had not had the heart to tell them what he was doing, so instead he had just walked away. He had sent them a post-card from New Brunswick, but that was the last time he had been anywhere near a post office, since then he had simply wandered the forest until he arrived here, at a place he could call home. Here there was silence, he could listen to the quite of for hours, and hear in it the voice of God. He could live in the rhythms of life that were meant to be followed, not rushing to much, yet doing what was needed in its time and season.

"God put man in the garden of Eden!" he liked to say, "not the metropolis of Edenville. If we were supposed to hide from nature in worlds made of wood and stone we would have been put in a world of stone and concrete." It was this philosophy that lead him, this that drew him from the city he had spent his life in and pulled him...no dragged him...out here, into the wilds of Canada.

Thoughts on a Good Friday

He became depravity incarnate. All our grief and all our shame rested on Him. He bore the scars of our wars, the nakedness of our poverty. The good suffered so evil would die, the innocent payed the price for the guilty. His flesh was torn in our murders until his life paid the final price for our rebellion.

Who is God, but the Lord?
Who reigns over all the earth and all the expanses of the universe?
Before the earth was formed, He reigned and before the Universe was created.
Through out all time His justice has shown forth,
His righteousness is beyond question.

The king justly executes those who rebel against him,
Treason's right reward is death,
Yet He showed a mercy beyond comprehension,
He died in the traitors place,
Payed with His own blood the price of our rebellion.

Who is like our God?
What King dies for those who reject Him?
What Monarch pays with their life blood the crimes of enemies?
What have we done to be worthy of such love?

Nothing, for He payed that which should not have been payed.
His stripes healed those who should have died of their disease.
He is worthy, but we are without honor.
He is of greatest worth, but we are but dust.

For this cause we come, and call on His name.
And say, with those who have gone before,
"Now, in my life, may the Lamb receive the just reward for His suffering."

Here sit I, in a chair, before a computer with whirling fans and tiny sparks that carry data from circuit to circuit in an ever expanding chain. The light on my desk is easy to turn on and off and I have no need of hard work to see in the darkness of night. I live in an age of idleness and easy answers, where the push of a button brings us images for our entertainments, food for our consumption and with a few brief actions we can move around the country. I live in a land that is soft and easy, one where I need only expend a minimal amount of energy in order to care for myself; but my heart is not here.

I am too much of a dreamer to love the simple life that I live. I long for ancient days of fell deeds and valiant action, days when brave knights fought for the hands of fair maidens. I am willing to confess to a certain strain of romanticism that hearkens for a time of beauty and courage and honor, a time I know never existed. The stories that have fallen through the cracks of time to carry with them the promise of such ancient yesterdays illuminate my mind like the flames of Mt. Vesuvius. I am drawn into a narrative that shines light onto my existence and that demands from me a specific life, one where failure is no option and death must be sought before a loss of honor.

The tales of this past world, this other land, so foreign from our own, have shaped much of my view of the world. I find myself dreaming of being a knight in shining armour, riding a swift white stallion into the heart of danger and darkness to rescue a fair maiden, a beautiful princess who stands in fear of her life. I know, from some of my female friends, that they continue to dream that one day their knight will appear, drawing them into a beautiful world of justice and peace. I know these dreams for they are the inverse of my own...yet I know a danger in them too.

Some day, if the Lord wills it, I will get married, and it may be that some beautiful woman will stand at the front of a church and picture armour covering my tuxedo. It may be that I will look on her as a fair maiden, beautiful and graceful, and fully holding of all the virtues to be found in womankind. But then, imagine her horror when, a few short months later, she discovers that far from marrying a knight in shining armour, she has tied herself to a foolish boy, dressed in aluminum foil and riding a stick horse, for such she will surely find. And regardless of how wildly I wave my wooden sword in the air, or how firmly my shrill voice pipes defiance at the evils of the world, I know that I am unlikely to ever kill a dragon. And imagine my anger when I discover that far from a perfect and gentle maiden, I have married an independent and willful woman, who has needs and desires of her own. How will my unrealistic view of marriage affect me in days to come, how will it tear apart my soul should I not bring it under my control? How will the myths of the past affect my future?

Human Nature

I walk with weary feet
and constant dread
along the paths of the living
dead.

Who of body and soul
Show no real care
But live for the moment in
despaire.

And having the promise
Of all knowledge
Have eaten of the cursed
tree

And eating have been damned
To always know
But never, never
understand.

A Sad Reality

Although this video does seem to strike a lighter tone it deals a sad reality that Mexico is facing. In the last year over six thousand people (including women and children) have been killed in drug cartel wars. This last January the U.S. Army releised their list of nations most likely to face revolution in the comming year and Mexico was second only to Pakistan. Please be praying for this nation as some people have already begun to say it is a failed state. Pray for our brothers and sisters who are facing an uncertain reality and pray for the governments of both the U.S and Mexico. The movie does not mention it, but most of the militant arms of these drug cartels were trained by Mexican special forces soldiers who switched sides.

Among the many issues that are making it harder for Mexico is the fact that the U.S. insistes on viewing drugs as a supply side issue, rather than dealing with U.S. demand. This in essence puts the burden on Mexico to stop drug traficing, without forcing the U.S. to deal with the issues on our side (i.e. if there is no demand from the U.S. the cartels will no longer be in business.) It is time for the U.S. to stop obsessing over illegal immigrants (many of whom are trying to escape such violence) and begin dealing with our own contribution to the drug and violence problems Mexico is facing. If the U.S. wants to help Mexico we should begin by dealing with US drug demand and US gun sales, as well as the economic problems that tend to make drug running look like a good option.

Story and Reality

I love faerie tales. I love stories and I know that they have deeply impacted my perspective on life and my role in it. One of my favorite stories is "Sir George and the Dragon." I felt the need to post this timeless classic, in my own words. (There was a second version posted earlier, but it needs more work before it should actually appear on line:)

“Sir George was a good knight. He was brave and courageous and he never ran from anything horrible and evil. His people all loved him and they all knew that he would protect them and help them any time evil beast came into his land.
It happened that one day this brave knight was riding across his country and he saw that all the fields were green and growing, and all the trees were full of singing birds, and all the children were playing around their houses, and he said to himself, ‘My land is safe and happy. Perhaps there is another land where people are not safe and happy; maybe there are people who need my help.’ So the good knight put on his shiny armor and picked up his long lance and sharp sword and left his land.
Sir George traveled many days, until at last he came go a great and dark forest. The road he was on lead into this forest and so Sir George, being brave and adventurous, traveled into the forest. For many days he rode through this dark forest, always following the road that went in front of him (for he knew it would be very dangerous to leave the road in such a dark and dreary forest.) He fought many evil and strange monsters and made the forest a safer place for all the animals that lived there, but his goal was to help people, so at last he continued on.
At last the forest began to thin and Sir George noticed a very curious thing, some of the trees were dark and charred as if someone had planted a bon fire right at their base. At first there were only a few trees like this and Sir George thought they were probably just honey trees, but with time he noticed more and more trees that were burned. “Who has been burning this forest?” he wondered. As he left the trees he noticed that many of the fields were burned and that often large strips of land were totally black and full of ash. Now Sir George knew what the problem was, it was obvious that there was an evil dragon bothering these people.
Sir George continued to follow the road, looking for any people who could tell him where the dragon was to be found. At last he came to the gate of a great city and there he met a person.
She was a young woman, hardly even an adult yet. She was dressed in a beautiful red dress with white bow on it and she was very pretty. She was standing outside the city, timidly looking in every direction. Sir George approached the young woman and asked her, “Why are you outside the city? Wouldn’t it be safer to be behind great walls and a thick gate? There is a dragon out here, you know.”
The girl looked up at him and said, “I know, but the dragon has held my fathers people in their city for so many days, and each day he comes and demands a sheep in payment or else he will kill everyone. We finally ran out of sheep, so the dragon has demanded a person. One young maiden must be sent out every day or else we will all be killed.” The young woman was obviously scared, but her voice remained steady as she spoke. “As the princess of the land I thought I should come first. Perhaps if the dragon killed me he would leave the rest of the city alone for a while.”
Sir George looked kindly at the young woman. “Never fear. I am a knight and I have faced many dangers and many evil beasts. I will kill this dragon and you will not have to die.” The little girl smiled sadly at the good knight. “This is a big and evil dragon, he will certainly kill you and then come and destroy the city. It would be safer for you to go into the city.”
Of course Sir George would not hear of this, for he was a brave and good knight, so he told the young woman to lead him to the evil dragon. The girl started walking down the road away from the city. After a few minutes they turned a corner and there, flat across the road, lay the dragon. The sound of Sir George’s horse woke the dragon and he turned his terrible green eyes on them. Sir George lowered his lance and road strait at the evil dragon, calling out to him, “I will not let you terrorize these people any more!” With that Sir George’s lance pierced into the dragon’s thick stomach and pushed into it heart. The dragon fell dead on the road and Sir George returned victoriously to the young woman.
Sir George used the girl’s sash to make a noose for the dragon and the two of them returned to the city, pulling the dragon behind them. Of course, everyone was thrilled to see the princess alive and they were so grateful to Sir George for saving her life. The king asked Sir George to stay in the city and he and the princess got married and ruled the city fairly and wisely.
Today we call the brave knight Saint George because he was so good and kind, and so brave in fighting evil."

ST Patricks Breastplate

Greetings to all. In honor of St. Patrick's day I thought to break with tradition and post something about St. Patrick himself (and not just drinking). Legend has it that this is the prayer St. Patrick wrote before confronting one of the pagan kings of Ireland. The Lord gave him victory and protection.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through the belief in the threeness,
Through the confession of the oneness
Of the Creator of Creation.

I arise today
Through the strength of Christ's birth with his baptism,
Through the strength of his crucifixion with his burial,
Through the strength of his resurrection with his ascension,
Through the strength of his descent for the Judgment Day.

I arise today
Through the strength of the love of Cherubim,
In obedience of angels,In the service of archangels,
In hope of resurrection to meet with reward,In prayers of patriarchs,
In predictions of prophets,
In preaching of apostles,In faith of confessors,
In innocence of holy virgins,
In deeds of righteous men.

I arise today
Through the strength of heaven:
Light of sun, Radiance of moon,
Splendor of fire, Speed of lightning,
Swiftness of wind, Depth of sea,
Stability of earth, Firmness of rock.

I arise today
Through God's strength to pilot me:
God's might to uphold me, God's wisdom to guide me,
God's eye to look before me, God's ear to hear me,
God's word to speak for me, God's hand to guard me,
God's way to lie before me, God's shield to protect me,
God's host to save me
From snares of demons, From temptations of vices,
From everyone who shall wish me ill,
Afar and anear, Alone and in multitude.

I summon today all these powers between me and those evils,
Against every cruel merciless power that may oppose my body and soul,
Against incantations of false prophets, Against black laws of pagandom
Against false laws of heretics, Against craft of idolatry,
Against spells of witches and smiths and wizards,
Against every knowledge that corrupts man's body and soul.

Christ to shield me today
Against poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against wounding,
So that there may come to me abundance of reward.

Christ with me, Christ before me,
Christ behind me, Christ in me,
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down,
Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me, Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the threeness,
Through confession of the oneness,
Of the Creator of Creation.

Shire

I have made a discovery, one that makes me happy and that keeps me humble. I am simple! I love the simple and straightforward, like a good book on a rainy day it fills me with joy and hope. I love to sit quietly in the evening with a cup of tea and listen the silence of a sleeping house. For all that I enjoy of the great towers of Gondor with their deep learning and their elegant beauty they are cold as stone. I am more at home in the Shire, with it cheerful pubs and the smoking of pipes in the twilight with old friends. The green and domestic call to a deep level of my heart in a way that the exalted and ancient cannot.

I think this is why I am being led away from academics and away from the life I thought I would lead as a professor of history; and toward the ministry. The ministry is human, it is interested in people and their lives, it seeks to comfort and help those who are hurting. It's business is with the domestic, with the everyday lives of the people it seeks to serve. The extraordinary comes and is dealt with, but most of life is about the mundane and simple, the things we take for granted until they disappear. One of my favorite parts of "Gilead" by Marilynne Robinson, is when Rev. Ames goes to fix the faucet of one of his congregants. It is simple, a small help to an elderly woman, yet it is as much a ministry as comforting the family of a child who has died.

Academics must concern itself with the profound and the expansive. It is always seeking the New World, the idea or thought that has not been expressed. At their best the academic is seeking to help people, but doing so through the book and the pen, through the great learning of ivory towers. History, by and far, deals with the extraordinary. It is interested in the great events. There is little room for a cup of tea in an old farm house or a visit to a neighbor to talk of the rain. History is the study of us as a group, the milestones we have faced and the changes we have experienced, and it is important. History illuminates the world in which we live, it opens the door for us to see each other in a context greater than our own, but by and far people live outside of recorded history. The great deeds of the century pale beside the petty fights and simple pleasures that God has given us, the ones that fill our lives.

"Agape love is radically different. It involves a revolution in outlook without parallel in history, a complete transvaluation of all human understandings of love. It is to be unconditionally committed to the well-being of another. It is sacrificial, seeks not its own, is gracious and forgiving, spontaneous and joyful. It is empowering, not controlling. It is directed to both the good and the evil - it is love for one's enemies and one's friends. It is redemptive, not punitive. It seeks to win one's enemies, not destroy them. It seeks peace, not violence, in the name of redeeming the situation." Paul G. Hiebert "Transforming Worldviews"

This is the love that God showed us. He looked on rebels and traitors and then forgave us for our rebellion and payed the price we should have paid. He chose to restore us to Himself, rather than destroy us as He had every right to do. He looked on the most wretched and foolish of men and then said, "I love you and want you to follow me." We cannot even begin to imagine such compassion, such extravagant love that would bear the cross and shame for rebellious humans.

Such a love is beyond my comprehension, let alone my reach. I can hardly bring myself to think of another person without thinking of them in relation to my desires and needs, let alone unconditionally commit myself to their well-being at the expense of my own. What does it mean to have Agape love, to empower even ones enemies and to identify with the most down trodden and abused of people. Surely it means more than just feeling bad that bad things happen, or feeling sorry when we see someone sleeping on the street. It means giving without receiving and paying any price to love another.

I am not sure I am capable of loving as God calls us to. In fact I am sure I am incapable of loving with the extravagance of agape love. As C.S. Lewis said, "I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through. I want God, you, all friends simply to serve my turn. I talk of love as a scholars parrot may talk Greek, but self-imprisoned always end where I began." How then can God ask us to love our neighbor as ourselves or call us to love our enemies with this incredible love? It can only happen as God works in our lives, transforming us into the image of His Son, Jesus Christ. Yet we must be willing to act, willing to step out in faith and touch the lives around us. Heibert suggests that prayer is an offering of oneself to the work one is praying for. As I ask God to teach me how to love others I know He will push me into places I do not want to be.

Relationship and Process

I suppose it is a natural part of being a modern American that I expect everything to happen immediately. I can buy a book off Amazon and have it shipped next day so that I only have to wait a few hours for it to arrive at my door, and I can make a pizza in a matter of minutes with a microwave. All in all, I can expect everything to happen with this simple immediacy of modern life...except for the things that are most important to me.

It is so hard for me to recognize the reality that relationships are a process and require work and time and dedication. I want them to be fast, something that comes like my new book: in 24 hours and all tied up in a neat little package. I don't want to have to deal with people, they're messy and tend to disagree with me (the nerve of them!) I don't want to have to wait and certainly I never want to have to work at it. I want to drift through life without expending any more energy than absolutely necessary, yet enjoy friendships and relationships that really require time. But that is not how life works. Life and relationships require work and effort and sometimes they require passing through pain and anger and conflict.

Conflict is hard for me. I have spent most of my life avoiding it as though it were a deadly plague. I don't like fighting, arguing, or even the idea that their could be a disagreement, in fact I would rather let go of my dearest rights than be in conflict with another person. This makes relationships especially hard. If there are no relationships there are no conflicts, so my little solitary world is a wonderfully peaceful place to live, but it is also incredibly lonely. It is taking a long time for me to understand that I need to step out into the conflict and pain, that the payoff is worth the price.

An Ironic God

I was struck today by how ironical strait forward the Bible can be about major stories. I have always noticed this when I read in I and II Chronicles and I and II Kings, but I was really nearly laughing as I read today. I had to retell the story to myself, and even then the irony and humor of it was inescapable.

Here we have this king, Ahaziah, who is not a good king at all. He somehow manages to fall through the latices in his house and hurt himself (I suppose it might have been common to fall through latices at the time, but it does sound a little strange.) Anyway, being as he was evil and rather stupid he decided to send messengers to Ekron to ask Baal-Zebub if he would get better or not. Well, his messengers never actually get to Ekron because on the way they are met by Elijah who asks them, "Is there no God in Israel that you send to Baal-Zebub to see if you'll get better or not? You blew it, now your going to die!"

The messenger, being a wiser man then the king, doesn't bother to continue to Ekron, he just turns around and goes back to the king and says, "We met this guy in the wilderness and he said you would die." It appears the messenger didn't actually find out Elijah's name because the king has to ask him to describe this guy who said he would die. So the messenger describes him as this man wearing a furry coat with a leather belt. (sounds like such an obvious good source!) and the king says, "Oh, I know who that is, that is Elijah the Tishbite." (I really haven't read up much on Isreali fashion in this era, but I suppose it is safe to say that hairy coats were not in vough).

Anyway, the king doesn't like Elijah very much (mostly because he tends to tell people things they don't want to hear), so he sends fifty men to arrest him. Now, the fifty men come to a hill and Elijah is sitting on the top of the hill looking down. Picture it, this man in a hairy coat with a leather belt sitting up on top of this hill watching fifty men come to arrest him. The captain of the fifty yells, "Hey you! Man of God! We are here to arrest you!" And Elijah, from his mountain top yells back, "If I'm a man of God you will be consumed by fire!" Immediately the entire fifty men were burnt to ash. Someone goes back to the silly and evil king and tells him, "Hey King. Hows it going? ... You know those fifty, well of course you know the fifty men you sent to arrest Elijah. It seems they kinda had an accident. It seems they all got burned up..." Now, one would suppose that if your fifty men were burnt up by fire from the sky you might realize it was a bad idea to arrest this fellow, but did Ahaziah do this? No. He immediately order another fifty men to go and arrest Elijah.

So off march the next fifty till they come to this hill, and there is Elijah, sitting on top in his hairy coat and leather belt. So this captain yells up, "Hey, You, Man of God. The King wants us to arrest you!" What does Elijah do? He yells back, "If I am a man of God you will all be burnt by fire!" And again, whoosh, there go all the kings men into little piles of ash. SO... once again some poor person has to tell the king that his army has been burnt by falling fire. Now, if one is silly and foolish and doesn't catch on very fast they can often ignore fifty men being burned by fire from the sky. But this was more serious, it was one hundred men burned up by this prophet. The King immediately says, "Send another fifty men to go and arrest this prophet. (I suppose as an aside he might have said, I can keep doing this all day!)" So another fifty men all say goodbye to their wives and sweathearts and go walking up to the hill that Elijah is still sitting on.

Now, this captain was much smarter than the others, so instead of yelling up about Elijah being a man of God, he throws himself on the ground and says, "Please don't kill us!!!" So God tells Elijah, "It's okay, you can go with this guy." So Elijah comes down off the mountain and goes with the fifty men to see the king, and he tells the king (again) that he is going to die. Sure enough, the king dies a few days later......

Wow, what a story!