Home: September 16

Every Tuesday and Friday for the rest of September, I’ll be collecting posts on the topic of home. Do you have a post I should include? Leave the link in the comments here or email it to me. Poems, photos, lists, stories, you-name-it—it’s all welcome.

Recent home related posts

At Hiraeth, Kim has Home: An Eternal Dwelling Place and an Indwelling Presence.

You’ll find a hymn about the home at Dorothy’s Field Stone Cottage.

And from Ellen, a song about where our home really is at The Happy Wonderer.

I posted a poem about losing one home and finding the true one from Puritan poet Anne Bradstreet.

Update on Wednesday, September 17, 2008 at 11:26PM by rebecca

In the comments, Judy tells a touching story.

A very young First Nations boy in the Arctic, in response to my question, Where do you live? said, “My Mom is my home.” I’ve never forgotten his statement.

Here followes some verses upon the burning of our house

In silent night when rest I took,
For sorrow neer I did not look,
I waken’d was with thundring nois
And Piteous shreiks of dreadfull voice.
That fearfull sound of fire and fire,
Let no man know is my Desire.

I, starting up, the light did spye,
And to my God my heart did cry
To strengthen me in my Distresse
And not to leave me succourlesse.
Then coming out beheld a space,
The flame consume my dwelling place.

And, when I could no longer look,
I blest his Name that gave and took,
That layd my goods now in the dust:
Yea so it was, and so ‘twas just.
It was his own: it was not mine;
Far be it that I should repine.

He might of All justly bereft,
But yet sufficient for us left.
When by the Ruines oft I past,
My sorrowing eyes aside did cast,
And here and there the places spye
Where oft I sate, and long did lye.

Here stood that Trunk, and there that chest;
There lay that store I counted best:
My pleasant things in ashes lye,
And them behold no more shall I.
Under thy roof no guest shall sitt,
Nor at thy Table eat a bitt.

No pleasant tale shall ‘ere be told,
Nor things recounted done of old.
No Candle ‘ere shall shine in Thee,
Nor bridegroom’s voice ere heard shall bee.
In silence ever shalt thou lye;
Adieu, Adeiu; All’s vanity.

Then streight I gin my heart to chide,
And didst thy wealth on earth abide?
Didst fix thy hope on mouldring dust,
The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?
Raise up thy thoughts above the skye
That dunghill mists away may flie.

Thou hast an house on high erect
Fram’d by that mighty Architect,
With glory richly furnished,
Stands permanent tho’ this bee fled.
It’s purchased, and paid for too
By him who hath enough to doe.

A Prise so vast as is unknown,
Yet, by his Gift, is made thine own.
Ther’s wealth enough, I need no more;
Farewell my Pelf, farewell my Store.
The world no longer let me Love,
My hope and Treasure lyes Above.

—Anne Bradstreet, 1666

I Would Not, Could Not

A few week ago, I edited and reposted old posts examining two statements sometimes used as rebuttals in theological discussions about God. The two statements are

    * You’re making God the author of sin.
    * You can’t put God in a box like that.

There’s one more post in the series and now I’ve redone it, too.

What is the third argument? I call it the green eggs and ham argument. It goes something like this: “I could not worship a God who would _____.” Another version of this same objection is, “The God I worship would not _____.” Either statement is completed with whatever it is the other person in the discussion has been saying God does. What this rebuttal does is suggest that what the other person has been saying about God is in error because a God who acts that way would be unworthy of worship.

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