This post is the Christmas letter my wife and I have just sent out to our friends and financial partners in our ministry. Suspecting that a few of the regular visitors to Our Father’s World might not be on our distribution list, here are our thoughts this Christmas season. Note that the first half is a devotional – we’ve been doing this in our letters for at least 15 years – and the second contains brief news about our family. You are welcome to read both – we’d love to have you meet our family in this way, if not in person! And feel free to contact me directly if you’d like to be added to the direct distribution list or click here if you would like to partner with us by donating to our ministry. Our work is mostly provided for my small-ish gifts from ordinary people. –End of Commercial– !
Of all the common Christmas carols echoing in shopping malls, elevators and on the radio – not to mention in churches and on our music players – surely the most interesting and subversive is “Joy to the World.” Continue reading
Not long ago I was reading a 26 year old essay by Wendell Berry (“Two Economies” – included in Berry, The Art of the Commonplace) in which he refers to a short section of a 200 year old poem by William Blake, Jerusalem: The Emanation of the Giant Albion, when I discovered a one month old news release – and it suddenly all made sense. Sort of. Continue reading
A good friend, who doesn’t think himself an intellectual but who in fact is one of the best-read people in my life, sent me two different pieces over the last couple of months, both of which qualify as being old, if not ancient. But which both speak volumes to our present environmental predicament:
Today, a poem that is at least 150 years old:
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge |&| shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.