In life no house, no home
My Lord on earth might have;
In death no friendly tomb
But what a stranger gave.
What may I say?
Heav'n was His home
But mine the tomb
Wherein He lay.
Just saying, I want home. According to my sinful condition, I am dissatisfied and I want to be satisfied now. But God's time is perfect. Truly, "mine was the tomb wherein He lay" just as His was the Heaven to whence I go by Christ's grace. If I feel homesick now, I know that my homesickness was itself taken up by Jesus in His life. And the time away from home, even the dull ache of separation is not meaningless or for no purpose. So I will try to occupy this time in doing what it was set aside to do - even if my soul is once more restless, seemingly longing for lands southwest. Sometimes, I am suspicious whether I deceive myself in thus identifying the restless longing. Or to put it another way, what am I really yearning for? Am I simply afraid to name the source and end of my longing for fear of what that would mean? Am I simply unwilling to face what that would (in my perception) cost me? Could it be, like Dr. Patrick said today, that I am thankful to God for salvation so that now I can go do my own thing? I love to set the agenda (have since I wrote agendas for 4H meetings). I hate not having a plan, a list of things to do which I think are reasonable, with which I concur, which I can carry out just as I see fit. This is just as true when someone else sets the agenda - if I can work alone and do the job they assign in my own way, I'm fine, even if I grumble a bit. But I don't like uncertainty. I don't being vulnerable. I like plan B, C, D down through Z. Even if I in certain situations I don't look farther than the next day, it is because in the grand scheme of things, the situation doesn't matter that much to me, not because I want to be governed by another. I like other authorities to make out the plan - you see, I'm lazy - but I want the 'freedom' to do as I please with the plan.
But how does one then live? I'm not talking about action, but attitude which surely informs action. However, I cannot fix the action without fixing the attitude. Yet I lack the power to fix the attitude. Further, I'm not even certain that I understand even what the proper attitude looks like, what it would be. To be Buberish, I think that I long to stand in relation. Yet to stand in relation is to be vulnerable. I want to see God face to face through clear, bullet-proof plastic. I want to treat Him as an "It"- a Thing, a thing that I take from, that I experience, an object of a goal directed verb whose subject is me. But as long as the shield is up, as long as I'm in 'experiencing mode' and not in 'relation of being mode' (to use Martin Buber expressions as I understand them) I cannot "enjoy" (in St. Augustine sense) the relation I long for.
I can't go on (writing or thinking). This might make no sense. I know what I mean, but how, oh how delicately is meaning bound up in packets of sound, in symbols on a page! Here is the mystery of human communication: not only can we express volition to one another or intent to act, but somehow mysteriously we are given the grace to formulate Ideas and abstract pictures and not only formulate them, but also share them precariously with other humans through a heavily nuanced medium. Language is simple, yet not so. It's beauty lies in representation. One of the cruelest, basest twists of the rack of contemporary culture on language is reducing all words to mean nothing.
We have used both sacred speech and vulgarity as a metaphor; now neither sacred nor vulgar mean anything but ejaculations for the sake of noise of some creature whose only form of communication is emoting through such things. We have not given words new meanings: we have taken their meaning from them. In meaning anything and everything that the speaker feels, the words mean nothing.
Oh, is even this expressed? Am I communicating? It is not the words that fail me. It is I that have failed the words. If one uses a bucket as a hammer or a hoe as a bread-knife, what does one achieve but the breaking of these tools. We have failed to understand the function proper to each word. We have bent them to other uses. No wonder they fail us.
Uh, Oh. Supper Time. ...