Your Self

Photo: Kinga Cichewicz on Unsplash

"You like telling your stories,” said my friend in that coffee shop, “because you’re secure enough in your current self, the self that’s firmly established in a godly life, that you can laugh at your mistakes, even the dark moments, while pointing to the light you stand in right now and say, ‘See? if I made it, so can you.”

~ Elizabeth Bristol

From Mary Me: One Woman’s Incredible Adventure with God

Namaste

The god in me does not honor

the god in you. The god in you

murdered me once, and once

was more than enough.

So the god in me, adept

at keeping my nature warm

and inspired to love the benign,

now prefers the chilly air

of indifference, something picked up

like a virus from the most vicious

of mortals. The god in me

regards the god in you

as suspect, though sad

to say, it wasn’t always so.

There were the generous days

in the beginning, when every word

was made flesh. In the beginning

the gods in us were content

to let us go on

behaving like perfect mortals,

which is to say imperfectly,

which is to say with our tenderness

fully intact: the good kind

that let us gladly undress

our trepidations, and pleasure

our solitude into a blissful

oblivion; and the bad kind—

invisible woundings

no compliment or hot kiss,

no confession of the amorous

could soothe for long.

And then, when the mortals we were

had done enough to remind us

that to be mortal is to be susceptible

to the secret agenda, the cruel caprice,

the soft but eviscerating voice—

“at the mercy of a nuance”—

the god in you decided it was time

to act. A dark god, in need

of a human sacrifice, smoothly turning your back

on the earnest and their pathetic pleas.

So the god in me, no stranger to the aberrant

and the abhorrent, now has no choice

but to respond in kind. A pity, really,

since it has been the dream

of so many gods to find themselves

in some quiet room, the burden of power

slipped off and scattered

like clothes across the floor, the light

of late afternoon a kind of benediction,

and everywhere the gratitude

for the privilege of feeling

almost human.

~ Thomas Centolella 

Religions

Source: Speechfoodie

Religions are, by definition, metaphors, after all: God is a dream, a hope, a woman, an ironist, a father, a city, a house of many rooms, a watchmaker who left his prize chronometer in the desert, someone who loves you—even, perhaps, against all evidence, a celestial being whose only interest is to make sure your football team, army, business, or marriage thrives, prospers, and triumphs over all opposition. Religions are places to stand and look and act, vantage points from which to view the world. So none of this is happening. Such things could not occur. Never a word of it is literally true.

~ Neil Gaiman

Conversation with God

Credit: Unsplash - Pixabay

Life is a cosmic grab-bag. At this moment, somewhere in the world, someone is losing a child, skiing down a mountain, having an orgasm, getting a haircut, lying on a bed of pain, singing on a stage, drowning, getting married, starving in a gutter. In the end, aren't we all that same person? An aeon is a thousand million years, and an aeon ago every atom in our bodies was a part of a star. Pay attention to me, God. We are all a part of your universe, and if we die, part of your universe dies with us.

~ Sidney Sheldon

Conversation with God

Credit: Unsplash - Pixabay

Life is a cosmic grab-bag. At this moment, somewhere in the world, someone is losing a child, skiing down a mountain, having an orgasm, getting a haircut, lying on a bed of pain, singing on a stage, drowning, getting married, starving in a gutter. In the end, aren't we all that same person? An aeon is a thousand million years, and an aeon ago every atom in our bodies was a part of a star. Pay attention to me, God. We are all a part of your universe, and if we die, part of your universe dies with us.

~ Sidney Sheldon

What is the law?

Source: Favim

“A Roman came to Rabbi Gimzo the Water Carrier, and asked, “What is this study of the law that you Jews engage in?” and Gimzo replied, “I shall explain. There were two men on a roof, and they climbed down the chimney. One’s face became sooty. The other’s not. Which one washed his face?” 

The Roman said, “That’s easy, the sooty one, of course.” 

Gimzo said, “No. The man without the soot looked at his friend, saw that the man’s face was dirty, assumed that his was too, and washed it.” 

Cried the Roman, “Ah ha! So that’s the study of law. Sound reasoning.” 

But Gimzo said, “You foolish man, you don’t understand. Let me explain again. Two men on a roof. They climb down a chimney. One’s face is sooty, the other’s not. Which one washes?” 

The Roman said, “As you just explained, the man without the soot.” 

Gimzo cried, “No, you foolish one! There was a mirror on the wall and the man with the dirty face saw how sooty it was and washed it.” 

The Roman said, “Ah ha! So that’s the study of law! Conforming to the logical.” 

But Rabbi Gimzo said, “No, you foolish one. Two men climbed down the chimney. One’s face became sooty? The other’s not? That’s impossible. You’re wasting my time with such a proposition.” 

And the Roman said, “So that’s the law! Common sense.” 

And Gimzo said, “You foolish man! Of course it was possible. When the first man climbed down the chimney he brushed the soot away. So the man who followed found none to mar him.” 

And the Roman cried, “That’s brilliant, Rabbi Gimzo. Law is getting at the basic facts.” 

And for the last time Gimzo said, “No, you foolish man. Who could brush all the soot from a chimney? Who could ever understand all the facts?” 

Humbly the Roman asked, “Then what is the law?” 

And Gimzo said quietly, “It’s doing the best we can to ascertain God’s intention, for there were indeed two men on a roof, and they did climb down the same chimney. The first man emerged completely clean while it was the second who was covered with soot, and neither man washed his face, because you forgot to ask me whether there was any water in the basin. There was none.”

~ James A. Michener 

What is the law?

Source: Favim

“A Roman came to Rabbi Gimzo the Water Carrier, and asked, “What is this study of the law that you Jews engage in?” and Gimzo replied, “I shall explain. There were two men on a roof, and they climbed down the chimney. One’s face became sooty. The other’s not. Which one washed his face?” 

The Roman said, “That’s easy, the sooty one, of course.” 

Gimzo said, “No. The man without the soot looked at his friend, saw that the man’s face was dirty, assumed that his was too, and washed it.” 

Cried the Roman, “Ah ha! So that’s the study of law. Sound reasoning.” 

But Gimzo said, “You foolish man, you don’t understand. Let me explain again. Two men on a roof. They climb down a chimney. One’s face is sooty, the other’s not. Which one washes?” 

The Roman said, “As you just explained, the man without the soot.” 

Gimzo cried, “No, you foolish one! There was a mirror on the wall and the man with the dirty face saw how sooty it was and washed it.” 

The Roman said, “Ah ha! So that’s the study of law! Conforming to the logical.” 

But Rabbi Gimzo said, “No, you foolish one. Two men climbed down the chimney. One’s face became sooty? The other’s not? That’s impossible. You’re wasting my time with such a proposition.” 

And the Roman said, “So that’s the law! Common sense.” 

And Gimzo said, “You foolish man! Of course it was possible. When the first man climbed down the chimney he brushed the soot away. So the man who followed found none to mar him.” 

And the Roman cried, “That’s brilliant, Rabbi Gimzo. Law is getting at the basic facts.” 

And for the last time Gimzo said, “No, you foolish man. Who could brush all the soot from a chimney? Who could ever understand all the facts?” 

Humbly the Roman asked, “Then what is the law?” 

And Gimzo said quietly, “It’s doing the best we can to ascertain God’s intention, for there were indeed two men on a roof, and they did climb down the same chimney. The first man emerged completely clean while it was the second who was covered with soot, and neither man washed his face, because you forgot to ask me whether there was any water in the basin. There was none.”

~ James A. Michener 

XII The laws of God, the laws of man

Source: FaithGateway

The laws of God, the laws of man,

He may keep that will and can;

Not I: let God and man decree

Laws for themselves and not for me;

And if my ways are not as theirs

Let them mind their own affairs.

Their deeds I judge and much condemn,

Yet when did I make laws for them?

Please yourselves, say I, and they

Need only look the other way.

But no, they will not; they must still

Wrest their neighbour to their will,

And make me dance as they desire

With jail and gallows and hell-fire.

And how am I to face the odds

Of man's bedevilment and God's?

I, a stranger and afraid

In a world I never made.

They will be master, right or wrong;

Though both are foolish, both are strong.

And since, my soul, we cannot fly

To Saturn nor to Mercury,

Keep we must, if keep we can,

These foreign laws of God and man.

~ A. E. Housman

XII The laws of God, the laws of man

Source: FaithGateway

The laws of God, the laws of man,

He may keep that will and can;

Not I: let God and man decree

Laws for themselves and not for me;

And if my ways are not as theirs

Let them mind their own affairs.

Their deeds I judge and much condemn,

Yet when did I make laws for them?

Please yourselves, say I, and they

Need only look the other way.

But no, they will not; they must still

Wrest their neighbour to their will,

And make me dance as they desire

With jail and gallows and hell-fire.

And how am I to face the odds

Of man's bedevilment and God's?

I, a stranger and afraid

In a world I never made.

They will be master, right or wrong;

Though both are foolish, both are strong.

And since, my soul, we cannot fly

To Saturn nor to Mercury,

Keep we must, if keep we can,

These foreign laws of God and man.

~ A. E. Housman

The Conundrum of the Workshops

When the flush of a newborn sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold,   

Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mold;   

And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,   

Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: “It’s pretty, but is it Art?”   

   

Wherefore he called to his wife and fled to fashion his work anew— 

The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;   

And he left his lore to the use of his sons—and that was a glorious gain   

When the Devil chuckled: “Is it Art?” in the ear of the branded Cain.   

   

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,   

Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: “It’s striking, but is it Art?” 

The stone was dropped by the quarry-side, and the idle derrick swung,   

While each man talked of the aims of art, and each in an alien tongue.   

   

They fought and they talked in the north and the south, they talked and they fought in the west,

Till the waters rose on the jabbering land, and the poor Red Clay had rest—   

Had rest till the dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,  

And the Devil bubbled below the keel: “It’s human, but is it Art?”   

   

The tale is old as the Eden Tree—as new as the new-cut tooth—   

For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;   

And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,   

The Devil drum on the darkened pane: “You did it, but was it Art?”  

   

We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,   

We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yolk of an addled egg,   

We know that the tail must wag the dog, as the horse is drawn by the cart;   

But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: “It’s clever, but is it Art?”   

   

When the flicker of London’s sun falls faint on the club-room’s green and gold,  

The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mold—   

They scratch with their pens in the mold of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start   

When the Devil mutters behind the leaves: “It’s pretty, but is it art?”   

   

Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the four great rivers flow,   

And the wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago, 

And if we could come when the sentry slept, and softly scurry through,   

By the favor of God we might know as much—as our father Adam knew.

~ Rudyard Kipling

The Conundrum of the Workshops

When the flush of a newborn sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold,   

Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mold;   

And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,   

Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: “It’s pretty, but is it Art?”   

   

Wherefore he called to his wife and fled to fashion his work anew— 

The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;   

And he left his lore to the use of his sons—and that was a glorious gain   

When the Devil chuckled: “Is it Art?” in the ear of the branded Cain.   

   

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,   

Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: “It’s striking, but is it Art?” 

The stone was dropped by the quarry-side, and the idle derrick swung,   

While each man talked of the aims of art, and each in an alien tongue.   

   

They fought and they talked in the north and the south, they talked and they fought in the west,

Till the waters rose on the jabbering land, and the poor Red Clay had rest—   

Had rest till the dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,  

And the Devil bubbled below the keel: “It’s human, but is it Art?”   

   

The tale is old as the Eden Tree—as new as the new-cut tooth—   

For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;   

And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,   

The Devil drum on the darkened pane: “You did it, but was it Art?”  

   

We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,   

We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yolk of an addled egg,   

We know that the tail must wag the dog, as the horse is drawn by the cart;   

But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: “It’s clever, but is it Art?”   

   

When the flicker of London’s sun falls faint on the club-room’s green and gold,  

The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mold—   

They scratch with their pens in the mold of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start   

When the Devil mutters behind the leaves: “It’s pretty, but is it art?”   

   

Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the four great rivers flow,   

And the wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago, 

And if we could come when the sentry slept, and softly scurry through,   

By the favor of God we might know as much—as our father Adam knew.

~ Rudyard Kipling

No one but us

Credit: Pablo Manriquez 

There were no formerly heroic times, and there was no formerly pure generation. There is no one here but us chickens, and so it has always been: A people busy and powerful, knowledgeable, ambivalent, important, fearful, and self-aware; a people who scheme, promote, deceive, and conquer; who pray for their loved ones, and long to flee misery and skip death. It is a weakening and discoloring idea, that rustic people knew God personally once upon a time—or even knew selflessness or courage or literature—but that it is too late for us. In fact, the absolute is available to everyone in every age. There never was a more holy age than ours, and never a less. There is no less holiness at this time—as you are reading this—than there was the day the Red Sea parted, or that day, in the thirtieth year, in the fourth month, on the fifth day of the month, as Ezekiel was a captive by the river Chebar, when the heavens opened and he saw visions of God. 

~ Annie Dillard 

No one but us

Credit: Pablo Manriquez 

There were no formerly heroic times, and there was no formerly pure generation. There is no one here but us chickens, and so it has always been: A people busy and powerful, knowledgeable, ambivalent, important, fearful, and self-aware; a people who scheme, promote, deceive, and conquer; who pray for their loved ones, and long to flee misery and skip death. It is a weakening and discoloring idea, that rustic people knew God personally once upon a time—or even knew selflessness or courage or literature—but that it is too late for us. In fact, the absolute is available to everyone in every age. There never was a more holy age than ours, and never a less. There is no less holiness at this time—as you are reading this—than there was the day the Red Sea parted, or that day, in the thirtieth year, in the fourth month, on the fifth day of the month, as Ezekiel was a captive by the river Chebar, when the heavens opened and he saw visions of God. 

~ Annie Dillard 

Poem: Who Am I?

Source: Lawyers.com

Who am I? They often tell me
I stepped from my cell’s confinement
Calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
Like a Squire from his country house.

Who am I? They often tell me
I used to speak to my warders
Freely and friendly and clearly,
As thought it were mine to command.

Who am I? They also tell me
I bore the days of misfortune
Equably, smilingly, proudly,
like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I myself know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
Struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat,
Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
Tossing in expectations of great events,
Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all.

Who am I? This or the Other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
And before myself a contemptible woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army
Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?

Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am thine!

~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Poem: Who Am I?

Source: Lawyers.com

Who am I? They often tell me
I stepped from my cell’s confinement
Calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
Like a Squire from his country house.

Who am I? They often tell me
I used to speak to my warders
Freely and friendly and clearly,
As thought it were mine to command.

Who am I? They also tell me
I bore the days of misfortune
Equably, smilingly, proudly,
like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I myself know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
Struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat,
Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
Tossing in expectations of great events,
Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all.

Who am I? This or the Other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
And before myself a contemptible woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army
Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?

Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am thine!

~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Quote: Highlighters

Source: psdGraphics

We do need to be born again, since Jesus said that to a guy named Nicodemus. But if you tell me I have to be born again to enter the Kingdom of God, I can tell you that you have to sell everything you have and give it to the poor, because Jesus said that to one guy, too. But I guess that's why God invented highlighters, so we can highlight the parts we like and ignore the rest.

~ Shane Claiborne

Quote: Highlighters

Source: psdGraphics

We do need to be born again, since Jesus said that to a guy named Nicodemus. But if you tell me I have to be born again to enter the Kingdom of God, I can tell you that you have to sell everything you have and give it to the poor, because Jesus said that to one guy, too. But I guess that's why God invented highlighters, so we can highlight the parts we like and ignore the rest.

~ Shane Claiborne

Poem: HOLY HOLY WHOMEVER,

Source: Unknown/Favim

From the start, I carried you

in my pocket and not in my heart. I want to forget that

my body is borrowed from dirt.

And heaven is no higher than my own library.

I realize I'm dreaming again but it's real: the lights

are getting weirder like a disco ball. I cut out

my heart with a dollar bill. Some unseen force pushes us

like carts across the supermarket parking lot.

I know what the steam rising from my tea means,

and the mingling plumes from two chimneys:

the body ruins everything. The stars are stuck in dark.

The moon becomes an inky green. In some dreams

you paint a self-portrait with your wings.

And the most beautiful thing you do is disappear

each time an hour turns into a year.

I'm looking for a god that comes like a rod

of lightning or a sudden airhorn,

a bee sting, anything other than the usual

bones beneath our scars.

~ C. Dylan Bassett

Poem: HOLY HOLY WHOMEVER,

Source: Unknown/Favim

From the start, I carried you

in my pocket and not in my heart. I want to forget that

my body is borrowed from dirt.

And heaven is no higher than my own library.

I realize I'm dreaming again but it's real: the lights

are getting weirder like a disco ball. I cut out

my heart with a dollar bill. Some unseen force pushes us

like carts across the supermarket parking lot.

I know what the steam rising from my tea means,

and the mingling plumes from two chimneys:

the body ruins everything. The stars are stuck in dark.

The moon becomes an inky green. In some dreams

you paint a self-portrait with your wings.

And the most beautiful thing you do is disappear

each time an hour turns into a year.

I'm looking for a god that comes like a rod

of lightning or a sudden airhorn,

a bee sting, anything other than the usual

bones beneath our scars.

~ C. Dylan Bassett

The God-Haunted

Source: baobab.com

Truth is like a baobab tree; one person’s arms cannot embrace it. ~ African proverb

In the year after the towers fell, I envisioned the Lord seated upon his throne
       on an African horizon.

Spine straight, hands draped over the throne’s stone arms, he sat poised
       on the world’s edge—a 60-watt bulb the height of a mountain—
       as my mind worked like an acorn to resorb a thousand-year-old oak.

No robe filled the savannah speckled with granite boulders and thorn scrubs,
       but two baobabs raised bare, crooked limbs like wings
       unable to cover their turgid bodies.

Two myths: the devil plucked the baobab,
       thrust it roots up, crown in the ground without reason;
       the baobab, envious of the palm’s height, the fire tree’s red flower,
       the fig’s fruit, asked God for all three. God responded like the devil,
       only with reasons.

In existence, God is amputation. We come to live with towering pains
       of something that was, but isn’t. We come to live severed
       of fingers to enlace, hands to take, arms to interlock.

~ J. D. Hughes