Unspoken Sermons

{Excerpts from Unspoken Sermons by George MacDonald}

It is with the holiest fear that we should approach the terrible fact of the sufferings of our Lord. Let no one think that those were less because he was more. The more delicate the nature, the more alive to all that is lovely and true, lawful and right, the more does it feel the antagonism of pain, the inroad of death upon life; the more dreadful is that breach of the harmony of things whose sound is torture. He felt more than man could feel, because he had a larger feeling. He was even therefore worn out sooner than another man would have been. These sufferings were awful indeed when they began to invade the region about the will; when the struggle to keep consciously trusting in God began to sink in darkness; when the Will of The Man put forth its last determined effort in that cry after the vanishing vision of the Father: My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? Never had it been so with him before. Never before had he been unable to see God beside him. Yet never was God nearer him than now. For never was Jesus more divine. He could not see, could not feel him near; and yet it it "My God" that he cries. Thus the will of Jesus, in the very moment when his faith seems about to yield, is finally triumphant. It has no feeling now to support it, no beatific vision to absorb it. It stands naked in his soul and tortured, as he stood naked and scourged before Pilate. Pure and simple and surrounded by fire, it declares for God. The sacrifice ascends in the cry, My God. The cry comes not out of happiness, out of peace, out of hope. Not even out of suffering comes that cry. It was a cry in desolation, but it came out of Faith. It is the last voice of Truth, speaking when it can but cry. The divine horror of that moment is unfathomable by the human soul. It was blackness of darkness. And yet he would believe. Yet he would hold fast. God was his God yet. My God-- and in the cry came forth the Victory, and all was over soon.

[...] But wherein or what can this alpine apex of faith have to do with the creatures who call themselves Christians, creeping about in the valleys, hardly knowing that there are mountains above them, save that they take offense at and stumble over the pebbles washed across their path by the glacier streams? I will tell you. We are and remain such creeping Christians because we look at ourselves and not at Christ; because we gaze at the marks of our own soiled feet, and the trail of our own defiled garments, instead of up at the snows of purity, whither the soul of Christ clomb. Each, putting his foot in the footprint of the Master, and so defacing it, turns to examine how far his neighbor's footprint corresponds with that which he still calls the Master's, although it is but his own. 

[...] The true self is that which can look Jesus in the face, and say My Lord.

[...] Say to him, "My God, I am very dull and low and hard; but thou art wise and high and tender, and thou art my God. I am thy child. Forsake me not." Then fold the arms of thy faith, and wait in quietness until light goes up in thy darkness.

                                                                  ***

Who can give a man this, his own name? God alone. For no one but God sees what the man is, or even, seeing what he is, could express in a name-word the sum and harmony of what he sees. To whom is this name given? To him that overcometh. When is it given? When he has overcome. Does God then not know what a man is going to become? As surely as he sees the oak which he put there lying in the heart of the acorn. Why then does he wait till the man has become by overcoming ere he settles what his name shall be? He does not wait; he knows his name from the first. But as--although repentance comes because God pardons--yet the man becomes aware of the pardon only in the repentance; so it is only when the man has become his name that God gives him the stone with the name upon it, for then first can he understand what his name signifies. It is the blossom, the perfection, the completion, that determines the name; and God foresees that from the first, because he made it so; but the tree of the soul, before its blossom comes, cannot understand what blossom it is to bear, and could not know what the word meant, which, in representing its own unarrived  completeness, named itself. Such a name cannot be given until the man is the name.

Dress-Up

The Years had sneaked in the back door, crowding into the cracks and crevices, sitting at her kitchen table, making themselves tea and using her good china.

She used to imagine greeting each one by name, with a smile and a cheery hello. They would have time to get acquainted, to get to know each other. She used to think she'd see their faces before she saw their backs, shake their hands before they started rifling through her pantry and complaining that their favorite cereal was missing and that, really, they'd never wanted an orange kitchen. They'd pictured it yellow, like the house where they grew up, the house where their mother had filled the air with the smell of zucchini casserole, pumpkin pie, chicken soup, or honey-glazed ham (depending on the season).

And yet here she was, rubbing shoulders with Years she'd never even seen before as she walked the few feet down the hallway to her bedroom. She'd never pictured it this way. 

She tried to stretch to fit the place she lived in, but as she grew so did the space she occupied.

And sometimes she went to bed feeling like a little girl playing dress-up.

The World Is Ablaze

...and yesterday I couldn't just sit inside and waste it.

If I could choose a season to bottle up, it would be fall. The pungent spice of wild apples, the smell of loamy earth and mushrooms and moss, the sound of drying leaves skittering against each other, the feel of sunshine and wind, the trees all aflame. It's the kind of beauty that hurts.

Unfortunately, I couldn't entirely leave work behind, so armed with a backpack, some water, and a textbook, I headed out to soak in some glory. [I was gone for four hours, and to tell the complete truth I hiked about 85% of the time, daydreamed about 10%, and read about 5%. Can you blame me?]

It was a regular adventure, complete with oddities and treasures and enough color to make my eyes wish they didn't have to blink.

Apprehended! I caught him brown-handed.

I spied this little fellow hurrying across the road. He tried to tell me news about the coming winter as he rushed by, but, alas, I don't speak Woolly Bear.

Moss-bridge.

Wild apples.

(a.k.a. Debbie's mid-afternoon snack)

It's difficult when one feels like a turtle with one's house on one's back.

This is one of those cemeteries where you like to stay awhile. He was just a little bit younger than I. Perhaps that is why the willow weeps.

Treasure. You should have seen me...I looked like a squirrel, scrabbling. I had all sorts of odd lumps and bulges all over me from sticking things in pockets.

Fungi. Each time I spotted a new one I was ridiculously delighted.

I've named this one Fungulily.

It has a secret, too. This one lets you see its insides. See that hole?

It hides a fire-opal within.

Puffballs will forever remind me of my childhood. 

Here are a few landscape shots. They don't even come close to doing it justice--multiply the colors by ten, and you'll be getting there.

Silent sentinel.

The best part of the walk was the colors. The sunbeams were lighting everything up with a perfect translucence.

It was one of those days where it seems like heaven has sprung out of cracks in the clouds and loosed itself on earth.

I was sad to leave, but I took some color home with me.

My Haunt

I figured it might be nice to show you where I spend my days. 

Welcome to my classroom.

(I wish you could see the whole thing at once, as it doesn't look as nice chopped up into so many different photographs...). 

The fancy-schmancy room label made by one of the boys who is now over at the middle school. Golly, I miss him. I couldn't get rid of this. I'll probably have it as long as I teach:

   

Exhibit A: 

Exhibit B:

Exhibit C:

Exhibit D:

Exhibit E:

A note on Exhibit E. The Wall of Fame is something I've had up since my first year, but I'm especially pleased with some of the things on it right now. Take a gander at a few of them close-up.

She's reading!!! Really, this is pretty exciting.

His name was even announced over the loudspeaker. A couple of students from each grade are chosen each week. It says why he was awarded it on the back. The reason? Being a true friend to one of the students from the self-contained Life Skills classroom when they pushed into regular math class. The particular student J. was kind to has a pretty debilitating disability that significantly affects his physical appearance. My favorite part was that J. connected it to a novel he read in class with me last year; one of the characters in the book had a stigmatizing disability but was portrayed in a rich way, a complex way, a really good way. We had many discussions revolving around that character, and he connected getting this award to what he learned from reading that book. Books do things to people, I'm telling you.

I love this boy to his bones. His very bones. For the first time in the year and almost-a-half I've known him, he did homework. You have no idea what this means. It was so much bigger than the homework. I grin every time I see it.

So there you have it. A bare-bones glimpse into the daily life of Debbie. I wish you could meet all of my children. They're so much nicer than the room I teach them in.

Mailbox (Or, Why Nieces Are Awesome)

Mailboxes are one of my favorite things.

Just a couple of days ago, mine held a missive from a girl named Annika Arden.

She also included some of her art for me to add to the already abundant collection on my fridge and my walls.

"Kitten, Kitten, Kitten, Cat"

"Funny Monsters"

Obviously, you should have a niece as soon as possible. I highly recommend it.