While numerous thoughts plague my mind and urge me write, the weight of words bids me take time...to feel their weight and confirm their worth. And as logistics press forcefully on this inopportune time of year, and blossoms beckon after many dark days of fitful slumber, I contemplate a brief sabbatical from my dear weblog. To allow my ideas to percolate and distill, and to indulge my procrastination not in front of my computer but in front of creation. If I am temporarily silent, do not mistake my absence for lack of love. I shall return.
Grace & Peace
Monday, April 11, 2005
Sunday, April 03, 2005
word
"The ascetic character of the person, derived as it is from the eucharistic form of the ecclesial hypostasis, expresses the authentic person precisely when it does not deny eros and the body but hypostasizes them in an ecclesial manner."
-John Zizioulas, 'Being as Communion' (pg. 63)
-John Zizioulas, 'Being as Communion' (pg. 63)
The Anti-blog
The Anti-blog has a new post, which happens rarely enough that it's worth mentioning. Not as profound (perhaps) as his last, but here's to him deciding to continue...
Grace & Peace
Grace & Peace
Saturday, April 02, 2005
Non impediti ratione cogitationis?
(Or, It takes an Man to make a Woman feel like a Woman.)
On a recent transatlantic flight, a plane passes through a severe storm. The turbulence is awful, and things go from bad to worse when one wing is struck by lightning. One woman in particular loses it. Screaming, she stands up in the front of the plane. "I'm too young to die," she wails.
Then she yells, "Well, if I'm going to die, I want my last minutes on earth to be memorable! Is there ANYONE on this plane who can make me feel like a WOMAN?"
For a moment there is silence. Everyone has forgotten their own peril. They all stared, riveted, at the desperate woman in the front of the plane. Then an Italian man stands up in the rear of the plane. He is gorgeous--tall, well built, with dark brown hair and hazel eyes. He starts to walk slowly up the aisle, unbuttoning
his shirt.....one button at a time.
........No one moves.
He removes his shirt.
.......Muscles ripple across his chest.
.......She gasps...
.......He whispers:
"Iron this, and get me something to eat..."
On a recent transatlantic flight, a plane passes through a severe storm. The turbulence is awful, and things go from bad to worse when one wing is struck by lightning. One woman in particular loses it. Screaming, she stands up in the front of the plane. "I'm too young to die," she wails.
Then she yells, "Well, if I'm going to die, I want my last minutes on earth to be memorable! Is there ANYONE on this plane who can make me feel like a WOMAN?"
For a moment there is silence. Everyone has forgotten their own peril. They all stared, riveted, at the desperate woman in the front of the plane. Then an Italian man stands up in the rear of the plane. He is gorgeous--tall, well built, with dark brown hair and hazel eyes. He starts to walk slowly up the aisle, unbuttoning
his shirt.....one button at a time.
........No one moves.
He removes his shirt.
.......Muscles ripple across his chest.
.......She gasps...
.......He whispers:
"Iron this, and get me something to eat..."
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