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If you observe occurrences in Nature (The way a stone ripples the water, The arc of a cormorant descending toward its prey) You will note a precision in the movements Which is utterly Pythagorean in its pattern (Not that the natural world is without its inconsistencies; The progress of a conflagration, for example, seems entirely random.) It would seem that such a thing is good; No, more than that, entirely holy, All that is necessary and sufficient to prove beyond doubt That which is equally necessary and central to our belief: A plan--His plan--which governs all things under the sun. Such notions, I have found to my considerable dismay, Do not sit well with viceroys and archbishops, Who have a vested interest in the maintenance of certain mysteries (To be fair, they are not evil or necessarily even impious; They are men, nothing more or less, And have to navigate perilous, unmapped straits Between the secular and the sacred; at their appointed time, They will have their own commissions and omissions to answer for.) Nevertheless, none of us can escape the certainty That the root of our faults can be found at our own doorway, And I cannot deny that the attempt To reduce God’s works to a schematic of formulas, diagrams and triads And then, preening and squawking as a peacock, Trumpet the results to the world (As if the mystery of faith would be no more Than a handful of equations and charts) Is simply the manure of arrogance, the flotsam of sinful pride. I have had, these past few weeks, Considerable leisure to pray and reflect; My thoughts have not drifted, curiously enough, To the great and sweeping, the grand and all-encompassing (Perhaps that is due to the whys and wherefores of my current predicament, Perhaps due to the narrow window of my enclosure), But rather to the most pedestrian of things: The clarion of the wind in the trees prior to a brief summer storm, The lover’s dance of the hummingbird and the lupin, And I am comforted (and, I confess, a bit amused) By the notion that Our Savior may take a moment from his labors To watch them as well.
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Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
wk-kortas
In Which Brother Juniper Muses To Himself On The Morning He Is To Be Burned
If you observe occurrences in Nature (The way a stone ripples the water, The arc of a cormorant descending toward its prey) You will note a precision in the movements Which is utterly Pythagorean in its pattern (Not that the natural world is without its inconsistencies; The progress of a conflagration, for example, seems entirely random.) It would seem that such a thing is good; No, more than that, entirely holy, All that is necessary and sufficient to prove beyond doubt That which is equally necessary and central to our belief: A plan--His plan--which governs all things under the sun. Such notions, I have found to my considerable dismay, Do not sit well with viceroys and archbishops, Who have a vested interest in the maintenance of certain mysteries (To be fair, they are not evil or necessarily even impious; They are men, nothing more or less, And have to navigate perilous, unmapped straits Between the secular and the sacred; at their appointed time, They will have their own commissions and omissions to answer for.) Nevertheless, none of us can escape the certainty That the root of our faults can be found at our own doorway, And I cannot deny that the attempt To reduce God’s works to a schematic of formulas, diagrams and triads And then, preening and squawking as a peacock, Trumpet the results to the world (As if the mystery of faith would be no more Than a handful of equations and charts) Is simply the manure of arrogance, the flotsam of sinful pride. I have had, these past few weeks, Considerable leisure to pray and reflect; My thoughts have not drifted, curiously enough, To the great and sweeping, the grand and all-encompassing (Perhaps that is due to the whys and wherefores of my current predicament, Perhaps due to the narrow window of my enclosure), But rather to the most pedestrian of things: The clarion of the wind in the trees prior to a brief summer storm, The lover’s dance of the hummingbird and the lupin, And I am comforted (and, I confess, a bit amused) By the notion that Our Savior may take a moment from his labors To watch them as well.
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