Losing the Real America

Donald Trump for president . . . yet again?  

Trump isn't responsible for all the injustices and instabilities, brazenness and corruptions, afflicting the highways and byways of America’s ongoing political journey. But, behind his noisy suppositions, there's gritty truth this ex-president unwittingly exposes: He is truly the poster child of our unraveling, the role model for our government’s ongoing disparity. He is not the cause. He is the continuation: the undo-er of indispensable, viable governing needed at a time of evolving worldwide desperation.   

The answer is both simple and complex: We all know the mechanics of voting.   

How did we get here?  And more to the point, how did he get THERE?   

Well, there was an election, right? And he won. Yes, thanks to the Electoral College. Thanks first to those reigning Congress-persons who “opened this door when he banged on it.” Was it from their party’s fear of loss in quest for executive power? Of course! From that embryonic, decisive-divisive moment, they have edged into their sycophantic or manipulative behavior . . .  and dismissed or avoided his obvious evidences of incompetence. His divisive callousness became theirs.  

We allowed a range of conditions that invited him into escalating our national dysfunction—a heritage of which he is seemingly oblivious. In 2016, he simply barged into the Republican’s wannabe line-up for the Oval Office (Of course the Dem’s had their own.) . . . the postulate-imposter, luring us down his own winding side-street. When the ballots were counted, he had arrived at his destination—with handy electoral college advantages. We were Trumped.   

The presidency shouldn’t be anyone’s first political foray. A president should be formed by  constant maturing, informed by current development, and consistently judged well before the day of election to office . . . before seeking the authoritative, world-focal position. Our political structure, designed as a timeless pledge of balance in governing, has often resembled an oral war zone. Or a football field? In the midst of this smattered playground, our untamed, unashamed president-in-the-re-making sauntered. Our Wizard of Odds. He knew the game.  

This would-be Emperor defies standards that too many of us already ignore, and too few of us comprehend as mandates based upon honor—personal and communal and yes, universal. Respect. Tolerance. Truth. Our president’s responses defy it by his hubris. It seems to be “catching.” Nearly pandemic. His key to surmounting inexperience in “impossible situations” is to avidly seek out those who will validate him and accept his misguided antidotes.  

Perhaps this untempered one will do himself, and us, and the watching world, an unintended favor: force us into sudden focus, exposing his and our own unequivocal trail of lies. The answers stretch far back before his pretense and reach far ahead.  

If you are a resolute Trump supporter—perhaps valuing his strong penchant toward nationwide and worldwide financial “adjustments”—you have been willfully primed by a man who apparently sees all things in terms of dollars. Billions of them. You/we who checked the square next to his name on the 2016 and 2020 ballots had reasons to hope for positive results—if financial stability and incremental wages alone were the underlying keys to better life ahead. Many grasped at this hope, despite reservations regarding his character. Few of us realized that Trump would deny the undeniable and revoke the irrevocable.   

It is the mandate and virtue of leadership to be balanced and humane.   

Would you . . . I ask those of you who oppose my accusations, or who offer moderate “yes, but’s” for a man who lives for the sake of his well-being—will you, I plead, stand solemnly for a moment—before a panicked world of our fellow humans, and grant that someday, without our powerful and innovative intervention, we—or our heirs—will face our final devastation?  

We must add this: the opposition party deserves no kudos. Their plots are often sprinkled with half-truths—garnished with verbal embellishments. Holier than any Republican thou.   

We must agree that both political parties have basic truths to retrieve about their call to high purpose, and much to gain by rethinking. And yet another crucial move forward: we voters each need to examine ourselves, as voters, or discouraged non-voters—for signs of self-deception. We as individuals and collectives. Our personal and national insight are critical; they grant the legitimacy born of and borne by ethics. We must rethink the roles and rules of opposition and the essential function of political parties—and the incentives of our often insistent and unchanging but indefinite party loyalty. The political parties must begin again.  

Let us dare to rethink our tomorrow, today—that we may personally-collectively, hopefully, and adamantly alter the future. That a more sustainable society will become a gradual reality, from the heart and hands of a determined and responsible president and congress . . . worked up jointly and handed down to us soberly. We each must agree to learn how to thrive safely, honestly, openhandedly, and reach each other there—to be taught by and teach each other. And yes, moving beyond our smallish nationalism and bringing together our valid needs and creeds.  

Now is our Moment in the spotlight—not because of our wise and prudent ways, but because the world citizens are watching us falter and stutter. We will soon decide whether the next election is an awkward, uncertain, but determined step toward our tomorrow—or a casualty for humanity forever.  

 

Judith Deem Dupree, author of four books: Going Home, living with what remains, Sky Mesa Journal, and I Sing America, has retired from teaching at writers’ workshops and conferences, including her own artists/writers retreat, Ad Lib. She lives east of San Diego, CA.

 

When He Comes to Them....

When He comes to them,

oh, when He plunges into earth-life, blood-begotten, 

amnion-soaked, it is in the open rawness

of a stable. A cave, perhaps. The shuffle of sheep,

their dense pelts reeking. A sift of hay-dust floating

on the raw air. The sound of human pain . . . .

                                          ~

Shadowed by the orbit of the rising moon,

the man kneels anxiously beside his wife. She wraps

and soothes her boy-child. His puckered mouth,

his eyes screwed shut, his feeble bleating . . .

a Lamb newborn indeed. The ewes turn and

cock their raggedy heads, their nostrils quivering. 

                                     ~

The shepherds crowd the entry, their clumsy

shuffle announcing them. The mother wakes

to apprehensive faces peering down. Their first

words sparse, garbled—constrained by incongruity. 

Shaped and shaken by unutterable mystery:

The great heart of Heaven in-born, earth-bound,

bundled and sheltered in a hard-worn cloth.

For knowing it, they dare to come, to worship.

And yes, there’s this . . . oh, this: the rupture

and unbidden rapture of the night sky! The ecstasy

of a timeless canticle, images and echoes

that will never end. An eternal diorama—this gift

they frame forever and carry in their empty hands:

the hill, the sky, a multitude of angels. 

          Maybe we may find ourselves beside them,

                    in an unexpected moment.

             Wishing you a very special Christmas!

                             ~Judith 

Riding the Waves

“And when He got into the boat, His disciples followed Him. And behold, there arose a great storm in the sea, so that the boat was covered with the waves; but He Himself was asleep. And they came to Him, and awoke Him, saying, “Save us, Lord; we are perishing! And He said to them, “Why are you timid, you men of little faith?” Then He arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and it became perfectly calm. And the men marveled, saying, “What kind of a man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey Him?”      

Adversity, by its definition and very nature, is an “attack” on whatever is foundational to us. When significant aspects of living become lost to us, a part of us is lost. Alas, we have no magic wand to compensate for whatever undercuts the fragile footage of life.

Beloved faces are swept beyond our touch by the ravages of death or the failures between us. Or a job disintegrates—the livelihood that was our “outer garment,” perhaps worn a bit thin at the elbows, but still part of our daily pulse, our daily bread. Or the very roof above us, our shelter and part of our identity—that which grounds and shapes us in community—is taken from us, swept away by nature or the "nature" of economics. Even losing a small accumulation of treasures that remind us who we are, where we have been in life, and who has been a part of it—even this may be a grief. A greater loss, our health—immobility, psychological problems, various afflictions that threaten our very life or bring devastation upon us and those around us. And always, the non-corporeal scars, our invisible wounds: the loss of dear ones, or the deep sickening that others’ betrayals lay upon us  . . . the robbing of our very soul. Any of these, and more, may defeat us. Grief is utterly personal, and our hearts sometimes break for reasons that seem inadequate to others. So, adversity brings to us "loss" in some form.

"Sweet are the uses of adversity..." says the bard. We do not ask for them. They are hard “gifts,” after all. We humans, who by nature cling to whatever we deem as desirable, as good, perceive the harsher blows of life as a seedbed for more bitter fruit of such kind. Passion fruit does not spring from poison oak.

And so true adversity (as opposed to the “setbacks” that fret us) is not “useful.” It does not offer solace, redemption for what is torn away, repair of the irreparable, comfort and bedding for the plundered psyche. Adversity is a great shadow that passes slowly, inexorably over us, stripping all that it touches—or a tsunami that strikes quickly, leaving a wake that leaves us breathless. We cannot fathom, cannot see beyond it.

We are set adrift in rough and alien seas, flotsam around us, flotsam within.

But consider this: Jesus rode upon that sea, in a teetering boat—asleep, incredibly, in the throes of a violent storm. The disciples, paralyzed with fear, wakened Him. The rest is history: the Christ who lay exhausted among them, weary human that He was, woke up—and rose  up—to a stature that engulfed the chaos threatening to engulf them all. He spoke into the implacable deafness of wind and water . . . and the roiling was stilled, within Him and then around Him.

Jesus doesn’t ride in our leaky boat. But . . . but, He does—if we see Him there. No, He’s not holding that fabled magic wand. He is holding our lives, lifting us—that fragile essence of us—above what threatens to engulf us.

When we see Him, when our interior eye is refocused, life itself—all that is our life—rises with His hand. He absorbs our adversity. He contains it, constrains it—prunes it down to a size we can endure. The thrashing wind and waves, our utter brokenness. He enfolds it all, bearing witness to YAHWEH’s timeless Truth. Not fact, that barren word!—but to the indefinable, immutable Life Energy, the outflow of His Authority, which keeps us, succors us.

This is sustaining Truth that we can live with and live within: Love, life, endures. No—more than endures! It’s not that He will rewind or resume the reel of our days and ways for us, move things along the familiar track, patch up our humpty-dumpty hulls. No, that’s not what endures. What we discover, slowly or in a flash of intuition, is that because He is unlimited of scope—that He once and forever rose above the violence of waves, above His own small earth-personness, beyond the loneliness of loss and sorrow—so may we. He has not perished. Nor shall we. 

He gathered up the storm and silenced it. He will gather up our storms. A silence—a release—will come. Not in the margins of our being, but the center of our seeing.

We have loved deeply and suffered deeply, or not been loved and never flowered with passion for life—a sorry seedbed indeed. But both poverties are drawn into His own sudden rising, still numb with exhaustion, His springing from a troubled slumber in the hold of that small ketch, stretching to the inner height of Heaven . . . .

He reigns there, commanding the darkened sky—containing, before our startled eyes, the uncontainable. Controlling within our ravaged souls the uncontrollable. And within Him are stored our hearts’ treasures—those we have known and lost, those we never truly recognized, and those—ah yes—those not yet bestowed that He holds in custody.

For this, all this, we may fully live again. 

~Judith

Maundy World

The Last Supper at Cologne Cathedral (photo in the public domain)

Maundy: Middle English maunde, from Old French mandé, from Latin mandatum; command, order; from the words spoken by Jesus to his disciples after washing their feet at the Last Supper, “A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another...” (John 13:34).

Today. This day. This moment in Time unlike any other in anguish, in impact, in historical consequence. In power. Hope. Promise. 

We are here, struggling through the metaphorical, and increasingly tangible, high tides of earth-life—clinging to the beauty, the integrity, the absolutes that remain, a constant shimmer above the dark waters. Our lives, our future upon this planet, all that it means to be human is caught in a rip tide. 

We need—oh, how we need—to see, to perceive the One who calmed the raging sea.

We cannot recognize Him within the storm until we see Him sagging from the nails that, finally, held the weight of Him . . . and yet, we cannot fully perceive the purpose and power of the cross until we see Him standing imperially in that small, tossing skiff. Caught in the grip of a violent storm (Luke 16.22-25). Unafraid, majestic. God in the midst of His elements. 

He was, in both disparate moments, in utter control over Life. He established His authority over the elements—the Genesis Moment—simply by raising his hand against the inanimate. No mortal man, even the occasional "miracle-workers" who habited the fringes of spirituality, could control the rudiments of earth. It was here that He identified Himself in full to His disciples, beyond their stumbling cognizance. Here they perceived The One. Here they gained a fear of God, beyond their fear of death.

But . . . He forfeited His authority over His own authority at Gethsemane. Strange statement? Certainly. But we cannot fully decipher the authority of Jesus the man, maimed and murdered, until we calculate Christ the man perched in utter dominion
 . . . upon the edge of obliteration. And obliterating it. 

We are clinging to the mast, to the sides of our small skiff of life, watching the storm metastasize. And He is waiting, ready, not asleep. 

This night He dies again, once again, as He has through all the centuries before us. The One Who raises us, the dead, from the soul-storms that destroy our life. The nails will never hold Him again. Earth is not large enough to define Him. Nor small enough to confine us to a shattered end. 

One day soon we shall meet Him, walking on the waters, His arms opened wide. 

Poem: "One Day"

Photo courtesy of Pixabay. In the public domain.

One Day

One day, before the earth grew old

and mostly bald and full of stink,

one day I woke to music, to a chirrup

in the trees that rose and fell

like exhalations of the earth itself―

a gargling of the morning air

in bright polyphony, in crisp staccato.

And I knew the birds were prophesying―

knew I heard the voice of God,

sweeter than the earth itself,

rising like a counterpoint, an arching,

aching tremolo―

heard the wild of Him that we have tamed

come bursting forth in feathers

and arpeggios and yearnings inexpressible,

too large and small for syllables that slip

into our narrow ears;

and so I stood and listened to the world

as He described it, listened to the reveling,

and knew that I was born for this―knew

that doves, that sparrows sing epiphany

at dawn each day, and breathe

the earth’s core in and out, and feather

all that breathes and flies and sings,

and I must sing, must sing, must sing,

and this is my arpeggio, my only syllable.

Amen.

© Judith Deem Dupree 2017

                        

Beyond the Cock-Crows

Public domain image courtesy of Pixabay

Reprinted from the Ruminate Magazine blog, 29 September 2015

Up with the roosters this morning. And yes, I can hear one of those feathered alarm clocks―his voice far greater than his body warrants―ratcheting his endless observations through this dark and drowsy neighborhood. Does this remind us of the current political scene?

Ah, human nature has not changed since satan shaped his body and his lie to the contours and contents of a tree. He still slithers up our spine, our trunk, to reach the hidden source of all thought: our cerebrum. The crown of our own Tree of Life―The Eden of our every intent, that  incomprehensible core of us that births the comprehensible . . . over and over each day.

And ah, again: the enemy has entered our garden with new and poisonous seed. Fruit that we have known forever―for we have always tweaked the message to fit the equivocation. But there's something shrewder happening in this Time, this edgy, edgeless season, this strange new world we live in.

We are assaulted, continually, by crushing changes in social contract. The welter of ways of our time-tested "role playing"―the nudge-wink-wink of flawed and fatuous discourse―is almost "quaint" today. Humanity's thoughts, and tongues, are honed to lethal verbal weaponry. And primped with a litany of obfuscations that distort the realities beneath their promises.

"The world is too much with us..." William Wordsworth, commenting poetically (at the dawn of the 19th century) on "the decadent material cynicism of the time." A prophetic insight. The seeds have sprouted, replicated endlessly.

Some mind-shift largely inexplicable―often unperceived, even unpredicated on such a scale―is ripping through communal relatedness, and indeed, rippling across our larger earthlife. It is shattering our histories, our stories, our ancient inter/intra-societal algorithms. Something ingeniously crude is tweaking the long-established, heart-felt empathies into ersatz niceties and/or nasties. It births and preens a strange hybrid of smooth double entendre and a razor-rough hide.

Tensions escalate and boil over. Now, across continents, great uprooting, wars of tortured words becoming bloodbaths. And now, across continents, the homeless, the forsaken tread their via dolorosa on the way to nowhere.

We who watch, hearts in our throats, are left groping consciously for the known that has staked our own perimeters like a pivot point. What does all this mean? What is the why of it? What do we do with such misery? It has torn the very fabric we are wrapped in.

We are all in shreds. It is, yes, too much with us.

The cock has crowed over this broken world. We are all akin to Peter, retreating in fear from the sight of his bloodied Master, denial his only defense.

There is only one Voice louder, fuller than the roosters of this chicken-little world.

In the beginning was the Word . . .

We cannot know anything pure, ultimate, bounteous beyond the Word of that mysterious, ineluctable, unfathomable Primer Mover who reigns beyond the stars―and deigns to harbor in our tiny cranium. We know nothing beyond and aside from His preternatural act of defiant mercy: the birthing of the Son who was born of our blood-line . . . and lived in our skin. It must have chafed. Badly.

But this earth-shaped-One had His Father's genes. He decoded earthlife just as preternaturally. He spoke into the blatant hypocrisies that shaped the theses and postulations, the smiles like scythes, the lies that wreathed Him like a troubled cloud. He knew each forgery of truth, each  vanity . . . and named them.

He is waiting. Forever waiting in the wings of this great, rickety teatro oscuro. He is the author. All the roosters of the world will go hoarse when He edges back onto Stage Earth.

But here―ah, here is a thought I gleaned unexpectedly, just after the next-door rooster gave up. Ordinary, simple, uncannily powerful words. From the front of a birthday card!

"Forever stay open, curious, fearless, transparent, and willing to be and love being exactly who you are." *

This has dropped like ripe seed upon my sterile soul-soil. How pertinent to everything! Words of YES to carry with us, into the gulf of grief around us. To fear not, and deign not to accept the small, the pinched, the shrewd and slanted forever forced upon us. To break through barriers of pretense we sense around us. Fearless and transparent before the great deceit. The deceiver.

Who we are, and choose by the moment to become, and Who we listen to, and choose to rise up and follow―openly, gently, fearlessly―across this great, crumbling stage . . . this is our constant, whatever-the-circumstances YES to life!

This is the mending of the broken mind, the healing of our broken heart. A steady and sturdy Gift of hope for our broken world. 

*(© Legacy Art Studio, Sunrise Greetings)

Alive, Alive, Ohhh! An Excerpt from Sky Mesa Journal

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.com

This excerpt is reprinted from Sky Mesa Journal by Judith Deem Dupree, courtesy of Resource Publications, an imprint of Wipf and Stock

                                                   *  *  *  *  *

There are no funerals in Heaven. As a believer in the sacred History of faith, I accept death. It is the [often] hard shell we must break through to begin our flight into Life. It is moving from chrysalis to Chrisom, perhaps. Our ultimate birth.

To Christos. Truth is an upward spiral.

I despair of the despair that we wear so often as an arm band, the existential angst we endlessly proclaim, which leaves no room in the soul for resurgence, for resilience, for hope. And now I see that I also have done this! What a vast, a blind betrayal!

Those who cannot celebrate life destroy it―destroy others, who in turn destroy.

What they cannot celebrate, they desecrate.

And living must be, the soul insists, a celebration. To exult is to exalt. To proclaim the tender truth and rollicking affirmation of faith is to live beyond mere enduring. It unleashes the neurons that fire the thoughts that fuel the muscles that raise us up from indolence.

Such is the House that God built. Existential pleasure must bring a recognition, a small ecstasy of awareness―I am alive, alive, ohhh! And I am not a cockle, not a mussel. Living is surely meant to be an endless orbit of meaning-full, an upward cycle that siphons finally into that slender Passage which is not, oh no, a dark hole.

Entropy is a ravage only of the temporal and temporary and intemperate.

And so, today, I lay down this weight of timeless grief against the splendor of this day, against the altar of these rocks, this gravel I stand upon, with the incense of this morning still awaft like a certain holiness within my breathing.

I celebrate being. Despite the daily horrors, despite the anguish surging, despite the fire of grief that still looms, ever creeping, like the ghastly glow of holocaust beyond us. I celebrate because I must; because we must, because God hears and surely answers . . . or this maelstrom will consume us; it will be a prophecy fulfilled.

I celebrate what it is to be truly human, what it means to share the earth together, what it has been to us as home away from Home, what it must become within us and among us, and beyond us, for our children. What we must become, within us and among us and beyond us.

Celebrants. I celebrate the very fact of life, of seeing these shaggy carpets of green-and-ochre and the wild-painted skies that cover me, of hearing the chirrup and buzz and flutter of small life, of knowing earth-born labor and labors borne of the heart.

I celebrate the being of you who cross my path this day in thought or step, who share this swath of earth or one dissimilar, who grieve for its poverty and share its richness with me. Who enrich my poverty.

I thank God for my life, for giving breath to my halting aspirations. For your life and finest hopes. For His breath upon you, within you.

I thank you, oh God, who redeems me from myself in this small celebration! Who calls me to Rest. Who gives me today geraniums, and a new, eager flow of thought. For doughty ferns in pots, and doughty friends who force my rusty gates; for violet sage and stippled rocks to catch my eye, to catch my breath, my soul.

I praise the God who sprawls His name, and the signature of His Son, His Chronica Christos, across the bursting universe and weaves it deep within the spiral of our genes.

Who walks the waves still, always . . . stilling them, forever stilling them.

Truly the gates of hell shall not prevail.

Facing Toward the Light: An Excerpt from Sky Mesa Journal

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.com

Excerpt from Sky Mesa Journal by Judith Deem Dupree. Copyright 2016, published by Wipf and Stock. Copies may be purchased from Wipf and Stock and from Amazon.  

LOCAL NOTE: An Author Talk featuring Judith discussing the genesis and publication of Sky Mesa Journal is being hosted by the Alpine Library (1752 Alpine Blvd.) this week on Thursday, October 20 from 6:00-8:00 PM. Judith will have books for sale and will be happy to sign copies. Please come support a local San Diego author and her work.   

It was not much past dawn when I slipped out the door and faced the great iron gate out back. In the slant of first light it resembled somewhat the “gates of hell”―heavy and formidable. Ah, but beyond lay Paradise! In lieu of unlocking and unwinding the heavy chain and shoving against its grudging “joints,” I climbed over the old monster. I always do―depositing whatever baggage I tote over on the other side.

Today I toted only a weight of weariness. The “world was too much with me.”

I am not an up-with-the-roosters person. I felt quite uneasy leaving my comfort zone so early―regardless of the discomfort that routed me. Testing my legs and blood sugar and ignoring the grind of an empty belly seemed like a bad answer to a bad question. Or quest. The gnaw of guts was only a mimic of the churn of thought that woke me.

But I was brought up short by the exclamatory. Earth-life stretched around me, hummed and chirped, exhaled its varied aromatic breath, each its trace of pneuma. The land was filled with freshness. I breathed vastly, enfolded in the small celebration before me.

The early light is a peach-hued wash against the umber earth. An incredible palette! This is the morning’s work within me, this facing toward the light. Too often I see the world darkly, see only the umber without the wash of ruddy gold. There are times, even in this become-sacred place, when melancholy overwhelms any sense of the mystery of nature, a denial of the spare and eloquent mastery of God. Scales creep over the spiritual retina I peer through―opaque, filmy, all the drab distortions that we know.

Probably it is much like the blindness that the Lord peeled away from Saul-become-Paul. I recognize this more often now, this clumsy and yes, futile shield―my fascia, a veneer against the callousness before me . . . and within me.

And against grief. There is a sorrow, a Welt-Schmertz, weeping up through me, a deeper grief than I can carry. Either to live without grieving or grieve without recourse bequeaths fatalism, begets tragedy. It is a betrayal of the faith we first consent to.

It is balance I need, and a robust vision. I am just beginning to face this truth: I must neither fear the darkness, nor accept it, nor shrug it off. I cannot fight the battle for earth-life unless I have fought the battle for my vision.

As a frail and sometimes fatuous human being, I balk at death’s increasingly harsh preliminaries―at the way it visits us at every turn, the ways it comes ripping through humanity, Grim Reaper that it is. It is my own creeping entropy I battle, and lose within the entropy of a world I gather up and mourn. It is attending a funeral endlessly repeated, a cortege of the helpless and the homeless.

And the heartless. That eternal death . . . 

Life today is often seen as something of a wedge between two vast intangibles―our very entity caught in a grind between the beginning and end, those eternal mysteries of being.

Nature denies such hopelessness. Every new morning, new spring, each rebirth from fire or flood or wind proclaims life’s frailty and strength, unwraps the earth from its grave-cloth . . . .

Celebrates its endurance, its stubborn resurrection. 

Boulders and Rubble

Photo courtesy of Pixabay

There are rocks in the path ahead. Boulders and rubble. Literally, and yes, even more so, "figuratively." Lots going on today that we cannot get around, shove aside, ignore-and-it-will-go-away. Immovable objects and objectives, imbued with a dreadful lack of objectivity. Harsh, abrasive surfaces, adamantine interiors, often with a deep gash as ugly as sin.

Dark presence that blocks the light, a heaviness that dooms.

Jesus said, "Upon this rock I will build my church...."  But this is not the Rock of Our Foundation we're talking about. There are many worthy Rock Churches across our land, with steeples and pews and ardent worshipers. They know what I mean. Theirs is the "spiritual" Rock that Peter represented—the BedRock of faith we stand upon beyond the shifting sand.

No, the rocks I'm facing are implacable impediments embedded in the psyche of humanity. Rough, gnarly rock. A shapeless boulder that stands in our way—a formidable barrier, a deadly weapon even. This becomes church? Those dark schisms between them that has and them that wants? Or a gathering-up of the chunks of scorn that almost scarred the infamous woman of ill repute, that wretched soul who stood before Jesus? Or the hail of stones that robbed the disciple Steven of his very life? These are missiles from that quarry from which humanity has ever gathered lethal  weaponry. All shapes and sizes, formed of that magma of mankind's dark and dangerous hates and lusts. Rocks and boulders that burst or burrow from the caverns of hell. These, the blasphemies that settle deeper with the broken soul's every shudder.

And into this "mine field," this death trap of varied persuasions and aversions and perversions, comes the Son of God, in sandals. The One Who spoke the violence of wind and waves down to a whimper and a ripple. HE knows what each rock is, what seeded the silica and soil and sealed the ancient strata of violence and vengeance and vanities.

He is His Father's Son; He can speak to the rock. All the ages sealed within will hear. He can strike the rock. And bring forth Water.

We can only whisper the word, the fear, the dread, and point. He will follow our finger.  This too is the beginning of Church. Selah. 

A Marked People

Photo courtesy of Pixabay

The epoch we live in is the Time of God. A time like no other since time began on planet earth. An "overblown" statement? Well, in one sense, yes—these words may be said of any period in the long thread of history. Each era of earth and humanity has/has had its distinct season in the great mosaic of earthlife. Every "time" falls within those margins.

    

But . . . but there is something intangible, and crucially, overwhelmingly tangible about This Day we inhabit. The "what" of it is both simple—and overwhelmingly complex. Starkly put, dwelling on planet earth is becoming increasingly and alarmingly difficult and dangerous. And sad. The complexities—both diverse and similar—are an endless overlap of human and environmental crises. Our home in the universe is under attacks both "extraterrestrial" and people-driven.     

The Time of God? Again, there is no earth-moment that is not eternal in some indefinable sense. But it is becoming ever more obvious that something untamable and yes, largely unnamable is happening, in ways both inter-related and disparate. We are faced with crises that have sprung from uncommon roots—from nature . . . and our untamed nature

We are specifically here, deeply planted and often pruned and hoping to be "productive"—maybe not as much as we wish we were, in the ways we want to be, but in a way that prepares us to encounter and respond to life as it unfolds. We are called to live apace with the Son of God. We are ordained to persevere with Him today in a world that is in turmoil and spinning out of control.

We are inherently here simply because we have a Lodestar within, and if we know that—really, deep-down believe that—it draws us where He wants us to be at a given moment, for His purposes. The magi knew a Lodestar when they saw one, and it led them to a most unpretentious spot that kings and rabbis never knew of.

The Christ-within dwells in small places and enlarges them. He comes to us in our poverty and enriches us. He measures all things by His omnipotent seeing, and steps among us when and where we least expect it.

And so I believe we are indeed called people, and that if we choose, we can be called at any Given moment to step out of our cave, like Elijah (1 Kings 19:11-13), and hear that still, small Voice that called forth creation.

Yes—the world is indeed in turmoil. This is no time to mess around, to spin our wheels, to major in the minors, to waste our lives and our substance on things irrelevant or even peripheral. The very fact of our existing right now is a greater Gift than any of us is prepared for—or even wants. But it is ours, because we said YES to Him. We are here in this struggling world to offer a way through life as opposed to a way out of life.

I am not persuaded that everything I do and touch and want and dream of is eschatological and prophetic and ordained. But this week, a simple thought struck me, powerfully and with immediacy.

This is what I “heard:” “You are a marked people.”

Because we have “heard” and responded to His Call, we who live in this day, by the Grace and Call of God, are a “marked people.” His bloodstain is truly upon us. We are sealed by that stigmata for something quite immediate and pivotal. We are led into His green pastures in order to be prepared for the desert. We are led into the desert in order to discover, to recognize, to evoke the green pastures.

The desert is a step beyond our door. It may even have crept over our own doorsill. We are called to stand intact, broken and mended, in the midst of the world’s, and perhaps our own, rack and ruin, and to become more than solitary soldiers fending off the unseen enemy. We are, all of us, wherever we find ourselves—alone or crowded in or simply connected—called to become a Congregation.

Not a bless-me club, not a holier than thou society. A congregate of stalwart, pliable, tenderized, stubborn souls who have found Truth, and express it by the context of our lives—by the sum total, the momentum and minutia of our days and ways.

We may never see each other, never know each other upon this earth, but we are nonetheless a congregate of marked souls . . . a steady stream of pilgrims, magi, refugees from the dregs of life, following our Lodestar, finding the Rock-firm place where He dwells. If we have found it and lived it well, beyond the cave of our indifference, our fear, our endless distress and distractions, others will come seeking. And live  alongside us. 

~Judith Deem Dupree