God is working Part Two
by Stan Faryna
Jean Michel Jarre, Equinoxe 4
Below is a poem by Simon Curtis: Comet Over Greens Norton. Like the political scandals, natural disasters, fears and anger that ripple through the milky (sour) radio and tv waves (or remain ignored for obvious and not so obvious reasons), Curtis’ poem reminds me that God is working. Sometimes, in strokes that paint a bigger picture than we will ever see with our own eyeballs.
But, perhaps, our imagination can grasp the square when we have seen the corner. Just as Confucius suggests of the gentleman. Perhaps.
The past repeats itself – this is a quaint yet profound reflection on the cyclical nature of things. And the evidence is overwhelming and undeniable to all but the most obtuse. Or intellectually impaired.
That God is working.
To what? Why? How?
What is the function and destination of God’s work?
Einstein’s pursuit of such questions took him to the theory of relativity. Thomas Aquinas, The Summa Theologica. Raphael, the painting, The Engagement. Carl Gustav Jung, to a theory of personality – which modern psychology has abandoned for lack of intellectual and intuitional capacity to extend his vision further. Or even apply the legacy of his thought and work.
Perhaps, this too is why the Founding fathers of the American Experiment laid out the most ambitious of plans for a nation.
The U.S. National Archives where the Declaration of Independence and U.S. Constitution are preserved and exhibited.
As much reason as there is to fear, rage and protest God’s work, there is more reason to wonder, thrill and find great inspiration. And that, specifically, is what Curtis’ poem did for me. It reminded me of the wonder, majesty and bigness of God’s work. Perhaps, it will do it for you…
28 May 2013
COMET OVER GREENS NORTON
by Simon Curtis
Binoculars focusing true
(Ten o’clock from Cassiopeia),
I pick out Hale-Bopp – head, coma and tail –
Its sky-smudge icicle-clear,
Remote over Allibone’s farm
On its orbit hurtling away,
And due to return from the depths of space
In four thousand years, so they say;
As far ahead as Homer is back,
Two million calendar days.
To focus true on time-scales like that
Unnerves to the quick as I gaze,
Stood at midnight on Blakesley Hill
In the frost by a neighbour’s fence.
What on earth will Hale-Bopp look down on,
Four millennia hence?