Myth, or fiction in general, has always struck me in to the core of my understanding as being a blessing from God. However, I've never really been able to say why.
But tonight as I started to drift off to sleep after reading a well written book I was gifted with a bit of understanding.
The making of a new story, of a myth of any sort, (and all fiction involves myth,) saves us from the sin of pride while allowing us to still honestly seek the truth. For a Christian author, (being a tool of God) writing can become a freeflow of divine knowledge of a sort. Not a perfect understanding, but general outline of how miraculous and yet informed and purposeful the happenings of life are. A likely story has more power to create faith than what we would call scientific fact, though you can "prove" the latter and not the former. Faith is based on what could be done, not on what we can make happen.
The likely story, or myth, allows us an insight into miracles, grace and true love that cannot be comprehened in any way by a scientific study; for a scientific study is centered not around Truth, but us knowing the Truth. We are the center of that study. Whereas myth allows us to lose ourselves in wonder after the ways that God could work. It takes away the possibility for pride because the story is not about us: it's about the miracles that created the story, and thus centered around the Creator Himself.
That is why I like myth. That is why fiction is my favourite flavour of literature. Because it is centered around God, and worthless if it is not based on His grace.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Friday, June 08, 2007
Thief
In the darkness before dawn the shadow may move,
in the darkness the soft foot may fall,
in the darkness the watcher may wait at a distance,
in the darkness he may climb the wall.
In the shadows the dog may stir in it's sleep,
in the shadows the masked man may kneel,
in the shadows the gloved hand may ruffle the fur,
in the shadows no threat may he feel.
In the darkness the window may open itself,
in the darkness a figure jumps high,
in the darkness that figure may slip through the house,
in the darkness that figure may sigh.
In the morning the husband may wake from his bed,
in the morning he'll walk down the hall,
in the morning he'll see a window lock broke,
in the morning he'll examine it all.
In the morning that husband will check the whole house,
in the morning, in search of a thief,
in the morning a wife will cry in distress,
in mourning, and then with relief.
In the morning a couple who once was dirt poor,
in the morning they'll find a great gift,
in the darkness the burden of debt that they bore,
that darkness a shadow did lift.
in the darkness the soft foot may fall,
in the darkness the watcher may wait at a distance,
in the darkness he may climb the wall.
In the shadows the dog may stir in it's sleep,
in the shadows the masked man may kneel,
in the shadows the gloved hand may ruffle the fur,
in the shadows no threat may he feel.
In the darkness the window may open itself,
in the darkness a figure jumps high,
in the darkness that figure may slip through the house,
in the darkness that figure may sigh.
In the morning the husband may wake from his bed,
in the morning he'll walk down the hall,
in the morning he'll see a window lock broke,
in the morning he'll examine it all.
In the morning that husband will check the whole house,
in the morning, in search of a thief,
in the morning a wife will cry in distress,
in mourning, and then with relief.
In the morning a couple who once was dirt poor,
in the morning they'll find a great gift,
in the darkness the burden of debt that they bore,
that darkness a shadow did lift.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Bodhran Anyone?
Work was a bit slow today... but once I got home the relaxing really started as I tried (and failed most miserably) to imitate some of the sounds that John Joe Kelly creates on his bodhran in a video that I ran into today during one of those slow moments. This man is the best bodran player that I have ever witnessed! I want so dearly to see him live!
And it may be possible... he is in a band named Flook. And they do tour a bit... so it's possible... I may get to see a legend someday... wouldn't that be fun?
-Josh
And it may be possible... he is in a band named Flook. And they do tour a bit... so it's possible... I may get to see a legend someday... wouldn't that be fun?
-Josh
Friday, June 01, 2007
Story II
Then the darkness came...
Now, when I say darkness I do not mean you to understand that it was always night. Nor that I went blind in the waking world. What I mean is that when I went to sleep, and was in that state where dreams are created I found myself to be incapable of creating them. It was as though a hand was holding back my ability to create in the dreamworld. Indeed, as time progressed and this occurred more and more often I decided that something was actually stopping me from dreaming.
I am not about to let something stop me from resting properly, so I did the only sensible thing: I changed my diet. As this failed to change anything at all, expect my experiences in the lieu, I started to pray about it instead.
And nothing happened.
Now, in the modern American Evangelical Church this is of little consequence. So I kept praying, expecting that some sin in my heart was getting in the way of my being a vessel of the Holy Spirit. I forgave everyone that I could think of. I kept myself from all the sins I knew. I stopped speeding. I said please and thank you. Nothing worked. My prayers and requests still seemed to get stuck in the walls of my room, echoing in the immeasurable void that separated me from my maker.
Then one frustrated night at a youth service I decided to ask my pastor to pray over me. I would not explain to him what it was that I wanted, I simply ask him to pray for me. I had decided that if this truly was a spiritual problem then the Lord would show him what he needed to know, and he would be given the words that needed to be said. I went forward after the service hoping for guidance and peace, though not at all sure I would find it.
I cannot say what I expected to happen, but I can say that it was not what occurred. When I went up to my pastor and asked for prayer he simply closed his eyes, placed his hand on my head and said, "Father, help your child to hear your voice clearly, and open his eyes."
I was, without a doubt, disappointed with my pastor. I had come to him in what could have been the crowning moment of spiritual revelation in my young adult life, and he had blown it. I consoled myself on the way home by telling myself that he was just having an off day, and that maybe if I did the same thing next week God would be able to work through him then. I soon arrived home, having never doubted that relying on someone else's spiritual life was my key to happiness and a good nights rest.
That night I slept very poorly.
No longer was there just darkness swallowing up my mind, but there were sounds in the darkness. Not voices. No, these resembled nothing made for communication. These were just sounds of horror. I cannot explain it properly. Just as pure silence can be the most distracting of noises, so these sounds told the most putrefying tales of torture and pain. Try though I did throughout that long darkness I could not wake myself from this hell. Though I had gone to bed late into the night, when I woke with the rising of the sun I was thankful for it.
It was that morning that I did the most sensible thing I've ever done in the entirety of my life: I got on my knees and prayed with the whole of my heart. I acknowledged that I was small, I confessed that I was a fool and I pleaded for forgiveness and help. I'd never felt like less of a person in my life, but I've discovered later in life that this is how one feels when being completely honest about oneself before God, and I've come to realize that this was the real moment of my conversion.
Do not doubt me, I had certainly believed in the existence of God before this morning. But who can say that when they first believed as a young adult that God existed that they understood just what it means to be completely below Him, and powerless in comparison to Him? If anyone can boast that they have been humbled in this manner since childhood then may God rain blessings down upon their head, but I am not such a one. I believed in a maker, in an ordainer, and in a fixer of my larger problems. And I took it on other's witness that the relationship between man and this maker could be a very personal one, but I had never experienced it myself. I respected this "God" fellow, but kept my distance. I had always preferred to say my prayers to Him, not converse with Him.
But now I was humbled. No longer the proud boy who mistook a pastor's blessing for empty words, yet I had no confidence to go on. I had been a fool and I knew it. So conversation with that Maker was beyond me.
The rest of that day was a miserable experience, as was the following night, for I would not let myself sleep for fear of the return of those evil sounds in the darkness of my mind. But by the next night it was too much for me; I found myself once more in the place where I used to create my dreams, the place where the darkness was.
[[: To Be Continued:]]
Now, when I say darkness I do not mean you to understand that it was always night. Nor that I went blind in the waking world. What I mean is that when I went to sleep, and was in that state where dreams are created I found myself to be incapable of creating them. It was as though a hand was holding back my ability to create in the dreamworld. Indeed, as time progressed and this occurred more and more often I decided that something was actually stopping me from dreaming.
I am not about to let something stop me from resting properly, so I did the only sensible thing: I changed my diet. As this failed to change anything at all, expect my experiences in the lieu, I started to pray about it instead.
And nothing happened.
Now, in the modern American Evangelical Church this is of little consequence. So I kept praying, expecting that some sin in my heart was getting in the way of my being a vessel of the Holy Spirit. I forgave everyone that I could think of. I kept myself from all the sins I knew. I stopped speeding. I said please and thank you. Nothing worked. My prayers and requests still seemed to get stuck in the walls of my room, echoing in the immeasurable void that separated me from my maker.
Then one frustrated night at a youth service I decided to ask my pastor to pray over me. I would not explain to him what it was that I wanted, I simply ask him to pray for me. I had decided that if this truly was a spiritual problem then the Lord would show him what he needed to know, and he would be given the words that needed to be said. I went forward after the service hoping for guidance and peace, though not at all sure I would find it.
I cannot say what I expected to happen, but I can say that it was not what occurred. When I went up to my pastor and asked for prayer he simply closed his eyes, placed his hand on my head and said, "Father, help your child to hear your voice clearly, and open his eyes."
I was, without a doubt, disappointed with my pastor. I had come to him in what could have been the crowning moment of spiritual revelation in my young adult life, and he had blown it. I consoled myself on the way home by telling myself that he was just having an off day, and that maybe if I did the same thing next week God would be able to work through him then. I soon arrived home, having never doubted that relying on someone else's spiritual life was my key to happiness and a good nights rest.
That night I slept very poorly.
No longer was there just darkness swallowing up my mind, but there were sounds in the darkness. Not voices. No, these resembled nothing made for communication. These were just sounds of horror. I cannot explain it properly. Just as pure silence can be the most distracting of noises, so these sounds told the most putrefying tales of torture and pain. Try though I did throughout that long darkness I could not wake myself from this hell. Though I had gone to bed late into the night, when I woke with the rising of the sun I was thankful for it.
It was that morning that I did the most sensible thing I've ever done in the entirety of my life: I got on my knees and prayed with the whole of my heart. I acknowledged that I was small, I confessed that I was a fool and I pleaded for forgiveness and help. I'd never felt like less of a person in my life, but I've discovered later in life that this is how one feels when being completely honest about oneself before God, and I've come to realize that this was the real moment of my conversion.
Do not doubt me, I had certainly believed in the existence of God before this morning. But who can say that when they first believed as a young adult that God existed that they understood just what it means to be completely below Him, and powerless in comparison to Him? If anyone can boast that they have been humbled in this manner since childhood then may God rain blessings down upon their head, but I am not such a one. I believed in a maker, in an ordainer, and in a fixer of my larger problems. And I took it on other's witness that the relationship between man and this maker could be a very personal one, but I had never experienced it myself. I respected this "God" fellow, but kept my distance. I had always preferred to say my prayers to Him, not converse with Him.
But now I was humbled. No longer the proud boy who mistook a pastor's blessing for empty words, yet I had no confidence to go on. I had been a fool and I knew it. So conversation with that Maker was beyond me.
The rest of that day was a miserable experience, as was the following night, for I would not let myself sleep for fear of the return of those evil sounds in the darkness of my mind. But by the next night it was too much for me; I found myself once more in the place where I used to create my dreams, the place where the darkness was.
[[: To Be Continued:]]
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