Godspell

According to one of my textbooks--and there are so many that I forget which it was--the word "Godspell" is actually Old English for "Gospel." Music from the Godspell soundtrack is pouring from my headphones as we speak, and what I wish to speak of, my dear, is the spell of God.

When one thinks of a spell or enchantment, one usually thinks of it manifesting itself through whisps of blue smoke, or showers of sparks. The Godspell has many such accompanying aesthetics... but they change and vary, as befits the best of all enchantments.

At this moment, it is a shower of snow, not sparks. At this moment, it is a peppermint stick in my mug of Italian cocoa. At this moment, it is the fact that my RA induced her fiance to record a silly message on my roommate and I's answering machine, so that now our parents will wonder what on earth is going on and why there is a guy's voice representing our dorm room. At this moment, it is the blissful thought of how we will get back at our RA, mingled with silent awe and admiration, for it truly was a devious prank.

At this moment, it is the Calie students destroying their dignity by engaging in snowball fights with a mere inch of snow for material. New England snobs, such as myself, sit comfortably in their tower rooms and remark to their roommates that they would not stoop to a snowball fight in less than six inches of the fairest element.

At this moment, it is the fact that as of yesterday I am a member of Grace Community Church. At this moment, it is Jeff Purswell's sermon on Philippians 2:1-11. Somehow I had not quite realized that when Christ assumed human form, he assumed it forever. It wasn't a mask that he could remove at ressurection. Christ added human nature to his divine nature, and in doing so condescended beyond belief, beyond what our senses or memories have the vocabulary to express.

At any given moment, there are tangible evidences of the Godspell. Snow, friends, peppermint, fun RA's, profound sermons, prayer, our time of worship at the Singles Meeting two nights ago, socks, dramatics, stories, poems, Scripture, delicate glassware, cobbled streets, saffron and crimson, a roommate who understands about writing, Psalm 42, Isaiah 40 and 53...

My dear, my dear, we have all this, and heaven too! And so I can only echo a sentance that I heard once:

"If it is a lie, it is the sweetest lie I ever heard."

If there is no Aslan and no sun, and the Godspell is only all a falsehood, then it is the sweetest lie I ever heard.

But it is not a lie.

Shalott

My new room in Dorm 3 reminds me intensely of Tennyson's poem, especially those lines about the Lady of Shalott weaving in her tower the sights and sounds of people as they streamed past on their way "to Camelot." Originally, I was disappointed that my room no longer faces squarely on Lakum Bobum. But not so much, now. There is always the gazebo, if I must spend time in contemplation of water (which, I admit, is a mild obsession with me), and for now there is pleasure in watching as "up and down the people go"... and "gazing down to Camelot." I suppose that "Camelot" in this case is Dorm 4 (what a dreadful prospect!) or perhaps the farm across the lane.

I have been hobnobbing. Today I visited the Black Dragon, the Pharaoh of England, and had dinner with an Empress. I expect that the Pharaoh and her heir-apparent will be visiting Shalott later this evening, though the High Queen may not be able to come, as she has many obligations. Sooner or later the goddesses will get back, and then I shall have to trot over for tea with Juno and Venus. It reminds me of Oz and of my childhood, these whimsical highfalutin' nicknames. It reminds me also of what I was reading last night: Mark Twain's Life on the Mississippi is truly a chucklesome experience.

Ave and vale from PHC. Raise your glass to a new semester, and make sure that it contains nothing worse than sparkling cider.

The Fountainhead

I was up until 4 AM reading Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead. It's hard to think of anything else, or see anything else. It's hard to bend my mind back into its usual grooves. One incongruous thought keeps popping up... Rand's book reminds me of Phantom of the Opera. Now why should that be?

Her book is clean lines and intensity. It is pure in that it is single-minded; it is not pure in that it is not, as it meant to be, truth. It is not truth, but it is perhaps the only bearable lie left to our society. It is the worship of Man, as heroic, as excellent.

It would have made me sick if I had read it at eighteen. It would have made me angry if I had read it at nineteen. It would have shaken me if I had read it a semester and a half ago. Now, it only makes me sad. Sad and admiring, in a way, because Rand wanted it so badly, tried so hard.

Brilliant. Hard. But without integrity, which is the only thing that she demanded. She couldn't achieve the only thing, the only thing, that she craved... and the only thing left to give her is what she did not ever want.

Pity.

Spring Term

Golly! I got next semester's schedule in the mail today, and it's a doozy. Across the country, PHC students are counting down to January 12th, First Day of Classes. We will stream back to the Halls of Learning with songs of... well, something. Dirges or praise; it depends on the individual. Personally, I intend to enjoy the upcoming academic term to its every corner.

My hairy schedule includes Linguistics, Topics (Bible and Literature), Geometry, and Music Appreciation. It's one of those strung-out affairs that ranges from 8 AM to 8 PM over the course of the week. I am undaunted, although I have no doubt that the blog will suffer as it always does when I return to full-time learning.

This semester I shall reside in Dorm 3, known for its elegant decorations and environment of studious harmony. Usually I prefer to study at Founders in the evenings, but with a quiet dorm, I may actually get reading done in house.

On the docket for extracurricular activities: Bible Doctrine, The Epic of the Crusades, Medieval History, The Rare Jewel of Christian Contentment... and others. I intend to do some serious research on the Middle Ages, as I have become convinced that they deserve more attention than modern scholars usually give them.

The spring promises to be, as always, a gradual and pleasant downgrade to the long summer break. I'm looking forward to church membership and more involvement at GCC, as well as whatever projects Dr. Hake may have for his Lit. students. Hail to a new semester!

The Poet Who Understood Winter

I was browsing a poetry website by titles today, and found this, written--no wonder of it--by Robert Frost. He and I are old, old friends, fellow natives of New England. It is he whom I always think of as "the poet who understood winter."

Few people in these days understand winter. They do not sit still in the silence long enough, nor stand staring at a single frozen streambank, an ice-crusted leaf, the silvery sunlight--as only winter sunlight can be any other than bronze--on snow... the solemn propriety of a cold-stiffened sparrow, still upright, dead, upon its branch.

There is much that I could say about this poem, much that deserves to be said, far more than just "he understood winter." But I want to linger over it longer, delve it deeper, before raising my voice above a whisper. Then, perhaps, I will know what to say.

It seems to me that beauty demands silent attention... until silence give way to praise, and attention to passionate exposition. Is it not so with our adoration of God?

Girl With A Pearl Earring

If push comes to shove, I prefer depth over range. Therefore it is not perhaps surprising that I have spent so much time studying a single painting by Vermeer, his "Girl With A Pearl Earring."

My research began quite casually--I read a bestselling novel of the same title. To my surprise, the book struck me. It was evocative, well-researched, understated. I had studied Vermeer in High School, of course. Who hasn't? But this story made of Vermeer a man, not merely a name, and gave the Girl a soul to go with her pearl earring.

The movie based on that story delighted me by means of its artistry, its use of silence and light. Interest, once sparked, became a desire to understand fully... and now I offer to you the most tangible result of my exploration. Play with it. Examine a few of Vermeer's other paintings. To know something or someone in detail, in full complexity and reality... in full color, is one of the greatest pleasures given to man by a good God.

Behold, the High Queen Cometh

One of my dearest friends is coming to spend the night with our family. Sarah, also known as the High Queen, is an RD at Patrick Henry. She would love to get rid of the halo which popular consensus has bestowed upon her, but I'm afraid it is stuck on tight. I enjoy Sarah for her humility and sense of humor, her practical jokes and focus on the cross. No matter what we do together, whenever I am with her I have the sense that she is in constant, quiet, but sensitive communication with Christ.

You should not, my dear, make the mistake of picturing a Madonna. Sarah is graceful, and "the turn of her fair countenance" is calm, but she is no tame girl. I have known her to TP cars and impersonate villains... yet her jokes are always in excellent taste, and hurt no one. She is the sort of person with whom I would engage in a snow fight, which is more than I can say for most girls. Generally I find that it is only boys who fight with enthusiasm, yet I am quite sure that Sarah would not hesitate to rub my face in the snow... and give me hot chocolate afterwards.

She is the genuine article, the sort of person who is overwhelmingly real. A conversation with Sarah never lacks for depth; it is not made of empty phrases or mere information. Talking to Sarah about God is not awkward, but rather customary, and delightful. Indeed, a discussion with her upon any subject--academic or otherwise, theoretical or practical--is sure to be mellifluous, reasonable, spiced with wit and wisdom, ultimately edifying.

In God's mercy, I have been blessed with many mature friends of both genders. This certainly is divine grace for, I assure you, I do not deserve them. Among these a few form my inner circle of those whom I respect, desire to emulate, and deeply enjoy. I wish here to honor and thank God for a member of that interior sphere: Sarah, the High Queen.

(If Sarah ever reads this, she will be laughingly furious with me for giving her such an exalted title. But what can she do? In my house, it is I who know where the ice, balloons, fake snakes, and booby traps are kept. Ha!)