Lift the veil in this morass of Sin,
That faith may blossom and hope enter in.
Let the Sun of Justice shine
Upon a people in decline,
That looking up from the tyranny of power and things
Your face may captivate and solace bring.
Pour down torrents of Thy Grace
To cleanse this dry and brutal place ,
Uproot to plant anew
A Day of peace like settled dew,
That minds be bright and intellects sublime
And our only glory may be Thine.
© 2016 Joann Nelander
On an ordinary day in Paradise,
Into a world created to glorify God and Man,
Adam introduced just a smidgen of sin.
Merely, a peddle, Adam thought,
Hardly enough to weigh on a cosmic scale.
In the grand scheme of Time, and Space,
The cosmic sea quaked.
In ever increasing concentric circles,
Shock waves carried an echo,
Reverberating, through all that is matter,
Shouting, “Me”.
On an ordinary day, dreaming of Paradise,
In a world created to glorify God and Man,
Man hides in the evening stillness.
Mercy walks about offering forgiveness.
I smile in my “niceness”.
Still in denial,
I make a show of all the good things I have done,
While all Creation simply waits on tiptoe
Praying for the revelation of the sons of God.
Adam, the one man,
In his being and becoming,
Created, a creature among creatures,
Progenitor of our race,
Chosen and destined to be
For the Son,
By the Son,
In the Son,
Of the Son.
Grace, all grace,
Count it all grace.
The work of Salvation,
Raising the dust of the earth,
To the stuff of heaven and eternity.
One Word,
Outside of Time,
Spoken and containing all,
One Thought,
Outside of Space,
Formed in the Heart of God,
Without matter,
Brought forth matter,
Flung by limitless power,
To obey a law of Love.
With the simplicity of nothing,
He wrote the stuff of galaxies and dimension,
And in time, entered Time, Himself,
To lead us to our end,
Our rest.
Adam, in his being and becoming,
Broke the rule of Love,
Served self,
That had not created itself,
Nor could sustain itself,
But chose to choose itself.
Ultimate folly,
Calling forth endless Mercy.
Adam, progenitor of a race,
A race,
Born to the folly of its father,
Snatched from the choice of death.
Adam and his seed,
Given again a choice,
The Law broken;
“Choose life that you may live”,
A grace of Spirit to recognize the Son,
Adam, the one man,
Containing in his loins a race,
Given, one by one,
Each a mystery of Grace,
Each in his time,
In the expansion of space,
Free to choose.
Gift of the Son,
Redemption conquering Death,
A choice for each one,
Folly forever wrapped in the self,
Or Life to be lived,
In the Creator Father,
In the Savior Son,
In the Spirit One.
True Freedom, Redemption.
Free choice to choose to be redeemed,
For the Son,
By the Son,
In the Son,
By the Death,
Of the Son.
Copyright 2016 Joann Nelander
“Some Definative Service” by John Henry Cardinal Newman
God knows me and calls me by my name.…
God has created me to do Him some definite service;
He has committed some work to me
which He has not committed to another.
I have my mission—I never may know it in this life,
but I shall be told it in the next.
Somehow I am necessary for His purposes…
I have a part in this great work;
I am a link in a chain, a bond of connection
between persons.
He has not created me for naught. I shall do good,
I shall do His work;
I shall be an angel of peace, a preacher of truth
in my own place, while not intending it,
if I do but keep His commandments
and serve Him in my calling.
Therefore I will trust Him.
Whatever, wherever I am,
I can never be thrown away.
If I am in sickness, my sickness may serve Him;
In perplexity, my perplexity may serve Him;
If I am in sorrow, my sorrow may serve Him.
My sickness, or perplexity, or sorrow may be
necessary causes of some great end,
which is quite beyond us.
He does nothing in vain; He may prolong my life,
He may shorten it;
He knows what He is about.
He may take away my friends,
He may throw me among strangers,
He may make me feel desolate,
make my spirits sink, hide the future from me—
still He knows what He is about.…
Let me be Thy blind instrument. I ask not to see—
I ask not to know—I ask simply to be used.
John Henry Cardinal Newman reader
via apple seeds
Kin of my heart, I come to You, the Altar.
At Your feet
I lay myself down.
Redeemer Brother, cover me
With your mantle.
Claim me as Your own.
Protect me through the night,
Wake me at dawn with a sweet caress.
Let my name be as a kiss upon Your lips.
Closer than breath,
Stronger than death,
Our hearts, now and forever, One.
copyright 2014 Joann Nelander
St. John Newman spoke of “the religion of the day” in his sermon – World, Worldliness – The Religion of the Day
“In every age of Christianity, since it was first preached, there has been what may be called a religion of the world, which so far imitates the one true religion, as to deceive the unstable and unwary. The world does not oppose religion as such. I may say, it never has opposed it. In particular, it has, in all ages, acknowledged in one sense or other the Gospel of Christ, fastened on one or other of its characteristics, and professed to embody this in its practice; while by neglecting the other parts of the holy doctrine, it has, in fact, distorted and corrupted even that portion of it which it has exclusively put forward, and so has contrived to explain away the whole;—for he who cultivates only one precept of the Gospel to the exclusion of the rest, in reality attends to no part at all. Our duties balance each other; and though we are too sinful to perform them all perfectly, yet we may in some measure be performing them all, and preserving the balance on the {310} whole; whereas, to give ourselves only to this or that commandment, is to incline our minds in a wrong direction, and at length to pull them down to the earth, which is the aim of our adversary, the Devil.
It is his aim to break our strength; to force us down to the earth,—to bind us there. The world is his instrument for this purpose; but he is too wise to set it in open opposition to the Word of God. No! he affects to be a prophet like the prophets of God. He calls his servants also prophets; and they mix with the scattered remnant of the true Church, with the solitary Micaiahs who are left upon the earth, and speak in the name of the Lord. And in one sense they speak the truth; but it is not the whole truth; and we know, even from the common experience of life, that half the truth is often the most gross and mischievous of falsehoods. ”
And so it remains to this our day:
Kate Bowler writes in the NY TIMES:
“I am 35. I did the things you might expect of someone whose world has suddenly become very small. I sank to my knees and cried. I called my husband at our home nearby. I waited until he arrived so we could wrap our arms around each other and say the things that must be said. I have loved you forever. I am so grateful for our life together. Please take care of our son. Then he walked me from my office to the hospital to start what was left of my new life.
But one of my first thoughts was also Oh, God, this is ironic. I recently wrote a book called “Blessed.”
I am a historian of the American prosperity gospel. Put simply, the prosperity gospel is the belief that God grants health and wealth to those with the right kind of faith. I spent 10 years interviewing televangelists with spiritual formulas for how to earn God’s miracle money. I held hands with people in wheelchairs being prayed for by celebrities known for their miracle touch. I sat in people’s living rooms and heard about how they never would have dreamed of owning this home without the encouragement they heard on Sundays.
I went on pilgrimage with the faith healer Benny Hinn and 900 tourists to retrace Jesus’ steps in the Holy Land and see what people would risk for the chance at their own miracle. I ruined family vacations by insisting on being dropped off at the showiest megachurch in town. If there was a river running through the sanctuary, an eagle flying freely in the auditorium or an enormous, spinning statue of a golden globe, I was there.
Growing up in the 1980s on the prairies of Manitoba, Canada, an area largely settled by Mennonites, I had been taught in my Anabaptist Bible camp that there were few things closer to God’s heart than pacifism, simplicity and the ability to compliment your neighbor’s John Deere Turbo Combine without envy. Though Mennonites are best known by their bonnets and horse-drawn buggies, they are, for the most part, plainclothes capitalists like the rest of us. I adore them. I married one.
But when a number of Mennonites in my hometown began to give money to a pastor who drove a motorcycle onstage — a motorcycle they gave him for a new church holiday called “Pastor’s Appreciation Day” — I was genuinely baffled. Everyone I interviewed was so sincere about wanting to gain wealth to bless others, too. But how could Mennonites, of all people — a tradition once suspicious of the shine of chrome bumpers and the luxury of lace curtains — now attend a congregation with a love for unfettered accumulation?
Read more:
Be Holy! 