Distance disturbs my orientation.
When I calculate how long it takes
from A to B, I live inside
my cosy lie
that B is only down the street,
that all my life can be spanned by feet.
But freeway exits dominate.
I name streets and suburbs like family,
yet these are not local,
only your garden beside me
and your never-known name.
I would rest here and learn the generations;
too long I’ve lived in wandering,
too long been east of home.
Yet A to B has distance
until distance is gone.
If it would still be meaningful to say, There are an infinite number of universes – if their profound otherness did not embarrass even the language of Being itself…if something we could discern and recognise as intelligent life were to occur in certain of these other realities, might we not learn that our notions of intelligence were, so to speak, parochial?
(Marilynne Robinson, Absence of Mind)
You might think it would humble us to know
at the end of all our knowing that, for all
this knowing, we are immeasurably small.
You might think the sheer expanse, the sheer scope
of all that we name Universe might blow
our very sense of union. That we call
"known" what keeps evading scientific thrall
(after all our knowing) only goes to show
that, while we think we can admire stars,
they do not give a damn. We are in truth
the dots beneath their microscope.
What are we
that we are mindful of ourselves? By far
better than knowing is to be known,
beneath an ancient love we cannot see.
No twinkle. This is something terrible:
Flaming gas, explosive with bright thunder.
Scan the night sky, make a wish and wonder;
Yet it can destroy galaxies at will.
At will, He directs it. See it twinkle
Before Him, docile, obedient under
His hand. It knows His voice which flung unto
The farthest reaches, blazing, blazing, until –
He beckons in; He ushers out. All time
Is planned, is held in hand. And now He holds
That star – yes, that resplendent ball of flame,
From countless blazing sentries known by name,
From centuries, millennia untold,
And places it just so within His rhyme.
What hope does everlasting life hold for us? It reminds us that this present fallen world is not all there is; soon we will live with and enjoy God forever in the new city, in the new heaven and the new earth, where we will be fully and forever freed from all sin and will inhabit renewed, resurrection bodies in a renewed, restored creation. (New City Catechism)
When the door swings out and, face-to-face we realise
all our clutching life could only mimic, never be,
we shall not fall
for all our walking here has been stumbling.
Now we stumble –
for who wouldn’t, when wandering in cloud?
Then we shall move
in the fluency of union,
life itself again – no shadow –
and never will we grasp for knowing
that we are held
Hold tight. Hold me tight:
what coverings I have sought,
cannot disguise my nakedness.
My shame burns garments – yet
You clothe in righteousness.
Hold me tight; You are enough,
yet I am afraid, and turn
to fig-leaves when rightly I should
bathe myself in You.
O Lamb, my joy, my garment of blood,
O hold me tight.