Sunday, May 19, 2013
A Brief Sermon On Love
It is Sunday and I have begun with a doodle. This is because of local tradition. When our valley is in a state of barometric flux some of us wake up and celebrate with migraines. It is best to keep one eye closed --the hurty one-- but this makes clumsiness. Not clumsy to the degree recorded by Ecclesiastes [(10:18), "He that diggeth a pit shall fall into it."] but still pretty clumsy, so movement is kept to a minimum and no pit-digging for sure.
I only ventured out to the pumphouse for a headache pill and came right back. Forgot and carried the pumphouse padlock in with me. There it is up there, and a doodle I drew of it. I drew a human between them and that's when it became a sermon, a sermon about love. We'll start in the past, back when I had two eyes open and radios had little orchestras inside them.
The little orchestras played love songs mostly. I thought I was in love once or twice but my hat had only caught fire --as often happens to one. Then one has a chance encounter. One sits at a table somewhere opposite a stranger, and since decorum dictated --at the time-- strangers remain even stranger, a strange thing happens. First, one's past and present tenses are confounded. Then one notices the other's eyes and decides there is something really quite elegant about them. And one falls in love.
Oh my. It's what, 1968? The thoughts: "Why now? At a time when our best and most progressive leaders are shot dead at their podiums, when theocon regressionists and international belligerents consider God their quaint subordinate, when I could be drafted or jailed, when there is so much to do, why now? Why not ten years from now, five even? Why now?"
And so, let us turn to Acts 9:5-6 - "it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks." Because there are a lot of them out there, and (hopefully) one only has so many feet, we must rely upon the transcendent power of love. Love doesn't care what's going on. It hits when it hits, incapable of putting itself off no matter how inconvenient it is. It finds one returning the pumphouse lock and asks, "How's your barometer-head?" And, miraculously, my eyes are opened.