The Refectory Manager

The refectory . . . A place to nourish the soul. A place to share the savory comestibles, the sweet confections, the salty condiments of the things that matter. A place to ruminate the cud of politics. A place to rant on the railings of religion. A place to arrange the flowers of sanguine beauty. A place to pause in the repose of shelter. Welcome, my friend. The Refectory Manager

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Location: College Place, Washington, United States

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Why!

Peace.

In the last couple of days, an incredible "map of the universe" has surfaced on YouTube.

So humbling.

So awesome.

So mind-boggling.

And as I watched it (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=17jymDn0W6U), I was so impressed at how insignificant we really are . . . in the scheme of the known universe at least.

As the projection went from the highest point on the earth today, to the beginning of time . . . it leaves me with the wonderment of just what it is that I am.

And then . . . when the video momentarily freezes at that moment, that moment of the beginning of time, and starts to take us forward to the present . . . I wondered if I was seeing what God saw. What God sees.

And it reminded me of Calvin Miller . . . The Singer.

The Father and his Troubadour
sat down
Upon the outer rim of space.
"And here,
My singer," said Earthmaker,
"is the crown
Of all my endless skies -- the
green, brown sphere
Of all my hopes." He reached
and took the round
New planet down, and held it
to his ear.

"They're crying, Troubadour,"
he said. "They cry
So hopelessly." He gave the
little ball
Unto his Son, who also held
it by
His ear. "Year after weary
year they all
Keep crying. They seem born to
weep then die.
Our new man taught them crying
in the Fall.

"It is a peacesless globe.
Some are sincere
In desperate desire to see
her freed
Of her abusridity. But
war is here.
Men die in conflict, bathed
in blood and greed."
Then with his nail he scraped
the atmosphere
And both of them beheld the
planet bleed.

Earthmaker set earth spinning
on its way
And said, "Give me your vast
infinity
My son; I'll wrap it in a bit
of clay.
Then enter Terra microscop-
ically
To love the little souls who
weep away
Their lives." "I will," I said,
"set Terra free."

And then I fell asleep and all
awareness fled.
I felt my very being shrinking
down.
My vastness ebbed away. In dwind-
ling dread,
All size decayed. The universe
around
Drew back. I woke upon a tiny
bed
Of straw in one of Terra's
smaller towns.

And now the great reduction
has begun:
Earthmaker and his Troubadour
are one.
And here's the new redeeming
melody--
The only song that can set
Terra free.
The Shrine of older days
must be laid by.
Mankind must see Earthmaker
left the sky,
And he is with us. They must
concede that
I am he. They must believe the
Song or die.



And as we approached the Milky Way, and in towards its viscera, and find our little magnetic-covered bubble of a solar system, and dodge the outer-most planets . . . and begin to discern the speck that is the third rock from the sun . . . and then detect the bluishness . . . the whiteness . . . the softness . . .

Why?

Not even how, but why is it that we even are?

And on this, my birthday, my 64th trip around that little star, in an obscure corner of the Milk Way, one galaxy in uncountable billions of galaxies, dispersed in a mind-numbing perception of the infinite . . . and on the Eve of the celebration of an intense quest to wrap Deity in clay . . . I am just stunned into wonderment.

Peace to you, my friend.

The Refectory Manager

"The Singer," Calvin Miller. InterVarsity Press, Downers Grove, IL 60515 from the collection "A Trilogy: The Singer, The Song, The Finale."

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