I was reading through the early creeds of the church - from the so-called Apostles Creed to the Confessions of Martin Luther. It made me want to articulate what I have come to believe. The resounding perfection in every way of the person of Jesus Christ in history and prophecy is what saves me from Deism. If you are not at least a deist you are living a lie.
"I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth..."
I have the gospel up here, oak & sunlight, words comprehended through the divine nature present in the world, and compared to my human nature. Things are a certain way - what explanation accounts? Why must I make an explanation? Why must a man account for his experience? Why do we desire to? Must we only because we desire to? Because of felt significance & meaning? Why do so many not care? Why do I care so deeply? Is our caring only voiced in different ways? Or is my caring something else voiced in this fashion? What is the basic essence of my caring about the world?
The world is beautiful, and we are self-aware, and we have language to organize and explain...
Poetry - where mind & matter find their mating.
2 comments:
You wrote "the world is beautiful, and we are self-aware, and we have language to organize and explain..."
Isn't that enough to make you think we ought to make an explanation to account for our experience?
When I read that sentence again, the "ought" falls with a thud like a sack of flour in an empty room. Self-awareness, consciousness, cognition: what a burden, what a joy.
and the empty room is probably a barn. The sun is beating down on the corrugated metal roofing. The air is heavy with hay scent and heat, punctuated by small breezes through the open barn door.
One light breeze swirls the cloud of flour that puffs out of the sack. A beam of light through a loose wall-panel sings a chord through the heart of the flourcloud. Outside a sparrow chirps sluggishly in the heat.
You shift on your feet.
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