Jack Pelham

He lurks, enjoying what he reads
But too afraid to say so.

He would be criticized if his friends knew.
He would have to face the heat for his beliefs.

He would have to take the stand that the author takes,
And defend it himself
Against the foolish criticism of others—
Or not.

Indeed, he tried it before once
But ended up retreating from the backlash.
And that’s when he learned to lurk—
To fly under the radar—
To avoid detection
And conflict.

Why, then, does he admire the author
Who dares things he will not,
And yet not figure out his own shame?

Why does he see himself as being on the right side of things
When he’s afraid to declare a side?

He is not the champion he’d like to think he is.
He is, rather, a fugitive in the very society whose approval he seeks—
Or, perhaps more accurately, whose disapproval he avoids.

He will not write.
He will not take a stand.
He will not enter the fray.
Yet he considers himself brave by association—
By an association he dare not acknowledge.

With the one writer,
Nine others engage, one way or another.
But the lurker is among the ninety who will not—
The ninety who lack either the courage or the conviction
To get in the game.

And so the lurker enjoys the security of the silent masses
Who have not learned to hash a thing out
Or to invest themselves in principle
Or to help a friend who is wrong—
Who dare not speak
For fear of rejection—
Or for some other priority
That keeps them from
The particulars of
This real world.

The messy particulars of this world are quite tiresome to the mind. Many, therefore, opt for a strategy of ignoring the messes, so as to enjoy themselves better while they are here. But disengaging the mind like this is also the cause of many such messes, as mindlessness is quite high on the list of why things go wrong—and in practically every area of life.

Ironically, much seems to come down to whether a person is willing to deal with the reality of messes or not. The ones who’ll roll up their sleeves to deal with things also happen to be the ones who are somewhat less apt to create such messes themselves. But the ones who opt to ignore as much of the mess as they can are the ones who end up causing many of the messes that plague us.

Perhaps ultimately, it is a question of why we’re here and what this world is all about. Those who think they’re here primarily to enjoy the experience will have quite a different view from those who think we are here to learn and to better ourselves–or to help others–or to seek God–and so forth. And when in a bind, it’s that latter group–and not the enjoyment seekers–that seem more likely to be able to help.

The enjoyment seeker often gets mad he’s in a bind that he can’t manage to ignore—and when he needs help, he often needs the help of someone unlike himself; he needs the help of someone who is accustomed to working with the particulars of reality, as opposed to ignoring them.

So here’s a thing: It is not a mistake that you have been put here in this world where there is suffering and pain and hardship, and where there are lessons to be learned. It’s all aimed at giving you the chance to decide what sort of person you’re going to be—and then to learn how to be it. In fact, God put you here on purpose—and if you’re humble enough to accept the fact that the potter has done with the clay what he wanted, then perhaps you can come out of this kiln really being something of value.

But if you can’t handle not being the potter, but the clay instead, then you’re going to hate him for the suffering—for the learning—for this trek that you don’t want to be on. And you’re likely to feel entitled to something better. And ironically, something better is exactly what you’d have been being prepared for had you embraced the difficulties here.

Some things are worth preparing for.

It shines even now—
Though some will not see it—
That holy City,
That dwelling place of God—
Its radiance like the rarest jewel.

It is that Mount Zion of which
The former was but a shadow—
That new Jerusalem of which
The former was but a promise.

It is the city of the living God,
The place of the innumerable angels in festal gathering,
And of the spirits of the righteous mortals, now completed—
Of those having been made like the angels
With their heavenly bodies.
They bring their glory into it—
That heavenly kingdom, not of this world—
Uninheritable by those still in the body—
Still in flesh and blood.

It is that second world of two—
The one made not for the sake of the many
But for the sake of the few.
It is the very goal of their earthly faith—
Their hope—
Their expectation—
Their journey.
It is their complete and unending reward.

It is the eternal world for which even
The Sun and the Moon in all their brilliance
Were early symbols—
Despite their daily work—
Melchizedek, a living forerunner.
In deference, they darkened themselves at the approach
Of the Ancient of Days.

God is that City’s light.
Jesus its lamp.
And the new kings of the earth—
Unlike the old–
Have brought their glory into it—
Those sons of Adam who had shined like stars
Against the blackness—
Against that raging, outer darkness—
Their exploits still lighting the way—
The glory of their faithful sojourn
Through a country not their own
Still gleaming from the ancient books.

This is the Light that the
Darkness could never overcome in the whole of its age.
It is the Light that judged the Waters—
Who took the good ones home and left the rest to rage.
It is the Light who, when the time for Darkness was over,
Put that Sea away forever.

And to this day,
That Light still shines on this Earth.
Some run into it,
And some from it.
And some, afraid to do either,
Just stand there,
Secretly wishing
For some other choice
To come along.

But this is what they have been given.
And so with us all.

We sang “Jesus Will Fix It”,
As if fixing broken things
Is indeed the right thing to do.

But looking back,
I can see that we didn’t really care
All that much to have everything fixed;
No, what we wanted more than that
Was simply to have a way out.

We wanted to be snatched from this world
Into the other one—
Delivered from its evils
And perils
And aggravations
Into boundless joy and glory—
And to let Him do with the rest of this world
Whatever He would do with it.

We even thought it unspiritual
And worldly–
A needless distraction–
To get our hands dirty with
The world around us.
But I can’t help but think now
That we were freeloaders,
Not lifting a finger to
Protect the body politic
That afforded us so much freedom.

We thought it work for civilians,
And not for us soldiers of Christ.

Now, don’t get me wrong,
For we helped the poor
And the children,
But we did not take a stand
To fight the corruption–
And often, not even the corruption
In our own number.

I suppose we thought Jesus would fix that, too–
Or rather, simply deliver us from it.

What seemed so great a religion,
We used to shield us from
Plain, everyday responsibility.

And I regret that.

Here’s a short teaser for a choral tune I’m cooking up for Christmas.

He took away her sea—
The raging waters of darkness
That had spat at her very existence—
Who had encroached whenever they could
To defile her dry land
And destroy the darling race
So as to stab at
The Ancient of Days
For the banishing
They had deserved.

He took away her sea
In due course—
Having patiently let the play run to its end—
The evidence heard—
The books opened—
It having let it be seen that
Some on the stage
Would choose the light over the darkness—
That they would cherish the Image
In which they had been created
And live in it by choice,
Even though they were made lower
Than the rebels who surrounded them.

When came the time,
The new sons of God were revealed
Upon the dry land—
And glorified and rewarded.
And the old ones in that sea railed
Against them and hated to the last moment—
Until the sea was cast into the fire
And the sea was no more.

And the champions went on to their new home,
Leaving the Earth to carry on anew.
And ever since,
Many have sought out the schemes
Of the old rebels,
Long-since gone to the fire—
As if none of it had ever happened
And no judgment had ever been made.

And their make-do sea is yet filled with evils,
Tormenting us all on our watch,
And helping us understand at least something
Of what came before.

But as for me,
I know of a place
Where there is no sea.

Here’s another piece I wrote for chorus, played on strings.

Here’s a piece I wrote for chorus, performed here with string sounds.

She thought she’d had enough of Hitler,
But this world doesn’t know herself very well.

She was tired and hurt and hungry,
But after some rest, she’d be ready for more.