The promise of glory is the promise, almost incredible and only possible by the work of Christ, that some of us, that any of us who really chooses, shall actually survive that examination, shall find approval, shall please God. To please God…to be a real ingredient in the divine happiness…to be loved by God, not merely pitied, but delighted in as an artist delights in his work or a father in a son—it seems impossible, a weight or burden of glory which our thoughts can hardly sustain. But so it is.
— C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory
No fact of contemporary Western life is more evident than its growing distrust of final truth and its implacable questioning of any sure word.
Carl Henry, via Greg Thornbury
I was thinking that thinking ain’t so great of a thought
When most of your thoughts are in vanity sought
And with burdens and worries and anxieties fraught
Leaving your nerves all a’frayed and tranquility shot.
I recall once before of having been taught
that some truths are learned best when they’re caught
And a truth once experienced is the firmest one wrought
So why not
Instead of thoughts about sunsets, let the sunset set thoughts.
It’s so hard to believe in the good sometimes. Not because I know that it isn’t out there, that I think it isn’t out there, but because I am aware of being swallowed up by emotion. By sadness. By empathy. By emptiness. Is it a sin to be so tenuous in one’s heart?
Beyond the wall of emotion, the clouds of my own consternation, the clouds of my own perplexity, I can see the blue sky, the neverending sphere of God’s mercy. I know that it lays beyond myself. What I need to know is that he sends shafts of that sky to my heart through his Spirit. There is hope.
Do other men feel the chaos, the whelming flood of responsibility and expectation, or am I simply someone without the capacity to handle it in the way that they would? Do they feel the slowness, the doldrums of a heart without hope, without a pursuit?
Damn the TV sets, the evening spent in sloth, the entropic rhythm of suburbia. Let me rather drink life to the lees. But I am not the rebel, the hero, the maverick. I’m a sheep, a weak and lowly one. I need a leader, a shepherd, a warrior to cut a path through the thorns and lead me out of complacent meadows and into the wilderness, the darkness, the endless.
When is a fox not a fox?
When it’s little and playful and chews on your socks.
When it disappears behind the sunflower stalks.
When it paws at the door to go out for walks.
When she curls up at your toes, no longer a fox.
You may not be able to capture
The rocky mountains or the rapture
Of the Idaho rivers. But neither
Can you contain the weather
Of the yellow land that extends forever.