Thomas Luter

Scribbles - Three

The richest currency that can pass my palm is the soft touch of another’s hand on mine. 

The oak trees are dropping their summer green, the wind chimes are singing and the squirrels are storing their free food somewhere for a long winter.  There is a new breed of bird about - stronger - as if they just flew a few thousand miles south for a few shared squirrel seeds.  People seem to have a new autumnal lightness in their step as if a great heat-burden has been lifted in expectation of a pumpkin season, dried corn on the door post, warm turkey in the oven and  finally, the December Noel of a Christ who has waited longer than one summer to come home to visit. 

No one, not even the richest of the world’s richest men can purchase a single solitary “our”.

It must be earned with love co-equal. 

Much of the silliness of our lives is directed at proving our superior worth to a world that really doesn’t care whether we are corporate executives or garbage men.  Most of our productive years we spend working on producing a plastic worth to a plastic world.  So relax and become the real, worthwhile personage of God’s own fashioning.  

What specific melancholy is conjured up by the rhythmic doppled train whistle on a cool January night?  Does it bring present a 25 year old memory of a dark, cold winter basement place or the smell of a blue spruce in the Christmas den or perhaps a many-year-ago waking from a haunting dream?  It is too bad that a child now won’t have etched the sounds of times past in his memory.  Television, social media, ipads, video games have all isolated him from hearing the sweet sounds of the mourning dove or the subtle rhythms of nature.  What will be there to remember?   O my darling, rhythm time.

The secret symphony hidden deep inside where every note is borne of God waits, not so patiently, for a tuning note or a tap on the stand.  Just start humming a little something or maybe a tuneless whistle and perhaps soon you will hear your self singing a great symphony speaking from deep somewhere within a heart full up. 

If it is to be - It’s up to me.

Since we can never be all that we vision we should be, our contentment must come from the journey

away from what we know we don’t want to be. 

If You would just make it a bit easier, I’ll be a saint in a day or two.  Now, hell?  Well, I can do that with my eyes closed - which is  usually the quickest way to get there.

Musical Directors are trained backwards.  They are trained to hear the bad, not the good in everything. 

In an effort to make it all understandable - which in itself is impossible - churches have stripped away all of the mystical, awe inspiring and sacramental elements that used to draw people away from the pedestrian, commonplace attractions of the “everyday of our lives”.  Looking for God in the Commonchrist churches of today is like looking for love in the streets. 

I can only strive to become what you think I am.  To become what I am not.