Whatever your thoughts on this issue of marriage equality and sin, God extends the courtesy of choice out of love. He always has. How can we as Christians then do any more or less then He? Secondly, if again you believe that marriage is a sacred covenant between a man and a woman that is profoundly spiritual, that is ordained by God alone, then from this perspective it is logical and Biblical to assume He does not need your help to keep it sacred. Can a law of human kind change Him or what He will look on as legitimate? This is not a dialogue. I do not want to debate, especially via facebook or tumblr, but rather monologue to stimulate critical thinking. At the end of the day what is your job as a Christian? It is certainly not to demand that others live the way you do, especially if they do not believe as you do. What did Christ talk about the most? The Gospel. He spoke most of binding the broken hearted and helping the poor, widows, and orphans. Why waste time, energy, and breath (and in my opinion dignity) on protesting marriage equality when there are millions of men, women, and children trafficked, starving, impoverished, and lost who are in need of that time, energy, and breath. You must know dear reader that I do not say this out of apathy or “compromise.” I do not make these statements flippantly or spitefully, but rather as someone who has given much thought to this topic. Know that by imposing your views on others politically you change very little, and may close yourself off to some beautiful friendships that could have impact on their lives and yours whatever their sexuality may be. Be mindful of your words they can either destroy or heal. You get to choose.
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"When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink."John Keats -
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"Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die"Mary Elizabeth Frye -
"
I want you to know
one thing.You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.But
"
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.Pablo Neruda -
Las Medias Rojas
By Emilia Pardo Bazan - translated into English and turned into a poem by a girl named Erin, who portrayed this short story beautifully.
Ildara returned to the house carrying
firewood and struggling through the door.
her Uncle Clodio heard her,
but he didn’t look up from his cigar.
the embers burned a hole
through the cloud of smoke that surrounded him.
Ildara prepared dinner for him -
a display of dry beans
and green water - the best she
could do as each day
her dream died. as she served him,
he watched her skirt and saw stockings
the color of red blood.
“oh Ildara!” he lifted her skirt
and exposed her red lips.
“father!” she thrust her skirt down.
“now i buy you stockings
like the sister of a priest? i cannot
afford more land, more food,
new shoes, dreams, nothing,” he said.
her eyes were like polished glass
and, by the light of his burning cigar,
Uncle Clodio saw her frightened beauty.
she insisted that she did not steal
money for the stockings; she did not expect him
to pay for such luxuries.
he raised his arm to her face.
she protected her face and did not think
of reality but of her dream.
she remembered her cousin Mariola,
who was scarred by her father’s control
and her mother’s cowardice.
Ildara wanted to be free. she dreamt
of traveling on a boat to a foreign
land where women were equal
to men: where women had control
of their lives.
she dreamt this. but reality came.
Uncle Clodio’s fist hit Ildara’s head,
then her face. the stars
that once twinkled in her eyes
now circled her head as she lost
sight in her right eye.
he broke her nose with a quick blow
and bruised her cheeks the color
of her black hair.
he thought of killing her,
but then he would be alone.
so he stopped as he knocked
a pearl from her mouth.
when the doctor came, he examined her,
said that she would not be able to see
through her eye again, and left,
without a word to her.
Ildara laid on the floor,
curled into a ball,
not screaming but weeping.
she thought of the boat,
knew that she was condemned
because the freedom land
only accepted women with
bright eyes and complete denture -
"I think I’ll never see a poem as lovely as a tree ,a tree whose hungry mouth is prest against the earths sweet flowing breast, a tree that looks at God all day, and lifts her leafy arms to pray. A tree that may in summer wear a nest of robins in her hair, upon whose bosom snow has lain, who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree."W.E. Smith
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Symphony
Beautiful boy
adrift at sea
do you know
where you are sailing
‘cause the sky is paling
and those sounds
drowning out
the music burning
inside your bones
beside the tones
reverberating
from your chest
never at rest
symphony
It’s your best
when the ship is sinking
and you stop thinking
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Well said.
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More on love… John Mark McMillan’s How he loves
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To go along with the love theme
Love you can surely pierce the skin
You’re a bullet hole in and rarely out
Like the ocean current you always win
While others are left out to drift,
However you may swim us to shore,
Or like a surgeon you can cut
Yet repair in one moment more
Oh love how fickle you can be,
In the hands of those who hold you
That are ever shifting like the sea
