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.
