How does the following passage relate to existentialism?
"It was as if the boy had already divined what his senses and intellect had not encompassed yet: that doomed wilderness whose edges were being constantly and punily gnawed at by men with plows and axes who feared it because it was wilderness, men myriad and nameless even to one another in the land where the old bear had earned a name, and through which ran not even a mortal beast but an anachronism indomitable and invincible out of an old dead time, a phantom, epitome and apotheosis of the old wild life which the little puny humans swarmed and hacked at in a fury of abhorrence and fear like pygmies about the ankles of a drowsing elephant;- the old bear, solitary, indomitable, and alone; widowered childless and absolved of all mortality- old Priam reft of his old wife and outlived all his sons." THE BEAR, by William Faulkner
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Grassroots Existentialism: APRIL 20, 2010
"Life is here, we live it, we endure it, and we do so without any knowledge of how we have become." From "The Revolting Test", April 19, 2010
For more reflections on the Meaningfully Absurd read the following poem and comment regarding its use of existentialist ideas...
Under the Sun
I have yet to find myself
For I was born under the sun.
Amongst every living creature
I have no sense of purpose.
Alive in awe of wind and fire
I have yet to prove myself
For I am a new born.
The worn out burden of the planet
The existential put to the test.
Destruction of life proves much easier than creation
I have yet to end myself
For I have too much pride.
Look down at the sea of creation
And know it was me.
Gaze at the power of nature harnessed
And know it was me.
See the extermination of my worldly brethren
And know it was me.
For I was born under the sun
And I’m here to stay
For more reflections on the Meaningfully Absurd read the following poem and comment regarding its use of existentialist ideas...
Under the Sun
I have yet to find myself
For I was born under the sun.
Amongst every living creature
I have no sense of purpose.
Alive in awe of wind and fire
I have yet to prove myself
For I am a new born.
The worn out burden of the planet
The existential put to the test.
Destruction of life proves much easier than creation
I have yet to end myself
For I have too much pride.
Look down at the sea of creation
And know it was me.
Gaze at the power of nature harnessed
And know it was me.
See the extermination of my worldly brethren
And know it was me.
For I was born under the sun
And I’m here to stay
Friday, July 17, 2009
Quotations from Wendell Berry
• We have lived by the assumption that what was good for us would be good for the world. We have been wrong. We must change our lives, so that it will be possible to live by the contrary assumption that what is good for the world will be good for us. . . We must recover the sense of the majesty of the creation and the ability to be worshipful in its presence. For it is only on the condition of humility and reverence before the world that our species will be able to remain in it.
o "A Native Hill"
I AM NOT SUGGESTING, of course, that everybody ought to be a farmer or a forester. Heaven forbid! I am suggesting that most people now are living on the far side of a broken connection, and that this is potentially catastrophic. Most people are now fed, clothed and sheltered from sources toward which they feel no gratitude and exercise no responsibility. There is no significant urban constituency, no formidable consumer lobby, no noticeable political leadership, for good land-use practices, for good farming and good forestry, for restoration of abused land, or for halting the destruction of land by so-called “development”.
We are involved now in a profound failure of imagination. Most of us cannot imagine the wheat beyond the bread, or the farmer beyond the wheat, or the farm beyond the farmer, or the history beyond the farm. Most people cannot imagine the forest and the forest economy that produced their houses and furniture and paper; or the landscapes, the streams and the weather that fill their pitchers and bathtubs and swimming pools with water. Most people appear to assume that when they have paid their money for these things they have entirely met their obligations.
Money does not bring forth food. Neither does the technology of the food system. Food comes from nature and from the work of people. If the supply of food is to be continuous for a long time, then people must work in harmony with nature.
o "A Native Hill"
I AM NOT SUGGESTING, of course, that everybody ought to be a farmer or a forester. Heaven forbid! I am suggesting that most people now are living on the far side of a broken connection, and that this is potentially catastrophic. Most people are now fed, clothed and sheltered from sources toward which they feel no gratitude and exercise no responsibility. There is no significant urban constituency, no formidable consumer lobby, no noticeable political leadership, for good land-use practices, for good farming and good forestry, for restoration of abused land, or for halting the destruction of land by so-called “development”.
We are involved now in a profound failure of imagination. Most of us cannot imagine the wheat beyond the bread, or the farmer beyond the wheat, or the farm beyond the farmer, or the history beyond the farm. Most people cannot imagine the forest and the forest economy that produced their houses and furniture and paper; or the landscapes, the streams and the weather that fill their pitchers and bathtubs and swimming pools with water. Most people appear to assume that when they have paid their money for these things they have entirely met their obligations.
Money does not bring forth food. Neither does the technology of the food system. Food comes from nature and from the work of people. If the supply of food is to be continuous for a long time, then people must work in harmony with nature.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Heraklitean River: Thomas Merton, Henry Sams, & Mary Ellen Chase
At St. Augustine’s House: June 29, 2009
I am sitting under a gazebo at this monastery, having taken shelter here from the intermittent rain. Not far away, two men are speaking in very un-monastic tones about vegetables in the garden. They have big hats, and are interested in everything they see. They walk on under the tall trees with the wind tossing the high branches and unsettling the big hats.
Earlier, among the musty volumes in the monastery’s library, I discovered a book, The Psalms for the Common Reader, by Mary Ellen Chase. That patrician-sounding name rang a bell for me… my father’s collaborator on a college text book? Could it be the same person? I thought Dad’s book was published in the 1950’s, and the one in my hands came out in 1962, so it is plausible she is one and the same. In it she quotes Heraclitus as saying, “God is winter and summer, war and peace, light and darkness, bread and hunger.” This, she writes, could be understood as summarizing the psalms.
Oddly, Heraclitus is also mentioned in the other book I had picked up in the monastic library, this one by Thomas Merton and titled, Raids on the Unspeakable. It is in the form of a daily journal, and the entry for June 26 reads as follows:
“The Heraklitean River
In the Republic of Plato there was already no place for poets and musicians, still less for dervishes and monks. As for the technological Platos who think they now run the world we live in, they imagine they can tempt us with banalities and abstractions. But we can elude them merely by stepping into the Heraklitean river, which is never crossed twice.
When the poet steps into that ever-moving river, poetry itself is born out of the flashing water. In that unique instant, the truth is manifest to all who are able to receive it.
No one can come near the river unless he walks on his own feet. He cannot come there carried in a vehicle.
No one can enter the river wearing the garments of public and collective ideas. He must feel the water on his skin. He must know that immediacy is for naked minds only, and for the innocent.
Come, dervishes: here is the water of life: Dance in it.”
Earlier, Father Richard had related an improbable anecdote concerning some store bought minnows that he had been given to “keep in the refrigerator.” Fearful for their survival, he carried the container of minnows through the woods to a small pond on the edge of the monastery property, and there released them. This was told as prelude to a lament regarding the number of mosquitoes he had encountered along the way.
The Heraklitean river is carried, precariously, by the bug-beset monk through a world of flux and change to its rendezvous with a wetland.
The minnows rejoice at their deliverance.
Dad- I am a minnow, born along by currents barely understood. Have I brushed against your academic colleague with the solemn-sounding name? Would she be interested in these thoughts and written words? You, she, Thomas Merton- are all gone, carried off by the current along with the displaced minnows.
I am seeing it all as one- you, she, Merton- a Heraklitean river sweeping us all along- I, perhaps, no longer a minnow but a momentary point of reference, a semi-solid object under this gazebo, like the twelve stones piled up in the Jordan at Joshua’s command, something for the river to come up against and flow around, a place of encounter, consciousness, and commentary- is this anything significant, noteworthy, intelligible? Or is it just random, flakey, the ringing in the ears of an aging man who misses his dad, his sons, his rivers?
Jonathan: go ahead and lament the lost moments and lost loves, the red sunset on Lake Chaplain with James and David in the boat, the red air and water, the red and black river you are stepping into even now, rowing through, carried forward with the surge of oar-strokes, writing, breathing, with Henry Sams and Mary Ellen Chase- did either of them ever hear of Thomas Merton?
Perhaps not- but they all knew of Heraclitus, and of the Psalms.
And now we have all heard these rumors, spread by minnows, and released by monks.
I am sitting under a gazebo at this monastery, having taken shelter here from the intermittent rain. Not far away, two men are speaking in very un-monastic tones about vegetables in the garden. They have big hats, and are interested in everything they see. They walk on under the tall trees with the wind tossing the high branches and unsettling the big hats.
Earlier, among the musty volumes in the monastery’s library, I discovered a book, The Psalms for the Common Reader, by Mary Ellen Chase. That patrician-sounding name rang a bell for me… my father’s collaborator on a college text book? Could it be the same person? I thought Dad’s book was published in the 1950’s, and the one in my hands came out in 1962, so it is plausible she is one and the same. In it she quotes Heraclitus as saying, “God is winter and summer, war and peace, light and darkness, bread and hunger.” This, she writes, could be understood as summarizing the psalms.
Oddly, Heraclitus is also mentioned in the other book I had picked up in the monastic library, this one by Thomas Merton and titled, Raids on the Unspeakable. It is in the form of a daily journal, and the entry for June 26 reads as follows:
“The Heraklitean River
In the Republic of Plato there was already no place for poets and musicians, still less for dervishes and monks. As for the technological Platos who think they now run the world we live in, they imagine they can tempt us with banalities and abstractions. But we can elude them merely by stepping into the Heraklitean river, which is never crossed twice.
When the poet steps into that ever-moving river, poetry itself is born out of the flashing water. In that unique instant, the truth is manifest to all who are able to receive it.
No one can come near the river unless he walks on his own feet. He cannot come there carried in a vehicle.
No one can enter the river wearing the garments of public and collective ideas. He must feel the water on his skin. He must know that immediacy is for naked minds only, and for the innocent.
Come, dervishes: here is the water of life: Dance in it.”
Earlier, Father Richard had related an improbable anecdote concerning some store bought minnows that he had been given to “keep in the refrigerator.” Fearful for their survival, he carried the container of minnows through the woods to a small pond on the edge of the monastery property, and there released them. This was told as prelude to a lament regarding the number of mosquitoes he had encountered along the way.
The Heraklitean river is carried, precariously, by the bug-beset monk through a world of flux and change to its rendezvous with a wetland.
The minnows rejoice at their deliverance.
Dad- I am a minnow, born along by currents barely understood. Have I brushed against your academic colleague with the solemn-sounding name? Would she be interested in these thoughts and written words? You, she, Thomas Merton- are all gone, carried off by the current along with the displaced minnows.
I am seeing it all as one- you, she, Merton- a Heraklitean river sweeping us all along- I, perhaps, no longer a minnow but a momentary point of reference, a semi-solid object under this gazebo, like the twelve stones piled up in the Jordan at Joshua’s command, something for the river to come up against and flow around, a place of encounter, consciousness, and commentary- is this anything significant, noteworthy, intelligible? Or is it just random, flakey, the ringing in the ears of an aging man who misses his dad, his sons, his rivers?
Jonathan: go ahead and lament the lost moments and lost loves, the red sunset on Lake Chaplain with James and David in the boat, the red air and water, the red and black river you are stepping into even now, rowing through, carried forward with the surge of oar-strokes, writing, breathing, with Henry Sams and Mary Ellen Chase- did either of them ever hear of Thomas Merton?
Perhaps not- but they all knew of Heraclitus, and of the Psalms.
And now we have all heard these rumors, spread by minnows, and released by monks.
Ramblings re Holy Week, 2009
MAUNDY THURSDAY…Pastor Manisha’s sermon speaks of the drastic intimacy Jesus seeks with us…she urges us not to shy away as he draws near to us to wash our feet… as I kneel to wash the feet of my two companions I am aware that these are not just random feet here in front of me, they come with stories I know well… the first pair belongs to one of our youth with whom I went to New York on the J2A Pilgrimage last summer… I remember how these feet could not walk by any homeless street person without stopping while a conversation took place and some of their owner’s small amount of money shared… the other feet are attached to a young man who, a few years ago, was suffering from an ominous blood disorder that defied diagnosis or prognosis…I help to wash their feet and the familiar music washes over me…
When we sing to God in heaven/We shall make such harmony/Born of all we’ve known together/Of Christ’s love, and agony.
GOOD FRIDAY- music, once again, with Colin Davis’ group singing Lift me up/ Turn me around/ I was lost/ Now I’m found… our own parishioners speak with humanity and humor about their own experience of Christ’s suffering and death… one speaks of an uncle who lost his wife and two daughters over a very short period of time, yet found the strength to keep his faith and hope alive in spite of it… another speaker talked about his uncles, father, and grandmother, and their self-giving love taken for granted by those on whom it was bestowed… “giants”, he called them… “giants” in gentleness, generosity, and faith…as I look around, I behold a churchful of such giants… yet this awareness does not make me feel small, it makes me feel lifted up, as if invisible uncles were supporting me on either side.
EASTER VIGIL… The Gospel read in darkness, lit only by two small candles…“And very early on the first day of the week…the [three women] went to the tomb…” and what they found there fills us with dread and amazement and an abiding hopefulness that we can barely put into words, so we just whack on bells and gongs until our arms grow tired and lights in the church all come on at once to reveal a dazzling panorama of flowers and candles and gleaming silver… and Chase, three years old, comes forward to present himself for baptism… “Do you renounce Satan,” inquires Pastor Manisha, “and all the powers of wickedness that rebel against God.” “I eenoss them,” Chase replies. “Do you turn to Jesus Christ and accept him as your Savior?” Chase is obviously thinking about something else, and there is a pause as he gazes up at the ceiling before looking Pastor Manisha in the eye and saying, “I do.”
EASTER SUNDAY… Trumpets! Beethoven! Throngs of small children! More trumpets! I move to the pulpit to the tones of a majestic fanfare… What can I possibly say to fulfill such grand expectations? Nothing… it has already been said, and sung, and acted out, and lived.
You and I are the sermon, the promise, and the hope. We are also the roadblock, the detour, and the heavy stone rolled against the tomb. But God’s love perseveres in loving us and teaching us to love. Christ has risen! And so have we.
Love,
Jonathan+
When we sing to God in heaven/We shall make such harmony/Born of all we’ve known together/Of Christ’s love, and agony.
GOOD FRIDAY- music, once again, with Colin Davis’ group singing Lift me up/ Turn me around/ I was lost/ Now I’m found… our own parishioners speak with humanity and humor about their own experience of Christ’s suffering and death… one speaks of an uncle who lost his wife and two daughters over a very short period of time, yet found the strength to keep his faith and hope alive in spite of it… another speaker talked about his uncles, father, and grandmother, and their self-giving love taken for granted by those on whom it was bestowed… “giants”, he called them… “giants” in gentleness, generosity, and faith…as I look around, I behold a churchful of such giants… yet this awareness does not make me feel small, it makes me feel lifted up, as if invisible uncles were supporting me on either side.
EASTER VIGIL… The Gospel read in darkness, lit only by two small candles…“And very early on the first day of the week…the [three women] went to the tomb…” and what they found there fills us with dread and amazement and an abiding hopefulness that we can barely put into words, so we just whack on bells and gongs until our arms grow tired and lights in the church all come on at once to reveal a dazzling panorama of flowers and candles and gleaming silver… and Chase, three years old, comes forward to present himself for baptism… “Do you renounce Satan,” inquires Pastor Manisha, “and all the powers of wickedness that rebel against God.” “I eenoss them,” Chase replies. “Do you turn to Jesus Christ and accept him as your Savior?” Chase is obviously thinking about something else, and there is a pause as he gazes up at the ceiling before looking Pastor Manisha in the eye and saying, “I do.”
EASTER SUNDAY… Trumpets! Beethoven! Throngs of small children! More trumpets! I move to the pulpit to the tones of a majestic fanfare… What can I possibly say to fulfill such grand expectations? Nothing… it has already been said, and sung, and acted out, and lived.
You and I are the sermon, the promise, and the hope. We are also the roadblock, the detour, and the heavy stone rolled against the tomb. But God’s love perseveres in loving us and teaching us to love. Christ has risen! And so have we.
Love,
Jonathan+
Monday, August 18, 2008
On Pilgrimage with St. Stephen's Youth: Among the Amish
In the latter part of July, 2008, I was privileged to accompany St. Stephen’s J2A Youth Pilgrimage. Along with 12 high school youth and 3 other adults, we traveled to the Amish country in Pennsylvania, the site of the Episcopal Church’s founding in Pennsylvania, the cathedral Church of St. John the Divine in New York City, and St. Paul’s Chapel at the 9-11 site. What follows are some observations regarding the two days we spent as the guests of Amish farmers in the vicinity of Intercourse, PA.
There is a kind of sweetness that hangs about the gatherings of these gentle people, and a restrained dignity that is evident even in the young, barefooted children. Their fields and animals are carefully tended to and, in full summer, at the height of vitality and health. Their houses are unadorned but immaculately clean. Their hospitality is generous but offered with an eye to the priority of work. They laugh often, but not, apparently, at church.
At church, the men and boys sit on one side and the women and girls on the other. When bidden to pray, the entire congregation rises (rather alarmingly) as one body and kneels backwards in the pews, with foreheads pressed down upon the benches. When invited to sing, however, alarm gives way to four-part harmony, and the sweetness returns to flood the gathering like the smell of new-mown hay. The women’s clear, unified voices carry the main tune, while the men’s growly bass, accented by a few tenors, follows along behind. It is heartbreakingly beautiful, reminiscent of the “shape-note” tradition in the southern USA. At several points my voice broke and I thought of heaven, of passing over into a strange yet welcoming place where unknown songs become instantly familiar, like melodies from some unremembered dream, or infancy.
The resemblance to heaven was diminished, however, on the many occasions where one of the worship leaders (all male) would remind us of grim justice of God and the eternal consequences of failing to fully accept the gift of salvation. The main preacher (chosen by the congregation from among their own membership) spoke at length about the “unacceptable offerings” that misguided Christians bring to God. These included such thing as guitar music, cell phones, divorce, and immodest dress (especially for women). The only “acceptable offering” is the inward surrender of one’s soul to Christ, evidenced outwardly by obedience to the community’s standards of dress and behavior. Had these been “Old Order” Amish the list would have included the driving of automobiles, but this church was part of a “reformed” group that worships together in English in a church building, rather than in “High German” and in people’s homes. They also drive cars and undertake mission work in places as far away as Romania.
It is disconcerting to find a kind of spiritual ferocity lurking just beneath the surface of this gentle community. I long to reach out and connect with them, celebrate a spiritual solidarity with them, but it is clear that I am an unacceptable ally. Like so many other fundamentalists, the only valid story for them seems to be one that is told in their own accent, by someone wearing clothes just like theirs, and adhering to the same unquestioned certainties.
In this respect the Amish and conservative Mennonites resemble some of the Anglo-Catholics I met in England, as well as many evangelicals in this country. The same could be said of Muslim extremists, and some secular radicals. I wonder, how can any version of Puritanism know if their particular interpretation is correct? They can’t all be right. And if God’s will is so plainly discernable, why are there so many different varieties of Amish and Mennonites? Yet in everyday practice, there seems to be an overarching unity among all the Plain People. It is only when religion enters in that the barriers come up. What a shame.
Our principle guide was an inspired advocate for the Amish/Mennonite way of life, but when asked if any members of their community ever became doctors, he told us that “hospitals and medical schools are not considered a suitable environment for Christians.” Yet this is a community that readily takes advantage of hospitals and advanced medical technology when an emergency arises. But is it not inherently risky to follow Christ into the world? Indeed, following Christ will bring us to places far more “risky” from a spiritual standpoint than a hospital. To hold back from the world, to sanitize one’s discipleship from any possible contamination is, first of all, impossible, and even more, contrary to the gospel. In catholic Christianity, God is understood as one who reaches out from the purity of heaven to share the vulnerability of human life in the world. Discipleship, even in its most extreme monastic forms, seeks to recapitulate this redemptive engagement, undertaken on behalf of the world God so loved.
It is true, of course, that a community with porous boundaries and diverse occupations will lack the cohesiveness and solidarity that are the cornerstone of Amish life. But would it necessarily lack the sweetness, and the gentleness, and the simplicity? Those qualities are, I believe, gifts of the Spirit, not the results of strictly enforced rules and boundaries.
Despite the contradictions, these Plain People have something that is essential for others to understand. They can help us see how we are being enslaved by idolatrous forces of greed and violence. They can teach us how to rely more upon each other and our local economies, and how to seek rational limits to our consumption and our misuse of the environment. They provide an example of a loving, supportive community in which children can grow and flourish. They can show us how to “live simply, so that others may simply live.”
The future is likely to show that human beings cannot go on expanding their economies without restraint. It is likely to show that we must become more cooperative, less violent, and more in harmony with our environment if we are to avoid a descent into chaos. As this becomes more evident, we may have to reorganize ourselves into simpler, more sustainable forms of community. Should that time come, we may find ourselves looking to the Amish and Mennonites for prototypes, as well as to Native American tribes and to monastic communities. Each of these provides an alternative model to the hypercompetitive, self-indulgent, addictive, violent forms of social organization that predominate in our world today.
There is a kind of sweetness that hangs about the gatherings of these gentle people, and a restrained dignity that is evident even in the young, barefooted children. Their fields and animals are carefully tended to and, in full summer, at the height of vitality and health. Their houses are unadorned but immaculately clean. Their hospitality is generous but offered with an eye to the priority of work. They laugh often, but not, apparently, at church.
At church, the men and boys sit on one side and the women and girls on the other. When bidden to pray, the entire congregation rises (rather alarmingly) as one body and kneels backwards in the pews, with foreheads pressed down upon the benches. When invited to sing, however, alarm gives way to four-part harmony, and the sweetness returns to flood the gathering like the smell of new-mown hay. The women’s clear, unified voices carry the main tune, while the men’s growly bass, accented by a few tenors, follows along behind. It is heartbreakingly beautiful, reminiscent of the “shape-note” tradition in the southern USA. At several points my voice broke and I thought of heaven, of passing over into a strange yet welcoming place where unknown songs become instantly familiar, like melodies from some unremembered dream, or infancy.
The resemblance to heaven was diminished, however, on the many occasions where one of the worship leaders (all male) would remind us of grim justice of God and the eternal consequences of failing to fully accept the gift of salvation. The main preacher (chosen by the congregation from among their own membership) spoke at length about the “unacceptable offerings” that misguided Christians bring to God. These included such thing as guitar music, cell phones, divorce, and immodest dress (especially for women). The only “acceptable offering” is the inward surrender of one’s soul to Christ, evidenced outwardly by obedience to the community’s standards of dress and behavior. Had these been “Old Order” Amish the list would have included the driving of automobiles, but this church was part of a “reformed” group that worships together in English in a church building, rather than in “High German” and in people’s homes. They also drive cars and undertake mission work in places as far away as Romania.
It is disconcerting to find a kind of spiritual ferocity lurking just beneath the surface of this gentle community. I long to reach out and connect with them, celebrate a spiritual solidarity with them, but it is clear that I am an unacceptable ally. Like so many other fundamentalists, the only valid story for them seems to be one that is told in their own accent, by someone wearing clothes just like theirs, and adhering to the same unquestioned certainties.
In this respect the Amish and conservative Mennonites resemble some of the Anglo-Catholics I met in England, as well as many evangelicals in this country. The same could be said of Muslim extremists, and some secular radicals. I wonder, how can any version of Puritanism know if their particular interpretation is correct? They can’t all be right. And if God’s will is so plainly discernable, why are there so many different varieties of Amish and Mennonites? Yet in everyday practice, there seems to be an overarching unity among all the Plain People. It is only when religion enters in that the barriers come up. What a shame.
Our principle guide was an inspired advocate for the Amish/Mennonite way of life, but when asked if any members of their community ever became doctors, he told us that “hospitals and medical schools are not considered a suitable environment for Christians.” Yet this is a community that readily takes advantage of hospitals and advanced medical technology when an emergency arises. But is it not inherently risky to follow Christ into the world? Indeed, following Christ will bring us to places far more “risky” from a spiritual standpoint than a hospital. To hold back from the world, to sanitize one’s discipleship from any possible contamination is, first of all, impossible, and even more, contrary to the gospel. In catholic Christianity, God is understood as one who reaches out from the purity of heaven to share the vulnerability of human life in the world. Discipleship, even in its most extreme monastic forms, seeks to recapitulate this redemptive engagement, undertaken on behalf of the world God so loved.
It is true, of course, that a community with porous boundaries and diverse occupations will lack the cohesiveness and solidarity that are the cornerstone of Amish life. But would it necessarily lack the sweetness, and the gentleness, and the simplicity? Those qualities are, I believe, gifts of the Spirit, not the results of strictly enforced rules and boundaries.
Despite the contradictions, these Plain People have something that is essential for others to understand. They can help us see how we are being enslaved by idolatrous forces of greed and violence. They can teach us how to rely more upon each other and our local economies, and how to seek rational limits to our consumption and our misuse of the environment. They provide an example of a loving, supportive community in which children can grow and flourish. They can show us how to “live simply, so that others may simply live.”
The future is likely to show that human beings cannot go on expanding their economies without restraint. It is likely to show that we must become more cooperative, less violent, and more in harmony with our environment if we are to avoid a descent into chaos. As this becomes more evident, we may have to reorganize ourselves into simpler, more sustainable forms of community. Should that time come, we may find ourselves looking to the Amish and Mennonites for prototypes, as well as to Native American tribes and to monastic communities. Each of these provides an alternative model to the hypercompetitive, self-indulgent, addictive, violent forms of social organization that predominate in our world today.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
MORE PSALMIC VERSES: Quam delicta # 4
1. How hospitable is the sacred place of pilgrimage, Lord of Pennsylvania mountains and Amish farms!* my soul carries a great weight of longing for what pilgrims in former times have sought,
2. At
3. Happy are those whose trust is in the healing power of God, * whose hearts are set on the pilgrim’s way.
4. Observe how the pigeons roost above the mighty doors of St. John the Divine, and how the seagulls beg for French fries on Liberty Island, * just as pilgrims are drawn to sacred places, seeking refreshment for their souls.
5. Mirthful and musical are those who walk all the way to
6. When their paths lead by scenes of desolation at the 9-11 site, * they remember
7. Lord of secret power, hear this prayer; * take notice, God of our future and our past.
8. One day on pilgrimage is better than a thousand spent watching TV at home, * and to cross the threshold of these sacred precincts is worth more than all an empty world can offer.
9. No blessing will be withheld from those who keep faith with such sacred places, * and those whose feet have walked upon the path of wisdom will keep their integrity intact.
10. O Lord of Amish farms and
learned to trust from you.
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