Justice and Mercy

Sometimes our anger, no, that is not true, our anger is always, by nature, justified. "We have been wronged" we say and most of the time, so we have. Confession of the sin and calamity of anger/fits of rage is difficult as we always feel we are forced to admit our justice was wrong, our scales were out of wack, as if the problem was that we erred in our appraisal of what that someone said or did. Once we realize that we were correct in our assessment of their perfidy, back we go to our huffy voiced counterclaim, laced with petty or epic angers. Is this you? You will be forever lost in an evil world and your mind made up for you by junior high self absorbtions. The best assumption is that you are entirely correct in the balance of Justice. Now be merciful. Still angry? Don't attempt to confess your justice, confess you lack of mercy. Mercy, like anger, assumes the guilt of the other party. It is Satan who accused the brethren day and night before our God. It is Satan who insisted on justice. It is Christ who has mercy, while we were yet sinners. If you have made Anger the synonym for being on the right side of a moral judgment, thank God that you are not He.
I haven't lost my temper since 1969 but I was speaking with someone this morning who was sidetracked by this.

Good Morning, Grey Weather

November. Fog. Perhaps a pipe after lunch. It doesn't get any better. This season, as Lewis spake of its "brown solemnities", leans on me.

Rite

Bold September closes crisp and bright
To usher in a brilliant, woody breath
Which leaves October’s leaves beside themselves
In unction last, in blood red robes, in death.

by Evan Wilson

How Often Shall I Endure?

As this blog sits hailing the Net, a conceit descends over its only journalist. "I am heard" is the cry of the forsaken heart. The cure for such hubris is the note at the bottom identifying itself as "comments" which, for a tidy while, remain at zero. And then, the ego exults, it says one (of billions constantly surfing). It was blogspam. Then a son. and then two insults. How the mighty are fallen.

Gentlemen

What makes a gentleman? I have read and written and codified. It seems to come down to this; A gentleman is moved by ordinate love. If a man aims at finding the right placement of all things on all levels and to use his love to answer that placement, he would be gentled. Am I wrong?

The Rubicon

I have crossed it. Clarity of self is gained at the discovery of the ever changing border of the will. This realm of Blog has been uppity of late and has invited this incursion. Perhaps I will not find WMDs such as I imagined and yet, though it is not Spring, it is time that I went out to war.

The Ferryman

I know 'tis hard to cross the Rubicon
And still more hard, they say, to cross the Styx
But men before braved waves and blackened beach
To wade and wait the ferry boats of both.
The other side's unknown with promise faint
Of fair, green fields or bloody battles won
Yet promise is no prophesy, they know
And courage risks the loss of all and pain.
I've crossed the first before to win or lose
The fight but when I come to cross the last,
I'll have no courage but clear confidence.
The ferryman has been pre-paid in coin
To carry me. His ancient lips will smile
And see in me a crossing crossed before.

By Evan Wilson