Until the believer is perfected, there remains some atheist in him. He says he believes, but in the final analysis, his fruits tell otherwise, quite.
We worry, doubt, or fear because we don’t believe. Examining ourselves in the Light, we discover the truth about ourselves. That Light’s source is the fire that serves to purge us of the atheist within, that fire being an enemy at first, and a friend in the end.
How will I know I can stand the fire
Unless I am subjected?
How do I develop muscle to do heavy work
Unless I do heavy work to develop muscle?
How do I form calluses on my hands to prevent blisters
Unless I do those things
That make blisters?
I say I have faith to do anything,
To suffer all things and smile, even laugh
But how do I get that faith
Unless I suffer the very things
To produce the faith
To laugh at the things concerning which
I say I have faith?
How can I cry and say, “I believe”?
But when I believe, I shall not cry
When the fires come
Because the fires have done their work.
Lethbridge, August, 1984
Often and for long periods of time does God hide Himself from His called one, even as He did with all the saints and prophets of old and to the present. We desire so much to walk by sight, as in this world, but must learn to walk by faith, by the little given knowledge of the unknown, the Unknown, that we may know Him. And though He hides Himself to try us, He is always there...there is nowhere one can go from His presence. Yet one can choose to do so, and the one choosing so is not called. Emptiness is not a bad sign in itself as one might suppose. I am ill with sorrow and grief, Vexation and loneliness; My soul is filled with groanings and longings; I look in all directions; I reach out; My hand returns empty; Tears fill my soul; I cry and cry and cry; There is no one to comfort, to console, to ease my pain. Day after day, year after year, Decade after decade, I wait, I long, I cry, I heave and sigh. There is none to understand. I wait for morning; I wait for evening; I am desolate. I eat, I sleep, I cry... Is it sin I say I don't have That causes me to be this way - Desperate, sad, lonely, unfulfilled, Useless, despised, unwanted? This is not the abundant life; Though I have my carnal needs met And freedom to come and go, Yet I have nowhere to come and nowhere to go. All is quiet, uneventful, drab and grey. Do I complain Or do I merely state the way things are For those appointed to such by Divine order, Not for sin But for...
Wee knead ownlee two studdie a langwidge uther than Inglish and soon beegin too diskover thuh mullteatood uv inncunsistenseas inn grambarr and spelling uv Inglish. And isn't it interesting that when Esperanto is introduced with its reason, logic and organized structure, we nevertheless prefer the disorder and confusion of our own language, be it English or otherwise? Needless to say, this is not the day of peace, harmony and wun tung four awl. Rite? Write? Reight? Right? Ring rang rung, Bring brang brung, Sing sang sung, Ding dang dung! Rools Four Inglish Spelling Wun. Teak lawjick, kut it down as aye bough and throw it inn aye slough ore aye trough. Butt that is knot enough. Too. Bee prepaired two bee confowndead, purpleckst and frustraited. Therdlee. Eckspecked two suspecked loozing yore mined. Fore. Dew knot feal thair iz eckneething rong with yoo. Phive. Fourghet triying two halve aye shoor phyre sisthame. Sicks. Thee unfourchunit groop yule joyne iph ignouring mie cownsull, and Seaven. Rimes with heven four whitch yu must hoap aund whitch iz whare yu mey think yu gow iff yu kwit inglish aund teak up sum uther langwidge. Lethbridge, 1984, 85
Poems on The Path of Truth