When worn upon a man, there is something about the beard, which can be both your best friend and your worst enemy. On the one hand they conjure up the happy countenances of grey grandfathers and fireside fables and hard candy. Yet, on the other, they enable even the sternest of men to sore even higher- with seeming ease I might add - in the upper stratospheres of effective childhood punishment.
Why do I speak of these matters, you ask?
It was upon the face of our head teacher, a most fierce and frothy beard resided. It was the most oppressive of beards a school boy could lay his not so innocent eyes upon, and it was from behind this lion’s mane, our judge recounted detail for detail the pitiable story of our transgression Timings he knew; details he knew; exact whereabouts, all of these with teacher-like precision he knew. I would not be surprised if he had known the color of the clothes on our backs, or the number of freckles on our faces, or, the exact planetary positioning of the moon in the sky that night. The judge , the sole decider of our young adolescent fate sentenced us to the most cruel and fitting of punishments.
A letter.
A simple letter of apology was all that was required of our guilty hands. For a crime so personal however, a crime so mischievous, a crime which tells the story of every young boy, nothing could be more appropriate.
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
Our high school transgression
His voice snatched my conscience in mid air. Out of a group of two hundred, six remained. We lined up like suspects against the prison wall. Except we weren’t suspects. Not one who was amongst was innocent. We were guilty. All of us…very guilty.
We took our seats upon the school bench. It was hard. At least it felt hard, like we’d been sat there for hour already. It had been thirty seconds…maybe a minute. Time meant nothing anymore. Until our sentence was over, here we would remain. Our adolescent knees thrust high up in our faces. The ends of our pants far beyond our ankles. We were tall, and the bench was low to the ground.
My fingers were firmly fastened against the underside of the bench. My knuckles white, unlike my conscience. That was far from white now, it was more black. Or maybe a dark. Grey, like the storm that was about to ensue.
The judge approached the bench, letting us marinade in our own guilt and shame. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to speak, but we knew he would. He just watched, not uttering a sound.
His words etched themselves into my very bones. Through my skin and through my flesh. “You boy’s know why you are here, don’t you?” We didn’t reply. We didn’t say even a word. He spoke again, and no reply we gave him. The tension had stolen our tongues, like the moment of our transgression had stolen our consciences.
We took our seats upon the school bench. It was hard. At least it felt hard, like we’d been sat there for hour already. It had been thirty seconds…maybe a minute. Time meant nothing anymore. Until our sentence was over, here we would remain. Our adolescent knees thrust high up in our faces. The ends of our pants far beyond our ankles. We were tall, and the bench was low to the ground.
My fingers were firmly fastened against the underside of the bench. My knuckles white, unlike my conscience. That was far from white now, it was more black. Or maybe a dark. Grey, like the storm that was about to ensue.
The judge approached the bench, letting us marinade in our own guilt and shame. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to speak, but we knew he would. He just watched, not uttering a sound.
His words etched themselves into my very bones. Through my skin and through my flesh. “You boy’s know why you are here, don’t you?” We didn’t reply. We didn’t say even a word. He spoke again, and no reply we gave him. The tension had stolen our tongues, like the moment of our transgression had stolen our consciences.
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
Out of the darkness...
This particular section I enjoyed in Peter Leithart's book House for My Name. He is discussing the contrast of light v dark in the Johannine gospel.
He draws a parallel between living in the dark as the living under the old covenant administration, and living in the light as embracing the new. Usually the assumption is made that walking in the darkness means that you are some way not saved, and you are far away from God. For those in the old covenant that may well be the case, but it is certainly not true for all people. There were those that walked in the dark who still knew God, but that needed now to step out into the light. This is the problem John is addressing here.
He draws a parallel between living in the dark as the living under the old covenant administration, and living in the light as embracing the new. Usually the assumption is made that walking in the darkness means that you are some way not saved, and you are far away from God. For those in the old covenant that may well be the case, but it is certainly not true for all people. There were those that walked in the dark who still knew God, but that needed now to step out into the light. This is the problem John is addressing here.
"But how are the Jews 'darkness'. The reminders of creation help us see what John means. Light and darkness are used in John 1 in the same way as they are used in Genesis 1. In Genesis 1 darkness is not evil. God separates light and darkness and still says both are good. Darkness is a part of creation; it is what comes before dawn. Since darkness comes before light, it is like the Old Testament period. It is good in itself, but the old covenant darkness is always intended to be temporary. It is supposed to last only until the light comes, until day begins. The sin of the Jews is not living in the darkness. Before the light comes, that is only thing they can do. Their sin is to cling to the darkness when the light has come. The sin is for darkness to seek to overpower the Light, instead of giving way to the Light. The sin is to love shadows rather than the reality."
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
Shakespeare is Alive
One of the foremost things I have learn to value at New Saint Andrews is that we need to be those who learn from the past. When I read Luther, Calvin or Augustine often I am so immersed in the text or their ideas more generally, it is like there are right there, alive and well. It is if they are speaking and teaching me this very day. G.K. Chesterton comments on the same phenomena:
"Plato has told you a truth; but Plato is dead. Shakespeare has startled you with an image; but Shakespeare will not startle you with any more. But imagine what it would be to live with such men still living, to know that Plato might break out with an original lecture tomorrow, or that at any moment Shakespeare might shatter everything with an original song. That who lives in contact with what he believes to be a living church is a man always expecting to meet Plato and Shakespeare tomorrow at breakfast. He is always expecting to see some truth he has never seen before."
Friday, 4 December 2009
"Nine"...by Tim Burton
An unsleeping light drapes the darkened sky. An eerie desolation fills the landscape. The ground is hard and course. A stage set ready for adventure and story telling. Yet despite the obvious aesthetic quality and charm of the characters, Tim Burton’s movie Nine fails to satisfy both with its story and the worldview it conveys.
A band of nine strangely doll like, yet somehow robotic characters, join together to fight a machine ridden world. Only the small flecks and speckles of human civilisation endure. The film is dark, and suspended sense of horror is sustained through the film. The tone is melancholic at best, and provides not one moment of comic relief. This sombre film is in my opinion too scary and unnerving for children, its intended audience. Yet the thin plot, a ninety minute endeavour to destroy a single machine, fails to satisfy the adult viewer also.
As the story progresses, the nine heroes suffer numerous casualties. Confusingly however, once the remaining couple destroy our villain, the souls of fallen characters, which bear a peculiar shade of translucent green, are released back into the world. These souls represent their maker, the last human on earth. The message of this film is ultimately humanistic. Although mankind is extinguished for their folly and arrogance, the souls of those freed, ultimately depicts a world in which folly counts for nothing. Humans are victorious, despite the circumstances. Although it may provoke discussion, this film will leave children puzzled and confused and will prove in no way edifying.
A band of nine strangely doll like, yet somehow robotic characters, join together to fight a machine ridden world. Only the small flecks and speckles of human civilisation endure. The film is dark, and suspended sense of horror is sustained through the film. The tone is melancholic at best, and provides not one moment of comic relief. This sombre film is in my opinion too scary and unnerving for children, its intended audience. Yet the thin plot, a ninety minute endeavour to destroy a single machine, fails to satisfy the adult viewer also.
As the story progresses, the nine heroes suffer numerous casualties. Confusingly however, once the remaining couple destroy our villain, the souls of fallen characters, which bear a peculiar shade of translucent green, are released back into the world. These souls represent their maker, the last human on earth. The message of this film is ultimately humanistic. Although mankind is extinguished for their folly and arrogance, the souls of those freed, ultimately depicts a world in which folly counts for nothing. Humans are victorious, despite the circumstances. Although it may provoke discussion, this film will leave children puzzled and confused and will prove in no way edifying.
Wednesday, 28 October 2009
Marginalia
The word marginalia was one employed by Samuel Coleridge, to describe the etchings one would place within the margin of a book whilst reading. From the outset many disregard this practise as simply bad etiquette, saying “didn’t your mommy ever tell you, never to write in books?” Others may articulate that writing in a margin is just bad practice, defacing and devaluing the book.
Mortimer Adler however argues that “reading a book should be a conversation between you and the author,” what better way to do this than to converse within the margins of each page. Thus, marginalia does neither deface nor devalue, but on the contrary, ascribes value to both the book and its author. Writing within the margin shows that you are engaging with the text, attempting to ascent its ideas, forming conclusions and critiques as you read. Billy Collins exhorts us in his poem, not to be those who merely laze in the armchair turning pages, but instead those who press a thought into the wayside, planting an impression along the verge.
Marginalia is also an historic and stylistic tradition, which has attracted in particular the scholarly work of Dr. H. Jackson (University of Toronto). Jackson traces the consistent practice of well known authors such as Alexander Poe, William Blake and Samuel Coleridge himself. Thus it is clear, to write within margins is to write upon the very pages of history itself, continuing in the tradition of these many great authors, leaving behind a fleeting thought, a cutting critique or perhaps just a hearty ‘Amen.’
Mortimer Adler however argues that “reading a book should be a conversation between you and the author,” what better way to do this than to converse within the margins of each page. Thus, marginalia does neither deface nor devalue, but on the contrary, ascribes value to both the book and its author. Writing within the margin shows that you are engaging with the text, attempting to ascent its ideas, forming conclusions and critiques as you read. Billy Collins exhorts us in his poem, not to be those who merely laze in the armchair turning pages, but instead those who press a thought into the wayside, planting an impression along the verge.
Marginalia is also an historic and stylistic tradition, which has attracted in particular the scholarly work of Dr. H. Jackson (University of Toronto). Jackson traces the consistent practice of well known authors such as Alexander Poe, William Blake and Samuel Coleridge himself. Thus it is clear, to write within margins is to write upon the very pages of history itself, continuing in the tradition of these many great authors, leaving behind a fleeting thought, a cutting critique or perhaps just a hearty ‘Amen.’
Monday, 26 October 2009
A Solomonic discursive on the Ants...
It was the work of zoologist William Beebe - whilst exploring the Guyanan jungle - who first noticed the both unfortunate and deadly phenomena known as the ‘circular mill.’ The circular mill is a situation which occurs among a certain species of Marabunta ant, more commonly known as the ‘army ant.’ Whenever a single ant breaks away from the main foraging group, the unfortunate fellow automatically follows the one in front. As this pattern continues, many other ants inevitably follow in pursuit, going no where and ultimately embarking on a windy (and probably dizzy) path of self destruction. Beebe recorded the size of the circular mill as some 1,200 feet in circumference, with each ant taking two and a half hours to complete a single rotation. Within two days Beebe recorded those ants within the circular mill all to have died.
We must learn from nature’s analogy, steering clear of the army ant’s folly. We should be Christians who avoid following mindlessly the doctrines and traditions of our past, believing something simply because we always have. That is not to say we should disregard everything from our past experience, becoming sceptics of the old and slaves to new, holding with little regard the teaching of our parents. However when a foundation is unsteady, repair work must be done in order for profitable work to continue. At the beginning of this college experience, may we be Christians and students alike ready to change even in the simplest of things, that we may grow into maturity of the fullness of Christ.
We must learn from nature’s analogy, steering clear of the army ant’s folly. We should be Christians who avoid following mindlessly the doctrines and traditions of our past, believing something simply because we always have. That is not to say we should disregard everything from our past experience, becoming sceptics of the old and slaves to new, holding with little regard the teaching of our parents. However when a foundation is unsteady, repair work must be done in order for profitable work to continue. At the beginning of this college experience, may we be Christians and students alike ready to change even in the simplest of things, that we may grow into maturity of the fullness of Christ.
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