Saturday, December 6, 2008

From Ecclesiastes: An Ethic of Today

"Sow your seed in the morning, and at evening let not your hands be idle, for you do not know which will succeed, whether this or that, or whether both will do equally well." (Ecclesiastes 11:6)

It is impossible for me to read Ecclesiastes for longer than two minutes without giving a hearty affirmation to its canonicity. The Teacher is a theologian of stellar quality, authoritative for proposition, innovative and new. But here we are not so much concerned with theology as we are with ethical living. In the spirit of Solomon we have a doctrine of Today that gives high credence to work, to usefulness, to output and discharge. The day must become a metanarrative of itself; a prolegomena and a denoument encapsulating a rich tapestry of life. Let us begin the morning with work and let us end it with work. Amen!

Friday, December 5, 2008

The Theologian of the Cross: A Poem

I recently published this poem in the midst of a bout of temptation. It is the second of two (the first being The Theologian of Glory)devoted to Martin Luthers Heidelberg Disputations which will forever change the way I see life.

The Theologian of the Cross

Food is my enemy, and I revile the raiment draped over my shoulder,
When I cry to God there is no one there to answer, He is gone out of sight!
Why Oh Lord, do you stand far off? why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?”
I am made to see sin upon sin, temptation upon temptation, judgment for both,
The promise has hidden, threatenings are my revelations from God.
But scarcely do I escape one threat before another one stands in the way.
My complaint is cut short lest my mouth in bitterness utter sin,
Lest I grumble as the Israelites did and release the fury of the Most High.
I could ask for death, and find comfort in the darkness of the grave,
But the flames of Hell lick the fringes of this solace,
The everlasting fire stands to attention, since my assurance is gone.
Tomorrow no longer bothers me, but today has become a dread.
My soul writhes under the pressure of today!
I am like those without youth, oh how bitter!
Like Martin Bucer stripped of his prime by the cares of the church.
Sleep only stays the wound, like anesthesia,
When I awake no surgery has been done and the wound festers open.
Where is my Maker? Where is Christ? He is on the cross,
But I must suffer with Him! Oh I must suffer and do the things He has done.
Oh God.