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LENTEN DEVOTIONALS
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Why Musings?
- The Musings Page will be a place to consider thought-provoking, evocative, sometimes polemical but not overtly political, writings, quotes, ideas, and poetry on the Christian life in all its facets: spiritual, religious, ethical, and practical.
Lagniappe
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JOURNEY OF THE MAGI
posted on January 1, 2012 by Musings
A poem from T.S. Eliot as we reflect on the visit of the Magi to bring gifts to the King.
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times when we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities dirty and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wineskins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death. –T.S. Eliot
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Filed under: Christmas, Poetry
Infant Joy
posted on December 7, 2011 by Musings
In Advent, we wait in joyful anticipation for Jesus to be born in us again and for the new life promised to us in this child. This year, we also share in the added joy of Revs. Sarah and Bill Searight and Revs. Lindsey and Pen Peery in the births of their children. In celebration of these newest and youngest members of our church family, we offer a poem and image from William Blake.
Infant Joy
by William Blake
“I have no name:I am but two days old.”
What shall I call thee?
“I happy am,
Joy is my name.”
Sweet joy befall thee!
Pretty joy!
Sweet joy, but two days old.
Sweet Joy I call thee:
Thou dost smile,
I sing the while;
Sweet joy befall thee!
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Filed under: Poetry
The Young Dead Soldiers Do Not Speak
posted on November 11, 2011 by Musings
Although exact figures are not possible, it is estimated that 60 to 72 million people died in World War II, including military dead of 22 to 25 million. Over 400,000 Americans lost their lives in the war. Two plaques in the narthex of the First Presbyterian sanctuary list the names of 285 members of our congregation who served during World War II. Ten of those names are “gold star” names. Go by the narthex this Sunday and share a moment of your time in honor and memory of those men and women.
Today’s poem is by the poet Archibald MacLeish. ”The poet Archibald MacLeish was especially aware of the importance of this sacrifice. As a young man, he had served as an artillery officer in World War I and had witnessed suffering and death on the battlefields of Europe. During the second World War, he took up public service once again, serving as the Librarian of Congress while still writing poetry. When the Library of Congress held a memorial service for all its staff members who had died in the war, MacLeish contributed a powerful poem that not only commemorated the dead, but also made it clear that those who survived bore a special responsibility to make the deaths of these soldiers meaningful. As you read this poem, think about what the poem suggests as possible ways to live up to such a great sacrifice. You might also think about the sacrifices that other people have made for you.”…. from the website of the Library of Congress.
THE YOUNG DEAD SOLDIERS DO NOT SPEAK
By Archibald MacLeish
Nevertheless they are heard in the still houses: who has not heard them?
They have a silence that speaks for them at night and when the clock counts.
They say, We were young. We have died. Remember us.
They say, We have done what we could but until it is finished it is not done
They say, We have given our lives but until it is finished no one can know what our lives gave.
They say, Our deaths are not ours: they are yours: they will mean what you make them.
They say, Whether our lives and our deaths were for peace and a new hope or for nothing we cannot say: it is you who must say this.
They say, We leave you our deaths: give them their meaning: give them an end to the war and a true peace: give them a victory that ends the war and a peace afterwards: give them their meaning.
We were young, they say. We have died. Remember us.
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Ashbah
posted on November 11, 2011 by Musings
As we recognize Veteran’s Day we will feature two poems. Today’s first poem is by Brian Turner, who served for seven years in the U.S. Army. Beginning in November 2003, he was an infantry team leader in Iraq with the 3rd Stryker Brigade Combat Team, 2nd Infantry Division. More of his poetry is available at Turner.
ASHBAHBy Brian Turner
The ghosts of
American soldiers
wander the streets of
Balad by night,
unsure of their way
home, exhausted,
the desert wind
blowing trash
down the narrow
alleys as a voice
sounds from the
minaret, a soulfull call
reminding them how
alone they are,
how lost. And the
Iraqi dead,
they watch in silence
from rooftops
as date palms line the
shore in silhouette,
leaning toward Mecca
when the dawn wind blows.
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Poem for Our Dog Afraid of Thunder on a Rainy Day
posted on November 10, 2011 by Musings
Today’s poem by Leroy V. Quintana, a native New Mexican who served in Vietnam in the Army Airborne and a Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol unit in 1967-68. More of his poetry is available at Quintana.
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Leavings IX.
posted on August 26, 2011 by Musings
As summer begins to wane and the school year starts up in earnest, we thought a poem from Wendell Berry might give us a healthy perspective on trying and failing and in the process learning something about ourselves and about life and our place in it. This poem was published on-line by the Writer’s Almanac on August 23. It was published in the book Leavings (Counterpoint Press, 2010.)
IX.
I go by a field where once
I cultivated a few poor crops.
It is now covered with young trees,
for the forest that belongs here
has come back and reclaimed its own.
And I think of all the effort
I have wasted and all the time,
and of how much joy I took
in that failed work and how much
it taught me. For in so failing
I learned something of my place,
something of myself, and now
I welcome back the trees.
