See, the thing about that song, despite Paul’s rant, it is much better due to the overly dramatic orchestration and choir. Sure, I like the posthumously released, sparser version. And Ray Charles really was meant to sing the song, but it is, in my opinion, a better song because of Spector’s vision.
‘Sides.
Were it not for such drama, we should never have known this wonder.
It is small, simple,
deep.
Everything moves in its way:
trees sway,
ice goes down,
the rising forest meets
the heather field.
There is much to say,
where mountains find her feet,
and skies meet chimneys,
as seasons pause.
This place is mercy,
it is abundant,
rich, like the fat cow,
planted in the pasture.
It is small, delicate,
but expanding to its root,
where its end should be found,
but breadth cannot.
Its hatred is unknown.
Waste, want, wishes,
all these are left behind,
sad, shriveled at the gate.
Then it is chosen,
it is wide,
unbounded,
unfettered,
Amid Mizpah and Jeshanah,
the stone of life,
the sacrifice,
both doing and undoing.
Akedah. Amen.
It is small, it is simple,
but found in all,
unknown and knowing,
it is chosen,
And choosing,
comes to majesty,
to grace, to song,
to brightness,
to countenance,
O deep and abiding love,
once reborn, anew,
followed in its course,
charted to its endless fount.
Each soul comes,
like rain from dearth, to
torrent,
one after another,
birth to birth, to
Cradle, bed, manger,
basket, box, crate,
hamper,
bassinet,
can,
earth.
Denied or accepted, each
infant in turn, comes
praising,
its maker, marked
by its birth, its
infinite worth, from
Mother, Father, God,
celebrated or cursed,
Each soul recreated, the
seed tendered, imparted
in pleasure and pain,
that remaking of making,
soft and cured,
broken and pure,
appreciated, or
sometimes hated,
spoiled.
Each babe comes,
as time advances, at
autumnal or vernal equinoxes,
in other seasons,
at common times,
and even holiday.
I stopped as Christmas approached,
to wonder over the birth of
the children,
and heard a million,
no, more,
children sleeping, living, dying,
laughing, crying –
some torn
from the flesh, and
wasted,
stilled,
consumed –
others wanted.
Each soul comes,
like snow,
to its bright day
and dark night, like
Jesus,
under a new star,
celebrated each year,
in awe or aspersion,
acrimony or adoration,
to live life to a
measure,
full, or interrupted
by those who live on.
A middle-aged man thinks of death.
Each telling, romantic at the ford,
Slips on to some foreboding end,
Out past the trimmed fields,
Past its decay and demise.
Fortune, once his travel mate,
Has left for other companionship,
Through the western gate, beyond
The eastern wall.
These are new thoughts, unfamiliar.
Broken against the still white on
Grim white. Out past the rivers of
Snow and plains of rushing earth.
He came into life, thrust from the
Royal abode of stars and dust,
Radiating from the commanding
Throne of all life –
The wanderer considers his,
Now an epic, like those of ruined
Pasts, once glorious cities, whose
Wildernesses are imaginations
For ogling foreign tourist.
His habitations, caves, dwelling
Holes. The strangers, cousins,
Familiar, and not so. One journey
Beyond another.
The pensive admiration of
Eternity, and other ruminations.
Colloquial expressions for easy
Understanding.
Song.
Significant ones and expressions to.
Unimaginable moments, aesthetics,
the gifts both given and received.
A lone man stops at the passing.
Mystified, reaching, grasping
For something intelligible, an
Absolute where a sudden epitaph
Flashes, almost indecipherable.
Yet here all will lie, on all accounts,
Covered by loving earth’s waves,
Where a man is benefited, by
All these who have charted the way.
Okay. I love TV’s The Office. The show occasionally manages to make me feel really vulnerable or on edge. I mean, that’s what they’re built for, right?
Well. This last episode? The one where Michael Scott promised a bunch of kids 10 years prior to pay for college? The one I just started watching and haven’t finished?
Yeah.
I think I might hurl. For real. Ha ha.
Update: that was truly evil.
One thing about that fateful year: more than two thirds of my life, I lived with that giant in the desert, never knowing his name, never knowing his crime, never knowing his goodness, never knowing the pleasure of his countenance, never knowing the gruesome horror of his face, his hands, his soul. Never knowing his kindness. Alone, behind me, all these years.
Put another way: I lived intimately alone with a giant in the desert, knowing everything about him, all this time.
This is a funny thing about giants. We used to play with them in our neighborhood. I mean, they weren’t strangers; quite the opposite. They were, literally, everywhere. This peculiar race, this peculiar species in pre-urban Utah, they were our friends and companions, we knew them throughout our lives. The giants lived on the edges of the desert, among the forests and meadows, in the mountains, these large, natural people, the people of the rocks, trees, rivers, and earth. These people carried huge burdens on their backs, and we knew them, and they knew us, and treated us kindly — with a few major exceptions, as I’ve already indicated — and all the world to them was an oasis, a playground, yet here they lived, played, and worked in the dry climate where I grew up.
It is a matter well established that few people come to Utah to learn about the giants. Most people don’t even know about them. And those of us who have lived here, sheltered for so long, don’t exactly share them with the outside world. In fact, some of use are selfish and practiced at hiding them. When strangers come to town we warn the giants. ”Here _they_ come!” And then a great rumbling noise, and thrashing, as the mother giants and father giants return to their nests.
As a child of the desert, I grew accustomed to this ascetic, though I have lived roughly half my life elsewhere. Now I sit, typing in a worn-out house in Massachusetts, reflecting on what I have hidden, not only from the world, but from myself, what I’ve been running from; or, put another way, who has been hiding from me. Now those yesteryears are past, and I intend to become acquanted with my invisible friend, the giant. Perhaps I might even introduce the giants to you, to the world. But let that unfold as a friend, the giant hiding beyond the unpartable river, would reveal himself.
Let that be later.
In some ways I’m very reticent to publish the following. I don’t like wearing religion on my sleeve, so to speak. I’ve always tried to walk more quietly, and just be kind to all, and live my life, I suppose as Jesus would have. But something rose up inside me today, I suppose you could say something quietly snapped, though that would probably be an imperfect colloquialism. Just the same, I can’t let it alone right now.
I love my Evangelical friends. I have a few. We’ve had awesome times together. I bear no grudges in this corner of the world. But always there is that lingering status afforded to us in general it seems by so many others in the Evangelical world. It’s as if they would never say it to your face, but behind closed doors, in churches, in homes, the word comes up.
“Cult.”
So this is my form of snapping, listening to a radio program I frequent, listening to an Evangelical praise Mormons on one front, but then turn the other cheek (he says, tongue firmly planted in said cheek), you know, on his website. Perhaps the individual in question is not responsible for the content of the website. But it doesn’t matter. The content is representative of a greater problem. And it is a problem.
This was my statement, submitted to Summit Ministries.
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I’m disappointed that you list Mormons under the heading “cult” on your website. It’s a sad commentary for the Evangelical Christian world in general, and you’ve lowered yourself likewise. Why are Evangelicals so preoccupied with calling Mormons a “cult”?
Do you realize what it sounds like to our ears? It’s become a disgusting epithet, tantamount to racially invective slurs. It almost takes on the form of hate speech. Would you call a Jew an anti-Christ? Why would anyone do such a thing?
Set aside our feelings about the nature of God or Jesus. Set aside the question about “which Jesus” we follow versus you. Set aside differences in doctrine and whatnot.
You prop and recognize “the Mormons” on Hugh Hewitt’s show, saying “we’re grateful” for the defense and support we gave toward Proposition 8, but you offend us by listing your materials about Mormons under the heading “cult.” There’s always this tone, a qualifier, some serious fear that if one doesn’t quickly counter just how wrong the Mormons are…then…then…?
Eye for an eye.
Please. The higher law asks you to turn your cheek, to look beyond the beam, to walk another mile, to suffer the weary. Instead, you afflict, make weary, make sad.
Jesus alone held the right to judge the hypocrite. It is his call. If the word “cult” is part of Jesus’s vernacular towards us Mormons for our beliefs, let it be thus. I am not afraid to face my maker and ask his sympathies for whatever wrongs I may have made. But this is not your role.
His apostles often made inappropriate judgments and He corrected them. ”Forgive all men” was not just a statement about who is right and who is wrong. It was perfect counsel about how to unite, despite differences, how to truly love. Do you consider how the word “cult” makes a Mormon feel? Are you able to consider this? Do you know how we long to unite with you?
In some ways, Evangelicals and Mormons are more alike than some of us want to admit. We’re like feuding Jews and Arabs, long lost brothers who have some differences that have grown over time.
I have tried to do my part to be responsible toward my Evangelical friends, to love them, and not make false charge. I can have doctrinal differences with them, but
I
DO
NOT
LABEL.
This is your sin.
Please. Do us a favor. If you have a disagreement, reach out. Find a less offensive term to call us. Speak to us on our own level. You might be surprised at our response.
Stop calling us a “cult.” It’s disgraceful.
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Perty cool. This weekend I was able to go and meet some of the founders of the gadgetry running this here blog.
I wouldn’t say I’m particularly tied to WordPress as a system, however, I’ve taken a lot of interest in BuddyPress lately, what with a pet project, Arx Poetica, which I’ve built on top of BuddyPress. There was a lot of buzz about BuddyPress at WordCamp NYC this year; it kind of seemed to be the hot topic. What’s fun is I was able to meet the main developers behind it, Andy Peatling and John James Jacoby, and discuss some of the pros and cons of another strong area interest of mine, distributed social networks. The so-called “social stack” is on the roadmap for BuddyPress, down the path a few iterations. A developer in Poland, Wacław, and I have taken up a bit of the mantle on this front, aided by the help of former OpenID runners like Will Norris and Chris Messina. Visit our endeavors here: http://disodev.org/ There isn’t much to show for it on the actual site, but we’ve done some work already on returning OpenID results using XRDS Simple.
And not be utterly excited about this:
http://www.thebutteredslice.com/wordpress/archives/119
Even just the raw, homemade version of Andy 3.0 served up is like fresh manna to the taste.
Yum.
“And when there was no crawdad to be found, we ate sand.”