Ludwig and Jacob, at the Wreckage of the Tower of Babble

“My propositions are elucidatory in this way: he who understands me finally recognizes them as senseless, when he has climbed out through them, on them, over them. (He must so to speak throw away the ladder, after he has climbed up on it.)”

-Ludwig Wittgenstien

 

The hubris, of course, was aimed  upward,

And therefore was an easy thing to pull out of their tower and into His grasp.

Those great calloused sculptor-hands reshaped it into something new.

 

Ambition had been the organizing principle and the support structure of that project

Cracks spiderwebbed through the bricks.

Mortar, which held the promise of changing everything, dried

And released the blocks from its embrace.

 

There was a terrible, timeless time of silence.

A gentle swaying in a soft breeze, at first.

But the tower never returned to its baseline.

The noise came, then.  It was all noise, then.

 

Broken dreams and shattered bricks littered the ground.

They looked at each other with haunted eyes.

Unable to string together words of comfort,

They resorted to pantomime which was unequal to the task.

 

They left then,

In ones and twos and flocks.

They left then,

On foot and horse back and wagon.

 

It took a day and a second and a week.

The length of time it takes

To relive a life,

Flashing before the eyes.

 

Only two remained

In the wreckage of the tower of babylon.

Only two remained:

Ludwig, one was named.  Jacob, the other was named.

 

God looked down on them.

The hubris had grown warm in his hands.

The hubris had grown new in his hands.

 

Ludwig and Jacob built a ladder.

Each man built his own ladder.

Each man, worked together on the same ladder.

That ladder was a wave and a particle.

 

It stretched itself up, and up, and up to heaven itself.

But it had come with an invitation.

The angels began to run up and down.

Ludwig began to climb around them, and planned to kick it down when he reached the first cloud.

 

Wittgenstien’s Ladder

“My propositions are elucidatory in this way: he who understands me finally recognizes them as senseless, when he has climbed out through them, on them, over them. (He must so to speak throw away the ladder, after he has climbed up on it.)”

-Ludwig Wittgenstien

 

The long chambers of the particle accelator lay fallow.  

The rest of them had gone home.  

She turned off her computer.

The lights.  And locked the door behind her.

 

There were no more papers hiding

in the endless strings of data.

No peers to review it.

It was finished.

 

It had been a good life,

Given to science.

But now it was time for her to write a symphony

That was how she told the world all the things she had finally learned.

 

Homunculus

This rib cage

pushing outward with the inhalation.

There is this vista within.

 

In my beating heart.

In that fist-sized pound of muscle.

There is a wide open field.

 

There is a wide open field!

See that figure, there.  Not in the center.

The grasses all dance at his knee caps.

 

The clouds roll by slowly so far above him.

In this vista within me.

Where my rib cage opens wide and closes narrow, like a bellows.

 

Zoom in on the man in the field within me.

Close in on the center of his chest.

Pass through the fabric of his shirt.

 

Slide within his chest.

He breathes too.

Find that vista within him.

 

There is a field

There, too.

I stand in that place.

And also

And this flesh yielded

To the thorns,

And the nails.

 

I was

Stripped naked of pretense

and protection.

 

Hanging there before them.

With Christ

and yet on the thief’s cross beneath him.

 

And also,

meditating in my chair

on Christmas Eve morning.

 

I was so close

to being scourged by that pain.

My pain.  And yet it was held separate from me.

 

The ground reached up and wanted to pull me down.

It tore the flesh where the nails pierced me.

I am broken.

 

A song rose up and surrounded me.

A song.

Covered me.  Entered me through the holes in my hands.

 

And then it was gone.

And I was

I was more alone than ever before.

 

This, this is the way of things!

Three days dead and also forever.

And next, (There was a next!)

 

I was the song.

 

 

Embodiment

I have long loved the curves and swerves of your body.

As these years pass this is lessened only comparatively

as I find something which surpasses and runs deeper.

That is a fine reason to love.

 

But this  is what grows:

This love of your physicality

not so much as end unto itself

but because it is the location of you.

 

The ground that was scooped up and breathed into

was sacred before He breathed into it.

And it was made sacred as he breathed into it.

It is where you are.

 

Your body is the hole punctured through

the very stuff of space and time, (this dying world.)

It is how the light shines through

From somewhere else, magnificent.

 

They say that God entered the world.

And so did I.

And so did you.

This is a thing worthy of celebration!

 

What’s the Going Exchange Rate for a Dying God?

There is this idea that Jesus’ death bought something: that he was a unique currency, only ever redeemable once.

There is a part of me that recently wanted to throw this idea away far away from me.  And in some ways, I had good reasons.  There are some questionable ethical things happening, if this is how it worked.  It seemed rather suspicious than American, Evangelical Christianity would become rather obsessed with a financial-economic view of what Jesus was doing.

Today, I am holding this idea outward, with an open hand.   Perhaps it will stay.  Perhaps not.  I see some language in the bible that suggests it.  I see some value at it.  I can be a bit fickle.  Perhaps I will be ready to throw it away, again, tomorrow.

But the thing that got me thinking about all this was a podcast I was listening to this morning.  Michael Gungor, one of my heroes, started talking about transactional relationships with God.  I assumed what he said next was going to relate to Jesus’ death.

But he went a whole different direction.  He was talking about the deals we make with God.   ‘God please do this for me.’  ‘God, if you do x, I will do y’, ‘God I need…’  Gungor goes on to suggest that the alternative foundation for connecting with God is embodied in Mother Theresa’s often-quoted description of her prayer life: she states that she listens to God listening to her.  (Forgive the vast oversimplification of Mother Theresa’s words; it is worth looking up.)

I am thinking that maybe there is a connection between seeing Jesus’ death as transactional and seeing our relationship with him as transactional.  On a broader level, I know that some of my own relationships with other people have been ones where we abided in a love for each other, like Mother Theresa.  Others have been built around mutual exchanges and need.

Most, of course, are somewhere between these two extremes.  But the older I get, the more sure I am: I would rather engage in loving than exchanging stuff.

 

 

 

Love Poem, the night before our 20th Anniversary

I never knew

(how could I?)

About the giving and the taking.

Those rings and vows, all those years ago.

They were the easy part.

 

And if I am

any sort of man

It’s only, ever been

loving you

that made me so.

 

And if I gave you the springtime of my life

I took yours in its place…

And if the truth were to be told here,

our summer days are shrinking as we enter this fall.

and I never thought it would be a fall, this glorious fall.

 

I spent all that time

trying not to fall.

I wish I had thrown my arms up and my head back

And embraced this glorious fall.