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TOPIC: THOMAS MERTON |
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Posted on Apr.04.2007 @ 12:25PM EDT by stephen
Last night on PBS there was a 1985 A Film Biography of Thomas Merton – Trappist monk. They asked a fellow monk what Merton had taught him. He replied, “He taught me nothing which is the most important thing I have ever learned.” MU
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Reply from Woodsman
Apr.04.2007
01:33PM EDT
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That brought a tear to my eye.
Wait a minute! This is not mine! The dog may have sneezed on me! Woof!
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70491
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Reply from -----0
Apr.04.2007
01:49PM EDT
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he still believes there is something to learn |
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70494
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Reply from Woodsman
Apr.04.2007
01:57PM EDT
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He still believes to teach. |
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70495
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Reply from Woodsman
Apr.04.2007
05:02PM EDT
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As One believes to reach... hhhhmmmm |
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70496
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Reply from ______
Apr.04.2007
05:36PM EDT
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All theology is a kind of birthday
Each one who is born
Comes into the world as a question
For which old answers
Are not sufficient.
Birth is question and revelation.
The ground of birth is paradise
Yet we are born a thousand miles
Away from our home.
Paradise weeps in us
And we wander further away.
This is the theology
Of our birthdays.
Obscure theology
On the steps of Cincinnati Station:
I am questioned by the cold December
Of 1941. One small snowflake
Melts on my eyelid like a guess
And is forgotten
(Across the river my meaning has taken flesh
Is warm, cries for care
Across the river
Heaven is weeping.)
Heaven weeps without cause
Forever if I do not find
The question that seeks me
All the gates are shut
The monastery is cold
But everything here is certain:
Fire smoulders however
In the center.
Fort Thomas Kentucky
In a year of war
Is like Bethlehem, obscure
But not so innocent.
And I too am a prisoner
In a theology of will
While north of me a question
Is weeping in the snow
Because I am (for the time being)
A man without doubts
Renouncing the luxury of questions.
Wisdom grows like a flower
Turns her innocent face
In sweet compassion
South and west
Wondering about the seasons
Sun rain and nuns
Not knowing.
I am stubborn
I build ten theories out of stone
In a stone wall Eden
An unknown flower loves me more
I do not know it
The fire in the center
However is still there
And smoulders.
Heaven grows to a bird
With pretty wings
Her flight is like a question
Searching the south
For somebody
Theology is sometimes sickness
A broken neck of questions
A helpless doubt
In an electric bed
The birds finds this doubt
Broken in the fever
And knows: “ You are my glory
And I your answer-
If you have a question.”
To sing is to begin a sentence
Like “I want to get well.”
“I am not born for nothing
And neither are you:
Heaven never wept
Over nothing.”
“And the ground of loneliness
Is love. The ground of doubt:
Is it truth?”
So all theology
Is a kind of birthday
A way home to where we are
Epiphany and Eden
Where two lost questions
Make one orbit
In the middle of nothing.
Is this the answer?
No one ever got born
All by himself: It takes more than one.
Every birthday
Has its own theology |
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70497
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Reply from ______
Apr.04.2007
05:53PM EDT
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All theology is a kind of birthday
Each one who is born
Comes into the world as a question
For which old answers
Are not sufficient.
Birth is question and revelation.
The ground of birth is paradise
Yet we are born a thousand miles
Away from our home.
Paradise weeps in us
And we wander further away.
This is the theology
Of our birthdays.
Obscure theology
On the steps of Cincinnati Station:
I am questioned by the cold December
Of 1941. One small snowflake
Melts on my eyelid like a guess
And is forgotten
(Across the river my meaning has taken flesh
Is warm, cries for care
Across the river
Heaven is weeping.)
Heaven weeps without cause
Forever if I do not find
The question that seeks me
All the gates are shut
The monastery is cold
But everything here is certain:
Fire smoulders however
In the center.
Fort Thomas Kentucky
In a year of war
Is like Bethlehem, obscure
But not so innocent.
And I too am a prisoner
In a theology of will
While north of me a question
Is weeping in the snow
Because I am (for the time being)
A man without doubts
Renouncing the luxury of questions.
Wisdom grows like a flower
Turns her innocent face
In sweet compassion
South and west
Wondering about the seasons
Sun rain and nuns
Not knowing.
I am stubborn
I build ten theories out of stone
In a stone wall Eden
An unknown flower loves me more
I do not know it
The fire in the center
However is still there
And smoulders.
Heaven grows to a bird
With pretty wings
Her flight is like a question
Searching the south
For somebody
Theology is sometimes sickness
A broken neck of questions
A helpless doubt
In an electric bed
The bird finds this doubt
Broken in the fever
And knows: “You are my glory
And I your answer-
If you have a question.”
To sing is to begin a sentence
Like “I want to get well.”
“I am not born for nothing
And neither are you:
Heaven never wept
Over nothing.”
“And the ground of loneliness
Is love. The ground of doubt:
Is it truth?”
So all theology
Is a kind of birthday
A way home to where we are
Epiphany and Eden
Where two lost questions
Make one orbit
In the middle of nothing.
Is this the answer?
No one ever got born
All by himself: It takes more than one.
Every birthday
Has its own theology |
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→Post Reply
70498
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Reply from ______
Apr.04.2007
05:57PM EDT
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oh well... |
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70499
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Reply from lehish
Apr.04.2007
06:11PM EDT
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http://www.popularfront.com/snowdays/index.html?id=3814970 |
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70500
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Reply from ______
Apr.05.2007
07:07AM EDT
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Untitled
All theology is a kind of birthday
Each one who is born
Comes into the world as a question
For which old answers
Are not sufficient.
Birth is question and revelation.
The ground of birth is paradise
Yet we are born a thousand miles
Away from our home.
Paradise weeps in us
And we wander further away.
This is the theology
Of our birthdays.
Obscure theology
On the steps of Cincinnati Station:
I am questioned by the cold December
Of 1941. One small snowflake
Melts on my eyelid like a guess
And is forgotten
(Across the river my meaning has taken flesh
Is warm, cries for care
Across the river
Heaven is weeping.)
Heaven weeps without cause
Forever if I do not find
The question that seeks me
All the gates are shut
The monastery is cold
But everything here is certain:
Fire smoulders however
In the center.
Fort Thomas Kentucky
In a year of war
Is like Bethlehem, obscure
But not so innocent.
And I too am a prisoner
In a theology of will
While north of me a question
Is weeping in the snow
Because I am (for the time being)
A man without doubts
Renouncing the luxury of questions.
Wisdom grows like a flower
Turns her innocent face
In sweet compassion
South and west
Wondering about the seasons
Sun rain and nuns
Not knowing.
I am stubborn
I build ten theories out of stone
In a stone wall Eden
An unknown flower loves me more
I do not know it
The fire in the center
However is still there
And smoulders.
Heaven grows to a bird
With pretty wings
Her flight is like a question
Searching the south
For somebody
Theology is sometimes sickness
A broken neck of questions
A helpless doubt
In an electric bed
The bird finds this doubt
Broken in the fever
And knows: “You are my glory
And I your answer-
If you have a question.”
To sing is to begin a sentence
Like “I want to get well.”
“I am not born for nothing
And neither are you:
Heaven never wept
Over nothing.”
“And the ground of loneliness
Is love. The ground of doubt:
Is it truth?”
So all theology
Is a kind of birthday
A way home to where we are
Epiphany and Eden
Where two lost questions
Make one orbit
In the middle of nothing.
Is this the answer?
No one ever got born
All by himself:
It takes more than one.
Every birthday
Has its own theology
~Thomas Merton~ |
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→Quote & Reply
→Post Reply
70502
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Reply from ______
Apr.05.2007
07:10AM EDT
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paras and line breaks were there...now----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- they're gone |
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70503
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Reply from ______
Apr.05.2007
07:27AM EDT
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Untitled
All theology is a kind of birthday
Each one who is born
Comes into the world as a question
For which old answers
Are not sufficient.
Birth is question and revelation.
The ground of birth is paradise
Yet we are born a thousand miles
Away from our home.
Paradise weeps in us
And we wander further away.
This is the theology
Of our birthdays.
Obscure theology
On the steps of Cincinnati Station:
I am questioned by the cold December
Of 1941. One small snowflake
Melts on my eyelid like a guess
And is forgotten
(Across the river my meaning has taken flesh
Is warm, cries for care
Across the river
Heaven is weeping.)
Heaven weeps without cause
Forever if I do not find
The question that seeks me
All the gates are shut
The monastery is cold
But everything here is certain:
Fire smoulders however
In the center.
Fort Thomas Kentucky
In a year of war
Is like Bethlehem, obscure
But not so innocent.
And I too am a prisoner
In a theology of will
While north of me a question
Is weeping in the snow
Because I am (for the time being)
A man without doubts
Renouncing the luxury of questions.
Wisdom grows like a flower
Turns her innocent face
In sweet compassion
South and west
Wondering about the seasons
Sun rain and nuns
Not knowing.
I am stubborn
I build ten theories out of stone
In a stone wall Eden
An unknown flower loves me more
I do not know it
The fire in the center
However is still there
And smoulders.
Heaven grows to a bird
With pretty wings
Her flight is like a question
Searching the south
For somebody
Theology is sometimes sickness
A broken neck of questions
A helpless doubt
In an electric bed
The bird finds this doubt
Broken in the fever
And knows: “ You are my glory
And I your answer-
If you have a question.”
To sing is to begin a sentence
Like “I want to get well.”
“I am not born for nothing
And neither are you:
Heaven never wept
Over nothing.”
“And the ground of loneliness
Is love.
The ground of doubt:
Is it truth?”
So all theology
Is a kind of birthday
A way home to where we are
Epiphany and Eden
Where two lost questions
Make one orbit
In the middle of nothing.
Is this the answer?
No one ever got born
All by himself:
It takes more than one.
Every birthday
Has its own theology
~Thomas Merton~ |
|
|
|
→Quote & Reply
→Post Reply
70504
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Reply from lehish
Apr.05.2007
07:52AM EDT
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gassho |
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70505
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Reply from lehish
Apr.05.2007
07:54AM EDT
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thanking posting poeming rustic |
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70506
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Reply from lehish
Apr.05.2007
09:50AM EDT
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thanks stephen |
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70508
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Reply from Woodsman
Apr.05.2007
09:55AM EDT
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thanks Thomas |
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70509
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Reply from boymonk
Apr.05.2007
12:24PM EDT
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thanks, Jhonboy. |
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70510
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Reply from lehish
Apr.05.2007
01:03PM EDT
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lol |
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70511
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Reply from -----0
Apr.05.2007
01:54PM EDT
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every birthday
has its own theology
every theology
has its own technology
of rebirth |
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70512
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Reply from Woodsman
Apr.05.2007
01:59PM EDT
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Bingo! Now what? |
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70513
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Reply from 77 zen ror
Apr.05.2007
06:59PM EDT
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It's the birth you are given we bring joy to. HAPPY BIRTHDAY. |
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70515
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Reply from Woodsman
Apr.05.2007
08:50PM EDT
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thanks |
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70517
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Reply from Lynnoh
Apr.06.2007
09:23AM EDT
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no matter how I thinkof it..seems I can never think of nothing nr can i find anything to put inside of it
is your birthday Woodsman? |
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70521
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Reply from -----0
Apr.06.2007
12:42PM EDT
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Quote: "Bingo! Now what? "
.........
Oh, nothing. Have a nice day! |
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70523
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Reply from Woodsman
Apr.06.2007
12:54PM EDT
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Whoops, I'm off by ten days. Be as you were. |
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70524
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