A Devilish Dance?
What can we learn about secular thought from a striking Grammy performance?
A Grammy Performance Speaks
We do a good job gawking at things outside out worldview (and letting people know about them on social media), but we seldom ponder why people do what they do. In my latest article for Westminster Magazine, I had a chance to reflect on something I never thought I’d write about: a Satan themed Grammy performance that’s stirred up quite a bit of controversy. My goal in writing this piece was to look beneath the surface at the assumptions expressed by the performance, which can lead us to understand and pray for others. This came as I was reading Carl Trueman’s book The Rise and Triumph of the Modern Self, which I found very helpful to understanding the times we live in. I hope the article is a blessing to you and helps you understand a bit more about the secular culture and how you can pray for those around you.
Poetry Coming Soon
Most people don’t know about this—though if you’ve read my books, you might guess it—but I’m a poet at heart. I’ve always loved poetry, and I found it helpful to channel deep emotion and wonder into words through that art form. But I don’t publish a lot of it, though some of my poems have appeared in Reformed Journal.
Now that’s changing. I’ve sat on some poems for nearly a decade, and I’m reviewing them now with hopes of publishing them in the coming months in two collections. One collection is called Borrowed and deals with grief at my father’s early passing and with the transience of life. The other is called word by Word, a collection of poems inspired by Scripture. Below is one from the former collection (previously published on Reformed Journal).
“Like water spilled on the ground, which cannot be recovered …” – 2 Samuel 14:14
In a hospital room of white linen
and metal gates
he lay as a bowl tilted,
emptied of half of himself.
(Life absorbs as by a cloth.)
We watched his eyes intently then;
we had no container to put him in.
Weeks later he died
in a living room,
the vessel emptied,
a mirror on the cold wooden floor.
It has long since evaporated
and we have turned to wasps,
still seeking the place
where the water was.
So death’s rag stays wet,
Allowing you to build your nest,
but the sun knows well
how to skeleton your home
and brush it from the window
you call your own.
Some people, I know, aren’t interested in poetry. But I find I’m most deeply myself in a poem, drawn into the mystery of just being alive in a world bursting with light, color, and movement.
I hope you’ll enjoy them when the time comes.
That’s all for now.
PTH