What with excess work, and an ungodly level of preoccupation, the intentions of posting over this past week were lost somewhere between Supralapsarianism and tedious apologetical studies. While both are interesting subjects (One decidedly more so than the other), they provide weak incentives for truly enduring focus in the deep hours of the night. Furthermore, neither of them are conducive to the bloggers stream of conscience, for they both require very linear thought processes, and as I am sure you have noticed (as certainly my parents have), my processes here do not meet through connecting the dots, but perhaps more through a kind of "Where is Waldo" routine. I'm quite sure that I am not building much confidence in my record keeping and writing abilities through such a comparison, but I'm equally sure that there is more than a degree of truth to it. By all means, if you have any particular method by which I might better paint my portraitures, let me know. I come from no formal creative writing background, nor do I claim any gifting in these waters, but I am trying. My best effort is all I can give.
That being said, let me recap for you these past few weeks beginning with my ascent to the Ακρόπολι, or Acropolis as we Americans know it.
The day could not have been clearer, in the sense that if it was clearer I would have made the same comment, for I am no weather man. Regardless, clear was the day, ready was the camera, and willing were the eyes. A few chums and I accorded upon an expedition to scale the paths leading up the Acropolis. And so we began a climb akin to that of the ancients, who ventured to worship before Athena, enjoy an evening of theatre, or participate in a gathering at the Parthenon. Here, I am giving you a glimpse into my mind as I walked up the chiseled marble pathway to the peak. Many of you have seen the pictures, so you may be able to put the visual with the written account. The first impressionable sight was that of an ancient theatre. As I snapped photos with an unassuming air, uncannily resembling a tourist I'm sure, I swore I was able to see an actress, playing Antigone and chastising her estranged uncle, or an actor of renown throughout ancient Greece (The McKellen or Stewart of the day) "stabbing" his eyes out as Oedipus. Wondering at the marvelous aspects of history and heritage, my mind wandered not to a vanity for this human race, but to a respect for the guiding providence of our Lord in the conception of history. The process of history, when handled in a linear sense, causes one to think of such a time span with utmost respect for our Lord's work throughout History. When considered in light of "Waldo," one gains perhaps a poor understanding of the history of these earthly functions, but one is in turn afforded the concept of God's overarching reign and government above and beyond both order and chaos.
For instance, As I gazed upon the Parthenon, Athena's temple, and over the city of Athens in its entirety, I saw not marvelous structures, but marvelous portraits of stories past, and subsequently, the lens of my thought was drawn out from focus of these rocks and their stories into the focus of a grander story at work. I found then that the clarity provided by the clear day only dimmed in comparison with a clarity of heart and mind toward the purposes of our Lord. Are we clear? His purposes are accomplished in all of the earth, both in the minutia and in the infinitude. Can you fathom with me? If you can, have at it alone, for I surrender all notion or attempt at such an insurmountable task. What I am saying is this: it was not scaling the Acropolis that allowed me to climb to some "elevated system of thought," but rather it caused me to understand that those are heights I dare not scale. Acknowledging God's sovereignty in and through all things is not the same as trying to fathom such a thing.
We agree on these things, do we not. And yet we are a divided bride, aren't we. Is it enough to merely meet at the saving grace of the cross? Is it really? Yet it is at the cross that we meet and disagree. For ultimately (and those of you who know me know of what I speak), are we not harkening to the work of Christ on the cross in these matters. Or are we also harkening (or forgetting to harken) to history which encompasses the work of the cross as part of the woven fabric of time in this creation. If we forget that history is going somewhere, we forget that someone has been guiding it there from the begging. Where's Waldo? Where is reverence? Where is proper doctrine? Fie, I said the d-word. Enough of the soap box. On to more pressing matters, lest this mind run away with itself as it has been known to do.
Tying up the ropes on this one shall take some mustering of skill, for I know not where to begin. The main mast stands in assurance that, in our Lord's providence He led me to a ministry from the very beginning of this year. And now, all hands have been called to the deck of the Morning Star, a modest yacht run under the careful watch of one, Alexander Macris. And with that, it is time for a picture.
Shades of blue and discreet grey began to fluctuate and fade as we neared the moor bordering that peaceful bay at Porto Astro. The night began to take its reign in the vast expanse of the waters, and yet the mountains enclosing the bay remained darker than the night that surrounded them. Even the night has been known to cower from such darkness. Silhouettes entering new waters, we mounted a seaworthy dingy and plowed the surf through the blackness that had begun to engulf us further. With no moon to offer solace, it seemed that the mountains grew in presence and in influence, but it wasn't a daunting or threatening presence. The blackness offered shelter, perhaps in the same way that it offers shelter to the weaker beast from his pursuer. Under such a cloak, we drew near to a white shade that seemed to condense out of the blackness. It seemed that something ethereal was left behind on the shoreline as we climbed aboard the Morning Star. As we entered the amply lit cabin, my spirit began to leap about in excitement for the prospect of the future year working aboard this vessel. That night, as the bay waters gently rocked the schooner, we at around a table laced with stories of past voyages and voyages to come; stories about previous crew members and memories stoking the laughter helped blaze a spirit of hearth and home amid the vague external uncertainties. The cabin is modest, though not wanting in the slightest having been fitted with generous amenities for long-term voyages. Each of us slept in our own bunk with blankets a'plenty after a wonderful meal of pizza and salad. Alex briefly overviewed the ship's make and its systems in order to make the transition to manual labor in the morning as smooth as possible.
We awoke early, without sufficient rest in terms of length, but an excess in terms of hardiness. Our captain and leader began the day around the breakfast table by opening the scriptures. It was under this premise and this blessing that we emerged from the cabin to find that the darkness had relinquished its reign and seceded in the renewal of morning light. The shrub-laced mountains rose with us to extol the morning's beauty and their great heights rose ultimately to praise our Lord for ordaining such beauty. I shall attempt to do the poetry justice here. Along the vast mountainsides, houses shone as specks amid a far greater fortress. The waters below welcomed morning's light most gratefully, glowing with their bluish green hues that the sky above might gaze upon them with equally blue amiability. The days work, though tedious, was most fulfilling. We sanded and applied putty to all three hatches quite thoroughly. Relishing the manual labor, I was careful to take in the scenery at intervalic points throughout the day. At each point, praises for my Lord's provision and sustenance welled up anew in my spirit. I confess that I probably neglected to give full focus to my work, for the backdrop was so awe-inspiring. Later that evening, after a good days work, I settles on the stern to write a few thoughts in my journal. An excerpt reads as follows: "The water here embodies an immaculate blue, which reveals a vast mystery in its character. The crags and cliffs seem to keep this secret as well, as if by some solemn pact or oath. Perhaps it is history that they guard, perhaps it is fear." I would argue that it is both. It is out of reverence for our Lord, that His creation keeps close at hand the histories and lessons of the past, while growing each day in fear of their Sovereign Lord. Where is the well-spring of the fear of the Lord? Show it to me, that I might prostrate myself before His mighty name.
Why do I attempt, through rationality, to explain away such things as this. As I have referenced before, there is that tension between the freer, more expressive man juxtaposed with the rigid and established mindset. It is not a battle between doctrine and art, nor is it a battle between a "Christian" life and the artist's life, it is the balance and holistic unity found in Christ through His Spirit's work to bring tension to the brokenness, that we might gradually be completed through His sanctification. We tread the the tension light a'foot, blazed in our course from the beginning of all time, yet learning anew to tune ourselves to chord with our Lord's mind and heart.
On a final note of fiction, I have had a number of people inquire after the meaning behind the alias J. Dedalus, which I have so recently adopted. A few understand the birth and relativity of the alias in my own identity as an artist, but for clarity's sake, I shall briefly describe. Δαεδάλος (Daedalus) is a character of the Greek mythos, whose works of art were said to have been so well-contrived that they could come to life. Despite my own selfish aspiration toward such an ability in writing and such, the part of his story that I find the most intriguing is the portion with his son, Icarus. Daedalus constructs two sets of wings for himself and his son in order that they might escape from their captivity on the isle of Crete. Daedalus warns his son not to fly to high over the water, lest the sun melt the wax which unites the feathers of his wings. Of course, Icarus does not heed his father's warning, and he perishes because of his ignorance. The idea here is balance and moderation. Author James Joyce, in his artistic culture, made reference to this mythical character by naming a semi-autobiographical character, Stephen Dedalus (referencing the biblical martyr, Stephen, in his first name) in his work, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Artists and writers of Joyce's day would have recognized this reference as Joyce's self-association with what were known as Classical artists, as opposed to Romantic artists (Associated under Icarus). The point is that, today, both in art and in the church, and particularly with regards to artists in the church, there is a tendency to latch onto ideals of the free spirit and the free will of man. Only we must remember that our minds and spirits are foes as well as friends: both shall be the waning wax which disassembles our agreement on right doctrine and proper artistic integrity. These thoughts and ideas are fleeting just as the issues I address are fleeting. But the rectification of our minds in relation to Christ's purpose on this planet is important, and not to be treated tritely. This is why, to those who latch onto such ideals of late as the Emergent Church, the prosperity gospel, and philosophical theology, it is my prayer that we would come down from such pursuits of the mind and submit ourselves once again to right doctrine which remains true to Biblical teaching.
In no way, through this alias, am I attempting to purport James Joyce's position regarding the church, for many will remember that the man was sexually promiscuous, an avid drunkard, and he ultimately rejected Christianity and the church altogether. I am simply recognizing the idea and identifying that idea as one of truth, not founded of its own accord, but through Scripture.
It is with these words that I shall part for now.
2 Corinthians 10:5
We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ.
Take them all captive that our Lord might be glorified all of our days.
Εν Χριστῷ,
~Alexander
two hundred. forty one.
10 years ago
