On Parents and Their Rebellious Children
Photographic reproduction of the Great Isaiah Scroll, the best preserved of the biblical scrolls found at Qumran. It contains the entire Book of Isaiah in Hebrew, apart from some small damaged parts. This manuscript was probably written by a scribe of the Jewish sect of the Essenes around the second century BC. It is therefore over a 1000 years older than the oldest Masoretic manuscripts.
Just in case you forgot who is in charge here, take a look around.
See this sky? You didn't make that.
See this earth and all the living things that prance and pounce on it? The sustenance that grows out of the soil?
You didn't make that.
The life that surrounds you and lives within you.
You didn't make that.
I made this. This is my house. I pay the bills and keep the lights on and set the universe in motion.
You. You just reside here for a time.
We are intimate, you and I. I and thou.
You reach up and grasp my hand like a toddler learning to walk.
Or a lover with a tender touch.
Or an aging parent who stumbles.
My hand holding yours is a sacred agreement.
We are always connected,
and I will never let you go.
Darkness is terrifying, and to escape the vastness of it you close your eyes,
not realizing that while you refused to look, the light came.
Open your eyes. The darkness isn't permanent, and
I will hold up the lamp that leads you out.
If you do not forget me, I will not forget you.
But please, remember the real me, not the images of me that
others have created, the lies and slander.
Remember my name.
I am no fortune teller, but I know things.
I can step back from your life a few paces, a thousand yards
and see things you cannot.
Your view is limited. Open your eyes and see what others see.
What I see.
People sing to Me all the time.
I want to hear a new song. Sing me your song.
Not his song, Not her song, Not David's song.
Even if you have sung it before.
Even if you use their words and their tunes.
Make it new. Make it yours.
The entire earth sings songs to me.
Trees and deserts.
Sidewalks and skyscrapers.
The sea roars timeless lyrics and the mountaintops scream out
What do they know that you do not?
What secrets do they hold -- those of simple mind and simple existence --
that lets them sing without shame?
Are you thinking too hard about where you came from to let go and feel the truth?
The same hand that reached out from above to guide you and keep you steady
can rear back and smack you if you stop the song.
If you stop singing, if you become an enemy
Stay you and stay safe
Destruction, too, is a birthing process.
Soon after Anger is born, it is immature,
a destructive toddler,
knocking down the beautiful things the mother/father created for it:
Mountains and hills to romp and climb.
herbs to reap and eat,
rivers and pools for feeling the magic of floating.
But even amid the destruction
I will reach out a hand again
and let you grasp on so I can lead you
to a brighter place with smoother paths
It is good to know that God, even God, rages at the children
who have turned their backs on his teachings,
no matter how beautifully packaged and presented.
They push the lessons aside and
refuse to see
refuse to listen
refuse to heed