Costly Justification

“It is in the nature of the human being to seek a justification for his actions.”
― Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

“The only man who has the right to say that he is justified by grace alone is the man who has left all to follow Christ.”
― Dietrich Bonhoeffer

(flowering quince / Julie Cook / 2016)

‘It is costly, because it costs people their lives; it is grace, because it thereby makes them live. It is costly, because it condemns sin; it is grace, because it justifies the sinner. Above all, grace is costly, because it was costly to God, because it costs God the life of God’s Son—“you were bought with a price”(1 Cor 6:20) and because nothing can be cheap to us which is costly to God. Above all, it is grace because the life of God’s Son was not too costly for God to give in order to make us live. God did indeed, give him up for us. Costly grace is the incarnation of God.”
Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Discipleship Vol 4 pp 45

We have honed our craft both you and I….
As we have become that which we justify…

For within each justification lies…
the crime,
the hating,
the sentence,
the lying,
the hurting,
the bombing,
the cheating,
the policy,
the stealing,
the taking,
the death,
and even the murder…

Echoed are the causal observations…
“Twas a crime of passion”
“It was a justifiable homicide”
“It was taken in order that they could eat”
“It was hidden for their own good…”
“It was stolen in order to pay…”

There are…
The interestingly tragic assisted suicides…
The abortions due to untimely pregnancies…
The surreal justifiable shootings…
The acceptable culture of death…
The wars to end all wars…
The nuclear deterrents….

Every human act can be justified into being correct…

It was…
the right decision…
a necessary evil…
the only option…

How quickly it rolls off the tongue, as it slips easily from consciousness.
There is no remorse, no guilt, no real sorrow…
because it was something that had to be…

The justification of and for every action and reaction of mankind…

And yet how does one justify the free offering of ones only child…
In order that others may live…

One word….

Grace….

For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves,
it is the gift of God—-not by works, so that no one can boast.
Ephesians 2:8-9

It’s gonna be a bright sunshiny day. . .

I cannot endure to waste anything so precious as autumnal sunshine by staying in the house.”
[Notebook, Oct. 10, 1842]”
― Nathaniel Hawthorne

“It’s gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright)
Sun-Shiny day.”
Lyrics by Johnny Nash, I can see clearly now

(late blooms on the flowering Quince / Julie Cook / 2014)

Long past Spring it is now—that heady time of year when the garishly decadent displays of showy blooms stake claim to what had been a barren landscape. . .
Yet it appears, tucked away in the falling leaves and newly exposed spindly twigs, a few shrubs and bushes wish to reclaim a small piece of that now long departed season of glory— just as all manner of growth prepares, very shortly, to “go out” in a blaze of muted glory.

And so it is on this bright bright sunshiny kind of day, that I”m about to make the trek over to Dad’s.
There’s been some odd things perched on the horizon. . .can’t quite put my finger on it.
I’ve long ceased fighting with him over his lack of “taking care of business.”
I suppose it’ll all just go to the proverbial hell in a hand basket as the tax man may just come get him, but at least he’ll be happy in jail as they will indeed feed him.
And as they continue to have heat, lights and especially TV. . .life is good in Dad’s little world.

“Just stay there” he tells me. “It’s not safe to drive all the way here”
“Dad” it’s about an hour’s drive”—baring Atlanta’s infamous traffic.
“You could be killed!”
“Yes, well, I could be killed here at home Dad”
“But the chances are greater here!” this said with a sheer sense of panic in his voice.
I can’t argue that. . .

“I early voted yesterday. Have ya’ll voted yet?”
A warbly reply “I don’t think we can do that this year”
“WHAT?!” My oh so political loving card carrying diehard pundit is waving off a critical State election?
“I just don’t think we can do that” sounding almost disinterested.
I have high blood pressure, I’m in bed”
“You can’t go vote cause you’re in bed?”
“No”
“You can’t go vote cause you have high blood pressure?”
“No, no, I, I, uh, just don’t think we can do that!” said with the defiance that signals he wants to be left alone—too many questions which require too much thought and response—two keys areas he’s really falling woefully behind in. . .

Plus he’s taken to calling me on my cell phone– which means he’s calling me from his cell phone—the one he lost over a year ago and always said he didn’t know how it worked. Hummmmmmm
He calls twice a day now asking if everyone is ok, as though he’d forgotten he’d called just a few hours before asking the same. . .”Is everyone ok?”
“Dad I’m coming up tomorrow, have you forgotten?”
“You are? Does Gloria know this?”
“Yes Dad, you made me tell her yesterday. . .”
“Are you watching this business on Canada?”
“Yes Dad, it’s terrible. Are you still in the bed?”
“Bed? No, I’m up front watching TV”
“Well don’t forget, I’ll see you tomorrow”
“What? Are you coming up? What for?”
“Just to visit Dad. Do you want me to take you to vote?”
“No it’s too much trouble. I don’t like to travel anymore”
“Travel? Dad, it’s not a trip. It just up to the school to go vote. It’s right up the road”
“Did you vote?”
“yes Dad”
“Who’d you vote for?”
“Everyone you would have wanted me to vote for”
“That’s a good thing”

And so it is, or so I think. . .I’m off to see if it’s really a good thing or not. . .

errors

“the greater number of a man’s errors come before him disguised under the specious form of necessity; then, after error has been committed in a moment of excitement, of delirium, or of fear, we see that we might have avoided and escaped it.”
― Alexandre Dumas

“It is better to lose your pride with someone you love rather than to lose that someone you love with your useless pride.”
― John Ruskin

(Blooming quince with small emerging fruit / Julie Cook / 2014)

Softly sweet, she bends gently in the breeze.
Like a thousand stars in an endless sky, tears glisten, falling down her cheeks,
The wicked words piece tender hearts ’til all her blood runs dry

Gentle demure petals bruise too quickly–
falling away, one by one. . .
He picks up the remaining flower, seemingly oblivious to the unfolding drama

Dark secrets hide in the shadows.
A long and twisted past clings to her bare skin.
She is lost in the misery she hides

Stones are prepared as He now slowly turns to look. . .
eyes quietly meet for the first time
Loss and fear desperately cry out to hope and mercy

A sad sorrowful soul is vexed
as its resigned head bows down to death
Suddenly a single statement is powerfully uttered, sending stones falling from anxious hands

The pious now quickly scatter, carrying away their own guilt
Only two remain present, misera et misericordia
Hope looking up, offers His hand to the remaining hopeless

She could be anyone of us
as the sins continue pounding the rocky shore
In the blink of an eye, the sea is calmed as the world is now quiet.

All is forgiven you.
Go.
Sin no more.

Will you still be here tomorrow?

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away.”
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

(images of the ornamental quince bushes trying in vain to bloom / Julie Cook / 2014)

With warming sun and temperate rains, the tiny calling cards of a desperate Spring, fighting to make its presence known, eagerly appear.
Ever so stealthy and secret, an army of blooms rise upward as if magically appearing from barren wood, all preparing to do battle against the unseen enemy.

We have naively relaxed our guard as we’ve shed coats and gloves, noting how marvelous a warming sun feels against our now pasty dry white and ashy brown skin. We forget the calendar reads February as thoughts of spring wardrobes dance around our heads.
Are those sandals suddenly appearing on those blindingly white feet of yours?

63 degrees feels like heaven to skin that has hunkered down inside of sweaters and coats for almost 4 long frigid months.
Pull out the plants which have been hibernating in sheds and basements!
Till the garden!
Prune the scraggly shrubbery!
The seed packets have arrived ready for planting.
There’s talk of Easter in the air. . .

But wait.
We have not yet survived our 40 days of fasting and reflection for a Lenten season.
We have not yet had to beware the Ides of March.
Were we not just recalling our loves on Valentine’s Day?
Did not the groundhog just sound the ominous warning of 6 more weeks?
Oh get behind me you specter of falsehood and empty promises.

For tomorrow the cold northwest winds will return with rumors of snow flakes dancing through the grey clouds.
The battle wages on.
Freezing air will blow across a changing landscape with a vengeful glee, gaily sucking those waning warming images from our vision.
The coats, the gloves, the scarves, so hastily banished to the recesses of closets, must be summoned to duty once more.
For Old Man Winter has not moved on but has merely been napping.

So rest well this last night my tiny splashes of color.
For tomorrow you will sadly wither, giving up the ghost in a losing battle
You will turn from today’s deep mauves and bright chartreuse back to the sickeningly shades of browns and grey we had grown wearily accustomed to. . .oh but for another day dear Spring.

A visual tale of contrast

“What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.”
― John Steinbeck

The sun is brightly shining, as the frigid bitterness of the days prior, tempers to a delightful and balmy 45ᵒ
I’m on a mission.
A mission to find life amongst the frozen tundra known as the land I call home.
The ground still hard and frozen under foot, the bright winter sun brilliantly warming while accented by a cloudless azure sea of sky.
There is the scent of smoke in the air.
I have shed my heavy coat.
The nuthatches and chickadees chirp merrily as they poke and prod the hard ground for seed.
Nestled near a walkway cowers a small ancient birdbath now sadly frozen.

Amazingly just a few short steps beyond the solid frozen mass of water, leaves and straw lie tucked sweetly among the rocks, a tiny beautiful carpet of soft chartreuse moss begging to be rubbed. Is there any better feeling on a hot summer day, barefoot, finding a cool patch of moss. . .

All of the bushes and shrubs are now barren clumps of twisted sticks and twigs. Odd thing it seems now to have merely a garden of sticks verses the usual lush plump green leaves and vines which typically call this place home. Upon a close inspection of the gnarly twig clumps dotting the now leaf covered bank–there oddly remains a few shriveled grey masses protruding along the quince bushes. These alien nodules resemble some sort of grotesque growth rather than the usual crunchy yellow green orbs which typically adorn these showy asian orientals.

And just as Mother Nature, who seems to relish in her relentless taunting of our tender senses, would have this winter world of cold appear hopelessly void of any semblance of colorful life, I spy a tenacious little champion of all that screams LIFE.
It is the lowly, albeit stubborn, bane of any gardener. . .the hardy and nearly indestructible dandelion.

The ground a hard frozen mass, the winds and temperatures so brutal that almost all vegetation has either perished or will surly be stunted come the growing season, and yet, this most noxious of garden foes not only maintains its place in the pecking order of nature, but appears to thrive—-providing any and all who happen to pass by a bit of colorful joy in a bleak and oh so cold world.

So yes Mr. Steinbeck, it is to this winter that we must acknowledge there is indeed a sweetness to be had—in just about 5 months or so we will have all but forgotten these current cold long shadowed days. This barren world will no longer exist. Our seemingly long deprived senses will be filled and overflowing—

Yet until those long warmer days arrive, I shall continue my quest, my mission—and that is to find those hidden breadcrumbs which a previous season has strewn along its departure– leaving behind a tantalizing trail to remind me that better days are indeed ahead!

Don’t you love this color?

“God writes the Gospel not in the Bible alone, but also on trees,
and in the flowers and clouds and stars” Martin Luther

A touch of color on a monochromatic day

I thank God for this small reminder that despite the monochromatic grey of our winter, Spring is getting ready to make a grand entrance. We must be patient a bit longer.
(a blooming ornamental quince 3/5/13)