February 2: Alone in the Place, Cosmic Justice, Father in the Nursing Home

"Terrors upon terrors run shouting through his soul. In all his cringing attitudes, the God-fugitive is now too plainly known. The sailors mark him; more and more certain grow their suspicions of him, and at last, fully to test the truth, by referring the whole matter to high Heaven, they all-outward to casting lots, to see for whose cause this great tempest was upon them. The lot is Jonah's; that discovered, then how furiously they mob him with their questions. 'What is thine occupation? Whence comest thou? Thy country? What people? But mark now, my shipmates, the behavior of poor Jonah. The eager mariners but ask him who he is, and where from; whereas, they not only receive an answer to those questions, but likewise another answer to a question not put by them, but the unsolicited answer is forced from Jonah by the hard hand of God that is upon him.

"'I am a Hebrew,' he cries- and then- 'I fear the Lord the God of Heaven who hath made the sea and the dry land!' Fear him, O Jonah? Aye, well mightest thou fear the Lord God then! Straightway, he now goes on to make a full confession; whereupon the mariners became more and more appalled, but still are pitiful. For when Jonah, not yet supplicating God for mercy, since he but too well knew the darkness of his deserts,- when wretched Jonah cries out to them to take him and cast him forth into the sea, for he knew that for his sake this great tempest was upon them; they mercifully turn from him, and seek by other means to save the ship. But all in vain; the indignant gale howls louder; then, with one hand raised invokingly to God, with the other they not unreluctantly lay hold of Jonah.

"And now behold Jonah taken up as an anchor and dropped into the sea; when instantly an oily calmness floats out from the east, and the sea is as Jonah carries down the gale with him, leaving smooth water behind. He goes down in the whirling heart of such a masterless commotion that he scarce heeds the moment when he drops seething into the yawning jaws awaiting him; and the whale shoots-to all his ivory teeth, like so many white bolts, upon his prison. Then Jonah prayed unto the Lord out of the fish's belly. But observe his prayer, and learn a weighty lesson. For sinful as he is, Jonah does not weep and wail for direct deliverance. He feels that his dreadful punishment is just. He leaves all his deliverance to God, contenting himself with this, that spite of all his pains and pangs, he will still look towards His holy temple. And here, shipmates, is true and faithful repentance; not clamorous for pardon, but grateful for punishment. And how pleasing to God was this conduct in Jonah, is shown in the eventual deliverance of him from the sea and the whale. Shipmates, I do not place Jonah before you to be copied for his sin but I do place him before you as a model for repentance. Sin not; but if you do, take heed to repent of it like Jonah."

While he was speaking these words, the howling of the shrieking, slanting storm without seemed to add new power to the preacher, who, when describing Jonah's sea-storm, seemed tossed by a storm himself. His deep chest heaved as with a ground-swell; his tossed arms seemed the warring elements at work; and the thunders that rolled away from off his swarthy brow, and the light leaping from his eye, made all his simple hearers look on him with a quick fear that was strange to them.

There now came a lull in his look, as he silently turned over the leaves of the Book once more; and, at last, standing motionless, with closed eyes, for the moment, seemed communing with God and himself.

But again he leaned over towards the people, and bowing his head lowly, with an aspect of the deepest yet manliest humility, he spake these words:

"Shipmates, God has laid but one hand upon you; both his hands press upon me. I have read ye by what murky light may be mine the lesson that Jonah teaches to all sinners; and therefore to ye, and still more to me, for I am a greater sinner than ye. And now how gladly would I come down from this mast-head and sit on the hatches there where you sit, and listen as you listen, while some one of you reads me that other and more awful lesson which Jonah teaches to me, as a pilot of the living God. How being an anointed pilot-prophet, or speaker of true things and bidden by the Lord to sound those unwelcome truths in the ears of a wicked Nineveh, Jonah, appalled at the hostility he should raise, fled from his mission, and sought to escape his duty and his God by taking ship at Joppa. But God is everywhere; Tarshish he never reached. As we have seen, God came upon him in the whale, and swallowed him down to living gulfs of doom, and with swift slantings tore him along 'into the midst of the seas,' where the eddying depths sucked him ten thousand fathoms down, and 'the weeds were wrapped about his head,' and all the watery world of woe bowled over him. Yet even then beyond the reach of any plummet- 'out of the belly of hell'- when the whale grounded upon the ocean's utmost bones, even then, God heard the engulphed, repenting prophet when he cried. Then God spake unto the fish; and from the shuddering cold and blackness of the sea, the whale came breeching up towards the warm and pleasant sun, and all the delights of air and earth; and 'vomited out Jonah upon the dry land;' when the word of the Lord came a second time; and Jonah, bruised and beaten- his ears, like two sea-shells, still multitudinously murmuring of the ocean- Jonah did the Almighty's bidding. And what was that, shipmates? To preach the Truth to the face of Falsehood! That was it!

"This, shipmates, this is that other lesson; and woe to that pilot of the living God who slights it. Woe to him whom this world charms from Gospel duty! Woe to him who seeks to pour oil upon the waters when God has brewed them into a gale! Woe to him who seeks to please rather than to appal! Woe to him whose good name is more to him than goodness! Woe to him who, in this world, courts not dishonor! Woe to him who would not be true, even though to be false were salvation! Yea, woe to him who as the great Pilot Paul has it, while preaching to others is himself a castaway!

He drooped and fell away from himself for a moment; then lifting his face to them again, showed a deep joy in his eyes, as he cried out with a heavenly enthusiasm,- "But oh! shipmates! on the starboard hand of every woe, there is a sure delight; and higher the top of that delight, than the bottom of the woe is deep. Is not the main-truck higher than the kelson is low? Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self. Delight is to him whose strong arms yet support him, when the ship of this base treacherous world has gone down beneath him. Delight is to him, who gives no quarter in the truth, and kills, burns, and destroys all sin though he pluck it out from under the robes of Senators and Judges. Delight,- top-gallant delight is to him, who acknowledges no law or lord, but the Lord his God, and is only a patriot to heaven. Delight is to him, whom all the waves of the billows of the seas of the boisterous mob can never shake from this sure Keel of the Ages. And eternal delight and deliciousness will be his, who coming to lay him down, can say with his final breath- O Father!- chiefly known to me by Thy rod- mortal or immortal, here I die. I have striven to be Thine, more than to be this world's, or mine own. Yet this is nothing: I leave eternity to Thee; for what is man that he should live out the lifetime of his God?"

He said no more, but slowly waving a benediction, covered his face with his hands, and so remained kneeling, till all the people had departed, and he was left alone in the place.

Sorry for the long passage.  I am trying to make up for the days I lost this week due to technical issues.  It's strange, but, this week, I have sort of felt like the Jonah described by Father Mapple in this passage.  No, I haven't committed some monstrous sin for which I need to be punished.  I'm not attempting to flee from God to the far corners of the planet.  It's a little more complicated than that.

I often have this sense that, when bad things occur in my life, I'm to blame.  That I've brought it on by some action or inaction.  I'm not talking about robbing a convenience store or not reporting a murder.  Nothing that obvious.  No, I'm talking about tiny things.  Intentionally forgetting to call your sister on her birthday.  Not forgiving a person who did something to hurt you.  Looking at porn on the Internet.  All those daily failings that plague a normal person.

I always wonder if there's some kind of cosmic justice at work when kitchen ceilings collapse or car engines seize up or sisters are diagnosed with lymphoma of the brain.  All that I know about God tells me that the answer to that question is "no."  God doesn't punish people like that.  He forgives and loves.  He doesn't rain fire down on cities that are filled with sin.  If that were true, Las Vegas would have been gone a long time ago.

Yet, there's always a part of me that feels responsible when people I love are hurting.  Like I've somehow caused the pain.  It's completely irrational.  Makes no sense.  I know that,  However, here I am, thinking I can somehow save the people in my life from harm if I pray harder, go to confession, or forgive past transgressions.

Right now, my father isn't doing well in the nursing home.  He's 90 years old, and he's dropped close to 25 pounds in the last four or so weeks.  He's down to about 125.  When my sisters saw him yesterday, he was looking very pale.  I believe the word they used to describe him was "gray."  He sleeps a lot.  Has some good days, but more bad days.  Today, the doctor went to see him, and he put my father on comfort care.  They are going to keep him comfortable.

Now, I know that I'm not the reason that my father's health is declining.  It's old age.  Last night, after my sister told me about his loss of appetite, weight loss, and complexion, I think I said something like, "Well, if there's a serious medical reason underlying this, I don't think that aggressive treatment is an option."  My sister agreed.  Neither of us said the word "cancer."

When my sister was dying of lymphoma at the University of Michigan, I was the one who had to convince my family members that hospice care was the right thing to do.  It was one of the most difficult things I've ever had to do.  To this day, I sometimes experience tremendous guilt over that decision.  As a Christian, I'm supposed to believe in miracles.  Maybe my sister was in line for some kind of healing, and I messed it up by my doubt.  Again, I know this line of thought is irrational and pointless.

But tonight, I'm feeling the same things I felt in Ann Arbor with my sister.  I'm letting my father be treated for pain, but little else.  And I'm feeling guilty.  Can't help it.  I'm in the belly of the whale with Jonah right now, waiting to get to the shores of Nineveh.

Saint Marty is thankful for the gin and tonic he's going to drink in a little while. 

February 2: Ekphrastic, Mary Margaret Alvarado, "This Picture Was Born When A. Wyeth Climbed Out on the Weathered Roof of Henry Teel's House"

Another poem based on some Andrew Wyeth paintings.

This time, the poem is what I would call ekphrastic.  It isn't in Andrew Wyeth's actual words.  Instead, it somehow catches the essence of his work.  It enters the canvases.  Tells the story behind it, or in it.  Makes it somehow come alive.

Believe it or not, Saint Marty wanted to be an artist once.

This Picture Was Born When A. Wyeth Climbed Out on the
Weathered Roof of Henry Teel's House

by:  Mary Margaret Alvarado

Seed corn strung like scalps,

Dil's tree with its crossed foxtrot legs.

A story about habitations carved from snow.

Fallen snow, not falling, Buttonwood, peavey.

When Alvaro and Christina die they become

two doors: one black; next, sky.

They are also, perhaps, the cast-iron skillet,

the string-bikini girl poised to sow beans.

So sometimes the world is made still.

Sometimes you're home and it's thaw.

Sometimes a swashbuckler with a dry brush bivouacs

to catch the salt breeze that bristles the lace.

Hush. Honest men sleep with their shoes on. We love

things for what they are. Texture of shingles, say.

Lobster trap elegies. The way a hung coat suggests a general's death

on the banks of the Monongahela, and dinner guests, toreadors.

How, sixteen years before he kills himself,

Allan's handlebar streamers and foxtail fly.

Everything birthing its vanishing point. Even the sycamore,

which is to say, even the man, is due to be shot, skinned and tanned.

But seedpods are sachets or paper balloons

and an oil drum serves to roast nuts.

Meantime: Arabella Cleveland, her chin

returning to slop, grows blue flax in clumps.

Cooling sheds, phrenology. Moose racks, buckets.

The smoothness of a plank box and the irregularity of hay.

I think it's very cold there. I think Andrew loves

his wife: her posture beneath a flat-crowned hat.

February 1: Tormented Deep, Pans in the Fire, Guilt

"Now Jonah's Captain, shipmates, was one whose discernment detects crime in any, but whose cupidity exposes it only in the penniless. In this world, shipmates, sin that pays its way can travel freely and without a passport; whereas Virtue, if a pauper, is stopped at all frontiers. So Jonah's Captain prepares to test the length of Jonah's purse, ere he judge him openly. He charges him thrice the usual sum; and it's assented to. Then the Captain knows that Jonah is a fugitive; but at the same time resolves to help a flight that paves its rear with gold. Yet when Jonah fairly takes out his purse, prudent suspicions still molest the Captain. He rings every coin to find a counterfeit. Not a forger, any way, he mutters; and Jonah is put down for his passage. 'Point out my state-room, Sir,' says Jonah now, 'I'm travel-weary; I need sleep.' 'Thou lookest like it,' says the Captain, 'there's thy room.' Jonah enters, and would lock the door, but the lock contains no key. Hearing him foolishly fumbling there, the Captain laughs lowly to himself, and mutters something about the doors of convicts' cells being never allowed to be locked within. All dressed and dusty as he is, Jonah throws himself into his berth, and finds the little state-room ceiling almost resting on his forehead. The air is close, and Jonah gasps. Then, in that contracted hole, sunk, too, beneath the ship's water-line, Jonah feels the heralding presentiment of that stifling hour, when the whale shall hold him in the smallest of his bowels' wards.

"Screwed at its axis against the side, a swinging lamp slightly oscillates in Jonah's room; and the ship, heeling over towards the wharf with the weight of the last bales received, the lamp, flame and all, though in slight motion, still maintains a permanent obliquity with reference to the room; though, in truth, infallibly straight itself, it but made obvious the false, lying levels among which it hung. The lamp alarms and frightens Jonah; as lying in his berth his tormented eyes roll round the place, and this thus far successful fugitive finds no refuge for his restless glance. But that contradiction in the lamp more and more appals him. The floor, the ceiling, and the side, are all awry. 'Oh! so my conscience hangs in me!' he groans, 'straight upwards, so it burns; but the chambers of my soul are all in crookedness!'

"Like one who after a night of drunken revelry hies to his bed, still reeling, but with conscience yet pricking him, as the plungings of the Roman race-horse but so much the more strike his steel tags into him; as one who in that miserable plight still turns and turns in giddy anguish, praying God for annihilation until the fit be passed; and at last amid the whirl of woe he feels, a deep stupor steals over him, as over the man who bleeds to death, for conscience is the wound, and there's naught to staunch it; so, after sore wrestling in his berth, Jonah's prodigy of ponderous misery drags him drowning down to sleep.

"And now the time of tide has come; the ship casts off her cables; and from the deserted wharf the uncheered ship for Tarshish, all careening, glides to sea. That ship, my friends, was the first of recorded smugglers! the contraband was Jonah. But the sea rebels; he will not bare the wicked burden. A dreadful storm comes on, the ship is like to break. But now when the boatswain calls all hands to lighten her; when boxes, bales, and jars are clattering overboard; when the wind is shrieking, and the men are yelling, and every plank thunders with trampling feet right over Jonah's head; in all this raging tumult, Jonah sleeps his hideous sleep. He sees no black sky and raging sea, feels not the reeling timbers, and little hears he or heeds he the far rush of the mighty whale, which even now with open mouth is cleaving the seas after him. Aye, shipmates, Jonah was gone down into the sides of the ship- a berth in the cabin as I have taken it, and was fast asleep. But the frightened master comes to him, and shrieks in his dead ear, 'What meanest thou, O, sleeper! arise!' Startled from his lethargy by that direful cry, Jonah staggers to his feet, and stumbling to the deck, grasps a shroud, to look out upon the sea. But at that moment he is sprung upon by a panther billow leaping over the bulwarks. Wave after wave thus leaps into the ship, and finding no speedy vent runs roaring fore and aft, till the mariners come nigh to drowning while yet afloat. And ever, as the white moon shows her affrighted face from the steep gullies in the blackness overhead, aghast Jonah sees the rearing bowsprit pointing high upward, but soon beat downward again towards the tormented deep.

This passage is all about guilt and conscience.  Jonah is a fugitive, trying to escape God's will.  The ship's captain knows that something is awry.  So does the crew.  However, greed is a mighty force, and gold wins out in the captain's heart.  There's enough guilt in this passage to fill seven whale bellies.  The storm and great beast in the water are hungry for Jonah's sins.

Guilt certainly is a great deterrent from sleep.  This week, I've experienced a little sleeplessness.  Not necessarily because I'm wracked with sin.  I am not Jonah, trying to somehow hide from God's eyes (as if that's really possible).  No, my insomnia had everything to do with lots of pans in the fire.  Today was the deadline for several projects.

My evaluation materials are done,  Submitted.  I have a poetry workshop tonight.  My plan for the workshop is done.  Ready to go.  I had a poetry deadline that I did not meet.  That disappoints me.  There's my one little sin this week.  This weekend, I plan on working on that poem, submitting it, even if it isn't accepted for publication.

My problem right now is that I'm fairly brain dead.  I'm trying to conserve my creative energy for tonight's workshop.  However, I sort of feel like Jonah, ready to fall into a fitful, guilty sleep.  While I'm leading the workshop tonight, I will be missing my son's and daughter's open houses at their dance studio.  That is a great source of guilt for me tonight.  I have never missed one of their open houses intentionally.  I know they understand.  However, I feel like I deserve to be tossed overboard because of this sin.

I'm looking for a little forgiveness tonight.  Perhaps, if a lot of people show up for the workshop and it goes really well, I may feel a little better about my choice.

Saint Marty is thankful for second and third and fourth chances.

February 1: New Obsession, Norbert Blei, "Mill in Winter"

I have sort of gotten into the painter Andrew Wyeth in the last couple of weeks.  I've always loved his work, but I'd never really known much about his life beyond the Helga controversy.  So, when I found a series of found poems by Norbert Blei based on the paintings and journals of Wyeth, I couldn't resist sharing a few of them this week.

The words are Wyeth's.  The feelings and ideas are Wyeth's.  The arrangement is Blei's, and, I think, he really captures the spirit of Andrew Wyeth's works.  Spare.  Dreamy.  Crystalline.  Earthy.  Magical.

Saint Marty has a new obsession.

Mill in Winter

by:  Norbert Blei

I'm intrigued by the first moments
of a snowstorm.  There's danger in it.
You never know how it's going to turn out.
I love the bleakness of winter and snow,
get a thrill out of the chill.  God, I've frozen
my ass off painting snow scenes!
I'm taken by the bleakness--
not the melancholy feeling of snow.
My winter scenes . . . they're not romantic.
No!
They capture that marvelous, lonely bleakness--
the quiet, the chill reality of winter.