Look below "Good Friday" to find a delightful review by Tonya M. on "The Good Good Pig." Looks like a really good read.
I'm wrapping up submissions for the art show, so if you've got something, send it! Thanks!
Friday, April 6, 2007
Good Friday
A year or so ago, Merry asked at bedtime: "How do you hear God if he's not even here? I can't see him." (Note: we still habitually call God "he" though we affirm that God is both male and female. Force of upbringing).
We affirmed her observation and her good question, and then we said, "God speaks in many ways--through our imaginations that he gave us, through the voices and faces of other people, through beautiful things in nature."
Merry daily evidences the paradoxical genius of children: wildly imaginative and stoically literal. "But I don't HEAR God," she said.
It was getting late. "Look," we said. "Ask God to talk to you tonight, and then tomorrow tell us what happened." She agreed.
The next day she said emphatically: "I listened and listened but God never said anything!"
What could we say to that?
Much of our faith is based on mystery. I believe many things without rational proof. God loves me. How do I feel sure of this? Besides the Bible and my parents telling me so, I know through my experiences. My experience cannot be invalidated, just as I cannot tell you, "Tosh! You never heard/saw/smelled that! What complete rubbish!" You saw what you saw, you tasted what you tasted. I've heard God's voice in many ways, through the lives of regular folks, the words of people, the writing in a book, wonderful music, an autumn tree glowing in a streetlight.
Rather than being suspicious of mystery, I affirm and delight in it. Nothing is fully knowable--no subject can be plumbed to its depths, no single cell is beyond creating surprise. No one is fully knowable--not my husband nor my children nor my parents. Do I believe, though I cannot fully and rationally know these people, that they love me? With all my heart.
And here's a crazy thing. Do I believe Jesus died and rose again? I do! Can I offer a rational explanation? Absolutely not. Strip away the miracles and the inexplicable things and what you've got left is boring mediocrity. I don't want to put all my heart into something that I can know fully. Frankly, that sort of thing is just not worth knowing. This doesn't mean I don't use my brain and my reason in a constant, often very uncomfortable journey. I often live in great tension. And what I anxiously pursue pulsates with the miraculous and mysterious: loving people, loving this world. Writing, reading, lovemaking, music, good food--who wants those things fully explained? Not I! Nor can they be explained. They can only be tasted, experienced, known in part. And loved.
Here's a Good Friday mystery:
Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.
What does Jesus mean?
Now, from the Good Friday Liturgy:
Almighty God,
as we stand at the foot of the cross of your Son,
may we know your love for us,
that in humility, love and joy
we may place at his feet
all that we have and all that we are;
through Jesus Christ our Saviour.
And finally, from When I Survey the Wondrous Cross:
Were the whole realm of nature mine,
that were an offering far too small;
love so amazing, so divine,
demands my soul, my life, my all.
And back to Jesus, who is the reason I call myself Christian:
Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.
We affirmed her observation and her good question, and then we said, "God speaks in many ways--through our imaginations that he gave us, through the voices and faces of other people, through beautiful things in nature."
Merry daily evidences the paradoxical genius of children: wildly imaginative and stoically literal. "But I don't HEAR God," she said.
It was getting late. "Look," we said. "Ask God to talk to you tonight, and then tomorrow tell us what happened." She agreed.
The next day she said emphatically: "I listened and listened but God never said anything!"
What could we say to that?
Much of our faith is based on mystery. I believe many things without rational proof. God loves me. How do I feel sure of this? Besides the Bible and my parents telling me so, I know through my experiences. My experience cannot be invalidated, just as I cannot tell you, "Tosh! You never heard/saw/smelled that! What complete rubbish!" You saw what you saw, you tasted what you tasted. I've heard God's voice in many ways, through the lives of regular folks, the words of people, the writing in a book, wonderful music, an autumn tree glowing in a streetlight.
Rather than being suspicious of mystery, I affirm and delight in it. Nothing is fully knowable--no subject can be plumbed to its depths, no single cell is beyond creating surprise. No one is fully knowable--not my husband nor my children nor my parents. Do I believe, though I cannot fully and rationally know these people, that they love me? With all my heart.
And here's a crazy thing. Do I believe Jesus died and rose again? I do! Can I offer a rational explanation? Absolutely not. Strip away the miracles and the inexplicable things and what you've got left is boring mediocrity. I don't want to put all my heart into something that I can know fully. Frankly, that sort of thing is just not worth knowing. This doesn't mean I don't use my brain and my reason in a constant, often very uncomfortable journey. I often live in great tension. And what I anxiously pursue pulsates with the miraculous and mysterious: loving people, loving this world. Writing, reading, lovemaking, music, good food--who wants those things fully explained? Not I! Nor can they be explained. They can only be tasted, experienced, known in part. And loved.
Here's a Good Friday mystery:
Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.
What does Jesus mean?
Now, from the Good Friday Liturgy:
Almighty God,
as we stand at the foot of the cross of your Son,
may we know your love for us,
that in humility, love and joy
we may place at his feet
all that we have and all that we are;
through Jesus Christ our Saviour.
And finally, from When I Survey the Wondrous Cross:
Were the whole realm of nature mine,
that were an offering far too small;
love so amazing, so divine,
demands my soul, my life, my all.
And back to Jesus, who is the reason I call myself Christian:
Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.
CONTRIBUTOR BOOK REVIEW: The Good Good Pig
The Good Good Pig:
The Extraordinary Life
of Christopher Hogwood
Sy Montgomery
Ballantine Books, reprint April 2007
Let me preface this review by mentioning that of late I rarely finish a book, so be assured The Good Good Pig is short and easy to read.
The Good Good Pig is a biography written by naturalist and author Sy Montgomery, who lives in rural New Hampshire. As a pig lover, the title of this book was enough to entice me.
The book follows the life of pig Christopher Hogwood, who is rescued as a sickly runt by Sy and her husband and kept as a pet. The story goes beyond Hogwood’s life to touch on the difficulties of marriage between people of different faiths, compassion, dealing with loss, and the ability of pets to assist in emotional and physical healing. (A bonus: eight pages of color photos of Hogwood and some of his friends.)
Sy Montgomery's writing is light and interesting. I found it difficult at times to keep the many characters, all friends of Hogwood, straight. But it was pleasant to be transported to Montgomery’s small New Hampshire town, and by the end of the book I felt that its residents were my neighbors.
Overall, I would recommend this story to animal lovers and small scale farmers trying to live close to the land. This is truly heartwarming story of the love between a woman and her pet.
--Reviewed by Tonya M.
Tonya M. lives on her own piece of lovely land in Greene County, PA, with two sweet daughters and an enchanting willow tree. When she's not fending off deer, she's either reading to her girls or working as a physician's assistant at the college health center.
birth days
I feel compelled to say that today is Good Friday and my birthday as well. I am 29 and almost at the tippity-top of three decades, from where I will be able to view my life like a vista. I will finally be wise and free of folly.
When I was at the cusp of my teens I used to picture myself at 16. My face would be clear of acne, my hair lush and flowing, and I would walk around with my lips pursed just to be ready for the many kisses of my admirers. I would smell good all the time, not just when I showered. These changes really did occur the day I turned 16, as if my fairy godmother had waved her wand over the crown of my sparkling head. From the roots down, my hair turned luminous and glossy; my eyes expanded to the size of Disney princess', my feet were hairless and delicate; my body was lithe like the aspen tree. Did I mention my flawless peaches and cream complexion? Yes, all my expectations were indeed met at 16. (Weren't yours?) It was truly the sweetest of years, and from then all was downhill and decline.
I thank my lucky stars that though my lithe body is now marked with the passage of two children, I still have a handsome prince charming:
And two beautiful, though delicate children:
I myself have reached a sage stage in my life and will concentrate in future--since I only have one last year until thirty--on the more serious things, starting with Plato and working upwards toward Nietzsche.
By thirty I dare say I will be unable to crack a smile, and this is the way things should be.
When I was at the cusp of my teens I used to picture myself at 16. My face would be clear of acne, my hair lush and flowing, and I would walk around with my lips pursed just to be ready for the many kisses of my admirers. I would smell good all the time, not just when I showered. These changes really did occur the day I turned 16, as if my fairy godmother had waved her wand over the crown of my sparkling head. From the roots down, my hair turned luminous and glossy; my eyes expanded to the size of Disney princess', my feet were hairless and delicate; my body was lithe like the aspen tree. Did I mention my flawless peaches and cream complexion? Yes, all my expectations were indeed met at 16. (Weren't yours?) It was truly the sweetest of years, and from then all was downhill and decline.
I thank my lucky stars that though my lithe body is now marked with the passage of two children, I still have a handsome prince charming:
And two beautiful, though delicate children:
I myself have reached a sage stage in my life and will concentrate in future--since I only have one last year until thirty--on the more serious things, starting with Plato and working upwards toward Nietzsche.
By thirty I dare say I will be unable to crack a smile, and this is the way things should be.
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