Theandria

The pain of Christmastide
God Confined
Echos forever in Bethlehem skies

Creation touches mystery,
God became Man
Hope of human history
In fragile baby's hand

Man who walks with footprints
God who bleeds and cries
Man who speaks as Carpenter
God who suffers -- dies

One God commands eternity
Was bound in time and space
Now God of cross and gravestone
Now God with human face

(I was issued a challenge to write a poem on the concept of the theandric union, the concept that Jesus was both very God and very Man. I hope you like it.)

Suffocation

The world is sometimes too much for me... I know that there are those who say that "it's all small stuff." However, I find it hard to look on creation and believe that. Lately, I've had this odd feeling like I am walking through mud up to my knees. Everything is so much harder than it should be. Everything remains just out of reach except for a constant lonely/empty kind of feeling. Every breath seems like too much trouble.

I more afraid of the dark than usual...

About Writing

Sometimes the best writing is just that... written. You start out with no purpose but you desire to write something... it may have been weeks since you have written last but you cannot live under the writers block any longer. So you write... chipping away at the blank page until finally you begin to see your writing take shape... eventually you come to a conclusion... or a nice phrase that sets you off on a whole nother (good word) direction. You write a story... you capture a moment, and then from that flawlessly depicted moment you know that your writers block is over, and you have reached a new summit... As for my promised study of Matthew, expect to see it on Monday along with a nice exposition on diets.

Better Poetry

You should be expecting within the next few days the beginning work on my study of Matthew. However, in the meantime, I would like to talk about poetry... specifically, better poetry.

Brother Killian McDonnell OSB, is a monk who wrote a wonderful book of poetry entitled "Swift, Lord, You are Not." In it he has a poem that tells how there are too many poets in the world. I often return to this poem because it speaks to my own fear that my voice is not original enough.

Funny thing about poets though... they are all fearful of vulnerability. The fact that you write your world down means that someone might read it... and if they read it... they might see you. That is a fearful thing but not as terrifying as the fact that after reading, they might consider your writing not worth the time it took to read.

Perhaps there needs to be some distance between the writing and the writer. Perhaps space between poem and poet... but I don't know. All I do know is... I desire a better poetic voice. I desire and pray for better poetry.

Gracious God, give me a staff to carry, and a harp all my own. AMEN