Time, Maker and Flesh | Chapel Notes

In the Thought was the Beginning. In the Beginning was the Word—and, hence, the world. Where can human thought reach that the Maker’s has not been before? All men are a roundabout phenomenon, grasping all, owning nothing. In the agelessness of Time they crouch and rave, create and re-create.

TIME. God created Time. He, thus, cannot be re-created by Time. For re-creation is deliberate enactment of change; and change, a confession of fault. More severely, of imperfection! Flesh, you will dare rein your Maker? Lay charge of Time’s variance upon Divine Omnipotence? Yank the course of yester-centuries?

 

I do not worship that which I can create, or re-create. 

Yet imbued by re-creative energies, Flesh slips into hubris, feud the dictates of Time to thwart forces. This strange venture is sometimes occasioned by unnatural human will. It is inspired by suspicion against Time’s immutability.

TIME. Invention of the Maker. Souvenir of blemish to the made, one whose bluff must be called and whose impotence must be demonstrated. Yet, Time is gift. For the corruptible. For the mortal. Oh Flesh, re-create thyself—not thy Maker—before that last severance, that sleep of death that is thine!

FLESH. The fuel of flesh is comfort. The comfort of flesh is faith. It transcends the logic of the intellectual, the innocence of the naïve, variations of the human void; for faith is not the disputation of mystery but the admission of it. I find it is myopic to lean on my own understanding. I am, perhaps, afflicted by that prudent aphorism: Credo ut intelligam, I believe so that I may understand. The Maker of Time unclutters this mind’s self-impelled knots.

The greatest weakness of man is doubt. Oh Maker, make me a man of faith, not this world’s ‘man of God’. Teach me to be a man of love, not this realm’s ‘man of the people’.

If I am not spawned by intent, to what extent shall existence garner meaning? To what extent? For God must be real, just as evil is; and faith must be real, as doubt is too.

I am certainly not a mistake. I am part of a world which does not seem to be so.

Is this mind too young for mysteries? Or, perchance, too worthy? It is human to grow. It is human to die. It is divine to show. It is divine to guide.

It is good to want good. It is better to want the Maker of good.

PROPHECIES. Prophecies are the voice of the Maker—prophecies and the infectious decibels of compassion. Compassion not self-atoning. Compassion not pompous. Under these, a human ceases to exist. All that remains is a demesne, a prison of passions stoked by demons from deeper spaces.

I strive to be human. By God, I strive. I am a follower of God and not of Man, of the Maker and not of the made. What is discipleship to mortal flesh if not the vanquishing of super-human vestiges? What, if not serfdom? Lobotomy? What?

I ask for I am a common pesterer of those common things.

*These thoughts were laid bare in the mind on a restive Sabbath. I have tried to recall scraps in the tranquility of another. 

Photo credit: Ayodimeji Olugbewesa.