The Morning Star
O Star of the morning, you have served the night. Rise now to your zenith in the day and guide the commerce of the world. Bring comforting beam to the lost, grant hope to the suffering and needy, delight yourself in children at play as lambs that kick the clouds and grant light to those who slither from shadow to shadow. Stand with us as we watch the rhythms of the seasons slide by like an eagle on its swing. Hover over us, O Star. Wait with us for the birth, the rising up of the humble – those who, like you, desire the company of seekers tracking over the sands, the mounds of time undulating like the wave beam on a scope of man. O Star, you were never desired more than now. Amen
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Beauty is never created. It is noticed and imitated.
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We often look at pieces of art, literature and artifacts of civilizations with the intent of learning something about the persons who created them. We do this because we passionately believe that people impart some information about themselves in what they create.
Is it not reasonable to say, therefore, that God created the world to say he is a God of resurrection and restoration. Can we not determine that He is deeply committed to life and renewal? Do we not see in His works that the earth speaks of a creator who will not take death as the last word? Do we not look into our own hearts and see a yearning for love, peace, justice and righteousness that cannot be explained apart from the divine impartation? Can we not see that our own lives are a reflection of a divine mind – even the stamp of His image?
“For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities – His eternal Power and divine nature – have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse. For although they knew God, they neither glorified Him as God nor gave thanks to Him, but their thinking became futile and their foolish hearts were darkened.” Romans 1:20-21
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Through the Veil
The Sun shines through the black barren branches, a filigree like a veil more space than threads to let the light through. On the other side of the copse is a world as real and its light illumines the place where we stand. Such was the way of the star, lightning splitting the clouds, the Wind of the Spirit, that invaded our world to shine upon a stable, center upon a post and fill our monkish chambers.
*** It is very unlikely that the Christian faith is an invented religion. The testimonies of the story, which are many, would uphold this. Furthermore, no one with any reason would imagine a God who would pay such a price as the incarnation and a crucifixion as a pathway to redemption. Humans, inventing a religion, would invent one which would essentially deny man’s proclivity to sin. Then they would raise up centers of education, distribute goods evenly, kill off the aberrant, clone a super race, silence the praise of God and validate to obsessive levels man’ inherent goodness. In short, they would invent a costless state of grace proclaiming a God who is nearly equal and a race that is inherently like Him.
*** Who is Ready for God ? Who is ready for God? Who can stand in the full blaze of his presence? Who is ready for the light not broken into a thousand rainbows? Who can stand the sound of His voice or even endure a whisper? Where can we go? What shadow can hide us from Him? When all is said and done we will face Him, even embrace Him, merge our spiritual worship with His Spirit as a mere breath exhaled into a fathomless atmosphere while drawing upon him for the very song we sing. It is a good thing he has a human face. It is better he has a name and it is a wonder that we can call Him deliverer, our friend, who is closer than hands and feet.
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All hope depends upon the guarantee of a happy ending. Therefore, I am a realist. It is real to hope. It is real to live each day expectantly. It is real to fight for that in which you believe. It is real to be disappointed when hope is deferred. It is real to believe that someday, somehow the deepest ache in our hearts will find satisfaction. Therefore, those who stop hoping stop being realists, enter the hinder lands of despair and become burdens upon the realists who hope. Even when one among us loses hope they declare loudly that they were once real enough to have believed. They were once real enough to have been disappointed. Hope is not only a rabbit on the track but also the imprint of the divine in the hound that makes it run. Derrel E. Emmerson