The Sorrow of God

Thanks in no small measure to the publication of Rob Bell's book, Love Wins, there is a renewed conversation about God's love. To many "spiritual but not religious" people (including, I think, Bell), the love is God is the primary thing about Him. And I am not about to disagree. But it is not the only thing that makes God desirable or trustworthy. To me, He loves us because He loves justice, truth and righteousness, and hates sin. There are many scriptural testimonies to that end, but for a concise overview, I recommend the New Testament letter of First John.

Geoffrey Anketell Studdert Kennedy was an Anglican priest and poet, who volunteered for chaplain duty in World War I. During that time, he wrote a powerful poem about an oft-ignored characteristic of God: His sorrow over sin. When we think of God's love, do we think of His sorrow in seeing His only son "lyin' there all uv a 'eap, Wi' the blood soaken over 'is 'ead"?

It is neither narrow-minded nor hard-hearted to say that all must come to God through Jesus Christ. It is just. It is true. It is righteous. In His sorrow is His love.

THE SORROW OF GOD
A SERMON IN A BILLET

YES, I used to believe i' Jesus Christ, 
      And I used to go to Church, 
But sin' I left 'ome and came to France, 
      I've been clean knocked off my perch. 
For it seemed orlright at 'ome, it did, 
      To believe in a God above 
And in Jesus Christ 'Is only Son, 
      What died on the Cross through Love. 
When I went for a walk o' a Sunday morn 
      On a nice fine day in the spring, 
I could see the proof o' the living God 
      In every living thing. 
For 'ow could the grass and the trees grow up 
      All along o' their bloomin' selves? 
Ye might as well believe i' the fairy tales, 
      And think they was made by elves. 
So I thought as that long-'aired atheist 
      Were nubbat a silly sod, 
For 'ow did 'e 'count for my Brussels sprouts 
      If 'e didn't believe i' God? 
But it ain't the same out 'ere, ye know. 
      It's as different as chalk fro' cheese, 
For 'arf on it's blood and t'other 'arf's mud, 
      And I'm damned if I really sees 
'Ow the God, who 'as made such a cruel world, 
      Can 'ave Love in 'Is 'eart for men, 
And be deaf to the cries of the men as dies 
      And never comes 'ome again.
- 132 -
Just look at that little boy corporal there, 
      Such a fine upstanding lad, 
Wi' a will uv 'is own, and a way uv 'is own, 
      And a smile uv 'is own, 'e 'ad. 
An hour ago 'e were bustin' wi' life, 
      Wi' 'is actin' and foolin' and fun; 
'E were simply the life on us all, 'e were, 
      Now look what the blighters 'a done. 
Look at 'im lyin' there all uv a 'eap, 
      Wi' the blood soaken over 'is 'ead, 
Like a beautiful picture spoiled by a fool, 
      A bundle o' nothin'--dead. 
And it ain't only 'im--there's a mother at 'ome, 
      And 'e were the pride of 'er life. 
For it's women as pays in a thousand ways 
      For the madness o' this 'ere strife. 
And the lovin' God 'E looks down on it all, 
      On the blood and the mud and the smell. 
O God, if it's true, 'ow I pities you, 
      For ye must be livin' i' 'ell. 
You must be livin' i' 'ell all day, 
      And livin' i' 'ell all night. 
I'd rather be dead, wiv a 'ole through my 'ead, 
      I would, by a damn long sight, 
Than be livin' wi' you on your 'eavenly throne, 
      Lookin' down on yon bloody 'cap 
That were once a boy full o' life and joy, 
      And 'earin' 'is mother weep. 
The sorrows o' God must be 'ard to bear 
      If 'E really 'as Love in 'Is 'eart, 
And the 'ardest part i' the world to play 
      Must surely be God's part. 
And I wonder if that's what it really means, 
      That Figure what 'angs on the Cross. 
I remember I seed one t'other day 
      As I stood wi' the captain's 'oss.
- 133 -
I remember, I thinks, thinks I to mysel', 
      It's a long time since 'E died, 
Yet the world don't seem much better to-day 
      Then when 'E were crucified. 
It's allus the same, as it seems to me, 
      The weakest must go to the wall, 
And whether e's right, or whether e's wrong, 
      It don't seem to matter at all. 
The better ye are and the 'arder it is, 
      The 'arder ye 'ave to fight, 
It's a cruel 'ard world for any bloke 
      What does the thing as is right. 
And that's 'ow 'E came to be crucified, 
      For that's what 'E tried to do. 
'E were allus a-tryin' to do 'Is best 
      For the likes o' me and you. 
Well, what if 'E came to the earth to-day, 
      Came walkin' about this trench, 
'Ow 'Is 'eart would bleed for the sights 'E seed, 
      I' the mud and the blood and the stench. 
And I guess it would finish 'Im up for good 
      When 'E came to this old sap end, 
And 'E seed that bundle o' nothin' there, 
      For 'E wept at the grave uv 'Is friend. 
And they say 'E were just the image o' God. 
      I wonder if God sheds tears, 
I wonder if God can be sorrowin' still, 
      And 'as been all these years. 
I wonder if that's what it really means, 
      Not only that 'E once died, 
Not only that 'E came once to the earth 
      And wept and were crucified? 
Not just that 'E suffered once for all 
      To save us from our sins, 
And then went up to 'Is throne on 'igh 
      To wait till 'Is 'eaven begins.
- 134 -
But what if 'E came to the earth to show, 
      By the paths o' pain that 'E trod, 
The blistering flame of eternal shame 
      That burns in the heart o' God? 
O God, if that's 'ow it really is, 
      Why, bless ye, I understands, 
And I feels for you wi' your thorn-crowned 'ead 
      And your ever pierced 'ands. 
But why don't ye bust the show to bits, 
      And force us to do your will? 
Why ever should God be suffering so 
      And man be sinning still? 
Why don't ye make your voice ring out, 
      And drown these cursed guns? 
Why don't ye stand with an outstretched 'and, 
      Out there 'twixt us and the 'Uns? 
Why don't ye force us to end the war 
      And fix up a lasting peace? 
Why don't ye will that the world be still 
      And wars for ever cease? 
That's what I'd do, if I was you, 
      And I had a lot o' sons 
What squabbled and fought and spoilt their 'ome, 
      Same as us boys and the 'Uns. 
And yet, I remember, a lad o' mine, 
      'E's fightin' now on the sea, 
And 'e were a thorn in 'is mother's side, 
      And the plague o' my life to me. 
Lord, 'ow I used to swish that lad 
      Till 'e fairly yelped wi' pain, 
But fast as I thrashed one devil out 
      Another popped in again. 
And at last, when 'e grew up a strappin' lad, 
      'E ups and 'e says to me, 
"My will's my own and my life's my own, 
      And I'm goin', Dad, to sea."
- 135 -
And 'e went, for I 'adn't broke 'is will, 
      Though God knows 'ow I tried, 
And 'e never set eyes on my face again 
      Till the day as 'is mother died. 
Well, maybe that's 'ow it is wi' God, 
      'Is sons 'ave got to be free; 
Their wills are their own, and their lives their own, 
      And that's 'ow it 'as to be. 
So the Father God goes sorrowing still 
      For 'Is world what 'as gone to sea, 
But 'E runs up a light on Calvary's 'eight 
      That beckons to you and me. 
The beacon light of the sorrow of God 
      'As been shinin' down the years, 
A-flashin' its light through the darkest night 
      O' our 'uman blood and tears. 
There's a sight o' things what I thought was strange, 
      As I'm just beginnin' to see 
"Inasmuch as ye did it to one of these 
      Ye 'ave done it unto Me." 
So it isn't just only the crown o' thorns 
      What 'as pierced and torn God's 'ead; 
'E knows the feel uv a bullet, too, 
      And 'E's 'ad 'Is touch o' the lead. 
And 'E's standin' wi' me in this 'ere sap, 
      And the corporal stands wiv 'Im, 
And the eyes of the laddie is shinin' bright, 
      But the eyes of the Christ burn dim. 
O' laddie, I thought as ye'd done for me 
      And broke my 'eart wi' your pain. 
I thought as ye'd taught me that God were dead, 
      But ye've brought 'Im to life again. 
And ye've taught me more of what God is 
      Than I ever thought to know, 
For I never thought 'E could come so close 
      Or that I could love 'Im so.
- 136 -
For the voice of the Lord, as I 'ears it now, 
      Is the voice of my pals what bled, 
And the call of my country's God to me 
      Is the call of my country's dead.

(For those who would prefer a less Cockney English version of the poem, go here. For more of Kennedy's poetry, go here.)

Prayer

You have 

wisdom and knowledge 

that is beyond 

our ability, 

insight and understanding 

beyond our grasp, 

love and mercy 

greater than our possibility 

of even refusing it. 

You see far

into a future 

that will outlast us all. 

So we cannot ask 

what You are doing. 

Nor would it do 

any good, really, 

to ask why, 

or what if... . 

All we can say, really... is 

please.

My Writing Bucket List

Writers of the world, if you’ve got a story, I want to hear it. I promise it will follow me to my last breath. My soul will dance with pleasure, and it’ll change the quality of all my waking hours. You will hearten me and brace me up for the hard days as they enter my life on the prowl. I reach for a story to save my own life. Always. It clears the way for me and makes me resistant to all the false promises signified by the ring of power. In every great story, I encounter a head-on collision with self and imagination. --Pat  Conroy, My Reading Life.

   Thanks, Pat. I will do my best. Although I don't think it will be a novel.

   That was (and still mostly is) always my wish. Much of that desire I do owe to Mr. Conroy, whose novels always inspire me, despite his being, in his own words, "showy with adjectives" and "overreliant on adverbs." Though I sometimes feel his lengthy and florid novels are death by a thousand paper cuts, it is nevertheless a sweet death. I can appreciate them all the more because I have been trying to write a novel for over six years. I have close to 80,000 words towards a story that is going nowhere currently, even in my mind. My characters are thoroughly unruly and disobedient, and the story arc has bent so tight I fear that like an overtorqued steel spring it may break and kill me.

   So, I have decided to look at other venues for writing. I have crafted a bucket list of writing goals I want to accomplish before I die (or my novel slays my ambition). My goal in each case is to have them published in some reputable (and perhaps even financially renumerative) fashion. Here they are:

   1. Write a short story. I do believe I can write a 5,000 to 10,000 word story that would be worth reading, although a shorter one would be harder. In fact, I like the notion of a story collection, where all the stories have a connection, probably implicit (five people who picked up a pack of hotel matches in 1968 Scottsdale, Arizona, for example).

   2. Publish a poem. It is true that "prose is words in their best order, poetry is the best words in the best order." While Eliot's The Wasteland doesn't bring to mind economy, it most certainly is. Of all the written arts, poetry comes closest to both painting and music, where in both you can be as realistic or as impressionist as you dare. Poetry slams sometimes have the same effect as strolling through a museum. Reading poetry aloud is just like listening to live music—there is joy in the silence between notes, and the decaying echo from the back wall. My poetry (two examples here and here) tends to be on the realistic side, but who knows? I would love to see my words in The Atlantic, or The New Yorker, but I must realistically think more towards regional poetry magazines and reviews.

   3.Publish an essay. I love researching. I love interviewing. I simply love observing. Put those three passions to pen and paper and I think an essay would probably be my best shot for my first publication. I have in mind a story from my home town about a supposedly true story of a grave that may, or may not, contain the person named on the tombstone. It's full of politics, family love and hillbilly justice.

   4. Write a song. In my late teens and early twenties I played guitar constantly, and wrote a few songs that I would perform at weddings or just for friends. I still remember a couple of them, and they were decent enough. And while I am becoming accustomed again to the guitar after a three decade estrangement, I think I could write a meaningful, appealing lyric and place it in a competent piece of music. My personal tastes lean towards singer-songwriters, like James Taylor and Jackson Browne, or contemporary songsmiths such as Pierce Pettis, Jason Mraz or Patty Griffin. I fear some of my production may even fall into the "country" category, but it's a hot market. I prefer the term "Americana," the songs of people and places and hopes and dreams. If I can ship off two or three songs a year to publishers, maybe one will find an ear.

   5. Write a screenplay. This fascinates me. And the only thing that encourages me in this venture is that I have seen many TV episodes and movies where I have been able to anticipate the next line, or the next scene, with uncanny accuracy. And there are times when I have obviously had an idea that I am sure would have worked better that what ended up in the script. I would probably feel most comfortable with drama; maybe some short morality tale, that ties up in the end with a few threads still loose.

   6. Write a novel. Again, it's a wish more than an obsession at present. I feel like the fellow who has sketched his dream home on the back of a napkin, and who knows how to use a hammer and a saw. The rest seems daunting to me.

   7. Write my obituary. I can almost assure myself that this might actually find itself published, if there are any local newspapers left.
—Wayne S.

Days

20,455
days ago
I became the first child of John and Joyce,
the first grandchild of James and Mildred
and Croley and Hazel.

14,874
I found myself a sinner
in need of a Savior.

13,711
well over half my life
I have loved one above all others.

11,976
we started keeping house.

10,917
I became a father
(and again at 10,418, 9650 and 8424).

A mere 86 days ago
I became a grandfather.

And I count each day passed worthwhile
and the days to come
surely less than I wish
yet more than I deserve

as gifts.

So teach us to number our days,
That we may present to You a heart of wisdom.
Psalm 90:12.

The Blood Flows

Here is a video I created for our Good Friday service at Roswell Community Church. It is based on a poem I wrote several years ago. The music is "Prelude" from John Michael Talbot's The Lord's Supper.

So you want to be a writer?

so you want to be a writer?



if it doesn’t come bursting out of you

in spite of everything,

don’t do it.

unless it comes unasked out of your

heart and your mind and your mouth

and your gut,

don’t do it.

if you have to sit for hours

staring at your computer screen

or hunched over your

typewriter

searching for words,

don’t do it.

if you’re doing it for money or

fame,

don’t do it.

if you’re doing it because you want

women in your bed,

don’t do it.

if you have to sit there and

rewrite it again and again,

don’t do it.

if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,

don’t do it.

if you’re trying to write like somebody

else,

forget about it.



if you have to wait for it to roar out of

you,

then wait patiently.

if it never does roar out of you,

do something else.



if you first have to read it to your wife

or your girlfriend or your boyfriend

or your parents or to anybody at all,

you’re not ready.



don’t be like so many writers,

don’t be like so many thousands of

people who call themselves writers,

don’t be dull and boring and

pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-

love.

the libraries of the world have

yawned themselves to

sleep

over your kind.

don’t add to that.

don’t do it.

unless it comes out of

your soul like a rocket,

unless being still would

drive you to madness or

suicide or murder,

don’t do it.

unless the sun inside you is

burning your gut,

don’t do it.



when it is truly time,

and if you have been chosen,

it will do it by

itself and it will keep on doing it

until you die or it dies in you.



there is no other way.



and there never was.



Charles Bukowski, in sifting through the madness for the word, the line, the way: New Poems

Goodness

Click image to enlarge.

"Goodness," from Journey: New and Selected Poems, 1969-1999, by Kathleen Norris. Photo collage image by Wayne S.

Candles

Click image to enlarge.

Goodbye, Mary

 

Mary Travers 1936-2009

We lost an amazing voice today. Mary Travers was the beautiful alto voice of Peter, Paul and Mary. She was my first crush as a singer (the second, Linda Ronstadt), and she has remained a favorite all my adult life. With long, bright blonde hair and bangs, she was modishly beautiful, yet sang decidedly un-modish folk music. She was not only a voice in music, but in social justice as well who, along with her bandmates, worked tirelessly for civil rights in the 1960s and beyond. She was also an accomplished and published poet. On her post-PPM solo album, entitled Mary, she read one of her poems:

Erika with the windy yellow hair

Dancing through the day or moping by the stair

My joy to know my Erika with the windy yellow hair



Yesterday I met her running home from school

Her face was tear stained, she didn't know I knew

But I do, I do



But today she had a song to sing and a poem she knew

And with a kiss and a hug she just dashed away, she had things to do

I do too, I do too



Lithesome child, I turn with care

When viewing you on step or stair

All my hope and love for you,

My Erika of the windy yellow hair 

 

 

You will be missed, Mary. All my hope and love for you, our Mary, with the windy yellow hair.--W.S.

Evidence of Life

Poetry is just the evidence of life. 

If your life is burning well,  

poetry is just the ash.  

- Leonard Cohen

Morning Prayer

I thank you for the noise

my dew-wetted shoes  

make on the linoleum.  



I thank you for the smell 

of coffee  

and the promise therein.  



I thank you for my soul  

both content 

and restless.  



All proof of life.  



WS

Why I Write

I used to

 

write to remember

as if

by putting words on paper

I could at some point in the

future reconstitute flesh, heat, light

like adding water to orange juice concentrate

or thawing out an embryo. But

I found

I could often recognize

only the words written about a thing

with no more depth than the typeface

on an old-fashioned business card.

I could not remember the thing itself.

Certainly not the deep beneath the words.

Then

 

for a while I wrote to chronicle,

with spare and lean prose

drawing fine-line portraits of what

I had seen and heard

with the India ink of consonant and vowel.

But as

my eyes grow dim and

motes swim across my vision

like diaphanous fairies in the slanting

evening light through the blinds,

as the voice of a friend and the

burble of a mountain brook

begin to sound disturbingly similar

to my failing ears, I find that it seems

pointless

to write of things

which my senses will tell me are not so.

So now

 

I write not what I remember,

or see, or hear.

Now

 

I write

to be

at least for a moment

in the deepest part of me

   the prophecy in a sun breaking over the sea

   the love in the salty tasting skin of her neck

   the persistence of a full moon scudding between clouds

   the eloquence of a tear rolling down a young boy’s face

No longer

 

depending on my synapses,

my eyes, my ears

victims of a life lived

with a continuous diminuendo.

WS

On diverse paths

We can all follow God 

But He will not lead us all 

to the same place— 

there is no place big enough. 

Nor will He lead us all 

in the same direction— 

there is no road wide enough. 

Nor will He lead us all 

at the same pace— 

there is no faith consistently strong enough.

We can all follow God 

    to the place of His choosing, 

      whether crowded or no; 

    by the way of His choosing, 

      whether well-worn or no; 

    at the pace of His choosing, 

      whether fast or slow. 

     W. S.

On God, On Me

God is everything I am not

Yet I am not nothing  

Just nothing without Him. 



W. S.