I have not any fearful tale to tell
Of fabled giant or of dragon-claw,
Or bloody deed to pilfer and to sell
To those who feed, with such, a gaping maw;
But what in yonder hamlet there befell,
Or rather what in it my fancy saw,
I will declare, albeit it may seem
Too simple and too common for a dream.

Two brothers were they, and they sat alone
Without a word, beside the winter's glow;
For it was many years since they had known
The love that bindeth brothers, till the snow
Of age had frozen it, and it had grown
An icy-withered stream that would not flow;
And so they sat with warmth about their feet
And ice about their hearts that would not beat.

And yet it was a night for quiet hope:—
A night the very last of all the year
To many a youthful heart did seem to ope
An eye within the future, round and clear;
And age itself, that travels down the slope,
Sat glad and waiting as the hour drew near,
The dreamy hour that hath the heaviest chime,
Jerking our souls into the coming time.

But they!—alas for age when it is old!
The silly calendar they did not heed;
Alas for age when in its bosom cold
There is not warmth to nurse a bladed weed!
They thought not of the morrow, but did hold
A quiet sitting as their hearts did feed
Inwardly on themselves, as still and mute
As if they were a-cold from head to foot.

O solemn kindly night, she looketh still
With all her moon upon us now and then!
And though she dwelleth most in craggy hill,
She hath an eye unto the hearts of men!
So past a corner of the window-sill
She thrust a long bright finger just as ten
Had struck, and on the dial-plate it came,
Healing each hour's raw edge with tender flame.

There is a something in the winds of heaven
That stirreth purposely and maketh men;
And unto every little wind is given
A thing to do ere it is still again;
So when the little clock had struck eleven,
The edging moon had drawn her silver pen
Across a mirror, making them aware
Of something ghostlier than their own grey hair.

Therefore they drew aside the window-blind
And looked upon the sleeping town below,
And on the little church which sat behind
As keeping watch upon the scanty row
Of steady tombstones—some of which inclined
And others upright, in the moon did show
Like to a village down below the waves—
It was so still and cool among the graves.

But not a word from either mouth did fall,
Except it were some very plain remark.
Ah! why should such as they be glad at all?
For years they had not listened to the lark!
The child was dead in them!—yet did there crawl
A wish about their hearts; and as the bark
Of distant sheep-dog came, they were aware
Of a strange longing for the open air.

Ah! many an earthy-weaving year had spun
A web of heavy cloud about their brain!
And many a sun and moon had come and gone
Since they walked arm in arm, these brothers twain!
But now with timed pace their feet did stun
The village echoes into quiet pain:
The street appeared very short and white,
And they like ghosts unquiet for the light.

"Right through the churchyard," one of them did say
—I knew not which was elder of the two—
"Right through the churchyard is our better way."
"Ay," said the other, "past the scrubby yew.
I have not seen her grave for many a day;
And it is in me that with moonlight too
It might be pleasant thinking of old faces,
And yet I seldom go into such places."

Strange, strange indeed to me the moonlight wan
Sitting about a solitary stone!
Stranger than many tales it is to scan
The earthy fragment of a human bone;
But stranger still to see a grey old man
Apart from all his fellows, and alone
With the pale night and all its giant quiet;
Therefore that stone was strange and those two by it.

It was their mother's grave, and here were hid
The priceless pulses of a mother's soul.
Full sixty years it was since she had slid
Into the other world through that deep hole.
But as they stood it seemed the coffin-lid
Grew deaf with sudden hammers!—'twas the mole
Niddering about its roots.—Be still, old men,
Be very still and ye will hear again.

Ay, ye will hear it! Ye may go away,
But it will stay with you till ye are dead!
It is but earthy mould and quiet clay,
But it hath power to turn the oldest head.
Their eyes met in the moon, and they did say
More than a hundred tongues had ever said.
So they passed onwards through the rapping wicket
Into the centre of a firry thicket.

It was a solemn meeting of Earth's life,
An inquest held upon the death of things;
And in the naked north full thick and rife
The snow-clouds too were meeting as on wings
Shorn round the edges by the frost's keen knife;
And the trees seemed to gather into rings,
Waiting to be made blind, as they did quail
Among their own wan shadows thin and pale.

Many strange noises are there among trees,
And most within the quiet moony light,
Therefore those aged men are on their knees
As if they listened somewhat:—Ye are right—
Upwards it bubbles like the hum of bees!
Although ye never heard it till to-night,
The mighty mother calleth ever so
To all her pale-eyed children from below.

Ay, ye have walked upon her paven ways,
And heard her voices in the market-place,
But ye have never listened what she says
When the snow-moon is pressing on her face!
One night like this is more than many days
To him who hears the music and the bass
Of deep immortal lullabies which calm
His troubled soul as with a hushing psalm.

I know not whether there is power in sleep
To dim the eyelids of the shining moon,
But so it seemed then, for still more deep
She grew into a heavy cloud, which, soon
Hiding her outmost edges, seemed to keep
A pressure on her; so there came a swoon
Among the shadows, which still lay together
But in their slumber knew not one another.

But while the midnight groped for the chime
As she were heavy with excess of dreams,
She from the cloud's thick web a second time
Made many shadows, though with minished beams;
And as she looked eastward through the rime
Of a thin vapour got of frosty steams,
There fell a little snow upon the crown
Of a near hillock very bald and brown.

And on its top they found a little spring,
A very helpful little spring indeed,
Which evermore unwound a tiny string
Of earnest water with continual speed—
And so the brothers stood and heard it sing;
For all was snowy-still, and not a seed
Had struck, and nothing came but noises light
Of the continual whitening of the night.

There is a kindness in the falling snow—
It is a grey head to the spring time mild;
So as the creamy vapour bowed low
Crowning the earth with honour undefiled,
Within each withered man arose a glow
As if he fain would turn into a child:
There was a gladness somewhere in the ground
Which in his bosom nowhere could be found!

Not through the purple summer or the blush
Of red voluptuous roses did it come
That silent speaking voice, but through the slush
And snowy quiet of the winter numb!
It was a barren mound that heard the gush
Of living water from two fountains dumb—
Two rocky human hearts which long had striven
To make a pleasant noise beneath high heaven!

Now from the village came the onward shout
Of lightsome voices and of merry cheer;
It was a youthful group that wandered out
To do obeisance to the glad new year;
And as they passed they sang with voices stout
A song which I was very fain to hear,
But as they darkened on, away it died,
And the two men walked homewards side by side.

--- George MacDonald

Be welcome, year! with corn and sickle come;
  Make poor the body, but make rich the heart:
What man that bears his sheaves, gold-nodding, home,
  Will heed the paint rubbed from his groaning cart!

Nor leave behind thy fears and holy shames,
  Thy sorrows on the horizon hanging low-
Gray gathered fuel for the sunset-flames
  When joyous in death's harvest-home we go.

 --- George MacDonald

There stood in heaven a linden tree,
But, though, ‘twas honey-laden,
The angels cried: ‘No bloom shall be
Like that of one fair maiden.'

Sped Gabriel on wingéd feet,
And passed through bolted portals
In Nazareth, a maid to greet,
Blessed o'er all other mortals.

‘Hail Mary!' cried the angel mild,
‘Of womankind the fairest:
A maiden ay shalt thou be styled,
Although a babe thou bearest.'

‘But how should I a mother be
While yet a maid remaining?
No man with love hath looked on me:
‘Tis strange past all explaining!'

‘Most noble queen, no man on earth
Shall share in thy conceiving:
Thou shalt by God be brought to birth,
The Holy Ghost receiving.'

‘So be it!' God's handmaid gan cry,
‘According to thy telling.'
To heaven the angel then did fly,
To his celestial dwelling.

This news filled all the heavens with glee:
‘Twas passed from one to other
That ‘twas Mary, and none but she,
That God would call his mother.

--- Traditional fifteenth-century carol

As with gladness, men of old
Did the guiding star behold;
As with joy they hailed its light,
Leading onward, beaming bright;
So, most glorious Lord, may we
Evermore be led to Thee.

As with joyful steps they sped
To that lowly manger bed,
There to bend the knee before
Him Whom Heaven and earth adore;
So may we with willing feet
Ever seek the mercy seat.

As they offered gifts most rare
At that manger rude and bare;
So may we with holy joy,
Pure and free from sin's alloy,
All our costliest treasures bring,
Christ, to Thee, our heavenly King.

 --- William Chatterton Dix

Once upon a time there was a fisherman who fell asleep while mending his nets, and when he awoke under the stars he saw an angel princess descending out of heaven to dance across the sparkling sea. For the next six nights he hid behind the rocks so he could watch her dance in the moonlight, and he fell in love with her.

On the seventh night he snared her with his strongest net and said he would not release her until she promised to marry him. She promised she would, but she must return home to bid farewell to her mother and to collect her dowry.

She returned just as she promised and with her she brought a large trunk. She consented to be the fisherman's wife, but she made him promise never to open the trunk. The next day they were married on a high meadow overlooking the sea and they lived very happily together.

One day while his bride was at the market, the fisherman's curiosity overpowered him and he opened the trunk and looked inside.

Just then his wife returned and found him standing over the open trunk. He was confused. He turned to her and said he didn't know why she made him promise never to look inside because there was nothing there.

His wife began to sob. The fisherman did not understand.

"That night when I left to say goodbye to my mother," she explained, "I collected some things from home that I loved and I brought them to enjoy here on earth. Now I cannot stay with you."

The fisherman became angry.

"You are leaving me just because I looked in the trunk?"

"No," she said. "I could stay if you had only broken your promise to me. I must leave because you looked at everything I love and said it was nothing."

The fisherman ran toward her to beg forgiveness, but she was already gone.

Meeting needs in trouble times.

You may not have known that human needs for breathing, sex, excretion, property, intimacy, and self-esteem "can best be addressed by the church". I know these are things my seminary gave scant attention to; they just kept piling on that Hebrew stuff. Many were the late nights hip-deep in hithpo`els, aposiopeses, and inflammatory assertions like "Where myth is hypotactic metaphors, the Bible is paratactic metonymies" when I felt I could have done with a bit more sex. Perhaps it was short-sighted of me, but I was much younger then.

(I really don't know why there is an umlaut in the word sex, but I'm sure it portends something very special.)

And you can check here for the collected thoughts of a small bunch of crackpots who would love to take your money and share more insights.

"We are excited about what God is doing in the world today and are committed to being a part of Christ's mission to transform individuals, churches, and societies for abundant life.

"We have wrapped our lifestyles around this one desire, and dedicated our talents to motivate and equip others for this purpose and we want to help you give birth to the divine potential that is already within you."

I'm not ashamed to admit how excited I am about giving birth to the divine potential that is already within me, and I am, even as I speak, discussing with my wife the wrapping of our lifestyles around this desire.

She is ROFLing right now, but later we'll approach the topic with the furrowed brows and bitten lips this endeavor obviously requires.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
   Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
   With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
   And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

Mr. Keats observed this conspiracy and boon of Autumn, and he found a way to share it with me because he thought it was important. I enjoy his observation because I agree with him. Mr. Keats and I have come to an understanding about the nature of God's creation.

Now Autumn means different things.

Religious people, for instance, appreciate the importance of Autumn when the score is 17-14 late in the fourth quarter and the home team's ability to execute the no-huddle offense could decide the play-offs and the season.

These would be the same people who say without much understanding that Creation is Book I of the revelation of God's very nature.

I thought about this yesterday while replying to a Remonstrans member. We were talking about who "gets it" and who doesn't. It is no stretch to say that King David and Mr. Keats read the same books. Both Israel's Poet-King and perhaps the greatest poet of the English language loved what has always been important. Both of them would pity the jock, slouching there, so passionate about, so devoted to a worthless and momentary thing.

I wonder if David might not be encouraged to do something useful with his sword, what with the Philistine so handy and all.

There was once a rumor, not much believed anymore, that as a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.

Most of you've already been swept up in the Yuletide Vortex and very well may be engaged in random acts of meaningless commerce, arboreal defacement, and churlish wassail, so I'm not sure how immediate your interest in this might be. But because this is fresh and because you might want to follow the comments, I refer you to this.

If you already know what postmodernism is, or if you thought you knew what it was until you heard some emergent talking about it, or if you think postmodernism is just some sophomore prank used to rationalize a philistine evangelism, you should commit to drinking some eggnog and reading this.

The key to understanding the progression from modernism to postmodernism lies first in comprehending the important way postmodernism rejects modernism and second, in the perhaps even more important way that it accepts the premises of modernism. On the one hand, postmoderns reject the modern attempt to secure an indubitable epistemological foundation. There is, for the postmodern, no such foundation, and the attempt to secure such a thing is merely the vanity of a particular individual or society.

[...]

Simply put, man finds himself completely embedded within a particular culture, language, religion, and historical moment. These particularities serve to constitute man's reasoning capabilities; thus, what he is and what he thinks are the products of the situation into which he has been born. For the postmodern, there is no essential human nature. Man's essence is indeterminate; it is the product of his particular situation and his freely chosen acts. Thus, there is no teleology, for such a concept requires an essential nature. The result is epistemological subjectivism and moral relativism.

(And I can swear to you on Santa Claus's mother's eyes that no mention is made, even elliptically, of platonism.)

Sentimental emergent folk suppose that if they just look urban, rumpled, grungy, pierced and stained that they can't be sentimental; they must be hard-nosed realists. Turns out they are just as lost as the people they want to evangelize. Mark Mitchell does a reasonably good job of explaining how comical that supposition is.

The couches haven't helped at all.

But in addition to his summary Mitchell suggests that "belief precedes understanding" [nisi credidertitis, non intelligitis] and that faith is a remedy for our epistemological impasse. This is not good news for the religious folk who suppose they already have the fixin's for a serviceable belief. I think now is the time to recall that the church's natural resources of belief have been depleted. Ask a fundamentalist what is important to believe and you will get a short list of truisms couched in a culture that well and truly eviscerates the good, true and beautiful. Ask an evangelical and he will give you some already discredited platitudes about societal amendment, and he may tearfully hand you a published statement that shows how the transcendentals haven't guided them either. Ask an emergent what is important to believe and you will get the goofiest response to be offered in the history of human thought since snakes took to tree-climbing. And then he will show you his nose stud.

Meanwhile the church gathers and the preludes are winding down.

What will you tell the people?

One of the blogs I visit regularly is the work of a morbidly obese lesbian pastorette. The blog is a record of the complaints and resentments of a wretched soul who wants everyone to internalize her misery and outrage. All who go there can read of her physical ailments, her fear of being outed, her fear of disappointing those in her congregation with whom she is dealing treacherously, her fears of a career cut short by anti-sodomite bigots, her exercise routine at the swimming pool, and occasionally her surreptitious trysts with "Beloved".

One gets the impression of an immature seven year-old writing in a diary which she keeps in the living room so everyone can read it and extend emotional support and affirmation.

Her love is a very sad thing. It is not the love of Romeo & Juliet or Anthony & Cleopatra or Abelard & Heloise or Paolo & Francesca or Bonnie & Clyde or even Pepe LePew & The Odor-able Kitty. It is an unhealthy, sweaty thing done in a corner and then foisted for validation on an indifferent public under the pretense of a demand for social justice.

This she cannot see.

But on her blog she has a well-known logo of two wedding bands on a backdrop of a rainbow which says "This blog supports gay marriage". Underneath is written what I take to be the blogger's words: "Don't be scared... it's just love".

Frankly, I don't think a case can be made that it is love, and if it is love, it is a very different love from the sort mankind has honored since Eden.

But let's call it love just to be sarcastic.

It is a frightening thing to observe someone who thinks herself a competent shepherd of souls talking like this.

Love is good.
I love X.
Therefore X is good.

It's an interesting conclusion to be drawn by one who is fighting morbid obesity.

People "love" many things. They love many destructive things like drugs, sex, food, pornography, power, attention, adulation....

The message of the Incarnation is not that we are victimized by those who hate us, it is about how we are savaged by our own inordinate loves. Perhaps we can find some example of this during the Advent Season?

The scenic part of our trip began as we topped Raton Pass and looked west toward the serrated peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains eclipsing a gloaming sky.

We travelled north to Trinidad, home of Bat Masterson, Cissy King (from the Lawrence Welk Show, for you WCTS listeners) and Stanley Biber who helped make Trinidad the sex change capital of the world. I hesitate to mention this in the present company because so many emergent types are committed to changing everything: I fear that with our wide readership the McLaren Kool-Aid Clan might be encouraged to "take a trip to Trinidad".

This is not my intention; I record it for historical purposes only.

We visited Rino's where I enjoyed a plate of spaghetti and offering my reasons for thinking the waitress was a woman. The next morning we headed north by the Collegiate Mountains and on for the beautiful drive from Leadville to Minturn to Eagle.

I spent the next few days releasing the pinchbugs, harassing somewhat innocent children, throwing them up in the air, playing checkers, making cranberry relish, looking for elk, discussing Emergence, Mormonism, Young Fundamentalism and imperious mission agency executives with the adults. From there it was back to Buena Vista where we stayed up until the unrighteous hours and consumed large doses of C₁₁H₁₂N₂O₂ .

There were several Christmas jigsaw puzzles set out for the casual participation of sane people as they walked by, and the obsessive commitment of my wife who loses all sense of proportion about these things.

I met a truly disturbed woman who reminded me that Emergence is not funny, not pretty, and not healthy.

We shot some guns. We watched some football. We played some Bingo. We solved crossword puzzles, sudoku puzzles, disentanglement puzzles and sliding puzzles.

Then we thanked the proprietors for allowing us to loiter and we headed out.

The road home involved the expected tedium we associate with return trips until we backed out of a dark parking lot to hear a very unmusical sound from the rear end of the Suburban. It sounded like we were dragging a fire hydrant under the axle. The manly travelers got out at a Shell station, took off the tire, saw some loose and seriously misshapen bits fall to the ground, put them in the console cup-holder and we went merrily on our way as if we knew what we'd done. The women were not as impressed as I'd hoped they would be.

But a relaxing time was had by all.