Light on the Page

Talking to the dead is always of great value – mainly because they’re not. They are members of another life, they’ve been born into it, and they live there as truly as we live here. So what is the question at stake? It’s whether or not life is worthy and what is the relationship of that worth to the eternal. Our life on earth is one of borrowed light. It has many faces made up of hours and days. The faces of those who belong to the other life are climbing away from that. For them the earth has passed its hour of worth. It has no more value for them, in terms of what they themselves can do – for the time being at least. So what can I give them – I who have been left behind? I can give them the now, but more especially the eternal in it – because that, in reality, is where they reside. Did they know, during their life on earth, that all those hours and minutes we have at our disposal are really faces of the eternal? Perhaps they did, perhaps not. But we can tell them. We can tell them that we know they live in everything we have that has been borrowed from the eternal. They need to hear this and we need to tell them what we know. Otherwise our life has no worth. And what will I hear back from them? I will hear, faintly, their praise of what is worthy in the hour of light at dawn, when I may allow the eternal to pour into my day.

What makes us grieve for those who’ve gone is really the loss of the eternal, which they are part of now. If we still retained our true sense of the eternal, which was once our birthright, we would feel no separation. If we could only lose the power that minutes hold over us we’d plunge into duration anyhow. Then who would be left to grieve but time itself? And we who have stayed behind on earth would find our natural rhyme in those voices rising through the light again.

We wrestle so much with weariness and loss of faith while in fact the non-earthly – the realm of the ‘dead’ – glows its way through night. The shapes and thoughts within it may seem like wraiths to us when in truth they shine radiantly. And how do they regard my faintness? Do I seem like a ghost to them in my doubting and my absence of belief? Or will my best thoughts appear like a shining coast to them which will guide them through all the earthly dark and strife?

Dawn

The borrowed light we live on for a time

has many faces, hours and days of earth.

The faces in the other life will climb

away from what has passed its hour of worth.

To honour the eternal all my days

is all I have to give to those who’ve gone.

But I will always listen for their praise

of what is worth the hour of light at dawn.

Voices

The loss of the eternal makes us grieve

for those who’ve gone, who are eternal now.

But if we’d only let the minutes leave,

we’d plunge into duration anyhow.

Then who is left to grieve but empty time

who has no fingers fretting at his chain?

For those who’ve stayed behind have found their rhyme

in voices rising through the light again.

Strife

We fight with weariness and loss of faith

while the unearthly glows its way through night

and every shape and thought becomes a wraith

where radiantly shine the forms of light.

And do they view my faintness like a ghost,

my friends who’ve gone before me out of life?

Or will the best thoughts in me be a coast

that shines for them through earthly dark and strife?

Best wishes, today,

Landar

© landar 2010. All rights reserved

The perennial question about life after death is why the dead don’t try to communicate with us. A great deal of sadness attaches itself to this question. It is about closed doors, a loss of opportunity. But are we really listening? Do we hear the single voice rising above the crowd? Do we allow the silence to speak its mind? If we did we might notice it’s telling us about our own lives. Essentially it’s telling us that to live is still a choice. This might seem strange coming from the dead who, apparently, had no choice, but then who is in a better position to see that the chances and opportunities life offers are absolutely unique? No two people have the same chances. It is simply the opposite of being part of the crowd. And who is better placed to see that to miss those opportunities implies a lack of listening or seeing? The dead no longer have the choice, but they might well ask the question, why don’t we communicate with them, who have so much to say? Perhaps it’s because their words fall on deaf ears. Perhaps it’s because to raise yourself to listening means to accept the choices of life. It’s so easy to be misunderstood.

And really the dead need so little to express their love. The light of a flower is enough. And I in turn only need the power to speak with the silence poured from above. Our inner being defies such adjectives as dead or alive – it lives as one with both the seen and the unseen. Joined in the light and the silence we are able to speak with a voice that has always been there.

The Voice

Above the crowd I hear a single voice

and listen as the silence speaks its mind.

It tells me that to live is still a choice,

to take the chances no one else can find.

And no one but the dead can understand

the choice I make in talking to you now,

who may not see the world can be spanned

by silence and the voice which taught it how.

Joined

No more light than there is in a flower,

is all the dead need to express their love.

And I in turn only need the power

to speak with the silence poured from above.

Our being is neither dead nor alive

but lives as one with the seen and unseen.

Joined in the light and the silence we thrive

and speak with a voice that always has been.

Best wishes, today,

Landar

© landar 2010. All rights reserved

The answer to a prayer is invisible. It occurs in unexpected ways. And yet you can feel its courage lifting in the heart, you can climb the way it opens up for you as you might climb a stair, and can stand in wonder before its perfect art. Is there anyone who hasn’t waited down below, before any courage was felt, before any stair appeared, and whose faith dwindled to a tiny spark? Then it seemed as if the world had nothing left to show, all lights were extinguished, and you were left alone with your thoughts in the dark.

Time and time again the thought arose that the world is old and has nothing in it that can lift me up. The hand I held out is empty and the cup I drank from is cold. Yet in that same hand, left limply folded, the prayer lies hidden, and there is hope in the half-forgotten cup. And something comes back from an old remembered land, from paradise, to lift me up.

As a drop of dew is all that’s left of night, what remains of me is distilled prayer. The sun then transforms the dew-drop into light. Paradise, which in its essence is still in me, fulfills me with its care. Only bones and hours continued of what I carried from the past. Yet something in me, even if I paid no heed to it consciously, must have stopped to pray along the way. Something that remembered what I myself had forgotten – an age of light, the paradise I had been part of long ago.

Stair

I’ve never seen the answer to a prayer,

but felt its courage lifting in my heart

and climbed its way as you would climb a stair

and stood in wonder at its perfect art.

I was the one who waited down below,

whose faith was narrowed to a tiny spark,

who felt the world had nothing more to show

than lights extinguished, thoughts left in the dark.

Paradise

Twenty times a day the thought arises,

the world is old and cannot lift me up,

ways have left me here with no surprises,

empty is my hand and cold the cup.

A prayer lies hidden in the folded hand,

a hope within the half-forgotten cup,

and something from an old, remembered land

comes back from paradise to lift me up.

Long-Gone

This drop of dew is all that’s left of night

and what remains of me is distilled prayer.

The sun transforms the dew-drop into light

and paradise fulfils me with its care.

I’ve carried what I can from the old day

and stopped where only bones and hours went on.

But something in me must have stopped to pray,

remembering an age of light long-gone.

Best wishes, today,

Landar

© landar 2010. All rights reserved.

Is there a God? Does it matter? The very question causes pain. It hurts our human nature, which cries out for an answer. It hurts the earth itself, which needs to know about its own foundations. Is there a God?

The popular debate is now between science and the proponents of ‘intelligent design’. Science penetrates relentlessly further and further back into the origins of the universe, deeper and deeper into the structure of the material. Proponents of intelligent design argue that the universe is so immensely complicated, the structure of life so precise and finely-tuned, that it could not possibly have come about by accident.

The path of science may be amazing but it seems to lead irrevocably into a spiritless world. The idea of intelligent design somehow doesn’t satisfy our need for a complete answer.

The problem is that we’re dealing with two things of a like kind. Science assumes that everything in the universe proceeds from matter because it can see nothing else. ‘Intelligent design’ is also a materialistic notion. Its basic analogy is the watchmaker and the watch. The watch is such a precise and finely-tuned structure it couldn’t possibly have come about by accident. And of course it didn’t. The problem is that the watch is a ‘thing’ – the world isn’t. The world is a living being. Everything in it is alive and inter-related.

What creates and sustains that life? The popularizers of science are fond of pointing to DNA. They talk about it as the fundamental ‘building blocks of life’. However, this assumes that life comes out of its trace elements. You only need to penetrate the structure far enough and you will see how this happens. The assumption is that matter on its own will produce life. Hence the more sensationalistic reports about scientists creating cells in a test-tube. In fact they never do – something living has to be there to begin with.

The alternative is to see DNA not as the building blocks of life but as the traces which life leaves behind. Likewise the ‘Human Genome’ – another wonderful discovery, taken to be the fundamental map of human life. Once more this is an interpretation based on the belief – often left unspoken – that life is the product of extremely complicated physical processes. Undoubtedly the processes are complicated, but can we not see something like the human genome as the pattern that life itself imprints on the physical rather than the other way round?

Therefore if life doesn’t emerge from DNA or similar physical traces and it isn’t to be found in things like the human genome, no matter how hard you look, where is it? What is it? The only time the human being is ever purely physical is when he or she is dead.

There lies the crux of the matter. Science and such theories as intelligent design are forever dealing with what is actually dead – that is physical matter – and trying to prove, in their different ways, how life came from it or was built into it. An impossible task.

I’ve said that DNA comprises the traces left behind by human life. I’ve suggested that things like the human genome are merely the pattern life imprints on the physical. That leaves us with the conclusion that life is a creative, sustaining, non-physical force ever-present in the human being and in the world. It moulds and shapes and forms us in the most complicated and precise manner. It leaves it traces and patterns behind for us to study.

‘A creative, sustaining, non-physical force, ever-present in the human being and in the world.’ This is the first step in the answer to the question, ‘Is there a God?’.

Best wishes, today,

Landar

© landar 2010. All rights reserved.

In my post ‘WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO BE BORN AGAIN?’ I suggested there were two factors involved in this question. One was that other people carry our completeness within them and bring it towards us. The second was that it happens through grace. I’d like to say a few things here about grace itself.

By definition the concept of grace bears no sense of neccessity. It’s freely given. However, it does perhaps suggest the idea of being ‘found worthy’. Beyond that one can say nothing. That makes it almost the single most beautiful concept in human experience. The other side of being found worthy is ‘to make yourself worthy’. This does not imply that anything will come by grace as a consequence. But it might help to create the right conditions.

There is a debate going round in philosophy which asks, ‘Why is there something instead of nothing?’ Why, for example, is there a universe when a more natural state would be no universe? One may be content to say the ‘Big Bang’. There is another answer. It also contains the notion that beyond a certain point one can say nothing. It’s the concept of grace. (I’m retaining the lower case ‘g’ because I believe the notion is not the prerogative of any religion but a simple matter of truth.) There is ’something’ because of grace. Does that have the corollary of being ‘found worthy’? No. A new creation can’t have done anything yet to be found worthy. And yet if it’s worthy of its Creator (I can’t avoid the capital here) it must contain the beautiful possibility of making itself worthy.

I suggested that being ‘born again’ is something that happens through grace. I believe it’s a truth and reality – almost the greatest one beyond Creation. I believe that one far-off day it will be acknowledged by science itself.

So is it possible to ‘be worthy’?

Best wishes, today,

Landar

© landar 2010. All rights reserved.