The Dancing Street Light

For some reason there were not any light poles as we know them today. In those days of the late 1950’s and early 1960’s, to illuminate the streets of the small rural town, lights were stretched across the streets; wires would go from a pole on one side of the street to another pole directly across the street and the street light would dangle there suspended in the middle, the metal fixture including a shade that directed the light from the incandescent bulbs downward, illuminating the street and immediate adjacent sidewalks and lawns.

It was the end of October, the Halloween time of the year. The local fire department had put on their annual Halloween party for the kids of the area; bobbing for apples, the “haunted house”, and we in our varied Halloween costumes. Along with the fire department festivities we also did the usual trick or treating; a time to fill the sack with candy, popcorn balls, cookies, and other goodies. This was a whole generation before sick psychos used Halloween trick or treating to intentionally put harmful things in the treats handed out on Halloween. That year was going to be my last year of trick or treating. The general rule of thumb was once you were in junior high, your trick or treating days were over. So it was I headed out from the school were the firemen's Halloween party was held, to hit the town and pick up a few treats.

The first street of houses I worked that particular night was a cul-de-sac running off of the main street. At the corner of the main street and the cul-de-sac was a street light stretched across the main street as previously described. I had hit all the houses on the cul-de-sac and was ready to head back to the main street. There were was a good steady wind blowing, and I was struck with how the street light was swaying back and forth, dancing in the wind. It was there that a sort of magic took hold of my imagination.

Oddly enough the sense was not a foreboding fear of some evil supernatural apparition coming to life an All Hallows Eve. It was more a sense of being alone in a deserted place. There was no traffic on the street. There was just the street light dancing in the wind. For those few brief moments the only living things in that town were myself and that dancing street light. In those moments, the image of that dancing street light was forever indelibly imprinted on my mind and in my memory.

In the years that followed I would from time to time come across a few literary descriptions that reminded me of that image.

In Ray Bradbury’s “Martian Chronicles” the point comes toward the end of the book were all the Earth people who settled on Mars are called back to Earth at the outbreak of war. The Earth colonies and settlements on Mars are abandoned, but a few people are left behind; left behind to wander over the surface of Mars from deserted town to deserted town living out the rest of their lives alone. In that narrative the image of the dancing street light comes to my mind.

I sat in the theater as the movie; “To Kill a Mockingbird” was nearing its end. The fall harvest festival at the local school is over, and Scout and Jem are about to walk home and into the dramatic climax of the whole story. It is night and we see the street lights of that small rural town through the eyes of Scout as she peers through the eyes of her ham costume. In that image, I see the dancing street light of my youth.

Over fifty years later as the fall of the year comes around and the leaves on the trees are changing color, and the corn is ripe for the picking, and the days grow colder, I think back to that autumn night so long, long ago when the street light danced, sparking the imagination and stirring the feelings; one of those magical moments that stay with you for a life time; those moments in life that give hints of stories to be told, other worlds to be discovered, and adventures yet to come.

~ The Billy Goat ~

Far Above the Tree Tops

I was in the church parking lot after this morning's services, waiting for my wife and daughter. It was one of those days when the sun was shining, but over in the west the clouds were high and giving a hint of possible weather to come. It was warm but not overly humid, and a nice breeze was blowing; the kind of breeze that makes for good kite flying if one was so inclined.

As I looked up off to the west, I saw them. Vultures or hawks or eagles, I do not know; they were to far away to tell, but there they were, high in the sky riding the air currants as such birds are wont to do. I watched as they circled and spun and drifted seemingly effortless on the wind way, way up high above the earth. I wondered just how high their altitude was, but could not begin to even give a good guess. I could only imagine what their view was of the river valley over which they were soaring.

I imagine most people at one time or another in there sleeping dreams have dreamed about being able to fly like a bird. As I watch these birds far off in the distance riding the currants of air far above the earth, I thought of how it was in my own dreams of flying, I never could get above the tree tops or clear that tall building in the way. In those dreams there was always a certain frustration that I could only go so high, when I really wanted to go so much higher, way, way up; up where these birds were soaring adrift on the wind; to have that unencumbered view of the earth below; to escape the bonds of gravity and fly way up high and far, far away.

I suppose such dreams could be psychoanalyzed and all sorts of conclusions be drawn from such analysis. Or, if Daniel or Joseph were around, one of them could give me a reliable interpretation of such dreams. But I do believe such dreams reflect some yearning, conscious or not, for a view of a bigger reality then what is encompassed in our finite creational boundaries. Isaiah talks about "mounting up like eagles..." Figurative language? Yes... But also perhaps a hint of something wonderful yet to come; a day when we see a bigger reality then we ever knew existed before; when we soar up high above the tree tops adrift on the wind with all creation opened up below to our view.

~ The Billy Goat ~

My 2012 Top Book Reads

Here are a few of the what I consider some of the significant books I have read this past year. They are not in any particular order.

The Aeneid by Virgil:

A friend whose knowledge of literature I respect had recommended reading Virgil. Also one of my favorite quotes from Willa Cather's "My Antonia" mentions the poetry of Virgil. I picked up a copy of a reprint of a respected English translation at Barnes and Noble, and worked my way through it. Given the beauty of some of the passages in the English translation, I wish I had taken Latin so I could read it in its original language. It is an epic story and an exposure to classic literature is not complete without reading "The Aeneid".

O' Pioneers! by Willa Cather:

"O Pioneers" along with "My Antonia" and "The Song of the Lark" comprise a trilogy of Willa Cather's more prominent novels. I was captivated by Cather as an author a number of years ago when I read "My Antonia". I have seen the movie adaptation of "O' Pioneers", and for some time have had this on my list of "must read" books. I was not disappointed. Cather's description of the prairie and the interplay between the land and the immigrant pioneers that settled on it is exceptional. I am now looking forward at some point in this coming year to reading "Song of the Lark".

The Difficult Doctrine of the Love of God by D. A. Carson:

I consider this my most significant theological read of the year. It is a relatively short book, but in my mind of significant importance. Carson discusses how God's love becomes distorted, what it means in a Biblical context to say God is love, the issue of God's love and God's sovereignty, and concludes with a discussion of God's love and God's wrath. In that last chapter there is a very helpful section where Carson deals with the love of God and the intent of the atonement.

Prison Nation by Jenni Merritt(Kindle Edition) and Kingdom by Anderson O'Donnell (Kindle Edition):

The first dystopian novels I ever read were George Orwell's "1984" and A. Huxley's "Brave New World". There were a few others along the way, but it has been a number of years, even decades, since I have seriously revisited the dystopian genre.

A dystopian novel takes a specific trend or cultural current in society and follows that trend or current to a logical extreme. This challenges the reader to look at those trends and currents with a more properly critical scrutiny. To write a dystopian novel in a way that makes it "realistic" and "believable" takes some real writing skill. Both of the above titles meet the challenge.

"Prison Nation" will challenge your view of "law and order" issues. Of the two titles, it is the more Orwellian.

"Kingdom" challenges the governmental-industrial complex and the extremes of DNA research and DNA manipulation. It is in some respects reminiscent of "Brave New World". I need to warn you that "Kingdom" gets an "R" rating for language and sex. As such, I do not give it a full unqualified recommendation even though it is of a relatively high literary quality. Read at your own discretion.

The dystopian genre is not one I would ever want to fixate on. The genre by definition can be pretty dreary and bleak. Some dystopian writings such as "1984" don't leave the reader with any thought that there may someday be hope for positive change in the bleak new world order. "Prison Nation" and "Kingdom" in contrast do leave the reader with a faint glimmer of hope that something better will eventually come; think "V for Vendetta". Though the genre is not one to fixate on, it is a literary genre worth visiting every now and then.

The Aristotelian by Steve Poling (Kindle Edition):

I want to also mention my friend Steve Poling's first published work "The Aristotelian". In this short novel Poling explores the influence of Mycroft Holmes on his younger brother Sherlock. Steve has since also published a Sci-Fi collection titled "Finding Time" (available on Kindle) which is on my "to read" list for this next year.

Courage

October 14, 2012: Felix Baumgartner makes a record-breaking skydive from space.

Yes, there were all the calculations and scientific studies and gear and equipment construction and modifications and preparations; wind and weather analysis, etc., etc., etc. But all that would have been in vain if in face of all the calculated and uncalculated risks, Felix Baumgartner had not had the courage to step out of the capsule more than 24 miles above the earth.

As I watched this video, I had a sense of watching something very important. It may be a little much to rank Baumgartner's jump up there with walking on the moon, but it is of similar importance. I could not help sense there was way much more here then just a daredevil's stunt. There was the pushing back of a boundary; the opening up of an opportunity; the pioneering of a frontier.

This event is one of those things in our history that may be another step along the way to possibilities not yet imagined or thought of. I may not see those things in my lifetime, but if mankind does not self-disintegrate the possibilities are there. And if we don't realize them in this cosmic order, we may realize them in that new heavens and new earth yet to come.

Imagination on a Magic Moonlight Night

As a young lad, I grew up on a farm in rural southern Michigan. Our farmhouse stood on the north side of a country road. We lived in that house from the time I was five years old until the summer I turned fifteen. During those childhood and early teen years, my brother and I shared a bedroom in the southwest part of the upstairs of that house. I still remember the Davy Crockett wallpaper that was on the walls of that room.

Our bedroom had a window which faced south, and out of which we could look across the road to the neighbor's fields. The general geographic nature of those fields was the long ridge of a hill about 100 yards or so off of the road, and running more or less parallel to the road. Along the top of that ridge was a fence row. It was the fence row that provided the stage for the magic that I saw there, and of which I now share with you.

The other necessary ingredient of the magic I wish to speak of, was those clear nights, preferably during the time from late spring to early fall when the window would be open, when the moon was full or nearly so; those nights when the moonlight shines so bright that things stand out quite clearly, especially in open spaces such as our neighbor's fields.

On those magical nights I would lay in my bed and look out the window across to the ridge where I would see the magic happen. It was on those nights when a low solitary tree in the fence row on the ridge of that hill would magically come alive; the moonlight bringing it alive as its outline could be clearly seen against the backdrop of the night sky behind it.

I would look out the window and gaze at the image of the outline of that low tree up on the far hill. In its shape I saw an Arab riding over the crest of the hill on his magnificent Arabian horse; Lawrence of Arabia riding across the desert sands.

Another image that would sometimes come to mind is that of the tragic highwayman riding across the English countryside.

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

In the course of life's changes, we moved from that house. Though the hill with its ridge is still where it always has been, the fence row and that solitary low tree are long gone. Those nights when I looked out that window and watched the magic of the moonlight on the ridge are a lifetime ago, but still cherished and not forgotten.

The Work of Writing

The Work of Writing

Anyone who has ever tried to do serious writing knows it is not easy. I've had occasion to reflect on that truth in the past few weeks as I have sat at the laptop, working on a couple of stories.

If I have a serious hobby at all, it is writing. At one point in my life I entertained the idea of writing the next great American novel. In assessing my desire to write, I came to a point where I realized that if I was to ever do any good writing, I needed to practice. I needed to sit down and write. I still have the notebook containing the pages pounded out out on the old mechanical typewriter that had been in my possession since high school days. Then came the PC, and now the laptop.

I remember someone saying that if you wanted to write, write about the things you know; the things that come from your own life experiences. So it is I have written a number of short memoirs; recalling incidents and happenings from my life. I have tried my hand at poetry and on the left of this page you will find a link to my poetry blog. I've also written a few more lengthy essay type pieces which are found here on the Billy Goat Blog. And yes, blogging itself provides opportunity for practicing the art of writing.

None of what I have written has ever been formally published, but has been self-published in some forum or other on the internet. Irrational as it may be, my greatest fear is the fear of what some editor might do to the things I have written. The stories, essays, and poetry are my life, the revelation of some intimate corners of my soul, and as such are sacred ground.

There have been only a few times that I have tried my hand at writing an original fiction piece. The two projects in the works at this time are both fictional. My inspiration for trying my hand at fiction came about a year or so go when I re-read Ray Bradbury's "I Sing the Body Electric and Other Stories" along with "The Martian Chronicles".

Through his writings, Bradbury taught me that what makes fiction work is in how it pictures the human condition. What made his stories memorable were not the mechanics of projecting the advanced science of science fiction, as interesting as that may be, but the human condition that remained the same in Sci-Fi, historical novels, or any other kind of genre, fictional or real life.

And so I write. I wrestle with words and sentence structure and paragraphing. You struggle with writing in a way so that the story the reader is reading is the story you are telling. You go over what you wrote, asking yourself if a first time reader is getting the same message you think you are telling. It is classic communications class 101 all over again. Life demands its priorities. You have to work a paying job, and there are family responsibilities, and the opportunities to spend any lengthy time on a writing project is limited.

As a writer, I do not "make up" a story. A writer does not create the story; the writer tells the story that he or she discovers is already there. It is not always clear how the story is going to develop. The basic story line is there, but as you fill in the details, you find the development is not going where you thought it was.

Other stories intersect the story you are telling. The one story I am working on could lend itself to a trilogy, but I'm not sure it has been given to me to tell the other two intersecting stories.

In writing, one story develops in a relatively straight forward somewhat logical manner. The other story develops in bits and pieces that are not in any logical chronological order.

How many times through the years I have thought about writing, and than sat down to read a favorite established author, and conclude that in comparison to that author I don't know how to write at all.

But I keep practicing. I keep writing. And if any of my writing is ever formally published or not, I would still write. I would tell the stories, and leave them for my children's children.

I do not want to write for the "Christian market". If I can't write a story that touches all kinds of people, Christian or otherwise, I would rather not write at all. Yes, a Christian view of life gives philosophical foundation for my writing, but I loathe and resist a pop Christian cultural concept of Christian writing. I resist being bound to that mediocrity. True Christian writing should be much, much better then that.

So I write, and as long as I am able, will continue to write. And just maybe, God helping me, I might possibly write something that actually has some literary value for the ages.

Shalom...

(Here is a link to a list of my writings that are published on Scribd. )

Billy Goat Log; October 17,2010

• In thinking of the Lord's Supper, the question is not, "Is the Lord's table a sacrament?" The question is "How is the Lord's table a sacrament and what is the nature of the grace conveyed in that sacrament?" That there would be an ordnance of worship that is not somehow a means of grace in bringing the worshiper closer to God strikes a discordant note similar to that of a fingernail scratching on a chalk board.
  
  This week I picked up the book; This is My Body: The Presence of Christ in Reformation Thought by Thomas J. Davis (Baker, 2008). I'm just getting into it. It is a bit on the scholarly side, but traces the development of reformation thought regarding the Eucharist. Stay tuned.
  
  
• In the discussion of young earth/old earth or young universe/old universe there seems to be a missing element on both sides. Time is not constant, but relative. I don't know enough about physics to understand if or how e=mc² proves time is not a constant. I do have a philosophical rationale argument for saying time is relative based on its measurement being founded in the relationship of mass and motion.
  
  Has anyone in the young earth camp on the one side, or the theistic evolution camp on the other side, ever discussed the implications of time's relativity on the whole creation question and our understanding of Genesis 1? They may have, and if so, I'd like to see it.
  
  
• Back in May I posted a note here about second and third hand reports of some of the turmoil in the loose association of churches our former church is part of. Recently I came across first hand proof of that turmoil on one of the blogs associated with that movement. The division, (and it is a division), is between the "old path" group and the "Reforming" group. The blog post was defending the old-path side, and it was in the comments that the differences between the two became highlighted as representatives from each side set forth their case.
  
  It is not my point to get into the details of those issues. (That's why I'm not linking to that blog post). That blog post and the comments made in response reinforced the conclusions I expressed back in the May posting referenced above.
  
  Reading that blog post reminded me of why it was that nine years ago we left that church and movement. I am so relieved and thankful we are away from that atmosphere and culture; that we are now beyond all that, and have gone on with our lives. And I'm also thankful the Lord directed our paths to another church that is much more healthy and balanced. "Here to the Lord has helped us."
  
  
• Story line: "The Life and Times of St. Lester the Unbeliever and His Role in the First Intergalactic Ecumenical Synod of 3457 (CEE)¹".
  
  (¹ Common Earth Era, formerly designated AD.)
  
  
• Once upon a time, in another lifetime, I graduated from high school. One of the hit songs of 1967 was this rock classic.
  

Perspective on a Starry Night

“In some far universal Deep
Did He tred Space
And visit worlds beyond our blood-warm dreaming?”
(Christus Apollo)

It was one of those cold, crisp nights. The night sky was clear with the stars shining sharp and bright. The waning moon would not make its brief appearance for another hour or so. The open field was far from the glowing night light of cities and towns.

They stood together looking up into the night sky.

“Sure is beautiful…”

“That it is. I love nights like this…”

They scanned the star studded dome of the night sky. There were the familiar constellations, the pointer stars, those few planets that could be seen with the naked eye, all in the glory of their nightly dance across the darkened sky.

“It is so vast…”

“Yes it is and we don’t see a tenth of it, if even that much… Here… Take the binoculars…”

The father handed his binoculars to his young teenage son. The young man held them up to the night sky, and aiming them toward a familiar constellation, he peered through the lens, twisting a knob to bring the subject in focus.

“Wow…”

He pulled the binoculars away, looked at the same spot in the night sky, and then again took another look with the binoculars.

“There is so much more up there then we see with the naked eye.” He remarked.

“True…” replied the father. “Here… Look for a spot in the sky where you don’t see any stars, then look at that same spot with the binoculars.”

The son quickly scanned the night sky and observed a dark area with very few stars about 25 degrees above the horizon to the north. He looked at that area through the binoculars.

Where he had seen nothing with the unaided eye, he now saw a plethora of points of light shining and twinkling.

“It’s so vast…” he said. “We’re just a spot of dust in comparison…”

The father replied, “The stars we see are light years away, and beyond the ones we see are more stars even further away. The light we see originated from the star or galaxy years ago. By the time we see that light here on our planet, it is ancient history, and for many of those stars, an ancient history far more ancient then the known history of this world.”

“Where did it all come from? The universe that is… How did it all get to be what it is?”

“Well, you basically have two choices. The universe came about by random happenstance, or there was a guiding hand and direction behind it.”

“You mean… like… God?”

“Yes, though that begs the question of what we mean by “God”…”

A long “Hum…” was all that came from the young man as he pondered the implications of the thought.

In his mind he remembered some lines memorized in his 3rd year liturgy class when he was a much younger lad. “The starry host of night declares the wonder and awesomeness of God. The vast deep of space declares His handwork and glory.”

Looking towards his father he said soberly, “But look at our world… We circle the sun at an orbital distance that maintains conditions on this planet that makes life here possible, and that all in conjunction with the tilt of our planet’s axis and rotational direction and speed. If any one of those things differed much at all, we couldn’t live here. Can you really say it all happened by accident?”

The father nodded. “You did learn something in that science class after all.” He said teasingly. The young man gave a sheepish “Oh dad” shake of his head.

He proceeded to look up at one of the seasonal constellations that were only visible in that part of the year. This particular constellation would be seen in the lower southern sky for about half the year, and then as the seasons changed, would be hidden once again below the horizon.

Continuing his gaze at the night sky, he asked his father, “Do you think there could be life on other planets someplace?”

“Well… Since we’ve never been to any other planets, we can’t say with certainty either way. We do know that none of the other planets in our own system are able to sustain life… at least life as we know it… But when you look at the sheer size and magnitude of the whole universe, the probability of something being out there is within the realm of some degree of possibility… What’s more improbable though is the chance of our ever finding them, or they finding us… I guess my response to your question has to be one of reverent agnosticism…”

“Hum…” The young man again scanned the great starry host over head. He held up the binoculars and focused it on one of the points of light that he knew to be a planet. He could almost see a slight haze of a ring around the small ball in his lens. Maybe someday he could have a real telescope. It would also be neat to take pictures of the night sky through a telescope. Oh well… So many things to do in life, and so little time and money, he thought.

It was time to go. Morning would come early, and the next day would be plenty filled with school and all the other demands of life.

The young lad thought to himself as they turned to go, “I am a spec of dust on a spec of dust. Here we are on Yrdnes, the fourth planet from the star Cyrstias on the fringe of the Deodratia Galaxy, a mere spec of dust in an obscure corner of the great vastness of the universe.”

He shook his head in vague bewilderment at the magnitude and implication of the thought.

Pausing, he looked once more at that patch of apparently vacant darkness in the north part of the sky. Lifting the binoculars, his peered again at the points of light the naked eye could not see. He focused for a few seconds on one of those points of light, then lowering the binoculars; he turned away to head on to home and bed.

That last point of light he had paused to look at, that faint point of light so many hundreds of light years away in another obscure corner of the universe remained etched in the memory of his mind. And on that far point of light known by its inhabitants as the Milky Way Galaxy, on the outer edge of that galaxy, on the planet Earth, third planet from the star Sol, another young man gazed through his binoculars at a faint point of light in the north part of the night sky, that far away faint point of light known by its inhabitants as the Deodratia Galaxy…


(Copyright © October, 2010. All rights reserved.)

Christus Apollo (Excerpt)

In some far universal Deep
Did He tred Space
And visit worlds beyond our blood-warm dreaming?
Did He come down on lonely shore by sea
Not unlike Galilee
And are there Mangers on far worlds that know His light?
And Virgins?
Sweet pronouncements?
Annumciations? Visitations from angelic hosts?
nd, shivring vast light among ten billion lights,
Was there some Star much like the star at Bethlehem
That struck the sight with awe and revelation
Upon a cold and most strange morn?

On worlds gone wandering and lost from this
Did Wise Men gather in the dawn
In cloudy steams of Beast
Within a place of straw now quickened to a Shrine
To look upon a stranger Child than ours?

How many stars of Bethlehem burnt bright
Beyond Orion or Centauri's arc?
How many miracles of birth all innocent
Have blessed those worlds?

Excerpt from "Christus Apollo", I Sing The Body Electric by Ray Bradbury (1969)