Six words

It is said that the shortest story ever told was 
written by the then young Ernest Hemingway, 
who said he could write a complete story in 
only six words!

His colleagues disagreed, 
and each bet $10 against the claim.

Hemingway wrote down the words on a napkin
and passed it around.

Everyone agreed that he won the bet.

Here is the shortest story ever told:

For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.

I believe…

Lord,

I will never know or understand

You or Your ways.

Your birth or death

Heaven or Grace

Miracles or exclusive love of all

And especially - Resurrection.

Instead I believe. 

As carefully as the cupbearer

That serves Your blood 

At the Sabbath sacred meal.

let it go

let it go - the

smashed word broken

open vow or

the oath cracked length

wise - let it go it

was sworn to

go

let them go - the

truthful liars and

the false fair friends

and the boths and

neithers - you must let them go they

were born

to go

let all go - the

big small middling

tall bigger really

the biggest and all

things - let all go

dear

so comes love

e.e. cummings

Everything is Different Now

John 21:15-19/ Matthew 16:13-27

Peter was hurt

because of the Boss’s repeated questions.

Who could blame him?

We want to be forgiven

As quick as possible.

And Peter in a passive-aggressive manner states:

“You know what the answer is,

But I will say it again and again until You stop:

I love You.”

Then, like that day in Caesarea Philippi

The Master after hearing the answer

He was searching for

Told Peter of the path ahead.

Again with murder

and glorification.

But unlike the first time,

With his outburst and the Master’s rebuke,

Peter humbly obeys the command:

Follow Me.

Yes, Peter was born again ,

But he wasn’t born again yesterday.

Best in City

Now my ice cream truck is painted like a cheerful Panzer tank,
with a freezer full of ices and a fylfot on the flank.
And the music box is set up --hey, it's not against the law!--
to play 'Deutschland Uber Alles' after 'Turkey in the Straw'.
And although I scorn the Untermensch, the deviant, the Jew:
I tell them so politely, and I serve them ice cream too.

But so narrow-minded are they (so unethical as well!)
that they seldom come to sample the fine ice cream that I sell!
Nor even will they enter into rational debates
scheduled daily in my ice cream truck with all my skinhead mates.
So you see, it's a rankest prejudice -- as blatant as it's shitty --
that my fine all-natural ice cream has not yet won "Best In City".


FROM A COMMENT SECTION - COMMENTER LIGHTHILL

Seek Your Servant

Luke 23:39-43/ Psalm 119:176

O Lord, 

Omniscient One.

You who knows what

the internet can't record.

The actions,

            victories,

                       and defeats

of the eternal war

between the spirit and the bone. 

O One,

who does not forget

His own,

I humbly repeat

your cross-mate's request

"Remember me."

Lenten Thoughts Of A High Anglican

Isn't she lovely, "the Mistress"?
With her wide-apart grey-green eyes,
The droop of her lips and, when she smiles,
Her glance of amused surprise?

How nonchalantly she wears her clothes,
How expensive they are as well!
And the sound of her voice is as soft and deep
As the Christ Church tenor bell.

But why do I call her "the Mistress"
Who know not her way of life?
Because she has more of a cared-for air
Than many a legal wife.

How elegantly she swings along
In the vapoury incense veil;
The angel choir must pause in song
When she kneels at the altar rail.

The parson said that we shouldn't stare
Around when we come to church,
Or the Unknown God we are seeking
May forever elude our search.

But I hope that the preacher will not think
It unorthodox and odd
If I add that I glimpse in "the Mistress"
A hint of the Unknown God. 

John Betjeman

Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth

Everyone wants to understand painting. 

Why don’t they try to 

understand the song of the birds? 

Why do they love a night, a flower, 

everything which surrounds man, 

without attempting to understand them? 

Whereas where painting is concerned, 

they want to understand. 

Let them understand above all 

that the artist works from necessity; 

that he, too, 

is a minute element of the world 

to whom one should ascribe no more importance 

than so many things in nature 

which charm us but which we do not explain to ourselves. 

Those who attempt to explain a picture are on the wrong track 

most of the time.

 Pablo Picasso

Boisgeloup, winter 1934

Easter Day

THE silver trumpets rang across the Dome:  
  The people knelt upon the ground with awe:  
  And borne upon the necks of men I saw,  
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.  
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,         
  And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,  
  Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:  
In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.  

My heart stole back across wide wastes of years  
  To One who wandered by a lonely sea,  
  And sought in vain for any place of rest:  
“Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,  
  I, only I, must wander wearily,  
  And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.”

Oscar Wilde