The Swimming Lesson

“Take a deep breath.”
His lungs hurt already and the plunge wouldn’t help that any. The plunge would unquestionably be bitter cold. A chill to the bone, to be sure. The sort of chill that numbed the skin purple, that chattered teeth. No one imagined anyone could withstand it. Surely no one could stand it.
“Remember to breathe.”
He stood at the water’s edge, on the strand, debating whether or not the plunge was such a good idea after all. Perhaps, instead, the slow immersion was best, gradual envelopment, slowly made accustom to the temperament of the loch. But no, that wouldn’t do either, he thought to himself, as images of slippery amphibians in stove-top appliances flashed before his eyes. The debate grew all the fierier: I don’t want to be a toad, he thought, my blood is cold enough as it is, and I don't want to be burnt up. No, that won’t do either.
“Don’t hold your breath.”
Maybe an experiment to test the waters.
“Breathe out.”
He dipped his toes in and felt the prick like pins and needles. But he quickly recoiled, his foot blenched. It was as if a great, blue hornet had poisoned him with its great, burning stinger all at once, and it made the sting of his after shave feel like an aloe. I must be mad, he thought. He was too young to be shaving anyhow.
“Close your eyes.”
I wish I were a polar bear, all warm and fuzzy in a coat of white fur. I wouldn’t feel a thing all blanketed in blubber. The water might just be refreshing that way. Like going for a nice cool dip after a hard day’s work. I’d shed the coat altogether, and in its place I’d wear goose bumps. Only, he thought with hesitation, only its such a beautiful coat.
“Don’t forget to breathe.”
Or even a mighty grizzly on a bout of fishing. Standing there, knee deep in the water, waiting for a bite. What seemed like endless hours might pass, not a tug, not a nibble, but there I’d stand stock still, waiting for the catch of a lifetime. Another hour gone, not a stirring of the line, not a bubbling in the water, but I wouldn’t lose patience, I couldn’t afford to. I had mouths to feed. His stomach rumbled.
“Always wait an hour after a meal...”
That is more than enough. There has to be a better way.
“Don’t give in to the cold.”
He bent down somewhere between a sit and a crouch, his arms resting limply before him. He looked awkward hunched over there; clumsy, like a puppy whose extremities are too large for his body. He sat there, with his tail between his legs, apprehensive of the unexplored territory before his nose. A dog’s scent is always thrown for a curve around water, and he hardly knew what to do with himself. Where to go from here, he wondered.
“There’s nowhere else to go but in.”
Slowly, he dipped his hands into the water and brought forth a cup brimming with crystal glass. Gleaming, he saw his face upon its surface, pale and sad and full of apprehension; skin tight and red with cold. Disappointed, he quickly made a change, like someone at a dinner party who all at once sees their reflection in a pewter place setting. His face relaxed and his countenance became calm. His posture straightened slightly, and the nervous puppy became like a wisened old watchdog. But suddenly, he tossed the cup upward, shocking the other guests, and heaving the water onto his face unceremoniously. It struck him like a ton of bricks, like brandished steal it tore through his senses burning his skin and giving him shivers something awful. He felt it run down his cheeks and along the curve of his jaw bottling up at the base of his chin and dripping drops onto his feet. Then, drawing forth another, he pitched it up in like manner, letting it strike him, but this time it stuck with less tenacity. He did the same then with another, and another until his hair was sopping wet and he was soaked to the ears. For he knew, when the mind is made accustom, so is the body. The shock value had diminished.
“It’s all or nothing.”
So it is, he began to think. But he never got around to thinking it, for all rational thought had suddenly left him. And all that was left was the desire to swim. So he swam. Before he knew what he was doing, before he knew what had happened, he swam. And the water no longer felt so icy. No, now it was but a temperate stream; a cool shower after a summer’s day or a hot bath after a winter’s, depending.
“That a’boy!”
Encouragement! Though it was only just now that he had heard it for the first time. Gleefully his thoughts returned to him: Encouragement! With such sweet support what chill could burn, what heat suppress? In what could one take worry? How could I have been so ill-concerned? How could I have been so worried? After all, what’s there to fear when you’re a polar bear?
“My, what a thrill this is!”

A Personal Quip

To be normal in modern society is to be anything but. Truly, you could venture to say it is to be a non-conformist. For to call oneself normal in the present day is to call oneself an alien; an invader of a distant world or foreign domain. Indeed, the champion of normalcy is the alien in an extraterrestrial world. He is the man among martians.

The New Addition

Looking In

"Whatever else a modern feels when he looks at the night sky he certainly feels that he is looking out--{...}. But if you accepted the Medieval Model you would feel like one looking in. The Earth is 'outside the city wall'. When the sun is up he dazzles us and we cannot see inside. Darkness, our own darkness, draws the veil and we catch a glimps of the high pomps within; [...]. And, looking in, we do not see, [...], 'the army of unalterable law', but rather the revelry of insatiable love." ~C.S. Lewis

We tend to disregard the sky. We unconsciously think that it's nothing more than a backdrop to the foreground. A mat painting to fill in what is otherwise obsolete. "Here's where all the action is," we think, "and here is all that matters." This precept, however unconscious it may be, stems from the minds of moderns, taking root in the central focus of Enlightenment culture, that is, individuality and originality. As products of Enlightenment thought, we readily consider this concept mandate, the axiom of art, science, and history throughout the centuries. But such was not the case, as we shall come to find out.

The medievals had a very different view of the heavens, seeing the anatomy of the universe in a wholly different light. As Peter Ackroyd discusses in his Albion, "If the people of England gazed heavenward, and looked up at the night sky filled with light and harmony,they believed that they were looking inward not outward; [...]. This is of some importance to the writer and artist, [...]; just as the personal sinfullness of a priest made no difference to his power upon the alter, so unique or individual perception was less important than the corpus of approved and aquired knowledge. Authenticity was more significant than individuality or originality, [...]." You see, for the medievals, the heavens were the point. The sky was of central focus and was a prime influence, for they recognized the importance of the heavenly realms towards which we are to strive. At the same time, they did not do so to the detriment of the realm in which we live. "There is where my loyalties lie," they thought, "but here too might I fulfill them." The medievals positioned themselves in a manner so as to be in the world but not of it; an especially radical manner after the dominance of the Platonic and Aristotelian schools of thought (Platonic thought- focus on the spiritual to the neglect of the physical; Aristotelian- focus on the physical to the neglect of the spiritual). But the people of Christendom saw the holes in the logic of the Greek philosophers, so instead, they followed the faith and infallable reason of the Scriptures. Reading from top to bottom, they thought: 'Since we are made in the image of God, our bodies are the temple of the Holy Ghost and, while temporary, are important. Likewise our souls are important. They are everlasting and they give us identity. They are our true form, for we are, indeed, spirits with bodies, not bodies with spirits. It is our spirits that shall join the Almighty. Therefore, both the physical and spiritual realms matter and should be revered as members of the covenant faculty.'

It can be concluded, therefore, that the medievals' view of the sky was the direct result of their worldview. Just as was their sense of aesthetics, their medicinal practices, their studies of Alchemy, Astrology, etc. Each were influenced by this all encompasing worldview focused on and fulfilled by the standards of the faith, by the beauty, truth, and goodness of the Word made flesh. To the medieval, the means were just as important as the end and the mode just as vital as the message. Art was not, is not, for the sake of art, nor is it for the praise of the artist. It is not about finding the newist way to rebel and mutilate, but a creative (and, perhaps, even innovative) way to express old truths. The medievals knew this. Moreover, they put it into practice, for that is the beauty of Christendom.

Let Your People be My Peeps and Your God, My Homeboy

Have you ever noticed the ambiguity of our religion in popular culture? How even the most humanistic and idle profess Christianity, carrying on as if vice were virtue? I have, and as the tendency towards the endearment of God becomes all the more prevalent in our churches and society it's hard to miss. Altogether, we "contemporary" Christians feel it is necessary to follow every whim of secular progression if we are to appeal to a modern audience. We want to draw in the next generation of twenty-somethings with our flashing lights and lavish guitar solos; our messy haircuts, wrinckled clothing, and hip evangelisic tools. The idea is to profess faith in a fashion so as to avoid riddicule and to make religion appeal to the seeker. To depict faith as a matter of the heart alone, the business of "what's inside" rather than the all-engrossing matter of word, thought, and deed as depicted in Romans 15:17-21. The problem is, this is completely contrary to Biblical teaching (I Peter 2:13-25). If we profess to be Christians and believe that the faith encompasses every aspect of life, then that faith on which we stand should necessarily affect change in every aspect of our lives. If we believe that Yahweh is the author of all things, we must submit to this principle. If we profess belief in the Bible, then we must do the same. Now do not interperet my words to say that we should abandon the mission field and fold the embracing arms of the Church before the face of the poor, the despised, and the unlovely of our local communities; that is a sinful debunking of the Christian duty and is unquestionably incorrect. What I mean instead is that while we, 'the popular face of christian culture (i.e. christians who attempt to spread the gospel through secular means)', go about sowing seeds of obscurity, we should on the contrary be laying the foundations of light and life in a world that is utterly becoming dark. God calls us to be the ambassadors of His kingdom, bringing clarity and rationality, connecting the dots and bearing the tools of true repentance to the ends of the earth.

I say all this to make mention of a number of ambiguities recently called to my attention. Most especially, one regarding the ferociously popular MySpace.com. Now I'm not sure how many of you have MySpace profiles (the fewer the better in my opinion), but should you have one you will recall that in the process of setting up your account you were asked to select your religious standing. MySpace provides options as diverse as Shintoism to as ordered as Catholicism, but Christianity is no real option. It only appears in the form 'Christian--other'. As if Christianity were so indistinct that it took more than one name to describe. Unfortunately, however, in modern culture, it does. There are 33,830 Christian denominations in the world, a number astonishing to most of us. It makes one wonder how we expect to portray the face of the gospel when even we Christians cannot agree on what it looks like. We wonder where the line is drawn, and where 'religious freedom' gets taken too far. If the Christian religion, a single entity up until the 1500's, split into over 30,000 entities in a matter of 500 years, was the Protestant Reformation really such a good thing? Now without question, the cause for Reformation was just but were the effects? I should say no, but before you go burning you copy of Institues, consider this: men like Calvin and Luther were not attempting to split the Church but to correct and reshape the way in which the Church worked. They longed for a Church rooted in Scripture; lead according to the decree of the Word, not by the whim of Man. They did not wish to abolish Catholicism, but to repair its flaws that it might better encompass the truth of the gospel. We have, as usual, misinterpreted these mens' intentions and have turned their disagreements into a just cause for our own schisms. This is not the heart of the reformer or of The Reformation. We alone are to blame for the divorces of the Church.

The second topic I wish to call into question appears in the form of a recent fad. The 'Jesus is my Homeboy' brand was a highly popular trend not so long ago, appearing on hats, t-shirts, stickers, etc. 'Jesus is my Homeboy' was yet another way for kids and young adults to express religious sympathies without the social prejudice. It falls into the same category as your everyday 'Hugs Not Drugs' sign or 'Precious Moments' figurine. A sappy and endearing (and might I add dumbed-down) way to refer to the images and the standards of the faith. It is yet another of man's futile attempts to claim authority over God. Indeed, turning the Almighty into our own personal 'Sugar Daddy' is one of our favorite pass times, for we show no reverence for our Creator. Let us then give honest answers to obvious questions, is 'homeboy' a loving, respectful, and fitting term by which to describe the Lord and giver of life, the God of all grace? Are weepy little cherubs an appropriate depiction of the fierce warriors and mighty guardians of the Heavenly gates? Absolutely not! God is not our 'Sugar Daddy'. He is not up there for us, but rather we here for him. After all, who is the creator and who the created, and who are we to assume authority over the one who we would not have our being apart from? How arrogant we are! And how guilty of such prideful treachery! O mighty, Lord, tame thy wrath and forgive us!

Congratulations are in Order

"That I might be a shepherd
With merry flocks to feed
To care for dearest waywards
And draw them back to Thee."

Heartiest congratulations to my good cousin Brent, soon to be father and sooner to be Seminary graduate. Congratulations old horse (and Noele too)!

The Hidden Nature of a Popular Soft-Drink

Whoever thought that a word most commonly associated with a Windex flavored soft drink might have once been the makings of something sinister? Could anyone have guessed that the characters we’ve come to love so well, those we’ve determined harmless products of the imagination, (Peter Pan, Tinkerbell, Santa’s Elves) stem from an ancient lineage daemonic in nature and alarming in name? Be honest, did you really know that a majority of the cars we drive are named after some pagan god or another?

The truth is, we live in a society which lauds the ignorant and considers illiteracy worthy of praise. We forget (assuming, of course, that we knew in the first place) how very greatly history affects our everyday lives, how regularly myth makes appearances in reality, how legend shapes the course of our culture and society. Most of all we forget the common denominator of all of these things. What might that be? That they each and every one would be completely useless apart from the language which defines them.

Why then are we so quick to forget, and why do we not pick up on things such as those mentioned above? I attribute it to our atrocious vocabularies. We have such a poor knowledge of our language that we limit our ability to articulate thought in a rational and functional manner. In turn, our ability to comprehend language suffers and, as the result, we not only lose eloquence of speech but eloquence of mind as well. What does it say to the world ---what should it say to us--- when mainland Europeans speak better English than the inhabitants of English speaking nations? Why is it that we cannot characterize the natures of people and/or products despite the fact that their names characterize them for us? Have we become so mentally inert that we fail to comprehend even the most basic symbols? Unfortunately, I should say yes. We have been utterly desensitized by the modern methods of entertainment ---the television, the ipod, the cell phone, the video game console--- that we even overlook those things which require no intellectual deduction to understand. For instance, how many of us would actually be drawn into a moment of silent pondering to consider that complex and fascinating subject known as the universe upon opening a MilkyWay bar? Or that by its name and, therefore, in its nature the MilkyWay is an effort towards the institution of a universal chocolate bar, and, therefore, the M&M chocolate company cherishes communist ideals. Okay so maybe that’s a bit extreme, but you get the point, right? You see, I’m not saying that we should ponder the universe upon each bite of a mediocre chocolate bar, or upon hopping into our Saturn to drive to the market; rather, I’m attempting to draw us into a mindset of definition and observation. A mindset in which we give credit to the fact that the MilkyWay is actually named for something, after something. In which we give credit to those things which seem ordinary, but are in fact inexplicably noteworthy*.

Frankly, words matter and mean more than debased sentence structure and abbreviated type (“[...] the Word was with God and the Word was God.”). They are bound up, just as we, in a covenant with the Almighty (“He was in the beginning with God.”). Does it not then follow that through the Word our covenant was made (“All things were made through him, and without him was not anything made that was made.”), and should it not also follow that in that covenant, being bound to God, we are so also bound to the Word (“In him was life, and the life was the light of men.”)? It should be our aim, therefore, and our desire, to see them in regard to their convenant distinction. Paid their proper due, that through our adoration, we might grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior, for in the Word is the way, the truth, and the light (“The light shines in darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”) and through the word was the majesty of our savior made revealed.

*I assign to you, therefore, two bits of a voluntary homework of sorts: 1) Read Whitney’s post Love, Honor, and Cherish to witness a practical outworking of the topic at hand, and 2) Look up the following subjects in the Dictionary or Encyclopedia most conveniently accessible to you (Note: each of the following contains some pertinence to modern Pop Culture. I am in hopes that through the research of such subjects I will have provided you with sufficient illustrations of the points made in paragraph #2.): Volkswagen, Sprite, Scion, Spree, Nissan, Nano, Nirvana, Incubus, Franz Ferdinand, Mazda.

Broken Limbs Made Whole

“Then enter’d Sin, and with that Sycamore,
Whose leaves first sheltered man from drought and dew,
Working and winding slyly evermore,
The inward wall and Sommers cleft and tore:
But Grace shor’d these, and cut that as it grew.”
~George Herbert, The World

“Enter by the narrow gate. For the gate is wide and easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many. For the gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few.”
--Matt. 7:13

Looking out of my front window I saw a coupling of trees. Trees of the same nature, the same soil, the same breed, planted on the same day. They’ve grown up together brothers of the selfsame seed. They sit parallel to one another, a driveway on either side and an open lawn between them. Their roots stretch out about them. From the road they give frame to our home; sleek obelisks of Sycamore, broad with green leaves. They provide one of the few places where shade might be obtained on a mid-summers day in our single acre yard.

As I peered at them through the looking glass memories returned: days of climbing, swinging, walking the trail of overgrown roots, jumping ever so high as to reach the great, grassy leaves, and plucking one down for impression’s sake. A token to tame your fairest’s desires. And standing there, staring at them, I couldn’t help but think that they had been identical, one in the same, that at all times one had been paid in as equal regard as the other, yet such was not the case. I’d always favored the one on the left. It was taller and its limbs hung lower. The bark flaked less and the wood was dark and rich. I thought it the perfect tree for climbing. And boy did I climb! I’d clamber up the trunk, careful of my grip and unsure of my feet until I reached my nest, a small and clumsy bunch of branches midway up, just big enough for me to rest in comfortably and with just enough uncertainty to make the laziness exciting. I’d lounge there, listening to the wind in the leaves and staring at the birds above me, for they too nested at the top.

But the jaunts under the limbs had not always been so carefree. There were times when I had jumped and brought down no token, when I had leapt and clasped no limb. But that was the other tree, the one on the right hand side. Its limbs were high and thick; hard to get hold of even if you did manage to reach them. The bark constantly pealed from its trunk to reveal a slick, white wood still more difficult to grasp. Even with your tennis shoes on the climbing was no less difficult, the smooth white timber overcame the tread of the sole leaving traction hard to come by. The soil about the tree was strewn with rocks. Rocks which struck up from the dirt and caused the ground to go uneven, a persecution to the ankles to be sure. Nonetheless, the grass grew mossy about its roots. The tree prospered. It grew up great and took wonderful form, for on its side was a wellspring overflowing with the passing wet of weather. A bubbling nutrient with which no rock or hard place could hope to contend. So the tree grew, rich, stretching its arms towards the sky like a child’s fingertips groping the unknown heights of countertops. With something sweet in mind the tree pined for sun and rain set upon a high shelf.

Truly it was a beautiful tree. More lovely than its brother in every respect, but its brother held my appeal and its brother I could attain. So to him was it that I returned. Cleaved to the nest of my unease I went and each time I would go I saw yet another flaw in his bandy form. Once I saw that upon his left he was pruned too thin, again and I saw how drooped his limbs, and again I saw his barren cap, his dying roots, his mealy sap. I stood, just at his base, in wonderment. Wonderment at how I had held him so long in high favor.

I began to pull away. My feet became more accustomed to rocky soil as my attempts at scaling the height of the right tree became more frequent. I lost all regard for tokens; instead, the sap of his branches became my desire, the view from his summit my reward. Nothing else would, could suffice. My attempts became more frequent still and with each attempt a failure. Knees were scraped, elbows bruised, and sweat flowed like tears. The palms of my hands callused with the recurring torture of splinter in flesh. I grew reluctant. And my reluctancy would well up and fall back, ebb and flow like the turning of the tides sometimes within a moment, often within a span. I grew reluctant, some years passed and my efforts continued unsuccessfully. I went on leaping and pawing my way into the lowest limbs, but it was there that my feet failed me, my muscles weakened and went lax, my grip slackened and failed my trust. I could go no further up. It is was if, though I wore no bonds, I was chained to the ground. Nonetheless, with each passing day the chain was weakened, the metal rust and turned to grout. The chain did break and, upshot, I took down a leaf from the highest limb. The chain did break; that day I reached the top.

Alles Gute zum Geburtstag Herr van Gogh!

Infortuna Major

dies Saturni - Saturn: Roman god of the harvest; Greek: Cronus.

Associated element: Earth
Nature: Cold and Dry
Day of the Week: Saturday
Associated Humour: Melancholic (Black bile)
Dominant Influence: Contemplatives/ Thinkers/ Philosophers
Alchemic Property: Lead

Lewis tells us of Saturn: "In the earth his influence produces lead; in men, the melancholy complexion; in history, disastrous events. In Dante, his sphere is the Heaven of contemplatives. He is connected with sickness and old age. Our traditional picture of Father Time with the scythe is derived from earlier pictures of Saturn. A good account of his activities in promoting fatal accidents, pestilence, treacheries, and ill luck in general occurs in The Knight's Tale (A 2463 sq.). He is the most terrible of the seven and is sometimes called The Greater Infortune, Infortuna Major.

dies Saturni: 'Saturn's Day.'

Anglo-Saxon: sater daeg;
French: samedi; Italien: sabato; Spanish: sabado
German: Samstag; Dutch: zaterdag; Swedish: Lördag
Danish and Norse: Lørdag ('washing day')

On the sixth day God created man and the beasts of the land. Saturn, the god of both unfortunate events/ death and of the harvest, fits well into the mold of the sixth day. Consider, God brought forth man through the creation of Adam, the sin of Adam begat the fall, and by Adam's sin Christ was declared 'the seed who crushes the serpent's head' (Gen. 3:15). Thus, Saturn's attributes and connection with the sixth day lies with the creation man, the harvester of sin and the root of the greatest disaster, the Fall.

A Brief Break

As a quick respite from the planet series, I thought perhaps something ever more beffudling might be in order. In reading Spencer's The Faerie Queene, I came across mention of Sirius, the Dog-Star. This led me through a whole slew of tangents to come across two things. 1) A page dedicated to the study of Sirius (the star that is) and 2) a summary (in essence) of Granger's Looking for God in Harry Potter written by Granger himself (okay, so maybe this isn't a respite from the planet blogs). Upon close study of the two I think it might be assumed that Sirius still has some role to play in the Potter works and that Harry, though he may not die in the fight against Voldemort, has to transform (quite literally) into his pure and golden form. This will require a figurative (or literal) death and transformation into the spiritual realm of perfection and purification. Anyway, I'll stop rambling now and allow the real knowledgeable writers to do the talking.

Granger Article
Studies with Sirius

The Fortuna Minor

dies veneris; Venus: goddess of love. Greek: Aphrodite; Norse: Frigg

Associated Element: Water
Nature: Cold and Moist
Day of the Week: Friday
Associated Humour: Phlegmatic (Phlegm)
Dominant Influence: Isn't is obvious?
Alchemic Property: Copper

Lewis makes note of Venus' quality in The Discarded Image: "In beneficence Venus stands second only to Jupiter; she is Fortuna Minor. Her metal is copper. The connection is not clear till we observe that Cyprus was once famed for its copper mines; that copper is cyprium, the Cyprian metal; and that Venus, or Aphrodite, especially worshipped in that island, was [...], the Lady of Cyprus. In mortals she produces beauty and amorousness; in history, fortunate events. Dante makes her sphere the Heaven not, as we might expect from a more obvious poet, of the charitable, but of those, now penitent, who in this life loved greatly and lawlessly. Here he meets Cunizza, four times a wife and twice a mistress, and Rahab the Harlot (Paradiso, IX). They are in swift and incessant flight (VIII, 19-27)-- a likeness in unlikeness to the impenitent and storm-borne lovers of Inferno, V."

dies veneris- "Venus' Day". Venus became associated with Friday due to her Germanic origin. In the Norse, Venus was known as Frigg. As such, in early high German, Friday was known as 'frigedag'. Through the evolution of language, Frigg turned to Freia, a name containing the Indo-European root 'frei,' meaning 'to love'. Thus, Friday became the common name for the fifth day of the week ('Frei', by the way, forms the basis of English's 'friend' and 'free').

French: vendredi; Italian: venerdi; Spanish: viernes.
German: Freitag ; Dutch: vrijdag

On the fifth day of Creation, God created the birds of the air and the beasts of the sea. Now the most obvious connection with Venus here is that, according to myth, Venus was born from the sea. But perhaps more tangible evidence will arise when I tell you that multiple underwater creatures belong to the Venus, Venerupis, and other Venus-related genera under the family Veneridae (Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, Species). These creatures are mostly mollusks inhabiting what became known as 'Venus shells' (shells with clearly defined growth lines (these inevitably create logarithmic spirals(the shape of the golden rectangle, hurricanes, and even the universal make-up. Though this is not exact))). As a matter of fact, in German, the word for 'clam' is 'Venusmuschel'. Literally translated 'the venus muscle'. But all rabbit trails aside, this should be sufficient evidence as to why Venus became associated with the fifth day.

If still you remain in doubt I have but one thing to say... "love-birds".