the harsh and the holy

Annie Dillard says, “I came here to study hard things—rock, mountain, and salt sea—and to temper my spirit on their edges.” This is the woman who talks about “the smash of the holy”...“the bladelike arms of God.” This makes her a kindred spirit.

There is no other God i want to know. Something in me is wired to love extremes, to love fierceness, to be awed at the harsh and the holy. If it doesn’t have an edge i don’t want it. If it doesn’t have an edge, how can it shape me? how can it carve and create? how can it wound and heal?

Don’t be fooled, a dull edge is not safe, it is lethal, muting all the rage of life. It’s the prick and the puncture that we want, sparking us to something, quickening our souls to the world, igniting us to love and outrage.

If God were only meek and mild, if He politely raised His hand in the back row of my mind to suggest a cosmic word, rather than devouring my eyes clean with His brightness, i would not love Him. But i do love Him, and He reigns in pillars of fire and tables shattered and curtains slashed.

Grace on the loose. Grace in utter rampage. Hallelujahs flame like arrows. Blessings wrestle us down to our teeth. How else is He supposed to get my attention, thick as i am?

Hosea 6:1-3

"Come, let us return to the Lord
he has torn us, that He may heal us;
He has struck us down, and He will bind us up.
After two days He will revive us;
on the third day He will raise us up,
that we may live before Him.
Let us know; let us press on to know the Lord;
his going out is sure as the dawn;
He will come to us as the showers,
as the spring rains that water the earth."

day by day

day by day

dreams
swell from their starch pillow husks,
gold-drenched and shimmering, and
rise like the souls of martyrs,

after the lions,
after the salt,

to clutter the universe
anew.

night stales between shadows

snuffed flat
by the gathering lights.

just...



...thinking

advent

the souls of men are too often born,
red-raw and howling,
of scandals and spectacles:

the scarlet letter branded on the breast
and blooming in the womb.

tangled advents snatched from the clench of children
and scattered under the table to the host beneath:

the imperial souls so ill-sheathed:
dogs and circus freaks,
whores and seraphs, all communing
at the knee.

our legacy roars forth
in violent elegance
of such as these.