The Collar

The discussion i quoted in the last post, ism I suppose, somewhat of the same nature as this travail.

The Collar 
George Herbert (1593-1633)) 

I struck the board, and cried, "No more;

                         I will abroad!

What? shall I ever sigh and pine?

My lines and life are free, free as the road,

Loose as the wind, as large as store.

          Shall I be still in suit?

Have I no harvest but a thorn

To let me blood, and not restore

What I have lost with cordial fruit?

          Sure there was wine

Before my sighs did dry it; there was corn

    Before my tears did drown it.

      Is the year only lost to me?

          Have I no bays to crown it,

No flowers, no garlands gay? All blasted?

                  All wasted?

Not so, my heart; but there is fruit,

            And thou hast hands.

Recover all thy sigh-blown age

On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute

Of what is fit and not. Forsake thy cage,

             Thy rope of sands,

Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee

Good cable, to enforce and draw,

          And be thy law,

While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.

          Away! take heed;

          I will abroad.

Call in thy death's-head there; tie up thy fears;

          He that forbears

         To suit and serve his need

          Deserves his load."

But as I raved and grew more fierce and wild

          At every word,

Methought I heard one calling, Child!

          And I replied My Lord.

uni

So ..  here is an essay i wrote once, on uni experience. It morphs a discussion topic into a reflection on the common experience, subverting the subversion.  I was a little older than the students in the course, having returned to a Dip Ed, and a bit of English literature, after a few years working in science.   It seems rather bleak now, and i long to think one can attain the generous note at the end. But in sharing it at the time, others resonated with the stark note of protest; in many places the ideological battle really is this hard line and explicit;  a reverse fundamentalism, intellectually complex enough to convey authority, yet quite militant and partisan, is at work in these cultures.  My Indian tutor of English Literature had enough grace to acknowledge the line of thought; maybe had enough cultural distance to see what I meant; and to initiate a group discussion of underlying ideas. Maybe it can still provoke that discussion somewhere.

Incidentally, a sonnet was also needed for that task.  Its included at the end.

 PART B
A piece "which clearly relate(s) to the content of the course either in form or content" addressing "thematic issues raised in the course such as constructions of gender, power relations, revenge  ...  etc" or  " ... various poetic genres, narrative etc." (1) (italics added)


ABSTRACT
Instead of viewing the course as a window upon seventeenth century literary production, this article is concerned with some of the peculiar attributes of the window itself, the common views and distortions which it impresses upon those who crowd around it. There is a deliberate shift of focus away from the nominal literary and critical content of the course, and a refocussing upon the reception and reaction of this material in the minds and hearts of those receiving it - the student. Just as Hamlet instructed the Players performing the Mousetrap to hold a "mirror up to nature", so this fragment of work presumes "to show the very age and body of the time his own form and pressure" (2). The mandate to make connections with the thematic concerns of the course is applied at the point of delivery; the "wider literary historical and theoretical work of the course" (3)  is considered in terms of  the course's function as part of the undergraduate experience. Thus this piece is largely a critique of the concepts and ideologies which begin to lodge in the minds of students, almost by default, within the contemporary academic environment, as exemplified by this initial contact with a university course in literature.  If it is deemed necessary to justify the writing of a piece which may seem to lie outside the terms of the question, then it is submitted that the question is amenable to an interpretation of this type, and that the  outline of this piece is strictly in keeping with the written requirements. It is only one more shift of critical viewpoint that generates this perspective.

Simultaneous to the consideration of genre within seventeenth century literature, the student of such matters is also confronted at another level with the contemporary genre of academic discourse. While historical contexts to literature are being discussed, the prevailing atmosphere of the current intellectual environment  begins to impress itself upon  receptive minds. The attempt to  reconstruct power relations in English society of  four hundred years ago,  for example, is itself shaped by modern ideology which actively confers status and prestiege upon certain viewpoints and modes of thought. The multiplicity of critical approaches which the course begins to introduce as being representative of the diversity of contemporary criticism, masks a uniformity of experience in the mind of the student. Let us consider what glowing letters may constitute the very words "Literature ... Poetry  ... Philosophy" in the minds of the budding scholar, and what hallowed associations may cling to the very concept of "University". It is against this background; and I suggest that it is ubiquitous in the mass of incoming students, that the inroads of the dominant philosophies are best read, and the fate of "Th'expectancy and rose of the fair state" (4) is seen. In brief, we may summarise some of the common strands of these philosophies: God is dead or missing, the Muse is dead,  the prosaic stands over the poetic,  argument substitutes for perception of truth, criticism is exalted to a primary position (this is a shock to the uninitiated),  conventional morality is somewhat ridiculous, feminism is lauded in every corner, and sexual interpretation becomes one of the few standards and benchmarks that stand. In broad and sweeping terms, these  are the "theoretical underpinnings",  the working paradigm, which accompany the inchoate study of literature. These elements are first encountered as an impression  of  what is already established or presupposed in the current order of things, rather than as  matters of explicit debate. They  break across the untutored consciousness like waters rising over dry ground; the turning tide "eats not the flats with more impiteous haste" (5) than these theses are recognised and replicated as dominant principles.  They constitute a basic set of philosophical assumptions  which are intuitively appreciated to be the "approved" formulation and perspective; although some sense an omission, a betrayal, a feeling of  "noble and most sovereign reason/Like sweet bells jangled/Out of time and harsh" (6).

(A brief qualification is needed at this point: the validity of literary criticism, feminism, and sexual readings are not disputed. It is only, as Coleridge lamented, that "what suits the part now infects the whole/and now is almost grown the habit of my soul" (7). I am concerned to describe by what means partial truths are pushed out of proportion until they infect the whole, and what habits of soul follow.)

The first of these conditions - God is dead or absent - is the generator of the others. A dubious, absent or dead First Cause, throws everything else into either rebellion, darkness or chaos, and promotes otherwise worthy causes to the status of idols. Failure to acknowledge and reverence the Uncreated source of power, the Creator of relationships, corrupts all other power relations; in a multitude of ways, things will fail to work if the Ground of reality is ignored.   It would need a Milton to chronicle all the subsequent losses and corruptions that follow from this original coup, and the relating would produce another epic. It may be put baldly, that a realm of spiritual darkness enshrouds an academic subculture that has specialised in "words, words, words" (8) and  does not acknowledge the Word of God as such. This darkness works as an unseen agency that overshadows much of the corporate life of the campus; I sketch it's effects below, and here only mention in passing  the flat dullness seen in so many  eyes, and  the unnatural heat that seeps into addictive, vindictive argument. I remember, as a seventeen year old, newly walking the grounds of the university, and sensing  from the very pit of my stomach a corruption in the atmosphere of the place, a sickening and violent  tearing down and destruction of boundaries. I intuitively knew that the sexuality and morality of the student body were implicated. That moment, and similar sensations in those initial weeks,  soon passed into the background, but I have since come to perceive that  the very geography of the area is imbued with a grimy and heavy spiritual atmosphere, is even overshadowed by "black Clouds/ with Heav'n's Artillery fraught" (9). If we allow  Donne to be heard without obscuring his meaning with our own preconceptions, we find him speaking into this situation: "our old subtle foe so tempteth me/That not one hour can I myself sustain;/Thy Grace may wing me to prevent his art" (10). The "default" paradigm does not admit such things as satanic foes to attain to the status of  simple reality  - the approved technique is to  classify and dissect any literary specimens, as though personally never "brusht with the hiss of rustling wings" (11); we are not exempted from his "subtle art" for being so blinded.

Thus I argue that  "This realm dismantled was/Of Jove himself; and now reigns here/A very, very - peacock" (12) and that the glowing letters of promise slowly fade for many. If this is our predicament, and the reigning ideologies are militant against spiritual truth (the doctrines of sin and salvation certainly do not fare well in this environment), then we may proceed to examine some of the further consequences of this state of affairs. The term "ideology" has been used so far in a non-technical sense to refer to a general tenor of thought, rather than the details of any specific system. This loose usage is in keeping with the reflective intention to "show the very age and body of the time his own form and pressure" - a more appropriate term is perhaps the "spirit of the age", as this more readily suggests the interdependence of  theoretical ideology, social praxis and unseen spiritual powers. I propose that the spirit of the age takes two predominate forms - both of which have already been touched upon - which exert pressure upon a realm dismantled of Jove. The first  of these is sterile intellectualism, the second is sexual transgression.

These two phenomena walk, if I may put it so, hand in hand.  When the well springs of inspiration are blocked, and the love of intellectual Truth and Beauty is obscured, then Eros may attain a godlike role in the scheme of things. The mind that is adjusting to an environment that does little to nurture and steady the hearts intuitions, but fosters a purely cerebral development (this fault being particularly troublesome in the "humanities") , is doubly prone to see romantic love as supplying the meaning to life.  In a terrain where the "Heav'nly Muse" (13) is not invited to brood over the workings of the mind and so impart life and light , then sexual desire may appear as the brightest  flower in a lacklustre field.  The bodily writhings upon the South Lawns strike me as casualties on a central battlefield:  their prone figures giving mute testimony of the forces arrayed against them. The sight of amorous couples availing themselves of green grass and sunshine may seem to need no further explanation, but I read the scene with the same ambiguity as Fortinbras surveying the carnage in the royal court:  "Such a sight as this becomes the field, but here shows much amiss" (14). I cannot help but be aware that this love has a desperate subtext: "And if I press ever deeper into the arms that embrace me, perhaps a miracle may happen." The young man who wrote that also spoke of the collective disillusionment that had first brought him to this point, the betrayal of hope: "we were eighteen and had begun to love life and the world; and we had to shoot it to pieces  .... the first explosion burst in our hearts". The military metaphors capture something of the violence encountered in the unseen terrain of the heart and mind, the shocks and numbing blows, as the spirit of the age asserts it's muscle. I was forcibly impressed with these and similar quotations when I was first an undergraduate. They were resonant with my own experience and were instrumental in persuading me that we are involved in an actual, if invisible, warfare; for although the quotations dovetail neatly enough into this analysis, they are in fact taken from All Quiet on the Western Front. (15) The psychological experiences of  that young soldier bore sufficient parallel with my own  that I was more readily persuaded  of  the doctrine that  tells of a warfare against  immaterial opponents,  against "the rulers of the darkness of this age, against spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places".(16)

There are casualties in war, and an observer who recognises the contours of this battle, must wince at the losses that are silently inflicted upon those  "who, even if they may have escaped it's shells, were destroyed by the war" (17).   I propose that  a playwright attempting to create a universal work that expressed these dynamics,  that held a mirror up to the common experience,  would find that  the individual stories could be fitted, at least in part,  into the genre of tragedy.  If we look for the figure of the Revenger to complete the parallel, let us take Milton seriously when he tells of the fallen Lucifer being "inflam'd with rage  .. To wreak on innocent frail man his  loss" (18), and his attempt ("with thoughts inflamed of highest design" (19) to strike back at God by marring His creaturely image.

A further qualification may be needed at this point; I do not see the failings of individuals and institutions, in themselves, as working a deliberate plot of destruction; it is only when they are fitted into a spiritual context  that "this/ Like to a murdering piece, in many places/ Gives me superfluous death". (20)    

I conclude with a personal glimpse of my own story, a few notes jotted over the years, in which I first reflected on how the "form and content of the course" of my own studies,  was linked with the "form and pressure" of the "very age and body of the time". The contention I have been arguing is that the explicit "thematic concerns" of a course such as  Reading Writing  are conditioned by the spiritual environment of the day, and that "the wider literary and theoretical work" of such a  course of literature includes the propagation and replication, albeit unwittingly,  of a mindset peculiar to that  environment. The relationship between  these factors is the subject of the following notes:

There are several blindnesses inculcated by the course, apart from the specialisation of subject matter. The failure to criticise   ....  their effect on us. To see their broader shape in faculty politics; middle aged academics ... teaching a mass of young undergraduates.     ("treading water in an eternally changing river of youth" (21)

Belief or criticism as the final authority: to switch from one to the other is well described as conversion.  

I thought about that ground, where the arts faculty stands ..... I sensed the flavour of the place, felt it's faults, it's limitations in knowing ..  living religion. 

Literature. Poetry. Religion. I was drawn to these things by the promise and the life that seemed to go with them. Certainly much of it seemed to be systematically missing the point but  .....   it was here, by luck or grace, that I often turned.       

 Real belief gives meaning, ... deep purpose, and this prevents reasoning powers being bruised... Surrogate beliefs trying to fill the void, or becoming an obsession, lead to irritable, unbalanced reasoning. The initial image or semblance of salvation and freedom that the belief (ideology) may bring, depending on it's correctness when it's place, is swamped as the belief becomes an idol, and the more the part is mistaken for the whole, the greater the burden and entanglement.  (Hence dominant secular ideologies - feminism, Marxism (until recently) - locate an oppressor - patriachy, capitalism - and make them the primary source of society's problems. The partial truth of this must inevitably be distorted out of  it's real proportions if the spiritual backdrop of rebellion and redemption is ignored; the ideology gives a faulty worldview if it's tenets are idolised.)            1/90

"This has become apparent to me recently, a correct way to look back over the years. For it has not all been cumulative; a steady growth in spirituality and corresponding self image. No. The journals I burnt : I am sure that they contained subtle and reflective self expression. The problem there is the fragmentation of the life at the time. Wisdom gleaned and words honed on a page were almost the brightest thread in a life which stumbled, and so they must misrepresent the time .                 

 "one dimensional rational thought gives way to poetic and philosophical reflections. Requires the prophetic edge, the song of life."  

 "I feel God awaken, kindle a flame in me. He drew me - I felt His hand upon me - to pray in a lunch hour.  Kneeling, surrendered, a series of reflections are poured into me.
             ...  leave after an hour , knowing God has been there ... seeds emplanted, excitement running in me, vision, purpose." 6/93     

He who finds me (wisdom), finds life, and obtains favour from the LORD.
                                                                                                       12/93 (Proverbs) 

I meditate on a map of the uni; it is a meditation in the spirit -  I am shown the nature of the place - I can map in all the various departments and fields of knowledge. Can trace all the paths I have taken here. Any one of these sciences could still interest me, but I cannot desire the gleaning of technical wisdom as a  primary ambition. Not now. It is time to build into the lives of others. I know the ways I am being directed into.
God says to me, "I am intimately interested in your thoughts" as I cross the concrete lawns at midnight. It is a beautiful way of saying I love you.  

I meditate on a photograph of the university when there was a lake.
Somehow the grandeur of the stonework intimidates me, who stumbled and was sidelined at that place.
But I keep there, until I feel the goodness of the meditation, see it filled with goodness and laughter and study.
And then my focus changes, and reflected in the A-frame notice-board of the wind tunnel, I see a cross-beam; the foundation stone of the university. I saw something similar the night of the college re-union; the stone cross on Newman chapel representing the undergirding goodness and strength of the place, which I had forgotten - the benevolent atmosphere and original foundations.      

--0 --

And that sonnet, that says the same thing, in another way.

 I  love more the short spring and autumn days,

 When the sky vault's trembling fragile beauty,

 Rests a gentle blessing, above the ways

 And paths of learning, so lending duty

 This ennobled richness, as flowing time

 River threads green lands thick with their fruited

 Branches lifted sunward in favoured clime:

 Fields of knowledge where fair youth be tutored.

 The very spaces of detailed grounds are

 Felt as icons of layered thought where fine

 Precept is added on precept and star

 Rises early, gleaming as night poured wine.

    Poetry hangs in air of such seasons; 

    Harvested not by realm of dry reasons.


( I didn't mean to protest the mode and mood of discursive analysis per se - i'd studied a lot of science  after all -  but something of a former or possible nobility in the university seemed blasted, shot through, laced with darker things, against a sense of what could be recovered, restored.)

old churches, transition era

This beautiful old church building in my town was just closed and sold. It was old:

... built between 1870 and 1873 to replace an earlier church. In March 1852 James "Jimmy" Jeffrey, a digger, had preached on a tree stump near the site of the present church in Golden Square. In the same year, Rev Symons, stationed at Castlemaine, purchased a modest timber building at Golden Square which was the first Wesleyan Methodist church in Bendigo. This was replaced in 1859 by a larger stone building. Eventually the congregation outgrew this church and plans were made for a new one. 

http://www.onmydoorstep.com.au/heritage-listing/5282/uniting-church

It was built to hold 1200.  Some older locals recall 1000 people or so used to meet there every Sunday. That's the same era as when the local Anglicans used to hire out the whole train to take people to the church picnic, which people also still recall.  That era faded fast.

Its just been sold, after being decommissioned as a place of worship last year, having dwindled to a handful.

Mixed emotions i suppose, watching that  - the first large church from the goldrush era, from the Methodist revivalism, ending.

 I was tempted to be sad about this, although I'd actually never been inside  (there are quite a few grand old  churches and a couple of cathedrals like that in town, mostly under used and dwindling). But it is just a building - the investment in people is what lasts and matters.  It does seems a sign of the decline of that mode and denomination of church - repeated across the region.   (Some other denominations in renovated factories are now holding good numbers of people - ie a new variation on the old theme).    

However, maybe a new form is needed: less about coming to services in buildings of any form.

It reminds me of a series of images, akin to a gentle vision or trance,  almost day dream like, that  I wrote up last year.

So i'll add it now; the shift from church to hub and dispatch points is in view.

  (*notes at end).

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Seeing.

I saw a church on the top of a cliff with the sea beneath.  It seemed to be an attractive looking church building along classic lines, nice facilities, pews.  I sensed it stood for many churches of that sort.  It was actually sitting out over the edge of the cliff, supported with struts coming out from the rock beneath.

I had a sense that it was “overextended”, culturally as much as anything else.

I also saw that people had laboured to get the building into place – that rollers had been deployed to move it forward, and that people had pushed hard to get it to here. There was a bit of a risk that these methods could result in driving the people,  as if building pyramids, but it did not have to be so  - was also a sense of goodness over things, here.

In any case, it was now pressed up against the top of the cliff.

Despite its seemingly precarious and exposed positions there was no sense of it being in any immediate danger or falling into the sea. I heard the scripture

“To their own master, they stand or fall. And they will stand, for the Lord is able to make them stand. “ (Rom 14:4).   

(Later on I was a bit puzzled as to how it was standing so strong in such an exposed position. I saw large, oversize earth moving machinery as I asked, and had a sense that there was a well developed  “machinery” in the church, its methods and processes,  that has kept it in a safe place even when overextended like this, still connected to the rock with struts.  So there were sophisticated methods of supporting this structure.)

Nevertheless there was a clear sense that it was time to make some adjustment.  Even though it was not in danger of failing, it was still timely to reconsider what to do.

I saw a stone stair case  cut in the rock beside the church. It was a very stable and well made descent, had well laid steps.  It was a secure path, almost like a spiral staircase cut in the rock, leading down.

I could tell going down felt like a relief – descending with feet on the solid rock felt good -  a more natural and safe footing than the structure at the top of the cliff. 

The winding stone path lead down to a large gathering place near the bottom, which was buzzing with activity. It was like a staging point, a hub, and a lot of activity, all of which was very purposeful. 

This hub or staging point place led back inland - there were tracks back towards the land that the churches had once traversed.  

In this dispatch point things  were buzzing as people planned trips.  Young people with backpacks were planning to go in various directions, many were going to fan back out across the same land that the churches had rolled over.  I could sense that they were going to evangelize, in twos or small teams   - land the churches had once pioneered in – and which now needed reaching again. Others were going further afield, overseas.   

I saw Todd ushering a group of people forward. He had both arms out as though herding a flock of animals, although they were a small group of people. A bit like a tour guide escorting people on, but with more serious mission. 

His back was towards the sea and any potential danger. I knew he was willing to try to shield the group, although he was working more by showing a direction and a serious intent to keep them moving.  The group moved forward as he helped escort them. I’d never seen escorting people along a mission  as “shepherding”  before, but it seemed a true picture of that I think.

There was also a round stone clearing near the bottom of the cliff, which could be used as a helicopter pad.   Helicopters buzzed close to the ground as the group moved off on the paths, almost like a military buzz of activity around soldiers.

There was a lot happening here  - everyone had somewhere to go.

As the people streamed down the cliff from the church building, the operation of those who were left  in that structure got more serious and focused and efficient.   It started to shine like a light house – shining a very bright light out across the sea, sweeping from side to side  – warning ships of the rocks below.  I sensed the need for this so that large luxury cruise ships did not run aground.

[I felt some of these ships might be other ministries that were out on the sea – not all churches were represented by the church at the top of the hill – some seemed to out on the sea, large vessels with their own propulsion – seemed some risk of being a bit complacent and self contained in their travels.  They needed some bearings from old landmarks like this to keep off the rocks as well. I also had a sense that the brilliant light from the smaller church, now working like a lighthouse, was still an important warning to the world as well, including its own luxury cruises that could go astray].

This dynamic of letting people out of the over extended building,  down the stair case and fanning them out through the dispatch points below,  seemed like it would last perhaps a generation or two as the church adjusted. The light would shine during this time.

I sensed the brilliant light from that structure in some cases could, at some future point, ultimately end up being decommissioned,  leaving only a glowing red warning or navigation light,  but harder to see in the darkness.

 I saw at the top of the cliff, behind and beside the church, there was a lake that had been turned into a dam.  It was a pretty and peaceful scene.  Boats and people drifted around in a peaceful manner, with mountains in the background. It was a good and scenic place, although the mighty forces had somehow been domesticated into an idyllic picture.  

Then quite suddenly, the lake was released and became a mighty river – full of colour and life. A group of people in a raft were heading straight off the cliff, like over a waterfall,  and then turned in towards the land. This was an exhilarating and rather bouncy ride – it bypassed the gradual descent of the stairs and launched people straight off down the river.  Jess was one of these, about to go over the top and down the river.  I saw Katie S further down the valley, bouncing from one side to the other, touching on the shore here and there, stopping onto the shore every now and then. It was full of life and ornate colours.  It seemed everywhere she landed that revelation and encounters continued even if only during short visits.

There was Life in every aspect by this river. The trees that grew were almost like finely detailed works of art; seemed to be precisely made porcelain somehow. It was a bit of a crazy flow of life and colour, in a wondrous and good way.  (Where the river flows, everything will live – Ezekiel 47).  I knew it might be misunderstood as too weird and vibrant by those not in that flow.

Back at the dam, a few people who had never been in the church structure at all, seemed to go down with the water when it was released to a river, down through a  whirlpool at the bottom, and past a huge slow moving fan. Somehow as they came out the other side they were rapidly launched into helicopters.   Luke was one of these. It was like a rapid release and promotion   – in a grace filled way- to a flying role. Have somtimes seen LP like that too, since then, zipping out over the water,  island to island, piloting.   

Others were finding other ways down the face of the cliff. Some were rappelling straight down. One was climbing sideways, almost crab like, across the face of the cliff . Although that looked rather noble, a figure alone on a huge rockface, I wondered why anyone would bother taking such a hard path when there were other ways down. Then I felt like it was me.  I was a bit frustrated when I recognized that  – seemed I was always prone to take an un-necessarily  difficult and time consuming approach. It appeared there were easier and better ways down – why was I not taking one of those?

As I wrestled with that,  I saw that taking that path over the expanse of rock led out across to the top of a mountain range. On the way one could pause for a while, even talk with some others who would come to rockface from the land, and it was possible to rest in little caves,  before going back to finish the sideways climb.  Up on  the ridgeline there were large eagles nests.

The nests were in a position on the ridge where you could see to both sides of the mountain,. L was in one of these, facing in one direction  – pointing and calling out across the land  - out towards the region where the people had gone.   Up close I could see there were three little camp fires in one of the nests.   Despite  the formidable height on the ridgeline on a mountain,  it felt like a place I had known, and was a safe and even comfortable place.  It fact it was somehow so safe and cosy in this plain nest, that it  could be tempting to sit down there and camp  for too long.  I sensed a vague disquiet about doing that and looked how to move on.   (Later I felt the poetry of Psalm 68 –time to move on from campfires, from the good feathers and comfort, when God was moving over the mountains.)

A little further along was a path with steps leading upwards. I followed them and soon found it leading to a square fortress on the  side of the mountain.  It had large imposing walls and I could sense a role for watchmen on the walls; one on each corner. It looked a bit like the fortress at Masada. From this height you could see a long way down, way down to the river in the valley,  and could make out some of the activities where the people had gone.

All of the action and focus seemed to be in the way the teams had gone.

There was a figure leaning on the balcony of this place who looked welcoming. He was almost shining white. Something about him did not feel quite right,  and I vaguely sensed he might be drawing from odd sources. Still, any support here , any welcoming figure, was hard to resist, given I seemed to be rather alone, and so I temporarily disregarded my uneasy feeling.  I thought maybe it would be alright to see what he was about, even perhaps to partner in some way. He seemed to know the fortress well and showed me the inside. But this turned out to a bad thing.  Once inside the thick walls, the place was dark and gloomy.  

It was  a place where decisions had been made and were still made, and it seemed full of books and scrolls, relics of past councils. Something about that was very enticing – the place of decision making – and yet it was not a place of life, and could easily corrupt those who were drawn in. I could feel many of the decisions here invoked fallen wisdom, the knowledge of good and evil, rather than life.   After a while I began to see a hidden shape in the darkness that decisions were somehow fitting into, and it was the dark outline on the wall of a huge witch – as if the compromises here could amount to a pattern of witchcraft. I could see it would not be obvious at first, since it was a nearly hidden outline in the gloom. It could also become a place where principalities in ‘high places’ were involved, though that was not obvious at first as well.

This inner room was also ‘the death of prophets’. It almost seemed to be its name.  It seemed a bit unfair that this place, which was so hard to reach, could become a snare like this.  It seemed there was a valid role for watchman outside on the walls, to look out to see and report on what was happening and what was approaching.   If those with vision to see remained on the outside, using the height to see what was happening, they would bring useful information, and it would avoid some of fatal compromises.

But for those who were meant to be looking out, it was dangerous to turn inwards into the castle, and join the counsels inside of those thick walls, in the gloom. It made it a hampered and dangerous place - left both the fortress and the people relatively blinded.

Wan creatures seemed to be in the roof of the inner place, long corrupted.

The thick walls also seemed to be any strong system – church, military, government, that could lose touch with, or despise, its watchmen and prophets looking far afield.  Later I realized there were smaller outposts of this fortress,  along that ridgeline,  only able to house one or two people, but which from which it was much easier to keep an outward view; these structures were too small to have an inner room. From there you could really see without the risk of turning inwards to the false safety of the walls.  It seemed they might actually have been a safer posting even though they looked less grand.

 I knew staying inside here, with all the grey fallen wisdom, was fatal.   I looked for a way out and as soon as I did one of the walls opened out and became a ramp.  This led outside  - the only safe place around that structure.

A thin rope bridge with planks stretched across to another peak.   It had missing planks but was still passable. It was not easy to cross. The adjacent peak was covered with thick green heath. Len was there again, somehow.  He seemed pleased to see me, that I’d made it there. Something about this place, although still on a narrow and high peak, felt much healthier than the fortress. Maybe it was less momentous, but also less dangerous.

For some reason I turned to look away from the land, out towards the sea.  A huge figure was emerging up out of the water on the horizon, head and shoulders showing. The huge size of it seemed to indicate a final, climatic showdown of some kind. As it was raised up, swelling the water levels, I remembered the sea represented chaos to the Hebrew mindset, and I wondered if it partly represented climate change and its fears - and perhaps other turmoils coming to a head as well.

 As the thing rose and gathered waters,  the rim of the world was also exposed, and thousand of miles of  reef were laid bare.  It was as if the figure was unwittingly being used to disclose the living work that had been quietly forming, new life coming into the world but hidden beneath the surface. I felt this was revealing a new creation aspect that had been real but mostly hidden till now.

It depended where you looked as to whether  you saw fearsome intimidation or new goodness being revealed, as both were occurring at the same time.

Beside this figure and sea, there was a city full of slender skyscrapers. Revelation and strategy was being given into these tall towers.  This seemed to be the new city we are waiting for, but it also was for now, a  heavenly city overlapping with earthly ones - revelation was being given to business community and to others. The slender buildings seemed to represent revelation being given in a strategic and targeted way. It was as if a kingdom mandate was on them, able to receive from the heavens – like the communication on Jacob’s ladder – they could reach up into heaven’s wisdom and not come under judgments like Babel had. It was also being accelerated –-even as the sea  chaos entity was trying to raise itself to intimidate, beside it.   

Finally, in front of the city was a wide and flat expanse,  a surface that was smooth and solid. It felt like a place of worship. The face of Christ could be clearly seen reflected here – a huge image across the whole smooth surface.

 As the sun shone through clouds, the surface caught and reflected it. The whole space seemed designed to reflect God’s glory and it was soon shining and radiant from the people lifting worship  - not just in song but also somehow connected with the revelation and operations in the city – as though they were also acts of worship that reflected here.

As I watched the glorious intensity of this, a huge foot descended onto the flat plain, with a body ascending higher into the heavens than could be seen. “The earth is His footstool”.  

Somehow all of history, or maybe all redemption history, was contained in the huge figure, stretching further and higher up then could be seen. Every event and place, every green valley and town, each life, every marriage, all community and people  were contained in the huge figure that ascended above.  I’m not sure if it was Him – or His body the church who fills everything in every way.  (Eph 1:23).

Then I seemed to be before Him, as though above clouds, heavenly places, and could sense His intense pleasure and love.  I saw another, C, like an eagle, before Him. The eagle looked a little worn.  There was gold in the wings.

 I think the eagle represented prophets or prophetic roles. I sensed the fragmenting forces and tasks of this life would lose power to pull individual lives apart, to fragment, if we could just see that identity before Him.

I could then see other eagles circling a high mountain. 

So it was like a montage of images, the church letting out people at the top of the cliff, the bands being commissioned at the bottom of the cliff, the smaller church flashing its light out across the sea, the eagles nests and watch towers,  the dim fortress, the sea in turmoil, new creation revealed by the turmoil, the city, adjoined to the solid plain of worship revealing His face, and all for and unto and in Him, standing on and (re)claiming the earth, to heavenly spaces, and eagles and keys to identity, with others, before Him.

* Notes.
 These images came over a few days. . like a continuing thread. 

I’ve added a few comments as to what it seemed to mean, throughout. 

it’s a bit of montage.  It did feel revelatory, as dreams might,  and seemingly orientated around some of the current themes in the church and the era we’re in. It was not a dream, though flowed a bit like one.  Almost like a day dream of connected images, restarting in quiet moments over a few days,  a thread to it, and for those who are used to such things, just an extension of the imagery that pops into mind during prayer. ("It may just be me,  but i saw this picture", says every one who starts to cultivate that listening, and those who know always nod, expecting its probably not "just them" and there is really meaning and mystery to the image). No doubt imperfectly perceived and understood and my own views in the mix.  (This is, incidentally, perhaps the lower level of prophetic listening, fruitful as it can be). 

Most of the individuals I sensed in these scenes, were from a local group, which was a bit unusual – don’t know most of them too well.  In fact it started one day after a meeting with some of them.  I think all probably stand for other similar  types/roles of people too.   ... felt like a wider thing than just them.  I’ve called them all by one initial, now, to make it anonymous, after sharing it with one or two.

5/2017 update : (I see  the stair case as "winding down" of one mode, and calling to new adventures,  via the hub, as part of  all this)

shawn bolz

I'm liking Shawn Bolz's stuff, on many levels. I particularly like focus on relational and emotional intelligence. 

Here's a page out of his book - posted for my friend Will, since we were talking about how to reach the messed up kids in the school we both worked/work in.  

Notice the method with the girl he prays for - she "loans" his faith and gets the revelatory word herself.   

I was in Hawaii in 2012. The condo I stayed at was beautiful, but its entrance was very close to the area’s late night red light district. It was one block away from the main strip of Honolulu. I was hungry, and the only thing that was open after 10:30 when I got dropped off was a sub sandwich shop, so I headed there. It was a safe but seedy area after 10 p.m.  

On the way, a Hawaiian in his young twenties tapped my arm and said, “Hey brah, you need anything tonight?” 

I knew whatever he was selling wasn’t anything I was buying, so I said, “Nope, I am good, just out for a sandwich.” 

“Come on, brah, you want some weed?” He put his hands to his mouth as if he was smoking some. “No, that would make me hungrier. I just want a sandwich.”  

He laughed and said, “You want a girl?” and he pointed at three teenagers sitting on a closed diners’ entrance that I hadn’t noticed previously. It was two boys and a girl, all under eighteen, and the girl was only around fifteen. I got mad right away that he was trying to offer me this young girl, who was not dressed to be a prostitute like the others down the street. She looked very new or uninitiated in prostitution, but he was still offering her to me. 

I said, “No, but I want to talk to her real fast,” and walked over to her. 

“Hey, I’m Shawn, what’s your name?” Her wannabe pimp came over and stood beside me, and seemed at ease with me talking to her based on our previous rapport. “(name changed) Kayla,” she said, only slightly interested. 

“What’s your dream in life?” I asked. “What do you mean? I don’t have a dream,” she responded. 

“Well, I am a Christian and a pastor, and God talks to me about his dreams for me and helps me to form my own, so let’s pray for a minute and ask God to show you a dream for your life. He thought of you for millions of years before he ever created you, so let’s ask him what he thought about.” 

“Um, okay,” she said, sort of confused but amused. 

“Okay, borrow my faith and repeat after me, then wait for an answer. He is going to talk inside of you. Jesus, you love me and created me to enjoy life and live it to its fullness. Show me something that I was created for.” 

She repeated it then said, “Whew!” and the two guys on either side were giggling until she said that. She looked like she legitimately felt she heard something.  

“What did you hear?” I asked. 

“I heard I should be a cook . . . .” She said it with no insecurity, but had a look of wonder on her face like she had never expected that there could be anything else than the nothingness that had driven her to the streets.  

“You mean like a chef? Do you like to cook food?” I asked.  

“I think so . . . . I haven’t really done it much but yeah, I do!”  She was amazed. 

Before I let her ponder too much, I said, “God wouldn’t give you such a great idea without giving you steps to take, like tomorrow, toward this dream, so let’s ask him for some steps. Repeat after me: Father, you showed me something that I can do that would make me feel fulfilled and feel your heart. What is a step I can take this week toward it?” 

She repeated that and then said, “Woah!” 

Her friend next to her had huge wide eyes and said, “What, Kayla?” “God said to call my uncle who owns a diner! I never talk to him because my mom hated him and never let us call him or see him. 

Notice, the first time she just heard something inside. The second time she knew it was God and acknowledged him.  

“Kayla, do you promise me you will call him tomorrow and talk to him about this?” I asked.   

She promised she would. We were exchanging phone numbers when the guy next to her said he wanted a dream too, so we prayed and he had a similar encounter. 

Kayla called me the day she talked to her uncle. He and his wife were Christians and had been praying for her, especially since she had run away. They were so happy that she called. She told them what God showed her. They hired her and brought her to live with them. She was an incredible asset to their business, such a hard worker, and very smart about ideas that could bring in a fresh crowd to the diner they owned (that was frequented mostly by older locals). The business grew fast as she partnered with them both on food and business topics.

It was so amazing, because when she was turning seventeen, she called me to update me on her amazing turnaround in life. She had been saved for a while, was living with her uncle and aunt, and had finished school early with a full high school degree. She managed their diner too. Then she said,  

“Uncle wants to open up another location and wants me to be a co-owner and help!”
I was excited for her. 

“Are you going to go to school for business or for culinary arts?” 

“I don’t have time. We are opening it next month! I will own it in just a few years! God’s dream for me is bigger than I thought!” I was so excited for her! 

Can you imagine? God spoke to her. I didn’t prophesy to her. I simply helped her believe that God loved her enough to have a conversation with her. 

He is such a personal God that he knows we won’t always believe words someone else gives us, so he speaks to us. Pharaoh would never have met Joseph if Joseph hadn’t had the dream and the interpretation of it, but God put the dream in Pharaoh’s heart.