A very short poem for you today. The struggle to trust God and his plan of love for us, with heart, mind, and soul, is certainly a universal struggle, yet I believe this poem speaks to this struggle from the more masculine side of things. Many of you might think “duh, James” when I say this, but generally speaking, it seems guys have a much harder time developing a sense of trust in God than woman do. The urge to do great things, to go out and overcome that awe-inspiring archetypal challenge “out there,” seems inherent in most men. It reminds me of the words of Colmain Fury from the short story, “God Made Sunday,” by Walter Macken, when the young men of the island are leaving due to the village’s withdrawal from the tough life of seafaring:
So the young men started to go away. What was there for them? There was nothing to test their courage on the sea. They could not make a living from fishing. So they went away to strange lands where they could find the challenge to living that all men must find. Why are we here if there is no challenge?
Many times, I believe, this inherent drive to seek out and overcome great challenges—which is not a bad thing in itself, and, on the contrary, is very much a good thing within men if properly ordered—can be hijacked by none other than the good, old vice of pride. It is a pride which inhibits us from bending our knee in obedience to some of the smallest, most mundane, most humbling tasks and vocations. Men, overall, and I, most definitely, tend to have a blind spot in regard to the mustard seeds planted throughout God’s divine plan. Women, both tragically and fortunately for men, seem to develop this mustard seed vision better. But the topic of complementarity between men and women is for other discussions, and I now digress. Enjoy the aging Spring and sweet Summer’s youth, and hopefully this poem, dark and depressing as it may be (in signature James fashion of course).
Foggy-minded men
Rage against the wind
Knocking down giants
They think they see
They misconceive
Rage
Rage against those scarecrows
Those effigies of fear
Some release for pain within
Outlets for his sickened soul
Indifference to the other's pain
And too much pride to love her
A hollow chest
And broken dreams
Are all he had to offer
But even these he couldn't give
A pride still unforgiven
Cast them down, those thirty coins
Despair has left him stricken
When man cannot forgive himself
The lies within him thicken
When man cannot forgive himself
‘Tis pride once more that wins him