Voiceless Praise

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Cage

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I don't know if this is the appropriate folder, but a good friend wrote something I wanted to share with you. When I first read it, I was nearly speechless, as I've felt the same way most of my life.

I thought it was beautiful...


"Voiceless Praise"


For twenty years I have watched you
Parading every Sunday
Strutting like peacocks in your freshly pressed suits
And extravagant dresses
As you somberly file
One by one into a house of God
Waving and smiling
Beckoning me to follow
To help clog this man-made edifice
Erected in the name of something greater than us

And still after all of this time
My reaction remains the same
A slow turn and a curt nod
As I stroll leisurely from your four walled place of worship
Choosing instead to stand alone

High atop a snow-covered mountain
With a view to vast to fathom
As the winter sun falls below the horizon
And the salty stars spill across
The blue-black cloth of the sky
Dancing heal and toe
I have felt God

I have sat
On the deserted rock strewn shore
Watching the infinite Pacific batter the shore
Sending icy spray skyward
And crashing down
As the dusk’s brilliant colors
Shimmer off the water
Reflecting off the mountainsides
Embedding themselves indelibly into my soul

So you praise God in your crowded rooms
Sing your elaborated choruses
And give witness
But do not beg of me to join
For I worship in a separate way
And the songs I sing
Are no less decadent
They are merely self-contained
As the inner peace of God’s own beauty
Envelops me, and I silently
Say a prayer of thanks and give praise
And the chorus in my soul swells.

Josh Garrison (A good friend)
 
Cage, thanks for your post of the poem by your friend. Perhaps it all does come down to true "embodiment" of beliefs or whatever. To move on from our own views/beliefs and identifications/associations - where "truth" is only found on our terms - to a more open and embracing path. Where Reality-as-is surrounds us and bestows itself upon us in grace, rather than "reality" being only a reflection of ourselves? Is the divine to be found more in the open air...............or enclosed within a church? Or equally in both? I think of the words of Thomas Merton when he was speaking of the Cistercian way of simplicity............"Here is a life which is not a succession of alternating superior and inferior activities, but rather a continuous rhythm of equally valid ones".

Anyway, your own poem bought to mind one by Billy Collins, which speaks of the Buddha......

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.

Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?

But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.

This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.

He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.

All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us;
then, I hear him speak.

After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?

Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the deck.
and our boots stand dripping by the door.

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow.

:)
 
Lovely, both of them. I tend to find God's own Creation the best church for me as well. The congregation are trees and the choir is wind and water. There is nothing quite like the moon on snow, or wildflowers in my mountain grove in spring. Don't get me wrong- I've been to some lovely human-made churches, heard songs that made me weep, and sermons that made me think. But being out in Nature is what gets me back to simply being in God's presence.
 
Connecting with God through nature is an expereince not soon forgotten!

Even so, I don't think any one method of worship/appreciation is better, per se, than another; nor do I think God limits his presence to his own creation, or resides soley in the buildings/temples erected in his name.

God is everywhere, but there's just something majestic about connecting to him in wide open spaces . . . Along an ocean's shore, or atop a mountain among the evergreens, or even in my back yard nestled between the Willow's, or sitting back in my lounge chair gazing at the stars.

By these things I know God exists, and the overwhelming appreciation I feel for these things, surely pleases the creator thereof. ;)

Btw, I've heard of Billy Collins before, and that piece you posted of his is remarkable. As a matter of fact, a friend has mentioned Billy Collins for suggested reading in the past. I really need to do that; he certainly has a way with words...

Much Love,
 
path_of_one said:
Lovely, both of them. I tend to find God's own Creation the best church for me as well. The congregation are trees and the choir is wind and water. There is nothing quite like the moon on snow, or wildflowers in my mountain grove in spring. Don't get me wrong- I've been to some lovely human-made churches, heard songs that made me weep, and sermons that made me think. But being out in Nature is what gets me back to simply being in God's presence.
Click to expand...

I am exactly the same. My Grandmother used to say, "Look at the trees as they wave their arms to God & the leaves clap their hands in the wind giving Him praise."

You can hear it in the mighty wind or gentle breeze, humming thunder & the ocean roar.
Learning from the creation, nature and seasons - to appreciate & respect it. I love my church more than any church I have ever been to as there is a bit of Celtic there without them realizing it.
These things in nature put me into the presence of the Great Spirit & I am thankful - As well as being there for the beginning of service with the elders as the people fellowship through the voice of many waters. It is soothing.
It is not the same as being in the presence of the Almighty in & through the earth as God transcends in many ways.
 
Bandit! Nice to see you around.

Yes, I, too, have spent many a beautiful Sunday morning observing nature in the Spirit. My loved ones at church worry. They shouldn't. But I haven't exactly figured out how to tell them.;)

InPeace,
InLove
 
Bandit, I don't think you and I have met. I think you left about the time I joined and I've come across a lot of your old posts. Made me triple-check the date to be sure I'm not reading an old thread. Glad to meet you.
 
Bandit:
I've seen your intellectual tracks in the snow many, many times, especially in your very knowing exchanges with poh concerning the Hebrews and their worship customs. I'm sure we'll converse on something in future times. Nice to meet you.

Cage and Tariki...bodacious words...thank you both so much for sharing.

flow....:cool:
 
I guess I'll jump on the band wagan (No pun intended) and greet bandit like everyone else.

Was up, man? :D

I wrote one two nights ago that is somewhat in line with connecting to God through nature. (I think so anyway)

Can you tell I like poetry? :)


Old Man Johnson

He sits there quietly
beneath an aged white oak;
with his eyes gently closed,
and arms resting firmly
between tree bark,
and the nape of his wrinkled neck.

The most subtle of sounds
he rests upon;
from the song bird nesting
amidst the canopy of leaves above,
to the trickle of an icy brook
running eastward
from a majestic mountain spring.


He simply sits, and listens...


A heavenly bouquet surrounds him;
created by wild flowers in bloom.
With a slight tingle of the nostrils,
and fragrance above french perfume,
the scent fills his every breath,
then lingers pleasantly within his nose;

and old man Johnson just sits there,
like he always does (Right about noon)
quietly, under that old white oak,
with his eyes gently closed,
and his arms resting firmly
between tree bark,
and the nape of his aging neck.


He simply sits, and breathe’s, embracing the wonders of God...
 
Thoughtful painting, Cage--I can see him. I can smell the flowers. I see the old man's face and the back of his head. I breathe with him. Looks like my dad.
 
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