Incarnation

The priest let his eyes wander toward the birds. They had reached the middle of the lawn. The cock stopped suddenly and curving his neck backwards, he raised his tail and spread it with a shimmering timbrous noise. Tiers of small pregnant suns floated in a green-gold haze over his head. The priest stood transfixed, his jaw slack. Mrs. McIntyre wondered where she had ever seen such an idiotic old man. “Christ will come like that!” he said in a loud gay voice and wiped his hand over his mouth and stood there gaping.

Mrs. McIntyre’s face assumed a set puritanical expression and she reddened. Christ in the conversation embarrassed her the way sex had her mother. “It is not my responsibility that Mr. Guizac has nowhere to go,” she said. “I don’t find myself responsible for all the extra people in the world.”

The old man didn’t seem to hear her. His attention was fixed on the cock who was taking minute steps backward, his head against the spread tail. “The Transfiguration,” he murmured.

She had no idea what he was talking about. “Mr. Guizac didn’t have to come here in the first place,” she said, giving him a hard look.

The cock lowered his tail and began to pick grass.

“He didn’t have to come in the first place,” she repeated, emphasizing each word.

The old man smiled absently. “He came to redeem us,” he said and blandly reached for her hand and shook it and said he must go.

-Flannery O’Connor, “The Displaced Person”

Every Little Piece

Dragon whiskers, dragon toes
A dragon tooth and a dragon nose

Every little piece, every little piece
We could make a million
By slicing him, dicing him
Hoagy, we could sell
Every little shell
There's enough of him to go around
Money, money, money by the pound

Every little piece, every little piece
I can take a scissor
And clip him up, rip him up
Every little part
Is a work of art
Think of what a dragon heart would bring
Wrapped up in a ribbon and a string

Dragon liver can cure a cold
Dragon powder grows hair
With dragon blood you'll never grow old
Every item is covered with gold
Every item is covered with gold!

Every little piece, every little piece
Dragon you're my wagon
To destiny, you're the key
Every little shred
Moving me ahead
Every dream of mine will be fulfilled
What a dragon business we can build

Dragon cartilage keeps you thin
Dragon fat is for burns
A dragon tear will clear up your skin
Watch the profits come rolling in
Watch the profits come rolling in!

Every little piece, every little crease
All lead me to the dragon
I'll buy him up, tie him up
Drag him from the cave
Show him that I'm brave
I'll bind him up, grind him up
Lop him up, chop him up
Can't you hear that jingle, jangle sound?
It's money, money, money by the pound!

-Pete's Dragon

Food Court Musical

Politics and Romance

Mr. Warbucks, do you know something? For a Republican, you are sinfully handsome. Why I just go weak in the knees over men like you...

-Miss Hannigan, in Annie

I'm an Ordinary Man

I find the moment I let a woman make friends with me, she becomes jealous, exacting, suspicious, and a damn nuisance. I find the moment that I make friends with a woman I become selfish and tyrannical. So here I am, a confirmed old bachelor and likely to remain so. After all, Pickering,...

I'm an ordinary man,
Who desires nothing more than an ordinary chance,
To live exactly as he likes, and do precisely what he wants.
An average man am I, of no eccentric whim,
Who likes to live his life, free of strife,
Doing whatever he thinks is best for him.
Just an ordinary man...

But, let a woman in your life, and your serenity is through!
She'll redecorate your home, from the cellar to the dome,
Then go on to the enthralling fun of overhauling you!
Oh, let a woman in your life, and you're up against a wall,
Make a plan and you will find, she has something else in mind,
And so rather than do either you do something else that neither likes at all.
You want to talk of Keats and Milton, she only wants to talk of love,
You go to see a play or ballet, and spend it searching for her glove!
Let a woman in your life, and you invite eternal strife!
Let them buy their wedding bands for those anxious little hands--
I'd be equally as willing for a dentist to be drilling
Than to ever let a woman in my life!

I'm a very gentle man,
Even-tempered and good-natured, whom you never hear complain,
Who has the milk of human kindness by the quart in every vein.
A patient man am I, down to my fingertips,
The sort who never could, ever would,
Let an insulting remark escape his lips.
Just a very gentle man...

But, let a woman in your life, and patience hasn't got a chance!
She will beg you for advice, your reply will be concise,
And she'll listen very nicely, then go out and do precisely what she wants!
You are a man of grace and polish, who never spoke above a hush,
Now all at once you're using language that would make a sailor blush!
Oh, let a woman in your life, and you're plunging in a knife!
Let the others of my sex, tie the knot around their necks,
I prefer a new edition of the Spanish Inquisition
Than to ever let a woman in my life!

I'm a quiet living man,
Who prefers to spend the evening in the silence of his room,
Who likes an atmosphere as restful as an undiscovered tomb,
A pensive man am I, of philosophic joys,
Who likes to meditate, contemplate,
Free from humanity's mad inhuman noise,
Just a quiet living man....

But, let a woman in your life, and your sabbatical is through!
In a line that never ends comes an army of her friends,
Come to jabber and to chatter and to tell her what the matter is with you!
She'll have a booming boisterous family, who will descend on you en masse,
She'll have a large wagnarian mother, with a voice that shatters glass!
Let a woman in your life,
Let a woman in your life,
Let a woman in your life!
I shall never let a woman in my life!

-My Fair Lady

Who Will Buy?

Who will buy
This wonderful morning?
Such a sky
You never did see!

Who will tie
It up with a ribbon
And put it in a box for me?

So I could see it at my leisure
Whenever things go wrong
And I would keep it as a treasure
To last my whole life long.

Who will buy
This wonderful feeling?
I'm so high
I swear I could fly.

Me, oh my!
I don't want to lose it
So what am I to do
To keep the sky so blue?
There must be someone who will buy...

-Oliver

Moses

Moses supposes his toeses are roses
But Moses supposes erroneously;
Moses he knowses his toeses aren't roses
As Moses supposes his toeses to be!

Moses supposes his toeses are roses
But Moses supposes erroneously;
A mose is a mose!
A rose is a rose!
A toes is a toes!

A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose is
A rose is for Moses as potent as toeses
Couldn't be a lily or a daffy daffy dilly
Gotta be a rose cause it rhymes with Mose

-Singin' in the Rain

Easter Song

Hear the bells ringing, they're singing
That you can be born again
Hear the bells ringing, they're singing
Christ is risen from the dead

The angel up on the tombstone
Said He has risen just as He said
Quickly now, go tell his disciples
That Jesus Christ is no longer dead

Joy to the world&mdash
He has risen, hallelujah!
He has risen, hallelujah!
He has risen, hallelujah!

-Keith Green

That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire and of the comfort of the Resurrection

Cloud-puffball, torn tufts, tossed pillows flaunt forth, then chevy on an air-
built thoroughfare: heaven-roysterers, in gay-gangs they throng; they glitter in marches.
Down roughcast, down dazzling whitewash, wherever an elm arches,
Shivelights and shadowtackle in long lashes lace, lance, and pair.
Delightfully the bright wind boisterous ropes, wrestles, and beats earth bare
Of yestertempest's creases; in pool and rut peel parches
Squandering ooze to squeezed dough, crust, dust; stanches, starches
Squadroned masks and manmarks treadmire toil there
Footfretted in it. Million-fueled, nature's bonfire burns on.
But quench her bonniest, dearest to her, her clearest-selved spark
Man, how fast his firedint, his mark on mind, is gone!
Both are in an unfathomable, all is in an enormous dark
Drowned. O pity and indignation! Manshape, that shone
Sheer off, disseveral, a star, death blots black out; nor mark
Is any of him at all so stark
But vastness blurs and time beats level. Enough! the Resurrection,
A heart's-clarion! Away grief's gasping, joyless days, dejection.
Across my foundering deck shone
A beacon, an eternal beam. Flesh fade, and mortal trash
Fall to the residuary worm; world's wildfire, leave but ash:
In a flash, at a trumpet crash,
I am all at once what Christ is, since he was what I am, and
This Jack, joke, poor potsherd, patch, matchwood, immortal diamond,
Is immortal diamond.

-Gerard Manley Hopkins

Highs

1. Maundy Thursday Communion Service - especially sitting with Carrie and Sami, and singing "Ah, Holy Jesus".
2. Clean teeth - I FINALLY made a dentist appointment after about a year and a half...and they complemented my teeth so enthusiastically, it might be another year and a half before I go back...
3. Thai food with Mirk.

Verbal Snapshot

My exceptionally dust-free ceiling fan!

Hands in the Air

If I raise my hands just to lift the shade
Will I reveal a sky heavy and gray?
Will last night be a memory sweetly fading?
How I hate a morning starting out this way.
On these lonely raging mornings I would whip you if I could,
But you're on the mighty side of strong and the perfect side of good.

If I raise my hands will you grab me by the wrists
And will you try to pull me from the fray?
And even if my fingers join together into fists
Will you hold me firmly anyway?
Because I would try to escape you but for every day I'm sure
That you're on the huge side of big and the holy side of pure.

Okay, hear what I say
As I raise my hands in surrender today
Okay, here I will stay
Hands in the air, singing have thine own way

If I raise my hands so weak and thin and frail
Will you reveal the light of mercy in your eyes?
If I cry to you faintly will my feeble whisper fail
Or will it find its way to a reply?
Because now that I'm exhausted I think I'm ready to admit
That I have spent all my resistence on someone that I can't resist.

Okay, hear what I say
As I raise my hands in surrender today
Okay, here I will stay
Hands in the air, singing have thine own way

Light from my windowsill
Make my way to the door
I hang my head and still
I know you're wanting more
Over the threshold now
I move across the yard
All that my will allows
My every step is hard
Now in the garden I
Carve out six feet of space
There make my will comply
Lie down upon my face
Been toe to toe too long
I'm tired of fighting you
I see you were too strong
Cause I am black and blue
But now I understand
The loser's due to win
How every dying man
Is sure to rise again
So I raise my left hand one
I raise my right hand two
Under the morning sun
My spirit cries to you

Okay, hear what I say
As I raise my hands in surrender today
Right here, under the sun
Hands in the air, saying thy will be done
I'm here, under the sun
Hands in the air, singing thy will be done
Okay, here I will stay
Hands in the air, singing have thine own way
Hands in the air, singing have thine own way
Have thine own way, have thine own way

-The Waiting

The Impossible Dream

To dream the impossible dream,
To fight the unbeatable foe,
To bear with unbearable sorrow
To run where the brave dare not go;

To right the unrightable wrong.
To love, pure and chaste, from afar,
To try, when your arms are too weary,
To reach the unreachable star!

This is my Quest,
To follow that star,
No matter how hopeless,
No matter how far,
To fight for the right
Without question or pause,
To be willing to march into Hell
For a heavenly cause!

And I know, if I'll only be true
To this glorious Quest,
That my heart will lie peaceful and calm
When I'm laid to my rest.

And the world will be better for this,
That one man, scorned and covered with scars,
Still strove, with his last ounce of courage,
To reach the unreachable stars!

-Joe Darian (from the musical Man of La Mancha)

Words

Words came spilling out of him before he knew their meaning, and if there was none to listen, he'd talk to his own ten toes. He didn't care a fig for what he talked about. One matter would serve him as well as another. He'd prattle of Normans or crops or weather till the spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth, and if you made a move to flee, there'd come to his eyes a haunted look, and he'd prattle all the faster so you'd find no chink to flee him through. Words were the line that moored him to the world, I think, and he thought if ever that line should break, he'd be forever cast adrift.

-Frederick Buechner, Godric, 13.

At the Name of Jesus

At the name of Jesus every knee shall bow
every tongue confess him King of glory now;
'tis the Father's pleasure we should call him Lord,
who from the beginning was the mighty Word.

At his voice creation sprang at once to sight:
all the angel faces, all the hosts of light,
thrones and dominations, stars upon their way,
all the heavenly order in their great array.

Humbled for a season, to receive a name
from the lips of sinners, unto whom he came;
faithfully he bore it spotless to the last,
brought it back victorious when from death he passed;

bore it up triumphant with its human light,
through all ranks of creatures, to the central height
to the throne of Godhead, to the Father's breast;
filled it with the glory of that perfect rest.

In your hearts enthrone him; there let him subdue
all that is not holy, all that is not true.
crown him as your Captain in temptation's hour;
let his will enfold you in its light and power.

Brothers, this Lord Jesus shall return again,
with his Father's glory, with his angel train;
for all wreaths of empire meet upon his brow,
and our hearts confess him King of glory now.

Name him brothers, name him, with love strong as death
but with awe and wonder, and with baited breath;
he is God the Saviour, he is Christ the Lord,
ever to be worshiped, trusted and adored.

-Caroline M. Noel

Highs

1. Conversations with Marie and Evelyn and Kaye - I really like the folks I work with - it is nice to be reminded that they like me too.
2. Watching 84, Charing Cross Road - especially the scene in which the little old lady exclaims in glee over the tinned meat.

The Truly Wide Taste...

The truly wide taste in reading is that which enables a man to find something for his needs on the sixpenny tray outside any secondhand bookshop. The truly wide taste in humanity will similarly find something to appreciate in the cross-section of humanity whom one has to meet every day. In my experience it is Affection that creates this taste, teaching us first to notice, then to endure, then to smile at, then to enjoy, and finally to appreciate, the people who "happen to be there". Made for us? Thank God, no. They are themselves, odder than you could have believed and worth far more than we guessed.

-C. S. Lewis, The Four Loves, 37.

Marginalia

Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
If I could just get my hands on you,
Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O’Brien,
they seem to say,
I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.

Other comments are more offhand, dismissive—
“Nonsense.” “Please!” “HA!!”—
that kind of thing.
I remember once looking up from my reading,
my thumb as a bookmark,
trying to imagine what the person must look like
who wrote “Don’t be a ninny”
alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.

Students are more modest
needing to leave only their splayed footprints
along the shore of the page.
One scrawls “Metaphor” next to a stanza of Eliot’s.
Another notes the presence of “Irony”
fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal.

Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers,
hands cupped around their mouths.
“Absolutely,” they shout
to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin.
“Yes.” “Bull’s-eye.” “My man!”
Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points
rain down along the sidelines.

And if you have managed to graduate from college
without ever having written “Man vs. Nature”
in a margin, perhaps now
is the time to take one step forward.

We have all seized the white perimeter as our own
and reached for a pen if only to show
we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages;
we pressed a thought into the wayside,
planted an impression along the verge.

Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria
jotted along the borders of the Gospels
brief asides about the pains of copying,
a bird singing near their window,
or the sunlight that illuminated their page—
anonymous men catching a ride into the future
on a vessel more lasting than themselves.

And you have not read Joshua Reynolds,
they say, until you have read him
enwreathed with Blake’s furious scribbling.

Yet the one I think of most often,
the one that dangles from me like a locket,
was written in a copy of Catcher in the Rye
I borrowed from the local library
one slow, hot summer.
I was just beginning high school then,
reading books on a davenport in my parents’ living room,
and I cannot tell you
how vastly my loneliness was deepened,
how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed,
when I found on one page

a few greasy looking smears
and next to them, written in soft pencil—
by a beautiful girl, I could tell,
whom I would never meet—
“Pardon the egg salad stains, but I’m in love.”

-Billy Collins

Carnal and Courtly Love

Just think what courtly lovers [of books] miss by believing the only thing they are permitted to do with books is read them! What do they use for shims, doorstops, glueing weights, and rug-flatteners? When my friend the art historian was a teenager, his cherished copy of D'Aulaire's Book of Greek Myths served as a drum pad on which he practiced percussion riffs from Led Zeppelin. A philosophy professor at my college, whose baby became enamored of the portrait of David Hume on a Penguin paperback, had the cover laminated in plastic so her daughter could cut her teeth on a great thinker. Menelik II, the emperor of Ethiopia at the turn of the century, liked to chew pages from his Bible. Unfortunately, he died after consuming the complete Book of Kings. I do not consider Menelik's fate an argument for keeping our hands and teeth off our books; the lesson to be drawn, clearly, is that he, too, should have laminated the pages in plastic.

-Anne Fadiman, Ex Libris, 41-42.

Snapshot

Imelda Paisley and Mrs. Black (the Housekeeper)

Christ the Companion

WHEN I've thrown my books aside, being petulant and weary,
And have turned down the gas, and the firelight has sufficed,
When my brain's too stiff for prayer, and too indolent for theory,
Will You come and play with me, big Brother Christ?

Will You slip behind the book-case? Will you stir the window-curtain,
Peeping from the shadow with Your eyes like flame?
Set me staring at the alcove where the flicker's so uncertain,
Then suddenly, at my elbow, leap up, catch me, call my name?

Or take the great arm-chair, help me set the chestnuts roasting,
And tell me quiet stories, while the brown skins pop,
Of wayfarers and merchantmen and tramp of Roman hosting,
And how Joseph dwelt with Mary in the carpenter's shop?

When I drift away in dozing, will You softly light the candles
And touch the piano with Your kind, strong fingers,
Set stern fugues of Bach and stately themes of Handel's
Stalking through the corners where the last disquiet lingers?

And when we say good-night, and You kiss me on the landing,
Will You promise faithfully and make a solemn tryst:
You'll be just at hand if wanted, close by here where we are standing,
And be down in time for breakfast, big Brother Christ?

-Dorothy Sayers

Verbal Snapshot

Watching the spit fly at Love's Labour's Lost...

Praise and Flattery

Praise may be gigantic and insane without having any quality of flattery so long as it is praise of something that is noticeably in existence. A man may say that a giraffe's head strikes the stars, or that a whale fills the German Ocean, and still be only in a rather excited state about a favourite animal. But when he begins to congratulate the giraffe on his feathers, and the whale on the elegance of his legs, we find ourselves confronted with that social element which we call flattery.

-G. K. Chesterton, Heretics, "On Smart Novelists and the Smart Set"

Kids of the Kingdom

"Here I am and the kids He's given me," He says...

What a motley bunch! Look at us! Stumbling, bumbling, faltering, sinning, carping, criticizing, griping, singing, not singing, liking the music, not liking the music, bunch a 'oodlums. And He says, "Here I am and the children God has given me!"

-Alastair Begg, preaching on Hebrews 2:13

Infinite Mercy

Mercy and truth have met together. Righteousness and bliss shall kiss one another.

Man, in his weakness and shortsightedness believes he must make choices in this life. He trembles at the risks he takes.

We do know fear. But no. Our choice is of no importance. There comes a time when our eyes are opened and we come to realize that mercy is infinite. We need only await it with confidence and receive it with gratitude. Mercy imposes no conditions.

And lo! Everything we have chosen has been granted to us. And everything we rejected has also been granted. Yes, we even get back what we rejected.

For mercy and truth have met together, and righteousness and bliss shall kiss one another.

-Babette's Feast (courtesy of imdb)

Need-Love

Every Christian would agree that a man's spiritual health is exactly proportional to his love for God. But man's love for God, from the very nature of the case, must always be very largely, and must often be entirely, a Need-love. This is obvious when we implore forgiveness from our sins or support in our tribulations. But in the long run it is perhaps even more apparent in our growing—for it ought to be growing—awareness that our whole being by its very nature is one vast need; incomplete, preparatory, empty yet cluttered, crying out for Him who can untie things that are now knotted together and tie up things that are still dangling loose...It would be a bold and silly creature that came before its Creator with the boast "I'm no beggar. I love you disinterestedly."

-C. S. Lewis, The Four Loves, 3-4.