MYSELF I’M SAYING

FINE

I swear to God I’d like to be

Holy, good, and wise—

Instead of a lost and lonely soul,

Court jester in disguise,

Juggling truth and wasting time,

Truly, Lord, my greatest crime,

Never holy, never good,

And certainly not wise,

Though I try to be what I should be,

A beggar in disguise.

(In Louise Penny’s Inspector Gamache mysteries, the poet, Ruth Zardo, one of a number of recurring characters, has a collection of poetry called “I’m FINE,” where FINE stands for “Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic, Egotistical.” In other words, the poetry deals with the normal human condition. Penny’s novels are well worth reading—delightful, entertaining, insightful.

Old Age

My flesh is bruised and battered,

Torn beyond repair.

Old age has got my number,

Along with all my hair.

Schuster

Schuster the Booster

Knows where it’s at!

Says grammar be damned,

And Dusty, the cat!

Schuster the Booster

Knows where it is,

A sock or a shoe,

Hers become his!

Wishes

I’d like to be a submarine,

Sinking in the sea,

Beneath the polar ice flows,

Where whales only can be.

Down there in the inky depths

I’d sport with creatures free,

In waters cold and innocent

Of land-locked tyranny.

The Fribble

I never met a Fribble

Who could swear with any ease,

Or wear upon his honied head

A hat made out of bees.

I never met a Fribble—

I’m telling you the truth—

Who could lie with alligators

And still not look uncouth!

Myself I’m Saying with a fresh haircut, after seeing a Fribble in his second best chair; good night

ANNOUNCEMENT: GARDEN TOUR

Next Saturday my wife is sponsoring a garden tour to raise money for an animal rescue mission in Lexington, KY: “Paws 4 the Cause.” (Ha, a title after my own heart.). Apparently this is a three month event, with the first on May 29, the second on June 19, the third on July 17. Y’all come. Her garden is spectacular: paths and ponds, flowers and more flowers, beyond delightful. An image of Eden, though after the fall, of course, but the best we can do. Truly the best!

Mary’s garden, a recent Facebook image.

VISITS?

Earlier today I visited my two Phone Poem books, got caught up in what I had written over ten to twenty years ago, spent almost three hours with them. I was surprised that most of the verses held up really well and still accomplished what I had in mind, so to speak, pun intended: humor, delight in life, love of the creatures in my life, especially Simon and Pookie. We’ve had Simon in our lives since 2009. Goodness. At the moment he’s asleep on our bed in the back bedroom; he usually wakes up in the late afternoon; I have a picture of the little guy from 2013 which I will include, though it tends to break my heart—better times health wise. Better times.

I loved writing the 4-line verses and getting them just right; though I certainly didn’t always get them “just right.” My favorite verse of all that I‘ve written is “Nightmare,” which is in the second volume. It’s “goodness,” for me, is that the verses capture that night so well. My parents had put me to bed that summer night, and they were outside, sitting our front porch, as people did in the 1940’s. I, meanwhile, had a terrible dream, though not with the images detailed in the poem. In my dream my father was lost, 2000 miles from home, gone forever it seemed, like the City in the verses, perhaps. In any case, I apparently screamed and my parents came to wake me, especially my father. I asked him to sleep with me for a while, and on that soft summer’s night he did. I think I must have been no more than four or five years old. “But my father came to wake me/And I would not let him go.” (“Love, stronger than death.” The Song of Solomon, perhaps). I can still see my father looking down at me, loving and concerned, and then crawling into bed beside me.

Simon—2013, better times, health wise; That sofa is gone but Simon is still with me, mostly. See the verses about healthy Simon in “The Phone Poem Book: Occasional Verse,” and the second volume, “Simple Things.” There’s no grey on his head here either.

BEING SIMON [unfinished]

Defining Simon

I wrap my arms around him—

Kiss his warm, furry head—

Some, too close, want him dead.

Creatures, pets, come to their end

Far too quickly. Amend, Amen.

Time, like gravity, will rend.

If you loved the little dog

As much as I love him,

Would you, still, put the little dog down?

There’s trust in his eyes,

And a soft, silent plea—

Come, please come, sit by me.

Dog-and-a-half long,

Half-a-dog high—

Old definitions don’t die;

But the dog by my side,

Crippled like me,

Defined—properly—

May be a key to Heaven.

Thus, not property—

Transparent Simon,

Epiphany’s time

Always now

Being’s Mystery

Seeing

Little dog loved

Enough, Holy God,

For the time being,

Enough

Crippled Simon on the old chair

He’s beautiful

Simon before losing the use of his hind legs

“What on earth are you pointing at me? And why?”

MOONSTRUCK

Last night, 8/27/20, [now a while ago], Mary and I watched the 1987, Norman Jewison romantic comedy, Moonstruck, with Cher and Nicholas Cage, among others. Romantic Comedy, especially Shakespearean romantic comedy, is my favorite literary genre, and Moonstruck is an excellent modern production.

What delights me about the movie is the way in which the full, bright moon itself becomes a central character in the unfolding action of the story. Also present throughout is Puccini’s tragic opera, La Boheme, playing at the Met, and which the lovers, Ronnie and Loretta, as well as Loretta’s father, Cosmo, and his mistress, attend. Then there is Dean Martin’s famous song,That’s Amore, as a theme song about romantic love.

MORE MOONSHINE: the following is an Eliot poem that, like Prufrock, delights me. The movie treats the moon in—I would say—the traditional way; the moon in the movie is a real, substantial image of romantic love. In the poem, however, the CG is continually trying to deny that reality, trying to dismiss the notion of love and romance, put out the serious light of the moon and deny its function as an image so that he can bed the young lady. What’s delightful about the poem is that the lady, “she,” continually asserts her presence (and humanity) and brings him to the point where he must take the relationship to a new level of meaning. “Are we then so serious?”
At this point he must either answer, it seems to me, “Yes” or “No.” She will not be just a sexual object for him! There’s a renaissance poem, “They flee from me who sometime did me seek,” where a similar experience is explored.
I’ve had the movie note since last summer; poor health (and laziness) had slowed me down a bit, so that I didn’t copy the Eliot poem until today. (5/11/21)

‘’CONVERSATION GALANTE” (T.S. Eliot)

I observe: “Our sentimental friend the moon!

Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)

It may be Prester John’s balloon

Or an old battered lantern held aloft

To light poor travellers to their distress.”

She then: “How you digress!”

And I then: “Someone frames upon the keys

That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain

The night and moonshine, music which we seize

To body forth our vacuity.”

She then: “Does this refer to me?”

“Oh no, it is I who am inane.”

“You, madam, are the eternal humorist,

The eternal enemy of the absolute,

Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist!

With your air indifferent and imperious

At a stroke our mad poetics to confute—“

And— “Are we then so serious?”

The real question for the literature and life (being) is what does the moon truly mean? On the one hand it’s an object in our sky bearing human footprints; on the other it’s an image that points beyond itself, as real images do. See too The Merchant of Venice, Shakespeare, of course.

A GOOD VERSE TO SKIP

Pilgrim’s Progress

There’s no such thing as an avian skunk;

To see such a thing you’d have to be drunk:

Or, sitting at home, watching TV,

You might see an emu, or large bumblebee,

Or, outside a window, behind a closed door,

A clean avian pig, back and forth, soar.

Or, more highly likely, as case may be,

You could see a dragon on Netflix TV.

Or, if you prefer a large dose of crime,

Turn your set over to Amazon Prime.

Or, nonsense prevailing, look to the stars,

Where you’re likely to see high-flying cars.

Or, look out a window, as I have to do,

Watch birds at their feeders, spectacular crew:

Cardinals and titmice, finches and wrens,

Grosbeaks and cowbirds, blue jays, turtle doves,

Grackles, red-winged blackbirds—one of my loves.

The really real suffers when the mind bends

Like a deep-sea diver, rising too fast,

What’s in his blood kills him quickly at last.

I sit in my lift chair, feel my mind tumble

Into an abyss, watch sanity crumble.

Thus spouting nonsense, I continue to stare

At each real creature I know to be there;

For each has a purpose; each is a key

That leads back from ruin to Simon and me.

Real Truth is absolute, eternal, unchanging;

Beauty is real, out there, in my mind—

Sometimes it’s simply, to others be kind.

Find one image, transparent and real,

Start down the road stamped with God’s seal.

Pilgrim’s images: maple tree, oak, close to home;

Bumblebee, butterfly, Beatrice, beauty;

Coy in the water; turtle in sun;

Simon, Schuster, Pookie, Frollie—dog;

Azalea, hot pink; yellow daffodils in spring;

The shape of woman, her beautiful eyes;

My friend; classical music, Mozart and more;

Sun, moon, stars—Orion in winter.

Dante, Shakespeare, Spenser, Flannery O’Connor

(Just an important sampling; images must be found,

discovered, point beyond themselves, participate in that

to which they point, be loved)

The journey where Christ is the end.

A WINDY DAY

Notes: Outside My Bay Window

I’m watching wind blow through green leaves,

Listening to the fierce wind roar.

This mighty presence shakes old trees,

A monster of God’s own making.

Yet still they stand firmly rooted.

Verse: Invisible Forces

The wind was fierce and cunning,

Rushing through the sky,

Tearing through the green leaves,

Trying not to die.

Like great monsters fighting,

Tree limbs whipped the air,

Trying to unsettle

The thing no longer there.

Looking out my window

I see the wounded trees

Standing firm beneath the wind,

Now just a gentle breeze.

Across the road and up the hill

The trees still twist and turn,

As though the winds that moved them

Were fires that made them burn.

Windows

People in glass houses

Shouldn’t look askance

At people who draw curtains

To avoid an errant glance.

Fierce cosmic winds perhaps, 🤔?

SMOKE GETS IN MY EYES

Judy

We were sitting in the backseat

Of someone else’s car, blowing smoke

With fondest wishes, cigarettes

And not cigars. High school yearbooks

Didn’t catch us, neither did our friends,

For we loved each other greatly

As we kissed to make amends.

For whatever life might bring us,

We will always be fine friends,

For we loved each other greatly

As we kissed to make amends,

For whatever life might bring us

Now it’s brought us to these ends.

1958–2021

We were young once; truth always trumps illusion! Life is very good!

HELP: DEATH and the DRAGON

Waiting and Hoping

A hearse drove by the other day;

I shuddered, bent my head to pray—

While the sun, outside my window,

Turned all green leaves bright, light and gay.

I love the spring, as well as fall,

Summer, winter, good seasons all;

Though now I’m stuck inside our house

Watching lush leaves on maples tall,

Hoping to heal before death’s call.

A SMALL VERSE

The Dragon’s breath burned through the night,

Consuming countries, cities, men;

I closed my eyes but still could see

The dragon, Sin, come straight for me.

“Holy Father, Holy Son,

Holy Spirit, three in One,

Save me from this nightmare beast,

Who would upon me gruesome feast.”

Amen

Oh Hell! Don’t drink from this chalice!

Saint Michael, dragon slayer

MOREOVER

2:30 A.M., Thursday, May 6, 2021. I’m sitting in my lift chair wondering why I can’t seem to stop and let myself fall asleep. I had to edit the last entry, had trouble with the technology, and sort of woke up, thinking about my predicament, Schuster, shoes that don’t work correctly, the young rat snake mistaken for a copperhead, and thus killed in our garage. Moreover….

It’s now Noon. Simon, in the master bedroom with Mary, started whining at 2:30 A.M. and didn’t stop until Mary finally woke up at 3:15 and gave him water. Apparently, he fell asleep then and so did I. Moreover….

Mary dug the little snake out of the trash and brought it upstairs so I could see it. The snake was a beautiful little grey and black rat snake. Not a copperhead. My Commonwealth home care male nurse killed it on his way up to see me and change my feet dressings. The little snake was innocent. Life is precious. Moreover….

Simon, in the evening, lays at the far end of the sofa, close to the great divide between the sofa and my lift chair. He used to sit beside me on the old larger lift chair; now he can’t. But he looks over at me with an expression that breaks my heart. And he barks at me. So, I go over there and sit next to him. It hurts my wounded feet to do that, because the long coffee table sits in front of the sofa; but I love the equally wounded little dog. He stops barking and puts his head down next to my leg. I pet him the rest of the evening. Moreover….

I hit the wrong line and “published” instead of just saving! “Dammit, I’m mad”. [a palindrome too]. Oh well…

Simon in the master bedroom before the transfer to the sofa.

Here I now live, in my new lift chair: my landscape.

A NEW BEGINNING

SCHUSTER, USING HIS HEAD:

He hits the door with a vigorous BUMP!

The door shoots open with a loud KER-THUMP!

The red-headed dachshund, grumpy grey face,

Ambles the tiles at a marginal pace;

Let it be said that I’m happy to see

Little brown dog in the bathroom with me.

Schuster, alone now, down in the dumps; but beautiful!

LITTLE SIMON, The Perplexed

I noticed that I had not entered an entry or “DONE” with an entry whatever one does to reach “DONE.” Funny, I hope. Simon, as I have written before, has lost the use of his hind legs, the dachshund curse, and with that loss, the control of his bladder. The common consensus is that he ought to be DONE in, put down, executed, put to sleep. Primarily, I suspect, because I am in no condition to take proper care of him, though I can help a little. The burden falls on my wife, for which I am heartily sorry, truly. She, however, does not bear the burden lightly. Simon, after all, is not Frollie, and she loved Frollie, well, more than she loves me, probably. So, the sword of Damocles hangs over little Simon [though I forget who and what Damocles was]. Except for the loss of certain necessary vital functions, Simon is “good doggie.” He sleeps a lot, “good doggie,” wags his tail when he sees us, wears the diaper wrap with great patience, barks for his supper, wipes his nose on my pants when his nose itches, I suppose, and licks my hand when I sit beside him and pet him. The major obstacle to his impending eternal rest, is me. I shed tears just thinking about his demise. If he were sick sick, the demise would be necessary quickly; he isn’t. Every time I think about him I see him walking beside me on the Stevenson trail; a woman passing by, going in the opposite direction, said he was beautiful; he still is; that was our last walk; two days later the problem occurred. Disaster struck. A year later and chaos reigns in the home.

Mary brings Simon to the sofa once he wakes up. Usually I move from my chair to the sofa to sit next to him, give him water, hold his supper bowl once Mary or I fix it (what a curious and delightful use of “fix,” which we all take for “granite”; I love words and word play, as on “Last Man Standing”). Last night I “caught” his poop just as it emerged, and before it stained the underpad, put it in the recently emptied ice cream container (we were watching “Debris”), then dumped it in the toilet in the back room during the next commercial. Mary, much later, carries him to bed in the master bedroom where she and he sleep; I sleep in the living room in my new lift chair.

Notes for Simon

What can I say about my little black dog,

Simon, my constant companion?

His ears are like velvet, smooth, long and black;

His eyes are quite dark, reflecting the light

That brightens our living room walls.

When I’m not beside him, on the sofa now,

He barks and tries to crawl to me,

Soft sofa to lift chair—what’s left to do

But go there, put my hand on his back

And relax. Sweet little dog and be done!

Flesh and Blood

Lying alone on our living room rug,

Schuster, so silent I don’t know he’s there.

Simon asleep on the bed in the back,

Precious as Heaven, yet burden to bear,

For no more slow walks, just cross to be born;

He’s crippled like me, for him, no repair.

Simon, little brother, Schuster alone—

God mend us all, with Christ our good prayer.

Amen

Simon on the old lift chair, where we always sat together, pre-gangrene days.

Schuster and his octopus; the lonely little dachshund.

FROLLIE: DOG GONE

Stuck in my chair, I look round the room,

Frollie’s not there; just vampires and gloom!

I open my IPad, read for a while:

Words, eager words, exquisite style.

Murder and mayhem, motive and greed;

Death sits beside me, cause of my need.

Thus I return to this type of story.

Frollie’s not there; lost instance of glory.

No one can say, neither why, neither where;

All that I know—Frollie’s not there.

Frolliie

MORE REVERSE VERSE

The Odor of Sanctity

The reason the dead smell so quickly and bad

Is to make us let go of any idol we had;

Thinking to possess the beloved as “mine!”

Is like trying to grasp a bright ray of sunshine.

She’s ours to love for a year and a day;

Then Nature or God takes her essence away.

We’re left with our tears, good memories and such,

But no more long walks, joyous greetings, sweet touch.

Loss is intolerable, not to be borne,

Nothing seems left but her ashes come morn,

Nothing seems left but a large silent sign:

Permanence is found in God’s only design.

I love rhyme and I love rhythm; well done they can reflect the inherent order of the real creator. I have been reading a poet whose verse is perfection, Jennifer Reeser, though I do not pretend to comprehend her poems substances and complexities. I’d like to be able to write well, but most of what I write comes out goofy, unfortunately. Well, I do my best and don’t charge much for anyone to read it—just a little time. Actually, I like the last two verses [not real poems]; there may even be a real insight hidden in plain sight. I lack subtlety. Though check out “come morn!” Okay. I am still crying for Frollie. I tried to read the thing to a good friend who stops by every day and only made it halfway through before breaking down.

Frollie: died March 16, 2021. She was much beloved.

PETS WE LOVE

We’ve been married 54 years, and we got our first dog from the pound in Athens, Ohio in 1966, two weeks after we were married. That was Dog Biscuit, part long-haired dachshund, part mutt, a real sweetheart. She inherited the dachshund back problem which an operation took care of, more or less. We bought an Old English Sheepdog, Sir Lancelot du Lac, registered even, goofy. He loved to play hide and seek. We would go to the cemetery or the campus; I would slip away; his eyes were covered with hair of course, but he never failed to find me, though he did run headfirst into a tree on campus once when he discovered I had taken off. With these two dogs we still lived at 302 Jackson St. From there we moved to Fairway Drive, and they moved with us.

However, we had built a brand new house. And we screwed up. We made a nice house for the dogs outside, but it seems we loved the new house more than the dogs, for they lived outside. We spent a lot of time with them, but they were long-haired dogs and didn’t seem to mind. They had a house, bales of heaped up straw for warmth and comfort, and they came inside into the kitchen in the winter. I wish we hadn’t moved them outside when we moved to the new house, long-hair all over or not, for that is my worst memory of behaving badly with our creatures.

Our next dog was an outdoor dog too, Hollie the collie. She didn’t mind being outside either, and she was a lovely, playful dog as well. Thinking about them still brings tears to my eyes. After her, no more outside dogs. The rugs and house be damned. Dogs first.

PETS: AN IMAGE

There’s a hole in my soul

For each pet we’ve lost,

To the swiftness of slow time past.

My soul feels like a bent metal sieve,

With precious lives draining too fast.

Our Priest says, “No dogs in Heaven!”

How can that be, I say?

God made our souls to last forever;

Do our pets just get a year and a day?

And now it’s March 17, 2021. I’ve been in the hospital for several months with five procedures done on my legs and feet designed to save my legs. I had acquired gangrene from a wound on my right foot. I felt somewhat like the Hemingway character in Africa at the bottom of Mount Kilimanjaro. If in Heaven, however, our bodily scars disseminate glory, as C. S. Lewis said (I think), my body will glow all over.
At the moment I am home, Medicare cut me off. However, I still can’t walk, so I am mostly stuck in a chair until someone, such as my wife, comes to help me. [Gangrene really stinks!] The smell disappeared long ago, yet there is still some danger that I might lose a leg or two. The infection had gotten into the bone, but the antibiotic six-week infusion seems to have defeated it, probably.

ANOTHER LOST LOVE
Well, the real sadness took place last night. Our lovely Jack Russell terrier, Frollie, died last night, late, but too early; her cancer finally stopped her way-too-short life. Her picture follows. We had her all her life, from six or so weeks on. She was a wonderful, beautiful little dog and is still with us the only way the dead can be: in our memories, in our hearts, in our souls. Our tears still keep coming though in spite of that consolation.

THOUGHTS FROM THE SICKROOM

One day, a month or so ago, I walked a mile, fairly well, I thought; the next day I had to stop every 10 steps and catch my breath. So, off to the heart specialist, into the hospital in Lexington (St. Joseph’s) with congestive heart failure, and a pacemaker whose battery is going south, has gone south, and that needs an additional wire to the heart. Ouch! It’s still ouch but I am apparently healing.

Okay, on the way to the doctor’s office the other day I saw an image by the side of the road, a starling, probably, on his back with colored feet sticking up. Phone poem?

I shall call the verse something, in a moment or two. Oh well, why not?

Roadkill

Blackbird on the highway

Two feet in the air;

The stillness of his shattered bones

Said he didn’t care.

For now, 80.

Just turn him over, follow the instructions, and you will see what I saw—more or less.

THE PHILOSOPHER

The Philosopher softly said, “If one thing is true, there is such a thing as truth.”

It is true that 2 + 2 = 4.

This is not my neighbor’s mailbox.

CHAOS

Sitting here sipping my “Well, Yes,” Campbell’s Tomato and Sweet Basil Soup with generous portions of Kraft’s Parmesan cheese, I remembered what someone said that Martin Luther had said about certain kinds of wayward thoughts: “You can’t stop the birds from flying over your head, but you can keep them from building nests in your hair.” Whether Luther said that or not, I have found it a useful, helpful bit of advice, frequently.

Not Quite Sane

My mind is chaotic, disordered and grim,

Full of dark thoughts and doubts about Him.

My mind is chaotic, never silent or still;

Thoughts appear quickly, not guided by will.

Random, they ricochet off unseen walls,

Tumble down dark, unforgiving long halls.

My mind is chaotic, familiar, unkind;

But only to me, all others are blind.

Or,

Only Too Sane

I can almost remember the final lines of Alexander Pope’s Dunciad:

“Thy hands great anarch let the curtain fall,

And universal darkness covers all.”

The rhythm is iambic pentameter, at least, but memory plays tricks with verse. For example,

is it perhaps, really “buries all”? Hmm. I shall try to remember to check. “Covers” goes nicely with “curtain.” Is it hands or hand? Oh dear. Pope is so wonderfully quotable.

Okay! There were apparently two copies of the poem. The first edition contained these lines:

“She comes! The Cloud-compelling Pow’r, behold!

With Night Primeval, and with Chaos old.

Lo! the great Anarch’s ancient reign restor’d,

Light dies before her uncreating word:….

Thy hand great Dulness! Let’s the curtain fall,

And universal Darkness covers all….” (Book 3: 337-340; 355-356)

However, the second edition adds a book:

”Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos! Is restored;

Light dies before thy uncreating word:

Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall;

And universal Darkness buries All.” (Book 4: 653-656)

The Twickenham Edition of the Poems of Alexander Pope: The Dunciad. Ed. By James Sutherland. Third Edition. London, 1963.

What fun they must have had reading it in Pope’s time, the early 18th century. Perhaps our times call for such a work, given the nature of the university situation now, political correctness and “Black Lives Matter.”

Hmm, the formatting seems to be off, though I don’t know what to do about it.

Triumph of Death, Pieter Bruegel the Elder

AN EXISTENTIAL QUESTION:

Feeder Follies:

One Black Bird

If you heard a grackle cackle,

While he crouched upon a limb,

Would you feel a touch offended

And hurl a rock at him?

One Red Bird

The cardinal sat so quietly,

I thought he wasn’t real;

Then he toppled to the ground,

Said, “Hey, let’s make a deal.

I’ve just come from the Vatican,

Conferring with the Pope;

He sent me to your feeder,

To find the perfect trope:

To sow the seeds for Charity,

For Faith, and then for Hope.”

Having said what he would say,

He grabbed a seed and flew away,

Back to the Vatican to pray

For happy times and better pay.

Well, apparently the silly season is upon me. Sorry.

What a delightful thing that words sound alike (rhyme).

The two images that follow are not mine and belong to [my iPad suggests “Jesus”; ha] whoever took them.

LES 80

According to the Kentucky bird book, this is a “Common Grackle,” not known to cackle.

Wholly Cardinal! God’s emissary, not the Pope’s, necessarily. Amen, amen.

ULTIMATE CONCERN #5B: the bible

While I was working on the first essay, #5A, I come across a meditation in Magnificat by Father Walter J. Ciszek, S.J. Who spent 23 years in Soviet prisons, “convicted of being a ‘Vatican Spy.’” His final comment in the meditation is central to an understanding of the faith:

”Man was created to praise, reverence, and serve God in this world and to be happy with him forever in the next. That is the fact of the matter….It is the first truth of the faith, and those who have faith accept it….I do not apologize for my faith, nor am I ashamed of it.” Ciszek’s comment reminded me of what the catechism defines as man’s purpose, his final cause: “to praise God and enjoy him for ever.” I like the way that ties in with Edwards’ description of the conversion experience.

The second passage I would refer to is found in the Gospel of John; the entire Gospel is magnificent in establishing from the very beginning who Jesus really is: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” And the Gospel goes from there. The passage I would cite comes at the identity of Christ, in a sense, from the human side, and is what I have always understood as the “last resort.” Chapter 6 of John contains the great Eucharistic statements by Jesus: “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of man and drink his blood, you have no life in you; he who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day.” That sounds literal to me; Jesus means what he says; that is how the Catholic Church throughout history has understood it. Not a metaphor!

Look at the way in which “many of his disciples” respond: “That is a hard saying; who can listen to it?” And look at the echo of the Matthew 16 passage here: “Do you take offense at this?….It is the spirit that gives life, the flesh is of no avail; the words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life.” The narrative continues with Jesus responding to his insight concerning those disciples that do not believe and those who will betray him: “And he said, ‘This is why I told you that no one can come to me unless it is granted him by the Father.’”

At this point many of his disciples “drew back and no longer went about with him.” Thus, Jesus pointedly asks the twelve, “Do you also wish to go away?” And in another echo of both the Mark 8 and Matthew 16 passages, Simon Peter (humbly? meekly?) ”answered him, ‘Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life; and we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the Holy One of God.’” The echoes here are delicious (my mixed metaphors), and I had not heard them until I started to write my explanation today. Wow! That’s why I loved doing preparations when I was teaching; preparations forced me to confront the texts and to see what was truly there, in so far as I was capable.

When I come to the end of things, spiritually, in my present life, and despair and doubt threaten, I always remember “Simon Peter’s” responses, especially, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life; and we have believed…” Without Jesus, without his words, there is only the Void, but Jesus (and Peter) present a solid foundation. So. John, the entire Gospel, is #2 in my hierarchy of significant texts, but essentially Chapter 6: 68-69; note Jesus’ eternally significant response, referring to the twelve, “Did I not choose you?” Including Judas. “And one of you is a devil.” “The twelve,” in my imagination or reading, expands to include all of us, faithful or unfaithful; we were chosen by Jesus too, but one of us is a devil.

The third text I would cite in my textual hierarchy [when I mention “hierarchy” I immediately think of the nine ranks of angels] is in Paul’s letter to the Philippians, where, according to the Biblical scholars, Paul is quoting an early hymn, one of the earliest texts in the New Testament: Chapter 2: 5-11.

”Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form he humbled himself and became obedient unto death, even death on a cross. Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name which is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.” That’s the central condition: “every knee bow” [Milton uses that image in his heaven in PL; some of the angels won’t take a knee]; “every tongue confess that Jesus is Lord”; there’s the heart of our credal statements.

So many meaningful passages stand out that I could keep doing this citing for a month of Sundays, or more. Romans 8, for example, or Luke 1 and 2; all of Mark; all of Genesis; Exodus 3; Isaiah 6, 40+; etc. However, I want to end this section with an OT book that I read On a daily basis: Psalms. The importance of Psalms is that what’s at the heart of these verses is that very human desire for an intimate relationship with God; an awareness that the Other is real and that we would be one with Him in our lives and in our understanding. Sometimes we want that Other Reality to smite our enemies, not us at our best actually, but the best moments in the Psalms come when the author, poet, David, whoever, focuses that desire for union with God: 8; 42, 84; 51; 23; 24; 90; 130; all my favorites, so to speak; 63; 119. The Psalmists come back time and again to the two central realities of that relationship: steadfast love and faithfulness. A sample might be apt: in 108, for example, the Psalmist writes,

”My heart is steadfast, O God,/ my heart is steadfast! / I will sing and make melody! Awake, my soul!…/I will give thanks to thee, O Lord,/ among the peoples, I will sing praises to thee among the nations./ For thy steadfast love is great above the heavens,/ thy faithfulness reaches to the clouds.” Or,

”As a hart longs/ for flowing streams,/ so longs my soul/ for thee, O God./ My soul thirsts for God,/ for the living God./ When shall I come and behold/ the face of God?” (42: 1-2)

St. Augustine rightly said in the Confessions that our hearts are restless until they rest in God. The Psalmists know that too, and so do we as their language takes us with them in amazing metaphors and similes. In English a hart is also a heart, reminding me somewhat again of Edwards, and the way in which ideas and images echo, reoccur, throughout texts and history.

”O God, thou art my God, I seek thee;/ my soul thirsts for thee;/ my flesh faints for thee,/ as in a dry and weary land where no water is.” (63: 1)

”Out of the depths I cry to thee, O Lord!/ Lord, hear my voice!/ Let thy ears be attentive/ to the voice of my supplications!” (130: 1-2)

Every life needs to be centered in reality, in the really real, I discovered long ago. I cannot ever imagine denying that which I found to be true when seated at my kitchen table, so very long ago: “Jesus is Lord.”

All the Biblical quotes here are from the RSV, 1973.

“Even death on a cross.”